The Gurkha's Daughter

by Prajwal Parajuly

  Her husband saw her reading a Mills & Boon novel and asked with a chuckle what she was doing reading trash.

  “Soon you’ll want the kind of man described in those books,” he said. “I’ll be inadequate.”

  “How do you know how they’re described?”

  “You know, tall, dark, and handsome. Maybe I should’ve been darker.”

  “You’ve probably read them yourself. How do you know how the men are described in there?”

  “Naah, I don’t read trash. It poisons your mind. Whatever happened to your big plans of studying Tolstoy?”

  “I haven’t read in so long; I think I should start with something lighter.”

  “Yes, like Tinkle comics.” He was in a jovial mood. “Or Pinki. Or Chacha Chaudhary. Remember how much Rakesh loved them?”

  “Yes, I also remember how many times he missed the school bus because he’d not stop reading them.”

  “He called today. I asked him if he found Chacha Chaudhary comics in America.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me he called?”

  “We don’t see each other very often, which is funny because we both have nothing to do,” he said.

  Her husband was right. He wasn’t yet awake when she went on her walks. He liked to run in the evenings and tried to get her to do the same, but she found herself up at five every morning and didn’t know what to do; going on a walk was the best way to kill time. And she had been so engrossed in her romance novels the last couple of days that they hadn’t played cards at all.

  She had missed her son’s call while she was busy making conversation with a man who wasn’t her husband. The memory of Mr. Bhattarai trying to make the two Alsatians sit made her smile.

  “What’d he say?” she asked.

  “The usual.”

  “Does he need money?”

  “He didn’t mention it. I did most of the talking.”

  “Should I just put some money into his account? You know, as a security blanket?”

  “Why would you do that?” He was irate. “He hasn’t asked for it.”

  “Just so—”

  “No,” he said firmly. “We’ll not give him any money. If he needs something, he should learn to ask.”

  “That he never will.”

  “Let him learn then.”

  “So, you want him to starve in a foreign land?”

  “Yes, let him do that. If that will teach him to be a man, so be it. Your love is the reason he’s this way.”

  She would deposit two hundred thousand rupees into Rakesh’s account that her husband, who had already procured a pack of cards from the drawer, didn’t need to know about. Rakesh was the youngest, after all. She found herself wondering what method other parents employed to help out their children abroad. She was going to find out tomorrow.

  Mr. Bhattarai asked her where the dogs were. Oh, they created too much trouble and hampered her speed walking. Maybe they need someone like him to discipline them, she said, turning scarlet. Yes, his father was an army man, and he was brought up with an iron hand. One grain of rice on the table, and he’d have his ears boxed. He laughed. She laughed. But he didn’t have the heart to be too strict with his boys. Yes, neither she nor her husband was very good with disciplining—they tried but always failed. If she had had her way, she wouldn’t have sent any of her other children abroad after the eldest dissipated her glamorous notion associated with foreign studies through his descriptions of trysts with illegal jobs. Children abroad—nothing parents said ever dissuaded them from chasing the dollar dream, right? she said. Yes, she was similar to him because even his children were abroad, and he understood her concerns.

  Did his children ever ask for financial support? She wanted to help her youngest out even if he hadn’t asked for any money, but her husband was opposed to it. Yes, the older one asked for help in his family, and they had to provide him with it. The younger one was responsible. He was even ready to pay back the money they had given him in the beginning. Oh, it was just the opposite with her children. She wasn’t particularly worried about the older ones—they were responsible and ambitious. The youngest, though, didn’t talk so much. Sure, he hadn’t been gone for long, but she was always anxious for him. What if he began drinking and smoking? She knew she had to let go, but it was impossible, no matter how hard she tried. Did the thoughts of his children keep him awake at night?

  No, he said. Losing sleep over her grown-up son would get her nowhere, and as far as drinking went, she should wake up and see the world around her—every teenager was doing it, so it wouldn’t be criminal for her son to indulge in it once in a while; it wasn’t unhealthy. See, she came from a family of unhealthy people. How did he manage to stay so fit? He had the health of a twenty-year-old. He smiled and said it was the early-morning walks and good conversationalists that kept him young. She turned red at his using “conversationalists” instead of “conversations.” He understood she was afraid of alcoholism and addiction, but if her son was drinking in moderation—and he probably was—it wasn’t any cause for worry. No, it would concern her and her husband, she remarked. No one in their family drank, not even a sip of wine, and they had brought up their children with the right values, but there were temptations everywhere, especially abroad, although, yes, she hadn’t been outside India. But one man’s meat is another’s man’s poison, he said. Didn’t values differ? She didn’t quite understand. He’d try to give examples—yes, he had a great example, but she shouldn’t be offended. He drank, yes, and so did his sons, and yes, they’d drink together if they visited. Together? She was surprised. Yes, didn’t she think that was unacceptable? He wasn’t surprised. But he and his sons would be equally horrified if they saw her and her husband playing cards, gambling with their children. Now, that would be taboo in their house. Okay, another example. In some families, married women mingle freely with other men while in other families, that would cause a lot of alarm. What kind of family was his? she asked, even though she knew what the answer was. It didn’t matter, he said, because no one knew who he was talking to in the mornings. No, no, no, she said, she didn’t mean it that way. He knew what she meant, and yes, her husband was right—sending the money to her son would only make him more dependent on them.

