He followed her at a distance, keeping the red hair ribbon in sight, wishing he could see her face. He knew that she would walk all the way to Tangal, at least three kilometers, because she couldn’t afford to take a three-wheeler. She moved in the direction of Indrachowk and walked into the Durbar Square area, where she stood in front of the Hanuman statue, her hands folded in prayer to the monkey god. Ramchandra slid behind a nearby temple, frightening a flock of doves, which rose into the air in a huff. As Malati walked back to the road, he followed, and the conversations of pedestrians floated around him like a song. His body became light, airy. Everything around him—the houses, the shops, the faces of people walking past—receded, and the only thing he saw clearly was the back of her head, the red ribbon in her hair.
After a while, it seemed to him that she was keeping track of him, as if she had eyes in the back of her head. So each was following the other. It was like the painting people hung above their door during Nag Panchami: two snakes about to eat each others tails. This image gave him more energy; the sense that he too was being pursued quickened his pulse. He smiled at a couple of familiar faces, even said hello to a neighbor carrying shopping bags, but he made these gestures elsewhere, in a place different from the one he now occupied with Malati.
In the heavy crowd of shoppers in Asan, she vanished, and Ramchandra found himself squeezed between the cries of the newspaper vendors, who sang in loud voices the headlines of the day: INDIA IN COLLUSION WITH BANNED PARTIES; CLANDESTINE MEETINGS OF CPN. A cow nudged against his hip, and he gently pushed it away, only to discover that he had stepped on its droppings, which clung to his shoes.
But he had to find Malati. He tried to peer over the heads of the crowd. A flash of red, then the tilt of a shoulder. Yes, she’d already entered the street leading to Ratnapark. He ran toward her, bumping into shoppers, drawing mumbles of criticism from them. By the time he caught up to her, she was passing the co-op store of Sajha Bhandar. He stayed a few yards behind her, breathing hard, the great sense of relief making him giddy. When at last she reached the opening of Asan and its bookstores, he called out to her.
She turned around, and didn’t appear surprised to see him.
“I am sorry about this morning.”
“It’s okay, sir. I thought you must have been occupied with something.”
“I was not occupied. I don’t know what happened to me.” For a moment, neither said anything more. Together they crossed the road toward Ratnapark, their shoulders touching, the cars and motorcycles weaving around them. He let his hand touch hers.
“Are you going home now?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Let’s go inside the park for a while.”
“Rachana is at home.”
“No one to look after her?”
“Malekha Didi is taking care of her, but sometimes she gets annoyed when I’m away.”
“Okay, I’ll walk you home.”
“It’s not necessary, sir. I can go by myself.”
“No, I want to.” Once again, he wanted to offer some sort of apology, but he restrained himself. Suddenly, in the middle of Baghbazaar, she said, “I knew you were following me, sir.”
“Then why didn’t you turn around?”
She didn’t respond, and they walked quietly. Finally, Ramchandra said, “I shouldn’t have done what I did yesterday.”
She said nothing.
As they neared Tangal, he said, “I hope you’ll come tomorrow. I promise I’ll be there.”
“Maybe it won’t work.”
“No, it will work. You need to pass the S.L.C. exam. You need to get out of that house.”
She eyed him carefully. “Why are you saying this? Why do I need to get out of my house?”
“Things are not right for you there.”
She was about to say something, then shrugged and said only, “Sir, you needn’t worry about me.”
“I want things to be better for you.”
“You have a family to think about.”
“This doesn’t take away from my family. So, you will come then?”
She nodded.
At home, Goma, seated at the window from where she’d watched Malati, was anxiously scanning the street. As soon as she spotted her husband, she left the window and went down to meet him in the courtyard.
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing happened to me. I went for a walk.”
“Look at the time,” she said. “That girl and Ashok have already come and gone. If you don’t eat quickly and head for school, you’ll miss your first class.”
