Land Where I Flee

by Prajwal Parajuly

  Moving to Kalimpong wouldn’t have been much different from staying in Gangtok if she settled in her bazaar house there, but she had no intention of doing that. Her textile factory in Sindebong was four acres of paradise, two and a half miles away from town. It was well connected by road to the market but amply far from it so she would never have to encounter a traffic jam for miles.

  The two bedrooms on the third floor of the factory were more manageable than this big house. She could take Prasanti with her, but Prasanti had become too much of a city girl to like living in the country. Didi, the previous helper, was now based in Kalimpong, but she was old and frail. Old and frail people irritated Chitralekha. She’d have to raise Prasanti’s pay if a Kalimpong move occurred. If the lack of something to do bothered her (or Prasanti) too much, she (or Prasanti) could simply head down to the workroom to supervise the sewing, dyeing, and tanning. She wouldn’t think of expansion, of making more money, of destroying her competitors. Kalimpong was also warmer. It would be good for her health.

  But what was good for her body wasn’t necessarily good for her mind. The first few days would be peaceful, and then she’d feel stifled. The factory, as idyllic as its location may have been, would not have views of the Kanchendzonga. Even if it did, she couldn’t possibly stare at the mountain the entire day. She still had so many things to sort out here. She wasn’t about to retire with no one in sight to continue her legacy. One grandson was opposed to marriage, and she’d avoided thinking of the other all these years. What harm would it do one of them to give her an heir? At least she could be on her way to death knowing that the Neupaney family wouldn’t die after her grandchildren’s generation. The only great-grandchildren she had didn’t count. Shouldn’t her frustrations, therefore, be forgiven? Wasn’t her behavior justified?

  Manasa’s reedy voice put an end to Chitralekha’s reverie.

  “Aamaa, are you going to eat breakfast or not?” Manasa asked from outside Chitralekha’s room. “You must be hurting because your beloved has betrayed you, you poor thing.”

  Chitralekha stayed silent. Manasa let herself in.

  “It’s Lakshmi Puja,” her granddaughter said. “We have a white male Lakshmi in the garden.”

  “Who?” Chitralekha asked.

  “Agastaya’s friend. Irritating man.”

  “He must take good care of his grandparents.”

  “Yes, he probably does,” Manasa said. “By dumping them in old-age homes. We should have done that with you.”

  “I’d have been better off there than here.”

  “Yes, probably. You’d have found a man for yourself there. Isn’t that what life is all about if you’re female? Find a man and live happily ever after? I hit the jackpot.”

  “Yet you think you should throw it all away.”

  “I like my man, even if he is spineless. It’s the father-in-law, who looks like he’ll even outlive you, that I am not fond of.”

  Bhagwati walked in with a bowl of oatmeal. “You have to eat something, Aamaa,” she said. “You didn’t even eat dinner last night.”

  Chitralekha was famished, so she took an unsure spoonful of oatmeal. It was hot.

  “I thought you’d never eat anything touched by Bhagwati,” Manasa said.

  Chitralekha didn’t answer. She swallowed another mouthful.

  “Is Bhagwati not the evil one anymore?” Manasa said, while her older sister made faces at her. “Aamaa and I were discussing marriages. I am sure you have plenty to add, Bhagwati—you’re an expert at making a marriage work. You love talking about marriages.”

  “I still think Prasanti is better than all of you.” Chitralekha took the last spoonful of her oatmeal. Then she remembered the crunching of stones from yesterday’s rice and spat out what she was chewing.

  “Even when she fed you stones?” Manasa asked with all the innocence she could muster.

  “Those stones were meant for you, and you deserved them.”

  “More than Agastaya, who’s shelving marriage? More than Bhagwati, who got married to a Damaai? More than Ruthwa, who wrote about the most harrowing experience of your life for the world to read?”

  “All of you deserved it,” Chitralekha said. Yes, they deserved it.