  Her husband was ready with a pack of cards when she got home.

  “Higher to deal,” he said, picking up a card from the deck. He had a nine. “Let’s play Kitty.”

  She picked her card: a king. She dealt.

  “Are we playing for chores?” she asked.

  “There’s nothing to do. Let’s play for money.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred rupees—same rules.”

  “That’s a lot of money, don’t you think? It’s real gambling.”

  “Since when did the high stakes begin bothering you? All of us are big gamblers, even Rakesh.”

  “I wonder what people say about that.”

  Her first two hands were excellent—a straight flush and a straight. Her last hand was weak, but she needed just two hands to win the money.

  “About gambling? Everyone knows that we are a family of gamblers.”

  “I wonder if people judge us for it.”

  “We don’t judge others who play cards, do we?”

  “But we judge people who drink.” She did not want to bring it up, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Drinking isn’t the same as cards,” he said defensively.

  “To some people it’s worse. Drinking is a part of so many cultures. It’s not a vice to people belonging to these cultures, but gambling could be.”

  “Do you not want to play cards?” the husband asked, defeated.

  “I do.”

  “Then let’s stop talking about what’s bad and what’s not. Ready?”

  “Yes, I dealt, so you show first.” He showed three jacks—that beat her straight flush. She’d probably lose.

  “Aha, I have a feeling I will win,” the husband, excited, shouted. He clenched his
fists and threw his arms in the air.

  Mr. Bhattarai’s older son had applied for a green card and was waiting for its approval. Oh, then wouldn’t he, as the father, also get a visa easily? He might, but what use was it to him? He had to look after his wife, whose condition wouldn’t be the same it was two years ago no matter how hard the doctors worked. How was his wife? Well, she had stopped growing violent the last week or so, but she still didn’t recognize him, or anyone, for that matter. How did he manage to stay so cheerful despite fate dealing one blow on him after another? He couldn’t change some things; what he could do was change his attitude toward them. No, no, to have a wife—she hunted for the words—whose condition was rapidly deteriorating, with little hope for improvement, must be difficult. Didn’t he ever want to break away from it all?

  It was a dangerous question, too personal, with too many implications for two people who were not each other’s spouse. Mr. Bhattarai seemed unperturbed. Yes, of course, it was difficult, and not a day went by without his thinking of breaking away. His children tried persuading him to admit his wife into a nursing home, where she’d receive round-the-clock care, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted every so often to commit her to one of these new homes mushrooming in Siliguri, but he was afraid of what society would say. And, yes, she should come to his place anytime to see the paintings. He had painted all day yesterday. It was a nice painting that she’d definitely love, he added, continuing to look her in the eye. She noticed his eyeballs were really light.

  “Mrs. Bhattarai seems to be doing better,” she said, grimacing at her terrible cards.

  “You mean she’s not trying to murder people?” the husband asked.

  “Apparently her violent outbursts have stopped.”

  “That’s good. Any other improvements?”

  “Her husband says she still doesn’t recognize him.”

  “That fellow is a strong man. He’s been taking care of her for three years.”

  “And he never complains,” she added.

  “How would we know that?” he said. “We aren’t best friends. He probably complains about his sorry life with someone he’s close to.”

  She wondered what her husband would say if she told him about her early-morning talk with Mr. Bhattarai. She was certain he would be horrified were he to hear Mr. Bhattarai talking about sometimes thinking a nursing home was acceptable for his wife. She was suddenly conscious that she wanted Mr. Bhattarai to look good to her husband. It was odd—what should she care what her husband, or anyone in the world, thought of this man?

  “His sons think they should admit her into a nursing home.”

  “Who in these parts of the world does that?” her husband asked crossly. Clearly, he didn’t have very good cards.

  “She’s better now, but when she was violent, don’t you think she’d have been better off at the nursing home?”

  “Nursing homes in India are moneymaking rackets,” he said. “I don’t think a nurse would take very good care of her.”

  “At least they wouldn’t have to worry about her hurting people then.”

  “Would you like it if our children admitted us into old-age homes when we’re old?” the husband said.

  “I would. In fact, I am thinking of talking to them about it.”

  “And what would your explanation to the world be?”

  “Simple. That I don’t want to be a burden on my children.”

  “And be a laughingstock? Anyway, do you think the children would admit us?”

  “I think they will.”

  She won the first of three hands; her cards weren’t as bad as she thought.

  “No, only Sachin would. He’s pragmatic and selfish. Latha would not. Rakesh most definitely would not.”

  “If Mr. Bhattarai’s sons think it’s all right for their mother to be admitted into a nursing home, why shouldn’t our children?”

  She won the second hand, too.

  “Because we brought them up the right way.”

  “Why are you vilifying the poor man?” she asked.

  “No, I am not saying he’s evil. I think his sons are evil.”

  “But maybe the sons want to relieve the father of his burden.”

