The Gurkha's Daughter

by Prajwal Parajuly

  The cake was everywhere: on one of the bamboo chairs—God knew where the other had gone—the computer desk, and the rug. He tiptoed to get the trash can from the terrace, careful not to step on broken glass. The terrace lights were already on. Sitting right next to the trash can, on the missing bamboo chair, was Sahil with a vapid look in his eyes, carefully licking every speck of cake from his little finger. Once finished with the little finger, he moved to the thumb. After licking his thumb clean of the cake crumbs, he moved to the middle finger. He licked it clean, sucked it, and he saw to it not a bit of cake remained. He was oblivious to the standing Prabin in the doorway. His last finger was the ring finger. When his teeth retrieved the ring, along with the cake crumbs, he sucked the engagement ring dry of the cake remains. After he had licked the last crumb of cake off his hand, he spat out the ring, looked at Prabin, mumbled “Cake, cake” and passed out there.

  In the shadows lurked Supriya.

  “He’s a Brahmin, though, Bua, he’s a Brahmin,” she sputtered.

  “Is he stingy?”

  “Not all Brahmins are stingy. Not all women weak. Not all Bengalis are intelligent.”

  “Sradda is stingy, though, and she’s a Brahmin.”

  “The name is Pooja, Bua.” She smiled through her tears.

  MISSED BLESSING

  On a wall in Rajiv’s four-bedded room hung pictures of all the recently deceased members of his family—his mother: blood cancer; his father: a failed liver; his father’s brother and the brother’s wife: a car accident; and his grandfather: old age. The khadas, silk scarves decking each of the frames, had turned light brown with age. The frames themselves had accumulated thick layers of dirt that the early-morning rays dancing through the windows now betrayed. Rajiv wondered aloud if his brother, who he saw was trying to go back to sleep in the bed across from him, might want to clean the frames one of these days.

  “Yes, they’ve been neglected for too long,” said his brother, Sandeep, home on his Dashain vacation from boarding school.

  There’s no way the pictures are neglected, Rajiv thought. I begin my day looking at them and thinking about the people in them.

  He stared at his dozing brother and wished he, too, could sleep that way. His grandmother wasn’t in her bed. She was probably already in the kitchen, preparing tea for him and Sandeep despite the arthritis that caused her difficulty in lifting even a small pot of water. His distant cousin, an eleven-year-old from perhaps the only family poorer than Rajiv’s, wasn’t in his bed either. Rajiv heard no sounds of pots clanking on the floor, so he assumed Tikam was in the kitchen doing most of the work while the old lady supervised. Tikam’s bed, the smallest in the room, was already made—the quilt had been folded into a neat rectangle and set against the wall.

  The missionaries would be here soon. During the past three weeks, a middle-aged couple from America had shown up at Rajiv’s place at six almost every morning. They had lived in Darjeeling for a year or so, helping poor people get to know Christ. Rajiv had difficulty believing the Scotts—he called them Mr. and Ms. Scott despite their wanting to be addressed as Michael and Christa—had been around only for a year because they conversed in fluent Nepali and seemed extremely comfortable in their unfamiliar surroundings. They sat cross-legged on the floor and drank boiled water, unlike those foreign tourists who wouldn’t touch any liquid that didn’t come in sealed bottles. They also didn’t marvel every three seconds at the beauty of Darjeeling’s sunrises.

  These were the first missionaries Rajiv had known intimately, and he was fond of them. He especially liked Michael, who didn’t talk much, just like Rajiv’s father. Christa was always in good spirits and was ready for a good, civilized debate—no voice was raised, no hot words thrown. Rajiv never found in the Scotts any of the mendacity his father was convinced characterized missionaries. The Scotts didn’t sugarcoat, they didn’t question his faith in Hinduism, and they seldom extolled the virtues of Jesus. It sometimes felt like they were his sounding board, a respite from the mundane cycles of his life. Their positive take on everything was inspiring, and these hourly sessions were incentive enough to get out of bed. He always found that after spending time with the couple, more so with Michael, he felt calmer, like their cheer rubbed off on him, so when Rajiv heard a knock, followed by Tikam’s greeting, he sprinted to the small terrace, where he often convened with the Scotts when the weather was right.

