He set some rice to boil, and found some green onions and potatoes in the cupboard. But there was no meat in the refrigerator; he’d have to buy some. Quickly he put on his clothes and went downstairs. There was a meat shop only a few yards away. He usually avoided the place because it was expensive, and the shopkeeper sold terrible meat, with bones that appeared only after he got the package home. But Malati would be here any minute, and he didn’t have time to go to the shop down the block.
Back in the apartment after buying the chicken, Ramchandra chopped onions and cut the meat into small pieces. As he was about to turn on the kerosene stove, he heard footsteps on the staircase and went out to the landing. Malati was wearing the same old kurta suruwal she’d worn the first time she’d come to him. She smiled up at him. The long scratch on her left cheek made her even more beautiful, he thought. He held out his hand. She didn’t offer hers, but motioned with her head to find out whether Goma was inside.
“They all went to her parents’ house.”
“So early? Something happened?”
“No, just a visit,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” she said shyly.
“No tutoring today,” he said. “We’re going to cook.”
“No tutoring?”
“I bought some chicken for you.” She looked disappointed, so he asked, “What? You don’t want to cook?”
“Sir, the S.L.C. exams are nearly here. At this rate, I won’t pass.”
“I’ll make sure you pass.”
She crossed her arms and said, “Sir, give me your honest opinion. Where do you think I stand?”
“You’ve made some significant progress,” he said, matching her serious tone. “My honest evaluation: you will pass.”
“You aren’t lying to me?”
“Why would I lie to you?” She still needed a few more days of intense studying, but right now he was ready to say anything to reassure her.
His confidence seemed to buoy her up, for she said, “Okay, we can cook and eat, and then we can study.”
Her proximity made him catch his breath. “What about Rachana?”
“Malekha Didi is in a good mood today. She got a big order of chicken for a Dashain party, so she won’t mind if I’m late. What shall we cook?”
She turned out to be a very efficient cook. There was a quickness to her movements that was a pleasure to watch. She seemed to know instinctively where things were, so even before he could tell her where to find the coriander, she was sprinkling it on the potatoes. In contrast, Goma’s movements in the kitchen were slow, even though her meals were delicious. Goma would worry about how much salt to add to the food, or what amount of oil was best. Malati appeared to cook without thinking. Her hands flew in all directions.
Their bodies inevitably touched, and he smelled the fragrance of jasmine in her hair. At one point, when she was stirring the chicken, he put his arms around her from behind. She leaned her head back against his shoulder and said, “Sir, why are you doing this to me?”
“I’m not doing anything to you,” he whispered. He was getting an erection, and she felt it, because she pushed him away and said, “You are shameless.”
They sat to eat, and when he offered her some food from his hand, she opened her mouth wide. Then she did the same to him. They fed each other, and any thought of Goma and the children in the house began to fade like a memory. Outside in the courtyard, Mr. Sharma was singing a hymn as he took his bath.
After they’d finished eating, Ramchandra led her to the bedroom. He lay down and pulled her on top of him. He kissed her and stroked her breasts, which began to rise under his touch. He put his lips to her breasts over her dress and licked them. “Sir, sir,” she said. She had closed her eyes and was beginning to moan. He felt under her kurta and unraveled the string that tied her trousers. He helped her out of her suruwal, her panties, her kurta, and her bra. She straddled him, completely nude, her arms covering her breasts in shyness. Her face was flushed crimson, as if she were his bashful bride. The monkey scratches ran down her right forearm, and on her leg he saw small boils. He thrust his pelvis under her, and gradually she responded to his movement. Her hands moved away from her breasts, exposing her nipples, and she fumbled with the string on his suruwal. Soon, he too was naked.
