That evening, Ramchandra’s in-laws came for a visit. Usually, they were reluctant to visit the small flat. The cramped quarters, the filthy courtyard, and the long flight of stairs up to the third floor annoyed them. They expected Ramchandra and Goma, with the children, to visit their palatial house, an expectation that irked Ramchandra, because his in-laws didn’t treat their other son-in-law, Nalini’s husband, Harish, the same way. Harish was a distributing agent for half a dozen big-name international companies. When it came to Nalini and Harish, Goma’s parents concocted all kinds of excuses to visit them in their beautiful Chinese-brick house with the large enclosed porch near Jawalakhel. In fact, they spent so much time in Nalini’s home that, during one family gathering, Harish had confided to Ramchandra that he wished they’d leave him and Nalini alone for a while. “Just because we’re family doesn’t mean they have to bother us every week, no, Ramchandra dai?” Ramchandra had smiled. Two sons-in-law, two opposite problems. Ramchandra would trade places with Harish any day, but of course he wouldn’t say so to Harish, who was well aware of the treatment Ramchandra received from his in-laws. During gatherings when Harish was present, Goma’s parents doted on him, Mrs. Pandey constantly plying him with food and drink, Mr. Pandey scolding his wife for not catering to Harish properly, while Ramchandra sat in the same room, ignored.
Harish was a tall man with pale skin and a mustache. His business life kept him so busy that often when he appeared at a family event, he was still wearing his suit. He was in his early thirties, a few years younger than Ramchandra, and there was a boyish quality to his appearance and demeanor. He never boasted about his success in business, which was growing exponentially every year, and whenever his in-laws praised him about it, he’d quickly change the subject. Perhaps he did so, Ramchandra hoped, because he didn’t like the way Goma’s parents used his success as a way to criticize Ramchandra. Harish had attended well-reputed schools in Darjeeling and New Delhi, so he spoke English with ease and fluency, which delighted Mrs. Pandey, who, despite her less than adequate skills in the language, often attempted to speak it to Harish. Harish obviously felt uncomfortable doing so, because whenever she spoke to him in English, he’d respond in Nepali. That way, the whole conversation turned comical, although, of course, no one laughed. “You great son-in-law saheb,” Mrs. Pandey would say. “You success business. What you think?” Harish would nod and smile, flushing slightly, and then turn to Nalini and change the subject. Or Mrs. Pandey would say, “You like dal and roti comfinaton?” And Harish would respond in Nepali that he actually preferred a combination of roti and tarkari, and didn’t like the way the roti became soggy in the soupy dal. “Special,” Mrs. Pandey would persist, “dal good.” And she would search her mind to find the English word for mung, until finally Mr. Pandey would scold her, saying that she was harassing her jwain.
Sanu and Rakesh loved their grandparents, Rakesh more than Sanu because they doted on him more. Today it was Rakesh who alerted his parents of his grandparents’ arrival. Mrs. Pandey would always announce their arrival from the courtyard, as if she were afraid she might catch someone in the act of undressing.
“Grandmother’s here,” Rakesh shouted and dashed down the stairs. Goma went to the window with an expectant face, and Ramchandra, as he reluctantly joined Goma, saw the tail end of a sari in the downstairs doorway. “This is a bit unusual,” he muttered, and Goma’s eyes pleaded with him: deal with it the best way you can. “There’s nothing in the house to eat,” she exclaimed, and she ran to get Sanu to fetch sweets from the neighborhood shops. Ramchandra stood at the top of the staircase, knowing he’d have to grit his teeth for the next couple of hours.
