The Royal Ghosts, page 6
Umesh no longer joined us for tea, and after work Gauri and I began to frequent a restaurant with booths that afforded us some privacy. Sometimes we talked about Umesh—now he smelled of alcohol in the morning, and he kept to himself all day at his desk. He often invented excuses to leave and go to the head office, and a few times I saw him quarreling with the manager.
One morning before Umesh’s arrival, the manager called me into his office and said, “You’re his good friend. Talk to him. I’ve already given him a written warning. If this continues, I’ll be forced to let him go.”
I asked him what exactly was wrong.
“Everything is wrong. He’s making serious mistakes. Doesn’t come to the office on time. And we all know he’s been drinking.”
I told him that Umesh was a good worker, that something was troubling him and it’d probably be over soon. Back at my desk, I began blaming myself: maybe if I hadn’t gotten involved with Gauri, he wouldn’t be acting this way. Soon enough, however, I stopped myself. My logic was absurd. Umesh was responsible for his own actions. How could I be held accountable for his emotions? Or for how much he drank?
When he came in, almost an hour later, I told him that I needed to talk to him, and we went outside. His hair was disheveled, and he was chewing paan paraag, most likely to hide the smell of alcohol.
“That bastard,” he barked after I told him what the manager had said. “I have half a mind to go beat him up.”
I became annoyed. “Why are you acting like a child? If you don’t pull yourself together, he’ll fire you.”
“I don’t care. This isn’t the only job in the city.”
“A lot of people are talking about your drinking, Umesh.” I ought to have grabbed him by his shirt collar and insisted that he stop drinking, that he was ruining his life. But I was no longer sure that I was a close enough friend to take such a liberty.
His face suddenly softened and he said, “Don’t worry about me, Jayadev. Worry about yourself. Now you and Gauri have a lot to think about.”
For some reason, I couldn’t meet his eyes.
Umesh submitted his resignation the next day, and within a few days someone else was hired to replace him. He was gone—just like that.
After he left, Gauri and I grew closer, and we talked about marrying. By this point, Gauri had begun spending much more time at my house, and whatever reservations my mother had about her slightly lower caste status soon disappeared. My mother even offered to go with Gauri to Janakpur when she was to tell her parents our news, but Gauri assured her it would be better if she went alone.
Only hours after she left for Janakpur, I began to miss her, and that day at the office passed very slowly Every few minutes I half expected to find her at her desk, and that evening I went to Ramey’s tea shop by myself, for old times’ sake. Being there without Gauri, or Umesh for that matter, made me restless, so I left. I went home and listened to some Narayan Gopal songs on the stereo. During dinner, my mother sensed my mood and smiled at me, even teased me a bit.
That night I lay in bed thinking how lucky I was to have met Gauri—she had such a sharp mind, was so confident about herself, so understanding with me. I slept with a silly smile on my face, but woke in the middle of the night, troubled by a dream in which I saw Umesh and Gauri holding hands. A feeling gradually took hold of me—that I wasn’t deserving of Gauri, but Umesh was. It was stupid and self-defeating, but the feeling soon overwhelmed me. Umesh was better-looking and came from a more wealthy family. And that was not all. It seemed as if Umesh needed Gauri more than I did. The thought startled me, for I didn’t know where it came from. I lay in bed squirming, suddenly feeling that I had snatched her away from him. I couldn’t fall back to sleep, and by four o’clock in the morning I was groggy and depressed.
All the next day I was in a lousy mood. When Tikaram came to my desk with tea, I asked him how things were going with Kanyakumari, and he shook his head sadly. “I don’t think it’s going to work out,” he said. I pressed him, but he wouldn’t say anything more.
After work, as I was heading home, I decided that I finally needed to talk to Umesh. It’d been more than two weeks since he’d left his job, and I wanted to tell him outright about Gauri and me, and hear him reassure me that he didn’t resent us. I walked all the way to Lazimpat, and the cool evening air cleared my head.
