Buddha's Orphans, page 3
Kaki put her palms together in namaste. Ganga Da tousled Raja’s hair and bid him goodbye. Raja followed him until the man crossed the street and disappeared into Mahabouddha.
That night Kaki tossed and turned in bed, waking Raja, who became annoyed and thrust his face into his pillow. Their bedding lay in a corner of the first floor of the building that, miraculously, Vaishali and Dindayal still occupied, after seven years. The legal battle over this particular space dragged on.
Once though, two years ago, these first-floor occupants had experienced a turn of bad luck that shook Kaki badly. The police rapped on the door early one morning, tossed their belongings onto the sidewalk, and announced that all of them were evicted. Vaishali and Dindayal and Kaki hurried to collect their possessions before pedestrians absconded with them. Raja wrapped his arm around the rusted tricycle that Dindayal had fetched for him from somewhere, even though it was now broken; a policeman had lifted it high above his head and then smashed it on the sidewalk. The officers padlocked the door and left the evicted stunned on the street. Two hours later, the owner of the building, his jaw set in a grimace, arrived with a different group of policemen and broke open the padlock with a hammer and a screwdriver. “Don’t worry,” he told Vaishali. “As long as I’m alive, these motherfuckers will never get this floor. I have this. See?” From his pocket he extracted a paper stamped by a number of officials, and he waved it at them. For close to a year he’d known that Kaki and Raja were staying with his “esteemed guests,” as he jokingly called Vaishali and Dindayal, and he’d not objected. The paper he brandished was the legal document declaring the floor to be his property, but apparently his opponents possessed something similar. The eviction had terrified and humiliated Kaki. She’d clasped Raja to her chest and avoided looking at the passersby who’d stopped to observe their sorry-looking bedding and pots and pans and stoves scattered on the sidewalk. Raja asked her whether the police would imprison them.
In bed, restless, Kaki continued to disturb Raja, who said, “You blame me when I squirm in bed. Now you’re not letting me sleep!”
“Go to sleep,” she commanded.
“But I can’t!”
She put her hand on his forehead and stroked it in the dark, sighing. “God will never forgive me if I let this chance go by,” she said.
“What chance?” he asked drowsily.
“To have you attend school. You already forgot that gentleman?”
“Oh, Ganga Da,” Raja said, in the tone of someone who’d known the man for years. “His beard is almost like Bokey Ba’s.”
Instead of lighting her coals the next morning, Kaki headed toward Lainchour with Raja. As they passed Rani Pokhari, they noticed people pointing to something on the water, something that resembled the head of a fish, or another sea creature—it was hard to tell. People said it was the monster that lived underneath, now surfacing for fresh air. “Probably just a log,” someone commented dryly, and Kaki pushed Raja forward.
“I want to see,” he complained. “I dream about the pond too. I see the sad woman walking across it.”
Firmly clasping Raja’s hand, Kaki continued north. They walked toward the Dairy, then crossed the Lainchour field. Inside the Jagadamba School, children from the morning shift shouted and screamed; a few stood on the balcony.
As the two skirted the school, a pebble flew through the air and bounced off Kaki’s head, making her cry out in sharp, stinging pain. Above, on a side balcony, several boys were attempting to hide behind a pillar. Raja wrenched his hand from Kaki’s and lunged toward the small gate that led up to the balcony. Before she could make sense of what was happening, Raja had clambered up to the second floor. The boys began laughing at the six-year-old who dared confront them. Her chest tightening, Kaki rapidly climbed the stairs, and heard a scuffle as she reached the balcony. On the dusty floor, Raja lay, pinned down by a boy twice his size. His lower arm pressed against Raja’s throat, choking him; Raja’s fists pummeled the air, occasionally hitting the boy. The other boys were egging their friend on. Kaki grabbed hold of the older boy’s hair from behind and yanked back his head so hard that she thought she heard the neck snap. The boy lost his grip and fell back on the floor. Raja sat up, coughing and heaving, his hand on his throat. Kaki repeatedly kicked the older boy.
