Later, Ramchandra enlisted the help of the shopkeeper to take both of them to the hospital in a taxi. They sat in the emergency room until a nurse took Mr. Sharma away. It was another half-hour before Ramchandra was called. The doctor who examined his ankle said that he’d need an X-ray before he could tell whether it was broken or sprained. Ramchandra had to limp all the way to the other end of the hospital to get an X-ray and had to wait almost two hours before he was given the folder. Then he spent another hour on a rickety bench outside the doctor’s office. The swelling didn’t appear to be getting bigger, and he found some consolation in this.
The doctor examined the X-ray and said the ankle was only sprained. A cloth cast was wrapped around it, and a strange feeling came over Ramchandra as he limped out of the hospital. “This is good,” he found himself saying. “I needed this.”
He didn’t go to Pandey Palace for a couple of days. He called, but said nothing about his ankle. He hobbled around the city, sometimes even after the curfew, as if he dared the police to do anything to him. And then, back in the apartment, he’d scold himself for being so foolish. What was he trying to prove? At night, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d walk around the flat, his ankle numbed by the painkiller the doctor had prescribed. Sometimes he’d stand by the kitchen window and look across the courtyard, half-expecting to see Mr. Sharma at his window, chanting. But Mr. Sharma had gone into hiding, probably too ashamed to show his face in the neighborhood.
Ramchandra sat by the window in his room and watched the street. Often he saw drunks, zigzagging across the night, humming to themselves. Sometimes he saw prostitutes, back from their nightly duties, perhaps hurrying to their children at home. At times, a gang of orphaned children walked by, making a ruckus, banging on old pots or singing loudly the latest cinema song. Ramchandra was filled with a longing that he couldn’t describe, nor did he feel the need to. It swirled inside his head, and he recalled some of the intense pleasure he’d experienced when he’d first been with Malati. Then his memories went back even further, to the early days of his marriage, when the mere brush of Goma’s finger against his in a public place would make him dizzy. Goma was the most beautiful woman for miles around, Ramchandra was convinced, and he’d watch her until she said, “What are you staring at? Haven’t you seen me before?” And he’d say, “Not really.”
Ramchandra began to miss his children and Goma and Malati and even his mother. He remembered the hardships she and he had endured during their first few years in the city, and how close he’d felt to her then. He remembered the joy Goma had brought into his life, despite the criticism from her parents, and how happy he’d been when both Sanu and Rakesh were born, their tiny faces shining at him.
He got up and dressed. The night was cool. He walked, with a limp, toward Pandey Palace, even though he knew it’d take him at least an hour to reach it. There was no taxi to be found. The streets were deserted. One policeman approached him in Naxal and asked who he was and where he was going. Ramchandra said he was going home after spending some time with friends. The policeman eyed him suspiciously but let him go.
The dog barked and ran toward Ramchandra as he opened the gate and walked in. He patted the dog and was about to go inside when he saw Goma’s figure in the garden, sitting under the umbrella. He walked toward her.
“Somehow I knew you’d come tonight,’’ she said.
“How?”
“Just a gut feeling.” She noticed how he grimaced when he sat down. “What happened?”
He told her, but didn’t say that he’d been running down the stairs to help Mr. Sharma.
She reached down and checked his ankle. “You should have been careful. I’ll go fetch some ointment.”
He stopped her. “That can wait.” He asked her to sit on the adjacent chair, took her hand, and said, “Listen, you don’t have to answer this, but it’s been bothering me all the time we’ve been married. Tell me, why did your parents marry you so late, and to me?”
She laughed softly. “You walked all the way from Jaisideval, with that ankle, at this time of the night, to ask me that?”
“Please, give me an answer.”
“What good would that do?”
“It’ll satisfy my curiosity.”
Under the light from the naked bulb on the side of the house, she twirled the end of her dhoti. “It’s really simple. I’d said no to everyone they proposed.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t like their names or their faces in the photographs I was shown.”
“You based your decision on that?”
“Yes. I’ve always trusted my feelings. And I knew there was someone out there in this wide world for me.”
“And that was me? How did I get your approval?”
She smiled. “I fell in love with you when you came here to tutor Nalini. The first day, the moment I saw you sitting on the living room carpet with my sister. There was something about your face—your belief in the world, as if you viewed it with an innocence that would drown all sorrows. At the same time, you looked tired, almost wise beyond your years. I was smitten. I used to walk past the living room just to see your face. I knew you didn’t notice me, and that was fine. I had no intention of revealing my feelings. After you left, I’d lie on my bed and fantasize about you. I’d repeat your name. In my dreams you came and held my hand, smiled at me. I fantasized that you’d take me away from Pandey Palace, that we’d elope to India and live in a small hut, and that we’d be constantly in love. But even then I knew that my fantasies would be shattered, that I’d be married to someone of my parents’ choosing.”
She went on to tell him of the day when a lami woman came to Pandey Palace and showed her parents a picture of a doctor, a successful heart specialist in the city. From behind the living room door, she heard her parents say yes, even though the doctor was a widower and was nearly forty. But Goma was getting old, and her parents were desperate. “What if she says no to this one too?” her mother said after the lami woman left.
