Buddha's Orphans, page 28
Nilu hailed a taxi and gave the driver her destination.
Kalimati was a hubbub of activity in the evening. The vegetable market was in full swing, and the depot was filling with buses that had arrived at the city after long-distance journeys from Pokhara, Birgunj, and Biratnagar. She hadn’t come to this part of town in months because it was far from Chabel, nearly at the opposite end of the valley.
She moved up and down the street once, craning her neck to look at the signs. But she couldn’t locate Hotel Gandhi. Then she took the road that ended with a fork toward Tahachal on the left and Basantapur on the right. Somehow she felt uncomfortable asking anyone about where the hotel was, conscious that people would think she was staying there. She mocked her own feelings of insecurity about this. Who cared what anyone thought, really? Then she happened to glance into an alley, and there it was, a sign saying Hotel Gandhi. It was affixed to an old house that adjoined other houses in the alley. She hadn’t expected anything as crummy-looking as this, and now she was unsure about what to do. For a few minutes she waited at the opening of the alley. The marketplace around her hummed with shoppers buying vegetables and fish and meat. Bicycle bells tinkled and cars honked incessantly. Her school guard had said that Shiva lived behind Hotel Gandhi. But since the hotel was not in a freestanding building, there was nothing behind it. She wondered if she ought to turn back, but then she realized she’d already come this far, she’d argued for Shiva with Principal Thapa, and it seemed like a waste to not go this extra step.
She had to stoop a bit to enter the door of Hotel Gandhi, and as soon as she was inside she was bombarded by a smell, half food, half something rotten. She resisted the urge to pinch her nose, as there were people in the little room where she now found herself. Behind a small desk sat a man, reading something, and he smiled at her as she entered. In the corner was a dumpy woman cooking momos in a large pot. Two men sat on benches alongside the wall, waiting for the food. Was this a momo shop? “Sit down, sit down,” the man said. She asked him whether this was Hotel Gandhi. Yes, it was, the man said. Did she want momos?
“Oh, this is a restaurant? I am actually looking for a hotel called Gandhi, you know, the night-sleeping kind.”
“The hotel is upstairs,” the man said. “Do you need a room?”
The men on the bench looked at her expectantly. So did the woman, before she removed the lid from the large vat in which the momos were being cooked. “It’ll be another minute or two,” she told the men.
“No, no,” Nilu said to the man. Now, with two men and the cook watching her, she felt foolish telling them what she was looking for. “I’m looking for someone who lives nearby, behind Hotel Gandhi I was told, but I don’t know where to look.”
“Come with me,” the man said, and stood.
He turned and began to climb the stairs next to him.
“No, no, you misunderstood,” Nilu said with urgency. “He’s not staying at the hotel. He’s renting a room somewhere nearby.”
“I understood what you are saying. From a window up there I can show you the houses nearby and tell you which ones are rented out.”
She glanced at the cook, who encouraged her with a nod. Nilu followed the man. The stairs were narrow and wooden, and she wondered what kind of people stayed in a hotel like this, what the nightly rate was. On the second floor, there were two rooms; the doors were closed.
“Do you have guests in the hotel?” she asked.
The man nodded. “All the time. It’s a good location, with the bus station so nearby. If you have friends . . .” Then he looked her up and down and probably realized that she and her ilk might not stay at his hotel. He beckoned her to a small window on the second-floor landing. Standing next to him, she could smell his wife’s momos on him. “See, that house over there has two rooms rented out,” he said, pointing. “And that one over there has one.”
“How do I get there?”
“You have to go around to the main street, and enter through another alley.”
“But it’s right there,” she complained. “Isn’t there a way through the back of your hotel?”
The man shook his head, then looked her up and down. His body was quite close to hers, and his wife was downstairs. At once she said, “No problem. I’ll find my way.”
