Already, even before the more important guests have graced the Oasis with their presence, a profusion of bouquets and bouquet-printed wrapping paper that holds presents hounds my vision. All the presents will be tea sets.
Tomorrow, the flowers will be fed to some village cows. The gifts will be recycled for all the weddings to which Aamaa will be invited once the winter marriage season sets in. The amount of each monetary offering will be meticulously jotted down in a notebook against the name of the person who gave it.
Soon the VIPs will be here for all of us to suck up to. Manasa has warned me to dress up for the occasion. My uniform of shorts and a T-shirt won’t do. I ask Prasanti to hunt for something decent to wear.
“Wear my kurta, you chakka,” she says. “I haven’t forgotten that you won’t help me when you don’t have stories to dig out of me.”
“Please, get me something.”
“Wear your brother’s pajamas, but he’s the size of a buffalo. I am busy. Look at how many people there are. Go bother somebody else.”
“I am writing a book about you, and you treat me this way?” I plead.
“So, Manasa was right?”
“Yes.”
“You’d better write good things about me. I’ve heard that you wrote bad things about Aamaa.”
“What bad things?”
“Like that she was stingy and didn’t give you enough to eat.”
Prasanti scurries out of the house and then dashes back in. She calls the Brahmin useless, plucks out a bud from a tree, and walks to the balcony, from where I am studying her movements, to talk to me about the priest. She’s busy doing nothing.
“I hate him—gives all Baahuns a bad name,” she says.
“What about you? Do you give Brahmins a bad name?”
“I am a hijra. I was once Muslim. By the way, don’t write about the Muslim part. Aamaa doesn’t know. She will drag me out of this house by my hair if she finds out.”
“Are you sure she doesn’t know?”
“You think she’d allow me to work here?”
“She didn’t object to the white man desecrating her place.”
“But he’s Christian, and I am Muslim.” Prasanti laughs. “Man-woman, Brahmin-Muslim—who am I?”
“You are unique,” I say.
“And you are a sweet talker, condo. You have the Goddess Saraswati in your mouth, but I am not going to find you anything to wear.”
A wedding band trudges up the driveway playing a Bollywood song.
“Who organized that?”
I don’t get Prasanti’s reply because the drumming of the dhol player is the only thing I—or anyone else—can hear.
“What?” I shout.
“I did,” Prasanti says. “Aamaa approved.”
The grandeur—the tacky grandeur—can match a wedding’s opulence—a tacky wedding’s opulence.
Where you have a band wielding trumpets, trombones, and saxophones, a lone priest is bound to be ignored.
“Not now!” the poor priest shrieks. “Music only after the puja.”
The band starts playing another Bollywood wedding song. The priest shouts at the bandmaster. Prasanti demands that the band play a different Hindi number. The bandmaster doesn’t listen to the eunuch. Prasanti yells at the priest. The priest yells back.
“Who’s that man who keeps staring at me?” I ask Prasanti.
“Oh, the minister from next door. Aamaa and I didn’t think he’d come. He hates Aamaa because she used my skills to prevent him from building a rooftop restaurant. He’s coming to us.” Prasanti sprints away.
“You are the younger one, aren’t you?” the minister says. “Some kind of a writer, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You see that house?” He points to the building in front of me. “That building couldn’t be completed because of your Aamaa—quite a woman of substance, she is.”
“I am sorry.”
“The restaurant on the terrace had already been planned.”
I move away.
Nicky hurtles from one end of the garden to the other taking pictures. The cousin’s cousin—who had once told me that he wanted to be a writer but is now, like everyone else, an engineer—fills him in on Prasanti’s quarrel with the priest.
Aamaa is getting ready so no one arbitrates the dispute between the pundit and Prasanti.
A heavily made-up Manasa joins me at my vantage point.
“I feel like a queen up here,” she says. “Is that why you’ve chosen to stand here on the balcony?”
“A queen wouldn’t cake her face with that much makeup,” I reply.