“This has gone on too long,” her father said. “We won’t get a better offer. I don’t want to have a daughter who’ll spoil our name by being an old maid.”
That night Goma didn’t sleep. She was wracked by nightmares about the doctor. In one of them, he opened her belly and left a surgical instrument there. The next morning her mother came to her room and showed her the doctor’s picture. “Please say yes, Goma. Please. We’ve already said yes.”
That’s when Goma told her that if she married anyone, it would be the math teacher.
“Who? That Ramchandra?”
When her mother realized that Goma was serious, she put her head in her hands. “My God, I can’t imagine what your father will say.”
“Father can say whatever he wants,” Goma said, “but that’s my decision. You either negotiate with him, or I’ll remain unmarried for the rest of my life.”
Her mother left the room, and a few moments later her father barged in, made Goma stand up, and slapped her. “So far I’ve tolerated everything, all your drama about I won’t marry this one, I won’t marry that one. But I will not tolerate this. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life seeing you work as a servant. That puny tutor. Did he make moves on you?”
Goma held her cheek and said that the tutor didn’t know anything about her feelings.
She stopped eating.
Days later, her parents gave in. Well, her mother gave in, and persuaded her husband to save their daughter, who, she said, would waste away and die, and no one married a dead woman.
Ramchandra sat still, hardly breathing. Then he slid off the chair and knelt in front of Goma. He held her hand, and a great sob escaped from him. She reached out and tousled his hair, then drew him close to her breast.
“I am nothing compared to you, Goma,” he said.
“Shhhh.”
“I don’t deserve you.”
“I’ve never idealized you. I just knew what I wanted.”
“And I betrayed
you.”
She held him, and he remained kneeling before her, his face buried in her chest. A breeze circled around them.
13
TWO DAYS LATER a communiqué from the king’s press secretary declared that the king had dismantled the one-party Panchayat system; there would now be a multiparty democratic system in the country. The swiftness of this change surprised many. “You mean it’s over?” people asked one another. In Pandey Palace, everyone stared in disbelief at the television set.
“What does it mean for us, Ba?” Rakesh asked. Perhaps because of the softness of his mother’s expression when his father was there, he’d become polite toward Ramchandra.
“I don’t know,” Ramchandra said. “More freedom, I suppose.”
“Can we have a house of our own now?” Rakesh asked.
“You think the new prime minister will buy you a house?” Sanu said. “Is that what you think? You’re so stupid.” She often used the English word stupid these days, sometimes to refer to herself. She no longer spent time with Kamal; Ramchandra had seen the sadness on her face when she came home after seeing the boy for the last time. But he was certain there would soon be another boy in the picture. Then he would again have to struggle with his overprotective attitude. For now, there was an unspoken truce between him and Sanu. He’d been pleased when, a few days ago, she came to him with a math problem that would be on her forthcoming exam. She didn’t make conversation with him as they solved the problem together, but he could sense the change in her feelings about him.
When they heard the shouts of celebration on the street, all of them went down to the gate. People were streaming onto the streets, shouting, “Panchayat system murdabad,” “Long live multiparty democracy,” “This is the people’s victory.” They tossed red powder into the air. Lighted candles appeared on the windowsills of the surrounding houses. A procession passed by the gate. People in an open truck shouted their triumph, clapping their hands above their heads. Some people danced in front of the truck, and a hand reached out and grabbed Ramchandra. It took him a moment to recognize the face; Mukesh, the student who’d thrown the dead rat at him. “Sir, sir,” he shouted above the noise. “Salaam, sir. I won, you lost. Your Panchayat is gone. The rat is buried.” He was laughing, so Ramchandra wasn’t sure whether he was serious. Ramchandra said, “Are you going to pass your S.L.C.? Are you going to college?” But Mukesh pulled him over and coaxed him to dance, which he did, much to the amusement of Goma and the children. He soon returned to them, out of breath.
The celebrations continued into the night. Sometimes they heard fireworks; at other times, shouts of victory.
That night in bed Ramchandra watched Goma figure out, on a piece of paper, the household budget. Warm glasses of milk sat on the bedside table. Ramchandra’s nightly banana, which he claimed he took for its potassium, lay close by.
“We can’t stay here forever, Goma,” he said. “This is not our house.”
Since that night in the garden, he’d slept here with Goma. Every night he told himself, and Goma, that he’d walk over to Jaisideval, because the rent was going to waste. But every night after dinner he wanted to sleep with Goma.
“What will I do with this big house?” Goma said. The Pandeys had bequeathed the house to her, leaving their land to Nalini.
“I hate it,” Ramchandra said. “I’ve always hated it.”
She stopped her calculations and looked at him. He’d half expected her to get angry, as though he’d violated the memory of her parents. “But I have to deal with it,” she said. “I grew up here, and my parents lived here.”
“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.
Epilogue
ELEVEN 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 issu
es 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.
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