Buddha's Orphans, page 21
Ganga Da pinched Nilu’s cheek. “My chhori. That’s a brilliant idea. Why didn’t I think of it before?” Addressing Raja, he said, “Why didn’t you think of it before, eh, lamfu? You go around pretending you’re very smart, but you’re as complete an idiot as I ever saw.” And he also pinched Raja’s cheek. Then he leaned over and kissed baby Maitreya’s forehead, and left.
“I really don’t feel like leaving this flat,” Raja said. “Everything is perfect for us here. My work is close by. Our landlady is so nice to us. Chabel is too far, don’t you think, Nilu? Maybe you shouldn’t have said yes so easily. You should have left Ganga Da to me. I’d have handled him.”
“Now look who’s talking, the man who wanted to move to Nilu Nikunj at the first enticement. I know how you feel, Raja, but I could no longer stand that look on Ganga Da’s face. He’s been so unhappy lately, and I feel like we’re rejecting him at every turn. I don’t want to leave this flat either—poor Bhairavi, she’s going to be crushed—but it’s true that the house is falling apart, and it’ll be nice for Maitreya to have his own green lawn to play on as he grows up.”
When they told Bhairavi, she was indeed saddened, pleaded with them not to leave, said she’d speak on their behalf to her mother-in-law for a reduced rent. Nilu embraced her, wiped her tears from her cheeks, and said that it was not as if they were moving to a different town. Chabel was only a bus ride or two away from Thamel, and they’d visit each other often. “You have to see Maitreya grow up,” Nilu said. “You are the only aunt he has.”
On the day of their move, Ganga Da rented a truck and helped them shuttle their sparse belongings to Chabel, where the house had already been furnished with brand-new furniture—a sofa, a dining room set, a large bed. A priest appeared out of nowhere, chanted a few mantras for an auspicious occupancy of the house, dabbed tikas on their foreheads, pocketed the thirty rupees Ganga Da gave him, and vanished. A big grin was plastered on Ganga Da’s face, like that of a father welcoming a new bride and groom into his house.
If Raja and Nilu had any misgivings about moving to Chabel, they were washed away when, within days, Raja found a new job as an assistant editor at Nepal Yatra, a travel publishing company based in Gaushala, within walking distance of their new house. Like the house, the job too was unexpected, for he had no writing or editing experience. An old friend, Amit, who was the financial manager of Nepal Yatra, had come to Fishtail Books one day, and as they talked Raja had casually said that it took him forty minutes to get to the bookstore from Chabel. Amit spoke of an opening at Nepal Yatra, which published two travel magazines, and suggested that Raja’s knowledge of books and tourists might just be what they needed.
“But I don’t have any writing experience, yaar,” Raja said, “especially in English.”
Amit laughed. “Which world are you living in? In Nepal you don’t need writing experience to be a journalist. Look around you. Every ignoramus is a writer or a journalist now. There are a couple of boarding school types who work for our magazine. They’ll edit your work and help you write; don’t worry.”
“But you’ll get better candidates for the position than me, I’m sure.”
Amit winked. “Leave that up to me.”
Raja had suspected that Amit was boasting, and he was shocked when, after an interview, the editor called to offer him the position. The salary was only slightly better than what Raja made at the bookstore, but an editorial job, with opportunities to move up, was certainly better than managing a bookstore. He could also walk to work, instead of taking two buses, or the more expensive three-wheeler, to reach Thamel. “We did the right thing by moving to Chabel,” he said to Nilu. “Otherwise I’d not have complained to Amit, and he’d not have mentioned Nepal Yatra.”
“Oh, is that how life works?” Nilu said in a teasing voice. She found it amusing how serious Raja had become since Maitreya entered their lives. A slight crease now seemed permanently etched on his forehead—he’d become a worrier. She couldn’t help but contrast him with the Raja of the past, who had hurled stones at the police in front of Ascol College, drunk heavily with Nick and Roger in Utse, and gotten into fights with young men who teased Nilu. Once in a while he got a bit excited about some news in the papers, but in general he seemed to lose interest in political developments in Nepal. “This place will never change,” he said to Nilu. “What’s the point? Might as well make the best of what we have.” Now it was all work and family and bouncing Maitreya on his lap and reading to him at bedtime. He rarely joined his magazine colleagues after work at Nanglo or in bars in Thamel. His hair was cut shorter, and he’d had a couple of nice-looking suits tailored at Putalisadak. Every morning he went to his office wearing a suit over a shirt that he himself ironed, even though his colleagues at work dressed quite casually. “Important to look professional,” he informed Nilu. “People take you seriously then.”