  “But you don’t deserve all this, right, Aamaa?” Manasa said. “You, the victim, don’t deserve this life at all.”

  Bhagwati asked Manasa not to taunt Aamaa, to which Aamaa said, “I can defend myself, Bhagwati. I don’t need your help.”

  “No, Aamaa,” Manasa continued. “I want an answer. How is it that all four of your grandchildren are now your enemies?”

  “I am an unlucky woman,” Chitralekha said with resignation. “Look at the way you all treat me. What did I do to deserve it?”

  “Everything, Aamaa. Why can’t you look at the bright side of things? We’ve come all the way from various corners of the world to help celebrate your birthday. Why don’t you appreciate that?”

  “I am going to sleep,” Chitralekha said. “Please pull the door shut on your way out.”

  “No, Aamaa.” Manasa was relentless. “Why don’t you appreciate what we do for you?”

  “Manasa, that’s enough,” Bhagwati said. “She doesn’t look well.”

  “I am perfectly well, Bhagwati,” Chitralekha said. “No need to defend me.”

  “Yes, pick on her, Aamaa,” said Manasa. “Pick on the weakest. Why don’t you say anything to Ruthwa? Because you’re afraid he’s going to write about you and make you a caricature again, aren’t you?”

  “Manasa, let’s go downstairs,” Bhagwati said. “There’s a lot to prepare for tomorrow.”

  Chitralekha had turned to her other side when they left, so she couldn’t see who banged the door closed. It had to be Manasa. Her younger granddaughter had so much anger in her. Manasa was right in her interrogation, though. When had her grandchildren become her enemies? How did she only see faults in them? Why couldn’t she let them be and let them go?

  She’d ask the one person who wouldn’t shy away from giving her an unbiased opinion. “Prasanti!” she shouted. “Prasanti.”

  Prasanti meekly opened the door. “Did you call me?” she asked, her face toward the floor.

  “Yes, I called you. Isn’t your name Prasanti?”

  “Yes, but I thought you were angry with me.”

  “For what you did yesterday? That I am.”

  “I am sorry,” Prasanti said. “I am sorry. The stones were for Manasa. They weren’t for you.”

  “I know. No reason to apologize.”

  “I was afraid you’d send me away.” Prasanti cried harder. “I was afraid this wouldn’t be my home anymore.”

  “Where would you go, you slow girl?” Chitralekha asked. “To your father’s house in Kalimpong or to your hijra house in Bombay? This is your house.”

  “But you were so angry yesterday,” Prasanti said, sobbing. “You’ve never been that angry with me.”

  “I am angry with you all the time. You don’t do good work around here. Yesterday, I just decided to show it.”

  “I am sorry.” Prasanti sniffled. “I am really sorry. I’ll be good to everyone—even Manasa.”

  “Don’t you dare be good to Manasa. Continue treating her badly. She deserves it.”

  “Okay. And I am trying to find a way to get Bhagwati and Agastaya to be alone.”

  “Try harder.”

  “I promise,” Prasanti cried.

  “Okay, now stop this. I didn’t call you here so you could ruin my bed sheet with your tears and snot. You will have to wash the sheet yourself—you know that.”

  “I’ll do my work properly from now on. I will work hard.”

  “Pfft. Tell me—and be honest—do you think I am unnecessarily hard on the children?”

  “But you were not just a grandmother to them,” Prasanti said, her tear ducts finally worn out. “You were a father and mother, so your expectations from them are higher.”

  “So you think I am right to pester them
to get married, have children etc., etc.?”

  “Yes, you are, but . . .” The servant stopped herself.

  “But what?”

  “I am stupid, I know, but why would you worry yourself about that? Nobody could tell you how to live your life, so nobody should tell them how to live theirs.”

  It made sense. What the eunuch said was clear. Why did they have to fulfill her wants? Why did they have to live life her way? But why not?

  “But why not? I gave them so much. Can’t they give me something in return? A marriage? Children? A little push to make their marriage work?”