A shout was heard on the street, and for a moment both lay still. But the call was for someone else. The rat-rat-rat of a motorcycle rose from the street into the room, but the sound no longer bothered Ramchandra. A great serenity came over him. There was more light in the room now—the sun had moved higher—and all the objects were brighter. He smiled at Malati, who seemed to be waiting for a signal. Her face was serious. He felt like laughing at his chain of thoughts. Of course, it was serious business. He was about to make love to his student right in his bedroom, on the very bed where he had slept with his wife a few hours ago, the very bed where his children had played with each other. His wife and children were gone, and this was serious business. A burst of melancholy and amazing joy erupted inside Ramchandra, and he quickly entered Malati, who started rocking on top of him. Her earlier bashfulness vanished, and now she moved with the same quickness she’d displayed in the kitchen. She bent over and took his head in her hands and kissed him on the mouth. “Sir, sir,” she said.
“Goma,” he cried as he ejaculated, but the first syllable got stuck in this throat and it came out as “O ma,” repeatedly, as if he were calling his mother in distress.
They must have fallen asleep, for both were startled by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Malati hurriedly began to put on her clothes, and Ramchandra rushed to close the door. He latched it from the inside and leaned against it, holding his breath. At first, he thought that Goma had come back to get something. But the footsteps were heavy, and something clicked inside Ramchandra’s head at the sound of a rap on the door. Ashok, he mouthed to Malati, who was struggling to tie her suruwal. “Sir? Anyone in there?”
“One minute,” Ramchandra shouted. He picked up his clothes and put them on.
“Should I hide?” Malati whispered.
“There’s no place to hide,” he whispered back. “Just pretend nothing is wrong.” He said loudly to Ashok, “Why are you here? There’s no tutoring today.”
“I know, sir. I came for something else.”
When Ramchandra opened the door, Ashok was grinning. “I was wondering if I’d entered the wrong house.” His eyes fell upon Malati, and the smile on his face became bigger. “Ñamaste, Malati,” he said.
Malati mumbled something and sat on the bed.
Ramchandra didn’t invite Ashok in. “Everything all right, Ashok?”
“Of course, sir. Why wouldn’t everything be all right?” He stretched his neck to look past Ramchandra toward Malati. “How’s the tutoring going?”
“Fine.”
“You think you’ll pass?”
“Of course she’ll pass,” Ramchandra said testily. “What about you, though? You think that smile is going to impress the S.L.C. examiners?”
“Better to smile than to cry,” Ashok said. “But I didn’t come here to disturb anyone, sir. I came to give you this. It’s from my father.” He handed an envelope to Ramchandra, who opened it and saw a hundred-rupee bill. “Dashain bonus. He wants you to make sure that I pass.”
“No teacher can give that kind of guarantee. You know that.”
“I know, sir. I just wish I were given some special attention, too.” Again he smiled at Malati, who got up, mumbled that she was late for something, and left. Soon, Ashok also left.
Ramchandra went to the kitchen and washed his face with water from a jug. Then he headed outside, but he got no farther than the New Road Gate when a wave of nausea swept over him. He sat down on the street, right near a newspaper vendor who had spread out his wares in front of a shop. The vendor rushed to him, lifted him up by the arm, and asked what had happened. “I’m fine,” Ramchandra said. He brushed off the dust from his pants and walked toward Bhat
bhateni.
Every few hundred yards, he found himself out of breath, disoriented, and had to find a place to sit. By the time he reached Pandey Palace, beads of perspiration were running down his neck, even though the air was cold. For a moment he stood outside the gate, catching his breath, wondering what to say. The Pandeys’ large Alsatian dog came bounding toward the gate, barking. It recognized Ramchandra and wagged its tail. He opened the gate and walked in, the dog dancing around him.
Mr. Pandey was on the porch, smoking his hookah, and when Ramchandra did his namaste, Mr. Pandey motioned to him to sit beside him.
“What happened at home?” Mr. Pandey asked.
“Just a minor disagreement,” Ramchandra said.
“Goma has never done such a thing.”
“Sometimes with a family there are arguments. It’s not a big deal.” He glanced inside. “Is she in there?”
“I think she’s sleeping. The children have gone to the market with their grandmother.”