  It wasn’t the Scotts. Rajiv should have known better—it was a Sunday, and they never came to his place on Sundays. Their duties at church made morning visits nearly impossible. Rajiv’s mama, his mother’s younger brother, came barging in.

  “You were still sleeping,” his mama said, lowering his glasses from the top of his bald head. “All your mother’s siblings will be in Darjeeling on Friday for Dashain. Their families will be here, too. They will mostly be staying at my place, but you will have to make room in yours for your Manju chema and her daughter. Her husband is staying home so he can offer tika there. He’s the oldest brother; it makes sense.”

  “How many of them will be there?”

  “She and her daughter. Her husband’s brother’s daughter will also be there. These Shillong people love Darjeeling.”

  “That’s three, then.”

  Rajiv knew who the cousin’s cousin was. Her name was Niveeta, and they had met once when they were both toddlers—she had bitten him when he touched her toy rabbit, and he had had to get a tetanus shot. It was a painful childhood memory, but he found himself smiling at the absurdity of now meeting this person from his past. He wondered what she’d look like as an adult and if she remembered what she’d done to him.

  “Yes, and they are leaving tomorrow. Manju nana has to return to Shillong because she doesn’t trust her bekaamey husband with the house, and the girls are returning to college in Delhi. Who allows their daughters to come home during the Dashain vacation, I don’t understand.”

  “You know there’s no space here,” Rajiv said. “All the four beds are occupied.”

  “Work something out. Share a bed with your brother and put some mattresses on the floor. It’s festival time, and you should be open to such eventualities. If relatives don’t visit one another during Dashain, when will they?”

  “Do you know how many there will be? You know how small the room is. If they don’t mind sleeping on mattresses in the kitchen, I might be able to make something happen.”

  “They are guests. You need to treat them well. You, your brother and the boy can sleep in the kitchen. That way, you make room for three guests in the beds and a couple more on the floor of the sitting room.”

  “There’s no sitting room,” Rajiv said.

  His mama didn’t seem to notice.

  “Also, clean this place up a bit. It’s always a mess.”

  His uncle was on his way out now. Rajiv asked him if he wanted some tea.

  “That cousin of yours makes terrible tea,” the older man said. “I’d be a fool to start off my day with it.”

  And with that, he snapped around on his heels and walked away.

  Rajiv stood quiet. It was just like his mama to drop in unannounced this early in the morning with news like that. He wanted to tell his mama about his grandmother’s health, about her anxiety attacks, about how he couldn’t sleep well if he heard so much as a whisper. He wanted to ask his mama who would cook. Tikam was too young, and his grandmother was too frail to prepare a meal for her small family, let alone for guests whose numbers threatened to engender economic imbalance in the house. Rajiv was good in the kitchen, but his experience was limited to a handful of dishes. Their house probably didn’t even have enough plates to feed three extra people. Rajiv dreaded the idea of asking the Scotts to lend him additional serving dishes. They would undoubtedly understand, but the humiliation of borrowing yet another thing from them was too much to bear. They had already given him an old set of chairs they said they had no use for. Asking his friends was out of question—he was too proud. He decided
to share with his grandmother this bizarre development; she wouldn’t have a solution, but he’d feel better if she was involved.

  His grandmother was deaf in her right ear, so he had to position himself close on her left side.

  “Mama says there might be about six of them for three days,” he explained.

  “And where exactly would we fit them?” the toothless lady asked. “On the terrace? Like they do in the plains?”

  “This is Darjeeling, not Bagdogra. They’ll freeze to death on the terrace.”

  “Why can’t they all stay at your mama’s place? At least there’s some space there. You know what happens when I can’t sleep.”

  “I know, but we need to adjust. These are the same people who pooled in money so I could become an engineer.”