A teacher ran toward Kaki, flailing his arms and commanding her to stop; the boys scrammed. Kaki pulled Raja to his feet. The teacher was asking her why she was hitting his student, and Kaki angrily told him, “You need to control your boys.” She dragged Raja down to the street, where she inspected him. He had a bruise on his throat where the boy had pressed with his elbow, as well as a reddish splotch on his forehead. “Why did you go nuts like that? Who asked you to run up there?”
“The boy threw a stone at you.”
“At me, not at you. Why did it bother you so much?” A bunch of schoolboys watched them from the balcony now, and Kaki worried that this could be the school that Raja would attend if she was to work for Ganga Da. No doubt these boys would bully Raja. She recalled stories of school fights during which eyes had been gouged out. “We’re returning home,” she told Raja, and pulled him in that direction.
“But I don’t want to go back,” Raja replied, twisting his hand in hers, almost crying. “I want to go to Ganga Da’s house.”
“This is not a good place,” she said, but Raja wrenched his hand free and plopped down on the ground; no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t budge him. The schoolboys were jeering from above, and eventually Kaki saw that she had no choice but to agree to Raja’s demand. But in the past few minutes she’d already made up her mind not to work at Ganga Da’s—she’d just go there now to mollify Raja. She wetted her fingers with her tongue, rubbed them on Raja’s bruises, and told him that his present appearance would make Ganga Da think he was a bad, undisciplined boy.
The two began searching for the house. After about ten minutes, they heard a shout: “Over here!” Ganga Da was standing on the roof of a house, a lungi wrapped around his waist; he was holding a toothbrush. “Come, come,” he said, and waved them over.
He met them at the gate, his lips still crusted with toothpaste. They took off their slippers at the door and entered the house. Ganga Da ushered them straight into a room where the curtains were still drawn, blocking the morning sunlight. On the bed in the corner a woman was sleeping, her back to them. “Jamuna, oh Jamuna,” Ganga Da called. The woman didn’t budge. Scores of bottles and tablets sat arrayed by the bedside. A rancid odor emanated from the woman. Ganga Da called her name a couple more times, then sat next to her and placed his hand on her shoulder.
Abruptly the woman turned and hissed at him. “What? Not one moment of peace for me in this house? Don’t you have better things to do?” The woman was slim and pretty, but her eyes were fierce, burning. Raja hid behind Kaki. Without glancing at the visitors, the woman turned to the wall again.
“Jamuna,” Ganga Da said gently. “There’s someone here who might work for us, for you.”
“I don’t need anyone,” Jamuna said.
“We’ve been talking about it for days,” Ganga Da said. “Don’t do this when I’ve finally found someone.”
Kaki thought this was a good opportunity to get away from this disturbing place, so she said, “If she doesn’t need help, maybe we should go.”
Ganga Da lifted his palm, asking for patience. He motioned to Kaki and Raja to sit on the floor, which they did. “Our lives will be a bit easier,” he told his wife.
The woman finally turned, slowly, and a current of air carried an awful smell toward Raja, who put his hand to his nose. The woman’s eyes fell on Kaki, and she turned to her husband. “Is it becoming hard for you to live with me? Is that why you’ve brought this witch here?”
Kaki abruptly stood and pulled Raja with her. “We didn’t come here to listen to this.”
Ganga Da too got up and said, “Don’t go by her words. She means nothing. Please.”
Kaki remained standing, her expression dark. Jamuna finally addressed her in a conciliatory voice. “My tongue is rotting these days. Worms are eating it. That’s why my words are dirty.”
The rest of the conversation was a blur to Kaki. As if puffs of cotton were drifting from his mouth, Ganga Da spoke soft words to his wife, who responded mostly with incoherent talk, punctuated by lucid comments or questions. She asked Kaki how much she’d expect to be paid as a household help, and when Kaki looked questioningly at Ganga Da, Jamuna said, sternly, that it was she, not her husband, who made financial decisions. “We’ll settle that later,” Ganga Da told Kaki.
Then Jamuna’s gaze fell upon Raja. He was hiding behind Kaki again, peeking at the strange woman. “Who is this now?” Jamuna said. “Do you like flying kites?”
Kaki intervened. “Let’s talk about my work first. Where will we sleep? What kind of work would I do?”
