Land Where I Flee

by Prajwal Parajuly

  He often wondered how Bhagwati looked upon her natal family, whether she took responsibility for having caused all those years of irreversible pain. Did she feel remorseful? Was it possible to focus on the bigger picture and dismiss other matters as inconsequential? Is that what Bhagwati had done to make life work for her? Could he do that? Would compartmentalizing his two lives—one with his family and the other with Nicky—continue uneasily working and work forever?

  How was he to greet the older sister he hadn’t seen in almost two decades? Hugging was too Western, a handshake too forced. They’d just awkwardly stare at each other and smile. That’s what all his family members did. No one touched—just as no one shared bad news. That was for other families. His only cared about successes and victories and joys. Sorrows, you dealt with yourself. Touching, you kept to yourself.

  He was determined that things would be different with Bhagwati this time around. He’d ask her questions and try to understand her decision—he owed at least that to her. He had missed out on eighteen years, eighteen long years, and he would catch up. He wanted to know about the camps, about her slide from the uppermost to the lowermost caste. She had lived through a lot, his sister, and he may not have been there when the actual living was taking place, but he hoped to make up for it now.

  Agastaya removed his coat because Bagdogra was hot even in October. He should have called Nicky to let him know that he was almost home, but instead he texted “wish me luck with the sister. hope it’s not awkward.” A response arrived in a few minutes: “give her my kisses.” Agastaya always read and reread between the lines of all Nicky’s messages. He hoped this one wouldn’t have a qualifier similar to “if I exist for her, that is.” When no such viciousness came, he decided that Nicky had probably satisfied his malice quotient for the week.

  They were bound to be ill-at-ease with each other. When Bhagwati headed toward him, looking at least a decade younger than her thirty-seven years—her skin radiant, her gait energetic, eyes luminous, and her hair in a bun with not a strand out of place—it was difficult to connect this person with the pitiful woman who had been the subject of his ruminations for much of his flight. She looked cherubic. He didn’t remember his sister being so youthful, but you didn’t look for signs of aging in a nineteen-year-old when you were fifteen.

  “Hi,” Bhagwati said, bridging eighteen years with a simple word. “You’ve lost more hair than your Facebook pictures depict.”

  “And you’re prettier than your profile picture.”

  “It feels like we’re on a blind date, does it not?”

  They proceeded to the taxi stand, Agastaya mindful of his sister’s gaze on him. He suddenly became conscious of the Burberry coat he was holding. Would Bhagwati, who had spent half her life at a camp, even if she looked as if she had luxuriated in a spa for the last eighteen years, know of the brand and how expensive his coat was? He was nervous she’d get offended; she could have put the money to far better use.

  “How do you like my coat?” he blurted, and then he silently berated himself. He was such an idiot at times.

  “It’s nice,” Bhagwati said. “Burberry?”

  “How do you know?” Agastaya asked, curious.

  “Your sister’s worked retail since moving to America,” Bhagwati nonchalantly said. “Retail and restaurants—I’m quite an expert. I don’t think the Americans themselves know of as many styles of eggs as I do.”

  She spoke more in English than in Nepali, as she did on the phone, but her accent was distinctly un-American. Possibly a lack of assimilation. “Macy’s, right?” He jogged his memory.

  “No, Nordstrom’s, and I couldn’t deal with having to show my teeth all day,” Bhagwati said, not returning the smile of the obsequious Hyundai Santro driver who rushed to help with their luggage.

  Her bags didn’t look very different from his. In fact, she looked richer than he did, so what if his godforsaken coat probably cost more than all her clothes in all her bags? That was the beauty of America: in a strange way, it brought everyone to the same level. Rich or poor—with the occasional exception—everyone looked the same. A millionaire in India would stand out in a crowd even if he tried fitting in—sort of the way they, an America-returned doctor and an America-returned refugee, did right now. In America, with its jeans-and-T-shirt egalitarianism, everyone was uniform.

