Anamika returned home from work one day to discuss whether it was wise to quit her job the next week, as had been planned, when issues like job security and money were still important to her husband. Things weren’t the same as before, what with her husband’s not working, and she wanted to be sure before she took so dramatic a step.
“Why quit?” he absentmindedly said without looking up from the back of a calendar, on which he was scribbling notes. “It’s our government also. Or have you begun believing them when they say we don’t belong here? We may be ethnic Nepali, but we are Bhutanese, too.”
“What about starting the store? We need time. I need to learn.”
“Tell me if that’s good.” He threw a carefully coined slogan at her. “We are humans, not animals. We should be allowed to speak our language, not bark yours.”
He said it with a singsong cadence, repeated it and found something amiss.
“No, no, that didn’t come out right. Let’s try this: ‘One people, one country’ doesn’t work when we are made to feel like the others.”
“They have finally stopped throwing people out by the truckloads near the borders.” Anamika wanted to tear his notebook. “They may start again because of your demonstrations. Should we risk being let out?”
“The king—the king has to go. We are Bhutanese, too, so what if we are a little different from the majority of you?”
“The store, what about the store?” Anamika asked, aware she had slipped into the same lilt as he did with his slogans.
“The king, the king, out with the king,” he sang. “A democracy is what we need.”
Pleased, he wrote it down.
“Wait, this one is slightly better. The king, the king, out with the king. A democracy is the need of the hour.”
“Do you want something to eat?” She was exhausted.
“Ethnicity, ethnicity,” he shouted. “We’re being kicked out for no other reason than our ethnicity.”
“Should I serve you food?”
She hadn’t cooked anything. Neither had he.
“Do away with 1958. Some of us can show you the documents while others, we cannot.” He was referring to the 1958 citizenship documents the government required all Nepali-speaking people residing in the country to procure as proof of their citizenship. “We have papers from 1957, we have papers from 1959. But to you, merciless king, none but 1958 will do. Thoo, thoo, thoo,” he venomously spat out three times.
Anamika soon found out that Diki’s talk about resettlement hadn’t been entirely incorrect. The camp was abuzz with excitement about the recent developments. Everyone knew scraps of information, but no one had the details.
Yes, America was settling sixty thousand of them in her states. No force was used. Yes, everyone knew someone who knew someone an American had already interviewed at the International Organization for Migration office in Damak. Someone said every family would have a separate bathroom—sometimes, even two bathrooms—and no one would go hungry. America would also give them jobs and teach them English. It would be difficult to teach the old ones, so America didn’t like them so much. Maybe America would use the young ones to fight the Muslims, a neighbor pointed out. Thankfully, America disliked Muslims but liked Hindus and Buddhists the best.
The interviews would take place in the same red air-conditioned building where the blood tests would be done. Yes, the women wore pants, and only pants, in America, and the men weren’t allowed to lay hands on women. They could still beat up the wives secretly, but the wives could always inform the police. No, no, no, another know-it-all said, don’t try your “sir/madam” chamchagiri; the Americans saw right through you when you tried to flatter them, because they went to school to gauge that. Yes, England might take some. And maybe Australia and Norway, too.
Anamika believed that all these years of promises might come to something real when she saw buses just outside the camp one rainy day. These weren’t the ailing vehicles she saw around Khudunabari. They looked brand new. Close by, a group of bystanders was involved in a heated discussion—the Nepalese from outside the camp, among them the shrill-voiced singara shop regular, told stories that contradicted what had been discussed at the camp.
“Is America everyone’s orphanage that it will take their lot?” the man from the singara shop said to the others milling around him.
“Yes, it will,” Anamika said. “They see how we live because of constant harassment from animals like you.”
“Loo hera,” he said. “We offer them shelter, and instead of gratitude, we receive those words.”
“You deserve worse,” came the reply from an old lady, a camp neighbor, who sat on the ground and lit her beedi.
“Now the old woman has courage, too.” The man’s voice was even shriller; it could have been a woman’s voice. “This Anamika aaimaai is teaching everyone to talk back to us. Women talk like men. Men are afraid of women. What has the world come to?”
“If you talk like that, I’ll slap you like I slapped your friend.”
“Will some of you marry us if they allow you to go to America?” His face softened.
“We would get married to these dogs around here before to you useless fools.” Anamika threw a pebble at a pair of mating dogs, which obediently decoupled, and, still in heat, scampered to another pack nearby.
“It’s unfair that you should get to go while we don’t.” He looked wistful, almost sad.
“You are a married man.” It was the first time Anamika was having a real conversation with him. “What nonsense are you talking about getting married to one of us? That fat wife of yours needs to keep you under lock and key every day.”
“You can marry me, Anamika.” He looked serious. “What’s a third husband when you’ve already had two?”
“I plan on taking seven husbands, but they will be real men—not women like you. Have you even heard your own voice? It’s like your mother forced cat’s milk down your throat when you were a baby.”
The old woman laughed loudly, inciting Anamika to carry on.
