The Royal Ghosts, page 15
Buwaba looked puzzled. “You sure you didn’t say anything rude to her?”
Chintamani laughed. “Why would I do that?” A moment later he said, “She’s begun to spend time with another man in the office.” He realized with a start that he sounded almost resentful.
Buwaba was obviously disturbed by this turn of events: he began to complain continually about Chintamani’s being unmarried, and his mood turned darker—he spoke more and more about his own death. Chintamani soon regretted telling Buwaba about Sushmita’s not speaking to him. After all, what if this led to another emergency trip to the hospital, and what if Chintamani was late for work again? He worried about this for a day or so, then grew defiant. He wasn’t about to start something with Sushmita just for Buwaba’s sake. What would his life be like if every move he made was determined by Buwaba’s desires?
One evening near the end of that week, Chintamani was at his bedroom window when he saw the Red Bag Girl enter Sarla’s shop. He went to the bathroom, checked his face and his hair, forced himself to keep moving, to just go ahead and do this, then told Buwaba he’d be back in a second. He rushed down the stairs. Outside, he took a deep breath and crossed the street. Sarla sat behind her counter, and when he stepped inside, she asked anxiously, “Something wrong with Buwaba?”
He shook his head and said that he needed some tea. He looked around and saw the girl in the corner reading a magazine, an alu dum in one hand, a glass of water in front of her. She wore glasses today; they were small and delicate and accentuated her slender nose and soft lips. The table next to her was empty, and after Sarla handed him a glass of tea, he walked over to the table and sat down, making sure that he faced her. His heartbeat quickened, his palms were sweaty, but he was determined to make a move. The Red Bag Girl seemed to be engrossed in her reading, and she ate her potatoes without glancing at them. At one point she lifted the magazine a little, and he noticed that it was a film magazine. Manisha was on the cover—her arms crossed over her bare shoulders, her hair blown by the wind. He smiled to himself, took a large gulp of tea, swallowed it, and spoke.
“She’s an excellent actress, isn’t she?”
The girl continued reading.
He spoke loudly, “Is that Manisha Koirala on your magazine?”
She looked up, then glanced at the cover. “I hadn’t noticed her.”
“You like movies?” he asked, wondering if he sounded like an idiot.
“I tend to read about them more than watch them,” the girl said. “I’m too busy with work.”
“Where do you work?”
“I have two jobs, one during the day and one in the evening.”
“You could always go to a movie on the weekend.”
“I have other things to do on weekends.” She turned back to her reading, and he felt his face grow warm. He tried to think of other things to say but couldn’t come up with anything, so he turned around and asked the waiter for another glass of tea. When he turned back, the girl was standing, getting ready to leave.
“Going already?” he asked hastily.
She nodded and picked up her red bag.
“Manisha’s new film is playing at Kumari Hall. If you’re free sometime, maybe you and I could go—” He couldn’t seem to stop himself.
She looked at him, her face suddenly transformed, and spat out a string of English words so fast that he didn’t understand them. Then she turned and left, and he sat there, numb. Without waiting for his second glass of tea to arrive, he stood and moved toward the door, keeping his head down. Sarla was talking with someone, and she called to him as he went by. “Chintamani babu, one second. I need to talk to you.”
His face reddened again, and he continued walking. Sarla joined him as he crossed the street, and at the entrance to his house, she whispered, “So, what is happening with Sushmita?”
“Buwaba talked to you about her?” he asked hoarsely.
“Last week he was going on nonstop about her—Sushmita this, Sushmita that—but the past few days he hasn’t said a word.” She touched his arm. “I saw her go into your flat. She looked quite nice in that pink sari.”
Chintamani watched her eyes to see whether she was being sarcastic—it didn’t look as if she was. “There’s nothing between us. We’re just friends. Buwaba is making a big thing out of it.”
“Well, not to be intrusive or anything, but you know, you’re not getting any younger.”
