By: Marie Pascual
“From the river to the sea—”
The chants echoed for what felt like forever. Thirty minutes? Maybe more.
My partners and I stood outside the halal festival gates, shifting our weight, adjusting our outfits.
Was it still safe to perform?
We hadn’t been sure. But then the music started, the smoke began rising, and the crowd poured in like water over hot stones. Life carried on.
We pushed through the busy food stalls, the voices of vendors and cousins and uncles blending into a single wave of sound.
I found a bench at the edge of the crowd and helped my mother sit beside my daughter.
“Ava, keep Ama company, okay? I’ll be back right after the show, and then we can catch that Marvel movie.”
Ava, wrapped in her oversized puffer jacket, looked up from her tablet. “Papa, can I get a kulfi while we watch?”
Only my daughter could crave ice cream in ten-degree weather, wind whipping through her curls.
I chuckled. “Of course, princess. Hang tight.”
The night pulsed with music and smoke. Flames shot up from giant pans, crackling and spitting into the air. Laughter, gossip, crunching, sipping—it all blended into a song I hadn’t realized I missed.
Browns, whites, yellows, blacks—faces of every shade, of every language. For a moment, I let myself believe: We belong here.
I hadn’t always believed that.
I thought of our first month in Toronto—one-bedroom basement, three jobs between my wife and me, the muffled upstairs footsteps that never stopped. I used to lie awake, wondering if I’d done the right thing. Wondering if Ava would hate me for bringing her somewhere that didn’t feel like home.
The kulfi stall came into view. But the crowd around it made me pause.
Black-and-white keffiyehs.
Protesters.
I tensed. Instinctively scanned their faces for signs—of trouble, of anger, of… something.
Instead, I saw people chatting, smiling, licking cones. A woman with a Palestine flag around her shoulders bent down to wipe her toddler’s face. A group of teens laughed over mango lassi.
Was this what protesst looked like here?
“This is my favourite spot,” a voice beside me said.
I turned. One of the men in line, maybe mid-twenties, bearded, hoodie under his flag. “You ever tried the pistachio one?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Just grabbing one for my daughter. Been too busy practicing with my group.”
He glanced at my gold and black outfit. “Ah, you’re one of the dancers!”
I nodded.
He grinned. “You guys are gonna kill it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “There will be no killing.”
He burst out laughing. “No, no—I meant you’ll be great. You’ll crush it. In a good way.”
He paid the vendor and turned to leave. “Break a leg, brother.”
And just like that, he disappeared into the crowd.
Kulfi in hand, I turned back toward the stage, looking up at the Toronto skyline. For a moment, if you blocked out the CN Tower and listened only to the sounds—the drums, the gossip, the laughter—you might think you were back in Mumbai.
Five minutes to showtime!” someone yelled backstage. We huddled. Adjusted our cuffs. Took a breath.
“Toronto crowds are tough,” my friend whispered. “Don’t let it throw you.”
From the main stage, a charity speaker’s voice rang out:
“And how many children die of thirst every year? Lady in the front—yes, you’ve been here since 10 a.m.—anyone else?”
She pointed into the crowd.
“That’s right—8,045 kids. Every single year.” She took a long pause as she shuffled through the papers in her hand. “Now—please welcome your dancers for tonight: the Mumbai Masters!”
We stepped out.
Bright lights. Loud drums. No expressions.
We danced.
All the hours of rehearsals, of practicing in basements, parking lots, empty school gyms—no one moved. No one clapped. My chest started to tighten.
Was this a mistake? Was I just some brown man in costume, parading a culture no one cared to understand?
Then—movement.
Near the edge of the flames, I spotted him—the kulfi protestor—waving his ice cream like a lighter at a concert.
I grinned.
We flowed into the second half of the routine and entered the crowd. Elderly women—Ama’s age—rose to their feet, arms raised, smiles blooming across their faces. They clapped in rhythm, eyes shining.
We’ve made it, they seemed to say.
I scanned the crowd again—and saw her.
Ava.
She was dancing. Her little gold sari twirled as she mirrored my moves, kulfi raised like a torch. She caught my eye, lips moving with perfect clarity:
“I love you, Papa.”
I nearly missed the next beat. But the music kept going, and so did I.
The music pulsed. The city lights shimmered.
And I knew—
not just that we belonged—
but that we were wanted.
Marie Pascual - Between Worlds 
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