  “How’s Venaju?” he asked about his brother-in-law, whom he had never met and with whom he hadn’t even had a phone conversation.

  “Fine. Started a new job.” Short answers were Bhagwati’s forte when queries involved her husband.

  Agastaya wanted to ask where but thought it impolite. “And the children?”

  “Totally American. Complain about the smell when I stew gundruk. Don’t reply when spoken to in Nepali. It infuriates their father.”

  She had already told him on several occasions about the imperceptible absorption of her children by America.

  Agastaya started to suggest that they grab a drink before they went up the hills. Then he contained his proposal because he didn’t know if Bhagwati drank. How little he knew of his sister! Two years of unfailingly talking to her on the phone at least once a week should have increased their comfort level, but it didn’t. Was it because they always made efforts to conceal certain aspects of their lives and the other was respectful of that? Was that why their talks veered nowhere beyond gossiping about others in their family? Agastaya, just moments before so assertive to himself about getting Bhagwati to talk of matters outside the superficial, hadn’t taken into account that awkward silences would compound now that they were not talking on the phone.

  “How nervous are you about seeing everyone?” he asked, deliberately ambling into the familiar.

  “I don’t know. I can’t help thinking this trip is a big mistake.”

  “Why?” At least this would keep them going until the pleasures of vomiting, triggered by vertiginous roads, kept his mouth busy once they left the plains.

  “What’s my last name?”

  “Neupaney,” he said without thinking or understanding where she was going with the question.

  “No, after my marriage.”

  “Damaai,” he said.

  He hadn’t known she had appended her husband’s last name to her maiden name until she explicitly told him to book her ticket under Bhagwati Neupaney Damaai—“devoid of hyphen,” she had warned several times.

  “Yes, I am Bhagwati Neupaney Damaai.”

  “Uh.” He didn’t know what to say.

  “And what are we going to?”

  “Aamaa’s Chaurasi.”

  “Which is, let’s face it, a religious function.”

  “So?”

  “A Damaai in the Neupaney house for a religious function—ooooh, the horror.”

  “Do you think that will create problems?”

  “It’s Aamaa, you know. Aamaa and a group of pundits. They will have a field day with a Damaai in their house.”

  “But you and Aamaa have rekindled your love story.”

  “If talking about the weather and discussing Prasanti is romance.”

  “At least there’s talk—that’s progress.”

  “There’s a lot of unresolved anger from her side—I’ll tell you. She will not let go of the Damaai issue. It’s been simmering for a long time.”

  “You can always argue that you weren’t born one.”

  “It will make for compelling argument.”

  “You don’t speak like a person who works retail at all.”

  “Tell that to all the hiring Americans. Fools—they look at my face and assume I can’t speak.”

  The dusty plains of Siliguri gradually gave way to hills with serpentine roads. Lighter-skinned people—their eyes and frames tinier—replaced their darker cousins, and the air became colder as they climbed higher. A drink would have helped alleviate his dizziness, but Agastaya popped a Tylenol, which invited a comment about his Americanization from Bhagwati. How long had it been since he wa
s last in Gangtok? Six years? Almost seven years. As a child, he had always added half an hour to every journey between Gangtok and Kalimpong, much to the annoyance of his siblings because he needed to throw up at regular intervals. That’s what these winding roads did to him—right now, he could sense the hills moving while the car felt stationary.

  Past Chitrey, where monkeys plucked ticks off one another’s backsides alongside copulating dogs, a big group of young women, dressed in their traditional gunyu-cholo and shouting anti-West Bengal slogans, encircled their car.

  “We are the Gorkha Jana-shakti Morcha,” one of them said. “And we recommend that everyone in Gorkhaland wear traditional clothes during Dashain and Tihaar.”

  “We are from Sikkim,” Agastaya gently said.

  “You’re in a West Bengal car,” the woman replied.

  “It’s a taxi,” Agastaya countered.

  “You people from Sikkim have so much money,” said the woman’s friend as she signaled the group to move to another car. “You should be traveling in your own cars.”