“You know how to deal with them,” the woman said. “I am sure Lord Brahma regrets having given life to these men.”
“I am sure their mothers regret having given birth to them,” Anamika added, and lest she should get enraged and cause physical harm to the offending man, she, too, sat down beside the woman. “Where are these buses taking our people?”
“They’re going for interviews,” the woman said.
“Interviews? Shouldn’t we go, then?”
The people on the first bus cheered when the engine revved.
“No, they only select some people. My children’s father says it will be a long process. It has already taken more than Ram’s ban-baas.”
“What about the rest of us?”
“Some of us they won’t take.”
“What are the criteria?”
The second bus honked, and the passengers shouted, “America, America.” The driver got off, and the passengers shouted, “No America, no America” amid loud laughter.
“They say America needs soldiers to fight wars, so they will give preference to men—young, able-bodied men. I know God will take care of me because I have sons. They grew up strong despite the lack of meat in this camp.”
“I’ll probably not get to go then.”
“Yes, the camp also keeps track of people’s character. Everyone knows of your second marriage.”
The bus belched black smoke on Anamika as it barreled down the road. The passengers, like revelers on their way to a picnic, chorused Hindi songs.
Anamika knew the woman meant no ill will. Furthermore, it wasn’t as if the woman had spoken an untruth. Anamika herself thought she was a woman of loose morals. No matter how hard she tried to justify her actions, she knew somewhere deep within that she had wronged and would pay a price for it one day. It simply was the aaimaai’s business, in the way it was the business of everyone at the camp, to question her moral record.
“You talk l
ike I am the only woman in the world who has been married twice,” Anamika said, getting up and walking away.
“But you left both of them,” the woman persisted.
“And despite that, I am willing to marry you,” the singara shop man shouted. “America, America.”
The old woman chuckled, which encouraged him further.
“Or maybe I can marry your older daughter. How old is she? Thirteen? She’s coming of age.”
The more excited he became, the shriller his voice turned.
It had almost been thirteen years since a group of soldiers forced their way into her house in Bhutan and, staring hard at her pregnant belly, demanded to know where her husband was. That year, a number of their neighbors had fled—mostly to the Indian state of Assam. The family three doors down had successfully produced its 1958 citizenship documents and was rumored to be staying. The children, who before had frequently visited Anamika because she gave them generous fistfuls of glucose powder, now came nowhere near her house. Early-morning greetings with the family became less cheerful. The teenagers looked at her when their paths crossed but exchanged few words. They’ve grown up and no longer like glucose powder, Anamika had tried to convince herself.
Anamika’s father possessed the documents, but no one came checking. She had heard stories of rape and murder, of soldiers behaving worse than barbarians. Everyone had. Some said the Bhutanese government, aware of the goings-on in the army, had asked the soldiers not to use violence when escorting the Nepali-speaking people out of their houses and out of the country. And now while the soldiers scrutinized her body, she feared the worst.
“Whose baby is that?” a soldier asked in Dzongkha.
“My husband’s.”
“When are you due?” He was gentler now.
“In a month.”
“So you saw your husband eight months ago?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Was that the last time you saw him?”
“Yes.”
“Where are your papers?”
Anamika walked over to the cabinet and showed them photocopies of her father’s citizenship card.
“And your husband’s?”
It was the question Anamika dreaded.
“It is lost.”
“That’s convenient.”
“But look, my father was here. He even has property documents.”
“We aren’t concerned with your father. It’s your damn husband we care about.”
They were moving closer.
Her father, prompted by a neighbor about the soldiers in Anamika’s house, arrived at the scene minutes later.
“Did you show the papers?” he asked Anamika.
“Yes, but it’s her husband’s papers we want.”
“You know I don’t have those,” Anamika said, resigned. “They must be with my husband.”
“That’s not good enough.” The soldier was losing patience. His friends at the door exchanged smirks.
“What now?” Anamika lost her temper. “Will you herd me out of my own country? Like cows and buffaloes?”
“Only those who are law-abiding citizens of this country have the right to live here,” he said in Dzongkha.
“You know the line well—is it because you and your soldiers have repeated it more than a hundred thousand times?”
“Only those who are law-abiding citizens of this country have the right to live here,” he repeated.
“This is my home, my country.” She had to be careful. These soldiers were capable of anything. “I am not going anywhere.”
“It is, but it isn’t your husband’s. He’s a criminal.”
“Did I know that when I married him?” Anamika cried, quivering with rage. “What if I don’t obey your orders? Will you rape me? Why don’t you?”
Her father stood silent. For a while, no one spoke.
“Look, sister,” a guard finally said in Nepali. “You and I both know what your husband has been up to. We wouldn’t like to give you undue stress in your condition, but it would do you good to pack up your necessities. For now, we will pretend we didn’t interact with your father. He has the papers, and unfortunately, you don’t. You will have to go. The buses will be right there.”
