“Goma doesn’t think so, and she’s the one who counts.”
Mrs. Pandey’s voice grew louder. There was a bang. Pots clattered to the floor. Ramchandra rushed into the kitchen. Mrs. Pandey was on the floor, holding her head, crying. Goma, her lips pursed, was standing near her. Two pots lay next to her mother, and it wasn’t clear who had thrown them.
Mrs. Pandey saw Ramchandra. “You’ve turned my daughter into a madwoman,” she said. “All these years of suffering, and now she’s gone insane. What woman in her right mind would invite her husband’s mistress into her house?”
Ramchandra helped her up. “Stop using that word,” he said.
“What should I call her?” She continued to rant. Goma calmly made tea, and Mrs. Pandey drank it while protesting that she hadn’t come to drink tea. Before she left, she said to her daughter, in a sobbing voice, “The whole world knows, Goma. I can’t show my face anywhere. Please do something.”
Goma said, “We’ll see you again, Mother,” and escorted her downstairs.
They were in the kitchen. Malati was cutting mustard greens, the children were playing in the courtyard, and the baby was sleeping.
“I was thinking of visiting the Dakshinkali goddess,” Goma said. This was the right time to visit the temple, she said, to ask the goddess to bless Malati on her exams, now only a few days away.
Ramchandra didn’t believe that she wanted to offer a sacrifice only for Malati. Ever since her mother’s visit, she had acted as if she were struggling with herself, as if she’d absorbed her mother’s feelings and now doubted that Malati should be living with them.
Ramchandra said, “But we’d have to sacrifice something to the goddess, and where will the money come from?” The household expenses had nearly doubled, something Goma had neglected to consider when she proposed that Malati move in with them. Ramchandra had already transferred five thousand rupees from their savings to their checking account. And once the S.L.C. was over, Ashok would stop coming. Until the time of next year’s exams, there would be no tutees. The financial situation had become nearly hopeless.
“I’ll take care of it,” Goma said. “Besides, we didn’t slaughter a goat or a hen for Dashain.”
“Bhauju, there’s no need to go to the goddess,” Malati said. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Still, a blessing from the goddess would ensure success. She is powerful.”
“Maybe we can go there but not sacrifice anything,” Ramchandra said.
Goma said that it was impossible to go empty-handed to the goddess. “It’s useless,” she repeated. “The goddess will listen only if there’s a sacrifice.”
A short time later, when Malati went to check on the baby, Ramchandra whispered angrily to Goma, “And how are we going to pay for it? Does money grow on trees?”
Goma shrugged. “The girl needs to pass. Of course I have money. My parents are rich. Did you forget?”
“Did you borrow money from them?”
Goma shook her head and sat down to dice potatoes. “Father opened a bank account for me when you and I got married. I’ve never taken anything from it.”
Ramchandra stared at her. “How come I never knew about this?” How could she hide such a thing, when all this time he’d been battling headaches about money. He wondered how much she had, but thought it better not to ask.
“I wanted it to be used only in case of an emergency or for the children. Had I told you before, you’d have asked me to spend it on a plot for the house.”
“A house? Forget about the house; forget about land. This,” he said, sweeping the air with his hands, “is our glorious destiny.”
“I never asked for a house. It was you.”
“It was your parents.”
“Let’s not get into that now. Besides, they’re not thinking about that right now, are they?”
“What else do I not know about you, Goma? Tell me.”
“You know everything,” she said. Her face was sad.
On Saturday they got up before daybreak to prepare for the trip to Dakshinkali. Goma had bought a baby goat, which stood at the head of the stairs, bleating, in a pile of pebble-like droppings around its feet. Ramchandra had assumed that Goma would bring home a chicken and was surprised to see the black goat, which he figured must have cost at least three hundred rupees. And then there was the matter of transportation to the temple. Ramchandra thought that, despite the recent tension, Goma would borrow a car from the Pandeys or from Harish and Nalini. Rakesh was excited at the thought of riding in his aunt’s car, a Pajero, an excitement Goma had doused instantly. “How about Grandfather’s car then?” he’d asked, somewhat disappointed but still with hope, because he liked the Pandeys’ driver. Goma said they were not going to borrow anyone’s car, that she’d already arranged for a taxi to take them there and bring them back. Another four hundred rupees, Ramchandra calculated.