  “The Gorkhaland movement is gaining traction,” Agastaya said, in Nepali.

  On hearing the G-word, the driver quickly added, “Yes, sir, the chief minister of Sikkim has given his support to the revolution, as have several big people.”

  “A lot of men are wearing daura-suruwal,” Agastaya said, unnerved by the absence of men in Western clothes.

  “Yes, sir, it is mandatory to wear it today. Even I am wearing the daura but not the pants.”

  Agastaya hadn’t seen the man’s top before—the jacket must have hidden it. He only now noticed that the driver even had on a black Nepali hat whose front was adorned with two miniature knives.

  “It must be uncomfortable,” Agastaya said.

  “A little discomfort for Gorkhaland, sir,” the driver replied. “Moktan will make it happen.”

  “Just as the leaders before him did,” Agastaya said with an undercurrent of sarcasm. “Forcing people to wear traditional outfits isn’t the way to go.”

  “I had some Nepali woman stitch a set of daura-suruwals for my sons,” Bhagwati said. “They haven’t taken to the costume. They say it makes them stand out. I told them to wear them for Halloween.”

  “Do you love both of them equally?”

  “Yes,” Bhagwati said. Then with some uncertainty she added, “Yes, I think so.”

  “Your almost-American children.”

  Bhagwati repeated the sentence with the requisite change in pronoun.

  For childhood memories’ sake, they got out at Rangpo, on the border between West Bengal and Sikkim, to eat momos at Mid-Point Restaurant.

  “I wonder what it will be like,” Agastaya said. He detected a pattern—where silence became uncomfortable, it was always wise to go back to the Chaurasi.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, all of us—except Ruthwa—together after this long.”

  “And the best part is, none of the spouses will be there,” Bhagwati said. “We can be ourselves, I hope.”

  “Yes, Manasa says her husband won’t be there.”

  “It was a last-minute decision, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, there’s more trouble there than we think,” Agastaya said.

  “What do you think will happen?”

  “She’s headstrong.”

  “What, exactly, is wrong with him again?” Bhagwati asked.

  “Apparently, he tries too hard.” Agastaya gave her a quizzical look. They both shook their heads and laughed. “It’s not because he’s abusive or a cheater. It’s because he tries too hard.”

  “There may be other reasons.”

  “It’s not because he’s selfish and neglects her,” he said in between peals of laughter. “It’s because he tries too hard.”

  “Oh, shh,” Bhagwati said.

  Her convulsions egged him on. “Not because of caste or money problems . . .” Then he stopped. “Sorry,” he said.

  “That’s fine—we don’t have money problems. And Ram’s caste is now my caste, so it’s something I have to live with. If that prohibits me from taking part in the Chaurasi, so be it.”

  “I am sure they won’t be that discriminatory.”

  “They will.”

  “And you say you have no money problems. How do you expect me to believe that? I know Venaju hasn’t had a proper job in a long time, and I know you don’t make enough. You should be able to get a well-paid job. At least, unlike most other refugees, you can speak English.”

  “I doubt that many in America think that.”

  “You speak better than most immigrants.”

  “You think so, but I still have a difficult time understanding the accent. It takes me five seconds to get what you’d comprehend in two.”

  They polished off the dumplings before them while swatting flies away.

  “You’d think there’d be no flies in October in Sikkim,” Agastaya said.

  “You forget you’re in Rangpo,” Bhagwati said offhandedly. “The momos aren’t as good as I remember them.”

  Agastaya had an epiphany. “Why don’t you start one?”

  “Start what?”

  “A dumpling business in Boulder.” He was excited. “Think of it.”

  “I don’t have Aamaa’s business acumen or your intelligence.”

  “You don’t need any intelligence for a momo stall. And the acumen, you will pick up. I think we all have some business sense ingrained in us.”

  “It’s too much of a hassle.” Bhagwati sighed. “There’s just so much work. And with the children, the absence of capital, and everything else, it’s difficult.”