  “And after the father gets rid of their mother, what? Will they ask him to get another wife? Or worse, will they do the same to him when he’s sick?”

  “I want you to admit me into a nursing home if we come to a situation in which I can’t make a decision for myself.”

  She didn’t care who won the third hand; she had already won the round and wasn’t concerned about the bonus that winning all three hands would bring. But she loved beating her husband, so when she saw her third hand was better than his, she pumped her fist in victory and picked up the two hundred-rupee notes lying by the deck.

  “I seriously thought I’d win at least two hands,” he said.

  “Give me my salaami, too.”

  “How about I admit you now?” he said, unsurely handing her another hundred-rupee note. “You’re talking like a person who needs to be admitted in an asylum. You deal.”

  She went to see Mr. Bhattarai’s art one particularly boring Saturday. She’d have called, but she didn’t have his number. In an attempt to look a little different, she had tied her hair in a tight bun, saw that it attracted attention to the vermilion in her parting, and then let it loose, like she always did. Her plan was to take the servant’s daughter with her, but at the last minute she went alone. Her hand shook when she reached for the bell, and she wondered who would open the door. If it was the wife, it’d be awkward. Thankfully, Mr. Bhattarai appeared, in his hands a copper vase full of orchids.

  How fitting that he should pluck the orchids for her home and she was here now, he said. He could have been lying; he had to be lying, but it didn’t matter. He was afraid, though, that the quality of orchids this year wasn’t as decent as last year’s. She looked at the flowers and didn’t notice anything lacking, but she was hardly an expert in horticulture. She didn’t know he was this interested in plants—had he always been? Gardening was his hobby; it was therapeutic. Would she prefer tea or coffee? Water was good, she replied. He would ask the maid—the robot (ha-ha)—to squeeze some fruit for two glasses of juice. He especially wanted lots of lychees in his drink. Was her retirement any better? She had begun reading Mills & Boon, and it was engrossing. Her husband would hide the books soon because she didn’t play cards with him. Going by the way she was, she’d soon be reading more than she did before the children came along.

  She had been to his house before. In fact, she had been subject to an empty trash can flung at her by his wife in the same living room. She noticed a lot of the living room had changed. The glass-topped coffee table was missing. Furniture with sharp edges had been baby-proofed with wads of cloth held together with transparent tape. Yes, that’s so Manju doesn’t get hurt. Yes, so she doesn’t get hurt, she repeated. She looked around to see if she’d catch a glimpse of Mrs. Bhattarai, his Manju. She could have asked him where she was, but she wasn’t going to.

  He suggested they go to the studio. It was not really a studio, but a part of the guest house converted into his workspace, he added. They left the house from a side door. He stopped midway to get rid of a leech on his calf by using a stray twig for the insect to climb on to. He probably attracted it when plucking the orchids. She thought of proposing they sprinkle salt on the leech to kill it, but when she saw the great care he took to ensure it would escape unharmed, she became ashamed of her thoughts and was glad she made no such suggestion. His calf was red, and she almost touched it. Mother’s instinct, she justified her action. Would he need anything for it? Not a thing, please, it happened every day in the garden.

  She wasn’t much of an artist to judge his work. Besides a pair of paintings of Mount Kanchendzonga—one with the sun rising from its folds, another with clouds concealing a good portion of it—most of his works were portraits. Several were of his sons at various ages. Had he
been painting for a while? No, he had taken up painting only in the last couple of months. He hadn’t seen his older son in eight years and his younger one in six. She was afraid she’d have to wait that long—or longer—before she saw her children again. He showed her a portrait of his wife. He asked her to observe the eyes, to eliminate the eyes from the other body parts. She said the eyes alone were eerie. That’s how his wife’s eyes now looked—haunted and suffering, he replied.

  They moved to the alcove, where she saw paintings of herself—one of her running alone, another of her walking pensively, and a third one, her favorite, of her being pulled in different directions by her dogs. Did he go around painting pictures of his fellow joggers? He once painted an old couple that lived by the peepal tree, but when he couldn’t get the man’s contours right, he gave up. Could she take the painting with the dogs? She would buy it even. Wouldn’t her husband mind that her portrait was done by some other man? She hadn’t thought of it that way. Well, now was the time to think of it. She looked at him; he looked at her. He’d now show her his best work yet—but she shouldn’t mind, for he was an artist, and artists often did things unacceptable to society. Would she like to see it? Now that she was already here, why not? He unveiled a painting of a woman who looked like her suckling a grown man, who also bore a strong resemblance to her—the man’s mouth obscured her breasts. Her love for her younger son inspired him to paint this “masterpiece,” if you will, he said. It represented motherhood everywhere—the purest kind of love to exist. The breasts weren’t shown because he didn’t want the picture to be considered vulgar. She’d have to go. Wait, he shouted. He wanted her to take the orchids home. He had plucked them for her. He meant he had plucked them for her home. She said she understood what he meant and he didn’t have to correct himself for the slip. She couldn’t carry all the orchids. Would it be all right if the maid brought the bouquet down later? He told her the fruit juice was yet to come. She said she was in a hurry and rushed down the stairs.