The Gurkha's Daughter Read online

  THE GURKHA’S DAUGHTER

  New York • London

  © 2013 by Prajwal Parajuly

  Maps © 2013 by Raymond Turvey

  Cover design by boldandnoble.com

  Cover photographs © 123rf.com

  First published in the United States by Quercus in 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to [email protected].

  e-ISBN: 978-1-62365-146-6

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercus.com

  To Shivabhakta Sharma (1918–2009) of Chiuribotey Busty, Kalimpong, the best storyteller of them all

  Contents

  The Cleft

  Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

  A Father’s Journey

  Missed Blessing

  No Land Is Her Land

  The Gurkha’s Daughter

  Passing Fancy

  The Immigrants

  Glossary of Foreign Words

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Gurkha’s Daughter is an unusual title for a book published in North America. The word Gurkha in the title refers to a Nepalese soldier in the British Army. After the North American rights to the book were sold, the first question I asked my publishers at Quercus was if the title in the US and Canada would remain the same. After all, North Americans might not have the same familiarity with—or fondness for—these soldiers whom the United Kingdom and many other nations of the world associate with valiance. Gurkha was too foreign, too esoteric, too difficult on the tongue, I reasoned. No Land Is Her Land became a contender for the title, as did The Cleft. A few discussions later, however, we decided to stick with The Gurkha’s Daughter—changing the name of the book just because it contained a foreign word, we concluded, would be underestimating the worldliness of the North American reader. In addition, the other titles didn’t capture the inherent Nepaliness of the book (the term Gurkha is also increasingly being used to describe the Indian Nepalese) as perfectly as The Gurkha’s Daughter did.

  Gurkha is the anglicized version of Gorkha, which is the preferred spelling in South Asia. For more insight into the Nepali words and phrases in the book, please consult the glossary. Since words may have different meanings depending on their context, some of the same words appear more than once across the glossary.

  THE CLEFT

  When Parvati first heard the news, by way of a phone call from her youngest brother-in-law in Birtamod, she applied some coconut oil to her hair and called for the servant girl to massage her scalp and temples. The two perched themselves on the rickety wooden stairs leading to the house, Parvati with her legs wide apart, as the servant’s fingers adroitly negotiated their way through the thick tangle of hair on Parvati’s head.

  “The demon,” Parvati said, smiling to herself. “She’s dead.”

  “She’s dead,” the girl echoed.

  “Do you even know who I am talking about, you foolish girl?” Parvati gently hit the servant’s hand.

  “Yes, your mother.”

  “Not my mother, but my mother-in-law. Your name is Kaali, you dark girl, and your brain is as dark as your face. You understand nothing.”

  “But you call her Aamaa, don’t you?”

  “Of course, I have to. What else would I call my husband’s mother? My daughter? It’s a good thing you’ve found employment here, Kaali. With the way you think, you’d be thrown out of everywhere else. Not to forget the way you look—black as coal and those grotesque lips. Were my husband alive, he’d have kicked you out already.”

  Parvati turned back to look at the servant’s lip. Kaali’s teeth protruded from under the cleft, and she looked like a mouse ready to nibble on a piece of cheese. Parvati touched the deformity with her fingers.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  “No, I am used to it.”

  “That’s the reason you still have a home, Kaali—you never complain. You wash plates like a blind woman—just today I had to rewash three plates—and you mop like a baby. You aren’t good at anything and look like that, but I’ll put up with you because of your attitude.”

  Kaali was now forming slow circles around Parvati’s temples. Parvati’s hair glistened in the Kathmandu sun, which was frail and playing hide-and-seek, and she let out a cry when Kaali, through a rough motion of fingers, selected a strand of gray hair and, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger, extracted a big, fat louse.

  “Look at it,” Kaali said, showing Parvati the insect crawling in between the lines of her palm. “That’s a dhaarey. It sucks more blood than a jumraa.”

  Kaali threw the louse on the ground and, before it could escape, brought her thumb down to crush it, causing a tiny speck of blood to flick up and catch her cleft.

  “I don’t know where I’ve been getting these from,” Parvati remarked. “It must be because I tie my hair right after washing it.”

  “These things thrive in damp hair,” Kaali said.

  “You know everything, don’t you?”

  “I don’t see another one.”

  “You know what they say—when you see one, you don’t see hundreds.”

  “I don’t see any more of them.”

  “That’s because you can’t do anything efficiently, didn’t I tell you?” Parvati said, adding in a resigned voice, “Maybe it is Aamaa’s spirit.”

  “When will you go to Birtamod?” Kaali asked.

  “Why? So you can watch TV all day? Think I don’t know what you do when I am gone?”

  “No, no, I just want to know. When will you go?”

  “I am mourning right now,” Parvati said with a wry smile. “I can’t think straight. I am sure the relatives will come up with some plan for me.”

  “Will I go too?”

  “Why? You want a plane ride, you greedy girl?”