“You too?” he said. “What is wrong with everyone?” He sighed, and realized that he was at least relieved Sarla hadn’t wanted to talk about the girl in the shop.
“Babu, let me tell you something. It’s hard these days to find someone who’d be good for you. Sure, there are plenty of pretty young girls in the city, but who knows what they are really like? When you find someone nice, you shouldn’t let go of the opportunity. Take the advice of a woman who’s seen a lot in life.”
“Okay, okay, Mother of Wisdom.”
Playfully, Sarla pinched his cheek and said, “I want to go to your wedding soon, okay?”
One morning a few days later, as he sat at his desk, staring out the window, trying not to think about the fact that Mr. Somnath was probably watching him, he suddenly felt someone’s presence. It was Sushmita, standing by his desk, breathing insistently. “How is Buwaba these days?” she asked him.
He was actually somewhat glad to hear her voice. “The same as always,” he said, shaking his head. “Although thankfully there haven’t been any more emergencies.”
“Thank God for that,” she said. Then, a moment later, “You want to go out for tea with me today?”
He glanced past her to her desk, where Prabhakar quickly averted his gaze. “Yes, why not? It’s been a while since we’ve talked.”
At two o’clock, Prabhakar left with the larger group, and Sushmita and Chintamani followed a few minutes later. They went to the shop across the street.
“You look awfully pensive these days. Something on your mind?” she asked after they ordered tea and laddoos.
“I’ve just been kind of depressed about this whole thing with Buwaba,” he said. “He acts like such a child sometimes. It’s difficult.”
The waiter brought their tea and sweets. “Eat,” she said, handing him a laddoo. “They’re very tasty here.”
“It doesn’t look tasty,” he said, glancing down at it. It looked like any other laddoo—a round ball of flour and sugar.
“Try it, you’d be surprised.”
He took a bite and was in fact pleasantly surprised. It was very soft, with a creamy center that tasted of almonds.
“You like it?” she asked, and he nodded and took another bite. They talked about their colleagues, how one of them had won an immigration lottery to move to America. They discussed the latest headlines about bus and truck drivers striking to protest high fuel prices, about the sudden popularity of yoga and health clubs in the city.
By the time they left the shop, his mood had improved. He jokingly said that he hoped Mr. Somnath wouldn’t revoke his probation and fire him for going out for tea. Then he flinched: she didn’t know about the probation.
“You know,” she said, “Mr. Somnath is not as bad as you make him out to be. That probation was your idea, not his.”
She seemed to realize that they’d never talked about it, and her face grew red. “I guess I should just tell you—Mr. Somnath told me the day after it happened.”
“He said he’d keep it a secret! He must have told everyone by now.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Listen, it was only me. He’s not like that. He did tell me recently that he came very close to firing you that day, though he admitted that he doubted he’d have actually done it. I think he was feeling that you weren’t taking your job seriously and he said that the probation was a good way to keep you on your toes.”
“But he knows my father is sick.” They were standing at the entrance to their office building, and he looked at his watch and saw that it was five minutes past three. Everyone else had probably gone back up to work already. Would being five minutes late count as a violation? But Mr. Somnath had also broken their pact, and Chintamani decided that if his boss said anything, he would confront him about this.
“Listen, he thought you were exaggerating about your father,” Sushmita said. “I told him I’d met Buwaba and he was indeed very ill, and now he believes you.”
Chintamani stared at her. He couldn’t believe that she had been so free with his personal business. Yet she had done him a favor, probably even saved him from getting fired, and she certainly didn’t owe him that or anything else, especially after he’d acted so distant with her lately. “Buwaba keeps talking about you,” he finally said.
They were leaning against the building, now facing the sidewalk that was busy with people. He noticed that she was wearing a pair of red crystal earrings he hadn’t seen on her before—they gleamed in the afternoon sun.
“After meeting him,” she said, “I couldn’t stop thinking about my own father.”
