The Gurkha's Daughter Page 3

  “No, I am not. As Aamaa says, this is an investment. Education is always an investment.”

  “Now you’re talking like Kaali. She’s been asking to be sent to school for some time now.”

  “Why don’t you? She doesn’t do a lot during the day.”

  “What will she do with an education and that face? It will all be a wasted effort.”

  “She wouldn’t bother you during the day,” Sarita countered.

  “I want her home during the day.”

  “She keeps you company, doesn’t she? I always knew you were very attached to her.”

  “Who gets attached to a servant, Sarita? But, yes, she keeps me company. If I had a son—or even a daughter—to keep me busy, like you do, I’d happily accept it and live that life. If I had a living husband, like you do, I’d attend to his needs and concentrate on making him happy instead of running off to some college.”

  “I know, Bhauju, you wouldn’t expect to hear this from anyone, but I like your life.” Sarita looked straight ahead. “I envy the life you live.”

  “Why would anyone envy a widow’s life, Sarita?” Parvati let out a sigh. “I have nothing to look forward to—no school, no children whose marriages to await, no sons to look after me, no husband’s arrival at home to anticipate, no daughter’s well-being to be afraid for—and I must be among the most miserable women there are. I wouldn’t wish my life on my enemy, Sarita.”

  “See, that’s why. The only bad thing about your life was the occasional visit from your mother-in-law, who’s now dead. You don’t have a husband who questions your decisions. You don’t have a child who frustrates you with his mischief. You don’t have to save for his future. If I were you, I’d use Daai’s pension money on pilgrimages to Benares, Bodh Gaya, Tirupathi, everywhere in India. You can pack your bags and leave for anywhere any day. You have no children’s vacation days to coordinate and no household budget holding you back.”

  “I am still a widow, Sarita,” Parvati said. “I am a Nepali widow. I get discriminated against. You’ll see that when we reach Birtamod I won’t be allowed to take part in any of the rituals. The world looks at us widows differently. When we haven’t been able to give birth, the stigma we face only becomes worse. I look at the colorful potey you wear around your neck and the thickness of your sindoor, and I get jealous. I have even stopped celebrating Teez. Why would I do that? I am a widow, you see.”

  The driver stopped the van and got out to relieve himself. It was obvious, however, that he didn’t want to smoke in their presence.

  “Let him smoke,” Parvati said. “He has to stay awake. He doesn’t need to hide from us. What a respectful young man.”

  Sarita checked if Sunny was asleep and then asked, “Have you ever smoked, Bhauju?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Never at all?”

  “I tried khaini once, but it put my entire mouth on fire. Never trying it again. I am not going to ask you if you’ve tried smoking, but I have a feeling you have.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “When?”

  “Some girls in college decided to try some Hulas after school. I took several puffs, too. It relaxed me.”

  “Something tells me that wasn’t the only time.”

  “No, I smoke about one every day before I head home. It helps me think with a clear head. Only Aamaa knows about it. She doesn’t approve of doing it around Sunny.”

  When she saw the driver return, Sarita pinched Parvati, signaling that they should stop talking about the matter.

  “Well, at least I am glad it’s not the gori who has yet again put another idea into your head,” Parvati said.

  “Aamaa has been a calming influence in my life. She’d never condone that.”

  They had barely covered a few kilometers when, a few minutes before they would have reached the Koshi Barrage, a flat tire befell them.

  “Every time I have traveled this road, I have fallen prey to a puncture,” Parvati said. “It’s like the road has nails and needles growing on it.”

  “Thankfully, the Maoists do tourists no harm, so once they see Aamaa with us, we are safe,” Sarita said with a yawn. “Aamaa is so important.”

  The Maoists have destroyed Nepal, he had said. Even if you escape the clutches of your cruel mistress one day, what will you do in this country? Join the Maoists? Carry a gun and shoot innocent villagers? Give in to their extortions? It’s time for you to leave the country and make a life for yourself, Kaali. The rich go to America, to England. You will go to Bombay and become the biggest star in Bollywood.

  “Come here,” Parvati said to Kaali, who, after getting out from the back of the van, seemed lost. “You’ll be safe here.”

