“My personal problems are my country’s problems,” Ramchandra replied. “My history is this forsaken country’s history.”
“Not to worry,” someone said. “Democracy will make us all prosperous. We’ll get rid of all those corrupt politicians, and you’ll be able to build a house in Kathmandu, Ramchandra-ji.”
“You mean Bandana Miss will raise our salaries? Will you, Bandana Miss?” Shailendra asked.
“Where will the money come from?”
“From Mr. Democracy. He has a vault with millions of rupees.”
That brought forth more laughter; then the bell rang in the empty school.
The mourning period for Mr. Pandey ended about two weeks later, and Goma and the children returned to Jaisideval. Spring, with its painted blue skies and brisk sunshine, began to adorn the streets of Kathmandu. Gone were the sweaters, the rubbing of cold palms early in the morning, the families gathered around the single heater in the house. Even though the mornings and nights were chilly, at noon the sun enveloped the city, and people mopped their brows and complained of the heat.
Soon after moving back to Jaisideval, Ramchandra got into the habit of rising early in the morning, bathing at the tap before Mr. Sharma did, and doing push-ups and breathing exercises in the bedroom. “I have to do something constructive,” he told Goma. “Otherwise my mind will go dull.” Goma nodded. “That’s an excellent idea,” she said. “You’ll become healthier as you age.” She was still sleeping with the children, and although Ramchandra hinted a couple of times that she might move back to her bedroom, she ignored him. She didn’t mention Malati, but sometimes when they were eating, in the children’s presence, she seemed to be thinking of her.
And he did feel energetic every morning after he finished the exercises and drank his first cup of tea. He would take a walk in the neighborhood, stopping briefly to chat with shopkeepers and acquaintances. In the evening, he read while the children played hide-and-seek in the courtyard or carom and cards in the bedroom. Sometimes his thoughts turned to Malati; then he became uneasy and couldn’t concentrate on the book he held.
One day, while Sanu and Rakesh were wrestling on the floor over a brand-new pack of cards that Ramchandra had bought them, the shoulder strap of Sanu’s frock slipped, and Ramchandra caught a glimpse of her breasts, now like those of a young woman. She caught his gaze and quickly covered herself up and left the room.
“San-di became naked,” Rakesh said.
Ramchandra scolded him, saying he shouldn’t talk like that about his sister.
He asked Goma whether she had bought Sanu a bra.
“Yes, but she complains that it constricts her, and she can’t breathe.”
“She’s growing. She should wear one.” He thought of Mr. Sharma watching his daughter.
“You know how she is.”
Maybe he should talk to Sanu, but she’d probably be uncomfortable, talking about such things to her father.
During this time Ramchandra and Goma often went to Pandey Palace, because Mrs. Pandey was having health problems. Her hands swelled, and she had difficulty walking up and down the stairs. Often in the middle of a family conversation she’d become quiet, and when Goma asked her what was wrong, she said that she was lonely in the house by herself, that the walls were chasing her. She said that at night she heard the voice of her husband. She complained that someone tapped on the floor at dawn, urging her to wake up.
“Why don’t you have one of the servants sleep in the house instead of the servants’ quarters?” Ramchandra suggested.
“They’d rob me blind at night,” she said, and despite assurances from Goma and Ramchandra that they’d been devoted servants for years, Mrs. Pandey was adamant.
Within a few days of this discussion, Mrs. Pandey’s health grew worse; it declined so rapidly that people wondered whether Mr. Pandey’s soul had indeed been tapping on the floor, claiming his wife. She fainted a few times, which fueled further speculation. Mr. Pandey’s sister, a stout woman with deep religious convictions, told Goma that Mr. Pandey’s soul had come to her and whispered that he wasn’t happy. Goma was upset by this kind of talk. “She’s already paranoid,” she told her aunt. “And you want to make her more afraid?”
