The death of an immigrant dream

By Pradeep Ananth Photography by Jennifer Roberts April 27, 2026 Macleans Magazine

I never thought about leaving Bengaluru, India’s tech hub, until my wife, Monali, got a job in Canada. We were in our late thirties, prosperous, well-educated and well-paid, and there were many opportunities ahead for us in India. I was consulting for multinational tech companies, like Accenture and Capgemini. But in November of 2022, Monali’s employer, a large e-commerce company she’d spent 11 years with, offered her a major promotion as a senior product manager. It came with a six-figure salary and a relocation to the Toronto office. It was too good to turn down. 

Monali received a company-sponsored work permit, which was valid for three years and legally tied her right to work in Canada to that one employer. That meant if she lost her job, she wouldn’t be able to work for anyone else. It was risky, but we weren’t worried: the company was investing so much in us. They covered the costs of our flights and the shipment of our luggage and furniture from Bengaluru. They connected us with a realtor to help us find a place in Toronto. They even arranged to transport our cats. We assumed that an organization offering this much support would want us to succeed in our new country. Besides, Canada was all in on immigration in 2022. Ottawa set record-high targets as a post-COVID recovery strategy: it was planning for more than 430,000 new permanent residents in that year alone, and close to 450,000 the year after. 

As Monali’s spouse, I received a three-year open work permit that allowed me to work for any Canadian employer. It meant we could both stay in the country through the end of 2025. We figured we wouldn’t need visas by then. With strong English skills, managerial experience from abroad and, in my case, a master’s degree, we expected that one year of Canadian work experience would be enough to grant us permanent residency—and with it, the chance to stay for good. We were excited to bring our four-year-old son, Kabir. We pictured him growing up Canadian, with a well-rounded childhood that left room for play, hobbies and whatever interested him, rather than the intense academic pressure that shapes so many kids’ lives in India. We wanted him to grow up in a diverse city and become more open, curious and worldly.

Over three years, we paid Canadian taxes, opened bank accounts, signed multi-year leases and made friends. We enrolled our son in rollerskating, chess, swimming, piano and basketball classes at local community centres, and paid regular visits to the public library. Kabir settled into a Canadian school; he didn’t know any other life. But it all amounted to disappointment and heartache. While we were building our lives in Canada, the federal government was tightening the system and cutting permanent residency spots. The country where we were putting down roots didn’t have room for us after all. And we had to leave.

After Monali accepted the promotion, we immediately rented out our house in Bengaluru and flew to Toronto. Our realtor had found us a two-bedroom condo rental downtown. When we arrived, I was shocked at how small it was—only 850 square feet. We had a much bigger space back home, so the furniture we’d shipped in cargo barely fit. For the first few months, while searching for jobs, I stayed at home, cooking and doing school drop-off and pick-up. Everyone I knew in Canada—friends, acquaintances, employment agents—advised me to network aggressively, attend industry events and embellish cover letters. But I’m an introvert, so I stuck to traditional methods and applied for knowledge-management and consultant roles on sites like Indeed and LinkedIn. 

I felt completely detached from my former life. I used to see my parents at least once a week, so it was strange to only talk to them over long-distance video calls across a 10-hour time difference. Our conversations were often strained. My parents couldn’t wrap their heads around our new daily struggles. Back in Bengaluru, we had a nanny, a cook and cleaning help. In Toronto, we couldn’t afford a cleaner, so I was doing the housework while desperately looking for a job. Canada was teaching us the hard way how to run a house by ourselves. When my parents and I were physically in the same room, the silences were comforting, but with video calls they felt awkward and stilted.

Over time, we called each other less frequently.

By early 2023, only a few months after we’d arrived in Canada, e-commerce and tech companies were reversing their pandemic hiring boom. Globally, big players like Amazon, Salesforce, Microsoft and Google laid off tens of thousands of workers. In Canada, Shopify had just eliminated around 2,000 roles. Monali was terrified she was next, but I reassured her that we’d be fine. No corporation would spend tens of thousands of dollars to move a family across the world just to cut them loose.

Everything was going well until one day in February of 2023. I was at Kabir’s school, waiting to pick him up, when I got a text from Monali: “I’ve been laid off.” I was in shock. On the walk home, I had to smile at my son and ask about his day while my mind went through a thousand worst-case scenarios. I realized how naive I’d been. The company didn’t see a family; they saw a restructuring target. The minute I reached home, Monali and I broke down and held each other. 

At that exact moment, the movers were walking into the condo with our final shipment of furniture from India. I told them to just leave the boxes. We knew our status in Canada was in jeopardy. I could legally work until November of 2025, but renewing my spousal work permit was contingent on Monali having a job. As it stood, my right to work would end the moment my permit expired. I wasn’t getting interviews, and we still didn’t have that year of Canadian experience we needed to qualify for permanent residency. 

We thought about returning to India, but we’d told everyone we were moving abroad for a better life, only to find ourselves with nothing. We also didn’t want to uproot Kabir again. He was already settled in school with new friends and a routine. Unlike India’s hyper-competitive schools, his Canadian education fostered curiosity and joy. He loved his teachers and looked forward to going every morning. We decided to try to make it work in Canada.

