The Kantipur School remained in the same squalid condition, the same puddle-filled courtyard, the same lack of space. A few months ago Ramchandra had dropped by to pay his respects to Bandana Miss, and discovered that she had gone to America to live with her son. Her letters to Gokul Sir, who was now the principal, indicated that she was not happy. Her son had married an American, and, Bandana Miss complained, a black American at that, a habsi, and she wrote that she still wished she had chosen a proper, fair Nepali bride for him. According to her, her son and daughter-in-law were so busy with their work that they didn’t have time for her, and she felt lonely and sad. “I’m beginning to think that America is not such a great country, after all,” she wrote. As the principal and Ramchandra were talking about Bandana Miss, Shailendra came into the staff room. He greeted Ramchandra warmly and asked about his family without any hint of his previous sarcasm. When Ramchandra asked about his, Shailendra smiled. “You don’t know, Ramchandra Sir?” Ramchandra shook his head. “I ended up marrying Namita,” he said. Ramchandra congratulated him and asked how she was doing. “We have a small baby girl.” He told Ramchandra that Namita had continued to see him even after her parents whisked her out of school, and ultimately her parents had relented. “Of course, our castes didn’t match,” Shailendra said, “not to mention that I am a mere schoolteacher and her parents are very rich, but they have accepted me, wholeheartedly. In fact, I have a feeling that I’m their favorite son-in-law.”
Today was Sanu’s birthday, and Ramchandra, who wanted to buy some goat meat, went to his usual butcher. While the butcher was cutting the meat, Ramchandra heard a voice that made him swivel his head. To his left, a few yards away, was a woman inspecting some tomatoes and haggling with the vendor. Although her back was to him, he knew immediately who she was. She turned slightly and he saw her profile. There were new lines under her eyes, her chin was no longer smooth, and she’d put on some weight. The butcher handed him the meat in a plastic bag, and he paid and was about to walk over to greet her, when something held him back. It was the young girl standing beside her. She had the same face, the same slim nose. Rachana noticed him staring; she stared back and then looked away.
Malati finally bought what she wanted, and she and Rachana moved on. He followed, still thinking he’d say something—call out her name, shout namaste, tell her that he was sorry she hadn’t passed her S.L.C. that year. The day the exam results were published, he’d looked for her number in the newspaper. It wasn’t there. Ashok’s was.
A few yards away, Malati stopped to talk to a woman, who exclaimed that she hadn’t seen her in years. Ramchandra, too, stopped. He looked in the window of a sari shop and heard Malati tell the woman that they had moved to Birgunj, where Amrit had started a garment factory. But the factory hadn’t done well, and they were back in the city, with Amrit again driving a taxi. “It’s difficult,” Malati said to the woman, “but we hope to buy the taxi from the owner.” They continued chatting, and Ramchandra continued to examine the sari shop until the owner came out and asked him whether he was interested in buying anything.
Malati was still talking to the woman when Ramchandra passed them. He deliberately walked slowly so that she would see him and call out, “Sir, sir,” and he would turn around and exclaim his pleasure at seeing them and pat Rachana on the head. But nothing happened. He kept walking, and after about a hundred yards, he turned around. She was no longer there.
About the Author
SAMRAT UPADHYAY is the author of Arresting God in Kathmandu, a Whiting Award winner, The Royal Ghosts, and The Guru of Love, a New York Times Notable Book and a San Francisco Chronicle Best Book of the Year. He has written for the New York Times and has appeared on BBC Radio and National Public Radio. Upadhyay directs the creative writing program at Indiana University.
The Guru of Love Page 27