The Royal Ghosts, page 10
“Do you worry?”
She turned her face away.
“Do you worry about me, Rumila?”
She turned to me and said angrily, “What do you want? Do you want me to tell you that I couldn’t sleep last night after your mother called me about your arrest? Would that make you feel better?”
I was taken aback by this sudden outburst, which was unusual given her character. Then I couldn’t help thinking that her anger had to be false. Did she really worry about me? Or was she thinking about Mohan right now? By the time we reached her friend’s house, she had reapplied her makeup, and we were trying to talk normally.
At the party I watched her in her bright yellow sari, making the rounds and chatting with her friends. A couple of times our eyes met across the room, and both of us attempted to smile, although it was obvious that the tense mood still lingered between us. Once a friend standing next to her gave me a distasteful look. I had the feeling that most of her friends didn’t like me. They probably couldn’t understand why, of all the handsome men from privileged families she knew, she had chosen me, a political columnist who walked around in sandals, a small man with tall ideals. But it didn’t bother me much—I didn’t really care for her friends, most of whom lived their lives oblivious to how the rest of the country lived. They were only interested in shopping, American pop culture, and the stupid Hindi movies they watched on video. Whenever Rumila was with them, she seemed to become one of them, despite her claim that they often bored her. Now I saw her talking to a good-looking guy named Rakesh, whose father was a high-ranking and corrupt bureaucrat in Nepal Rastra Bank. She put her hand on his arm and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. Then they looked in my direction and smiled. I turned away and watched a couple who were dancing in the middle of the room.
She drank a glass or two of wine at the party, and in the taxi on the way back to my house she seemed more relaxed than before. She placed her head on my shoulder and began to hum. I could smell the wine on her breath, as well as the musky fragrance of her shampoo.
“What were you whispering to Rakesh?” I asked.
“It’s a secret,” she said, and I saw that she was smiling.
“Got any other secrets?” I asked softly. “Anything you haven’t told me yet?”
“You don’t need to know every little secret I have.”
After a silence I said, “I’ve been thinking about the guy who shared my jail cell last night. He was talking about this woman he once loved.”
“You talked about women in jail?”
“Just to pass the time. He said it didn’t work out with her, and he seemed sad, even though he’s married now. I guess our past never leaves us, does it?”
She looked at me, almost startled, then said, “At some point you have to move on.”
“I wonder if this woman he was thinking about has moved on.”
But Rumila was no longer listening to me. She was staring out the window of the taxi, her mind somewhere else. This seemed to confirm my growing suspicion that she had never stopped thinking about Mohan. At that moment something hardened inside me, and I felt it in my chest.
I avoided Rumila for days, pretending that I was busy preparing for the upcoming rally. Then one evening I found her waiting for me outside the party office. A colleague was with me, and on seeing Rumila, he bid me goodbye.
She and I stood facing each other. “You’ve forgotten me?” she asked with a forced smile.
“How can anyone forget someone like you, Rumi?”
We began walking together. The silence between us grew thick, and finally she stopped. “Is it over, Suresh? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“It’s only over if you want it to be over.”
“When you don’t talk to me for days, that’s what it feels like.”
We were standing in the middle of the pavement, in the way of other people walking by, so I took her arm and we began to walk. “How is your work going?” I asked, trying to move the conversation to safer territory.
“It’s fine,” she said.
I searched for more things to say, but nothing came. I felt nothing inside.
“You have to decide, Suresh,” she said. “You have to make a clear choice.”
“About what?”
“You keep pretending nothing is wrong,” she said. “But something is definitely wrong, and I can’t go on like this.”
“Nothing is wrong,” I said calmly. “I’m just busy at work, and it is important work.”
She stopped again. “So you have made a decision, then,” she said.
“That’s your conclusion, not mine.”
Her lips pursed. She said nothing and resumed walking. I could see that her eyes were beginning to tear. The evening traffic in New Road grew loud and intrusive around us, and we walked in silence again for a few yards. “All right, I’m going home,” she said, and crossed the street. I stood there watching her move quickly through the crowd, then disappear.
I walked home slowly, wondering what was going to happen to me now. I felt no urgency, no acute sense that it was really over between us. Somehow I saw this as a kind of interlude in our relationship, and once she confessed to me about Mohan, I would forgive her for keeping him a secret from me. The hardening in my chest would melt, and we’d be able to love each other like before.
That evening I called a party colleague and we chatted about the upcoming rally. We discussed the logistics of bringing together all the different parties, and since this was such a big event, we talked about the possibility of violence. The government had made it clear that the police and the army would be out in full force. After we hung up, I paced my bedroom and envisioned the march winding through the streets and alleys of the city, cries for freedom and democracy echoing in the air, protesters clashing with the police. Then I thought about Rumila, and I sat down, suddenly tired. I lifted the phone and dialed her number. After several rings she picked up and said hello a few times. I had every intention of speaking, but for some reason I could not.
