The Guru of Love (13 page)

“Back already?” Ramchandra asked. His face grew hot.

“The situation must be getting better. The line wasn't as long today.”

Ramchandra glanced at Malati, whose face betrayed nothing.

“No studying today?” Goma asked. Her face, too, revealed no emotion.

“Sir was just showing me pictures of Sanu and Rakesh,” Malati said.

Goma set down the container by the doorstep and entered. “Which pictures?” and she sat beside Malati. She didn't look at Ramchandra, but, together with Malati, she went through the albums. She talked about the circumstances behind some of the pictures, ones Ramchandra didn't know or had forgotten. Goma rarely forgot anything, and Ramchandra, too, found himself drawn into the particulars she mentioned. It surprised him, for instance, that one photograph of him with Goma, standing under the Ghantaghar clock tower, was taken by a colleague from one of the schools where he'd previously taught. “Why were we together that day?” he asked Goma, and she said they were about to board a bus in Ratnapark for a picnic arranged by some friends. Ramchandra tried to recall that picnic, but he had absolutely no memory of it. When they reached the pages of marriage photos, Malati said to Goma, “You look lovely, bhauju.”

“Yes, I was young,” Goma said, looking at Ramchandra. “Now, this body has become old and tired.”

“You're not that old,” Malati said, putting a hand on Goma's arm.

“Well, I'm certainly not as young as you are.”

“I don't feel young.”

Goma took Malati's hand and said, “You have much to look forward to in life.”

They could be sisters, Ramchandra thought, and their intimacy made him uneasy. “Nearly time for Ashok,” he said.

Goma said to Malati, “Let's go to the other room and finish looking.”

Malati glanced at him as they left, as if to say, “You were nervous for no reason.”

Ashok arrived. Ramchandra demonstrated certain calculus shortcuts to him, but remained alert to the faint murmuring behind the wall separating the two rooms. He started making mistakes. Ashok gleefully pointed them out, and even commented, with a sly smile, “Sir, if you took the S.L.C. now, I don't know whether you'd pass.” Ramchandra was taken aback by the student's brazenness and thought of scolding him, but all he said was “Don't joke with me.” He gave Ashok a problem to solve and left the room. Standing near the children's room, he heard laughter—Malati's. Then she said something he couldn't decipher that was followed by Goma's laughter. Ramchandra leaned closer and put his ear against the small crack in the door. He caught words like “foolish” and “embarrassed” and became convinced that they were talking about him. Ashok appeared beside him. “I thought you were going to the bathroom,” he whispered, and Ramchandra was about to usher him back to their room when the door opened and Malati came out, still smiling. “I'll see you tomorrow, sir,” she told Ramchandra, and bounded down the stairs, clutching something in her hand.

“Is the tutoring over?” Goma called from inside.

Ramchandra told Ashok to go back and finish his problem, and said to Goma, “What was all that noise about?”

“That girl,” Goma said, shaking her head. She was putting the albums in a cupboard.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” she said. “We were talking.”

“About what?”

“Why all these questions?” she asked. “I didn't ask this many questions when I found you giving her lessons on our photographs.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean nothing.”

“Then why are you so prickly?”

Goma closed the cupboard, put away the key, and said, “I gave her an extra copy of our wedding photo.”

“Why?” Ramchandra asked. “You barely know her.”

“She said I looked beautiful, and I couldn't resist.” She began arranging the children's bed, tightening the sheets, smoothing the pillows. “Besides, you know her quite well by now, don't you?”

Ramchandra didn't know what to say.

 

Later, when Goma served him dal-bhat, she was quiet, and because her earlier question remained with him, he also said nothing. At one point he asked her to eat, too, and she silently served herself. They could hear each other chew. Goma made soft, slurping sounds with her mouth fully closed, and Ramchandra stuffed large morsels into his mouth with his fingers and chewed with large movements. When he heard Goma make a sound like a hiccup, he looked over and saw that she was trying to suppress laughter. “What?” he asked. She turned serious again, but a short while later made the same sound.

“What's the matter with you? One moment sulking, the next moment giggling.”