I had to bang on Umesh’s gate a few times before the servant came to open it. When I asked him where Umesh was, he pointed to the back of the house. I found him sitting inside the gazebo, smoking a cigar and drinking. He didn’t seem to be aware of my presence until I called his name, when he looked up with bloodshot eyes, and his face broke into a wild, drunken grin. “Ah, Jayadev. What an honor. What brings you to my humble abode?”
“Hardly humble,” I said, laughing. Just hearing his voice, even though he was drunk, made me feel a bit better. “What’s with you?”
“First a drink, a toast,” he said. He shouted for his servant, who brought a glass. I didn’t object when he poured me some whiskey. “How’s our good old Gauri?” he asked after we toasted and I took a sip.
“She’s fine, but it’s you I’ve been thinking about. The office feels empty now.”
“No, no, you two are better off without me,” he said. “So, when is the wedding band going to play?”
I told him that Gauri was in Janakpur to talk to her parents.
“Cheers! Cheers!” he said. “What a beautiful day this has turned out to be.”
The alcohol eventually relaxed me and turned me sentimental. “What happened, Umesh? What happened to our friendship? What happened to you?”
“I’ve turned into a drunk again, haven’t I?” he said. “Don’t worry. This is a phase. It’ll pass, just like everything passes.”
“I wish things were like they were before.”
“You want me to join you two in marriage?” he said, laughing. “Listen, it’s obvious Gauri and you were meant to be together.” He appeared to be moved by his own words, for he became silent. Then he said, “A nice house, some children—think of how happy you will be. Just don’t forget to send me a wedding invitation.” He waved his hand, as if dismissing me.
I wanted to stay, to talk more, to mention my ridiculous dream, to try to reignite our old friendship, but he began to stare at his glass and drum his fingers on the table, and before long I knew it was time for me to leave.
When Gauri returned I didn’t tell her about my visit to Umesh. Something held me back—I almost felt I’d been disloyal to her. Or maybe I didn’t want to sour her mood by talking about the state he was in.
She’d received the approval from her parents, and the wedding plans began in earnest. People joked, “Isn’t it too much? You two will work together in the same office, then sleep in the same bed.”
Unable to think of a witty response, I simply tried not to blush.
Along with many other people from our office, Tikaram showed up for our wedding, but only with his children. He and Kanyakumari were in the process of getting a divorce. “No more women for me, hajur,” he told me. “My children will have to do without a mother.” The children looked sad, more grown-up than when I had seen them last.
Despite my hand-delivered invitation, Umesh didn’t come. I had a feeling he wouldn’t; still, it disappointed me, and I wondered if our friendship had not been as deep as I’d imagined it.
When our wedding party reached Gauri’s house, I wanted to tell her that Umesh hadn’t come, but she was in a room somewhere inside, getting ready for the ceremony, and it would have been improper for me to seek her out. As I waited in the yard with everyone else for her to appear, I kept glancing at the gate to see if Umesh would show up.
In a few moments people began murmuring that the bride was on her way out. Everyone looked at the front door, and shortly Gauri emerged wearing a bright red sari, her neck and wrists shining with gold jewelry, her face covered by a veil. People remarked on how beautiful she looked. The band played louder. My heart beat insanely, and I wondered what Umesh would say if he saw her now. “Our Gauri,” he’d say, his arm on my shoulder, “an ascetic’s nightmare.” But it was pointless thinking about Umesh. Gauri was on her way to the wedding pyre, where the priests, their hands gesticulating to invoke the gods, had already begun their high-pitched chants.
The Third Stage
ONE MORNING AFTER YOGA, Ranjit was watering the plants in his garden when his old friend Shiva showed up at the gate. Ranjit hadn’t seen Shiva in years. When Ranjit was at the height of his acting career, Shiva was gaining acclaim making documentary films, and now had a cult following among educated Nepalis and Western expatriates. Over the years, the two friends had lost touch, especially after Ranjit stopped acting.
“Ah, Shiva!” Ranjit said, and went to greet him. “How long has it been?”
“The last time we saw each other had to be about seven years ago. At some wedding, wasn’t it?”