For the next few days, the party office in Jhonche overflowed with constant traffic. The phone rang continuously, people shouted instructions to each other, and cups and cups of tea were consumed as fatigue began to set in. I stayed there late, after most of my colleagues had gone home, and looked over resolutions, copies of news stories, and reports from villages where we were trying to incite people to join our protests. A calmness settled inside me when I was in the office alone, and sometimes I stopped what I was doing and thought about Rumila, who hadn’t yet phoned or come to visit me. Each night I asked my mother whether she’d called, and each night she said she hadn’t and that I should go and make up with her, even though she had no real idea what was going on between us. But I did nothing. I was convinced Rumila would come to me eventually, and with some prodding own up to what had happened between her and Mohan in Pokhara.
The evening before the rally, I stumbled upon the piece of paper that Mohan had given me. I had forgotten to call his wife. I cursed myself and picked up the phone—I knew that he hadn’t been released because just last week in a newspaper column a human rights activist had decried his prolonged imprisonment.
After a couple of rings, a female voice answered, and when I learned that this was Mohan’s wife, I told her what he had said and apologized for the delay in contacting her. She said that she had called the jail several times, but was told that Mohan was not there. “And they tell me they don’t know where he has been taken,” she said. “I’ve called a number of other places, but no one knows. Or they aren’t telling me.” I assured her that I’d check into it. She told me she couldn’t travel to Kathmandu to search for her husband because her son was sick, and I promised her I’d try to find out where Mohan was being held. Sometimes political prisoners simply disappeared, other times they were held in secret locations; their families went mad trying to figure out where they were; and then the prisoners were suddenly released without warning or explanation. I felt terrible for Mohan’s wife and decided that the next day, after the rally, I’d call some activists I knew, including a woman who worked for Amnesty International.
That night I woke up at around midnight, my throat parched. I took a sip of water from the jug my mother had placed beside my bed and tried to go back to sleep. When I couldn’t, I sat up. Rumila had stayed away from me for too long, and I began to feel unsure about everything.
I reached for the phone and dialed her number. When she answered in a sleepy voice, I said, “Long time no see.” The silence at the other end was long and awkward.
“Are you sure you dialed the right number, Suresh?”
My chest tightened. I’d missed hearing her voice. What had come over me? All this nonsense about Mohan—what did it matter now? Why had I assumed that she was still hung up on him?
“What’s happening in your life?” she asked.
“Let’s meet tomorrow and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Isn’t tomorrow your big rally? You’d have time for me?”
I had momentarily forgotten about the rally, but it didn’t start until ten o’clock. I could see her early in the morning before she went to work. I suggested we meet in a coffee shop in Durbar Marg. She agreed, and I wanted to talk more, but she said she wanted to go back to sleep.
I stayed awake for a while, consumed with thoughts of seeing her again.
By eight o’clock, when I reached Durbar Marg, police in riot gear were already in formation on the street. The rally would head this way, to pass in front of the royal palace, and the authorities were girding themselves for an unruly mob.
Rumila was waiting for me in the coffee shop. Something was different about her: she’d cut her hair, I soon realized. “You look nice,” I said, standing before her. She smiled. For a few seconds we just looked at each other, then I sat down and said, “You look even more pointy with that short haircut.”
“And you’re as pudkay as ever,” she said.
For a moment I felt that we were back to the way we used to be. This was Rumila, and this was me, and the whole Mohan episode was over and done with. I reached out and clasped her hand over the table. She squeezed mine back and said, “I am going to America in a week.”
“America?” My hand went limp in hers.
“Yes, California. Sano Mama has invited me.”
Her youngest uncle had settled there, I knew, but she had never expressed any interest in visiting. “For how long?” I asked, withdrawing my hand. The waiter came, and we ordered tea.
“I don’t know. I’m going on a tourist visa, but who knows what’ll happen. Sano Mama says I should think about applying to some universities there for my master’s degree.”
“You can’t just stay there.” I couldn’t formulate any more words.
“I can’t?” she asked with a tight smile.
Lack of sleep was catching up with me, and my temples were starting to throb. “So I don’t count anymore?”
She looked at me for a long time. “You know the answer to that.” She sighed.
“Then why are you talking about this?”
“I need to think about myself more than I’ve been doing.”
“You’re being selfish,” I said before I could stop myself.
She nodded slowly. “I imagine you’re right. Maybe I am.”
“Listen,” I said, trying to control the desperation in my voice, “I know I haven’t been able to spend much time with you lately, but that’s no reason to give up. What’ll happen to us once you go to America?”
“But what’s happening now, Suresh?” she said. “Only this.” She gestured at the window. I heard a policeman with a megaphone warning people to keep away from the palace.
“Things will change here pretty soon,” I said. “This government can’t last, then we can start planning our lives together.” The waiter brought our tea, but neither of us touched it. Finally I said, “Maybe you’re just tired of me.”
She touched the teacup with her fingertips, as if gauging its temperature.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” I pressed. “You’ve just gotten bored with me and my work and everything I do.”
I waited for her to say something, to reassure me, but she didn’t. She merely ran her finger along the lip of her cup over and over.