Holding Maitreya, who was straining to grasp his father’s bright red tie, Nilu patted Raja lightly on the cheek and said, “Does this mean we have to take you seriously too, no matter what a buffoon you might turn out to be?” She handed Maitreya to the servant woman they’d hired recently, as Nilu too had to get ready for her day of teaching school.
“You better take me seriously,” Raja said, tickling Maitreya’s face with the end of his tie. “Otherwise”—he adopted his growling, snarling Hindi movie villain voice—“Nilu bachchi, hum tumareh muhn me ek hazaar peda ghoosadenge, I will hold you upside down by your legs and smack you on your bottom.”
Raja’s job involved visiting Kathmandu’s upscale hotels and restaurants, writing about a new wing at a four-star hotel, or describing the special blend of Nepali and Thai cuisine at a popular restaurant. Occasionally he had to travel to Chitwan or Pokhara for the inauguration of a new resort or a jungle lodge, and although he enjoyed these trips, he missed Nilu and Maitreya and couldn’t wait to return home. Upon arrival, the first thing he did was pick up Maitreya and twirl him high in the air. With Nilu he shared stories of his trips, the interesting people he met. “I think they’ll make me an associate editor quite soon,” he said. “The boss is very pleased with my work. I’m gaining a reputation as a hard worker.” His eyes traveled to his son, who was stumbling back and forth in the living room, throwing a plastic ball and chasing it. “We have to provide him the best life he can get. We’ll send him to the best colleges, we’ll make sure that he has everything he needs. We must never let him feel that he lacks anything, Nilu.”
“You didn’t lack anything either when you grew up, did you?” Nilu asked. Then, realizing how insensitive she sounded, corrected herself. “Well, yes, during those early years with Kaki. But you don’t remember most of it. Ganga Da and Jamuna Mummy never let you feel a lack, did they?”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the love of your real mother and father, which nothing in the world can replace.”
“But you mentioned the best colleges for Maitreya, which has little to do with parental love.”
“You,” he said, smiling. “You are adept at twisting my words. What I mean is simply this: our son should never feel a want in his life.”
But she knew that underneath his words was a longing for his mother that time hadn’t erased. He wasn’t going to let Maitreya be contaminated by his own life as an orphan who took his first bumbling steps in the streets, who clung to the dhoti of a woman selling corn on the hot sidewalks of Ratna Park, who was sneered at by the woman in whose house he’d lived as a servant’s boy, who had finally been raised by a man who’d stolen him so that his mad, tortured wife would get at least an ounce of happiness. Raja wanted none of that for his son.
Fever
THE COUNTRY WAS in an uproar. Hubbub and hullabaloo—that’s what this country is made of, the poet Bhupi Sherchan had written. But this was a different kind of noise. Part of the commotion traveled all the way from Europe: the sound of the destruction of the Berlin Wall. Things are happening, everyone said. The air turned sharp, pungent, and when people breathed, their lungs felt invigorated. We can do it too, they said to one another as they walked the streets of the city. For centuries we’ve been ruled—like dogs. Who is he? someone shouted belligerently, pointing toward the wide street of Durbar Marg, with its ice cream shops and bakeries and pizza joints and travel agencies and boutiques culminating in the towering structure of the royal palace. “It always looked ugly,” someone said of the building. “Made by Indians, wasn’t it?” Others nodded. “Even our palaces are designed by outsiders,” they said. “What do we have to call our own?”
Something was definitely in the air, and Nilu could sense Raja’s controlled excitement. Every morning, over his tea, he read the newspapers carefully. “They’ve declared February 18 the official day of the uprising,” he said to Nilu, who was making some toast for Maitreya. He sounded too casual, she thought, as he slurped his tea.
