Suddenly the mask cocks its head at Tarun. Then it hurtles toward him and grabs him by the shoulders, its gargantuan eyes thrust against Tarun’s face. Tarun screams. The crowd laughs. He pees in his pants. His mother makes her way to him and kneels down in front of him with a gasp, her eyes quickly taking in the wetness of his crotch. She pushes the unmasked dancer away from him, picks him up, and carries him away, gently scolding him as she wipes his mucus-filled nose with her fingers: what possessed him to leave her and go to that lakhey?
Tarun’s heart is beating so fiercely it’s throbbing in his throat. He closes his eyes, but the mask appears before him, enraged, and he whimpers. As Apsara carries him and hurries through the evening crowd, he can feel the stickiness on his thighs, and, without his wanting it, his penis somewhat hardens. He worries that his mother will feel his rise or notice the small tent in his pants. But caught up in her own anxieties, she notices nothing.
Within weeks after they move to Kupondole, Didi sends the Masterji to fetch Tarun one Saturday. At nine o’clock, when Apsara is cooking and Tarun is engaged in a drawing that he wants to submit for a national competition, there’s a knock on the door. “See who it is, babu,” Apsara says.
Tarun wonders if it’s a neighborhood boy wanting to play, but it’s his father, along with Amit and Sumit. Apsara doesn’t say anything as the Masterji sits on the bed and motions to his two sons to do the same. He looks around, then his eyes land on Apsara. “So, you’ve settled in all nicely here?” he asks. “This looks like a nice place.”
She sits on her haunches on the floor, next to the stove, her body trembling. “You couldn’t come alone?” she says.
“I wanted to show Amit and Sumit their brother’s new house.”
Amit is watching the two of them carefully. He had instructions from Didi.
“Something delicious is being cooked here, I can tell,” the Masterji says. His face is soaked in guilt.
“I don’t know how to cook, remember?”
The Masterji laughs sheepishly. “Are you not even going to offer a glass of water? We walked all the way—couldn’t catch the bus.”
“Even the water I serve stinks,” she says, but she gets up and pours some from the corner gagro, first for the Masterji, then for Amit and Sumit.
The Masterji drinks long and hard, then, setting the glass on the floor, says, “This place is so close to the shops.” When he realizes that she’s not going to carry on small talk with him, he addresses Tarun, who’s sitting next to his mother, “Tarun, how are things? How is school?”
“Fine.”
The Masterji notices Tarun’s artwork, a pencil drawing of mountains with a picturesque village ensconced underneath, a big house in the foreground with a smiling family of six—a man, two women, and three boys—holding hands in the yard. “Did you make this?” He picks it up from the floor. “Look!” he shows it to Amit and Sumit. “What a beautiful picture your brother has drawn.” Sumit cranes his neck to look, and Amit glances at it, then shoots Tarun a mirthful look.
“I think you are going to be an artist when you grow up!” the Masterji says. To Apsara he says, “I have come to take Tarun with me to Bangemudha.”
She lets out a short laugh. “What for?”
“He also needs to spend time with his father.”
“What for?”
“Doesn’t he need to spend time with his father?”
“You can come and visit him here. When the mood strikes you.”
“With my busy schedule, when can I come?”
“Didi has instructed us not to come home without Tarun,” Amit says. His words are slow, throaty, like an adult’s in conversation with another adult.
She ignores him and tells the Masterji that she’ll allow Tarun to live in Bangemudha only over her dead body.
The Masterji looks bedraggled. Tarun remembers that not too long ago his father and his mother sat on their bed in Bangemudha, he with this lungi wrapped around his waist, gazing into her eyes, speaking softly to her. He remembers his father buying gifts for his mother—earrings, a scarf, and the special titaura she likes. His father took them on outings, to the Balaju Gardens, to Gokarna, even to the movies.
In the end, it’s decided that Tarun will visit Bangemudha every Saturday to spend the afternoon. This will enable him to bond with his brothers and also spend time with his father. Apsara agrees to this with great reluctance, and Amit is angry that he’s unable to fulfill Didi’s wish that they not return home without Tarun.
