Buddha's Orphans, page 26
Later Nilu would learn, from Ramkrishan, that that day Kaki had gone to visit her son and his wife, after nearly two decades, and had returned disappointed. “Was she expecting something from her son?” Nilu had asked Ramkrishan, whom she’d run into in the vegetable market of Asan, where he was inspecting a long white radish, holding it in his slightly trembling hands. His back was a little bit hunched, but when he haggled with the farmer, his voice was as firm as ever.
Nilu stood next to him, watching him for a moment before she called his name. He turned, squinted, exclaimed in pleasure, and threw the radish back into the basket, which prompted the farmer to raise his hand in exasperation. Ramkrishan asked how Nilu was, and the baby. When Nilu inquired after Kaki, saying that she’d seen her braving the crowd the other day, Ramkrishan shook his head, and his eyes began to tear up. “All she thinks of is Raja. There’s nothing else in her mind.” After her visit to her son’s house, Ramkrishan told Nilu, Kaki had said nothing to him for a few days. One day Ramkrishan casually asked her whether she’d managed to see her son. Kaki didn’t respond, and Ramkrishan was thinking that it’d probably be another day or two before Kaki would speak to him when she said, “My grandson is a fine boy, but I feel nothing for him, do you hear me, Ramkrishan Dai? He called me grandma, but there is nothing in my heart that I can offer him. And you know why? Because every day, whatever love I have in here”—she jabbed a wrinkled, knotted finger at her chest—“I save it for Raja, in case he comes back to me.”
Now it was Nilu who, standing amid the swarm of the market, fought back tears. “I don’t know, Ramkrishan Dai. I’ve asked Raja many times, but his heart is not in it. I’ll ask him again, but after all these years, I think he’s hesitant to reopen an old wound.”
On the way to Thamel, however, an idea came to Nilu. At home she didn’t tell Raja that she’d run into Ramkrishan or what he had said about Kaki. She hadn’t told Raja about watching Kaki negotiate the sidewalk traffic the other day. It was useless with him—her pleading with him to go see Kaki had fallen on deaf ears, and she no longer wanted to push him toward it. There will come a time, she told herself, when Raja might feel a prick of conscience, and he’ll go to Kaki of his own free will—but he couldn’t wait forever. Kaki’s health had continued to deteriorate.
The next Saturday, the day before Nilu went back to teaching after maternity leave, she carried baby Maitreya with her to Jamal. He was only a few months old, and she’d slipped a cowboy hat on his round head to ward off the winter chill. He was wearing a pair of blue corduroy overalls, and he smiled and gurgled at her, threads of saliva hanging down his chin. Raja, already at the bookstore, didn’t know that she’d taken Maitreya out.
At Nilu Nikunj’s gate Nilu hesitated. She had no desire to see Muwa, nor to expose Maitreya to an inadequate grandmother, but she would have to take that risk if she was to see Kaki. Gently, she lowered the latch and slipped in. Crossing the yard, she glanced at Muwa’s bedroom balcony. But her curtains were drawn, just as they had been when Nilu was growing up. From the veranda she peeked in and presently saw Ramkrishan Dai inside, moving toward the kitchen. She knocked on the door, softly, and he turned and came to open it. She put her finger to her lips and whispered to him that she had come to see Kaki. Ramkrishan’s face lit up at the sight of Maitreya, who had fallen asleep. She passed Maitreya to Ramkrishan and went to the kitchen. Kaki was curled up in a corner. Close up, her face was a landscape of deep wrinkles. Her body too seemed to have shrunk to half its former size. Nilu called her, but Kaki seemed to be in another land. A thread of drool snaked its way out of the side of her mouth. “Kaki!” Nilu whispered loudly. Kaki groaned, then, appearing to sense that someone was calling her, tried to sit up. Stroking her forehead, Nilu said, “It’s me, Nilu. I’ve brought someone with me I think you’d be pleased to meet.”
“Who?” Kaki said, almost querulously. Her face became alert, and she sat up. “Raja?” Kaki cried, a sound like that of a bird in the wilderness.
Ramkrishan passed Maitreya to Nilu. “It’s not Raja,” Nilu said. “It’s his little son, Maitreya.”
