The Guru of Love (8 page)

“Has she improved any?”

“No.”

“Do you think she'll pass the S.L.C.?”

“How do I know, Ashok? I don't guarantee passing or failing.”

“But you have such a good reputation. It'd be a shame if she failed.”

“Why don't you focus on your own exam? You think it's guaranteed that you'll pass?”

Ashok grinned. “Sir, what do you think? Don't you think I will?”

“Mere passing is not enough. You need to get good grades.”

“I need to pass only because my father says so. He wants me to go to college before I take over the business.”

“Not everyone has that luxury.”

“Sir, why don't you start a business? I could help you. This teaching will get you nowhere. But you could be rich in a short time.”

“Becoming rich is not my ambition,” Ramchandra said.

After Ashok left, Goma and Ramchandra ate in the kitchen. Ramchandra could eat only half of his serving. He pushed the plate aside and said, “Save this for me. I'll have it for dinner.”

“But you'll have no energy during the day.”

“I just don't feel like eating.” He washed his hands and mouth, got dressed, and headed for school.

 

He thought of Malati all day—while he taught, while he took his tea break, while he rushed a student, who'd cut his finger when playing, to Bandana Miss, while he watched her take out a first-aid kit and apply iodine and a bandage to the boy's hand. He thought of Malati as he walked home, the late afternoon traffic humming around him. He thought of her when, in Ratnapark, he saw girls her age from Padma Kanya College, wearing their saffron saris, walking along, laughter etched around their lips. He thought of her when he saw a beggar woman holding a baby in her lap, her hand stretched out for the coins people might throw in her direction.

And he thought of Goma, and the moment his mother had first shown him Goma's picture. He remembered feeling a faint tremor of excitement. She was a bit on the chubby side, but, with her large eyes, she seemed to be someone he could cuddle up to under a blanket on cold nights, someone whose belly he could caress, someone he could hold hands with and eat fritters from roadside stalls. In old age, after their children had quarreled with them and produced their own families, they'd help each other with their canes, up the stairs, on the streets. If she became ill, he'd go mad, and rush to fetch the best doctors in town. All these fantasies had converged upon him right in that instant when he saw her picture.

He'd said yes to his mother, and within a few months, he and Goma were married. The wedding was the first time Ramchandra got the sense that the Pandeys were not happy with the union. Ramchandra had expected a grand welcome at Pandey Palace when members of the wedding entourage arrived on that rainy afternoon, but the reception consisted of half-smiles, even stares. The wedding pyre was small, with only one priest, and the buffet table the guests flocked to after the ceremony had few dishes. Ramchandra did receive a large gold wedding ring from his in-laws, but when the bride's parents had to wash the feet of their son-in-law, a ritual symbolizing the godlike stature of a son-in-law, Mr. Pandey announced that it was an old ritual, one he did not want to perform. Mrs. Pandey was silent, but the distaste both of them felt for him was all over their faces. Some of Ramchandra's relatives complained, saying that not washing one's son-in-law's feet amounted to gross disrespect. A small argument broke out, and Ramchandra, worried about the way the celebration was going, raised his hand and said, “It doesn't matter. Sasura-ji is right—it is an outdated custom. Why should anyone wash my feet?”

That evening, throughout the ride in a hired taxi from Pandey Palace to his flat with his new bride, Ramchandra sat stiffly, thinking that the daughter probably shared her parents' attitude, and that he was now condemned to a lifetime of this.

After Ramchandra's mother received her new daughter-in-law, raised her bridal veil to see her face, and made the customary remarks about how beautiful she was and how she'd make a perfect daughter-in-law, Ramchandra had gone outside, saying he needed some fresh air, even though others tried to prevent him from leaving on his wedding night.

He'd walked the streets, tired from all the activity of the past few days, his mind numb with anxiety about what would happen later, once the wedding party left and he and his new wife were together, alone.

