The Guru of Love

by Samrat Upadhyay

  “Yes,” she said with a laugh. “Amazing, isn’t it? We had a small temple ceremony.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “I am very happy,” she said, meeting his eyes as if in challenge.

  He asked her about Malekha Didi.

  “Oh, she’s come around,” Malati said. “You know, full moon, no moon. She found out where I live and she came and held Rachana in her arms. She says she misses us. But that’s only because her business has collapsed.” She paused and then said, “It’s hard for her now. But my husband gives her some money every month. He really cares about her.”

  Ramchandra pitied Malekha Didi. Earlier, she couldn’t admit that Malati was helping her.

  Malati asked about his family, and he told her everyone was fine except Goma’s mother. “Where’s your husband?” he asked. “Ajit, is that his name?” Pretending that he didn’t recall the name made him feel less vulnerable.

  “His name is Amrit. He comes home around this time, to drink tea, and then goes out again. Sometimes he drives the whole night.”

  Ramchandra noticed a small scar on Rachana’s left cheek. “What happened?” he asked.

  “An accident,” Malati said. “You know how frisky she is.”

  “Goma would like to see you,” he said.

  Malati wiped Rachana’s cheeks and forehead before saying, “It’s probably better if I don’t enter your lives again.”

  He understood and he agreed.

  A few minutes later, he said goodbye and went down to the street. In all the noise and the swarms of moviegoers walking toward the cinema hall, he heard someone shout, “Professor saheb! Professor saheb!” In the dusk, it took him a moment to recognize Amrit, with his curly hair and long mustache, at the other side of the alley, trying to get to him through the crowd. Ramchandra merely waved and walked on, but Amrit pushed people aside and caught up with him.

  “How are you, professor?”

  “I am not a professor,” Ramchandra said mildly. “I am only a schoolteacher.”

  “What difference does it make? Where are you going?”

  “I just finished watching the cinema.”

  “Oh, we live right here,” Amrit said. “Why don’t you come for tea?”

  “It’s getting dark.”

  Amrit grabbed his arm. Ramchandra noticed the cigarette between his fingers. “Come on, professor saheb. Just for a few minutes. Malati will be very pleased. She keeps talking about you.”

  What had Malati told her husband about him? Ramchandra wondered. Obviously not everything, or Amrit wouldn’t have invited him to visit.

  Right near them, in the famous soda shop of New Road, bottles were opened with a pop and the carbonated lemon water sizzled in glasses. The shopkeeper urged Ramchandra and Amrit to move on, because they were blocking his customers.

  “How is Malati?” Ramchandra asked as they headed back toward the apartment. He hoped that Malati wouldn’t let on that he’d already been there.

  “She’s fine. The baby is a little sick.”

  They climbed the stairs, the cigarette smoke drifting down to Ramchandra as he followed Amrit.

  “Look who’s here, Malati,” Amrit said when they walked into the room. “Your professor.”

  Ramchandra looked at Malati apologetically, and Malati said, “Sir, it’s been a long time. Everything well?”

  “Everything is fine,” he answered.

  Smiling, Malati went to the kitchen to make tea, and Ramchandra and Amrit, who was now holding the baby and talking to her in baby talk, sat on the bed. Ramchandra asked Amrit about his driving schedule, about how much he made during a day. Amrit was friendly, talkative.

  Malati brought tea, and for a while they sipped in silence. Ramchandra said to Malati, “The results will be out in a few months. Are you still planning to go to college?”

  “If I pass,” Malati said. “I’m stupid in math, remember? I’m a math monkey.”

  Ramchandra was embarrassed by the reference.

  “Passing the S.L.C. is no good these days,” Amrit said. “Even people with college degrees are driving taxis.”

  “She might find a job as a secretary.”

  “Who’ll take care of the baby?” Amrit said in a friendly tone. “As it is, I drive the taxi from morning to night.”

  It was dark outside, but neither Malati nor Amrit got up to turn on the light.

  Ramchandra said to Amrit, “You should turn on the light. It’s hard to see in here.”