“Do you want to see Buwaba again?” he asked, then wondered why he’d said that. Only a couple of weeks ago her visit had made him miserable. Now here she was, saying what she was saying, and she’d done him this favor—it seemed unfair to deny her another visit, if that’s what she wanted.
“I’d love to,” she said. “But he’s going to ask to meet my mother again, and it’ll be back to square one.”
She was right, and he thought a moment. “Maybe the three of us could go to see a movie sometime,” he said. “That way he wouldn’t have the opportunity to harp on about your mother.”
“That one with Manisha Koirala that’s playing at Kumari Hall? Is that what you’re thinking?”
He turned away from her, smiling. “It’s not what you think. Just because a man reads magazines doesn’t mean anything.”
“You have some kind of silly crush on her, don’t you? Tell me the truth.”
“I think she’s pretty, sure,” he said, and strangely, he felt relieved having admitted this. “She is very pretty,” he repeated. “But that’s it. Even if I have a foolish crush on her, which I’m not saying I do, it doesn’t mean anything. Don’t tell me that when you see a good-looking man you don’t feel something.”
“What would I feel for a man I don’t know? I can tell you this much,” she said. “I don’t stare at pictures of actors in magazines.”
“All right, all right,” he said. “You win.”
“Thank you,” she said. She took his hand and pulled him inside. “I like the idea of us three going to a movie. There’s one out right now with Naseeruddin Shah that looked interesting to me. Would Buwaba like to see that, you think?”
“Provided it’s not too serious. He needs some cheering up.”
They made a plan: that Saturday afternoon, she’d meet him at Jai Nepal ten minutes before the movie started, and leave as soon as the movie was over. This way the conversation would be kept to a minimum.
Upstairs, Mr. Somnath was standing in his office, his arms crossed, watching them as they walked to their desks. Chintamani sucked in his breath. “He’s looking at us,” he whispered from the side of his mouth. She glanced at Mr. Somnath and waved, then lightly placed her hand on Chintamani’s back. She kept her hand there until they reached his desk, and then stood chatting with him about how she was learning to make laddoos at home. She laughed about the way they’d turned out the last time she made them, and told him that since he was such a good cook, perhaps he’d be much better at it. He kept his eyes on his files, pretending to jot down notes and be busy working while she talked. Finally she stopped, and he raised his head for a quick glance at Mr. Somnath’s office. He had disappeared from view. Chintamani leaned back against his chair and looked at Sushmita, who was smiling at him.
“Your Prabhakar is waiting for you,” he said in a silly voice.
She sighed. “He’s such a handsome man. I should take a picture of him with my new camera and send it to a magazine.”
“All right, all right,” he said as she turned and went back to her desk.
Toward the end of the day, he rushed to finish a letter that needed to be signed by Mr. Somnath first thing tomorrow. Once it was done, he clasped his hands behind his head and thought about how Buwaba’s face would light up at the prospect of seeing Sushmita again. He imagined his father all dressed up in his brown pants and a light coat, looking forward to this rare outing.
Then he began to imagine what it’d be like to sit in a movie theater with Sushmita alone, just the two of them, watching Naseeruddin Shah—or better yet, Manisha—on the screen. He saw himself reaching out for Sushmita’s hand in the darkness, and his pulse quickened. He tried to imagine Manisha up on the big screen, her dark hair, her soft, swimming eyes, and suddenly he felt self-conscious. He glanced at Sushmita: she was talking to Prabhakar, and the two were getting ready to leave. Chintamani quickly stood, gathered his things, and faced her desk so she’d know that he, too, was ready to go. He kept his gaze on her until she looked back, then he raised his eyebrows and gestured toward the door.
Father, Daughter
EARLY ONE MORNING, Shova walked into her father’s room with a glass of tea and the newspaper. “Did you sleep well, Daddy?” she asked.
