Sanu looked at Goma pleadingly. “Mother, we never do anything fun. We haven’t even gone to the Ramailo Mela this year, as you promised.”
“So, why don’t we go to Ramailo Mela instead?” Ramchandra suggested.
Sanu and Rakesh became even more excited. Goma was conducting an internal battle, he could tell. She enjoyed watching the people, all dressed up, walking around, buying ice cream or riding the Ferris wheel. But she was also thinking of the cost, how much it would chip away at their savings.
Ramchandra did some quick calculations. Seven rupees for two adults at the fair, and three-fifty each for the children, which made a total of twenty-one rupees. And some for the rides, so they’d probably spend thirty to thirty-five rupees. At the cinema, they might have to purchase tickets on the black market, and that would cost nearly fifty, maybe more. Either way, they’d be able to put aside very little this month. “Maybe we shouldn’t go. Maybe we should stay home and play carom instead. Or cards. That’ll also be fun, won’t it?”
The children’s faces dropped. Sanu said nothing, and Rakesh looked as if he were about to cry. The parents exchanged glances. “Okay, we can go to Ramailo Mela,” Ramchandra finally said. “But only one ride.”
“Ice cream?” Rakesh asked.
“In this weather?” Goma said. “You’ll catch a cold.”
“If you insist, Mr. Rakesh Icecreamwallah,” Ramchandra said, “but only the cheap kind.”
There was a long line outside Bhrikuti Mandap, and Ramchandra was annoyed to find that the prices had been raised since last year. Now the total came to thirty rupees. But once they were inside, and the children’s faces were shining with joy, Ramchandra couldn’t regret the outing.
Throngs of people walked around under the bright lights from the stalls. In the middle of the grounds, on a large patch of grass, stood a giant wheel that penetrated the sky, and the whistle of the children’s train came around a corner. People from the stalls shouted in loud voices, advertising their wares. Some even stepped out and acted like clowns to solicit customers. One sold unidentifiable dark objects in serious-looking jars—medicine, Ramchandra was told. But most of the stalls had games, which usually involved throwing a hoop, a ball, or some other object onto something else—an action that involved a degree of precision. Few people won anything, Ramchandra noticed, and when they did, it was usually something small and disappointing.
Sanu and Rakesh got on the Ferris wheel, and Ramchandra and Goma watched them disappear up in the sky and come down again, up and down, their faces flushed. They ate golgappas served by a man from a cart; judging by the vendor’s dark skin and his accent, Ramchandra figured he was from India. They watched, fascinated, as he broke open the top of each paper-thin wafer with the tip of his thumb, filled it with mashed vegetables, and dipped it into the bowl of spiced water, from which it emerged ready for the plate. The wafers disintegrated on their tongues, delicious, as the spicy water tickled the roofs of their mouths.
Ramchandra recalled his conversation with the threewheeler driver the other day, and he asked the gol-gappa man, “Where in India are you from?”
“I am not an Indian, hajoor,” the man said with a smile. “I am Nepali, from Rautahat.”
Ramchandra was embarrassed.
“But you’re not the first one. Many people call me Indian. Some even treat me badly. Once a bunch of teenagers toppled my cart.”
“People don’t know the truth,” Goma said.
“Delicious,” Ramchandra said to the man as he paid. “Go to the police if someone harasses you. Don’t sit quiet.”
“The police are no better,” the man said. And he gave an extra gol-gappa to Rakesh. “I have a son back in the village your age,” he said.
Rakesh took the gol-gappa with glee and asked the man his son’s name. When the vendor said, “Rakesh,” everyone burst out laughing, and Rakesh blushed. Ramchandra explained the coincidence to the bewildered vendor, who, smiling, gave Rakesh one more gol-gappa. “Then you are my son.”