Since we were only living off of Monali’s severance, we tightened every expense. We stopped eating out and resisted the temptation to try the latest seasonal drinks at Starbucks or Tim Hortons. We became experts at hunting for the cheapest grocery items and planned our weekly meal-preps with surgical precision to save every cent.

Two months later, I finally got a job as an operations and knowledge management specialist at a large company. I was going to earn around $4,000 every month, which was a huge relief. But Toronto is an expensive city, so after paying $3,500 for the rent on our condo and wi-fi, there was barely anything left. To cover our daily expenses, which cost another $1,000 every month, we had to keep using Monali’s severance. When that ran out, we dipped into our savings from India. 

To supplement our income, I started working as an Uber Eats delivery rider during my off-hours. I rented a large e-bike for $179 a month. The first few weeks were a nightmare—I was overweight and out of shape, and my body hurt with every kilometre. I stood outside restaurants for hours, hoping for a delivery notification. But the hustle had a silver lining. It forced me to explore Toronto. I discovered parks, waterfronts and neighbourhoods I never would have ventured to. I saw the city through a new lens.

Monali, meanwhile, was reapplying for Toronto-based roles in the company where she had worked for 11 years. None of them panned out, and her permit barred her from working anywhere else. She was the entire reason we were in Canada, and yet she couldn’t find a job.

But things were looking up by the end of 2023. I had almost a year of Canadian work experience and could soon qualify for permanent residency. I sat for an English-language test to certify my proficiency and received a high score. I was proud of myself. After all the stress, surprises and hard work, I believed we were finally about to turn our fortunes around.

Canada uses a scoring system to assess which immigrants can stay permanently, based on factors like age, work experience and education. In 2020, when borders closed and a growing backlog slowed down application approvals, Ottawa missed its immigration goal by more than 150,000. The next year, it wanted to make up lost ground, and businesses were clamouring for workers. The government aggressively raised its target to 400,000 newcomers. One day in February of 2021, it admitted more than 27,000 people in a single sweep—largely temporary workers and international graduates already in Canada and therefore untouched by closed borders. The cut-off score dropped from the mid-400s to just 75, which allowed many lower-skilled workers to stay.

Ottawa’s appetite for immigration only grew: in 2022, it planned for more than 430,000 new Canadians, with larger targets set for the years ahead. The Trudeau government saw skilled newcomers as a quick and easy way to fill thousands of job vacancies during Canada’s post-pandemic recovery. Sean Fraser, then the minister of immigration, refugees and citizenship, promoted the plan as a way to ease labour shortages in sectors like health care, trades, manufacturing and tech. Newcomers were told that if they arrived legally, worked hard and followed the rules, they’d be able to stay. When Monali, Kabir and I arrived in the country, we thought we had a realistic shot.

However, as post-pandemic population growth surged, and housing and affordability deteriorated further, public sentiment around immigration took a sharp turn. Canadians blamed newcomers for the country’s housing shortage and health-care backlog. By October of 2024, Ottawa had reduced permanent residency spots by more than 20 per cent—from the planned 500,000 to 395,000—and the score to qualify had risen to 540. For me, this felt like a death sentence. 

The system rewards youth, ostensibly because young people are less burdensome on the health-care system. Many mid-career professionals arriving on work permits are high earners who pay substantial taxes from day one, but income and economic impact do not merit points in the system. Even with my master’s degree and Canadian work experience, my score was nowhere near the cut-off to qualify for permanent residency. 

For many people, the most straightforward way to stay permanently in Canada is to learn and demonstrate proficiency in French. Bilingualism adds up to 74 points and opens the door to less competitive francophone immigration programs. However, committing to an intensive, multi-year course of study to become fluent in the language and pass the exams was not realistic for us. Instead, we hoped Ontario would nominate us as permanent residents. This nomination, worth 600 points, would virtually guarantee us permanent residency. My employer simply had to fill out paperwork. Even though I met all the government requirements, the company declined to complete it. I was told the decision was made in accordance with management directives. Whether that stance was driven by internal policy or indifference, I will never know. But it slammed the door shut on the most direct path we had to secure our future here. 

We immediately looked for other solutions. Our immigration lawyer suggested that Monali pursue a degree on a study permit; a Canadian education would earn her additional points and open up the chance for a work permit after she graduated. But this option was prohibitively expensive—international students usually pay triple the domestic tuition fees—and Monali didn’t want to go back to school. Next, we thought about moving west to pursue the Alberta Advantage Immigration Program, which offers a provincial nomination. My employer has offices there, so I requested an internal transfer. Once again, the answer was no. 

After almost a year at my company, in January of 2024, I found a lucrative role as a consultant for a financial services institution. It would pay an additional $1,500, so we could cover our household expenses on my income alone, and I could quit my Uber Eats job. I asked the company’s HR department to provide the paperwork necessary to assist me with my residency status. Despite strong support from my team—including our senior director, who argued my case with HR—the answer was no. According to company policy, they couldn’t assist anyone at my pay grade with immigration paperwork. I wasn’t senior enough. The only way forward was a special exception approved by the senior vice-president, but it never happened.