“Mmmm?” Nilu said. She was thinking about her own classes, what she was going to teach that day. “Don’t get your hopes up,” she said. “This is 1990. Even twenty years from now, in 2010, nothing will have changed. Mark my words.”
Maitreya was in the next room, doing his homework. He’d stayed up late the night before, watching The Little Mermaid on video. “What’s not going to change, Ma?” he shouted.
“Nothing,” she said. “Finish your homework. The bus will be here soon.”
“Hopes up?” Raja said. “What do I care about this third-class country’s third-class problems?” He was clearly trying hard to feign a lack of interest.
She switched off the gas, and turned and smiled at him. “It’s an okay country. It’s not the best, but we’re living in it, and it’s serving us all right. What’s your problem with it?”
“Oh, you’re challenging me now, are you?” he said. “It’s a horrible country,” he said, “and it’s all your fault.”
“It’s a beautiful country,” she said. “The Himalaya, Gautama Buddha, Kumari the Living Goddess, no British colonialism, the only Hindu kingdom in the world. What more do you want? Every morning you ought to be touching my feet, thanking me for giving you this country, but here you are, always complaining.”
Raja lunged at her, and, clasping her in his arms, tackled her to the cold floor of the kitchen, where he began to plant fervent kisses on her face, repeating, “Is this what you want? Is this what your beautiful country wants?”
Maitreya emerged from the next room and asked quietly what they were doing. He was so serious that Raja and Nilu had to let go of each other and suppress their laughter. “Don’t fool around like that,” Maitreya said. “I’m trying to finish my homework.” Their son was very serious that way. Maitreya—with his large eyes and dark circles under them, his unsmiling face, his thoughtful, considered responses.
Throughout the winter-spring months of Falgun and Chaitya, people kept taking to the streets, demanding changes. Raja too joined them, although he tried to hide it from Nilu, and even from his colleagues. He began to slip away from the office in the middle of the day, after making excuses about the hotel owner that he had to interview in Durbar Marg or the new Mongolian restaurant he had to review in Lazimpat. And since no lack of protesters took to the streets in those days, he had no problem finding them, merging with them as he loosened his tie and raised his fist in the air. His expression was one of exhilaration, a breaking free of something—a knot—inside him.
Had it not been for an errand she had to run for Arniko Academy, Nilu wouldn’t have known about Raja’s afternoon adventures. But that day an awards ceremony had been scheduled at school, and the teacher in charge had become violently ill. As the hour of the prize ceremony drew near, the principal discovered that the specially engraved trophies and medals hadn’t been picked up from the shop, and Nilu was dispatched to get them.
In New Road, as she emerged from the shop, holding the seven trophies and the twenty-four medals in her arms and hoping to hail a taxi, she observed a small procession heading in her direction from the Basantapur area. The procession wasn’t very big, but it was substantial enough to stop traffic, and car and tempo drivers sighed wearily at this delay. She spotted an empty taxi some distance away, but because of the press of people, she couldn’t make her way to it. Her arms were killing her—she’d forgotten to ask the blacksmith in the shop for a bag—but if she was to reenter the shop, she’d have to fight the throng of pedestrians who’d congregated in the doorway, waiting for the procession to pass.
She was wondering what to do when she spotted Raja among the protesters, who were now about fifty yards away. He’d taken off his tie and rolled up his sleeves, and he was punching the air above him with his fist. It’s not Raja, she thought. But it was. Her arms stopped aching, and the noise around her seemed to recede. Then, as he came near, she felt an instinct to run away. But it was silly, not only because she hadn’t done anything wrong but because she couldn’t budge—that’s how crowded the street had become. Then she wanted to turn her face so he wouldn’t see her as he passed, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him: there he was, swaggering, as he did early in their Thamel days.
