The Guru of Love (34 page)

“We should move,” Ramchandra said.

“Where?”

“Back to Jaisideval. Where we're paying rent.”

“And what will I do with the house?”

“Sell it; put the money in the children's name, for their college.”

“Can Sanu and Rakesh adjust to living in that cramped flat again? With no servants?”

“It'll be hard, but that's the way they've lived most of their childhood.”

“All that noise. Mr. Sharma's chanting.”

He hadn't yet told her about what had happened to Mr. Sharma; he didn't know why. “Think of it as a temporary shelter. We'll be building a house. Soon.”

“The same talk again. Where's the money coming from?”

“I'll take on extra tutees. I'll teach part-time in the evenings. Whatever it takes. Even if we can lay only the foundation of a house, that's a start. Things are changing in this country; there'll be more opportunities.”

“You know how lazy you've become since we moved here?” she said. “I can't see you working harder as you get older. So forget about a house. A cramped flat is our destiny. We may as well accept it.”

He sprang to his feet. “Are you calling me lazy? I'm not lazy. Look.” And he started doing some sit-ups right there. First, she smiled. Then she laughed at the sight of the muscles on his scrawny legs puffing under the strain. “You're such a joker,” she said softly, and he thought of their wedding night, when he'd shoved the banana into her mouth.

Now, he looked at the banana on the bedside table. Goma looked at it, too. And they smiled at each other, wondering who was going to make the first move.

E
LEVEN YEARS LATER,
during the tense days when the Maoists looted, terrorized, and killed people across the country, and a month before the crown prince obliterated most of the royal family, Ramchandra, his hair turning gray, went on his morning walk to the local market in Kirtipur. He walked regularly now, usually in the morning. A few years ago, he and Goma had built their house in Kirtipur. Goma had sold Pandey Palace to a wealthy Marwari businessman, whose extended family lived there.

The house, built on an incline, was small, with only two bedrooms, so Sanu and Rakesh still shared a room. But it was enough for them, and the air here was cleaner than in Jaisideval. The house also afforded a pleasant view of the surrounding hills, and every morning Ramchandra took his tea to the veranda and enjoyed the scenery before starting his walk.

Soon after the declaration of democracy, Ramchandra had taken on several tutees, often two or three in both the morning and the evening. Goma finally got her sewing business going. While they were still living in Jaisideval, she set up her Singer machine in the kitchen and began to turn out petticoats, vests, blouses, and lahangas for women in the neighborhood. She'd get up early in the morning, and the steady
chuck-chuck-chuck
of the machine could be heard from behind the closed door. Ramchandra was deeply impressed by her diligence. This was a woman who'd spent the first half of her life with servants who catered to her every wish, yet here she was, in the cold, damp kitchen, bent over her sewing as if hard work was an inbred quality.

It was Goma's income that had made the house possible. And as soon as they moved into it, she'd set up her sewing machine in a room adjacent to the kitchen and gone to work. These days she received orders from a well-known tailoring house in the city, and when she did, she would sew night and day, drinking cups and cups of tea, pushing herself to meet the deadline.

Two years ago, Ramchandra had managed to find a job at a private boarding school, one for children from rich homes. His salary had doubled, but then, so had the price of everything in the city. In the morning when he walked, he noticed the changes taking place all over. Houses had cropped up everywhere; traffic, even in the outskirts, clogged the streets; smoke lingered in the air.

Sanu attended Padma Kanya College, where she was studying Nepali literature. She had become active in some local women's groups, and often marched along the streets, demanding economic and social equality for women. When Ramchandra once saw a newspaper photo of Sanu leading a march, he immediately called his colleagues and friends to let them know of Sanu's growing prominence. What pleased him even more was that after Kamal, she'd shown no romantic interest in men, although quite a few of her friends were boys. Her involvement in women's issues was direct and sincere, and over the years had brought Ramchandra much pride. He acknowledged to himself the subtle astonishment he'd experienced at his daughter's sense of purpose. He was already receiving calls for her hand in marriage, some from quite prominent families. Several of those, however, had been withdrawn when the families learned of her passion for alleviating women's suffering. Sometimes Goma was upset at the withdrawals, especially those from well-known families. But Ramchandra always dismissed them. “Who cares if they don't want my daughter? My daughter doesn't want them. Can you imagine Sanu with a sari covering her forehead like this?” Ramchandra put his right palm above his head and his left palm on his chin, imitating a meek bride, and Goma laughed.

