By Friday he’s in a state of restlessness, so he goes to his mother’s room and spends some time with her. She’s usually propped up on her bed, a pillow behind her against the wall. He sits next to her and takes her hand. She’s aware of his presence, but she doesn’t react. Her gaze is locked on a picture on the wall of herself from her younger days, before she met the Masterji. There’s a bubble of saliva on the corner of her lips, and Tarun takes the end of her dhoti and wipes it off. He talks with her for a while, softly, about what he did at work. It has occurred to him that he could reveal to her his big secret. Wouldn’t that be something? As he clasps his mother’s hand, he could tell her when it all started, what he and Didi do, providing for his mother small details that will be embroidered in her mind.
Of course, he’ll never be so cruel to his mother, but there is the thought that she should know: after all, what are mothers for?
In the beginning during his college years, when he saw how his friends were chasing after one girl or another, he experienced some mild yearning. One day a girl in college passed a note to him in class, and when he looked up, she was smiling at him. Silly girl, he thought. Still, after class, hands in the pockets of his jeans, he went down to the spot where she’d asked him to come. Her smile was full of sugar when she asked him, “So, how do you like my note?”
He nodded.
“Did you think it was sweet?”
All the note had asked was to meet him down by the giant tree in the yard. “It was as sweet as barfi.”
She laughed.
“So why did you call me here? What do you want to say to me?”
“Just to see what you’d do. Don’t you like it that I called you here?”
The girl wanted him to go for tea with her. He doubted whether he wanted to go, but when she grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the street, he found it hard to say no. They sat in a tea shop near the campus. The girl talked animatedly, and he sipped his tea and listened. He liked her laughter but also thought that she was such a phony. He wondered how many guys she pulled into tea shops like this. In his mind he could easily picture her kissing and necking with one of the studs from college. Yes, she is like that, he thought. Then it occurred to him that Didi could see him with this girl. It was an absurd thought, for this was in Baghbazaar, the tea shop tucked in a corner with green curtains at the door. The likelihood of Didi passing by Baghbazaar at that hour, looking into the shop and catching him with the girl was ludicrously remote. But he could no longer concentrate on what the girl was saying—she became a face with moving lips. She kept saying, “Hoina? … Hoina?” and it was clear she didn’t need an answer because she continued at full speed. He was facing the door, so as the girl talked his eyes kept traveling to the street. Once, he glimpsed the blurry figure of a big, round woman gliding past—it was more an impression of a person he saw in the gap between the curtains—and he crouched low and put his palms up to try to hide his face. The girl asked him what happened, and he lashed out at her, saying that he didn’t have time for her drivel. He left her in the tea shop and went to the Mahesh Enterprises office, which was just down the street, feeling ashamed at what had happened, that the girl had seen him cowering.
It has to be the right person. Often it’s a young woman about his age, someone with a sensitive face, kind eyes, someone that he can talk to but knows he never will. It doesn’t even have to be a college-aged woman. It can be someone slightly older, perhaps just a few years older than he, maybe a young housewife out running errands. There are days when it’s not even necessary that he see the full face of the woman; simply a side profile will do, and he begins walking a few yards behind her. He maintains his distance—it’s important that the women don’t suspect anything, so he’s as unobtrusive as possible. Thus far he’s been able to conceal himself. Usually he holds them only in partial awareness of his eyes, as though they were somewhere around the edges of his consciousness. He’s fully cognizant, during these walks, of the other pedestrians around him, the store signs, and the honking and blaring of the traffic on the street—they come into a sharp relief as the figure pulling him forward weaves in and out of the crowd, and he, too, does his own weaving. He’s not stalking them: he never notes the house the woman has slipped into, never returns a day or two later to the area to see if he can spot her again. Once the woman reaches her destination, he leaves, returning the way he came or grabbing a taxi home.
It’s in the privacy of his room that he then fantasizes about the woman he’s followed. He imagines that he and the woman have somehow gotten to know each other and have become attracted to each other. He imagines various ways in which this could happen. It could be a woman who has come to the Mahesh Enterprises office. They end up talking. He takes her out for samosas and tea, and that’s how the relationship starts. Or he could be sitting in the lounge of the guesthouse in Thamel, tallying bills and consulting with the manager, when the woman would come in, escorting some foreign guests as their translator or guide. The woman would ask him a question, and that’s how the conversation would begin. She’d end up sitting across from him in the lounge, and they’d talk late into the evening.
These fantasies continue for days. He and the woman are inseparable. They meet in restaurants, parks, at national monuments, museums, and temples. They kiss but only softly, never deep kissing or greedily sucking each other’s tongues. They hold hands. They are tender with each other. And one day he pours out his shame. He tells her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HE’S AFRAID THAT Didi will find out about his fantasies, so he keeps his mental meanderings tightly locked up inside him. Whom would he tell them to, anyway? He doesn’t have friends with whom he feels comfortable sharing any secrets, let alone something like this. What’s wrong with you? they’d say, these friends he doesn’t have. You’re a good-looking guy, running a business at a young age. Women should be falling over themselves to be with you. You don’t need to pursue these strange women in the streets. If you like someone, why don’t you go talk to her?