  “Capital can be raised. We others could be silent partners.”

  “And then I become indebted to you forever?”

  “You don’t have to be—it’s an investment.” Agastaya touched her arm to wipe the spot of spit that had projected from his mouth and landed there. “You have the papers. All you have to do is come up with the capital. Maybe you could sell something to CU Boulder students. Think of the kind of lines that would set off.”

  “Should we take momos for the others?” Bhagwati said.

  “Yes, let’s.”

  Agastaya asked the shopkeeper to pack ten plates of momos. After a quick argument about who would pay—Bhagwati wouldn’t allow him to foot the entire bill, so they split it—they exited Mid-Point for the last leg of their journey.

  •

  Bhagwati was at first dismissive of Agastaya’s suggestion and thought of it with the lack of seriousness she devoted to most of her younger brother’s ideas. Agastaya, whom success had never eluded, was quick to get excited about everything without thinking it through. Just a couple of weeks before, he had called her about the profit margins gas stations yielded. Experience had played havoc with Bhagwati’s optimism. Still, she knew that not to be animated about Agastaya’s grandiose plans was to invite scorn and derision, so she played along until his enthusiasm fizzled and some other business plans caught his attention.

  But a dumpling stall—not a proper restaurant—definitely made more sense than other ideas. Preparing momos was a labor-intensive process, so perhaps she could do without the huge capital. The overhead costs would be negligible because she and Ram would do all the work in their kitchen. Ram would knead the dough, she’d roll out the wrappings, he would stuff the wrappings with meat or cabbage, and she’d steam the dumplings. The boys would help, too. She wondered if she could use one of the credit cards to establish capital. With all their cards close to maxing out, that could be impossible. Because she had no job to go back to, she could maybe take risks and experiment a little. For the first time in years, she felt somewhat optimistic. Weary as she was of Agastaya’s fleeting fervor, she had to admit, he had outdone himself this time.

  “More and more buildings!” Agastaya exclaimed as they approached Singtam.

  “Probably more landslides, too,” Bhagwati said.

  The driver once again tried sharing with them
stories of political goings-on. “And they thought Congress would win, but, no, no one can beat Subba. Subba is a tiger, a lion.”

  “A benevolent dictator,” Agastaya said to Bhagwati in English. “He’s all-powerful.”

  The driver asked them which family in Gangtok they came from. Both, preferring obscurity, were reluctant to disclose their grandmother’s identity. Having this man know of their family would require them to censor themselves, so they rebuffed most of his attempts at talk and spoke to each other in English.

  “Ah, remember how these hairpin curves gave you motion sickness?” Bhagwati remarked after an especially treacherous bend. “You were such a vomiter.”

  “I still am,” Agastaya said.

  “And look how brown the Teesta looks,” Bhagwati remarked. “October and still so murky.”

  “See? That’s what I mean when I say you have good English. You use such surprisingly good words.”

  “You mean ‘vomiter?’” Bhagwati asked.

  “No, ‘hairpin.’ ‘Murky’ to describe the river. Those are words even I wouldn’t use—so apt and expressive. I’d have probably used ‘muddy.’”

  “Whatever. If only I didn’t have to strain my ears to understand the Americans, my life would be so much easier.”

  “Perhaps if you had watched Small Wonder as a child, you’d have a better understanding of accents.”

  “Whatever again. Those TV shows were dubbed in Hindi.”

  Brother and sister marveled at how much they remembered and how much they had pushed to the dark recesses of their brains.

  “What do you think the highlight of this trip will be?” Agastaya asked.

  “The fact that I’m going to my own house after eighteen years?” Bhagwati answered unsurely.

  “Think of it. All of us—well, the three of us—together after so long. We have all become different people.”

  “I am a little nervous about the tension between Manasa and Aamaa. I want to see what it looks like when someone stands up to Aamaa. Prasanti told me on the phone that it was a sight.”