Kaki’s face fell, and Nilu regretted not having announced right away whom she’d brought.
“Raja hoina?” Kaki asked, looking defeated.
Nilu took Kaki’s gnarled and leathery fingers and placed them on Maitreya’s forehead. “He has Raja’s face, Kaki. Feel him carefully.” Slowly Kaki began to explore the baby’s face, as soft whimpers escaped her mouth.
At the gate to her childhood home Nilu paused. Vines and creepers had strangled its façade. The house looked smaller, more weathered than what she remembered from a few years ago. She found the gate unlocked, and went in. The yard was littered with newspapers and empty Ruslan vodka bottles. The garden was overgrown, with wilted and dying flowers and tall weeds. Had Ramkrishan given up on it? On the veranda the chairs were toppled, most likely by the recent storm. She nearly stepped in what looked like a pool of oil. She wondered if Ramkrishan had taken ill. He must have been feeling lonely since Kaki’s death.
When, long ago, she watched Kaki’s quivering fingers explore Maitreya’s face, Nilu had known that she would not live for long. Kaki was breathing heavily as she ran her palm over baby Maitreya’s head. She had barely any flesh left on her bones. But more than anything, Nilu knew, her spirit was giving way. Maitreya’s presence might have revived it for a short while, but then Kaki clearly wanted her Raja, and no one else could replace him. It was the faithful Ramkrishan who came knocking at the Thamel flat to deliver the news one morning as Nilu was getting ready to go to Arniko Academy. Raja had already left to open the bookstore, and Maitreya had just woken up and was being entertained by the servant girl. “She passed away peacefully,” Ramkrishan told her, “in the middle of the night.” Nilu wanted to go see Kaki, but Ramkrishan said that her son had already taken her to the ghat for her cremation. All day at school, Nilu’s mind dwelt on the woman who’d nurtured Raja when no one else would, not even the old man who’d found him in the bushes of Tundikhel. She wondered how Raja would react when she delivered the news of Kaki’s death, though she already knew that it would not sadden him, not make him pause. If anything, it might remind him again of the loss of his real mother. So, in the evening when she reached home, she told him nothing. When he commented on how quiet she was, she said that the teaching that day had tired her, and she turned her attention to Maitreya.
The next morning she left the house a bit early and went all the way to the Swayambhunath Temple, where, with the help of a priest, she lit a hundred thousand wicker lamps in Kaki’s memory.
“She’s one of your own children, Lord Buddha,” Nilu prayed, as she watched the flames flicker in the wind. “She embodied your teaching of compassion—she gave herself completely to raise an orphan boy. Yet she died thirsting for his love. Please grant her peace.”
Nilu pushed the button for the bell, but nothing sounded. She pushed it again, then knocked, at first gently, then louder. Soon footsteps sounded on the stairs, and after a moment Muwa opened the door. She wasn’t wearing her wig, and Nilu saw that she was virtually bald, with only small tufts of hair remaining on her scalp; she looked like a cancer patient, which shocked Nilu. She inhaled sharply to detect the familiar smell of alcohol, but the air was fresh. Had Muwa given up drinking? Nilu refused to believe it.
Inside, the house was as disheveled as the yard and the garden. Two towels lay in the hallway that led to the kitchen. Nilu waited for Ramkrishan to come, but he didn’t. “Let’s go to my room,” Muwa said, and walked up the stairs, holding the railing. She was limping a bit, which meant that she hadn’t lied about her ankle. Nilu followed. Upstairs too, in the open hallway that overlooked the front door below, she spotted dirt, blotches on the floor where a drink had been spilled, and curls of dust. “Where is Ramkrishan Dai?” she finally asked Muwa.
“He died a couple of months ago.”
“He died?” Nilu froze. She wished Muwa had prepared her for this. She had expected, she realized with sadness, that Ramkrishan would be part of the household forever; during this visit in particular she had hoped his presence to cushion herself against Muwa.
“He died during the night,” Muwa said, pushing open the door to her room. “In the evening he’d brought me a glass of warm milk before he went to sleep. Then in the morning I kept calling and he didn’t come, and when I went to check on him in the shack he wasn’t breathing.” Muwa sounded slightly piqued, as though she had expected Ramkrishan to warn her in advance about his death.