Goma’s mother was a small woman with a round face, and yes, Ramchandra admitted, deceptively kind eyes. They shone in merriment when she was with her grandchildren, especially with Rakesh, about whom she often said, “My only grandson. He’ll carry our family name.” Her eyes also became moist at Goma’s lack of comfort. “I’m too old for this,” she said as she reached the top of the stairs, her husband a few steps behind, and then did a prim namaste to her son-in-law. “Son-in-law, you never come to visit us, so we thought enough was enough and decided to come here.” Ramchandra laughed, and made some noises about advance warning for a proper welcome. “But how would I let you know?” Mrs. Pandey said, raising her eyebrows. “You don’t have a phone.” Ramchandra’s application for a telephone had been languishing in the telecommunications department for four years now, and the folks there had hinted that if he were willing to be generous with about five thousand rupees, the application would be approved soon. He’d balked, swearing he’d rather do without a telephone than feed the mouths of corrupt officials, and he made arrangements with the bicycle shop, right outside the entrance of the courtyard, to receive his calls. That’s where the job offer from Mr. Tiwari had come, and sometimes Ashok called there with his excuses.
Mr. Pandey, who now walked with a cane, was a thin man with a triangular face that bore a much sterner look than his wife’s. His grandfather had been a close adviser to the Ranas, who, during their century-long autocratic rule, had stripped the country of its wealth. The family relationship with the Ranas had apparently imbued in Mr. Pandey a sense of entitlement, and he carried himself with his head erect, his eyes scanning for misbehavior to punish. Those eyes turned narrower and more critical whenever they fell upon Ramchandra. And today, when Mr. Pandey reached the top of the stairs, gaily aided by Rakesh, who pushed him from behind, he looked at Ramchandra with a noticeable degree of unhappiness, as if this were not a sight he deserved at the end of his journey.
The in-laws, once seated in the bedroom, again looked around, as if they were in the waiting area of a stark building where their daughter was imprisoned. “Rakesh, bring me a glass of water,” Mrs. Pandey commanded, and Rakesh bounded toward the kitchen. Goma handed Sanu money to go fetch some sweets and sugar from the shops. Ramchandra eyed the money—fifty rupees.
Goma said that her parents should have let her know about their visit, but Mr. Pandey said, “You mean we have to send a messenger before we come to our daughter’s house?”
“Daughter’s flat,’’ Mrs. Pandey commented. She found a packet of expensive-looking chocolate in her bag and gave it to Rakesh, who’d brought her water. “Share it with your sister.”
After Goma went to the kitchen to make tea, Mr. Pandey said, “So, son-in-law, how is your school?”
“It’s going well,” Ramchandra replied. He was seated on the floor, as Mr. and Mrs. Pandey had taken up the bed. Rakesh was studying the chocolate wrapper.
“How many tutees do you have these days?”
“Two in the morning.” He’d had an evening tutee a few weeks ago, but after a couple of sessions the student stopped coming, because Ramchandra told him that he couldn’t continue unless he paid in advance.
Mrs. Pandey sighed, then looked around the bedroom and up at the ceiling, where some of the plaster was coming off.
Ramchandra avoided her eyes. “And how are you two?”
“Our lives have become very passive,” Mr. Pandey said. “Nothing to do all day. We’ve been thinking about walking every evening, and thought we’d give it a start today by walking over here. But your mother-in-law here couldn’t do it, so we came by car.” The Pandeys owned a sleek red Honda.
“We should call the driver in for tea,” Ramchandra said.
“Forget it,” Mrs. Pandey said, and looked around the room again, as if to imply that even her driver wouldn’t want to enter a dump like this.
“Did you hear of the agitation today? What do you think?” Mr. Pandey asked. The afternoon newspapers, which Ramchandra had read during tea break at school, reported that an angry mob in the city of Biratnagar had burned two buses and hurled stones at the police, who had fired tear gas, then real bullets, killing two people. One newspaper had run a scathing criticism of the government for the shootings, and talk reverberated through the city that the editor of the newspaper would
be whisked away to an unknown destination. The word buzzing through the city was “khattam”—finished or stopped or gone—and after a while it acquired a special currency, rolling off citizens’ tongues like a mantra. The country’s situation is khattam; the prime minister, appointed by the king, is khattam; the pothole-filled, accident-prone roads are always khattam; the king, with his English education and his royal sideburns, is maha-khattam, super-gone.