  “No,” Amrit said. “Let it be dark. It’s the blackout night; haven’t you heard? At seven everyone’s to turn off the lights, so we may as well wait.”

  Ramchandra did remember now. The Nepali Congress and the communist parties had called for a ten-minute blackout this evening to protest government killings. Ramchandra peered at his watch. Only a few minutes more, and the entire nation would plunge into darkness.

  He was close to the window and could see that some people were burning a tire near the cinema hall. Soon, a strong whiff of scorched rubber floated up. At seven o’clock, darkness enveloped the neighborhood, and whistles were heard. Someone nearby turned up the volume of a cassette player, and a popular Nepali song blared into the air. Ramchandra, feeling drowsy, wanted to He down right there on the bed, but he knew he should get going, darkness or not. He forced himself to sit up. “I’d better leave now,” he said.

  “It’s too dark. Why don’t you wait for ten minutes? I’ll turn on the lights then.”

  They sat still, and in a few minutes Amrit turned on the light.

  “You’ll come to visit us again, sir?” Malati asked.

  “Of course I will,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t. “When I have time.”

  “Give my regards to bhauju and the children.”

  “Of course.”

  “My regards too,” Amrit said, laughing, “even though I haven’t met them.”

  “Come and see me if you need anything,” Ramchandra said.

  They nodded.

  Outside, a procession on the street was chanting, “Hatyara sarkar murdabad. ” Death to the killer government.

  A group of policemen stood under a streetlight a few yards away, but they only watched. Ramchandra let the procession pass, then headed home.

  “God has protected that little girl,” Goma said when Ramchandra told her that Rachana was fine. He mentioned Malati’s marriage to Amrit, but didn’t say that he’d spied on her before going to visit.

  “Will she visit us?” Goma asked.

  Ramchandra shook his head, and Goma nodded in understanding.

  That night the image of Malati bargaining with the vendors, a smile on her lips, kept returning, and he felt cheated. He imagined her as perfectly contented with her new life—a husband to take care of her and her baby, a husband who had once abandoned her, and who now, in all probability, slept with other women. Her naïveté annoyed him, and he wanted to go back to that house and give her a piece of his mind.

  After everyone had gone to bed, he strolled in the garden, trying to calm himself. Despite everything, he loved the garden at Pandey Palace. It was large, with a fountain in the middle and beds of daisies, roses, and sunflowers lining the periphery and filling small plots throughout. A garden table with a bright umbrella sat in a corner; sometimes the family gathered there on Saturday afternoon, and Ramchandra watched contentedly as Sanu and Rakesh ran around nearby. The servants brought glasses of juice or tea and deep-fried snacks, and the afternoon stretched out before them like a pleasant dream.

  But it was a mirage, a fantasy, Ramchandra reminded himself. This was not his house, and he felt shame at enjoying its privileges. Mrs. Pandey’s health was better, although she still occasionally became agitated when she saw ghosts or heard voices. Her body was weak, and sometimes at the dinner table she’d throw up without warning. One day, at a relaxed moment under the garden umbrella, Ramchandra had broached the topic of finding an apartment of their own, but Goma had refused. “I won’t move until she’s co
mpletely better.”

  “Maybe Nalini can take care of her for a while,” Ramchandra said.

  “Nalini can’t take care of her. She doesn’t know how.” Ramchandra suspected that Nalini and Harish were glad they’d been in Bangkok when Mrs. Pandey collapsed. Nalini did visit almost every day, but she stood at a distance. She never slept over, not even when, one evening, Mrs. Pandey was so weak and paranoid that she was literally frothing at the mouth, and Goma had developed a migraine that, she said, was “splitting her head in two with an ax.” Everyone seemed to assume that only Goma was capable of caring for Mrs. Pandey. When Ramchandra tried to do something for his mother-in-law, she pushed his hand away; sometimes she asked Goma who he was. And then there was Harish, who rarely came, and, when he did, was ill at ease, like a nervous schoolboy.

  12

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER, a son of a bureaucrat came to Pandey Palace for assistance with his S.L.C. exams. When Ramchandra told him that it was somewhat early to be studying for the next year’s exams, the boy said that he wanted to pass in the first division, because he had plans to go abroad for further studies.