As for Rakesh, he'd barely managed to pass the S.L.C. He hung around the house, listening to Western music, which sounded raucous to Ramchandra. Rakesh had grown into a handsome young man, and he often stayed out late at night with girls, sometimes in the local hotels. Ramchandra couldn't help thinking that had Rakesh passed the entrance exams to get into St. Xavier's School when he was younger, he would be someone else now. But when Rakesh failed a second time, Ramchandra had talked to the Jesuit principal to find out what his son was doing wrong. The principal, a short genial Indian priest wearing what looked like a white robe, had advised him not to be obsessed with this school but to try several other schools in the city that were equally good. Ramchandra had not been convinced, but what else could he do? Rakesh did show a quick understanding of computers; frequently he sat for long hours in front of the one Ramchandra had purchased for him a year ago. Rakesh seemed to understand the machine intuitively, and was often called by friends whose computers weren't functioning well. There's a possibility here, Ramchandra admitted.

Three years ago, Nalini and Harish had divorced, citing mutual incompatibility. Nalini had been tight-lipped about it, even to Goma. Ramchandra thought Goma might try to dissuade her sister from taking that step, but Goma said, “If it's not working for her, who am I to tell her what to do?” The divorce had taken place without rancor, and the couple of times Ramchandra had seen them after the decision, when they were still living together, he'd been struck by how they treated each other as they had before—with formality, with aloofness. Goma was worried that Nalini would not get anything in the settlement, but Harish let her have the house and also settled on her a large sum of money, enough for Nalini to contemplate opening an upscale restaurant in a luxury hotel. Harish moved to Bangalore, where he started a computer software company that, Ramchandra heard, was doing extremely well. Maybe Harish can do something for Rakesh, Ramchandra thought, but he'd have to broach the topic with Goma, and perhaps even with Nalini.

The Kantipur School remained in the same squalid condition, the same puddle-filled courtyard, the same lack of space. A few months ago Ramchandra had dropped by to pay his respects to Bandana Miss, and discovered that she had gone to America to live with her son. Her letters to Gokul Sir, who was now the principal, indicated that she was not happy. Her son had married an American, and, Bandana Miss complained, a black American at that, a habsi, and she wrote that she still wished she had chosen a proper, fair Nepali bride for him. According to her, her son and daughter-in-law were so busy with their work that they didn't have time for her, and she felt lonely and sad. “I'm beginning to think that America is not such a great country, after all,” she wrote. As the principal and Ramchandra were talking about Bandana Miss, Shailendra came into the staff room. He greeted Ramchandra warmly and asked about his family without any hint of his previous sarcasm. When Ramchandra asked about his, Shailendra smiled. “You don't know, Ramchandra Sir?” Ramchandra shook his head. “I ended up marrying Namita,” he said. Ramchandra congratulated him and asked how she was doing. “We have a small baby girl.” He told Ramchandra that Namita had continued to see him even after her parents whisked her out of school, and ultimately her parents had relented. “Of course, our castes didn't match,” Shailendra said, “not to mention that I am a mere schoolteacher and her parents are very rich, but they have accepted me, wholeheartedly. In fact, I have a feeling that I'm their favorite son-in-law.”

 

Today was Sanu's birthday, and Ramchandra, who wanted to buy some goat meat, went to his usual butcher. While the butcher was cutting the meat, Ramchandra heard a voice that made him swivel his head. To his left, a few yards away, was a woman inspecting some tomatoes and haggling with the vendor. Although her back was to him, he knew immediately who she was. She turned slightly and he saw her profile. There were new lines under her eyes, her chin was no longer smooth, and she'd put on some weight. The butcher handed him the meat in a plastic bag, and he paid and was about to walk over to greet her, when something held him back. It was the young girl standing beside her. She had the same face, the same slim nose. Rachana noticed him staring; she stared back and then looked away.

Malati finally bought what she wanted, and she and Rachana moved on. He followed, still thinking he'd say something—call out her name, shout namaste, tell her that he was sorry she hadn't passed her S.L.C. that year. The day the exam results were published, he'd looked for her number in the newspaper. It wasn't there. Ashok's was.

A few yards away, Malati stopped to talk to a woman, who exclaimed that she hadn't seen her in years. Ramchandra, too, stopped. He looked in the window of a sari shop and heard Malati tell the woman that they had moved to Birgunj, where Amrit had started a garment factory. But the factory hadn't done well, and they were back in the city, with Amrit again driving a taxi. “It's difficult,” Malati said to the woman, “but we hope to buy the taxi from the owner.” They continued chatting, and Ramchandra continued to examine the sari shop until the owner came out and asked him whether he was interested in buying anything.

Malati was still talking to the woman when Ramchandra passed them. He deliberately walked slowly so that she would see him and call out, “Sir, sir,” and he would turn around and exclaim his pleasure at seeing them and pat Rachana on the head. But nothing happened. He kept walking, and after about a hundred yards, he turned around. She was no longer there.

 

S
AMRAT
U
PADHYAY
is the author of
Arresting God in Kathmandu,
a Whiting Award winner,
The Royal Ghosts,
and
The Guru of Love,
a
New York Times
Notable Book and a
San Francisco Chronicle
Best Book of the Year. He has written for the
New York Times
and has appeared on BBC Radio and National Public Radio. Upadhyay directs the creative writing program at Indiana University.