The Gurkha's Daughter

by Prajwal Parajuly

  “Politics, Uncle, will be my career. I will see to it that the Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council will be free and continue serving in some political capacity.”

  “Do you see yourself as a DGHC minister if it becomes a state one day, Anwesh?” He purposefully avoided calling him “son.”

  “Yes, Uncle, I do. I will become the chief minister one day. Your daughter thinks it’s impossible, though. She thinks I am wasting my time.”

  “Did you say that, Supriya?” Prabin asked, not looking at anyone, or anything, in particular.

  “Yes, I did,” Supriya said. “And that’s the reason I won’t marry you, Anwesh.”

  “Just give me five years, Supriya. Five years is all I need.”

  “No, Anwesh, I gave you two, and you still don’t have a job or money of your own. You’re still dependent on your parents for money. We’ve talked about this before.”

  Prabin fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat, shuffling his liquor from one hand to another. He asked if he should leave.

  “No, that’s fine, Bua, we’re having a casual discussion,” Supriya said. “Look at us—still smiling.”

  She was smiling; Anwesh wasn’t.

  “I will not get married to someone who makes less money than I do,” Supriya said.

  “You’re insulting me, Supriya.” The howling of a pack of stray dogs drowned Anwesh’s voice. “I keep telling you to give me five years to prove myself.”

  “You don’t need five years to prove yourself. I wouldn’t mind your political gundagiri at all if only you had a job. You could teach in a college somewhere and continue to mobilize the youth. You could work someplace—that would put your education to good use.”

  Her father stood up to leave, but so did Anwesh.

  “I guess this means I should leave?” Anwesh asked.

  “Probably,” Supriya said. “Good luck.”

  “All right, Uncle, thank you so much for dinner,” Anwesh said. “Namaste.”

  “Goodnight, Anwesh,” Prabin said.

  “I’ll see you to the door.” Supriya led the way.

  Prabin had expected some talk to take place downstairs and was surprised when Supriya returned immediately.

  “Wow,” he remarked.

  “I know,” she said. “He wouldn’t have left me alone had I not insulted him here.”

  Prabin smiled. “So that’s why you brought him here?”

  “Well, yes, he knows how much you mean to me, and to impress you was his biggest goal. After the DGHC nonsense, of course. It all went downhill when I brought up finance and independence issues.”

  “Wow,” Prabin remarked. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I know. There’s not a lot for you to say.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever see him again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He seemed pretty shaken.”

  “Must have been the drink—you know, with four-fifths water.”

  He figured she was trying to make light of the situation. “These Darjeeling people—I love the way they speak.”

  “I know. And what they say about St. Paul’s products not being able to mingle is certainly true.”

  “He seemed social enough.”

  “He rehearsed for this meeting a million times. Where do you think the book on how to run a successful business and the bouquet for Mua came from?”

  “Did you see her face when he handed her the flowers?” They were back to their chitchat. “I had difficulty controlling my laughter. To be honest, I was a little insulted he brought me a book on how to manage my business. You probably told him I don’t manage the bookstore well enough.”

  “Yes, he tried. But giving a book like that to the most successful bookstore owner in town is a little silly, I agree.”

  “You know everyone says we are more successful than Good Books,” Prabin boasted. “Now we just have to beat Rachna Books.”

  “Weren’t you always?” Supriya teased. “Or were those lies to appease my childish questions about who had more money, who was bigger, and who was more powerful?”

  “Be absolutely honest with me, Supriya. You couldn’t have turned down the man simply because you didn’t like the idea of his being in politics. There’s something about Anwesh that convinces anyone he meets he’s going to do great things. I’ll give it in writing that he will be a great man. There’s more to it than his involvement in politics.”

  “Yes, there is,” she replied, looking straight ahead.

  “Is there someone else?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Then why?”

  “He’s not a Brahmin, Bua. Remember to be a Brahmin, both your parents need to be Brahmins? I want my children to be Brahmin.”