A wave of exhaustion washed over Ramchandra. “I lost track of time.”
“What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing, Goma. Let’s go upstairs.” He took her hand and led her up the stairs.
“You’ve never done anything like this before.”
On the landing, he stopped and said, “Actually, I’m not feeling well. Maybe I won’t go to school today.”
Instinctively, her hand reached for his forehead. “It’s not warm. You don’t seem to have a fever. But if you weren’t feeling well, why didn’t you just come home? Why walk all morning?”
“No, it’s not fever,” he said.
He went into the bedroom and lay down, thinking Bandana Miss wouldn’t be pleased if he called in sick. She didn’t like lastminute phone calls about absences; they made her suspicious, she said. But what would he do if he didn’t go to school? He’d go insane staying in the house, thinking.
Goma brought in a plate of his dal-bhat. “I also made some soup,” she said. “This should make you feel better. I’ll go down and call Bandana Miss.”
He signaled to her to stop; he’d eat first.
She watched as he ate. “Look at you. I don’t know what’s eating you, and why you won’t tell me.”
“Nothing’s eating me,” he said; then, smiling, Tm eating this food.” He noticed that she wasn’t eating with him, so he asked her to bring her plate. She said she’d eat later.
“Maybe we should have Dr. Shrestha check you, just to make sure.”
Young Dr. Shrestha, who ran a clinic in the neighborhood, had come to the house a few months earlier to tend to Rakesh and Sanu. Ramchandra reminded Goma that they hadn’t paid the doctor for his last two visits. “Besides, I’m feeling better,” he said. And it was true. The food had calmed him. If he rushed, he could still make it to his first class. That meant he’d have to take a three-wheeler again. It had been a bad morning.
A traffic jam near the New Road Gate delayed the threewheeler, and Ramchandra’s anxiety mounted. By the time the congestion cleared, and the three-wheeler raced in the direction of Bir Hospital, it was already past the time when his first class began.
Bandana Miss frowned as he walked in to sign the register. “You’ll have to sign in late,” she said.
Ramchandra pointed toward his watch. “I’m only ten minutes late.”
“One minute or ten minutes. Late is late. I want everyone in this school to be punctual.”
You didn’t care about punctuality the other day when you were talking about your son, he wanted to say, but he simply wrote down the time of his arrival next to his signature.
“I also need to talk to you during tea break.”
“About what?”
“I’ll tell you then.”
Ramchandra collected his book and notes and headed toward the classroom, slightly apprehensive about what Bandana Miss wanted to discuss. Malati? But that was ridiculous. She didn’t have access to his thoughts.
The students were making a lot of noise, but they quieted down when he entered. He did a couple of problems on the board, but because his mind was so fuzzy, he made a few mistakes, which some of the bright students in the class didn’t hesitate to point out. “Okay, okay,” he said as he corrected his errors. He had to finish a particular chapter this week, but he knew he didn’t have the strength to stand up during the entire class period, so he assigned the s
tudents exercises from the book and slumped in his chair. His mind went back to the morning, to Malati saying that all along she’d known he was behind her.
He woke to the angry whispers of Bandana Miss. “You don’t get paid to sleep in the classroom, Ramchandra-ji.”
He wiped his face. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Some students tittered at the sight of their teacher being scolded. Bandana Miss marched out of the classroom with a frown. During the next class, Ramchandra remained alert. Mr. Tiwari had never policed his teachers, which was fine at those times when it was good to let loose, to tell the students outrageous stories or allow them to work on something creative. But some teachers took advantage of Mr. Tiwari’s casual attitude, and that had led to a general decline among the students’ performances, clearly evident in the large number who failed the S.L.C. Ramchandra admired Bandana Miss’s vigilance, but today she seemed to him too strict, and his resentment grew.