And then one morning they received a phone call from a servant. Mrs. Pandey had collapsed in the garden and was lying there, clutching her heart. Goma urged him to call an ambulance immediately, even though she knew it wouldn’t arrive in time. Ramchandra suggested that they call Nalini, but she had accompanied Harish on a business trip to Bangkok. So Ramchandra and Goma rushed to Pandey Palace, where Mrs. Pandey was sitting in her bedroom, her face ashen. As soon as she saw Goma, she began to cry, “Don’t leave me alone, please, Mother. Don’t leave me alone.” Goma held her tightly, as if she were indeed Mrs. Pandey’s mother.
That day all the city hospitals had declared a strike, protesting the imprisonment of some doctors and medical students. They did get her to the Teaching Hospital in Maharajgunj, where doctors were examining patients in the open air. Mrs. Pandey was asked to lie on a table, and a doctor, after examining her, said it was most likely that much of Mrs. Pandey’s affliction was psychological, although there were signs that she also suffered from diabetes. “She needs to be around her family at this time,” the doctor said. “That’ll take away some of the paranoia.”
Suspicious, because he thought the doctor had arrived at the diagnosis too quickly, Ramchandra said, “Maybe she needs a more thorough checkup?” But the doctor had already moved on to another patient.
Mrs. Pandey clung to Goma as they left the hospital, and when they were back in Pandey Palace, Goma told Ramchandra that they’d all have to move there.
“What are you talking about?” Ramchandra said. “I can’t live here.”
“And why is that?”
“You know very well why.”
“No, I don’t,” Goma said tersely. “My mother is very ill. She needs me, and you can’t take care of the children by yourself. There’s no point in paying rent to live in that crummy apartment while this big house is empty.”
“Goma.”
“Look,” Goma said, “this is about my mother. I made a large concession to you not long ago. Have you forgotten?”
“But you know that—”
“Fine, if that’s the way you feel, then the children will live here with me, and you can live in the apartment by yourself.”
“She’s not going to get better any time soon.”
“Then she won’t. But I’ll stay with my mother until...” And her voice broke.
He got up and held her, and she leaned against him. “Please. Don’t you see? It’ll help me if you’re here.”
“Yes,” he said and kissed her on the lips. It was the first time since he’d confessed to her about Malati that he’d held her like this, and he embraced her until she broke away from him, saying that she had to make soup for her mother.
Ramchandra hoped that the one moment of physical proximity would restore their intimacy, but he was wrong. Goma maintained her distance, as if she could smell Malati on him, as if her initial reaction to his confession remained inside her, muted but strong.
Two days later they moved from Jaisideval to Pandey Palace, but not before they had a raucous fight with their landlord, who demanded that they pay a month’s rent because they’d not given him advance notice. “This is not a hotel,” the landlord said. The shouting match took place in the courtyard, with the neighbors watching from their windows.
“This is an emergency situation,” Ramchandra said. “It’s one thing that you never took care of the apartment while we lived here. Now the least you can do is let us go in peace.”
“What about my peace, then? How am I going to find someone on such short notice?”
“Plenty of people in this damned city are looking for shelter.”
They finally reached a compromise. The landlord would let them go if they paid half the next month’s rent. The idea was Goma’s, wh
o had been sitting on the doorstep, listening to them argue.
“Only because of you am I making this concession,” the landlord said to her.
Harish had sent a truck from his company for the move, along with a couple of young men to help, and by evening they’d emptied the apartment. On the final trip, Ramchandra sat in the front of the truck with Sanu, who’d been quiet since she was told that they were going to live in Pandey Palace.
“So, what do you think?” Ramchandra asked her now. These days he talked to her as if she were a grown woman.
“Think about what?”
“About us living in Pandey Palace.”
“Since when did my opinion matter?”
“You don’t approve?” He noticed a hint of rouge on her cheeks.
“I prefer to live in Jaisideval. I have friends here.”
“But you understand your grandmother’s problem, don’t you?”
Silent, she looked out the window; then she said, “I don’t know what to think. They’ve always made so much about our not having a house of our own, and now we’re moving into their house.”