  “Yes, chulhai nimto—of course, everyone’s invited,” Khusboo said on the phone. “Yes, bring the children, too. How often do they get to feast on arranged marriages these days? They need to know that they should get married to someone of their own caste. This will be an example. What? Aye, no, no, it’s not entirely arranged. Who goes for totally arranged marriages these days? But he’s a Brahmin, the upper berth, and yes, the kundalis match perfectly. Ten out of ten, the pundit says. She’s thirty, and he’s thirty-one. Perfect. Thank you, thank you. All right, we’ll see you at the wedding then. Let’s wear something understated and elegant. We need to show them the girl’s side is educated and classy, you know. Bye.”

  Supriya and Prabin were addressing invitations—he in Nepali, and she in English—and rolled their eyes while nodding their heads in disbelief when Khusboo brought up the issue of the groom’s being a Brahmin and the perfectly harmonious birth charts. Supriya wouldn’t allow her birth chart to be read, and Khusboo had to acquiesce because Supriya had done her the biggest favor of all by getting married to a Brahmin. All these years, Prabin hadn’t disclosed to his wife their daughter’s desire to get married to a man from her caste. He often considered telling her about what transpired in the crow’s nest after Anwesh’s dismissal six years ago. Something stopped him. He felt petty hiding a matter that would have possibly saved his wife six years of fitful sleep, but he didn’t mention a thing. It was his little secret, and he knew why.

  He didn’t want his wife to relax while he still tossed and turned. Letting her know that Supriya was not getting married to anyone but a Brahmin would be the end of her worries. It, however, wouldn’t be the end of his. What if her husband, a righteous Brahmin in every way, ended up treating his daughter the way he, Prabin, treated his wife? What if Supriya’s evolved into a marriage deprived of love like his was? Yes, he didn’t cheat on his wife, and he knew she didn’t cheat on him, but neither gave the other the happiness one expects from a spouse. Days went by without their having exchanged a word with each other. All the joy that came from their marriage resided in their daughter. And he didn’t wish that life for his daughter. God knows he had failed as a husband; he didn’t want another man like him, the picture-perfect Brahmin, to fail Supriya. He knew his reasons for keeping Supriya’s desire a secret were selfish, inhumane even, but he couldn’t imagine being the lone suffering person.

  “All Nepali cards are ready, right?” Khusboo asked.

  “Yes, they are,” Prabin said. “Finally. I still don’t understand why we are inviting this many people.”

  “I told you I wanted a court wedding,” Supriya said. “You could have given the money to me to buy a house.”

  “What an inappropriate thing to say,” Khusboo shouted. “Everything we have is yours. Will we take all our money with us when we die or what? Your husband isn’t exactly a poor man. And he’s already a deputy secretary in the government now. You’re bound to get a government job in no time. What a lucky girl.”

  “She doesn’t want a government job, Khusboo,” Prabin said, inviting a pinch from Supriya. He looked forward to the battle that would ensue.

  “Ah! The Acharyas,” Khusboo said. “Supriya Acharya.”

  “She doesn’t want to change her last na
me,” Prabin quipped, once again hoping he had instigated a quarrel.

  Supriya’s phone rang. It was Sahil, her fiancé, and she went to her room.

  Supriya had made Prabin aware of Sahil some time ago.

  She called him one day, asked him if he was alone, and said she had something to share.

  “His name is Sahil, and he’s a Baahun.”

  “Oh, good, I don’t need to know more, of course,” Prabin joked.

  “Good family. A good job. A great personality. Good character.”

  “All right.” He gave her the signal to continue.

  “Only son.” She laughed. “Sister is in the US. No flirtatious brothers-in-law to worry about.”

  “He seems perfect in every way. There must be something negative about him.”

  “Um, not that I can think of.”

  “C’mon, something.”

  “No, none whatsoever.”

  “Okay, if not negative, something you don’t like.”

  “He wears contacts and keeps losing them.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Hold on.”

  “Sure.”

  “Let me think.” She repeated herself.

  “Well, if we are nitpicking, he drinks moderately. And he tends to get drunk rather fast.”