Out on the street, she entered the small alley he’d mentioned, and she was in a courtyard, from where she could see the back of Hotel Gandhi, even hear the low murmur of the stove. She stepped into the first house that the hotel owner had pointed out. Once again she had to climb some stairs to reach the second floor. A man was leaning on the railings that overlooked the courtyard, and he glanced at her questioningly. She told him she was looking for a man named Shiva, from Gorkha. The man pointed to the opposite side of the courtyard, told her that someone from Gorkha lived on the fifth floor. Nilu couldn’t believe how difficult this search was turning out to be. She was already beginning to feel tired. Right now it appeared as if she would not find him. And it was quite possible that he was not home—a young man like him, he could be out with friends, or gone somewhere to eat dinner. A pink hue had spread across the sky; within minutes it could turn dark, and here she was, quite far from home, looking for a man she hardly knew, based on the words of a guard who could have gotten it all wrong. But the house was just a few dozen yards away, and she felt she had no choice but to plod ahead.
Nilu made her way to the house and climbed the stairs, this time to the third floor. Then she saw him, through a window on the narrow balcony that ran alongside the building. He was at another window in his room, sitting on its ledge, head leaning against the wall, looking out to the north of the city. He cut a glum profile, and for a brief moment she watched him. Finally she called his name, “Shiva!”
Startled, he turned to her. “Didi?” he said. He stood and desperately tried to hide something, and once he straightened up, he looked like an animal that had been frightened out of its wits.
“What a pleasure,” he said, but didn’t come to the door.
“I have come to deliver some good news,” she said. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”
Embarrassed, he opened the door. Immediately she was assaulted by a strong stench of alcohol. She saw, on the windowsill, what he’d been trying to hide: a bottle of Khukri rum, which lay exposed because the newspaper he’d placed over it had slid down. She looked at him. His eyes were glassy, and he wore a silly, sheepish grin.
“You’ve been drinking?”
“No, no,” he said. Then his eyes traveled to the exposed bottle, and he said, “Just a peg or two. I was getting bored. Please come in, please.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” she said. A gust of wind blew her hair, and she tamed it with her fingers.
“Please, didi,” he said, and scrambled to empty a chair—his only chair—of its magazines and clothes. The floor was littered with books. Two of them lay open near the floor by his bed.
Nilu sat down primly, even more unsure about the wisdom of this visit. The drinking, naturally, disgusted her.
Shiva stood before her, like a child awaiting instructions. He was frazzled, clearly, for his hand kept smoothing his hair.
“I came to give you some good news.”
“Didi, I’ll make some tea, okay?” He rushed to a corner stove, where a few pots and pans lay about. She thought of rejecting this tea, but she also wanted to see what he would do, how he would make it, so she remained quiet. He rinsed a pot in the sink, filled it with water, and set it to boil on a portable gas stove. He sat on his haunches, watching the water, seemingly afraid to face her. She felt herself melting. Poor guy. He looked terribly depressed and lonely.
She went to the window, which commanded a broad view of the city because Shiva’s flat was so high. The Swayambhunath Temple could be seen in the distance, rising above the city’s hazy smoke. Everywhere she looked there were houses. When she and Raja took long walks in the city before Maitreya’s birth, they’d ventured into this area, she now remembered. But in those years most of this area was open fields or farmland. She squinted toward Chabel, but it was too far away for her to discern anything familiar. “It’s a nice view from here,” she said. Her eyes fell on the bottle of rum on the sill, and she picked it up to examine it. Three Xs were marked on the label, letters that also could signify, she noted with bemusement, blue movies. “I’ve never understood what the charm of this thing is,” she said. She rotated the bottle in her hand; the glass glinted in the sunlight. She opened the cap and brought her nose close to the opening. The smell hit her nostrils quickly, then traveled down her throat. She took a deep breath, then closing her eyes, she put the bottle to her lips, took a swig. The rum burned the inside of her mouth, and when she forced herself to swallow it, it sizzled down her gullet. She turned toward Shiva, who was watching her.
“Didi?” he asked, in astonishment.