Rakesh wanted to try his hand at a children’s shooting range, and Ramchandra carefully counted out the ten rupees demanded by the man behind the stall. Ramchandra had to help his son steady the toy gun and aim it at the stuffed deer and owls and bears in the foliage a few feet away. Rakesh missed all his marks, and complained that he would have fared better without his father’s help. Sanu became entranced by a pink doll with large blue eyes on display at a store. “Made in Japan,” the storekeeper said. She looked pleadingly at Ramchandra, who walked away when he discovered that the doll cost twenty-five rupees. Sanu was so disappointed that Ramchandra silently queried Goma, who signaled no. Ramchandra took Goma aside and said, “Her birthday is coming soon. Why don’t we buy it and save it for her birthday?”
“You do what you want to do,” she said. “But don’t keep pestering me about your living in a hellhole.”
Ramchandra returned to the store and purchased the doll. “This is not for right now,” he told Sanu. “This is for someone special’s special birthday.” Sanu asked if she could hold the doll for a little while, and Ramchandra handed it to her and said, “Aren’t you too old to be playing with this?”
“But she’s so pretty. I’ll give it to my daughter and tell her she got it from her grandfather.”
He realized then that he hadn’t been thinking about Malati for a while, and this awareness led him to think about her, which made him despondent. Now, in this festive atmosphere, he couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to come here with Malati, to hold her hand while they visited the stalls. He imagined them disappearing behind a stall and sitting on the grass to talk, his head in her lap, observing the people enjoying the activities while they remained unseen. He had a very clear picture of what she would wear: something he’d bought for her. A bright red kurta suruwal, with small mirrored sequins in which he could see parts of his face; a pearl necklace that he would buy her at a jewelry stall; and a pair of kohlapuri sandals like those he’d just noticed in a shoe shop. She would look radiant, and as he walked beside her, he would squeeze her hand, rubbing his thumb across her palm.
This juvenile fantasy saddened him, and Goma, noting the change in his face, asked whether his headache had come back.
“Perhaps those gol-gappas didn’t sit well with me,” he said.
“We aren’t going to leave now, are we?” Sanu said. “We haven’t been to the bingo hall yet.” In Sanu’s school they often played bingo, and she loved the game.
“Okay, we’ll go play bingo, then head home.” Ramchandra quit trying to add up the cost; this was an expensive evening, and that was that.
Inside the hall, Sanu purchased the bingo tickets and sat down with Goma and Rakesh to play; Ramchandra stood to the side, leaning against the wall, listening to the rhythmic intonation of the man who announced the numbers. Outside, the day had given way to the gray haziness of dusk. He closed his eyes, and instantly conjured up an image of Malati, this time wearing a bright red sari, like a bride. She was smiling at him. Ramchandra jerked his eyes open. Goma was calling him from her seat a few yards away. She pointed to the front, and said, “Isn’t that one of your teachers?” He looked in that direction, and saw Shailendra and, with him, Namita. They sat close to each other, their shoulders rubbing. Shailendra whispered something in Namita’s ear, and she let out a laugh.
Before they headed home, Rakesh reminded his parents about the ice cream, so, with a sigh of resignation, Ramchandra bought two pistachio ice cream cones. As they exited Bhrikuti Mandap and walked toward Shahid Gate, Goma asked whether the woman with Shailendra was his wife. Goma had met Shailendra last year at the annual school picnic, and had commented on what a polite young man he was. “She looked awfully young,” she said.
Ramchandra told her about Bandana Miss’s conversation with him that morning, and his subsequent talk with Shailendra. “It’s not right, what he’s doing,” he said. “The girl is too young, and she’s a student. She’s probably in awe of him.
He’s taking advantage of her.”
“Perhaps he’s helpless.”
Her statement surprised him. “Helpless? About what? He’s a teacher. He should know better.”
“People have their own reasoning.”
Rakesh and Sanu were walking in front of them, arms around each other, lost in their ice cream.
After a while Ramchandra said, “I’m surprised that you’re supporting him.”
“I didn’t say I’m supporting him. I just said we can’t judge people without knowing what’s ailing them.”
It occurred to him that she might be thinking of his judgment of her parents, and this annoyed him. But he didn’t want to argue with her on this fine evening, when the children were happy and the air was nippy and refreshing, so he said, “That can’t be love. If he loves her, he should ask for her hand in marriage.”