“Why aren’t you dressed?”
“I have nothing but shorts and T-shirts, and I sort of want to maintain a low profile.”
“Shorts and tees are a surefire way to attract attention here, Ruthwa. Go look for something nice.”
“Where would I find something nice?”
“Ask Nicholas. You could wear something he has.”
Nicky does have clothes—lots and lots of them. He had shopped for sherwanis in Delhi, and while some are ornate—the kind only royalty could get away with—others are all right. The Neupaney Oasis’s favorite guest is only too willing to lend his clothes to the Neupaney Oasis’s most hated guest.
Bhagwati looks ravishing in green. God has given her 80 percent of the family’s looks, me 15 percent, and divided 5 percent between Agastaya and Manasa, with Agastaya taking the bigger piece of the pie, no doubt.
Agastaya wears a red kurta that mirrors Nicky’s red kurta.
Prasanti complains that she’s too busy to change, so she appoints me the temporary custodian of a bunch of keys in her absence.
“Where’s Aamaa?”—Manasa.
“Where’s Aamaa?”—Agastaya.
“Where’s Aamaa?”—Bhagwati.
“Where is she?” I ask.
Aamaa’s entrance into the garden is almost anticlimactic. She is dressed the way she usually is: the end of her white sari covering her head, the quality, hue, and lack of patterns on her white blouse no different from the one she wore the day before.
She spots Agastaya in the crowd. “Why aren’t you all in proper Nepali outfits?” she asks. “You could have acquired them from the factory and . . .”
But she’s swarmed by people before she can finish voicing her thoughts. Like a queen acknowledging her subjects, Aamaa joins her hands in a perpetual Namaste, only unjoining them to accept presents and colorful khadas, silk scarves that she doesn’t wear around her neck.
“Where’s Prasanti?” Aamaa asks. “Is Prasanti dead? I need someone to take the presents inside.”
“I can take them in.” I run down, and Aamaa passes me a few boxes without looking at me.
“I told you all not to bring presents—this is what happens when you don’t obey me,” Queen Neupaney croons to her disciples.
At the jagya, where the fire is hissing away, Aamaa returns the greeting of the pundit and sits down.
“They started playing those vulgar Hindi songs even before the puja,” the pundit complains.
“Keep it short,” Aamaa repeats to the priest. “Make the ceremony really succinct, Pundit-jee.”
Nicky the white guy holds court with a group of brown people at the buffet. He has on a plain Gurkha hat—black, patternless—while people around him bask in the glory of an American honoring their culture by deigning to wear a Nepali hat. He funnily pronounces bhaat khaanchu, the Nepali words for “I’ll eat rice,” while all those clamoring for a piece of him beam about the permeability of their damn language.
Nicky garbles something about the piquancy of the dalley chili a total of ten times. Each time the audience response is more raucous than before.
“Your grandmother is like a queen,” the American says to me when I amble up to his circus. “Look at how regal she looks.”
“She doesn’t look any different from the way she did yesterday,” I say. “You look more regal than she does.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Nicky replies, blushing.
The priest keeps the ceremony short. He requests Aamaa to sprinkle spices into the fire.
“Amazing.” Nicky changes the settings of his camera from video to still and back to video. “Amazing. Such a rich culture.”
Once the puja is over, the band plays some more songs.
“I feel like a bride—a widow bride,” Aamaa says. “Who authorized the band?”
“Prasanti said you gave her permission,” I say tenuously.
“That liar,” Aamaa replies, and then, realizing that she has spoken directly to me, repeats “liar” louder. “Prasanti is a liar,” she finishes.
The queen’s subjects laugh. Nicky stares in amazement. I wait for her to deliver the speech.
When you expect three hundred guests, not everyone is invited to attend the celebration at the same time. You choose various slots to accommodate invitees’ social prominence and political leanings—although a steady influx of people will be flowing in and out all day. It is unlikely that Aamaa will make a speech every hour—that would dilute her brand. Our friend Nicky has done his bit in contributing a new malady that will sweep this culture. Soon, everyone in Gangtok will make speeches left and right.