  “There’s one of them who has given you all three.”

  “She’s different.”

  “Why continue holding a grudge? Your being angry with her isn’t going to change anything. Even if she divorces her husband, her Damaai babies aren’t going anywhere.”

  That was true. If only forgiveness came that easily.

  SIX

  Nicky

  Thankfully, his sisters—with their newly formed, if feigned, Western notions of privacy—left them alone. But it wouldn’t last long—someone would barge in sooner or later.

  Agastaya was glad he had read Nicky’s e-mail earlier that morning. He would otherwise not have known how to react to his lover’s arrival. The e-mail, sent to Anthony, was revelatory—it showed that Nicky had a side that cared.

  Hey love,

  Giving Foolito a surprise. Heading to his hometown. Will be there by the 21st or 22nd. Some silly permits required for his state, like its a country within a country or something. What do us ignorant Americans know? Will be there a full week before schedule. Wonder what India will be like. Probably hot, polluted, and hairy men. As long as there not as hairy as A . . . just kidding, he’s perfect the way he is. My love to Tony II.

  Nick

  First, it was euphoria that set in. He was described as “perfect” to Nicky’s old lover. That was the nicest compliment Agastaya had ever received from Nicky. Elation had then given way to panic when the magnitude of what Nicky was about to do hit home. His boyfriend would show up in Gangtok. What after that? Giving surprises was Nicky’s forte, but this was taking it a little too far. Had Nicky booked a hotel, or did he foolishly think that he would stay in Aamaa’s house?

  Well, Nicky was here now, and Agastaya would have to deal with him.

  “God, you are here!” Agastaya said.

  “Something makes me feel that’s not an exclamation of happiness,” Nicky replied.

  “You look good.”

  “Once again, not an expression of happiness.”

  “Thanks for the surprise.”

  “Are you sure you’re grateful for it? Your face says otherwise.”

  Yes, it was a very generous gesture on Nicky’s part. Yes, it was good to see Nicky.

  “I just can’t believe it—you in my home world,” Agastaya finally said because he didn’t know how to keep the conversation moving.

  “I know, right?” Nicky exalted. “Don’t worry—to everyone, I am an anthropologist.”

  “I guess I should feel grateful.”

  “What the fuck? Oops, am I allowed to use the f-word here?”

  Hadn’t Agastaya imagined Nicky in this setting just two days before? His boyfriend had met half his family and would soon meet the other half. How careful Agastaya had been about divorcing his New York life from his family life. Now the two had collided. “I am sorry. It’s great to see you. I’m just slightly taken aback. You know how it is with me and surprises.”

  “This was supposed to be the greatest surprise of your life,” Nicky said. “And now you’ve ruined it.”

  “How have I ruined it?”

  “You’re so . . . what’s the word? . . . whatever . . . You’re so difficult to please.”

  Agastaya looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. Ruthwa would be back at any time. Nicky’s making a list of his shortcomings now in his loud voice wasn’t safe. Agastaya wouldn’t put it past any of his siblings to listen in on this conversation. Worse, the eavesdropper would report the exchange to everyone. This garden wasn’t a secure place at all. Someone was probably behind the curtains right now, judging his body language.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At the Mayfair—so beautiful, so Thai. They treat me very well there, but my room is booked only until tonight.”

  “And after that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s your town. Figure shit out. This wasn’t the response I expected. I hate this. I should never think of doing anything good for you. You always have a problem.”

  Nicky had still not realized the gravity of showing up unannounced. He now wanted credit, teary-eyed gratitude. If they were somewhere else, Agastaya would have asked his partner if he was right in the head, but he couldn’t afford to be melodramatic here.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s my family—you know what they do to me.”

  “I quite liked Byaag-wutti. Manasa was a little bitch.”

  “Yes, she can be difficult at times.”

  “Isn’t Roota here, too?” Nicky asked.

  “He is.”

  “Manasa told me—that little gossip. Is he as hunky as he was in those pictures?”