Sure enough, under the dim light of the streetlamp, the taxi was waiting for them, a middle-aged man at the wheel. He leaped out of his vehicle as soon as he saw them and helped them load the baby goat into the trunk, making sure he left a small opening so that it could breathe. Ramchandra worried about the goat’s hurtling out during the winding trip to the goddess, but the driver assured him that goats were timid animals, too scared to do such a thing. “Bhakta dai,” Goma called to the driver, and explained to the others that in his younger days he had worked at Pandey Palace.
Bhakta drove with admirable skill through the narrow streets of Kathmandu, toward Kalimati, honking at the slower cars, swerving past pedestrians and bicyclists, plunging fearlessly into the morning fog. Houses dotted the sides of the street, and bones of new houses under construction were visible everywhere. It had been quite a while since Ramchandra had been in this part of the city, and he was amazed at how quickly the population had soared. Once they left Kalimati, however, the traffic thinned out, and the air became clearer.
Goma, Sanu, and Malati sat in the back, Rachana on her mother’s lap; Rakesh sat on his father’s lap in the front. An air of festivity filled the taxi, and, despite his earlier doubts, Ramchandra began to anticipate, with pleasure, the act of paying homage to the goddess. The last time they’d gone to Dakshinkali was years ago, probably right after Rakesh was born, when the baby’s chest troubles had bothered Goma so much that she’d suggested going to the goddess. Rakesh’s chest congestion hadn’t gone away completely, but it had subsided almost immediately after the visit, and Ramchandra had begun to believe that Dakshinkali was indeed powerful, and that if she were pleased, she would cast her benevolence on her devotees.
Ramchandra noticed that the driver kept checking the rearview mirror, even when no traffic was behind them, and after a while he realized that Bhakta was observing Malati. This irritated Ramchandra, and he wanted to tell the man to keep his eyes on the road. But Malati did look attractive in her red salwar kameez, and the driver was closer to her age than Ramchandra was. He felt painfully inadequate.
Malati, who held Rachana in her lap, appeared contented. Last night he’d asked her, after their lovemaking, “Are you happy?” and she’d said, “Bhauju has become a goddess for me.” She’d said nothing about him, and he felt that he was being taken for granted. Then, as if to make up for what she had not said, she’d clasped his hand in the darkness and asked, “Do you think we’re going to live like this forever?”
“How would I know?”
“What about you? Are you happy?”
He laughed softly. “No, I am not happy.”
“You’re not happy to be with me?”
He didn’t know the answer to that. Goma was drifting away from him, and Sanu still didn’t speak to him properly. The intensity of passion he’d felt for Malati before she came to the house had subsided, surely, but he couldn’t conjecture how he’d feel if she weren’t around. Only that his body would miss her.
“I still love you,” he said.
“But you’re not happy I’m here.”
He acknowl
edged that was so. “How do you expect me to be? It was better when you were living in your house, and we were seeing each other that way.”
In the morning, as they got dressed for the trip, she was silent, and she brightened only when she saw Goma.
The Temple of Dakshinkali, goddess of the south, sat in a bowl surrounded by hills, and they had to descend a long stretch of stairs to reach the shrine. They waited in a line of devotees, the baby goat in tow. At the temple entrance they took off their shoes. The floor of the small courtyard with the shrine was sticky with blood. A priest, his shirt drenched with blood, was cutting the throats of chickens and goats. Their bare feet were icy on the cold floor, and they had to jostle other devotees to reach the statue, where Goma performed some puja and signaled Malati to pray to the goddess. Malati knelt down, and Goma beckoned to Ramchandra to kneel beside her, as if she were marrying them. His shoulder touched Malati’s as they sat on their haunches, touching the goddess’s feet. When Ramchandra looked up at the goddess, he became briefly disoriented; what he saw there was Goma’s face, smiling. The vision unnerved him, and he quickly rose to his feet.