  Kaali hesitantly moved in her direction.

  “It looks like you were the most comfortable of us all. Are you hungry? Go eat some chiwda.”

  “I couldn’t sleep at all. I heard you talk about me.”

  “Liar. You were almost snoring when we stopped for dinner.”

  Kaali’s loud chewing of beaten rice complemented the clanging of the driver’s tools. Erin and Sarita had vanished into the jungle despite Parvati’s warning them not to wander off too far. When they returned, Sarita looked fresher than before. Parvati guessed that her sister-in-law had smoked a cigarette. The gum Sarita was chewing could hardly disguise the smell.

  Once the tire was replaced and all returned to their seats, the driver complained to Sarita about tiredness. A little music would keep him awake for the remainder of the drive, but the van had no radio, he said. Sarita repeated his predicament to Erin, who handed him her Discman and showed him how to wear the headphones before falling back asleep. Parvati and Sarita smiled in the backseat.

  Some silence later, Sarita said, “I am thinking of divorcing him.”

  Parvati let out a yelp. All along, she had sensed the warm-up conversation was leading somewhere—maybe her sister-in-law would talk about some murky waters she was in with her husband’s family or financial troubles she’d need Parvati’s help to get out of—but Parvati wasn’t expecting news of this magnitude. Divorce? Divorce was something that didn’t happen in their world. You heard about a woman filing for divorce when the beatings from her husband got unbearable. You talked about how ostracized a woman became after the divorce. You talked about some rich hotelier’s wife wanting a divorce. What made the idea of divorce even more inappropriate was that Sarita was talking about it not twenty-four hours after her mother’s death.

  “You haven’t slept,” Parvati said. “And you’re talking nonsense because you’re in shock about your mother’s death. You need sleep.”

  “No, I am serious. I feel alive. I feel right. And I am glad I am talking about it with you. Daai is dead, and he was our only connection. I’ve nothing to gain and nothing to lose from you. We barely see each other once a year. You are the right person to talk to.”

  “I am still your dead brother’s wife, Sarita,” Parvati feebly said, all the while fully registering that Sarita was right. The one bond between them—her husband, Sarita’s brother—was long gone. They didn’t know each other very well. In fact, Parvati didn’t even remember what Sarita’s dera in Teenkune looked like—that’s how long ago she had last been there despite the close distance—and she didn’t know Sarita’s phone number. They were practically strangers, so the fear of being judged wasn’t so severe. It was natural for her sister-in-law to confide in her. That she chose a few hours before her mother’s funeral to do so was only circumstantial. If this was the only time in the last year they had seen each other, there was no better—or worse—time to share.

  “Aamaa thinks I have the ability to do a lot more in the world,” Sarita said.

  “The world is your family, Sarita. What you do with them is how you use your potential.”

  “I know you think Aamaa is useless, but she’s the first person who has shown an appreciation for my opinions and talents. She has encouraged me to take up sewing again. I gathered the courag
e to go to college because of her. If she wants to help me realize my dreams, why should I stop her?”

  You need to be someplace you will be appreciated, not shouted at all day long, he had said. I am not going to lie—the process of becoming a famous star will be difficult. You will have to forget a great deal of what you’ve been taught. The competition is tough, and my cousin will teach you about things you might have to do with rich, powerful men to gain favor from them. You’ve a bright future, Kaali, don’t let your mistress tell you otherwise. You have to promise not to forget about us lesser people when you are rich. All right, promise me that, keti.

  “And what about your husband and son, Sarita? They should be your dream. This college dream will end once you realize how difficult life is alone. I’ve done it, and it isn’t nice. At least you have a husband who doesn’t beat you up. You’ve been married fourteen years. Don’t throw it all away on this wild notion of love. We are Nepalis. We are different from these people.”

