The Gurkha's Daughter (11 page)

The Scotts surprisingly didn't come the next day. Rajiv, although desperate to talk to them about the positive energy that going through the old books infused him with, was half hoping they wouldn't show up because of the anxiety attack the presence of someone of their faith on a day as holy as the
Tika
might give his grandmother. It was the main event of the ten-day-long
Dashain
festival. On this day, Hindu Nepalis from the neighborhood came to his place to accept
tika
—rice blended with a yogurt-based pink paste—from his grandmother. Everyone, even Sandeep, wore new clothes. Rajiv, for his part, wore a rarely seen button-down shirt he was sure everyone thought was new. His grandmother wore a less sedate sari. Tikam had taken a few days off to visit his family in Teesta. He simply nodded sideways at Rajiv as a gesture of good-bye.

When Rajiv said it was appropriate for her to wear a small red dot on her forehead, his grandmother looked astounded but happy.

“What will people say?” She smiled.

“Why do you care?” Rajiv asked. “Everyone is doing it these days.”

“They aren't widows like me.”

“Even the widows are doing it.”

“I am almost eighty and don't even wear white fully. People might talk.”

“I have seen widows as old as you wear pink saris. Your green is decent. I guarantee no one will say a word about your red dot.”

“You don't know how women talk.” She shushed him.

He didn't pressure her more. He wanted her to know that he understood her desires, and she seemed appreciative, which was all that mattered.

His grandmother smeared the rice blend on her grandsons' foreheads and, as the day progressed, on the neighbors' with
alacrity and happily dispensed blessings. She wasn't familiar with the standard incantations that went along with the offering of the
tika
, but Rajiv had recorded two chants—one for males and the other for females—on his phone, which pleased the old woman. Most of her immediate family was dead, and Rajiv was thankful that all these neighbors made her feel elderly and respected on this day. Almost all of them came bearing plastic bags full of fruit or boxes of sweetmeat; many even made monetary offerings to her, which his grandmother shyly accepted. She procured five-rupee notes from under her bra strap as gifts for the little ones. She beamed when youngsters touched her feet with their heads.

Dashain
also meant feasting. It had become a yearly ritual with Tamang Uncle, their next-door neighbor, to buy a live goat, kill it, sacrifice its head at his home altar, and cook the rest of it in different ways—stewed, barbecued, and fried. His boys served in the Indian Army and weren't home in October, so Rajiv, Sandeep, and their grandmother ate more meat at Tamang Uncle's during
Dashain
than they did the entire year at their place. They didn't cook anything different from their everyday meals at home during the festival, and Rajiv was glad the neighbors didn't say anything disparaging because they knew no one in the house was qualified to prepare a feast. Besides, all the neighbors were already stuffed with meat by the time they arrived at Rajiv's place. Some even came drunk.

This year, one fewer family accepted
tika
at their place. Subba Uncle, who lived two doors down, had converted to Christianity earlier that month. All the five members of the family were baptized, got rid of their old names, and adopted anglicized names: Jasraj Subba was now Joseph Subba, while Jamuna, his wife, was now Jemina. Jasraj had given up alcohol completely, and Jamuna, a compulsive gambler, stayed away from cards and
the women who played them. Naturally, this invited the ridicule of the neighborhood. The new converts were active in their church and their grown-up daughters were already training to become Sunday School teachers.

Rajiv had a strong suspicion the Scotts had something to do with this change of faith and made a mental note to ask them about it the next day. He then remembered his outburst at Christa and immediately felt ashamed of himself. The Scotts had been nice to him and had taught him to see the world from a different perspective than he was wont to do, and his behavior with Christa—who had been pretty civil despite everything—was uncalled for. He knew, though, that he would never get around to reading the New Testament. It wasn't because he was a die-hard Hindu; he just didn't attribute enough importance to religion to want to change from the one he was born into.