  “Still doesn’t shower.”

  “He doesn’t need to with a face like that.”

  “Smokes like a chimney.”

  “Hence the smell, I’d think.”

  “Oh, no, that’s from me. I smoked a cigarette today.”

  “Good for you.” Nicky lifted his hand for a high-five. “Indulging in a vice or two might be right for you.”

  Agastaya wouldn’t high-five back. “I was stressed.”

  “Who isn’t? I was, too, especially when crossing the border into Sikkim. Why does one require a permit to come to your state when you’re already in the country? Why do we need visas to visit this country in the first place? I don’t get it. It’s not like any American would want to live here forever.”

  At least Nicky’s tirade wasn’t against him.

  “If we have to apply for visas to go to America, why should you be exempt from visas to enter India?”

  “First world,” Nicky said. “First world, third world.”

  “India is second world now.”

  “Yes, second world with all those slums. The kids in the slums were so cute—even cuter than those in Slumdog Millionaire.”

  “Where did you see slums in Gangtok?”

  “All of Delhi is a slum. The kids waved at me as I passed them. I wanted to hug every one of them and shower them with kisses.”

  Nicky’s desire for children wasn’t going to change even if he changed continents. Wholeheartedly believing that trivializing his boyfriend’s hankering wasn’t enough, Agastaya tried sexualizing it. Perhaps that would make a difference. “That sounds creepy. Please don’t say anything like that.”

  “Anything involving kids is creepy to you,” Nicky said.

  “Well, you did sound like a pedophile when you said that.” Agastaya was being cruel.

  “I am this close to yelling. You welcome me to your hometown by calling me a pedophile. I think I should leave.”

  “Now, don’t take everything so seriously.”

  “What the fuck am I supposed to do, then? You just called me a pedophile. You look more like a pedophile than I do.”

  “I was joking,” Agastaya said.

  “You don’t joke—ever. You have no sense of humor. The nurses at Beth Israel think you’re weird. You aren’t funny. Your jokes aren’t funny.”

  “You’re raising your voice, Nicky. Can we talk about this later?”

  “When? In Agra? Outside the Taj Mahal? Let’s solve our problems outside the most romantic place in the world.”

  “I didn’t mean that, Nick. It’s just that this house isn’t the place to do it.”

  “I hate you,” Nick said.

  “I know,” Agastaya said. “At the moment I hate you, too.”

  Bhagwati
’s face materialized on the balcony. She asked Agastaya if he might want some tea.

  “No, thanks,” Agastaya replied.

  “And, Nicholas, you?” Bhagwati said.

  “Chai-tea would be great.”

  “And we will also have some sel-roti coming your way. It’s a special Nepali bread.”

  “How exciting,” Nicky said. “I feel the need to feel special.”

  Once Bhagwati went inside, Agastaya warned: “She was probably standing there. She must have heard us.”

  “Paranoia, paranoia—all your doing.”

  “She has been pestering me to get married since I saw her. She wants me to meet some doctor girl.”

  “Doctor or not, the girl has no penis—that disqualifies her.”

  “I can’t say that to Bhagwati.”

  “Why not?” Nicky said. “Just why not? It’s not like you have to come back and live here. You see these people once every two or three years. Why do you care?”

  “We’ve been through this, Nicky. Plenty of times.”

  “Yes, we have, and I’m tired of it.”

  “Are we doing this here again?”

  Prasanti put an end to the silence that followed by marching outside like a drill sergeant. “Would you like your tea inside or outside?” she asked Agastaya.

  “Outside.”

  She reemerged, armed with a tray of tea and sel-roti.

  “Thank you,” Nicky said as she placed the tray on a stool.

  Prasanti giggled.

  “Do you speak English?” Nicky asked.

  Prasanti giggled in reply.

  “She doesn’t,” Agastaya dismissed, and in Nepali said to the eunuch: “Prasanti, why are you behaving like a spoiled child in front of my friend?”