  “I didn’t know we’d take a plane.”

  “There probably are no plane tickets available for today or tomorrow. Or the day after. The bokshee makes everything difficult. A woman who so easily made our lives difficult when alive is equally bad dead.”

  “Do you think she can hear us?”

  “Let her, I don’t care. But you haven’t said anything bad about her, so why do you worry? If her aatmaa is still hovering around here, I’ll be the one it will come to scare in the night. Your face would scare even the ghosts. Are you fourteen yet, Kaali?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “If you stay with us for four more years, maybe we’ll arrange for some surgery. Will that make you happy?”

  “And school?” She spotted another louse but didn’t pursue it.

  “Why go to school?” Parvati looked straight at Kaali. “Look, I am high school pass, and yet I stay at home doing nothing. You need not go to school. Learn the basics from me. Show some initiative. Bring your notebook and pencil when I am free. But why would you? You’re too busy running around Battisputal
li with the neighborhood children, too busy imagining what a beauty you will turn into after the surgery. Remember, the surgery only takes place after four years, and I shall take into account every misbehavior of yours before I decide on it.”

  Yes, we will take care of the lip, he had said. And school, too. Now that you talk to me about going to school, it seems you have a brain we can’t waste, we shouldn’t waste. It’s just that all the mind-numbing chores at your mistress’s place have made you rusty.

  The phone in the hallway put a stop to Kaali’s daydream.

  “Go get it,” Parvati ordered. “The relatives must have made some travel arrangements. If anyone asks for me, tell them I am crying.”

  “What if they want to talk to you?”

  “Tell them I can’t talk.”

  Kaali ran to the phone while Parvati followed to listen in on the extension.

  “Hello, Bhauju,” the voice on the other end said. It was Sarita, Parvati’s dead husband’s sister.

  “No, this is Kaali.”

  The voice at once changed. “Where’s Bhauju?”

  “She’s crying.”

  “Call her.”

  “I can’t. She’s crying.”

  “I don’t care. Call her to the phone. It’s my mother who’s dead, not hers, and I am not crying.”

  “She says no.”

  “You’re so stupid. Are you the one with the bad lip?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyway, tell Bhauju to be ready. My brother-in-law has agreed to loan us his van and driver to go to Birtamod. There’s a seat left for Bhauju. Her share will be two thousand rupees.”

  “What about me?”

  “What will you do at a funeral? You can stay at home, or if you’re that desperate, you can come sit in the trunk of the van with the luggage. It’s a long journey, but you might have more space back there than we will in the front. All right, we’ll be there in an hour. Tell her to be ready.”

  “I will, but what if she’s not willing to listen to me?”

  “And you, please wipe that snot off your face and wear something clean. I want a clean skirt.”

  Kaali didn’t have to tell her mistress about the chat. Parvati hobbled into the hallway, a traumatized look on her face.

  “How dare she?” she hissed. “You’re clean. We’ve taught you clean habits. Don’t you bathe once and sometimes twice a week? And no one should comment on your bad lip. It’s not your fault you were born that way. Didn’t she say she’d be here in an hour? We need to pack, Kaali. We have some work to do.”

  “Am I going too?”

  “Of course, you are, you fool. I don’t know who else is going to fill up the van. No space? She’ll probably bring that Australian paying guest she takes everywhere with her—that elephant. You can sit in the trunk. After all, I am paying two thousand rupees. What are the others paying then? Nothing, I’m sure. Always taking advantage of our bigheartedness, all of Sir’s family. Nothing I ever do is enough for them.”

  Beneath the staircase leading to the second floor was Kaali’s tiny bed, under which lay cardboard boxes that housed her prized belongings: three colorful new skirts with their price tags still on them and four hundred-rupee notes in a Liv-52 plastic container. Kaali threw the skirts into a plastic bag, forked out the notes, and shoved them in a skirt pocket. She looked at her face in her purple compact mirror, wiped the droplets of perspiration that had gathered on her forehead, and returned to help Parvati with her packing.

  All you need to do is get to the Indian border, he had said. A relative of mine will then pick you up. Here’s some money for you. Do you know when your mistress will take you to Birtamod next? The border is just half an hour away from there.

  Parvati already had a suitcase ready and was washing her hair in the kitchen sink. She ordered Kaali to hold portions of her hair while she shampooed the rest.

  “Look at it falling out,” Parvati said. “Soon I won’t have any left.”

  “Your hair is thick,” Kaali offered. “It will take many years for it to completely fall out.”

  “You know nothing. How long have you been with us? Four years? You came as a baby and still have the brains of a baby.”

  “I think I came when I was eight. I’ve been here five years.”

  “Yes, yes, four years, five years—what’s the difference? You were nothing but bones when we brought you in. Your mother didn’t want another girl child.”