“Maybe he will. Maybe he’s waiting for the right moment.”
“How would you feel if one of Sanu’s teachers did something like that?”
“Sanu is too young.” Then she added, “Well, not all that young. She’s already started.”
It took a moment for Ramchandra to understand. “Already?”
“Yes, last week. She was complaining of pain, and there was blood.”
Ramchandra looked at his daughter, who was now singing in her brother’s ear.
They started to discuss again the idea of hiring that servant girl from Chitwan, but Ramchandra, still going over the conversation about Shailendra, still counting up the expenses of the evening, said, “We’d have to feed her, buy her clothes.”
“If she works for us, though, I’ll have time to sew. Garment businesses are really picking up in the city; this is a good time to start.” Goma had long harbored the wish to start a sewing business at home to augment their income. She had the Singer machine she’d brought with her when they got married, and she was good at sewing. She could start by making petticoats and blouses, altering clothes for women in the neighborhood, and then branch out into making clothes for garment shops on a contractual basis. Ramchandra had initially opposed the idea, thinking that it was somehow beneath a teacher’s wife to work as a common tailor. But Goma had raised the issue many times, and he himself had seen that the culture of the city was changing. Even Brahmins were opening shops these days; some were even selling alcohol. What would be the harm, if sewing made her happy and, more important, added to the family income?
“Okay, let’s arrange to have her come,” he said.
That evening, the children, happy after the excursion to the fair, asked Ramchandra to continue the story he’d started the other day. He pleaded a headache, but Rakesh said that without the story he wouldn’t be able to sleep. And since Rakesh often turned his threats into reality, Ramchandra gave in. He had to recall what he’d told them: poor girl living with her mother; father left years ago to work in the city; now rich village merchant wants to marry her.
“So, this girl, Mandakini, didn’t like the merchant. But—”
“That’s not her name,” Rakesh said. “She had a different name last time. What was it?”
“Malati,” Sanu said. “Ba’s student’s name.”
“Well, it’s different now, okay?”
“But how can her name change?” Sanu protested. “It was Malati before, so it has to be Malati now.”
Goma, who had just finished washing the dishes, peeked in. “What are you saying about that girl?”
Sanu explained to her mother, and Goma looked at Ramchandra with annoyance. “Couldn’t you find any other name to use?”
“That’s why I wanted to change it now.”
“Don’t use her name,” Goma said sharply, and moved away, pulling the children’s door nearly shut.
“See? Now you made your mother angry at me,” Ramchandra whispered jokingly to the children, who giggled. But he could tell that Goma had sensed something; it was on her face. He shifted back to the story.
“As the day of the wedding approached, the girl, Mandakini, became sadder and sadder. She went to the local temple and prayed to Lord Shiva to save her from marrying a man her father’s age. She visited the local palm reader, and he traced the lines on her hand and told her that she would be very rich but very unhappy. She climbed a mountain and, from the top, looked down on the thin, milky white river that ran between two steep gorges, and she closed her eyes and asked the deity who resided there to make something happen so that she wouldn’t have to marry that old merchant with the glinting eyes.
“But nothing happened until the evening of the wedding, when the old merchant came riding on his elephant and the ceremonies began. Then, right in the middle of the priest’s chanting, an unbelievable thing happened, something that made everyone’s jaw fall open.
“And that’s it for today,” Ramchandra said, not knowing where to go next. “To be continued.” The children protested, but not too much, perhaps thinking the story might go on too long.
Back in his room, Ramchandra saw that Goma was already asleep, or was pretending to be. When he got into bed, he caressed her back and waited. Finally she turned to him.
“Are you angry with me?” he whispered.
“There’s too much of that girl in this house,” she said.
“I was merely fishing for a name.”
“What’s on your mind?” Goma asked.
“Nothing’s on my mind. Why?”
“You’ve been very distracted these days. I keep feeling you’re not telling me something.”