“What can I say?” Ramchandra said. He didn’t want to get into a political discussion with his father-in-law, who was not interested in anyone else’s opinions, let alone those of his failure of a son-in-law. Clearly, he was asking only to make conversation. Even more infuriating, Mr. Pandey’s allegiance was unflinching. He lambasted any inkling of rebellion and constantly praised King Mahendra, the now-deceased father not only of the current king but also of the strict one-party system. What most annoyed Ramchandra was Mr. Pandey’s unwavering praise of the Ranas, tyrants who had amassed an obscene amount of wealth in their ridiculous English-style palaces while the rest of their countrymen wore tattered clothes. It was one of these Rana palaces that Mr. Pandey had inherited from his grandfather. Pandey Palace, as the family called it, the alliteration rolling off their tongues with pride, was a four-story, old, but frequently renovated structure in Bhatbhateni. Its broad balcony afforded a pleasant view of the neighborhood, and its large lawn in front was dotted with marble statues.
That the Ranas had hoarded the country’s wealth while its citizens struggled to feed their families hardly entered Mr. Pandey’s awareness. But it was never sufficient for Ramchandra to think that Mr. Pandey realized his complicity in enjoying the wealth his grandfather had hoarded.
“These people,” Mr. Pandey said, “they don’t know what they’re doing.”
Ramchandra remained quiet.
“They think Western-style politics have all the answers. But mark my word, son-in-law, this is the best system for Nepal.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? Maybe? That’s all you can say?”
“I mean—”
“Let me tell you. I have hobnobbed with some of the most powerful people in the country.” Then he started to reel off the usual names of those he’d known during his Rana days and after, and the government bureaucrats and statesmen he could still call on whenever he needed something.
Listening to Mr. Pandey, Ramchandra couldn’t help going over the reasons his in-laws considered him such a failure. He’d never made the career leap they’d expected when they joined their daughter’s hand with his. After graduating, he floundered from one part-time teaching job to another, discovering competitors who were brighter than he was, or those, less bright, who had powerful uncles or cousins or in-laws to pull the strings. Time after time, Ramchandra watched helplessly as a job he thought was within reach slipped away to someone not half as qualified as he was. Occasionally, Mr. Pandey had offered to help, but Ramchandra’s pride had stepped in, and he’d told his father-in-law that he’d find something through his own merit.
His relatives and friends had expected him to teach at a well-known school, perhaps St. Xavier’s, which was run by white priests, or the Budhanilkantha School, nestled in the northern outskirts of the city and famous for its innovative curriculum. He’d run into teachers who taught at these English boarding schools, and they always seemed well-dressed and content. He could imagine them living in nice brick houses with television antennas on the roofs or miniature pagodas dedicated to Lord Ganesh or even Goddess Laxmi, who could, if pleased, play with the direction of the winds so that more wealth would flow into the houses. But his applications were rejected by both schools, and ultimately he’d had to accept his status as a parttimer, someone who was only temporary at the Bhanubhakta School. Sometimes he found himself repeating the word asthai, until the sensation of impermanence, of something fleeting and flimsy, became part of his image of himself, as if at his birth the gods had decided to stamp his forehead with a warning to those around him—TEMPORARY.
And then a few years ago, he’d found his present job, at the financially strapped Kantipur School, housed in a crumbling building in an alley where stray dogs quarreled and garbage accumulated. His monthly check of nine hundred and ninety rupees was only slightly better than what he’d made when he rushed from one school to the next, often sweating in crowded buses, across the city. But it was permanent, and now he was full time, and this realization occasionally lifted his spirits like a sharp rejuvenating breath.
He’d thought his full-time, permanent status would change his in-laws’ minds, that they’d begin to see him as a full-time, permanent son-in-law. But Goma’s parents had quickly shifted their focus. “You must build a house, Ramchandra babu,” they said to him at family gatherings. “Without a house of one’s own in this city, it doesn’t matter what you do.”