Shivaram didn’t answer. He had barely spoken to her since the day she left her new husband and returned to their house—she’d been married for only a few weeks. It had taken Shivaram months to find her a husband because everyone in town knew about her earlier relationship with the cobbler’s son. Just when Shivaram and Urmila had thought that their only child would die an old maid, this doctor with a thriving practice in town, someone who’d apparently seen Shova at a gathering and had taken a liking to her, had stepped forward, and they’d gotten married right away. Then one morning about a month ago she came back home, suitcases in hand, refusing to say anything about why she’d left. Shivaram went to his son-in-law to find out what had gone wrong. Rajiv lived with his parents in Bansbari, in a large house that had a beautiful garden and a newly paved driveway. His parents weren’t in, and he and Shivaram talked in the living room.
“I think she was just unhappy with me,” Rajiv said, his eyes on the floor. “I wish I knew more.” He said that at first he thought his parents were getting to her—they were old-fashioned and expected their daughter-in-law to act like a proper and obedient housewife, to cook and clean and tend to all their needs. “I reminded Shova that I was about to buy a house and we’d soon move out of here and she wouldn’t have to listen to them anymore.” He shook his head. “But it turned out my parents weren’t the problem—I was.” Although Rajiv didn’t say it, Shivaram sensed that Shova had not allowed her husband to consummate their marriage.
Now Shova put the tea and a copy of Kantipur on the bedside table and said, “It was too hot last night. I was tossing and turning all night.” Shivaram wished Urmila had brought him his tea, but these days she always asked Shova to do it, obviously hoping that it would help the two begin to reconcile. Throughout her childhood and into her teens, Shova had brought him his tea and paper, and the summer she’d gone to America, he’d missed this morning ritual terribly and complained to Urmila that the tea didn’t taste the same without his daughter. Now, of course, everything had changed.
He picked up the newspaper and pretended to read. Shova stood there watching him, then asked, “Anything interesting, Daddy?”
He thrust the paper toward her and picked up his tea. She sat down next to him on the bed and scanned the headlines. “Things never change in this country,” she said. “Always one skirmish or the other.”
He loudly slurped his tea. Shova set aside the newspaper and pulled her legs beneath her on the bed. After a brief silence, she said, “I dreamt about you last night. You were standing in front of me, and I kept calling your name, but you wouldn’t respond. Then you raised your hand, and I woke up.”
“Well, what do you want me to say about that?” The last time Shivaram had had any real conversation with her had been when he informed her of what her husband’s face looked like when he’d visited him. It aggravated Shivaram that she didn’t see the damage she’d done.
Shova looked at him, wounded. “Daddy, why don’t you understand my perspective? I was not happy there.”
“You’ve never really told me why you were so miserable. And anyway, what would happen if every newlywed who felt the slightest bit unhappy just up and left?”
“People have a right to their feelings.”
Sighing, Shivaram stood and went into the kitchen, where Urmila was cutting vegetables at the counter. “Did you hear that? Your daughter says her feelings are more important than anyone else’s.”
“You finally talk after so many days and you are already fighting?”
“Why am I the only one here who thinks this is a problem?”
Urmila raised her knife. “What do you want me to do? Give her time, she’ll come to her senses.” She turned to her cauliflower and split it in two, then said softly, so that Shova wouldn’t hear, “Perhaps we were a bit hasty with the wedding. Perhaps we should have tried to find out more about what she was feeling beforehand.”
The wedding had been arranged in a rush—that much Shivaram admitted. He and Urmila had been so afraid that Rajiv might change his mind, especially after it became clear that he was well aware of Shova’s past, that they’d pressed for an early wedding date and sped through the preparations. Still, it didn’t justify what Shova did. “She is lucky we found someone for her,” he said.
“I know, I know,” Urmila said. “She could have objected before the wedding instead of now.”
“What was there to object to, Urmila? Help me understand. Rajiv babu had even started building a house for her so she wouldn’t have to live under his parents’ thumb. How many newly married women here have that luxury?”