The priest sprinkled red powder on the goat’s forehead and sliced its throat with his knife; the goat screamed. Sanu covered her eyes. The priest kept the severed head, along with the forty rupees that Goma handed him, and they all left the temple, Ramchandra dragging the animal’s body. His legs were shaky, and the sun bore down on him.
Nearby, some men were boiling water in an enormous black vat and skinning the headless goats. Ramchandra handed his to the butchers and waited.
“Where are we going to have our picnic?” Rakesh asked.
“We’ll have to find a place,” Goma said. “Maybe your father can find one for us.”
Ramchandra had sat down on the front steps of a shop. “I’m not feeling well.”
Malati came over and placed her hand on his forehead. “You’re burning.” She sat down next to him. “Do you want to drink some water?”
He shook his head.
He expected Goma to come over too, to place her hand on his forehead, to ask if there was anything she could do. But she didn’t move; there was a puzzled expression on her face, as if she didn’t know where she was. She said to him, “Just rest for a while. I think it’s the crowd.” Quickly, she turned to the butchers.
Malati took his hand, and Ramchandra looked up to see Sanu holding Rachana, wiping dirt from her nose, and a voice in his mind asked his daughter, What? Are you becoming used to this too? He clasped Malati’s hand. His head hurt, and his eyes felt like embers. “I think I should lie down,” he said, and stretched out on the steps with his head in her lap. She ran her hand through his hair and told him to close his eyes; everything would be fine. In his mind he pictured Goma, first as a bride, her face merely an outline under the bridal veil, her lips quivering under his gaze. Then as an angry goddess, like Kali, squashing heads under her feet. That image intensified, and he cried out, and somewhere in the cavern of his mind he heard Malati calling Goma—and then he plummeted into a darkness that was strangely comforting.
He woke up to Malati’s face. “What happened?” he murmured. A cold cloth was on his forehead.
“You passed out,” she said. “And then you woke up and began babbling.” She smiled. “But everything is fine now. You have a slight fever, and the taxi driver helped to carry you up.”
Ramchandra looked around. Trees surrounded him, and he was lying on the grass. There were sounds in the distance: people talking, goats bleating, the clang of temple bells. Nearby, Rachana chewed on a frayed doll. Bhakta and Goma worked at a stove, while Sanu chopped onions. Rakesh was throwing pebbles up at some branches. “Ba is awake,” Sanu called to her mother, and Goma came over. “You’re getting old,” she said to him plainly. “Shall I get you something to drink? I can make some lemon water.”
He shook his head. “I’m fine now.”
“Let me know if you feel that way again,” and as she walked toward Bhakta, she said, “Now, you two relax, enjoy the day.” Malati said, “Bhauju is incredible, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is.”
It was clear that the seeming normality of their lives had affected Malati. She didn’t recognize the oddness in what Goma had just said. It was Goma who was Ramchandra’s wife, not Malati. Goma was his children’s mother, not Malati. But Ramchandra looked at the beautiful face in front of him, the finely shaped nose with a small glittering nose ring, the soft, silky hair. Deep affection welled up in him. He reached out and smoothed a strand of hair on her forehead, and she said softly, “The children are here. Later, maybe we can go for a walk?” Perhaps the natural surroundings had brought out the romantic in her. Had she been to places like this with Rachana’s father?
He fell asleep and, when he woke, felt better. The food was ready. Goma and Bhakta had prepared rice pulau, goat curry, cauliflower, and an achar of grated cucumber. They sat on a mat and ate. Ramchandra was swept by an immense hunger, and he started devouring the food with quick movements of his hands. The others laughed. He continued eating even when everyone was finished, and he asked for more. But Goma said, “Don’t eat too much; you’ll be sick.”
They sat down to play cards, but Ramchandra excused himself, saying he was sleepy again. “Why don’t we go for a walk?” Malati suggested. “That way your mind will clear.” Goma agreed, and even though Ramchandra didn’t want his children to see him walking off into the woods with Malati, he didn’t have the strength to resist. He and Malati headed toward the clearing that led to the dense forest.