As light gave way to dark, and the last of the revelers left, Rajiv's apprehension returned. He'd have to wake up again in the morning and give the corners a thorough sweep. His grandmother was already snoring, and Sandeep was out with friends. Rajiv knew he should have gone to his
mama
's place for
tika,
but he was certain his uncle, true to form, would ruin this nice day in some way or the other. He wondered if he'd invite his
mama
's wrath the next day or if his wealthy uncle barely noticed the absence of his nephew.

Mama
's call woke him up the next day.

“Still asleep,” the other man said. “I thought so. Were you up all night drinking?”

“I don't drink,
Mama
,” Rajiv said.

“I don't believe you.”

“Do you know what time Manju
chema
will get here?”

“I am not their attendant. Just don't disappear to your
adda
during the day. Be sure you are home when they arrive. They could come anytime. Their cell is still out of range.”

“Can you give the number to me?” Rajiv asked. He thought he could keep trying until he reached them to ask what time they'd be there.

His uncle had disconnected the phone already, which Rajiv wasn't surprised about. Abruptly hanging up without saying good-bye was a common trait among all his mother's relatives. They had done it every time they called him regarding some fee-related issue in college.

He called out to his grandma. She didn't hear him. His brother's bed was empty. He probably hadn't come home last night.

When the Scotts arrived and he made them tea, he wondered if he should offer them fruit or sweetmeat from the day before. Christians he knew from Darjeeling usually didn't eat anything that was first offered to Hindu gods.

“Would you also like some guavas and
burfee
?” Rajiv asked.

“Wow! Guavas would be very nice,” Christa exclaimed while Michael nodded in agreement.

“They came as
parshads.
Is that okay?”

“Absolutely,” Christa said.

Rajiv thought they might not have understood what
parshads
were.

“
Parshads
are offerings made to Hindu gods.”

“Why shouldn't we eat them?” Michael looked puzzled.

Rajiv hastened to explain. “No, Christians in Darjeeling don't eat them.”

“Nothing comes between me and my guavas,” Christa said, as she bit a ripe one. “Delicious. And we are different Christians.”

“So when do they arrive?” Michael asked, referring to the guests.

“Sometime today.”

“All cousins?” inquired Christa.

“No, an aunt, a cousin, and the cousin's cousin.”

“Ooooh, the cousin's cousin is not related to you, right?” It was Christa again.

“No, she's not,” Rajiv said uncomfortably.

“Have you ever met her?” Christa asked.

“Yes, once.”

He told them about the biting episode. They all laughed.

“Quite the enigmatic person this cousin's cousin is,” Christa teased. “Childhood bites and all.”

“What's an enigma is the Subba family,” Rajiv said.

“Why?” Christa and Michael said in unison.

“Didn't they convert?”

“Oh, yes, they've accepted the Lord as their savior,” Christa said, her eyes lighting up.

“Were you sort of responsible for it?” Rajiv asked.

“We helped them accept Christ,” Christa said. “We wouldn't call ourselves responsible for their conversion. We were merely agents along the way.”

Rajiv looked at Michael, expecting him to say something. Michael kept quiet.

“Why do you do it?” Rajiv asked.

“Do what?” Michael finally said.

“You know—convert people.”

“Have we tried converting you?” Christa asked.

“Not really, although you did ask me to read the Bible.”

“We also prefaced the Bible-reading request with a no-conversion-intention guarantee,” said Christa.

“Okay,” Rajiv said. “But why do you convert people? What's in it for you?”

“You make it sound like we kill people,” Christa said. She was flustered.

Michael was calm. Rajiv knew he would never see Michael lose his cool.

“You do kill people's faith in the religion they were born into.”

“People aren't born into a religion.” Christa was shifty.

“But you still haven't told me why you do it.”

“What's your favorite movie?” Christa asked.

“It's a Bollywood one.”

“All right, did you insist all your friends watch it?” she continued.

“Yes, I wanted them all to watch it.”

“Your favorite book?”

“I like
The Alchemist
.”

“Did you want all your friends to experience the book?”