Muwa’s room was dark and reeked of cigarette smoke, as usual. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling corners. All the chairs were piled high with unwashed clothes, which gave off a disagreeable smell. There was no place to sit except on Muwa’s bed, and the sheets there looked unwashed, so Nilu remained standing.
“Who took his body to the funeral?”
Muwa sat on her bed, wincing as she adjusted her leg. She lit a cigarette and took a sip from a glass by her bedside table. “He had a nephew somewhere in the city. I found his number and called them. At first he wanted me to take care of Ramkrishan’s funeral. He said that his uncle devoted his life to me, and that was the least I could do. Can you believe it? I don’t know where these servant people get their nerve these days. It’s all because of the politicians, especially these communists. They’re always inciting them to ask for their rights. Now, where would I go arranging for his corpse to be burned? So I told the nephew no. ‘If you don’t come to fetch your uncle’s corpse, he’s going to rot in this house.’”
“Well, did you at least give him some money?”
Muwa eyed Nilu. “And where would I get money? Do I have a steady supply of it? I gave his nephew about five thousand, that’s all. I can’t live my life just handing people money left and right.”
“I don’t understand,” Nilu said. “Where has all your money gone?” Then she recalled what Muwa had said about Sumit over the phone. “Where is Sumit? Is he not with you anymore?”
“He is!” Muwa snapped. “Where would he go, poor man. He’s just gone away for a few days.” The ash on her cigarette end was growing longer, and then it dropped. But Muwa was looking at Nilu, her eyes cloudy and drunk.
“Why have you let the house get to this state? Didn’t you hire anyone after Ramkrishan Dai died?”
Muwa lay back on the bed, took a deep drag, blew out the smoke, and closed her eyes.
“Muwa? Why did you call me here if you are just going to lie down there? I’ll go.”
“Don’t go, Nilu,” Muwa said. “Can’t you just stay here with me, for a few minutes?”
Reluctantly, Nilu sat next to her. Muwa opened her eyes and took Nilu’s hand. “I’ve made some mistakes.” The cigarette in her fingers had burnt itself out. “I’ve lost everything.”
The news didn’t surprise Nilu. “It’s your money,” she said. “You can do whatever you want with it. Gambling?”
Muwa nodded. “I don’t even remember how I got into it. Sumit loves to play flush and kitty, and suddenly we were going every day.”
“All of our . . . your property in the villages is gone?”
“Yes, everything is gone, except for this house.” She looked pleadingly at her daughter. “Nilu, don’t get angry with me, okay? I really don’t know what happened.”
“Why should I get angry?” Nilu said. “You’ve always been like this. It’s not a surprise to me.” She paused. “Why did you call me here?”
“I want to transfer this house to Sumit’s name.”
Nilu stared at her mother, then gave a short laugh. “Then do it. Why ask me?”
“You’re my daughter,” Muwa said. “I haven’t kept anything for you to inherit, and I thought, this is the house where you grew up. Maybe you’re attached to it, maybe I need to ask your permission first.”
“My son is dead, and you think I would be worried about this stupid house?” Nilu said, unable to mask her contempt. “Give it to whoever you like. I don’t need anything from you.”
Raja’s Flat
SHE BEGAN TO HEAR Maitreya’s voice inside the house. “Ma, do you think it will rain today?” he said from a corner of the room. As she read on the sofa, he whispered into her ear, “Will you read to me, Ma?” It was as if he was teasing her, even provoking her.
One Saturday morning she was peeking through the curtains at the neighbor’s house, where the son was once again performing for the family, when she heard a rustling sound behind her. She closed her eyes and prayed. But the sound continued, and when she turned to look, a boy’s shadow flitted across the wall and went into the bedroom. “Maitreya!” she shouted, as though scolding her son. She strode to the bedroom, and of course there was no one there. “Stop this!” she said to the air. Then, realizing how ridiculous she sounded, she grabbed her bag, and not caring that she was dressed in her house dhoti, left the place.