  “Yes, not that the degree has been helpful in getting you a job. You still spend all day chatting with those senseless Christians.”

  Years of experience had taught Rajiv not to react to any of his grandmother’s prejudices. He knew she mostly meant well. It was also unwise to explain to an eighty-year-old the current job market in Darjeeling, which had a lot to do with the frequent strikes that various political parties called in an attempt to attract national attention to their demand of a separate state. The economy was crippled; opportunities were nonexistent. And he didn’t want this decaying woman to know that she was the reason he hadn’t left Darjeeling to go to Delhi or Bangalore for an IT job. His younger brother was in a boarding school in Mirik, and going by his dismal academic record, he would likely be there for a few more years. If Rajiv left home to pursue a career, his grandmother would be alone. The number of trips he made home from his engineering college in Majitar, in Sikkim, to take care of her had made him realize that going too far away was fatal—Bangalore wasn’t a taxi ride away from Darjeeling like Majitar was. His grandmother would not be willing to move to a big city. She wanted to die in Darjeeling, in the hills, surrounded by the mountains and her people.

  “I can’t get a job three months after finishing college,” Rajiv said. “The competition is intense.”

  “Weren’t you the boy who always came first in his class? If they don’t give you a job, who will they give it to?”

  “It’s Dashain time. All the offices are closed now, so there’s no point talking about employment. We need to find a way to house all these people.”

  Sandeep staggered into the kitchen, combing his cowlicks.

  “What people?” he said.

  The grandmother filled him in.

  “That’s your mama and your mother’s side of the family for you,” she said. “They have no consideration for anyone.”

  “I could always go sleep at Sonam’s place,” Sandeep offered. “That’s one fewer person in the house. And I could take Tikam with me.”

  “Tikam needs to be here to run errands,” Rajiv countered. “And they will have something to say when they notice your absence. You know how they are—the house is never clean enough, the food never good enough, and we are never hospitable enough.”

  “Why should they stay here?” the grandmother asked. “They don’t even accept tika from me. I am not good enough for them. A dying lady’s blessings aren’t important to them.”

  “You aren’t even related to them, Boju,” said Rajiv. “Why should you put tika on them? And they are probably uncomfortable you’ll give them money with your blessings. They don’t want to be a burden on you. It’s no secret we don’t have money.”

  “You’re your mother’s son, naati—you never think your family is in the wrong. If they understood our struggles, they wouldn’t come to our place as guests for three whole days. No one chooses to become guests in an eighty-year-old’s house if they are considerate. They know I am a sick, dying woman. They have nothing but themselves in mind.”

  Sandeep tapped the bottom of his glass to release the last few droplets of tea before placing it on the elevated platform in the kitchen corner that served as a sink.

  “I am heading out,” he said. “Does anyone need anything?”

  “You never wash anything you use, just like your father,” the grandmother complained. “Even those Christians who have no shame about coming here every day wash their cups.”

  “I’ll wash the glass when I return,” Sandeep said.

  “That’s what your father used to say, too,” the grandmother said, and somewhat fondly added, “He’s his father’s son, a true Rai from Pankhabari—unlike his older brother.”

  The last time relatives from his mother’s side visited, Tikam reported that a female cousin had thrown up in the bathroom. She had then elaborately described to everyone the circumstances that led to her vomiting: the sight of leftover rice, tangled in masses of hair, floating near the open drain. Rajiv was determined no one, least of all Niveeta, should tell more tales about the dubious standards of hygiene his household maintained, so he started cleaning. He looked around the kitchen and sighed at how filthy it was.

  The area around the electrical wiring above the stove was black with grime, and the lone kitchen lightbulb, unchanged for years, hung nearly opaque with dirt. He thought of discarding it but opted instead to scrape off the greasy residue with a knife. It took a long time, but when he plugged the bulb back in after washing and drying it, the light shone with an intensity that forced him to squint. A giant spider crawled up his arm as he knocked loose the cobwebs that dangled everywhere from the tin roof. On seeing that Tikam had done an unsatisfactory job doing the morning dishes, Rajiv washed them again. He stopped only when his grandmother expressed concern that he was working himself to death.