I hadn’t seen my parents since we left India. During this time, my mother had an accident and underwent two hip surgeries. I watched, helpless, over video calls as my father, brother and sister-in-law supported her recovery. With my wife out of work and my own status precarious, travelling outside Canada was risky. We worried that a border officer might refuse to let us back in. 

What kept us going was the idea that we could still build a great life in Canada. People welcomed us with simple and kind gestures. Once, down at the Toronto harbour, a stranger let our son climb onto his boat just to look around. I also liked Canadian attitudes about work and family life. At my job, I’d discovered Ontario’s “right to disconnect” policy—after 5 p.m., I could log off from work entirely. In India’s relentlessly work-focused culture, that boundary is non-existent. Most importantly, Kabir had already become used to life in Canada. His happiness was our anchor: the single most important reason we wanted to stay.

I kept working at the financial services company to build up two years of Canadian work experience, which would give me extra points, but the PR cut-off score was still in the mid-500s. Because English-language test scores expire every two years, my results from 2023 became useless and I had to retake the exam. I studied more and reappeared for the test in July of 2025. This time, I got a near-perfect score across the board and received additional points. With only four months left before my work permit expired, I clung to the hope that my score would finally be high enough to let us stay for good.

But bad news kept coming. In October, Ottawa announced it was cutting permanent residency by another 15,000 spots for 2026. This also made spousal work permits like mine harder to renew. We started hearing politicians like Pierre Poilievre saying that Canada needed more people leaving than coming. Living paycheque to paycheque was stressful; watching the immigration system tighten was agonizing.

In October of 2025, we finally accepted the reality that we were out of time. My work permit was set to expire the following month, and there was no way to extend it. Monali and I transitioned to visitor visas, buying ourselves some time to dismantle the life we’d spent three years building. Strangely, I felt relieved. Once we knew for sure that we were leaving, the constant anxiety disappeared.

We had to protect Kabir. To ensure that his education would align with what he’d learned in Canada, we enrolled him at a school in Bengaluru that followed the Cambridge IGCSE curriculum. Then, I gave our tenants in India two months’ notice to vacate our house. Finally, I announced on LinkedIn that my Canadian chapter was coming to a close and that I was ready for opportunities back home again. Many people left supportive comments, and I felt humbled. We spent our final days throwing things away and selling what we could on Facebook Marketplace. Even on our last day, we were cleaning the apartment and getting rid of our mattress, just to make sure we got our deposit back.

We landed in Bengaluru in mid-January. At the airport, I hired porters for 2,500 rupees (about $40) to help with our bags. I thought it was a bargain, but my wife told me to stop converting prices to Canadian dollars.

Our own house was rented out until February, so we moved in with my parents. The first few weeks were tricky: I wanted time to rest, but my parents were anxious for me to start job-hunting. In many ways, though, it felt as if we’d simply picked up where we’d left off when we moved away three years earlier. The silences between us were comforting again. And they were so happy to see Kabir. He settled into his new school immediately, making friends within the first week and even collecting their parents’ phone numbers so they could stay in touch on WhatsApp. The main difference is that

Kabir now has to write exams—though, unlike in many Indian schools, they’re not meant to pit children against each other but rather to help teachers identify areas of improvement.

Monali misses her friends and our slow pace of life in Toronto. I miss going to parks as a family and running around together. I particularly miss snowtubing, which was my favourite thing to do in winter. And I miss the city’s walkability and knowing that if Monali or Kabir went out on their own, they would be safe. On the work front, someone from a Canadian telecom company reached out and offered me a job as a senior engineer at their Bengaluru offices. I’m working Canadian hours, but I’m okay with that. It keeps a connection to a professional culture I really like.

It’s tempting to look back and say we wasted three years, but I don’t see it that way. Our time in Canada gave us a glimpse of a better life. Even through the hardest moments, we learned a lot about staying resilient and adapting to changing circumstances. Those lessons made us richer in a way that money or status could never.

Still, the shifting political climate in Canada has left a bitter aftertaste. I remember seeing social media posts falsely claiming that Indians were defecating at Wasaga Beach, in Ontario. On news stories about crime in Brampton—a city with a majority South Asian population—the comments sections were often filled with readers accusing Indians of coming to Canada to sow disorder. The worst is when people film or photograph South Asian people in public and use those images as proof of “invasion.”

Lately, it feels as though immigrants, particularly those from India, are being scapegoated for whatever is going wrong in the country. The dramatic increase in newcomers is a direct result of policy choices made by the Trudeau government. And the housing crisis and cutthroat job market are products of complex systemic policy failures, which have been decades in the making. We arrived in the country legally, paid our taxes and contributed to the economy, yet we were cast as villains. I don’t want to be anywhere I’m not welcome. 

After all we’ve been through, I’m not sure I would ever want to go back to Canada. Monali and I still have two decades of work ahead of us, but I doubt we have the appetite for any more overseas adventures. For all the kindness we received, after all the hassle our family has been through, we didn’t feel welcomed by the unforgiving system that ultimately forced us out. For now, I’m just happy to be home where we have support.

— As told to Vrunda Bhatt