During the twenty-minute recess, he waited in the staff room for Bandana Miss. Gokul Sir and Miss Lama were in a corner, discussing how well-to-do parents in the city were sending their children to Darjeeling and Kalimpong in India for private schooling. Gokul Sir said that it was merely a fashion, that those schools were overrated, and Miss Lama was defending her home turf, asserting that those schools had high success rates, unlike certain schools she knew where children had to slog through the city garbage before they could sit down to read. Khanal Sir was reading a book of poems by a young Nepali poet; Manandhar Sir was staring out the window at the back of the building, where some stray dogs played. The only one not here was Shailendra Sir, hired last year to teach history. He was young, about twenty-five, and was studying for his master’s degree at Tribhuvan University.
When Bandana Miss finally appeared, she took Ramchandra out to the corridor.
“Is everything okay, Ramchandra-ji?” Her face was softer now. “You’re the last person I’d expect to see sleeping in the classroom.”
“As I said, I didn’t get a good night’s sleep.”
“Is the family okay? Your children?”
“Everyone is fine, Bandana Miss. Only lack of sleep. Simple.”
“I called you in to consult about Shailendra Sir.”
Ramchandra waited.
“There are rumors in the school. He’s having a relationship with a girl.”
“A student?”
“Yes. Namita from tenth grade. With glasses. Always wears very nice iron-pressed uniform.”
Ramchandra knew which girl she meant, and he immediately recalled seeing Shailendra with Namita a few days ago, talking and laughing outside a classroom, she leaning against the wall, his hand gesticulating near her face. At the time he’d thought nothing of it; some bonding between teachers and students was expected.
“It might just be a rumor.”
“Yes, except this. I found this on the floor of the tenth-grade classroom.” She handed him a paper. It was a love poem, written in flowery language, with hearts drawn all over the page. It spoke of how handsome Shailendra Sir was and how the poet was so much in love with him. It was signed by Namita.
“It’s not unusual for young girls to become infatuated like this. Doesn’t mean Shailendra Sir reciprocates her feelings.” He handed back the note.
“She’s been getting excellent grades in his class, and she’s not a bright student.” She took a sheaf of paper from her bag and showed him some numbers. Namita hovered in the barely passing range in most of her classes, except history, where she was at the top.
“She could be a good history student.”
Bandana Miss put the papers away and said, “Just not possible. Do you know that right now, even as we speak, they are together?”
She took him by the arm, led him to one of the classrooms, and had him peek through the back door. Shailendra Sir and Namita were seated on the front bench, together, a book open on the desk before them, but they were talking.
Back at their original spot in the corridor, Ramchandra asked Bandana Miss, “And what can I do about this?”
She appeared hurt by this question. “Ramchandra-ji, I respect you a great deal. You are a good example of what a teacher should be, and that’s why I was surprised when I found you dozing in the classroom. But I understand you were tired. Now I want some advice about this situation. Namita’s parents are rich, well connected. If they find out, the school’s reputation will be damaged.”
This school has no reputation, Ramchandra thought, but he admired Bandana Miss’s attempt to uphold its dignity. “Bandana Miss, tell me. What should I do?”
“I thought perhaps you could talk to him.”
“And say what?”
She was exasperated. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that. Talk to him about how dangerous it is.’’
“What if he denies everything and gets angry?”
“If you tell him, he won’t get angry. I could tell him, but he always sulks when he’s with me.”
“All right, I’ll talk to him,” Ramchandra said. “But the rest is up to him. If he gets angry, I won’t say anything further.”
The end-of-recess bell rang, and they saw Shailendra Sir and Namita leave the classroom. Shailendra Sir noticed them, moved away from Namita, and walked toward the staff room, greeting them as he passed.