A servant brought Ramchandra a glass of tea, which he gladly accepted. There was hardly any conversation between the two men. Mr. Pandey seemed to be lost in his own world.
Ramchandra set his glass on the floor and said, “I’ll go talk to her.” Mr. Pandey didn’t look at him. He walked up the stairs and knocked on the door of one of the bedrooms, and Goma answered that she didn’t want anything to eat.
“It’s me,” he said.
She didn’t come to the door despite his repeated pleas. After a while he went down to the porch, and Mr. Pandey asked, “So, it’s serious, eh? You must have done something really bad, son-in-law. I don’t like to meddle in other people’s business, but whatever it is, you’d better fix it now.” Before Ramchandra could answer, Mr. Pandey pointed to the rose garden and said, “That bastard gardener is not doing his job. Look how those roses are turning out.” He tried to engage Ramchandra in a discussion about the pamphlets people were reading, filled with articles mocking the royal family, calling them names. “Spewing venom against royalty,” Mr. Pandey said. “What has this godforsaken country come to?”
Ramchandra abruptly cut him off. “I’ll come back later,” he said and headed toward the gate. The Pandeys’ Honda passed him a few hundred yards down the road, and he caught a glimpse of Sanu and Rakesh in the back seat, talking to their grandmother. He waved. They didn’t see him, but for a brief moment Ramchandra thought they were pretending not to see him, as if they were already looking at him through their mother’s eyes.
Ramchandra wandered around the streets for a while, and, as the emptiness inside him grew, set off toward Tangal.
Malati’s stepmother opened the door. “Oh, the professor,” she said, tightening her lips. She invited him in and called Malati, who came to the living room holding Rachana.
“So, how is my daughter doing with her studying for the S.L.C.?” Malekha Didi asked.
“I think she’ll pass.”
“You only think? Or will she actually pass?”
“She’ll pass.”
Malati asked Ramchandra to sit down, and, handing Rachana to Malekha Didi, went to the kitchen to make tea. Malekha Didi kissed the baby, who was straining her neck to look at Ramchandra. He snapped his lingers at the baby and said to Malekha Didi, “She looks just like her mother.”
“Maybe she looks like her father, too. We don’t know.” Abruptly she added, “What’s happening between you and Malati?”
“What do you mean?”
“You two... are you?” Her face twisted into an obscene smile.
“There’s nothing.”
Malati returned and asked what they were talking about, and Malekha Didi said she’d been inquiring about the two of them. “You,” Malati said to her stepmother, slapping her on the shoulder. “There’s nothing. You are so nosy.”
The conversation was too casual; it made Ramchandra uneasy. After Malati brought in the tea, Malekha Didi talked about her recent coup, the large order of chicken for a wedding party. Ramchandra listened, but her words flew past him; his mind was on Goma and the children. A short while later, Malekha Didi handed Rachana to Malati and went outside.
“You don’t look well,” Malati said.
“Goma has left with the children.”
“I know—’’ Then what he’d said seemed to dawn on her. “You mean... she knows?”
“I told her.”
She stared at him.
“I couldn’t not tell her. It was eating me.”
She set Rachana on the floor and covered her eyes with her hands. “What will she think of me?”
“It’s not your problem. It’s mine.”
For a long time, Malati kept her hands over her eyes. When she revealed her face again, he saw that she looked startled. She glanced at the door, as if expecting Goma to appear. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know. I went to her parents’ house, but she wouldn’t open the door.”
“The children...?”
“They think they’re with their grandparents just for a while.”
Malati rested her chin in her hand and said, “I am not right in the head.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m strange; I don’t know what I’m doing. Everyone is better off without me.” She began to cry. “Bhauju treated me like a sister, and I betrayed her trust.”
Ramchandra shook his head. This was not what he’d come here for. He hated this kind of self-pity, so he said, “That’s going to do no good, Malati. This isn’t your fault.”
“Why is my life like this?”
“Stop it,” he said, a bit louder.