The two friends sat in the garden under an umbrella and chatted about the old days. Ranjit’s wife, Kamala, brought tea and snacks. She playfully chastised Shiva for disappearing from their lives altogether, and when she went back inside, Shiva got around to the reason for his visit: he wanted Ranjit to play a lead role in a movie he was going to make—not a documentary this time, but a feature. “Someone else is going to direct it,” he said, “but I’m going to produce it. And I very much want you in the movie. It’s the perfect role for you.”
Ranjit laughed. “I’m an old man. I gave up acting ten years ago, you know that. I’m not going back.”
Shiva looked a bit wounded, but he persisted. “Look, Ranjit. I came to you because you’re my good friend, always have been, and also because you’re the best actor I know of. And look at the state of Nepali cinema. Where have all the good actors gone? Now it’s all about how many songs and gaudy group dances you can jam into one movie. That’s what the audience wants, these directors and producers keep saying. In your time, at least the songs and the dances were kept to a minimum, or were important parts of the story. Directors didn’t compromise their art.”
Shiva was becoming more agitated as he spoke, and Ranjit sympathized with him. He recalled a conversation he’d had just a month ago with a Canadian film director who was on a trekking trip in Nepal. He’d been a guest at his daughter Chanda’s house. Over dinner the man had asked Ranjit, “Would you call your country’s movies musicals? I mean, why else would you have at least five or six song-and-dance routines in every single one of them?”
Ranjit, who’d watched American musicals like The Sound of Music, had laughed and said, “It’s hard to pinpoint what our movies are about. They’re so influenced by Indian movies—you know, Bollywood. Yes, I guess you can call them musicals, but too often these days the song-and-dance is barely connected to the plot.”
“I actually enjoy them,” the Canadian said. “And you can’t help but have fun with all that melodrama—families torn apart, people crying every five minutes, actors bursting into song, the hero overcoming impossible odds. Good stuff.”
Embarrassed, Ranjit said, “I can’t stand them.”
Kamala said, “The last time he and I watched a movie together was four years ago, and that was on video. He doesn’t go to the theater anymore.”
“Why did you stop acting?” the Canadian asked Ranjit. “Because you no longer liked these formulaic movies?”
“Partly,” Ranjit said. “But also I simply got tired of it.”
“Papa seems to be on the verge of becoming an ascetic these days,” Chanda said. “It’s all yoga and meditation and reading the Ramayana and the Bhagavad Gita.”
“Ah, the Hindu stages of life,” the Canadian said, nodding knowingly. “What are they now? The Bachelor, the Householder, the Retiree, and the Ascetic? Right now, you must be the Retiree, withdrawing from material life. In the years to come, you’ll turn into the Ascetic, am I correct? Renouncing all physical existence and merging into the oneness of God? I find it fascinating!”
“You westerners always seem to know more about our religion than we do,” said Bimal, Chanda’s husband. “And anyway, I don’t know anyone who actually follows these stages from the scriptures.”
“But Papa seems to be following them,” Chanda said. “He lectures us about our materialism, and one of these days I expect him to don a saffron robe and head into the jungle.”
Chanda was referring to how Ranjit had become increasingly critical of what he saw as her flagrant display of wealth. Bimal’s business of designing and building Western-style condominiums in Kathmandu was skyrocketing: the three complexes he’d built had filled up instantly, and now he was building five more. Within a short span he’d amassed so much money that he was rumored to be one of the richest men in the city. Their success didn’t bother Ranjit so much as Chanda’s almost giddy flaunting of their wealth. She never missed an opportunity to mention the enormous checks Bimal wrote to his contractors. She drove her red Mercedes everywhere, even to the shops down the street. For every wedding party she attended, she wore a different diamond necklace, and she made frivolous shopping trips to Singapore and Abu Dhabi, then invited her friends to see what she’d bought—designer clothes, costly toys for her ten-year-old son, Akhil, and perfume and expensive lipstick and watches to give to relatives. She once brought back a cashmere sweater for Ranjit that she admitted cost three hundred American dollars, and he’d refused to accept it. “This old one is fine for me,” he’d said, pointing to the sweater he had on, which had been knitted by Kamala a decade ago. Obviously slighted, Chanda had not spoken to him for days, until he’d gone to her house and said that wearing such an expensive item of clothing would not sit well with his conscience. “I don’t need it, and frankly neither do you.” A small argument had ensued, and finally the two agreed that Chanda wouldn’t buy him anything expensive, and he would not chide her for spending money the way she saw fit.