Anamika’s father wouldn’t let his pregnant daughter travel alone. He had the papers, and he could always return if he wanted to. Diki was born at the camp in Nepal. Anamika’s father was never allowed back in the country. His son-in-law was a traitor, an enemy of the state. He was a traitor by association.
Anamika was changing when she saw a man with importance scribbled all over his face and sunglasses approach the camp. Her father was the head of this household and the rations were disbursed to him, so she was used to people looking for him. She quickly changed back to the kurta, as draping a sari would take too long, and went out to greet the stranger.
“He’s gone out,” she said.
“I need to talk to him. It’s important. I’ve come from Damak.”
“My daughters aren’t here. Otherwise, I’d have sent them out to look for him.”
“Can’t you go?” he asked.
“There’s no one at home.”
He looked through the door, as though inspecting just what a thief would steal from the hut. “I could come back some other time, but it’s your family’s loss. I am a case worker.”
“Can you not tell me what it is?”
“No, we need the head of the household.”
He meant he needed to talk to someone male.
“You’ll have to wait as I shout for him then.” Softly, she started, “Baba, Baba.”
When a reply wasn’t forthcoming, she cupped her hands to her mouth and screamed louder.
Sensing the man’s impatience, she asked if he’d like some tea. The man again looked inside, scrutinized the area visible from the door and sulked.
“I’ll make you some tea,” Anamika repeated. “Please have a seat.”
He sat on the jute mat as she blew a fire with a black tin pipe.
“Baba, Baba,” she shouted every few seconds.
No sooner did the stranger begin sipping his tea than her father showed up, weighed down by rations.
“Thet, squashes,” he exclaimed. “They gave them last, and I placed them at the top of my bag. Those thorns kept bothering me throughout.”
“Are you the head of the household?” the stranger asked.
“Yes, I am.” He looked nervous.
“You’ve been invited for an interview along with the entire family a week from today. Please report to one of the three buses parked outside at eight in the morning. Do not be late. This is not Nepal time. The Americans are very particular about punctuality.”
“Is this to take us to America?”
“This is just the first interview. I don’t have the time to gossip all day. Are there the four of you altogether?”
No one answered.
“And her husband?” He checked the vermilion in the parting of Anamika’s hair. “Is he alive?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Where is he?”
“Around,” her father said.
The man studied Anamika.
“Should all of us come?” Anamika said.
“Didn’t I just say that?”
“What should we wear?” her father asked.
“Wear clean clothes.”
“What will they ask an old man like me?”
“Nothing that you can lie about.”
“We cannot lie?” Anamika said.
“Yes, Americans are very good at spotting lies.” His eyes were questioning. “Why? Do you have something to lie about?”
“No, no, I find it unbelievable that they can detect lies.”
“They are Americans.”
“Will they talk to me in English?” her father asked.
The case worker looked at the father and gave an exasperated look to Anamika. He took one final gulp of the tea, saw it was drizzling, asked them if they might have a spar
e umbrella, smiled to himself at the question and left.
“We’ll probably fail,” her father said as he crushed tobacco leaves with his trembling hand. “With your marriages and my health, we will fail.”
Soon he’d add slaked lime to the fine leaves and pinch the mixture into his mouth, where it would remain safely ensconced between the gum and the lower lip. That her father spat it out anywhere he desired after the tobacco’s flavor died infuriated Anamika.
“Why did you keep getting married again and again? You shouldn’t have married that good-for-nothing Brahmin. The bastard isn’t even here suffering with us when it was his involvement in the demonstrations that got us here in the first place.”
He hunted for the container of lime.
“Do you think I’d have married him had I known this would happen?”
He wiped his brow and forehead.
“Okay, but what about the second time? You have no excuse for that. We told you the Karki man was deceptive from the very beginning.”
He paused to cough.
“What if they ask me about the marriages? How is it that I have a daughter who brings me so much ill luck?”
“Yes, what if they ask me about the marriages?” Anamika repeated. “We should have asked the case worker, but we didn’t, so stay quiet and allow me to think.”
Americans are very good at spotting lies, the case worker had said. She’d have to decide what to share and what to eliminate from her story. She knew she had to lie. There was no way the Americans would let a woman like her into their country.
She was beautiful, young, and vulnerable. She had a child whose father was nowhere to be seen. Her father, the only male member in the family, had failing eyesight and could barely hear. She attracted more attention than any other woman at camp. In the beginning, she relished it. It made her feel powerful. Her pride, it soon occurred to her, had been misplaced. It wasn’t her beauty that attracted the men as much as it was her helplessness.
The men disliked her because she wasn’t their wife, but it was the women who despised her. She was temptation for their husbands, a trap. When she caught somebody’s husband spying on her as she washed herself at the communal pump, the consensus at the camp was that it was her fault; it was she who encouraged the man and other husbands. When she confronted the chutiya, his wife and a few other wives came together to protect him, called her names, and quizzed her about her absent husband. She realized she had no one to protect her. She’d need a man to guard her, to defend her. And this man wasn’t her father.
The Gurkha's Daughter Page 11