  “Do you think that’s serious?”

  “Well, I tell him that I love him all the time except when he drinks.”

  “What do you want to do when he drinks?”

  “Kill him,” she said. “But it doesn’t worry me so much. He doesn’t go out drinking every night.”

  “Not a wife beater in the making?”

  “No, about that I am sure.”

  “Alcoholic?”

  “The reality of alcoholism is different for us than it’s for you, Bua. All young people drink.”

  “So do I.”

  “Yes, and Mua thinks you’re an alcoholic. See my point?”

  “I do.”

  The first time they met him, both husband and wife fell for Sahil. He was suave, tall, very good looking, had impeccable manners, and made excellent conversation. For the first time in years, Prabin and Khusboo talked for some time before they went to bed. Sahil was a charmer. A sincere charmer, they both agreed. And he seemed very into their daughter, who was now back in the room, laughing on the phone at something he had just said.

  “He’s coming for your birthday,” Supriya yelled. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but you know surprises are never surprising, so I am letting you know. Pretend to be surprised.”

  “Oh, all right, so there’ll be cake cutting then?” Prabin asked.

  “And new clothes. Those track pants have holes in them.”

  “Maybe we are getting richer, Supriya.”

  “I know. Richer than the Kaiyas downstairs at least.”

  Sahil arrived the next day with bottles of champagne, a cake, and a present for Prabin. The wedding was three weeks later, so the trip wasn’t necessary, which touched Prabin. Up in the crow’s nest, his favorite place in the world, they, along with a group of a dozen close friends and relatives, toasted his sixty years, his longevity, the wedding, Khusboo’s cooking skills—the vegetable pakoras and koftas she was passing around as appetizers were delicious—and a happy life. Soon, everyone downed flutes of champagne while Khusboo watched indulgently and saw to it all the plates were replenished. She was a happy woman these days.

  People filled out into the terrace. Trays of lit coal dangling in the four corners of the rooftop kept them warm in the December cold. Khusboo’s sister wanted to dance, and the Bollywood music blaring from the stereo persuaded all to their feet. Prabin looked around himself in satisfaction. It had been a good sixty years.

  As though reading his thoughts, his daughter stopped dancing and walked up to him.

  “Not a bad innings, huh?” She used a cricket term.

  “Not at all.” The music blared, a 2009 Bollywood hit.

  “Not dancing?”

  “You know how I feel about it.” The music carried on as cheers from the revelers doubled.

  “What about at least standing around and clapping?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll look like an idiot.”

  “It’s your birthday. No one cares.”

  “How’re you feeling?” Prabin asked.

  “I hate it when he drinks. Look at him making a fool of himself.”

  “But you always knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but he’s these people’s future son-in-law. Look at them laughing at him.”

  “Ah, c’mon, they’re laughing with him.”

  “No, Bua, they are pretending. They’ll probably go home and complain about your alcoholic son-in-law.”

  “Is he?”

  “What?”

  “An alcoholic. Is he an alcoholic?”

  “He drinks, Bua. Every so often.”

  “Then why are you afraid of what people perceive of him? When did you ever care about what people think?”

  “This is different, Bua.”

  Prabin saw Sahil tinker with the stereo. Women’s laughter peppered the silence. Shakira filled the air.

  “Chyaa, English,” someone screamed.

  “Yes, English—that too a vulgar one,” another chimed. Laughter followed.

  “Our son-in-law is making us women with no character,” Khusboo’s sister said.

  “Why is it different now, Supriya?”

  Sahil kept moving from woman to woman. Those who weren’t dancing, like Khusboo, he tried carrying to the dance area. People around him shouted and clapped in encouragement while he lost his balance and came down, legs and arms entwined, with his future mother-in-law. Half the onlookers were amused, and half were scandalized. Khusboo hurriedly gathered herself while an inebriated Sahil lay on the ground laughing. He was having a good time.