  For Ramchandra, it felt odd to be tutoring the student in Pandey Palace, with its enormous rooms and spacious air. Strangely, part of him longed for the cramped quarters in Jaisideval, with the deafening traffic and the leaky ceiling. Now he tutored the student in the large living room, where his voice disappeared in the expansive space, and he caught himself speaking too loud. The student, who was smart, understood the problems and their solutions quickly. Ramchandra compared him to Malati, who used to chew on her pencil’s eraser and nod vigorously even when she had no clue about how to solve a problem. The memory made him smile. Then he remembered, too, the happiness on her face in the market, and he frowned.

  Two mornings after he’d begun tutoring, he came down to the living room and found Sanu talking to the student. She was smiling, looking down at her feet and then up at the boy as he talked about his recent trip to Bombay. Neither of them noticed Ramchandra, until he said, “Sanu, don’t you need to finish your homework?” Startled, she quickly left the room, but not before flashing another smile at the boy.

  In the garden that evening Goma joined him, and they walked around quietly. When they stopped to admire a blooming fuchsia, Ramchandra placed his hand on her back and said, “How long will you remain like this?”

  She pretended not to hear him and pulled out some weeds.

  “Goma.”

  “I’ve done nothing,” she said.

  “Can you not forgive me?”

  “You did what you needed to do. This isn’t a matter of accusing and forgiving.”

  “Then why do you stay so removed from me?”

  She turned toward him. “There’s a hardening in my heart. I can’t help myself.”

  “Please don’t be like this.”

  “I can’t help myself,” she repeated.

  He cringed a little and then said, “Everyone can be forgiven. Please.” He wanted to talk to her about Sanu, to say he was troubled by what he’d seen that morning, that their daughter was growing up too quickly, that he needed Goma to make sense of it for him. But all of that retreated to the background now. Did Goma think that he still longed for Malati? Did he? He couldn’t tell. He did know he wanted to see her again, talk to her, ask her once more whether she was happy, and to demand the absolute truth.

  That night he dreamed that Sanu, her belly swollen with child, was wandering the streets of Kathmandu, digging into garbage.

  People continued to march in the streets, unfurling banners against autocracy, some even with words condemning the king, which left many people aghast. Processions, rallies, and riots became daily events in the city, and police trucks, crammed with helmeted men, hurtled through the streets. People talked in whispers that the king would soon declare military rule. “The army worships the king,” people said. “They won’t hesitate to massacre the people.”

  Sanu had started to wear makeup.

  “What’s wrong with her?” he asked Goma.

  “She’s growing up. It’s natural.”

  Ramchandra suspected that Sanu was spending time with the bureaucrat’s son, Kamal—outside the house. He’d reconciled himself to the fact that Sanu lingered in the living room while he tutored Kamal. But Sanu began to vanish from Pandey Palace for long stretches of time after school in the evening, and when she returned, her face was flushed. The bureaucrat’s son lived only a couple of blocks away, which strengthened Ramchandra’s suspicions. Sanu had also started sketching images from American comic books that showed two young lips kissing, with hearts floating above them. He showed these to Goma, who simply laughed. When he mentioned his suspicion about Sanu meeting the boy outside, she said, “It’s her age. What do you expect her to do?”

  Goma’s casual attitude baffled him. She acted as if she herself had been through this; that she understood what her daughter felt. Once again doubt about Goma’s past bothered him. Again he wondered why the Pandeys had married her off to him. These days he found himself looking at Sanu sternly whenever she passed by, and she, aware of his critical expression, kept her head down and barely spoke to him. When he was tutoring Kamal, Ramchandra sometimes scolded the boy for minor errors, even though he solved most of the math problems with careless ease.

  “If no one controls her, what will happen if something goes wrong with her and the boy?” Ramchandra said to Goma.

  “You don’t trust your daughter?”

  “It’s not a question of trust. It’s her age. I’ve seen how she looks at him. Can you guarantee that she’ll control herself?” “Guarantee,” Goma said. “I couldn’t guarantee that you’d control yourself, and you’re an adult.”