“You should feel some pity for your grandmother. She’s not what she used to be.”
“What do you feel about this?”
The way she asked him, her head slightly tilted, reminded him of Goma. “I am following your mother’s wishes. She wants to take care of your grandmother.”
Sanu said, “I hope it’s not a permanent move.”
“I don’t think it will be. Once your grandmother gets better, we’ll find a place of our own.” But he knew his words were unconvincing.
He kept hoping he’d run into Malati in the street, but when he didn’t, he wondered whether something bad had indeed happened to Rachana. Sometimes on a rainy day he’d stand by the main door of Pandey Palace, looking at the garden, hoping that the next time the phone rang, it would be Malati. He once ran into Ashok in Ratna Park, and the boy asked him about Malati. Ramchandra had nothing to say. Ashok was waiting impatiently for the exam results, and when Ramchandra told him the results might not be issued for months, maybe even a year, given the political mess, Ashok said, “I don’t know what my father will do to me if I fail.” Gone were Ashok’s mocking smile and small witticisms. He even had a couple of white strands in his hair. The only thing Ramchandra could do was pat him on the back and assure him that he’d pass.
The next afternoon Ramchandra went to Goma, who sat in the living room, darning one of Rakesh’s sweaters. Mrs. Pandey was sitting on a sofa nearby, her head resting at an awkward angle against the back, her mouth open. Her health had deteriorated, but her paranoia had diminished. Now, unless she was moved, she sat in one place, mumbling. Her face showed signs of human expression only with Goma; with others, she remained silent, or looked at them quizzically, as if trying to figure out who they were. How quickly things change, Ramchandra thought.
He started to speak to Goma, then changed his mind. Then changed his mind again. He told her that he’d lied to her about that day when he’d gone to New Road to find Malati.
“Why did you lie?”
He couldn’t answer, and she didn’t press further. She resumed her darning, and after a while said, “So, did you see her?”
He told her that he’d seen Rachana get injured in the stampede.
Goma’s hands became still. “How is she now?”
He said he didn’t know, that he’d not gone back to find Amrit’s house, that he was worried.
“I hope nothing has happened to the child. How could you not tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“I want to know what’s happened to that little girl,” Goma said.
“Why don’t you go, then?”
“But I can’t leave Mother,” Goma said. “Any moment something could...” She stroked her mother’s cheek. “Why don’t you go? You were planning to go anyway.” Mrs. Pandey tilted her head toward her daughter.
As Ramchandra got up to leave, Goma said, “If Rachana is fine, ask Malati to come for a visit. I want to see the two of them.”
She told him to take the car, but he said he’d rather walk. He still didn’t feel comfortable in the Pandeys’ Honda. The driver was a bit of a snob, and Ramchandra smelled Mr. Pandey inside the Honda.
On the way, he was again beset by anxiety. What would he say to her? Goma wanted to know how her daughter was doing; that’s how he’d start the conversation. Then he remembered that he didn’t know the exact location of Amrit’s house; there were so many houses lining the alley in front of the cinema hall.
Near Tangal, Ramchandra, on impulse, took the lane that led toward Sunrise Boarding School.
At first he didn’t recognize Malekha Didi’s house. The yard was a mess, filled with garbage and old, cracked furniture. The chicken shed had been demolished and was lying in a heap. On the front porch, two stray dogs were keeping guard over a bone, and Ramchandra had to shoo them away to knock on the door. There was no sound, and he was about to leave. Then he heard Malekha Didi’s tired voice ask who was there.
When Ramchandra identified himself, she opened the door. “What do you want, professor?”
She wore a dirty dhoti, and her hair was in filthy clumps. Even from behind the screen, he smelled rotting food. “Do you know where Malati lives?”
“That whore?” Malekha Didi said. “She left me in this state.”
Ramchandra was about to remind her that she’d thrown Malati out. Instead, he asked what happened, waving his hand to encompass the yard, the chicken shed.