CHAPTER SIX
APSARA GOES TO work, crossing the Bagmati Bridge in the morning, but Tarun doesn’t know how much work she really does. She has always been a small woman; now she appears to have shriveled even more. The river is raging; it’s monsoon, and the waves are striking the shores like they’re ready to break something. The boy has swum in this river on Saturdays on his way to Bangemudha. He can’t stand what’s happening to his mother—the way she is falling apart—and he goes to the river and strips down to his underwear and swims. He’s made a couple of friends here, street urchins who are awed by the fact that he lives in a flat, attends a boarding school, and speaks good English, and yet here he is among them, swimming in the river like a common ruffian. He doesn’t tell them about his mother. When they ask him where his father is, he tells them that he’s gone abroad to work. He pretends Mahesh Uncle is his father, and he tells his river friends that his father travels abroad to countries like Japan and Australia and holds meetings with ambassadors and ministers. Mahesh Uncle has visited the flat two times, and both times he has brought Tarun gifts, at one time a set of colored pens and at another time a box of chocolates. “From Switzerland,” he said.
Mahesh Uncle is also worried about Apsara. He is a large-bodied man, large jawed. He is always in suits. Apart from serving on the board of the bank where Apsara works, he owns Mahesh Enterprises, a trading company that imports cigarettes and alcohol and exports handicrafts and carpets. The company also owns a small guesthouse in Thamel, with plans afoot to open up a larger resortstyle hotel in the lakeside city of Pokhara. He travels quite a bit—Singapore, Dubai, sometimes Australia and Japan. He breathes heavily, especially when he’s standing. He has a kind heart, and the boy needs someone with a kind heart in his life right now.
“Afno khayl rakhnu parcha,” Mahesh Uncle says to Apsara. “Yo ta timro matrai kura hoina ni. If you neglect yourself, who is going to look after our dear Tarun?” She looks ashamed and embarrassed when he says this. I can take care of myself, Tarun wants to tell Mahesh Uncle. And I can take care of my mother.
One early evening Mahesh Uncle drops by and becomes distraught to find Apsara asleep in bed, facing the wall. Tarun is doing his homework. Apsara doesn’t even realize that Mahesh Uncle has come and that he has noticed the empty stove. When Tarun tried to wake her up after school, she had mumbled and moaned but had not woken up. He had looked around for the usual packet of Arrowroot biscuits he snacked on until his mother cooked dinner, but there were no biscuits. He could have gone next door and asked for some food from the neighbor, but he was too embarrassed, so he sucked on a piece of an old candy he found in his pocket and settled down to do his homework.
Mahesh Uncle has come because Apsara has begun to accumulate quite a number of absences, and her immediate supervisor is unhappy, and her colleagues critical; they complain that she has a free rein because she has a patron on the board of directors. They say “patron” sarcastically, but Tarun knows there’s nothing between Mahesh Uncle and his mother. Every now and then, however, Tarun pretends there’s something. When Mahesh Uncle sits next to his mother’s bed and talks to her, for example, he imagines Mahesh Uncle reaching out with his pudgy fingers to stroke her forehead and chase away all her worries. Mahesh Uncle does touch her forehead but more like a father might do to a daughter. The age difference between her and Mahesh Uncle is great enough that on occasion Tarun thinks Mahesh Uncle could be his grandfather. Tarun hasn’t had a relationship with his grandparent
s, only occasional gifts, visits during certain festivals. When Tarun was born, his grandparents had come to Bangemudha, somber and wary. It was their first visit to the flat, and they were not pleased with the small bed, the cramped corner that also served as the kitchen, the bare-essential pots and pans, the constant stream of noise from the street—honks, yells, laughter, cycle bells, temple bells, hawker wails—a far cry from the lawned house in Naxal where one has to walk at least a block before encountering a street with traffic. But by that time they had resigned themselves to their daughter’s inexplicable, scandalous act.
Over the years they have grudgingly accepted Tarun as a child of the strange union between their daughter and a married man. When he visits them, his grandparents treat him like a distant relative. In their house there are no photos of him or his mother after she married the Masterji. All the photos of his mother in his grandparents’ house in Naxal are of the pre-Masterji days: she is in her tight flared pants, in red high-heeled shoes.