To Kaki’s surprise, Raja emerged from behind her and went to Jamuna, who put her hand to her mouth when she saw his bruises. “What happened to you? Who did this to you?”
“The boys over there,” Raja said shyly, pointing out the window.
Jamuna pulled him toward her. “Let’s look.” She touched the bruise on his face, and Raja flinched. “Let me get some iodine.” And she left the room to fetch it.
Kaki leaned toward Ganga Da. “Is she not right in the head?”
Ganga Da hesitated. “She’s harmless. Once in a while I need someone to handle her, but mostly she just talks nonsense.”
“I don’t think I can do this work,” Kaki said. “No telling what she might do to my boy.”
Ganga Da stared at her, his eyes getting moist. “Don’t say that. She loves young children, and she’ll never do anything to harm them. Please. I’ll send the boy to a good school. You’ll be happy here.”
Jamuna returned, carrying a bottle and a wad of cotton. She knelt before Raja, who, to Kaki’s surprise, didn’t shrink from her. Jamuna dabbed a piece of cotton with iodine and applied it to his face. “You’re a brave boy, son,” Jamuna said. “A bahadur.” She took Raja to the bed and made him sit next to her. “You two go out and talk about the wages. He will stay with me. Go!”
“No, no, I want to talk in this room,” Kaki said, but Ganga Da signaled to her that it was okay. Reluctantly, she left Raja with the woman and went out. Ganga Da took her to the kitchen, where dishes were piled in the sink, flies buzzing around them. “Cook and clean, that’s all you have to do,” Ganga Da said. “Our clothes are washed by a dhobi nearby, and he can also clean Raja’s clothes and yours. The work here is very light. I’ll give both of you new clothes during Dashain. Sometimes if you want to go visit your family, in the village or elsewhere, that too can be arranged.”
“I have no family,” Kaki said. She wondered what her own son would think of her working as a servant. He probably wouldn’t care, she concluded sadly. “Good riddance,” she could hear him say to his wife. But, a part of her mind argued, surely he thought about her sometimes, wondered what she was up to?
“What do you think?” Ganga Da asked. The toothpaste had dried on his lips.
“We haven’t talked about my wages.”
“I was going to ask you. How much do you want? Now remember—I’ll pay for the boy’s school too.”
Kaki mulled it over. What she really wanted was to tear Raja from that woman and return to Ratna Park. “Fifty rupees a month,” she said, confident that Ganga Da would balk at the amount. A couple of women she knew who worked as servants received only slightly more than twenty rupees monthly, and others were paid only the food they ate and new clothes during the annual festival; in rare instances, bus fares for visits home were included. Kaki waited for Ganga Da to laugh at the audacity of her request and dismiss it, which would give her an excuse to walk out. Ganga Da turned away momentarily, his back to her; then, facing her again, he said, “It’s higher than what I expected, but I’ll give you what you want. Once you start here, however, you have to stay with us. Leaving after two days because the work is too hard—if you do that, no one will be a nastier person than me. I want you to understand that.”
Kaki’s breath stuck in her throat. Fifty rupees! Within two months she’d be able to return to her son and throw his fifty rupees in his face and float another fifty in the direction of his wife. But this line of thinking made her ashamed. She couldn’t take this job to satisfy a feeling of vengeance.
“And remember, the boy will be educated, lead a good life. We’ll raise him like he’s our son.”
Ganga Da’s voice jolted her out of her thoughts. Telling him that she needed to check on Raja, she hurried to the other room. Raja was lying on Jamuna’s lap, his eyes closed, and the woman was gently blowing on the bruises on his cheeks, where she’d applied iodine. Between her breaths, she hummed a lullaby: Chimichimi nani chimichini, makkhan roti chimichini. Raja’s face was so serene, so content, Kaki could only watch, speechless.
“Let the poor boy sleep for a while,” Ganga Da whispered from behind Kaki. “Come, I’ll show you something else.”
He took her to an empty, narrow room next to the kitchen, explaining that this was where she’d sleep once she began working. “And you can use this bathroom.” He led her into the back yard, where an outhouse stood near a water tap. Ganga Da turned the tap on, and water rushed out in a torrent. “And water flows here twenty-four hours a day, so you won’t have to go elsewhere to fetch it,” he said. He came to her and said, “What do you think?”