“You sound like a slow train when you eat,” she said. “Approaching the station, wheezing and snorting.”

“At least a train is a sign of progress. You, you sound like an old woman with no teeth. Only flabby gums going
chap, chap.”

She covered her mouth, laughed, then remembered something and became solemn.

“I don't know what you're thinking,” Ramchandra said. “Whatever it is, you're wrong.”

“It's just that I've never seen you show so much interest in a student before,” Goma said.

“I feel sorry for her. She has problems. She doesn't have anyone in her life.”

“Sometimes, these days, you seem to think about her more than about us, about Sanu and Rakesh.”

He reached out and touched her arm. “What nonsense. You are my family. I just feel some compassion for that girl and want to help her.” He added, “Want her to feel that she too has someone she can rely on.”

Goma considered this. “She's a sweet girl,” she finally said. “Old for her age.”

“She's had a rough life. It's hard to lose your mother, then lose your father. Imagine how alone you'd feel.”

“I hope that if something happens to one of us, the other will take care of Sanu and Rakesh.”

“Don't utter such nonsense. We're both in good health. We'll both be here to see our children become married, settled, and give us grandchildren.”

Just as they finished eating, Goma said, “I'll invite Malati for lunch this Saturday. Poor girl; I feel bad for her. So young and already with a child.”

 

Friday evening, the day of Ghatasthapana, the start of the Dashain festival, they went to Harish and Nalini's house in Jawalakhel for dinner. The bus was overflowing, so they had to stand and hold the bar that ran across the ceiling. The bus reeked of sweat, and someone must have taken off his shoes, because a strong whiff of old socks assaulted them. Sanu was squeezed between two men, and in Thapathali, Ramchandra noticed that one of them had his crotch pressed against her body. The man, who was bald, was looking at her in a way that made Ramchandra angry. “Why are you crowding her?” Ramchandra asked him in a belligerent voice, and the man responded calmly that the bus was crowded, that Ramchandra should take a taxi if he didn't like the crowd. “What an idiot,” Ramchandra said loudly.

“What did you say?” the man shouted across the heads.

“Let it go,” Goma told Ramchandra and reached out to pull Sanu closer to her.

“What are you doing?” asked the other man pressed against Sanu. “There's no space.”

Goma managed to bring Sanu near her, and the rest of the bus ride was uneventful, although when the bald man went to get off at Kupondole and had to pass Ramchandra, he said, “I let you go only because you're here with your family.”

Ramchandra thought it best not to respond, but the incident left a sour taste in his mouth. If they hadn't had to worry about money, they could have traveled in a three-wheeler. He studied his daughter, who was looking out the window. He noticed the small protrusions of her breasts, the long earrings she wore. She looked pretty.

They got off at Jawalakhel, and as they walked toward Nalini's house, Ramchandra pointed out St. Xavier's School to Rakesh. “That's where I want you to study in a couple of years.” The fee was not too high, even though the school was considered one of the best in the country. Whenever Ramchandra came across the Xavier schoolboys, in their smart white pants and blue shirts with ties, he heard them rattling away in English, as if they'd been born with that tongue. In citywide debate competitions in English, the Xavier boys always won first prize. They often acted condescendingly toward students at schools like Kantipur, and Ramchandra didn't care for their arrogance. But there was something attractive about their sense of confidence, and he wanted Rakesh to gain that self-assurance.

Rakesh examined the huge yellow building, a Rana palace converted into a school by the Jesuits. Some students, wearing their uniforms, loitered outside the gate to the oval driveway. One of them jostled another and said, “Give me some money, yaare.” Rakesh heard this and started chanting “yaare.”

“Can we look inside?” Sanu asked.

Goma was afraid they'd be late, but Ramchandra said it would take only a few minutes. They passed the gate and were heading down the driveway when a guard, appearing out of nowhere, told them they couldn't go inside without permission. Ramchandra explained that his son was going to attend the school soon, but the guard was adamant. “No visitors allowed without permission.”

“But I have permission,” Ramchandra lied. “One of the teachers invited me. I am also a teacher at Kantipur School.”