He returned to his flat about half an hour later, talked to some of his friends, and, after they left, entered the bedroom, where Goma sat on the bed, inspecting her fingers. She glanced up at him and quickly turned away. The gesture could have been charming, this quick turn of her head, which made her right earring glint under the light, but Ramchandra saw it as her rejection of him. He stood in the doorway and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw that she looked puzzled, as if she were saying, What's keeping you? Mustering up his courage, he took a step forward, but his eyes fell on a basket of fruit on the table. He went over to it and picked up a banana, which he brought over to her. “I don't know what time they fed you,” he said, “but you must be hungry.” She nodded but didn't take the banana from his hand. “Here,” he said, “I'll peel it for you,” and he did. “Here,” and he held the naked banana close to her chin. Still, no response.

He felt awkward and sad. The daughter of rich parents, she's already unhappy with my poverty. But they'd known of his financial state and still had chosen him as her groom. He tried to find another reason. Could it be that she didn't like the way he looked? He wasn't a particularly good-looking man, but, with the broad forehead and pointed nose, his face was pleasant enough, he thought. He wondered whether she'd seen a picture of him before the marriage was arranged. He was about to put the banana on the table when he saw her shoulders heave. “What's the matter?” he asked. She covered her face with her hands, trying to suppress her laughter. “What did I say?” he said, smiling. “Why are you laughing?” And then he saw himself, holding a naked banana, on his wedding night, and trying to shove it down his wife's throat. He finally put it down and, placing his hand on her shoulder, turned her toward him and tried to pull her fingers from her face. They engaged in a little struggle. “You are a joker,” she mumbled softly. Soon, he was on top of her, his chest pressing against her bosom. Laughing, he picked up the banana, pried open her fingers, and pushed it into her mouth.

T
HE DAY AFTER
he kissed Malati, Ramchandra got up before the sun rose. As he was heading out the door, Goma woke up and asked where he was going. “For a walk,” he said.

“At this hour?” She glanced at the clock. “It's not even five yet.”

“I'm feeling restless. I'll be back within an hour.”

The only people on the streets were farmers, carrying their baskets. Groups of dogs loitered on the corners, yawning or sniffing one another. Ramchandra moved toward New Road and crossed the Tundikhel field. The grass was covered with frost, and by the time he left the field on the other side, his shoes were wet.

At the incline of Dillibazaar, a faint glow lit the eastern horizon, and some of the shopkeepers, especially those who sold tea and sweets, were opening their doors. He had an urge to walk toward Tangal, knock on Malati's door, and tell her not to come to his house anymore, that he could no longer tutor her. Or perhaps crawl into bed next to her.

By the time he reached Battisputali, his feet were humming. It was nearly six, and if he were to turn back now, it would be seven by the time he reached home, and Malati would be there. He moved toward the crossroad leading to the Pashupatinath Temple. He hadn't been to the temple for months, but his anxiety over Malati told him that this was a good time to pray to Shivaji. Men and women were walking down the slight slope toward the main gate. Some carried offerings, others were empty-handed, out for a morning walk or a chat with their friends.

Inside the temple, he stood beside the giant bull that faced the main shrine, and began to pray. He wanted to pray for something specific, but his mind went blank. So he fell back on a regular Jai Jagadish Hare, one that he heard on Radio Nepal every morning. Still, he felt that praying for a particular hope would be more powerful. Perhaps he should stand in line to get a glimpse of the four-headed Shiva. Maybe the sight of the Lord's black figure would quiet the disturbance he was feeling. He noted that the line wasn't long, as it soon would be, but he looked at his watch, became anxious, and abandoned the idea.

It was six-thirty by the time he walked out to the main road, so he hailed a three-wheeler. The driver careened through the morning traffic, and Ramchandra closed his eyes and leaned back. Only when the man asked, “Where do you want me to stop?” did Ramchandra realize he had fallen asleep. He asked the driver to stop right outside his house. He paid the fare and was about to enter the courtyard, when, on impulse, he turned around and went into the tea shop on the opposite side of the street. The shopkeeper, who knew him, was surprised. “What happened, guruji? Your wife refused to make tea for you this morning?” Ramchandra mumbled something about there not being enough milk in the house, ordered a glass of tea, and sat by the window.