“Everything is fine, but your wife . . . I’m just a bit scared. What if she gets ideas in the middle of the night?”
Ganga Da laughed. “Is that what you think she’ll do? She’s tortured more by her own voices than anything else. Sometimes when I’m at work she’ll try to leave the house because she gets paranoid that someone will come in and abduct her. That’s why I need you.” He became quiet, then said, “I talked to you only because you look like a decent woman, and I feel for this boy. Think about it. Do you really want him to grow up on the streets? Here, he’ll eat well, I’ll clothe him, provide for all of his expenses.”
Kaki found her will weakening as she considered Ganga Da’s argument. If you really thought about the good of the boy, she told herself, you’d take this job. You can always leave if the woman turns dangerous, or too much to handle. This man is right: compare this to Raja’s life alongside Rani Pokhari. Finally she asked, “When do you want me to start?”
“We can go to your place and get your belongings right now.” He looked at his watch. “I can go to work a little late today. At least I’ll be happy that there’s someone in the house with Jamuna. Maybe you and I can go to Ratna Park and leave the boy here for now?”
“No, no,” Kaki said. “I want to take him with me.”
Inside, Raja was still sleeping on Jamuna’s lap, and she too had propped herself against a pillow and closed her eyes.
“Why wake them?” Ganga Da whispered. “Look how comfortably they’re sleeping. Like a mother and son.”
There was something touching about the way the two were napping, with the sunlight streaming through the curtains, accompanied by the distant low chorus of children’s cries from the Jagadamba School.
When Kaki announced that she was leaving to work for Ganga Da, Vaishali appeared relieved, but then she wept. “I’ll miss you, didi,” she said. “And I’ll miss Raja.”
“I’ll miss you too, but it’s not like I’m moving to a foreign country. Whenever you feel like it, come to visit.” She looked at Ganga Da, who was standing by, eyeing his watch. “I think we’d better go.” She left her makal with Vaishali, thinking that if things didn’t work out with Ganga Da, she’d have to return to sell corn.
Ganga Da carried Kaki’s rolled mattress under his arm and grabbed two of her bags, one of which contained Raja’s clothes. Outside, Ganga Da headed toward an idling taxi. The two had come to Ratna Park on a bus, so Kaki had thought they’d return the same way. She didn’t get to ride in cars too often. The last time she’d taken a taxi was during her son’s wedding festivities.
Kaki’s first car ride—well, it was actually a truck ride—took place shortly after her own wedding, when, dressed in a bright red bridal sari, she’d accompanied her husband to receive blessings from some relatives. The truck ride had been a grand gesture on his part. He’d gone out of his way to procure the vehicle, which, he proudly told her, had been used only a few years before in the construction of Juddha Sadak, the road that linked the old city with the new; now it formed the commercial heart of Kathmandu, overflowing with foreign goods.
“Did you have to pay to get it?” she asked her new husband.
“Don’t you worry your pretty head about it,” he said. At that time, the Tribhuvan Rajpath highway had yet to be built, and porters had to carry cars into the city all the way from Bhimphedi. One of Kaki’s nephews had enlisted as a porter, and he’d told her how they collected hay as they trundled along the two-week route so they could make sandals for their bruised and battered feet.
In keeping with the modesty of a new bride, Kaki had softly complained that they couldn’t afford the expense of renting a truck. Waving his smoldering cigarette about as the truck rattled to their destination, her husband had declared, “You can’t have fun after you’re dead—hoki hoina?” Despite herself, she’d turned her face to the window, away from him, and smiled. It had only been two weeks since she’d gingerly entered his house as a bride, and she was getting to know his habits, his gestures. “Hoki hoina?” he asked, thrusting forward his chin, after commenting on myriad subjects: the weather, the rude shopkeepers, the pestering beggars, the irresponsible cousin. “True or not?”
“True, true,” she whispered to herself while he was alive, and after he died, only three years after their wedding, from, according to the doctors, excessive smoking. Hoki hoina? she chanted to her son as he grew up without a father.