“Yes, I did.”

Michael took over. “Christianity makes us happy. We want our friends, all the people we meet, to experience what we experience. It's like you want your friend to watch a movie that made you happy so he can become happy, too.”

This was the first time Michael had openly talked about Christianity. He looked so content.

“That's a ridiculous reason.” Rajiv laughed bitterly. “You think I am so glib.”

“We think you are being disrespectful, Rajiv,” Christa said. “You haven't been yourself since the news of your relatives' arrival.”

“Yes, and probably reading the Bible will help make me better, right, Christa?” It was the first time he had called her that.

“It's easy to transfer your anger from them to us, from family to religion, Rajiv,” Christa said, slightly tearful and looking to Michael for support. “I think we should talk next when you're back to your senses.”

“That's a good idea,” Rajiv said, with mock respect. “Raju next door will be easier to convert than me. And please continue eating the
parshad
. You're different from other Christians after all.”

The Scotts put down their
burfees
and walked out. Michael gave Rajiv a look he had often seen on his
mama
's face—that of pure, undisguised disgust.

But Rajiv had little time to worry about that. Niveeta and her party would arrive soon. He shopped for groceries, checked that the floors were not sticky, organized the books on the sill in a variety of arrangements, and readjusted the crumpled sheets on whichever bed his grandmother lay. Intermittently, he thought about what happened with the Scotts and wondered if he'd ever see them again. He wasn't going to apologize to them. His father had been right all along. Rajiv wouldn't let them bother him—thankfully, Niveeta's presence was enough to make him temporarily block the Scotts from his mind.

She looked just like his cousin Sona—both were about twenty-one and had the same big eyes uncommon among Rais, three moles on the right cheek and a complexion the color of chalk. Niveeta was slightly taller than Sona, but otherwise they were mirror images of each other. In fact, Rajiv was sure people mistook them for twins. He was so taken aback by the similarity between his cousin and his cousin's cousin that he couldn't help himself from looking at them over and over again, which Niveeta caught him doing several times.

Rajiv wheeled their suitcases into the bedroom, all the while hoping they wouldn't ask where the sitting room was. An aunt had once made the mistake of inquiring about the sitting room, and Rajiv hadn't known how to answer. She understood his jumpy silence and didn't pursue the matter further, but Rajiv, to this day, remembered the humiliation he suffered at the
insensitive query. But again, he was sure these people wouldn't ask him embarrassing questions because the aunt had probably already briefed them on what his house looked like and which topics to avoid.

“The three of you could have a bed each with Boju in this room, and I'll sleep in the next room,” he said.

He hoped they wouldn't ask him what the next room was.

“Can I sleep in the next room instead?” Niveeta asked. “I am habituated to sleeping alone.”

“You'd have to sleep on the floor.” Rajiv rubbed his left shoe against his right shin.

“I don't mind the floor as long as I am alone in the room,” Niveeta said.

Rajiv looked at his aunt for help. She was carefully studying the uneven ceiling and the shelf of books.

“There are cockroaches on the floor,” he said.

“Psst, like I care about them,” Niveeta said.

Finally, realizing he had no other way out, he said it: “The other room is the kitchen.”

Three incredulous pairs of eyes stared at him.

“Let me go get you some tea,” Rajiv said, excusing himself.

On his return with three glasses of tea, the threesome halted their conversation.

“This tea is delicious,” Niveeta said.

“Delicious,” his aunt echoed.

It was overcompensating. Fortunately, his grandmother was out at some neighbor's.

“Because she can't sleep by herself in the kitchen, we've decided to book a room at Andy's Guest House next door,” his aunt said nonchalantly. “It will be close to here, and we won't disturb your grandmother's sleep.”

“But you don't have to,” Rajiv spluttered. “I could move her bed into the kitchen.”

“No, don't worry about it,” Sona said. “We'll just stay at Andy's. They have a bucketful of hot water per person in the morning. We stayed there during our school trip last year.”