“There’s nothing,” he said. “I’m tired.” He rolled over the other way and closed his eyes.
“Shall I give you a massage?” she asked softly, and, just to keep her from questioning him, he nodded.
She started on his lower back. Her hands were warm; they felt surprisingly good. He imagined them to be Malati’s hands, and his pleasure intensified. He turned over again, and, his eyes still closed, reached for her breasts. Goma laughed softly. “What are you doing? I thought you were tired.”
He lifted her gown and pulled down her underwear. It had been quite some time since they had allowed themselves this.
His penis was hard, and as he entered her, he shut his eyes. Malati floated enticingly into his mind, but he pushed her away and focused on one of his fantasy scenes: a park, with radiant flowers, daisies and hibiscus and camellias and rhododendrons, frogs croaking, a colorful parrot perched on a branch, the sky blue, like a crystal lake. As his mind became brighter, he opened his eyes and looked at Goma, who was now moaning.
5
FROM WHERE THEY STOOD, on an elevation on the opposite side of the river, they could clearly see the stone steps that led up from the ghat to the Pashupatinath Temple. Devotees moved up and down the stairs, some descending to the bank to dip their bodies in the holy Bagmati River; others climbing to enter the temple, and perhaps the main shrine, of which only the upper tier and the shining gold pagoda were visible to Ramchandra and Malati. The gazebo inside the temple complex that overlooked the river, usually crowded with chanting devotees and a harmonium player, was deserted today, except for a man, perhaps a laborer, taking a nap. Occasionally one of numerous bells around the temple sounded—a devotee waking a god for a blessing.
On the bank of the river below them, a woman was washing clothes, the soapsuds drifting south, past the bridge. The river was filthy, its color resembling sewage water; the deep black must contain some desperate sin, Ramchandra was sure, even though the river was revered as the sustainer of life. Still, a naked boy of about twelve was taking a bath, pinching his nose and immersing himself in the muck, then coming out with a whoop. Against the wall of the ghat sat a sadhu, on this cold day dressed in only a loincloth. His body was smeared with ash—all signs of the ascetic life he’d devoted to Lord Shiva. He held a small chillum in his hands, and occasionally inhaled from it, blowing the hashish smoke into the morning air, his eyes on the boy.
“It must be difficult to abandon everything in order to live as an
ascetic,” Malati said. Today she wore a blue sari; it made her look serene, pure. “No family, no home,” she said. “Don’t know where you’re going to be next month.”
“There’s a certain charm to it, don’t you think? Imagine the freedom you’d have.”
They were standing, their bodies touching, and now she moved back and sat down on a stone platform. He joined her and took her hand. “How’s Rachana?”
“She’s with Malekha Didi.”
“She’s such a lovely baby,” he said, although he’d caught only a glimpse of Malati’s daughter, that day when he first went to her house.
“All babies are lovely,” she said distractedly, then looked at him and said, sharply, “I don’t know what I’m doing here with you.”
Earlier that morning, when they’d finished the tutoring session, she had readily agreed to meet him at the temple. After she’d left, he’d gone downstairs to the shop and called the school, telling Bandana Miss that he didn’t feel well and wouldn’t be able to come. “A little sickness should not prevent you from teaching,” she’d said. “How am I going to find a substitute on such short notice?” Ramchandra had coughed viciously, said he was burning with fever, and hung up. Then, after his morning meal, he’d left the house as if he were going to the school. He didn’t know what Malati would tell her stepmother, whether she had to lie to her at all, what her stepmother would think of her meeting her tutor like this. But she’d been happy to be with him and had talked to him gaily, until now, when her mood shifted. A tension line on her forehead was clearly visible. Perhaps she was a moody girl, he thought, like the monsoon sky, clear one moment and the next filled with dark clouds.
He had no answer for her, so he reached out and touched her face.
She drew away. “Someone will see, sir.”
“Let them see,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “What difference does it make?”
“It makes all the difference,” she said. “Goma bhauju will learn about this. Everything will fall apart.”
The Guru of Love Page 8