Malekha Didi opened the screen door and stepped out. “Everything’s gone. Some motherfucker fed poison to my chickens one night, and the next morning they were all dead.”
“Who was it?”
“Who knows? Many didn’t like my prosperity. And there are lunatics in this city who only need an excuse to loot.”
“Where is Malati?”
“She’s living in front of Ranjana Cinema Hall with that taxi driver.” She described the house.
When he asked whether she was going to get the chicken business going again, she asked whether he would extract some money from his ass to give to her.
He said goodbye to her and walked away as she shouted, “So she left you, a professor, for a taxi driver, eh?” Her vulgar laugh rang inside his head.
Once he reached New Road, however, instead of trying to find Malati’s house right away, Ramchandra walked into Ranjana Cinema Hall. He stood in the middle of the compound and turned around casually to face the row of houses across the alley. Malekha Didi had said that Malati’s building housed a tailor shop on the first floor. But he didn’t see such a sign. He did remember that one of the shops at the bottom was a famous samosa restaurant he’d frequented when he was young. Ramchandra saw the sign: HERO RESTAURANT. Yes, that was the name.
He walked out of the cinema hall and into the restaurant, where he immediately recognized the proprietor, a dark man with pockmarks. Ramchandra identified himself, and it took a while for the man to remember him, but when he did, he offered Ramchandra tea and samosas, and they chatted about some of the people they used to know. Finally, Ramchandra got around to inquiring about Malati, and the proprietor instantly knew whom he was talking about. “You’ve come to the right place,” he said. “She lives on the top floor of this house. The entrance is through the side door. A pretty girl, but that man of hers is not right.”
“Why?”
“I’ve seen him sit here and eye the girls who enter the cinema hall. Sometimes he walks in there,” the proprietor said, pointing toward the hall, “and tries to strike up a conversation. A real Romeo, that guy.”
“Are they married?”
“Yes, they got married a few days ago in a temple ceremony.”
“Are they up there now?”
“The husband leaves with his taxi early in the morning, but she may be there. Do you know her?”
Ramchandra told him that she was his student. This was a good opportu
nity to talk to her, but he realized, with a jolt, that it’d soon get dark—and dangerous.
As he was leaving the shop, Malati stepped out the side door, wearing a red dhoti, which connoted her recent marriage. The part in her hair was streaked with vermilion powder. Ramchandra held his breath and stopped. She didn’t see him and went down the alley that led to Indrachowk. Ramchandra followed a few yards behind. In Indrachowk she bought some vegetables while Ramchandra maintained his distance. Sometimes he caught her profile, and was disappointed that he saw no trace of sadness on her face or of dissatisfaction with her husband. She was lively and bright, bargaining and chatting with the vendors. When she was finished shopping, she walked back, Ramchandra still following her. He saw that Rachana wasn’t with her. Had something happened to the girl? But if it had, wouldn’t Malati’s grief have kept her from marrying Amrit?
A few minutes after she walked up to her apartment, he climbed the narrow staircase and knocked on the door. A woman opened it, and just as he was asking for Malati, she appeared, with Rachana straddling her hip. Rachana gave out a squeal and babbled something, and a wave of relief washed over Ramchandra.
“Sir,” Malati said softly, “did you forget your way?”
He didn’t know what to say, so he remarked that Rachana had grown.
Malati wiped her daughter’s nose with her hand and said, “She often gets sick these days. I think it’s the pollution in the city. Too many three-wheelers and old vehicles.”
Ramchandra felt awkward, standing on the landing. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
The woman told Malati she was leaving, and headed down. “My husband’s sister,” Malati explained. “She looks after Rachana sometimes.”
The apartment had one room and a kitchen, and they sat on the bed. The place was congested but neat. Ramchandra smelled cigarette smoke.
“Tea, sir?”
He shook his head and asked her, indicating Rachana, “You married her father?”
The Guru of Love Page 23