“Rumi, please,” I said. “Think hard about what you’re doing. You’re giving up on us. I always thought you were stronger than this.”
She shook her head, then looked up at me. She seemed about to say something, then shook her head again. She picked up her bag, stood up, and came around to me. She kissed me lightly on the cheek and said, “Take care of yourself,” and walked out of the restaurant.
I wanted to call her back, but my whole body became too heavy. I sat there for nearly half an hour, soberly finished my cold tea, and headed out.
On the street, a police van drove past me, and threatening messages blared from a loudspeaker on top of it. Many people were hurrying out of Durbar Marg, pushing past one another. Near Tri-Chandra College, a crowd holding banners was already gathering. I was supposed to meet my colleagues in Tundikhel, so I hurried in that direction. In Ratna Park, truckloads of policemen sat waiting. I told myself I wasn’t going to let Rumila ruin this important day for me. She had already made her decision, hadn’t even given me a chance to change her mind. I told myself that she was no different from those friends of hers who didn’t care about anything important.
At the parade ground of Tundikhel, a large number of people were waving placards. I joined them, pushing and shoving my way through them until I reached my colleagues at the front. “Down with fascism!” I shouted, and they echoed my words. Other people joined in, and soon the entire parade ground was chanting my words. My colleagues told me that the army had gathered in full force in Asan, where the rally would pass as it traversed the inner city to reach the palace, a short distance away. “Let them try something,” they said, and I replied, “We won’t run and hide.” The sun beat down, and streams of sweat trickled down my chin.
The procession finally got under way, and the crowd exited the parade ground and headed toward New Road. We were shouting and chanting, and the steady hum of our voices rose into the air. We circled the statue of Juddha Shumshere, and by the time we reached the narrow alleys of Indrachowk and Asan, the crowd was in an absolute frenzy. Some marchers were dancing, as if in the thrall of some religious ecstasy. People in the houses lining the streets had come to their windows, shouting encouragement. One woman threw flowers down at us, and the crowd rushed to grab them. The marchers began to sing, not a protest song but a romantic one, and I joined in.
Suddenly I lost interest in what was happening around me. I was exhausted and, I realized with some disgust, growing weepy. My voice sounded hollow to me. I wanted to leave, but how? The crowd was so dense that we were literally inching along, bodies pressed against one another. I could feel someone’s heavy breathing on my back, and I leaned against the shoulders of a colleague in front of me. I could see the pores of his freckled neck, the hair on the back of his arms. The sweat from his shirt, now completely damp, soaked my palms. I took a deep breath. The crowd swirled and the sky rotated. Faces from windows and balconies looked down on me, and I collapsed on the ground.
Later I was told that my colleagues, afraid that I’d be trampled, carried me on their shoulders, two in the front and two in the back, like a corpse. Since they could not squirm out of the crowd, they kept chanting. As everyone pressed on toward Ranipokhari, the roads widened a bit. Evidently that’s when people began to notice me, and they jumped to the conclusion that I had been either injured or shot by the police. As my rescuers whisked me through an alley to nearby Bir Hospital, apparently the phrase “they’ve killed a man” shot through the rally like a jolt of electricity, and the crowd became agitated.
The plan had been for the rally to congregate at the entrance to Durbar Marg, facing the palace, with people spilling out around Tri-Chandra and Ghantaghar. We hoped that those in the palace, including the moronic prime minister, would be forced into agreeing to our seven-point list of demands for stripping away the power of the crown. But as soon as the crowd saw my “corpse,” they attacked the bands of police stationed on the side of the street. Rioters hurled bricks and Molotov cocktails at the police. A group of about ten college students broke through an army barricade at the entrance of Durbar Marg and charged the palace. They were immediately gunned down.
A total of fifty people died that day, including two children who’d ventured out of their houses to watch the stampede. I learned of all this later that evening, when I regained consciousness in the hospital. Nothing had happened to me—I had merely collapsed from heat stroke, exhaustion, and an empty stomach—but many people lost their lives partly because they thought I had died. The media had already started referring to the whole thing as the “corpse incident,” and my friends and relatives began frantically calling me. My mother soon grew tired of the phone constantly ringing. At first I hoped to hear that Rumila was on the line, wanting to share a laugh with me. “Pudkay corpse,” she’d have called me. “Is there a height ban in heaven?” And I’d have retorted, “No, but they do measure people’s noses.”
Rumila did finally call, a week later, on the morning she was to leave for America. I wasn’t home, so she talked to my mother, who told me that she never thought Rumila would betray me like this. “She didn’t seem untrustworthy,” my mother said. When I dialed Rumila’s house later that day, I was told that her plane had already departed.
“Just let her go,” my mother said. “You don’t need her. I’ll find someone else for you, someone prettier, smarter, not someone who’ll leave you.”
“Yes, please find someone for me,” I said. “That’s exactly what I need.”
Not sensing the sarcasm in my voice, my mother said, “Are you serious, son? You just give me the go-ahead and I’ll start looking.”