Aamaa chastises friends and family for bringing presents, censures the band for being too loud, nibbles on a snack here or there, but she doesn’t make the speech.
“Has she forgotten about it?” I ask Agastaya.
“I don’t know,” Agastaya replies. “I wonder why Nicky even made that suggestion.”
“Yes, I wonder why he’s even here.”
“Exactly my point.” Agastaya looks away from a shutter-happy Nicky.
Some guests want to take pictures with the American. He happily obliges.
“He looks so good in that Indian outfit,” a woman remarks.
“I know—it suits him so well,” another opines. “The Nepali topi makes him look even better. He looks like a younger Bill Clinton.”
Manasa escapes a circle of snarling women who ask her when she’d give them the good news of her pregnancy.
“Never.” She heads my way.
“Babies?” I ask.
“Yes. Have you had enough marriage questions already?”
“None so far.”
“Because they’ve all been directed at me.”—Agastaya.
“At least the relatives don’t look at you with a mixture of shame and pity the way they do at Bhagwati,” I say.
“She’s handling it so well.” Manasa points at Bhagwati, who looks dignified and distant with a group of people.
“She’s used to it,” Agastaya adds, then shuts up when Bhagwati joins us.
Nicky wants to take pictures of the entire family. He perches Aamaa on a plush red chair meant for Subba, the chief minister, and requests that we all stand around her. The legend and her future. The queen and her imperial brood.
“The happy family. What a good-looking family.”—Nicky.
“I know. Model good looks.”—Manasa.
“One more picture.” Nicky takes another shot. “If only the partners were all here, this would have been a complete picture.”
Sirens far away announce the arrival of important men. People stand up to hail said important men and their women. Only Aamaa remains seated. The important people come to greet her and gift her.
The loudest siren, the most piercing one, is soon sounded. Subba grants everyone a collective Namaste as his minions queue up to offer him khadas.
“Is he, like, the king of Sikkim?” Nicky asks me.
“No, the emperor,” I correct him. “The elected emperor.”
“Nice job you’ve done with the steps—the road looks amazing,” Subba says to Aamaa. “It saved me a long walk.”
“I know,” says Aamaa before they cower and whisper.
Oh, yes, this is when she will make the speech—when the most important man is finally here.
A microphone is arranged for, the band is asked to stop whatever perky song it is playing, and Nicky, our self-appointed master of ceremonies, speaks: “Thank you for coming, everyone. And now Aamaa will give a speech.”
Guests laugh.
Aamaa’s speech is impressive in its length.
She thanks everyone. She starts with her family—her grandchildren—although she doesn’t name names. She thanks Subba and his council of ministers. She thanks the factory in Kalimpong and the workers there. She thanks those who help run her hotels.
She thanks Prasanti, who isn’t anywhere in sight.
Her last note of gratitude is for God. She receives a standing ovation (but that could be because half the attendees were already on their feet when she spoke).
A shout from Prasanti interrupts the applause.
“Aamaa, phone!” Prasanti screams as the cheering weakens.
“Now?” Aamaa says. “Tell them to call tomorrow.”
Everyone—including Subba—laughs.
“He says it is very important,” Prasanti says, handing the cordless to Aamaa.
All eyes are now on my grandmother.
“Hello,” she says, and she listens.
Then she faints.
•
I first notice the rapid yellowing of her sari. I try to think of a suitable metaphor but can’t. Even a senseless analogy escapes me.
Aamaa has lost control of her bladder. The woman who has always been in control has lost it. It is as though Aamaa’s hardy, tireless, resilient soul no longer inhabits her frail, urine-soaked, unconscious body.
The doctor grandson and his friend try resuscitating her while working in perfect tandem with each other. One holds her wrist; the white friend kisses her on the mouth.
Nicky says we should call an ambulance.