But the sudden exit of Tarun and his mother from Bangemudha after Didi’s arrival has devastated his grandparents, who have severed all contact. Their shame about their daughter is so great that the only way they can cope with it is by pretending she, and Tarun, are not in their lives anymore.
“You can’t go on like this.” Mahesh Uncle’s voice is gently reproachful this evening in Kupondole. Apsara sits up groggily and attempts to gather herself. “Come, let’s go out and eat,” Mahesh Uncle says. She responds in a small voice that she doesn’t wish to be seen in public. “Then we’ll go to my house,” Mahesh Uncle says, refusing to bow to her stubbornness. Finally, she stands—Tarun helps her get up on her feet as though she were an invalid—and washes her face in the corner sink. The sari she’s been sleeping in has wrinkled. The three of them go down, where his car is waiting.
If not for Mahesh Uncle, Tarun thinks, his mother could have died. In the case of her premature death, Tarun would have gone to Bangemudha to live with his father, with Didi and Amit and Sumit. When he first imagines this, it seems strange to Tarun, the idea of living with his father and his village family. Bangemudha is where he grew up, but now it feels like an alien place when he visits, as though he’d only dreamed that he’d spent his childhood there. In Bangemudha, when he stands next to the bed where he’s slept all these years with his father and mother, the bed looks different. He feels awkward in the Bangemudha house, and his father appears like a distant uncle, even though the Masterji calls his name extra sweetly when he visits on Saturdays.
Amit is hostile to Tarun and bullies him. Whenever he gets a chance, he looks around, then pinches Tarun or hits him on the shoulder, hard. “Muji,” he whispers, “randi ko chhoro.” Amit is thin and taut and strong. Tarun has borne the brunt of that strength when Amit has physically tackled him. Amit looks for an excuse to fight, then suddenly Tarun is tackled to the ground; Amit sits on him, his legs straddling Tarun, his fingers clamping Tarun’s wrists. It’s as if a boy made of iron has sat on Tarun. One time when Amit pinned Tarun to the ground in the yard he brought his mouth close to his and said, “Open your mouth.” When Tarun did, Amit spat into it. “La, muji, mero thuk nil!” He let go. Sumit was standing, watching, smiling, but he wasn’t smiling at what had happened; he was just smiling his sweet smile. Was Didi watching? Tarun’s eyes fell on the window of the kitchen, where she was, but the figure inside was too blurred for him to know whether she’d seen anything. “How’s that mother of yours?” Amit frequently asks him, then laughs. Somehow Tarun doesn’t feel like arguing with him or resisting him when he bullies him or even when he calls Apsara names. It’s as though Tarun has granted Amit the right to antagonize him.
The person Tarun is beginning to feel the most connected to in Bangemudha is Didi. “My beautiful son,” she says. “Look how beautiful our Tarun is,” she says in front of everyone, and Tarun can feel Amit’s dagger eyes on him. They sit on the carpet on the floor next to the bed, where the Masterji sits. He’s aged since Didi has arrived. He smiles at Tarun, as though delighted by the love Didi is showing toward him. But his eyes are constantly checking Didi’s face, gauging her moods. When she’s pleased, and she’s often pleased when Tarun visits, he relaxes. But most of the time his face is taut, tense as though he is expecting someone to come from the side and strike him a blow. Tarun is reminded of the adage his Nepali teacher likes to repeat: Agultole haneko kukur bijuli chamkida tarsinchha. It fits Tarun’s father: he is indeed like the mutt who, once someone hits him with firewood, winces every time lightning strikes the sky.
Didi’s fingers caress Tarun’s face, his chin. “I think he’s the most beautiful boy in the whole world,” she says, her gaze fixed on him.
“Eh, beautiful boy!” Amit calls him when everyone’s out of earshot. “Eh, beautiful boy, randi ko chhora.”