Once they were out of the view of the others, Malati took his hand, and said, “I feel very good today, very optimistic. I know I will pass the exam. More than the goddess, bhauju’s blessing will carry me through.”
But you don’t know what Goma is feeling, he thought.
He put his arm around her shoulders, and they walked up the incline, listening to the occasional howl of a jungle cat, the rustling of the leaves. They walked until they could see, from between the trees, the spot where the others were sitting. Rakesh’s laughter shot up in the air. Malati shouted at them, “Hey, we are here,” and waited for the others to look up from the card game. But they didn’t.
They trudged farther up, and Ramchandra’s legs became pleasantly numb. His hand, entangled with Malati’s, was sweating, but he was reluctant to let go. Occasionally, he had to help her up a steep step, and once, she tumbled into him, and her breasts brushed against his arm. He looked at this girl, at the happiness in her face, and he knew that she would not be able to live apart from them. This knowledge was like a blow, and he felt like crying, but the presence of her body so close to his, and their being alone in these pristine surroundings, free to do with each other what they wanted, also aroused in him a sensation of soaring, of power.
In Jaisideval, people had congregated in small groups in front of shops and newspaper vendors. As the others walked up to the apartment, Ramchandra ambled over to the tea shop, where a few people, holding the day’s newspapers, were speaking in excited voices. Ramchandra read, over the shoulder of one man, the big news of the day. The leaders of the different political parties had finally reached an agreement, after three days of discussion at the residence of old Nepali Congress leader Ganesh Man Singh, and had released a statement. It specified the day, February 18—the very day four decades earlier when the Ranas had been ousted from their autocratic throne, now celebrated as Democracy Day—as the day when the parties would start a rebellion against the Panchayat system and would reinstate the multiparty system. That these people had specified the date showed how serious they were. “This is amazing,” someone said. “The government did nothing while these leaders gathered in Ganesh Man’s house? Is the government scared?”
“The government scared?” said another. “It’s just waiting for the right moment. It’s like a cat playing with a mouse. Wait and see.”
What do you think will happen?” Ramchandra asked the man whose newsp
aper he had been reading.
“How do I know:’” the man said testily. “Am I God? All I’m worried about is that the schools are going to close, and my son will lose another year. These bastards.”
“Such a momentous thing happening in our country,” another man said, “and you’re worried about your son? What about the rest of the janata who are suffering?”
The two of them started arguing, their voices lashing out at each other, and the cold evening air became charged.
Ramchandra walked into the house, wondering whether the country was indeed plunging into a revolution, or whether it would whimper and die down when faced with the government’s wrath. What did Mr. Pandey make of this latest development? He must be fuming, Ramchandra thought with some relish.
9
THE FIRST MORNING of the S.L.C. exams, which ran for ten days this year, was so cold that Ramchandra walked around the house wrapped in a bulky sirak. Goma put some tika on Malati’s forehead and prayed to the small statue of Lord Ganesh in the kitchen. “No need to worry,” she told Malati. “You’ve worked hard for this, and you’ll succeed.” Besides, the first exam was on Nepali, in which Malati excelled.
Before they left, Malati touched Ramchandra’s feet and said, “I need my guru’s blessings.” Ramchandra helped her up, kissed her on the forehead. Malati had said that she would go alone to the testing site in Patan, but Goma wouldn’t hear of it. At least on the first day, she should be accompanied. Goma looked questioningly at Ramchandra, who agreed to take her.
They caught a crowded bus in Ratnapark, and it lurched toward its destination. The bus was filled with other S.L.C. candidates, all nervously talking about the exams. Malati, too, talked to some of them, and Ramchandra recalled his own S.L.C. days, when he’d stay up late at night, studying by candlelight because they couldn’t afford to use the electricity too long. Sometimes his mother would get up and coax him to go to sleep, or she’d make him some tea. The nervous excitement of the exams, he and his friends testing one another’s knowledge before the exam, then quizzing each other afterward to see which answers were correct—Ramchandra recalled it vividly.
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