All day Ramchandra looked for an opportunity to talk to Shailendra. His initial dread vanished when he realized that it was distracting him from concentrating on Malati. As he wrote a problem on the board, or had a student recite a multiplication table, Ramchandra rehearsed what he would say. He tried various openings. Some were soft: “Shailendra babu, as an older person, I reserve the right to say certain things to you for your own benefit.” Others were more blunt: “Shailendra, her parents will take you to court and hang you.” The range of openings became a game for Ramchandra, and often he lost track of which trigonometry problem he was trying to teach his ninth-grade class. He kept glancing toward the corridor for a glimpse of Shailendra, or of Shailendra and Namita together, giggling and whispering, until finally Aloo, named so because of his potato-like head, commented, “Sir, are you expecting someone? The headmiss, perhaps?”
Ramchandra knew he’d find Shailendra in the staff room after classes were over, but he didn’t want to pull him aside there, because that would arouse suspicion in the other teachers. When, finally, he saw Shailendra walking by the classroom, in a hurry, possibly toward the bathroom. Ramchandra gave his students a problem to solve from the textbook and hurried out to the corridor. Shailendra was already inside the bathroom, so Ramchandra headed in, too.
He stood before the urinal next to Shailendra, said something about how he couldn’t wait for the day to be over. Shailendra agreed, though he had to attend a couple of night classes. The bathroom, with three urinals and two in-ground toilets, had been recentley renovated, thanks to Bandana Miss’s efforts, and was cleaned regularly, so it was much more bearable than it had been during Mr. Tiwari’s tenure, when urine and feces floated on the floor.
Once they were done and were walking out, Ramchandra asked Shailendra, “So, any plans for your wedding?”
Shailendra, surprised, said, “No. Not until I finish my master’s degree.”
Ramchandra paused for a moment and went on. “There are some rumors in the school, Shailendra-ji.”
“About my marriage?”
In a nearby classroom, fourth-graders were chanting the names of the country’s fourteen states.
“No. About Namita.”
Shailendra frowned. “What? What about her?”
“I know they’re not true,” Ramchandra said. “But you ought to be careful.”
“What are people saying? I’ve done nothing.” He started fiddling with his ear.
“Whatever it is,” Ramchandra said, “it’s best that you not associate with her outside the classroom.”
Shailendra started to explain, but Ramchandra put his hand up. “Shailendra-ji, whatever it is, I am only doi
ng this for your sake. It is not good when people talk about you. It is not good for a teacher to have any kind of extracurricular relationship with a student.”
“But I’m helping her with her history.”
“And I am merely advising you. The rest is up to you.” Ramchandra touched his arm. “You are young; you have a full life ahead of you. Don’t do anything foolish.” And he left Shailendra rubbing his ear, staring at him.
For the rest of the school day, Ramchandra’s head rang with fragments of his own voice, and those of Bandana Miss, about a teacher-student relationship, so by the time he left the school, his temples were throbbing with pain.
He went home, gulped two tablets of Citamol, and lay down on the bed. Sanu and Rakesh came into the room.
“Where were you all morning?” Sanu asked.
He made up an excuse.
“Malati and Ashok came. I think Malati was disappointed.”
“And Ashok was not?”
“Ashok was smiling,” Rakesh said.
Rakesh brought over some drawings he’d done at school, and for a while the three huddled together, commenting on the pictures, suggesting how Rakesh could make them better. Goma brought him tea. “Are you not feeling well again?”
“No, just a headache today,” Ramchandra said. “Why don’t we go to the cinema this evening?”
Sanu and Rakesh began shouting in excitement. They’d been pestering their parents for days, and Goma had put her foot down each time, saying that the cinemas they showed these days were not appropriate for children.
“What about your headache?”
“It’s already gone,” Ramchandra lied.
“And where’s the money going to come from?” Goma said, with a frown.
Ramchandra waved his hand in the air. “Money comes, money goes. One needs to enjoy life once in a while.” If only I really believed that, he thought ruefully. But he did need a diversion, something to get him out of the confines of this house and his thoughts.
“That’s a strong philosophy,” Goma said. “That’ll really get us far, with rent to pay and tuition and books for the children. Someone will also give us a house with utmost respect.”
The Guru of Love Page 7