Tarun loves the food Didi cooks: kheer, malpua, haluwa, and an assortment of sweet stuff. Increasingly she seems to cook just for him. “I made this especially for my son today,” she says as she puts a plate of his favorite snack in front of him. She watches as he eats. Sometimes she gives him more food than she gives her own two sons, as though she knows that he hasn’t been eating well in Kupondole. Didi never asks him about his mother. Once or twice he’s had the urge to blurt it all out to Didi. She will understand what he’s going through. She’ll wipe his tears with her palm, kiss him, then lead him to the tap where she’ll wash his face, her thick, stubby fingers vigorously eliminating all remnants of pain and suffering, then set him down on the floor and ask him what he wants to eat. After he’s had his fill, she’ll pull him into her lap and massage his head, her fingers gentle and caressing, and as he feels drowsy, she’ll murmur into his ears, words that he doesn’t understand but that are nonetheless pleasant. He’ll squirm in her lap, and she’ll stroke his back, his buttocks. She may even murmur, “Why does my son need to go home tonight? Why doesn’t he stay the night here, with his Didi?” And half drowsy, he’ll smile, for spending the night here in Bangemudha, cuddled next to Didi, appeals to him greatly.
If it were up to Didi, she’d keep Tarun in Bangemudha. “That so-called mother of his will starve him to death,” Didi says to the Masterji. “Look at my Tarun, all skin and bones. Is that what you want for our son?”
“Well,” the Masterji says. “It’s her son … after what has happened …” The Masterji no longer seems capable of speaking in full sentences to Didi. He stutters and stumbles. There are moments when he appears to be speaking a foreign language, so hard is it to understand his words. “Yo … Oohi … Tya …” and he stops with a dazed expression. Vertical lines have appeared on the corners of his mouth that now make him look prematurely old. Even with his glasses on, he squints and makes faces when he reads. His blanket around him, he sits on his bed and tutors his students, but these days in a low, muted voice. Students still flock to him, but he makes mistakes, some of which his students catch.
“Once you declare someone your son,” Didi tells the Masterji, “don’t you then need to take care of him as if he’s indeed your son?”
The Masterji smiles weakly. He knows that Apsara will put up a fight if he tries to snatch the boy away from her. Tarun thinks that perhaps he should stay a night or two at Bangemudha just so he can see what his mother will do, whether that’ll pull her out of her rut, and she’ll come looking for him. He wonders how Amit will react if indeed Tarun starts living in Bangemudha. Sumit will be fine with it, even happy, for he likes Tarun, calls him “Tarun da,” and when Amit is not present, follows Tarun around and obeys his instructions in play. But Amit’s grudge against Tarun and Didi is growing. One Saturday Didi returned from the bazaar and handed Tarun and Sumit colorful sweet-smelling erasers, one each, which had images of the masked Betal. She told Amit that she ran out of money for a third one; besides, he was too big and could share Sumit’s eraser. Amit snatched the eraser from Tarun’s palm and said, “He can share with Sumit. I’ll keep this.” Didi’s hand moved quickly through the air and landed on
Amit’s cheek, which turned red. He dropped the eraser to the floor, from where Sumit picked it up and handed it to Tarun. Sumit then offered his eraser to Amit, but he shoved away his younger brother’s hand and stormed out of the house. Didi’s thick fingers cupped Tarun’s chin, and she asked, “Does my son like the eraser?” and Tarun nodded shyly. Not too long ago Mahesh Uncle had given Tarun a stationery box with a variety of pens and pencils, a ruler, and two erasers, but Didi’s eraser was his favorite until it shriveled to a stub.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MAHESH UNCLE’S HOUSE is in Lazimpat, next to a hotel. The house has a gate with a guard who opens it and salutes you as the car glides in onto a paved driveway. The house, two stories with a marble façade, has a lawn big enough to play on. As Tarun enters the front door, he touches its wall, and Mahesh Uncle says, “It’s from the quarry in Godavari.”
Inside, there’s a spacious living room with leather sofas, vases, paintings, and luxuriant rugs. The living room opens into a dining room, where there’s a table large enough to accommodate ten people. There are three rooms upstairs, each with its own bed and furnishings, even though it’s only Mahesh Uncle who lives on the upper floor. The old servant Sanmaya sleeps in the small storage room next to the kitchen. Mahesh Uncle says that he’s asked her to move to one of these empty rooms, but she refuses, says she likes it down there, surrounded by sacks of rice and flour and tins of dal and oil and tea.
The City Son Page 3