“Take my car,” Subba says.
Agastaya asks the CM’s security guards to help him lift Aamaa and deposit her in the backseat of the waiting Pajero. He gets in with her.
“Should we follow you in another car?” Nicky asks Agastaya.
Agastaya says nothing.
Nicky and Bhagwati get into a waiting car. A bawling Prasanti jumps into the front seat two seconds later.
Manasa and I look at each other.
“What should we do?” I ask, as if she’d know the answer.
“Talk to Subba, I guess.”
So we seek the advice of Subba, the most powerful man in the state, who reasons that everyone should go home.
“All the food will go to waste,” Manasa says. “Shouldn’t those who haven’t eaten eat first?”
Subba announces that people should eat before leaving. For once, nobody obeys him.
“It’d be so nice to be alone right now.”—Manasa.
Well-meaning guests linger, deliberating Aamaa’s mortality among themselves.
“If you’re all staying, at least eat,” Manasa requests. “You must be hungry.”
Once Subba grabs a plate, a few people follow suit.
“Herd mentality.”—Manasa.
“Glad you can still make such astute observations,” I reply.
“I don’t get it—these guests are well-intentioned, but who wants to be surrounded by this many people in a moment of crisis?”—Manasa.
“Think she’ll make it?” I ask.
“She will. What do you think?”
“She will. She’s tough. Didn’t you see how relaxed Agastaya was?”
The cordless rings. I pick up.
It is Bhagwati. “She’s come to. Agastaya says she’s fine. They’re still going to the hospital to get her checked on.”
I give Manasa the good news.
“Thank God,” we say in unison.
I request Subba to make the announcement that Aamaa is conscious. There’s a polite smattering of applause.
“So, why did she faint?”—Manasa.
“How do I know?”
“Let me call Bhagwati.”
She does. She’s quiet. She listens. Her f
ace falls. Her cheeks turn red. She hangs up.
“What is it?” I ask.
“The Kalimpong factory has been razed to the ground.”
“What do you mean?”
“Burned.”
“What the fuck? Was there an accident?”
“Apparently, Aamaa’s grandson wrote a column telling people not to wear traditional clothes and making fun of the Gorkha Jana-shakti Morcha leadership. It was Aamaa who asked Moktan to mandate the traditional clothes. It was our factory in Kalimpong that was supplying them. The Gorkha Jana-shakti Morcha thinks it was a setup: Aamaa suggests something, so her grandson can ridicule it. The Gorkha Jana-shakti Morcha is afraid it has lost all credibility. Moktan is furious.”
•
Reunion—the word has such a ridiculous, Western ring to it. When Agastaya refers to the Chaurasi as a reunion, I laugh a little at him. People in the West keep themselves busy during reunions—they play sports; they drink. We do neither. We sit around and squabble and pretend everything is all right.
It’s as though calling the Chaurasi a reunion instantly glamorizes it, takes the tedium out of family.
This reunion was strange, but I wasn’t expecting anything different. There’d be big, uncomfortable silences, I had conjectured. There were. Awkwardness. There was. Reminiscences. There were. The revisiting of past follies and passions. There was. Vindictiveness. There was. Vindication. There was.
And fuck-ups—the largest of which I was, again, responsible for.
“I did it again,” I tell Manasa as we go downhill to the Central Referral Hospital.
“Yes, you did.”
“But my intentions weren’t bad. I don’t expect you to believe it.”
“You claimed they were good the last time, too.”
“Nah. The rape story, I wrote because I knew it’d be an instant bestseller.”
“How you underestimated it. It also became a critical success.”
“And I don’t begrudge that.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
“Even if I had known what would happen, I’d have written the book. I’d still have included the rape.”
“You are a bastard.”
“But I’d not have written this article. It was a mistake.”
“Don’t expect me to believe that, Ruthwa. It was your way of being noticed. The world had forgotten about you, so you chose a topic that would get a rise out of those stupid separatist leaders.”
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