“What? You thought I couldn’t drink? Watch me.” And Nilu took another gulp, this one bigger because the first one had already dilated her throat.
“Drink from a glass, please,” he said, and brought her one.
But she didn’t take the glass from him. Warmth was already welling up in her chest, spreading down to her belly. Her head swam. It had been ages since she’d drunk alcohol. Probably the last time was in Thamel, with Raja. Are you going to turn out to be like your mother now? a part of her mind asked. But she knew that wouldn’t happen. It was just a momentary impulse, ignited by something, mostly by the images of Raja and the woman in his flat. She moved a bit closer to Shiva, and, handing him the bottle, said, “Now it’s your turn. Drink.”
“Didi, you have surprised me a great deal today. I didn’t expect you to . . .”
“More drinking, less talking.” She was on the verge of giggling—she had to control herself. This frivolity was reminiscent of her days in Thamel with Raja.
Shiva also took a swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, like a bandit. Nilu laughed at him.
“What? What?” he asked, smiling. He had let his hair go long, going down past his earlobes, which, again, reminded her of Raja’s hair when they lived in Thamel.
She took the bottle from him and swallowed another mouthful. The alcohol now tasted sweet. “Do you stay cooped up in your room like this all day, drinking?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes I’m not in the mood to do anything. Nothing seems to matter anymore. Even reading I find boring.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” she asked. She stifled an urge to put her arm around him. He aroused something in her, an impulse to protect him. He had that face.
“I just feel so disillusioned sometimes.”
“Come, sit here,” she said, and she set the bottle down on the floor and sat on his bed, as though this were her room, and patted the spot next to her. “Tell me what’s wrong, babu,” she said.
He came and sat next to her, his body not touching hers. Good boy, she thought, in her increasing drunkenness.
“I don’t know, didi. Sometimes I just feel like giving up and not even going out of my room, not opening the door or my curtains, not getting out of bed in the morning, just sleeping and sleeping until, until . . .”
Hesitantly, she tousled the hair on the back of his head. Her hand moved down to the back of his neck, and briefly she squeezed him there. Then, conscious that her hand was on a virtual stranger, she withdrew it to her lap. The water he’d set for tea had been boiling for some time, but neither he nor she got up to turn off the gas.
His face had slipped into a sad look, which returned whenever there was a lull in the conversation.
“Who is in your family?” she asked.
“A brother and a sister-in-law. My father passed away recently.”
“Is your brother also in the city?”
“I don’t want to talk about him right now,” he said. “Didi, have you eaten?”
She shook her head.
“Will you eat with me today?”
“Here?”
“No, we’ll go to my regular restaurant nearby.”
“Well, shouldn’t you be saving money by cooking at home?”
“Sometimes I get disheartened just cooking for myself.”
“Well, you have no reason to be lonely now,” she said, then paused for dramatic effect. “The principal wants you to return for an interview.”
“Really? After his yelling yesterday, I thought he’d never give me that job. That’s why I didn’t come today.”
“Well, I talked to him, persuaded him.” Nilu was disappointed by Shiva’s reaction, which was not as enthusiastic as she’d hoped. She’d expected his face to light up, for him to thank her profusely, but none of that happened. “So, you have to come by tomorrow to talk to him.”
“Okay,” he said. “Shall we go out to eat?”
She glanced out the window. It was already dark outside, and she was far from home. She’d have to take a taxi on the way back, as most of the buses and tempos would have stopped running by now. But who was waiting for her at home? No one, except shadows of her dead son. “All right, let’s go,” she said.
Her mind was still swimming from the rum, and she took his arm as they left the courtyard and emerged onto the main street. The eatery was quite close, and as soon as she entered it Nilu realized that it served mostly out-of-towners, or bus drivers and conductors who plied the highway out of Kathmandu. She was the only woman in the bhojanalaya, and the men stared at her as she entered, still holding Shiva’s arm, but it didn’t bother her. “Sit here?” Shiva said, pointing to a corner, and she nodded.