When Ramchandra told them it took time to build a house in Kathmandu, they shook their heads contemptuously. “Of course it takes time,” Goma’s father said. “But unless you start thinking about it now, how will it ever be completed? Besides, something can always be arranged to get started.” Ramchandra knew what he was hinting at. The Pandeys had suggested several times that they would lend the necessary money for Ramchandra to get started on a house. They’d never approached him directly with this offer; they channeled it through Goma, who passed it on to her husband and then kept silent when Ramchandra adamantly rejected it. He would not, he said, be beholden to anyone. Especially to his in-laws, but he didn’t say that to Goma. After all, who knew how long it would take him to repay the loan, and it would lie on his tired shoulders like a heavy stone for the rest of his life.
Whenever the Pandeys brought up the subject, Ramchandra turned to Goma for support, but Goma, despite her complete agreement with Ramchandra in the privacy of their bedroom, preferred not to argue with her parents. Once, when Goma was putting the newborn Sanu to bed, Ramchandra asked her, “Why didn’t you say something? Perhaps if you had, they’d stop this constant criticism. We’re lucky I have a full-time position now. Why don’t they understand?” And Goma responded, with a guilty look, “I know, I know. Please, I’ll say something the next time, I promise.”
He knew she never would, so each time he’d nod with a bitter sense of understanding. He also knew that Goma’s parents would never stop their criticism of him, even if he built a grand four-story house and taught at Tribhuvan University. “Are you unhappy with me?” he’d once asked Goma. “Tell me, frankly. Are you, having come from a big house and now living in this dump, are you unhappy with me?”
“Just because my parents say those things to you, don’t you say them to me,” she answered. “I am not that kind of a woman. Whatever you provide, I’ll be happy.”
And she’d meant what she’d said, because in the years that followed, she never complained about having to count paisa during festivals, about the difficulty of paying tuition for their children’s school, or about wearing the same sari to several weddings because they couldn’t afford a new one.
A year before he started teaching at Kantipur School, when his mother was still alive and it became obvious to Ramchandra that his in-laws’ expectations of him would be a constant irritation, he’d asked his mother, with bitterness, why she thought Goma’s hand had been given to him in marriage. The parents could easily have married her to someone with more money. “Maybe she was not a virgin,” his mother abruptly said. “Maybe she slept around with other men, and her father was afraid no one would marry her.” Ramchandra tried not to flush with embarrassment. In her old age his mother sometimes spoke her mind without regard to propriety. Ramchandra knew Goma had been a virgin the first time they made love, but he had wondered whether her parents were avoiding some sort of scandal by marrying her off to a poor student.
Ramchandra’s suspicions about Goma’s past surfaced again one evening during a gathering at Pandey Palace. Throughout dinner, Ramchandra had been subjected relentlessly to innuendoes by his father-in-law
in the presence of all the relatives, and as the evening progressed, a dark cloud formed in Ramchandra’s mind. Then, when Goma was in the kitchen, Mrs. Pandey brought out barfis. She served everyone, starting with Harish, until it was time to offer a piece to Ramchandra—and there was none left. “So foolish of me,” Mrs. Pandey said. “I should have bought more.” Treating the senior son-in-law like that was bad enough—Ramchandra was staring at the floor in shame—but what Mrs. Pandey said next made him feel he was burning. “But what does it matter, eh, son-in-law? This penchant for sweets is a matter of habit, after all. When one is not used to eating them, then one doesn’t miss them.”
As soon as Ramchandra and Goma stepped out of Pandey Palace, he blurted out to his wife what had been on his mind: that her rich parents had wedded her to him because of some past scandal, that perhaps she’d had a lover, or several lovers. Dumbfounded, Goma gasped and then started to cry, on the street, while she held little Sanu on her hip. Immediately Ramchandra regretted his accusation. She’d given no indication of a past or present lover. He’d discovered no secret notes under her clothes in the cupboard; no suspicious letters had been delivered by the postman; he’d seen no faraway look in her eyes, the kind he imagined women with lovers would have. He tried to console her, saying that he was sorry. And she replied, “I am a Hindu woman. I am not that kind.”
The Guru of Love Page 4