She stopped, walked over to him, and took his hand. “I am so sorry this happened,” she whispered.
He ran his index finger across her chin, wiping away the tears. “I don’t know what’s happened.”
She stroked his hair, and soon they were kissing. “I am so sorry,” she repeated again and again. She grew passionate as she uttered those words, and it was he who gently pushed her away, saying, “Your stepmother will come,” even though he found comfort in her kisses. Rachana had stood up and, holding the sofa arm, began wailing.
“What are we going to do?” Malati said. “Bhauju must hate me.”
“She never hates people.”
“What will you do this afternoon?”
“I don’t know. I’ll go home and try to sleep. This evening I’ll try to talk to her again.”
“Why don’t you stay with me?” she said. “Here?”
“What about Malekha Didi?”
“She’s going to leave in about an hour. She’s spending the day with her elderly mother in Bhaktapur.”
“Then I’ll come back after an hour,” he said.
As he passed Malekha Didi, near the chicken shed, she called out, “Oh, professor-ji, what makes you leave so early? You had enough time with our Malati?”
Ramchandra looked around to see whether the neighbors had heard her. “I have some work to do.”
“Don’t leave her alone. She needs you.” She laughed. Vulgarly, thought Ramchandra.
The sun had taken some of the chill from the morning air. What would he do for an hour? He walked toward Bhatbhateni again. Much of his disorientation had vanished, and he walked quickly. Two blocks from Pandey Palace he ran into an old friend, a teacher from his days of working as a part-timer. They chatted for a while. The friend asked about his family, and Ramchandra said everything was fine.
He walked past the Pandey Palace gate, then turned around. Goma was sitting by herself on the porch, looking toward the garden. He couldn’t make out her facial expression, but he heard Rakesh shout something from inside the house. When Goma turned her head to respond, Ramchandra quickly moved to the side so that she wouldn’t see him. He leaned against the wall, his eyes closed. Slowly, he moved toward the gate and peeked in. She had gone inside.
He circled the block a few times and then went to Malati.
The city was alive with the energy of the
festival. A parade walked the street of Ranipokhari on the day of Fulpati. The next day, goats, sheep, and buffalo were slaughtered at the numerous Devi Temples throughout the city. People consumed meat as a divine blessing from the goddess. They fried goat blood and ate it with relish. They boiled goats’ testicles, dipped them in salt and chili powder. Goat ears were barbecued on gas stoves and passed around to the children. People ate until their stomachs were bloated, until they became sick and had to be rushed to the hospital. Other people ate until, heavy with food, they fell asleep, dreaming of riches raining on them directly from the open mouths of the ferocious Durga.
For a brief while, people forgot the city’s tensions, ignored the newspapers that spoke of a revolution brewing in dark corners of its streets. Occasionally rumors rippled through the city: the king is contemplating martial law; the communists are plotting to massacre the royal family; the Indians are working with the panchays to crush any rebellion. Such talk appeared and disappeared, and the spirit of the festival made the city’s streets cheerful.
On the night before Tika, Ramchandra lay in bed in Malati’s closet-sized room, Malati beside him and Rachana sleeping against the wall. The bed was so small that Ramchandra’s left arm dangled over the side. Under the blanket, both he and Malati were naked, shivering slightly because it was cold. They’d done their lovemaking carefully, because of the lack of space and their fear of squashing Rachana. They’d moved slowly, their hips grinding against each other. Even at the height of excitement, Ramchandra couldn’t thrust his hips at her, for fear of shaking Rachana, but he found that this control made the experience even more pleasurable.
After they were done and she’d closed her eyes for a few minutes, she said, as if the idea had come to her in a dream, “Bhauju must hate me.” For a long time, he tried to console her, but she had cried out, “I am wrecking a family. I should stop studying with you.”
In annoyance, he’d retorted, “Then why don’t you? What’s stopping you?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She shivered. “I don’t know why I feel this way about you.”
The Guru of Love Page 13