When the meal was placed before Nilu—steaming rice, chicken floating in gravy, delicious-smelling dal, two other vegetables, and some achar—she discovered she was ravenous. “This is the best bhojanalaya in the Kalimati area,” he said. “It’s famous.”
The food was very good, and soon she found herself immersed in sucking the marrow of a bone or chewing on spicy potato achar. He ate more slowly, staring into the distance at times so that she’d ask him, “What are you thinking?” He shook his head at her. After they were done eating, he directed her to the tap in the corner, where she washed her hands and gargled to rinse out the remnants of the food. She wiped her fingers and mouth with a grungy towel hanging on the wall and was surprised that she didn’t blanch.
After dinner they strolled through the Kalimati area for a while. She had slipped her arm into his, and he seemed to think there was nothing unusual about it. She wondered what would happen if Raja, in the unlikely event that he’d come to Kalimati, would chance upon them. Would he get angry? Upset? Then she thought of Maitreya, and for a brief moment she let go of Shiva’s arm. Dwelling on Maitreya distressed her, made this small bit of happiness she was experiencing with Shiva seem fraudulent, inappropriate. But—and she was startled by this renegade thought—her dead son didn’t have a right to pass judgment on his mother.
After strolling for a while, the two headed back to Shiva’s flat. A woman with a baby stood on a landing and smiled at them as they went up; Shiva didn’t even notice her. In this city, Nilu thought, there’s always a woman poised on a landing or a staircase, prying into other people’s lives. Inside his flat, she said, “I should be going home. It’s getting very late.”
“Do you have to go now, didi?” he said. “I feel like you just got here.”
“Okay, I’ll stay for a minute or two more. But you also need to get a good night’s sleep so you’re fresh for your interview tomorrow.”
Shiva poured himself another drink. He also offered her more, but Nilu declined. Her mouth felt acrid now, and her mind was slowing down. Propping a pillow behind her head, she lay on the bed; her legs extended beyond its edge because it was small. Holding the drink in his hand, he sat next to her. “The principal must already have chosen someone for the job. He just said okay to you to make you happy. These people are all alike, I know it.”
“Don’t think so negatively.”
“Negative? Didi, you can’t even trust your own family these days, your own blood.” He downed his drink, grimaced, then set down the glass.
He lay down next to her and rested his head on her shoulder, before she could say anything, before she could tell him no, that that’s not what she came here for. But she realized that he wasn’t going to try any hanky-panky, that he was merely tired, and sad, and incredibly, she leaned over and kissed him on the temple. He turned his face toward her, like a child. After a while he said, as though he were talking to himself, “This city. It makes me sick. So many people, so many cars, so much money, and all of the people wrapped up in their own worlds. I feel like screaming sometimes. If I stay here one more day, I’ll begin to unravel, go insane. I won’t survive. All I want to do is stay in my room and drink.” There was an undertone of something in his voice, a mild aggression, a rejection of this world.
“Why don’t you go back home if you don’t like it here?” she asked.
“I don’t want to bore you with my long-suffering story.”
“You won’t bore me.”
“I can tell you only if you stay with me tonight.”
“Are you blackmailing me?”
“Okay, if you say blackmail, then it’s blackmail.” He smiled at her.
She looked at her watch. It was already ten o’clock. Where had all the time gone? She didn’t look forward to making her way down to the street, then trying to find a taxi in the dark, then traveling through the poorly lit streets. But then, she couldn’t stay here, could she? Could she? She pictured Raja learning that she’d spent the night in Shiva’s bed, and she felt the urge to get up immediately. Several excuses floated through her head as to why she was here in Kalimati in the first place. Then the voice of the woman in Raja’s flat sounded in her ears, like an echo that had been hounding her for days. No one really cared where she was, what she ate and where she slept. Shiva was right. The city would carry on of its own accord; it wasn’t going to stop to ruminate and lament over her life, nor over this poor boy here.