He marched at the edge of the procession, getting closer. If he glanced in her direction, what would she do? What if she panicked, and the trophies and medals went clattering to the street? The protesters might very well trample and kick them. What would Raja say? And what would she say? Or would they just avert their eyes, like strangers? What would they say when they reached home in the evening? Would they gaze into each other’s eyes to see who’d be the first one to cave in, to buckle, to admit a certain wrongdoing? But she’d done nothing wrong! Nilu had nothing to hide. The trophies she’d picked up, with their engraved student names—Raksha Budhathoki, Milan Karki, Samyukta Shrestha, Harsha Jha, Saleena Moktan, Leeza Sharma, Komal Tuladhar—and the medals with no names—she had a reason for holding them in her numbing arms. She was here for an official purpose. But Raja?
He passed so close that she could see the sweat glistening on his cheek, the small indented scar on his jaw from an old wound he didn’t remember. She saw him, then, at that moment, as the child he might have been in Ratna Park, peering at the faces of women who could be his mother, circling to see if one would recognize him and embrace him. She saw him sitting dejectly under a stone umbrella at the end of the day, as the sun began to set behind the Nagarjun hill, listening to Kaki call him from across the street as she packed her corn-grilling paraphernalia, thinking that he’d join her in a moment, thinking that his mother could still appear, perhaps approach him from the very bushes where she’d left him. And when that didn’t happen, Nilu saw his expression transforming, gradually, from one of hopelessness to one of anger, a fury that made him want to lash out at the world and the grave injustice it had inflicted on him.
Nilu didn’t mention to Raja that she’d seen him in New Road. Even during the prize ceremony, held on the lawn of Arniko Academy with the big peepul tree providing partial shade, she had the strong feeling that Raja had betrayed her. The thought tired her, and she began to develop a headache. Then Principal Thapa announced her name, asking her to come forward and present a trophy to the winner of the debate competition, which she’d overseen. It took Nilu a moment to register what he was saying, but then slowly she made her way to the podium, where she declared Samyukta Shrestha the winner; her tongue turned thick when she uttered the student’s name, so it came out garbled. A few students tittered, and Principal Thapa gave Nilu a sharp look. To Samyukta she gave a weary smile, then, before the student had returned to her seat, quickly walked back to her own chair. Prateema, who was sitting next to her, asked, “Are you okay?” and Nilu nodded, saying that it was the sun.
At home that evening she was quieter than usual, and when Raja remarked upon it, she said that it was the heat. “It was so hot this afternoon, wasn’t it?” she said.
He and Maitreya were playing snakes and ladders. Without looking up, Raja said, “I didn’t notice. I was inside most of the day, then briefly I went to New Road to that new restaurant.”
“What restaurant?”
“There’s a new one, you don’t know.”
What’s the name, she was going to ask, but didn’t. What did it matter? He was hiding his afternoon forays with the protest gang because he was afraid that she’d object to it, as she did during their early days as a couple. He was afraid that she’d criticize him for forgetting that he was a family man now, the father of a five-year-old son, an office worker with a job that had its share of pleasures: He rode a business motorcycle to interview hotel owners in luxury penthouse offices, where together they sipped port wine in small decorative glasses. He hobnobbed with restaurant owners who had deep roots in the city’s tourism industry; sporting ponytails and closely trimmed beards, they spoke of the days when only one hotel existed in Kathmandu—the Royal Hotel, run by the itinerant Russian dancer and hunter Boris Lissanevich, who allowed mountain climbers to sleep on his lawns and whose apple-red face and ready smile ushered in the Nepali hospitality industry. “Hospitality industry,” Raja would say, and Nilu would experience a mild shock. The words didn’t seem right coming from his lips, his face, his body. For her, the phrase conjured up an image of hospitals: the smell of disinfectant and the singsongy voices of nurses wearing white, starched uniforms. As a strange backdrop to this picture, she also saw industrial machines spewing black smoke.
Nilu thought up explanations for her husband’s behavior. Most likely Raja stepped into the street now and then to clear his head of the hospitality industry and to regain something of his youth, his original self. She herself didn’t believe that anything would come of the ripples of rebellion that were coursing through the country, and, confirming her theory, the government clamped down heavily—dissidents and their leaders were thrown in jail or placed under house arrest. She could see the disappointment on Raja’s face as he read the morning papers, which clearly suggested that the push for political change was coming to naught. Nilu felt sorry for Raja, who obviously had high expectations. She could hear him thinking, This time it’s going to burst wide open.