Now, in the garden, Shiva was still going on about the decline of Nepali cinema. Ranjit thought that the commercial greed of the industry—ten times more profitable than it had been during his time—paralleled his daughter’s garish show of wealth.
“At least listen to what the role is before you say yes or no,” Shiva said. “It’s something any actor would kill for. You’ll play a father trying to stop his daughter from marrying a boy from a low caste. The father is the central figure, and most of the movie will revolve around the complexities of his emotions—his denial, his anger, ultimately his acceptance. The role will showcase your range of talents. It’s a movie made for you, Ranjit, and at just the right time. Imagine, after all these years the public will worship you again.”
Kamala came back out and caught the tail end of the conversation. Shiva filled her in on what she’d missed.
“It’s up to him,” she said, sighing. “People have come here with other offers, you know, but he’s always said no. Says he won’t be able to stand it. But stand what, I’m never so sure.”
“I take it you want him to act again?” Shiva asked Kamala.
“Well,” Kamala said, glancing sideways at Ranjit, “when you think about Indian actors like Amitabh Bachchan and Rajesh Khanna, who are acting well into old age and still receiving praise, I think it’s not such a bad idea. But I don’t want to pressure him to do anything he doesn’t want to do.”
“Ranjit, what do you think?” Shiva asked. “You’re not going to disappoint me, are you?”
“It’s not a question of disappointing you,” Ranjit said. “It’s more a question of whether my heart will be in it. And I don’t want to do it halfheartedly. The role sounds intriguing, though, and whoever you get will perform well, I’m sure.”
“Is that a no?” Shiva asked.
Ranjit thought for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry, Shiva.”
Shiva drummed the arm of his chair with his fingers. “All right, what can I do? I’d heard you had turned away others, that you’re becoming some kind of sanyasi, but I thought I’d try. I still think you’re the best man for the role, so if you change your mind, give me a call.” He jotted down his phone number and left.
“Time to eat?” Ranjit asked Kamala, not wanting to dwell on what had just happened.
“That role sounded really good,” she said, getting up from her chair.
“He’ll find someone else.” He followed Kamala inside and into the dining room, where the two sat and ate their morning meal. Ranjit had switched to a strictly vegetarian diet in the past few years, and although Kamala had initially complained that she couldn’t live without meat, she eventually followed suit and now sang the praises of vegetarianism. In silence, the two ate their curried beans and spinach with rice and dal, and Ranjit knew that he’d made the right decision in rejecting Shiva’s offer. This was the life he liked—quiet meals with his wife, gardening, his daily routine of yoga and meditation, frequenting the city ashrams to listen to holy men talk about how the whole world was an illusion, watching the sun set behind the Nagarjun hill from his balcony, spending time with his grandson Akhil.
That night in bed, after Kamala had fallen asleep, Ranjit thought about Shiva’s proposal again. Even after the two had lost touch, he’d watched all of Shiva’s documentaries and admired them. Shiva wasn’t afraid to tackle the big social issues, like child marriage, the ostracism of widows, and bonded labor, and his documentaries, instead of being preachy, were infused with an artist’s sensibilities. Shiva was certain to bring the same eye to this movie, and the more Ranjit thought about it, the more he wondered whether not being a part of it would be a mistake. The movie had the potential of making a statement about the importance of art and exposing the cheap commercial tactics of contemporary Nepali cinema. Ranjit knew that his appearance in the movie would draw more of an audience, since moviegoers and critics still praised his “presence” on the screen. His name carried a kind of currency; that’s undoubtedly why Shiva had come to him.