  “But I’ve been unhappy, Bhauju, really, really unhappy. I love my son and thought I’d suffer through this for him, but—”

  “What sufferings are you talking about, Sarita? Suffering is your husband beating you up, coming home drunk, and throwing utensils at your head. Suffering is your husband cavorting with other women and having mistresses. Suffering is not having a husband at all. You have a husband, and he is a nice, reliable man. He takes care of your son and is a good father. He has even allowed you to go to college although he clearly doesn’t like it. Why throw it all away just because some white woman lectures you on love? She sees marriage through her Western eyeglasses. What you and jwaai have is special. Don’t let anyone—least of all a sixty-year-old white woman who’s spent her life alone and is now living in a foreign country with a foreign family—tell you otherwise. It’s a great marriage. You just need to be on the outside to see how beautiful it is.”

  “Aamaa says I could go to Australia.”

  “You could also go to Australia with your husband and son. You could start a new life there with your husband and son. You could work, study, earn with your husband and son by your side. You don’t need to sacrifice one to have the other. You’ll have disagreements, arguments, and fights, but that’s the beauty in it. If I could bring your brother back from the dead, even if I were told all we’d do once he came back is fight, I’d happily have him. Life is so much better when you have someone to share it with. You don’t want to be alone, Sarita. Five years of loneliness has half killed me. I sometimes don’t recognize who I am. I see fully the differences between the person I was before your brother passed away and the person I am now. Take my advice—talk it out with your husband. He might be willing to move to Australia. If it’s a great opportunity, why not? Then talk to your Aamaa. Tell her you can’t leave your husband because you don’t want to. If she’s the goddess you claim she is, I am sure she’ll understand.”

  The sun grew stronger as a new day stretched ahead and the van stuffier with the progression of the journey. Sunny awoke and right away opened his window, letting a breeze blow in. Erin asked for her Discman back, opened her window, and took pictures. The driver was mellow, his near-death experience several hours earlier discouraging him from overtaking larger vehicles. When Kaali tried sitting up, the van abruptly made a turn, and she hit her head on the roof.

  “That was just stupid Kaali,” Sarita said to her husband on the phone. “Can’t even stand straight. All right, I have to go now. We are almost here. Can you hear the conches? Looks like they’ve already donated a cow—wait, it’s a calf—to the priest. Bye. Be careful of what you eat in that strange land—don’t they eat anything that has four legs? Chyaaa.”

  “Kaali is such a bad name, Kaali,” Parvati said. “From now on, introduce yourself to everyone as Rekha.”

  “Rekha is a good name.” Sarita giggled. “Rekha, like the actress.”

  Kaali looked bewildered.

  “And maybe, Sarita, while we are in Birtamod, after the thirteen-day ceremony is over, we could go to Siliguri.”

  You will stay in Siliguri for a few days before going to Bombay, he had said. You have to do as my cousin says. He’s a nice person but can lose his temper easily. Remember he has nothing to gain out of you—he’s doing you a favor because I have convinced him of your potential. You have to understand that everything he makes you do, even if you’ve been taught that it is wrong, is a stepping-stone to your becoming a big star.

  “I hear these cleft-lip surgeries are a lot cheaper in India than in Kathmandu,” Parvati said as she headed to the house, and added in a whisper, “I am too tired to make arrangements for a separate room for me to mourn in. I hope they’ve already taken care of that.”

  “I’ll help you, Bhauju,” Sarita offered.

  “Kaali, Kaali,” Parvati shouted. “Yes, stare longingly at the road, like the overnight journey wasn’t enough. Or do you want to go home to your poor family? You know that’s the way to them.”

  “Oh, so this is the way to India?” Kaali asked.

  “Yes, fool, it is.”

  Kaali was quiet for a while. “I have four hundred rupees I brought with me,” she said. “It might get lost in the halla-gulla here, so will you please keep it?”

  “Where did you get the money from? Have you been stealing?”

  “No, no, this is the money I earned from my singing during Tihaar.”

  “Yes, must be. I keep forgetting you went singing with that terrible voice of yours from house to house. Maybe people didn’t throw you out because they were feeling bighearted during the festival season. Shouldn’t you have given it to me before we set off, Kaali? Give it to me, okay, but don’t make a scene out of it. Time and place for everything, girl, time and place for everything.”

  LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE

  Munnu—no one knew if that was his real name—momentarily stopped ruminating about his troublesome wife to return the greeting of the gigantic girl in front of him and smiled. Yet the smile did not stretch to his eyes—the eyes looked shiftily at her, nervous and uncomfortable.