But he’s content with his fantasies, the way he can shape them how he wants. He can decide where they’re going to first meet, the first eye contact; he can dictate the pace at which the conversation takes place, the details of the museum or restaurant. He often finds that he has nothing to say to women that he actually meets, unless it’s for business purposes, in which case he is professional and precise and nothing more.
He thinks of himself as a holder of secrets. The big secret is, of course, what’s going on between him and Didi. Sometimes an image comes to him of her death, and he’s drenched in heartrending grief.
He’s ashamed of the improbable and ludicrous imaginings with his women, for what woman would listen to him admit that he sleeps with his stepmother, who masturbates him and lets him come in her hand? But these movies inside his mind console him, and alone in his bed he closes his eyes and just lets them happen. At times he wonders if Didi is going to catch him in the act, right when he’s in the midst of one of these fantasies. It’s strange—he isn’t worried that he’ll run into Didi when he’s on the trail of one of these women. If he does, he’ll have a ready and reasonable excuse for her: he’s on an evening stroll or on his way to an appointment or out to buy a shirt. It’s when he’s alone, engrossed in his scenarios, that he fears Didi will catch him in the act. It puzzles him, for surely Didi can’t read minds? And all of these are indeed happening inside his mind, aren’t they? He never writes down any of his feelings—he’s too frightened about what will come out or what others will discover if they find it—so there’s no question of her chancing upon written descriptions of these fantasies. He never mentions other girls in front of Didi, not even the office girls who work in Mahesh Enterprises, for Didi is always very alert to the girls’ names that might escape his mouth. In the past when he’s merely mentioned a name or two, girls he barely even knows but who somehow feature in the conversation, a small tightness appears in Didi’s smile. Then she might rep
eat the name of the girl again, something like “Priya Basnet. Hmmm. Where have I heard that name before. Have you mentioned that name before?” When he says no, she says, “I’ve heard someone mention her name before. It’s not you? Are you sure you don’t know her well?” She’s not satisfied until he’s vigorously denying more than peripheral knowledge of the girl.
“My life is ruined,” Tarun says to Didi one afternoon.
“What is wrong with your life?”
“I’m a twenty-three-year-old boy sleeping with his mother.”
These words have been lodged in his throat for some time now, but he had no idea that they’d shoot out of his mouth so impulsively, especially when he’s with Didi. The hurt on her face is immediate, and guilt grabs him, claws into his chest.
“Do you think I seduced you?” she asks. “Do you think I’m a seductress? Like all these other girls? Like that so-called mother of yours?”
“No, Didi, you’re not a seductress. That’s not what I said.”
“You think I seduced you into this?”
“I don’t.”
“Then you wish you were with one of these seductresses rather than me?”
“No, no, Didi, that’s not what I mean. I’m just …” But the dread is building up inside him again, quickly, and it’s moving up to his throat. He might have to harm himself again, like he did when he banged his head against the wall years ago, to prove his love for her. But, strangely, her face has softened, and crumpled. Is she crying? Yes, she is crying. How could he do this to her? How could he upset the only woman in his life who has loved him, the only one who probably ever will?
“You think what we’re doing is wrong?” she asks, sobbing.
He’s never seen her like this: she looks like a little girl who’s just been made to cry by her brothers who called her fat and ugly. “Tarun, do you think, from your heart, that what we’re doing is wrong?”
He’s confused. What he said earlier had been building up inside him for weeks, and it had to do with a growing sense that he’s been in a trap for so long that he can’t see a way out. Yet now when she questions him like this, he’s not sure that what he has with Didi is so wrong and suffocating after all. “No, I don’t,” he says.
“But that’s what you’re saying, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” He plants kisses on her forehead, her face.
She doesn’t stop crying. “If you don’t love me, who will be there to love me?”
“You know how much I love you.”
“Then why are you wounding me with such words?”
“I promise I won’t say them again. I never want to upset you, you know that.”
Slowly her crying subsides. He wipes away her tears. She gazes at his face. “I don’t care what the rest of the world says. I need you. You are my labar, and that’s that.”
“And you are my labar,” he says.
Every other month Tarun gives Didi some cash, a couple thousand rupees, in an envelope. He usually hands it over in the kitchen, sliding up to her from behind and putting his arm over her shoulder with the envelope clasped between his fingers. With a smile, she says, “And what has my son brought me today?” even though she knows exactly what. “Linusna,” he urges, waving the envelope in front of her face. From his bed the Masterji has a partial view of the kitchen, so all he can see is Tarun clasping Didi from behind, his arm over her shoulder; the Masterji sees only a portion of her back.
“Kina chhaiyo ra?” Didi says. “It’s not necessary.”
“Here,” he says, and gently pushes the envelope down her blouse.
She turns around to face him and says, “Why do you love your Didi so much?”
With a backward glance Tarun sees that his father is intently observing a spot in front of him on the bed, his concentration so severe that it seems he’s ready to shatter the world. The Masterji has lost a significant amount of weight: the skin on his face has rivulets, and there’s no flesh on his arms. Most days he stays in bed, hacking and coughing. His chest ailments have never left him completely. The number of students he tutors has dwindled, with only an occasional young college-goer or two dropping by. To make up for the reduced income, Didi has found a job as a seamstress at Ladys Fashion in Pako, part-time work to bring some extra income to help with the rent. Money is tight.