  Parvati had narrated the story before. In fact, Kaali heard it on a weekly basis. Her mother, pressured by the growing number of mouths to feed, decided to chop off the weakest link in her family. It had to be a girl, and Kaali, with her cleft lip, was the most useless of them all. She was a sickly child, a liability who’d never be an asset. When a young widow came to their shanty in Dooars, on the India-Bhutan border, looking for a servant girl, Kaali’s mother offered her for free.

  “Your life was sad then,” Parvati said. “Do you remember it?”

  “No, I don’t,” Kaali replied. “I only remember my life from after I moved here.”

  “It’s good you have no recollection. You were sick from eating all that mud outside your hut. Your brothers and sisters hated you, and I shouldn’t blame them, for you were scary to look at. Your father was a useless man. I wonder if he’s still alive.”

  “I don’t remember him either.”

  “You don’t even remember how I ran after your eight-year-old self because you had instinctively guessed I was taking you away. What an imbecile—you had no clue you were going to lead a better life with me. You don’t remember how many spoons of sugar I need. You don’t even remember the insults Sarita just heaped on you. You remember nothing. What do I do with you?”

  Kaali knew what was coming next. It was the underwear story. Parvati never tired of it.

  “And you didn’t have any underwear on, you uncivilized being—how often have I told you about the panties you wore on your head after I bought you a pair? You thought they didn’t fit. Look at how far you’ve come, but your brains are still the same—you’re still adivasi in your mentality.”

  Parvati brought up the underwear episode so frequently that Kaali no longer associated it with shame. The first few days after Kaali started living with her, Parvati made it a point to regale everyone with the story of the maid who had never before worn panties. It was on one of the various toilet breaks that punctuated their overnight bus journey from Birtamod to Kathmandu that she saw, Parvati said, to her horror, her recently acquired eight-year-old maid squat on the road, right next to the bus, and urinate, giving the world a well-defined view of her lower regions.

  “And she wasn’t wearing anything underneath her skirt,” Parvati would say, aghast, and call for Kaali so her guests could see the little girl from the forests who had never seen panties until Parvati bought her a pair.

  “Sarita told me to wipe off the snot from my face,” Kaali said. “But my nose is clean, isn’t it?”

  You have a pretty face, he always said. It’s a pity your bad lip conceals it. Your eyes are so expressive; they are an actress’s eyes. Have you ever dreamed of being an actress? Do you have a good voice? Can you sing for me?

  “You have no respect for my family members. You should call Sarita didi. She’s my sister-in-law. Sarita is just being condescending. She has to make others feel bad about themselves so she can feel good about herself.”

  “Should I pack something to eat for the road?”

  “Always thinking of food, you khanchuwee. Must be the extra hole in your lip that makes you hungry all the time. Yes, pack some chiwda for yourself. And let me eat something here. I’ll be expected to eat some unsavory food for thirteen days. Or maybe it’s forty-five days. No salt, no oil, nothing, and I may even be forced to eat just one meal a day. That woman is gone, but she’ll forever continue to trouble us. We have last night’s vegetables and some rice. Go warm them up for me.”

  As Kaali turned the gas on to warm some cauliflower, Parvati went aroun
d the house, bolting and locking the doors.

  “Aye, Sarita maiyya, you look like you’ve been crying all day long,” Parvati said as she climbed into the van. “Now, you must remember her age. She had a good life.”

  “No, I haven’t really been crying,” replied Sarita. “I didn’t feel bad, but when the servant girl told me you couldn’t come to the phone because you were crying, I felt bad that I wasn’t feeling so bad. Must have been the guilt. Aamaa never treated you well, and yet you are sad about her death. It’s funny.”

  Kaali, after shrugging off a stinging remark about her ugliness from Sarita’s teenage son, was now safely on top of all the luggage bags in the trunk. She was staring at one of her co-passengers—the one seated up front—and trying to hold back a giggle. Parvati tried staring her down with bulging eyes, but Kaali paid no attention to anyone but the old white passenger—a big, perspiring woman who grunted when the van finally moved.

  “She didn’t treat me that badly, Sarita,” said Parvati. “What family hasn’t had saasu-buhaari spats? It’s two women trying to win the affections of the same man, so there’s bound to be some friction. You yourself told me you had problems with your mother-in-law. By the way, is this the woman staying with you?”

  “Yes, although the man whose affections you were both fighting for has long been dead.”

  “So is your mother now. It wouldn’t be right for us to talk about how she treated me. Who’s this woman again?”

  “Oh, this is Erin, my mother,” Sarita said, and in English added, “Erin, this is my sister-in-law. I am telling her about how you’re my mother from today onward.”

  Erin smiled at Parvati, who tried to smile back.

  Sarita broke into Nepali. “She’s a paying guest. She’s been with me for a month. After the news of Aamaa’s death today, she told me she’d be my mother from now on. I call her Aamaa, and she likes it. She wanted to see a proper Nepali funeral, so I told her to come along. You don’t happen to have the money with you right now, do you? I figured we should fill up before we run out of gas in the middle of nowhere.”