  The next day he discovered in Sanu’s schoolbag a letter addressed to Kamal. He hadn’t meant to pry, but that evening, after Kamal had left, he was calculating the month’s household budget and lost track of the numbers and fumbled around for a pen. When he couldn’t find one, he noticed her bag in the corner and looked inside. The letter, written in Sanu’s clear handwriting, proclaimed infinite love for Kamal, reminded him of some promises he’d made, then went on about the happy family they would have. It also proclaimed that neither would ever cheat on the other. Ramchandra was stung by the way Sanu had processed his relations with Malati.

  When Sanu came home later that evening, he accosted her in the hallway and showed her the letter. If he’d expected her to cower, to make apologies, to run away crying, he was wrong. The skin on Sanu’s forehead became tight in anger. She snatched away the letter and said, “I didn’t think anyone would have the nerve to go through my belongings without my permission.”

  “I’m your father.”

  “Being a father doesn’t give you that right,” Sanu screamed. “If you were a good father—” She caught herself, then stormed upstairs and slammed her door. Goma came down the stairs and, her hand on the railing at the bottom, said, “Why did you go through her bag?”

  “I needed a pen,” he said. His knees were wobbly.

  “Use your brain, will you?” she said. “You don’t go poking around in a young girl’s private things. Embarrassing for you, embarrassing for her.”

  He told her what he’d found.

  “You still don’t understand. I don’t care. Let her do what she wants. She’s a good girl.” Yes, he thought, but you didn’t say that when she didn’t like your parents.

  After that he stopped talking to Sanu. Actually, it was she who no longer spoke to him. During dinner or when passing each other in the hallway, she turned away, and a couple of times when he started to speak to her, she left the room.

  The growing unrest in the city rarely reached Pandey Palace. Busy taking care of her mother, Goma didn’t even glance at the newspapers Ramchandra brought into the house. One day, after reading about skirmishes in different parts of the country, Ramchandra asked what she thought, and she said, “I have no time to think about those things.”

  She wi
ped the drool off her mother’s face. These days, whenever Goma touched her, Mrs. Pandey clasped her daughter’s arm so tight that her knuckles turned white.

  Perhaps to alleviate the pain of Goma’s disenchantment with him, Ramchandra found himself taking a keen interest in what was happening in the country. At school, it was he who now initiated political discussions, often holding a newspaper article in his hand.

  “So you’ve come around, eh, Ramchandra-ji?” Shailendra said. “So now you think if we have democracy, you’ll be able to build a house in the city?”

  Ramchandra said, “Well, whether I have a house or not, things in this country must improve.”

  “Dream on,” said Bandana Miss.

  Mrs. Pandey was rushed to the hospital again because of heart palpitations, and this time the doctors said that her condition was serious and that she’d have to stay for at least a few days. This meant that “Goma had to stay with her, and suddenly Ramchandra found himself in charge of the household, a task he didn’t relish. The house was too big. Added to it was Sanu’s insolence. Rakesh, too, frequently defied his father and got into arguments over petty things. He clearly resented his sister’s new lack of interest in playing with him, and he called her names every chance he got. Each morning the servants took Goma’s food to the hospital, and each evening Ramchandra went there, carrying her dinner. When Sanu and Rakesh accompanied him, they fought in the car. At the hospital, their faces brightened when they saw their mother, who embraced them and asked questions. Often, Ramchandra excused himself and walked the corridors of the hospital, sometimes stepping out into the cold to smoke a cigarette, a recent habit; he did make sure not to light up in front of the children. The cigarette warmed him, softening the urgency of his thoughts.

  Mrs. Pandey was brought home, but her condition was worse. Now she had trouble sitting up. Sometimes Goma had to force open her mother’s mouth to spoon in some soup, which dribbled down her chin. Her eyelids had turned blue; she didn’t recognize even Goma. Nalini came by occasionally to help, but the strain of the situation appeared to be too much for her, and soon she conjured up excuses for not visiting.