  “Are you all right, Bahini?” Munnu asked, his lips still a smile, his stare faltering. “Have you eaten lunch yet?”

  “No, Aamaa isn’t home, and the servant is sick,” Shraddanjali replied. “I might need some noodles. I am hungrier than these coolies’ kids.”

  She was polite, exaggeratedly so. She made it a point to wish Namaste not just to her neighbors and friends’ parents but also to the servants. The flustered servants, unused to this display of respect from the child of a rich man, grinned back and sometimes hurriedly broke into a Namaste before she did. This kind of niceness coming from the daughter of someone so important was embarrassing, and while some initially decided that she was mocking them—theirs is after all a class that everyone disrespects, even the drivers, and is accustomed to being ridiculed—they came around to accepting her frequent greetings with the obsequiousness ingrained in their psyche.

  Munnu knew she would ask for noodles. Shraddanjali was also talking more than she should. She often did that, and he was aware of what it resulted in.

  “Wai Wai or Maggi, Bahini?” he asked.

  “Let me take one Wai Wai and one Maggi. Both vegetarian.”

  Munnu Bhaiya turned to the section housing noodles and chips on shelves that reached all the way to the ceiling of his L-shaped store. For their everyday needs, the neighborhood people—and pedestrians who passed by the busy thoroughfare leading to the bus stand—depended on Munnu’s convenience store for paan, chips, chocolate bars, toffees, condoms (safely concealed in a drawer, of course), soft drinks, pens, notebooks, and cigarettes.

  His landlords, the famous doctor-architect couple of Kalimpong, had begrudgingly rented out a little space on the road-level floor to Munnu at minimal cost. The husband had grunted that a paan store would not play well with the aesthetics of their seven-story building—a beautiful construction painstakingly built with more money than they’d spent on any single th
ing besides their only daughter’s unsuccessful leukemia treatment—but Munnu had been persistent. He promised to keep the store free of flies and offered to clean not just the storefront but also the stairs. The landlords liked Munnu. He was less businessman-like than his father—the scumbag who was rumored to soon be taking up residence in Mecca, of all places—and they patronized Munnu’s store as much as they could.

  With Munnu renting the space, a hundred-square-foot area lay empty. A travel agency, advertising trips to the few tourist spots in town with red, green, and yellow lettering stenciled on the door, was paying good money for the rest of the floor. Neither Munnu nor the travel agency owner wanted the spare room. The landlords had tried using it as a garage for their little Hyundai Santro, but the first night their chauffeur drove in, the building vibrated with an intensity they hadn’t felt since their dead daughter skipped over her new rope on the terrace. The garage stood empty for the better part of the year until another Musalmaan asked to rent it out. He would match what Munnu was paying. So it happened that two paan stores, side by side, one tinier than another but both very small, stood on the road level.

  Initially, Munnu had been nervous about a competitor next door selling exactly the same goods his shop stocked, but he soon realized his fears were unfounded. All of this part of Relli Road, the neighborhood in the vicinity of Baidyanath, came to him as creatures of habit. Sure, to passersby, the two stores were the same, and Munnu found the foot traffic decrease slightly soon after, but that wasn’t anything to be overly concerned about. Should the new shop eat into substantial profits, he’d simply talk to the landlords about renting the formerly vacant space. In fact, as a precautionary measure, he’d ask them to rent him the place before the other store’s lease was up. What paltry business his store lost now was hardly cause for an anxiety attack. What was worth one throbbing headache was this animal in front of him.

  At almost six feet tall, she was maybe the tallest girl in Kalimpong. Hers was one of those faces you couldn’t do so much about, which Munnu thought was a pity, because each one of her features, isolated from the rest, was rather striking. The combination resulted in an unremarkable face—not downright ugly but slightly incongruous. Munnu, who prided himself in his ability to determine what was amiss in a woman’s attractiveness, knew she’d have been far better looking if some part of her face were slightly ugly—maybe a bucktooth here or a bump on the nose there. It was evident she tried too hard. She was a high school girl, but she wore thick, luminous lip gloss that rivaled the shine of her artificially colored burgundy hair.