  Hardly had the euphoria of this major accomplishment seeped in when he saw the bedroom. The floor, its cracks and pits ignored for decades, would stubbornly cling to its dirt, rendering most of his elbow grease useless. Patching these holes would have to wait until after he found a job. A pile of rusty tin trunks stuffed with clothes threatened to tumble over. Rajiv started with the bedsheets and mattresses, under which lay mismatched socks. Two roaches skittered to safety as he stripped the beds. He scrubbed and wrung out months of accumulated saliva, sweat, and dirt from the sheets.

  He wouldn’t have minded an extra hand, but it was silly to expect his grandmother to be useful. She did what she could by spreading out the clothes he had salvaged from the tin boxes to disinfect in the sun. His brother hadn’t made an appearance since leaving early that morning, and Tikam was busy chasing crowing roosters in the front yard, so Rajiv continued his solitary effort. But when he found what was under the beds—yellowed, silverfish-infested books and tattered clothes heaped in a foul-smelling bundle that he was certain housed mouse droppings—he gave up. Overcome by exhaustion and feeling defeated by the impending work, he lay on one of the mattresses on the terrace and fell asleep.

  It was almost dark when he awoke. Sandeep walked out from the bathroom, freshly bathed and whistling the tune of an old Bollywood song. Rajiv’s head throbbed, and he asked Sandeep if he’d get him some water. Sandeep called for Tikam but received no answer.

  “He’s never here when you need him,” his brother grumbled, going to the kitchen. “I have to do all the work around here.”

  The water he handed Rajiv was cold. With every gulp, Rajiv pushed down an entire day’s worth of pent-up anger.

  “You know I don’t drink cold water,” he said.

  Sandeep pretended not to hear. Rajiv looked at the glass and then at Sandeep, who was clearly trying to avoid his gaze.

  Certain that his brother wouldn’t answer, Rajiv left for the bathroom. He filled the plastic bucket to the brim with water and took off his clothes. When he reached for his Lifebuoy soap (after being inspired by a particularly enlightening talk on hygiene with the Scotts, he had just two weeks ago declared to everyone at home that he would use a separate soap that no one was to touch), he saw on it a helix of hair. On the other side of the soap were several strands of hair of varying lengths. He tried removing the hairs with his fingers, but they
obstinately remained. His nails dug into the soap, turning pink.

  The anger came back in flashes. Several emotions surged in turns, each trying to subdue another but managing only to compound it. He thought of the day he’d had—his uncle’s sudden appearance, his grandmother’s jabs for not finding a job soon, and his brother’s lack of consideration—and confirmed what he had little doubt about: he received zero appreciation from his family. They took all his sacrifices for granted. Not one soul, not even Tikam, whose workload Rajiv tried to lighten in every possible way so he could concentrate on school, had said a nice word to him all day.

  Lifting a bucket of ice-cold water and pouring it over himself didn’t change anything. He stretched—his back still hurt, and every bone in his body smarted—as he heard loud, urgent knocks on the bathroom door. Tikam was calling out his name and beating the door repeatedly. Just a few months ago, after some very careful budgeting and making a few sacrifices, Rajiv had hired workers to break down the wall separating the toilet and the bathroom and replaced the Eastern-style squatter toilet with a commode for his grandmother’s convenience. The renovations had gone well, and even his grandmother was happy she didn’t have to squat anymore. Because everyone woke up at different hours, the times for bathroom usage seldom overlapped. At the moment, though, Rajiv concluded that not all was sane about his replacing the two rooms with one. It was, he cursed, a silly, Western thing to do.

  He didn’t even get a moment’s peace in this house. He dressed slowly as the knocks grew more frequent.

  “It’s almost in my pants,” Tikam screamed, first jocularly, then with seriousness.

  Rajiv applied some gel to his head and combed his hair. Dissatisfied with the way he looked, he styled his hair again, this time parting it in the middle. He sprayed cologne under his arms.