She emerged onto the main street of Chabel, not knowing where she was going. A minibus hurtled toward her from Bouddha, the conductor leaning out of the back door, yelling, “La, la, Baneswor, Dillibazar, Ratna Park, la, la, la.” Instinctively she raised her hand, the bus screeched to a halt, and she was inside. She had to find Raja. She had to talk to him, tell him what was happening to her. Was she losing her mind? Was that why he had left her?
As the minibus lurched forward, she held the rubber strap hanging from the ceiling. Bodies pressed against her. A couple of hands, men’s, lingered briefly on her thigh. These men hadn’t changed, the buses were as rickety as ever, and hundreds of girls and women were still being pawed, across the country, every day like this. But she had changed. It didn’t matter to her anymore what these men did, the discomfort she felt on her thighs, her crotch, her bottom. Gone were the days of becoming offended, feeling dirty and violated when she was touched and fondled, or when young men in the streets hurled lewd remarks.
The bus dumped her in Dillibazar, and she quickly maneuvered through the dense crowd of this neighborhood and approached the building where she knew he lived. It was a nondescript three-story building—its yellow paint peeling off in spots, a satellite dish dutifully perched on the roof—becoming dwarfed by tall buildings, some still under construction. He doesn’t get enough sunshine, she thought. But then, she herself kept her own curtains closed most of the time.
She hesitated at the gate. Other people lived here, and she didn’t want them watching her from their windows when the gate clanked open. You are his wife, not his lover, so you don’t need to be secretive, she told herself. But this self-assurance also gave her pause. It’d been close to three months since Raja had left—what was their status now? She remembered when they first got married and moved to Thamel, they’d mocked their newly married state. “Hey, hubby,” she’d teased him. “Hubba, bubba!” He’d called her dulahi and demanded, as he stood from the chair where he’d been sitting, that she touch his feet like a demure, husband-fearing bride. She knelt before him, suggesting she was indeed going to place her head on his feet to receive his blessing, then quickly clasped his ankles and yanked them toward her, making him fall. His back struck the chair, which slammed against the window. Swooning in pain he hopped around the room, and, terrified, she followed him, attempting to lift his shirt to check for a bruise. He was laughing and wailing at the same time, and she saw that a horizontal welt had appeared on his lower back.
“It hurts?” she asked.
“Of course it does. Why did you do it?”
When she protested that he’d started the whole thing with his ridiculous touch-my-feet business, with a stern face he said, “Bad wifey. Now, even though I’m in pain, I’ll have to fuck you. You give me no choice.” And he’d begun to slowly take off his clothes in the manner of a reluctant striptease, and she kept watching him with laughing eyes until he was down to his underwear.
“Raja, the window is open,” she said, but he merely glanced at it with a pained expression and flung his underwear away. The neighbors across the street had a clear view, so Nilu rushed to the window and closed it.
“What do you say, wifey? Some love or no love?” He was completely naked now, his arms by his side, his penis limp but in the process of rising, his face twisted in pain, part real, part exaggerated.
She went to him, put her hand on his penis, and said, “Who needs more love, this little man or you?”
Later, she had him lie on his stomach and rubbed some Amrutanjan on his back, blowing on the peeled skin as she did so, and he murmured to himself and said, “Mmmm, delicious.”
The latch on the gate to Raja’s building did clang loudly, and figures did appear at the windows, but Nilu strode in, looking straight ahead. The second floor, that’s where she recalled Raja saying he lived. She ought to have phoned him before visiting, so he wouldn’t be surprised, as he certainly would be now. She also remembered that he had never invited her over. At no point in their phone conversations, which had been dwindling anyway, had he suggested that she come to see where he lived. This in itself should have warned her to turn back. Nilu was on alien territory. Even more alien than how Lainchour had seemed when she had tracked down Raja in Birey Dai’s shop. That time at least she had been propelled by fond memories of their childhood together in Nilu Nikunj. Today the air was heavy with death and estrangement and hurt.
But, despite everything, Raja was the only one with whom she could discuss Maitreya, so she climbed the staircase and knocked at the first door she came upon on the second floor. She heard a bit of a scrambling inside, some fervent whispers, before Raja’s voice floated out, tentatively, querulously. “Who’s there?”