Once in a while Amit shows up in Bangemudha when Tarun is there. He enters tottering or with glazed eyes. He, too, has lost much weight, so he’s begun to resemble his father. In Amit, the Masterji has found the perfect person to vent his anger. His face becomes contorted, and he froths at the mouth when he sees Amit. “Take a look, take a look, what a worthless fellow. Are you happy? Are you a tourist in this house? And what nourishment have you imbibed today? Milk? Juice? Vitamins?” Most of the time Amit ignores him, but once in a while he says, “Shut your trap, old man.” The Masterji then launches into another rant.
When Amit sees Tarun, he breaks into a large grin. “Bhai,” he says and stumbles toward him and gives him a big, sentimental hug. “And how is my big-man brother? You’re the only one, I swear, that I’m glad to see in this house anymore.” He doesn’t let go, and either Tarun has to pry him away from his body, or Didi has to say, “If you don’t get off him soon he’s going to start stinking like you.” Amit loosens his grip and stares at Didi. Some days he smiles, as if to say, What a wonderful creature she is.
Amit draws Tarun aside, to a corner, and whispers, “Bhai, alikati paisa bhaye dena ho. Sarai marka pareko chha.”
Tarun knows what the money is for, but he doesn’t demur, only asks how much Amit needs.
Amit acts surprised, “Arré! That I don’t need to tell you. Whatever his highness can afford to give as baksheesh to his servant, the servant will accept.”
“One rupee?”
“Bhai, why joke with me?”
Tarun dips into his pocket and withdraws a hundred rupees and gives them to him.
Amit takes the money and genuflects, then slips it into his pocket.
“Fleecing your brother?” Didi says.
“If it were up to him,” the Masterji chimes in, “he’d rob each and every one of us blind.”
Amit tilts his head toward the Masterji while winking at Tarun, as though to say: You know what the old fart is about. Then he tilts his head toward Didi and moves his eyebrows up and down at Tarun while grinning lewdly. “La, la, masti chha, bhai,” he says to Tarun, slapping him hard on the shoulder. “You have the life.” His hand is still as tough as iron, and it hurts.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MAHESH UNCLE KNOWS that Saturday afternoons are reserved for Bangemudha, yet it’s on a Saturday that he invites his guests. He informs Tarun only that morning. “Some people are coming over for a visit, Tarun,” Mahesh Uncle says as Tarun is about to head to the office, from where he’ll go to Bangemudha.
“Do you need to go to Putalisadak today?” Mahesh Uncle asks.
“Yes, I must take care of a couple of urgent matters. The bourbon shipment is also arriving this morning.”
“Then come home around noon, okay?”
“Today is my day to go to Bangemudha.”
“Well, come home, meet these people, and then go, okay?”
“Who are they?”
“Some friends of mine, not a big thing, but they really want to meet you.” Observing Tarun’s reluctance, he says, “Just for about an hour, then you can vanish.”
“I was really hoping to go straight to Bangemudha from Putalisadak.”
“Just one hour, okay, Tarun? I’ve already told them, and it’ll be awkward if you’re not here.”
He doesn’t understand who these people are, why Mahesh Uncle is insistent. But he says okay, thinking that he’ll just call from the office later and say he can’t come. But Mahesh Uncle phones him twice in Putalisadak to make sure that he’s coming. After a quick trip to the airport, where he finds that he’ll have to wait until next week to release his goods from customs, he returns hom
e.
Mahesh Uncle is on the phone in his room upstairs, so Tarun waits in the living room. Sanmaya is in the kitchen, cooking furiously, and he wonders why Mahesh Uncle is being coy about the visitors. He goes up to tell Mahesh Uncle that he’s already late for Bangemudha so he has to leave. Mahesh Uncle puts his palm over the phone receiver and says, “It’s them on the phone. They’re on their way and will be here any minute now. Please.” Tarun goes to his room and lies down. He closes his eyes: by this time he’d already be in Bangemudha, and already Sumit and his father would have left the house, and he’d be alone with Didi. His body would be entangled with hers. He can taste her, and the ache in him for her is slowly rising. His hand moves down below his navel, but he can’t arouse himself now, not with these guests of Mahesh Uncle coming. He has to save himself for later.
“Tarun! Tarun! Babu, kahan harayo timi?” He hears his mother call his name but her voice is blocked by a red mask with sharp white fangs. Whimpering, he opens his eyes. It’s Sanmaya, her wrinkled face close to his, whispering, “The guests are here!”
He stares wide eyed at her in befuddlement.
“The guests. You are to go down immediately!”
He’s still in his tie and shirt, but when he stands and looks at the mirror he discover that his hair is a mess. He opens his door and sneaks toward the bathroom. From the landing he hears Mahesh Uncle talking to the guests in the living room. Mahesh Uncle spots Tarun and signals him to hurry up. In the bathroom Tarun freshens up, combs his hair, then goes down.
The City Son Page 8