  “I don’t know, Bua, but look at that.” Supriya didn’t look at Sahil. She pointed at the computer. Prabin had taught her this time-tested method of talking about people without making it too obvious who was being spoken about.

  “You’re getting married in weeks. You don’t seem very happy, Supriya.”

  “I am, Bua, I swear to God, I am. It’s just that when this happens, I hate him.”

  Sahil was up by now, and he was running around the terrace in circles with Supriya’s mysteriously procured twenty-five-year-old water bottle around his neck. His speed increased with every round. The few guests who were amused earlier were now quiet. Prabin saw eyes talking and heard hushed whispers.

  “Do you ever miss Anwesh?”

  “Don’t do this to me, Bua.”

  “I am just curious. You don’t have to answer the question if you don’t want to.”

  “He wasn’t much of a drinker.”

  People began clustering around the buffet on the terrace.

  “Where’s the birthday boy?” someone asked. “Shouldn’t he be eating?”

  Prabin paid the man no attention.

  “Do you think you should have a talk with him, Supriya?”

  “You’ve no idea how many talks there have been.”

  A plate came crashing down. It was Sahil.

  “Mazel Tov,” he screamed.

  No one knew what to do with that.

  “There should probably be one more,” Prabin said.

  “You don’t like him, do you, Bua?”

  “I didn’t say that, Supriya.”

  “You don’t need to.” She was crying now. “Your voice says it. Your body language says it.”

  “He’s a good boy.”

  “You could have told me sooner that you didn’t think we were a good match.” The tears were back.

  “Supriya, I never said he wasn’t a good match,” said Prabin. “I think you’re capable of choosing someone good enough for you.”

  Prabin turned his attention to Sahil picking up chicken drumsticks from different plates. After having collected six pieces, he mumbled something about a game, threw the drumsticks
up in the air and yelled at people for not catching them. Khusboo looked like she was about to faint.

  “Anwesh would never have done this,” Supriya said, wiping her tears. She forced a smile at someone and headed for the buffet.

  Prabin knew he should resist saying it, but he couldn’t help himself. “It’s still your choice.”

  Supriya didn’t look back at him.

  The clock chimed midnight soon after their dinner. The drinking had stopped for everyone but Sahil. Prabin had carefully hidden his strong brandy under the computer desk but discovered that Sahil had excavated it. An exhausted Khusboo brought the cake with sixty candles. It took Prabin two minutes to blow them out. After he cut the cake, Sahil demanded to rub the cake on Prabin’s face. This wouldn’t have been a ridiculous proposition had Sahil been in a position to string his words together, but he wasn’t, and Prabin quietly asked Khusboo to give him some water.

  “Lie down, Sahil jwaai saab,” Prabin said.

  “Cake first, cake first,” Sahil mumbled and made for the cake with his hand.

  After digging out a handful, he turned to Supriya. His shirt was unbuttoned to his navel, and he rubbed cake all over Supriya’s chest, who murmured something into his ears. It wasn’t the stern voice she had used with Anwesh. This voice was calm and soothing, as if Sahil were a baby. In fact, it looked like she was putting a big baby to sleep.

  “Enough,” Prabin said. “Enough, jwaai saab.”

  Sahil was laughing, having an excellent time.

  “Enough,” Prabin shouted. “I don’t care about whether you’re my future son-in-law—you have to leave.”

  Sahil’s hands flailed; his eyes were bloodshot. The friends and family stood around, horrified, awkward, confused about what their roles should be.

  “I don’t care if a son-in-law is the next thing to God.” Prabin looked around. “I’ll slap his silly face if I have to.”

  The look on his wife’s face was a mixture of disbelief and self-pity. The night had gone entirely out of control, and his future son-in-law was crazy. He went to the bathroom downstairs to get away from it all. The crow’s nest was a mess of broken glasses, uneaten cake, and torn streamers.

  He stayed in the bathroom for a long, long time. By the time he returned, all was quiet in the house. Everyone had either left or gone to bed. Prabin went up to the crow’s nest to inspect the damage done. It would also clear his head. He didn’t know what to think of the night.