Mr. Sharma laughed. “I was just making conversation, Ramchandra-ji. She is attractive. Only an observation.”
Ramchandra grabbed his towel and said, “It must be hard for you, eh, Sharma-ji? All these years without your life partner.” He started rubbing his back vigorously so that the heat from the friction would ward off the cold. He couldn’t keep his teeth from chattering, whereas Mr. Sharma, whose head had just emerged from under the tap, seemed unaffected by the cold. Mr. Sharma said, “It’s not hard at all. It’s all a matter of willpower. Self-control. It’s a question of bringing your mind to focus on something and exerting all your energy to bear upon it.” He went on to recite some lines from the Vedas to illustrate his point, and Ramchandra’s mind wandered toward Malati. He imagined her in the small chicken-feathered house in Tangal, in that cramped kitchen, frying potatoes while holding the baby in her arm, the baby’s nostrils running with mucus, Malati’s stepmother on the floor, sifting a pile of rice through her fingers to filter out pebbles and then tossing the pebbles behind her, to be swept up later.
With his towel, Ramchandra rubbed his belly and his crotch, and looked at Mr. Sharma, who, having realized that he’d lost his audience, was humming a song. The sacred thread he wore around his chest, a sign of his orthodox Brahminism, was shriveled, and Ramchandra couldn’t help noticing, as he did every morning, the bulge in Mr. Sharma’s underwear, unfazed by the cold it had just endured.
“To tell you the truth, Ramchandra-ji,” Mr. Sharma said, his tone one of camaraderie and cunning, “sometimes it’s hard. This life of celibacy.”
Ramchandra was in no mood to hear his neighbor’s confessions.
Mr. Sharma looked up at the sky. “Ever since my wife died, it’s been a struggle. Sometimes I think I’ll go mad. If I were in your position, with pretty young girls sitting next to me every day, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“Why don’t you get married again?”
“That’s not it,” Mr. Sharma said. “I don’t want a new wife. My departed wife’s memory would not allow me to have someone else permanently in the house. It’s just that my body sometimes...’’ And even the thought aroused him, for suddenly the bulge in his underwear stirred, and Ramchandra quickly excused himself and went upstairs.
Mr. Sharma had unsettled him, and he wondered whether it was a good idea for him to see Malati every day. But he’d already made the offer, and he’d even told Goma about it, told her that he felt sorry for the girl and had agreed to tutor her more for the same price. Goma hadn’t questioned him. “Poor girl,” she’d said. “You’re doing the right thing.”
Ramchandra combed his hair in the bedroom and went downstairs to the bicycle shop to call Ashok and ask him to come to his session an hour later from now on.
Ashok didn’t like the idea, and Ramchandra said, “I’m trying to solve a problem here, Ashok. I hope you understand.”
“It’s not that girl, is it, sir?” Ashok asked.
“What girl?”
“That girl you called monkey?”
“No, no.”
“Strange girl. Nice-looking, though.” Ashok was in one of his playful moods.
“So, is it okay?”
“Do I get a discount?”
“For what?”
“For doing you this favor?”
“No.”
Ramchandra went back up to his bedroom, and he and Goma sat on the bed and drank their morning tea. Sanu and Rakesh had gone downstairs to brush their teeth and bathe.
“What are you thinking?” Goma asked. “Your mind seems far away.”
Ramchandra looked at her sheepishly. “I was thinking about that girl. Looks as if she’s had a hard life.” He told her about the baby.
Goma shook her head. “That’s not good. A young girl, having a baby without a husband. She doesn’t look that kind.”
“I don’t think she is that kind.”
“Well, don’t worry about her too much. Do what you can.”
Malati arrived for her tutoring session a short while after the children had left for school. She was wearing the same worn-out red kurta suruwal she’d worn the first time she came, but today she looked troubled.
“What’s the matter?” Ramchandra asked as she sat down. “Is everything all right?”
She nodded and opened her textbook.
It was obvious that her mind was not on the math problems, because she chewed on her pencil and wrote slowly. When he explained the formula for compound interest, she didn’t even nod with understanding; she merely kept her head lowered. After a while, Ramchandra gave her some problems to solve and left the room, saying he’d be back in a while. He went to the kitchen and drank some water. Goma had gone to the market to buy vegetables. Suddenly Ramchandra felt an urge for more tea, so he set the water to boil and looked out the window as he waited. Mr. Sharma was seated by his window, chanting, and his voice rang out clearly into the courtyard. Only after Ramchandra had poured milk and sugar into the boiling water did he realize that he should have made a glass for Malati, too. But, not wanting to wait for more water to boil, he poured himself the tea and was about to head back to the room when he saw Malati in the doorway.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Sir, I need to be excused today. I can’t do the problems.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I can’t concentrate.”
“Here, I made some tea for you. Maybe this will help.”
She gave him a wan smile. “I’ve already had my tea.”
Nonetheless, he handed her the glass, which she took reluctantly. “Who’s singing?”
He motioned her over to the window and pointed toward Mr. Sharma. Since the kitchen window was small, they had to stand close together to watch, and her shoulder touched his.
“What is he chanting?”
Ramchandra shrugged, his breath caught in his throat. He saw that her eyes had a faraway look, and creases marked her forehead. He put his arm around her and drew her close. “What’s bothering you?”
She stiffened, only momentarily, and placed her head on his shoulder. “Nothing is bothering me,” she said in a small voice.
They stood like that for a while. He could smell the baby on her. He looked down at her face again, resting on his shoulder. The glass of tea was still in her hand, and her eyes were closed. He kissed the top of her head, then her forehead. He took the glass from her hand, placed it on the windowsill, and raised her face. Her eyes were still closed, but the creases on her forehead were gone. He kissed her lightly on the lips, and said, “Come, let’s solve those problems.” She shook her head and said she couldn’t. “Look at me,” he said. She opened her eyes. “You have to make yourself strong,” he told her.
“I’m tired,” she said.
“I’m tired, too. But I go on.”
“You have people who love you.”
“You have a daughter.”
She looked toward the window again. “His voice is good,” she said.
“Yes, he sings like this every morning.”
“I have to go.” She slipped out of his embrace and, as he followed her, walked to the bedroom. There, she picked up her books, smoothed her hair with her hand, and said, “I promise I will put my mind to it next time.”
“Everything will be all right. You will pass the S.L.C.”
He watched her go down the stairs and then went to the kitchen window so that he could see her leave the courtyard. Mr. Sharma briefly stopped his chanting to observe her.
Goma came home about fifteen minutes later and, noticing that Malati was gone, asked him what had happened. “She had a headache,” Ramchandra said.
Goma went to the kitchen to prepare the morning meal.
Ashok arrived soon afterward and sat down with Ramchandra. “So, are you still tutoring Malati?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Has she improved any?”
“No.”
“Do you think she’ll pass the S.L.C.?”<
br />
“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.
4
THE 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, h
e 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?
The Guru of Love Page 6