The guard wasn't impressed, and asked the name of the teacher. When Ramchandra fumbled, the guard shooed them away.

“I told you we shouldn't have gone,” Goma said.

Ramchandra cursed the guard, then the school, then the foreign priests, and said, “Just wait until my son gets in. I'll come here every day, and this very guard will salute me.”

Sanu and Goma exchanged smiles. Sanu took her father's hand, and said, “What about me, Ba? Will I have to attend St. Mary's?” St. Mary's, a sister school run by nuns, was next to St. Xavier's.

“Do you want to?” Ramchandra asked.

“Not really. I'm happy where I am. I have friends there.”

 

They ate dinner in the enclosed glass porch next to the dining room. Two heaters hummed on the porch, so they didn't feel at all cold, despite the weather outside. An old man, who'd previously worked for the Pandeys, served the food on elegant china: chicken chili, egg curry, roasted lamb, raita, samosas, tomato soup. Over the years Nalini had acquired a reputation as an excellent cook, and sometimes the food she served was like that one might find in the restaurant of a five-star hotel—so delicious its taste, so immaculate its presentation. Both children looked uncomfortable, faced with the cutlery—the soup spoon, the two forks. They sat, their hands folded, and waited for the adults to begin. They were not as enthusiastic about visiting their aunt and uncle as they were about going to Pandey Palace. Harish was aloof; he barely acknowledged their presence. Every time they saw him, Sanu complained, it was like meeting a stranger. Nalini, on the other hand, talked to the children as if they were adults and barely showed any affection. Five years younger than Goma, Nalini was thin, with eyes that seemed to be pleading for rescue. She always wore expensive jewelry and a bright kurta suruwal, even when she worked about the house. She moved slowly, as if she were assessing the utility of every movement she made. Ramchandra found her difficult to talk to. Only Goma was completely at ease with Nalini. Goma chattered away while her sister, with those imploring eyes, listened to every word. With Harish, Goma was respectful, and when Sanu complained, later, about how distant Harish was, Goma said that he was a nice man, just not very sociable.

“You could easily work as a chief cook,” Goma said now as she tasted a piece of chicken, “in any high-class restaurant in this town.”

Ramchandra nodded and made some appreciative noises. He actually preferred Goma's cooking, which was more down-to-earth and homey. But Nalini had spent a lot of time preparing this meal. With so much food, he wondered why Nalini hadn't invited her parents.

“How is your exercise class?” Goma asked. “What do you call them? Arabiks?”

“Aerobics,” Sanu corrected her.

Nalini gave Sanu a wan smile and said, “I dropped it.”

“Why?”

“It took too much effort.”

“Don't you get bored, sitting at home all day?” Goma asked. Despite five years of marriage, Harish and Nalini had no children, which was a source of great disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Pandey, although they never directly commented on it. “They're waiting for the right time,” Mrs. Pandey would say to Goma. Her mother's face, however, betrayed her worry. Goma had prodded Nalini a few times, but Nalini had been tight-lipped. The lack of children had given rise to speculation among the extended family Some said that Harish was impotent; others were sure that Nalini couldn't bear children. Mr. and Mrs. Pandey vigorously defended their younger daughter and son-in-law, often chastising those relatives for gossiping.

Watching Nalini and Harish together, Ramchandra had often wondered what kind of marriage they had. They acted more like office colleagues than husband and wife. Each was formal with the other, never raising a voice or stating a complaint. Not once had Ramchandra seen Nalini touch her husband. They didn't exchange glances as married couples often did in company. No signals. There was a curious distance between them, so that even when they sat next to each other on the sofa, they appeared far apart. Ramchandra had voiced this observation to Goma one night, and she reprimanded him. “Not everyone relates to each other in the same way. How do you know what they do when no one else is around? They love each other. I know that for a fact.”

“See, that's what I mean,” Ramchandra had said. “Have you ever heard one of them scold the other as you just scolded me?''

“If there's nothing to scold about, then why scold? Perhaps they don't like to wash their dirty linen in public.”