At seven o'clock, Malati approached, her textbooks held against her chest. She looked frail, tired. She entered the courtyard, and Ramchandra waited, forgetting his steaming glass of tea. At seven-fifteen she came out and stood at the courtyard entrance, scanning the street. Ramchandra moved back from the window so that she wouldn't spot him. When he raised his eyes, he saw Goma seated near their bedroom window, watching Malati.

Malati waited for several minutes before walking away, with an occasional look back. Ramchandra wanted to follow her, but he knew that Goma would see him. Her eyes were following Malati until she disappeared into the crowd. Then Goma left the window. Ramchandra paid for his tea and briskly walked in the direction Malati had gone. After about one block, he spotted the red ribbon she'd tied around her hair. Now, suddenly, he didn't know what he would say to her. He could apologize for not having been there when she came, but what excuse could he give?

He followed her at a distance, keeping the red hair ribbon in sight, wishing he could see her face. He knew that she would walk all the way to Tangal, at least three kilometers, because she couldn't afford to take a three-wheeler. She moved in the direction of Indrachowk and walked into the Durbar Square area, where she stood in front of the Hanuman statue, her hands folded in prayer to the monkey god. Ramchandra slid behind a nearby temple, frightening a flock of doves, which rose into the air in a huff. As Malati walked back to the road, he followed, and the conversations of pedestrians floated around him like a song. His body became light, airy. Everything around him—the houses, the shops, the faces of people walking past—receded, and the only thing he saw clearly was the back of her head, the red ribbon in her hair.

After a while, it seemed to him that she was keeping track of him, as if she had eyes in the back of her head. So each was following the other. It was like the painting people hung above their door during Nag Panchami: two snakes about to eat each others tails. This image gave him more energy; the sense that he too was being pursued quickened his pulse. He smiled at a couple of familiar faces, even said hello to a neighbor carrying shopping bags, but he made these gestures elsewhere, in a place different from the one he now occupied with Malati.

In the heavy crowd of shoppers in Asan, she vanished, and Ramchandra found himself squeezed between the cries of the newspaper vendors, who sang in loud voices the headlines of the day:
INDIA IN COLLUSION WITH BANNED PARTIES; CLANDESTINE MEETINGS OF CPN
. A cow nudged against his hip, and he gently pushed it away, only to discover that he had stepped on its droppings, which clung to his shoes.

But he had to find Malati. He tried to peer over the heads of the crowd. A flash of red, then the tilt of a shoulder. Yes, she'd already entered the street leading to Ratnapark. He ran toward her, bumping into shoppers, drawing mumbles of criticism from them. By the time he caught up to her, she was passing the co-op store of Sajha Bhandar. He stayed a few yards behind her, breathing hard, the great sense of relief making him giddy. When at last she reached the opening of Asan and its bookstores, he called out to her.

She turned around, and didn't appear surprised to see him.

“I am sorry about this morning.”

“It's okay, sir. I thought you must have been occupied with something.”

“I was not occupied. I don't know what happened to me.” For a moment, neither said anything more. Together they crossed the road toward Ratnapark, their shoulders touching, the cars and motorcycles weaving around them. He let his hand touch hers.

“Are you going home now?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Let's go inside the park for a while.”

“Rachana is at home.”

“No one to look after her?”

“Malekha Didi is taking care of her, but sometimes she gets annoyed when I'm away.”

“Okay, I'll walk you home.”

“It's not necessary, sir. I can go by myself.”

“No, I want to.” Once again, he wanted to offer some sort of apology, but he restrained himself. Suddenly, in the middle of Baghbazaar, she said, “I knew you were following me, sir.”

“Then why didn't you turn around?”

She didn't respond, and they walked quietly. Finally, Ramchandra said, “I shouldn't have done what I did yesterday.”

She said nothing.

As they neared Tangal, he said, “I hope you'll come tomorrow. I promise I'll be there.”

“Maybe it won't work.”

“No, it will work. You need to pass the S.L.C. exam. You need to get out of that house.”