The Gurkha's Daughter (3 page)

“Yes, your Sir,” Sarita said. “He beat me with nettle leaves. He dipped them in cold water first and then brought the
sishnu
down on me—my hands, legs, everywhere—while Aamaa shouted encouragement. ‘No one in this family becomes a
darji
,' she screamed. The memory is still alive. I was married six months later.”

“And it turned out well. You have a healthy son. Your husband makes good money. You're about to move into your own house. I don't see how the beating did any harm.”

“How do you think it looked? A grown eighteen-year-old daughter being beaten in full view of everyone? I was so ashamed that I refused to even walk down the street. Everyone in the
tole
talked about it. I've never been able to forgive Daai for it.”

“You and he were never really close.”

“We were, actually. It was after this episode that we drifted apart.”

“He never mentioned it to me.”

“Well, you and he weren't all that close either.”

“But we were married.”

“That doesn't mean you share everything with each other. I like what Aamaa says. She thinks marriages aren't so important. The expectations are much lower when you remain unmarried.”

“Your Aamaa seems like a home wrecker to me. Soon you'll be telling me that you think divorces are acceptable.”

“They should be,” Sarita said. “Did I tell you I've begun going to college?”

“
Harey
, college? At your age?”

“Yes, I joined classes at Padma Kanya three months ago. It's strange going to class with students who are so much
younger. They are so surprised when I tell them I have a teenage son.”

“They must think you're a
pagli
, Sarita. I think you are mad. You have a husband and a growing son to take care of. You need to look after them. College? At your age? Please don't tell me this was another of your Aamaa's ideas. She will soon convert you to Christianity.”

“I told you she's Hindu.”

“Let her be whatever she wants, but she's definitely bent on wrecking your family life. What did
jwaai
have to say?”

“He thought I was being inconsiderate, but he doesn't like to say that in front of Aamaa. When she's around, he talks about things he doesn't believe in, like women's liberation, but once she's out of the picture, he keeps telling me I am being unreasonable. He has even suggested driving her out, but because she pays so well, he can't bring himself to do it.”

Suddenly their driver jerked the wheel to avoid collision as a truck from the opposite direction veered close to the van.

“
Bajiyaa
,” he screamed.

The swerving and his swearing woke everyone up but Kaali.

“Drunk drivers in the night,” Parvati growled.

“Is everyone okay?” Erin asked. She counted the heads and discovered the number fewer than what they had set off with. “Where's her helper?”

“She's sleeping, Aamaa,” Sarita reassured her, reaching out to pat her on her shoulder. “She's fine.”

“Oh, all right,” Erin said, and closed her drooping eyes again.

The driver, shaken by this sudden encounter with death, asked if now might be the right time to stop for dinner. Parvati met his suggestion with happiness. She was hungry. Then, realizing that her mother-in-law's death required that she abstain
from proper meals and meat for at least another thirteen days, she retreated into her shell.

“It's okay if you eat, Bhauju,” Sarita said. “I couldn't eat in good conscience.”

“But I was married into this family, so it's my family, Sarita. It's acceptable if you eat because you were married outside the family. Just don't eat any meat.”

“She is—was—my mother. You can't possibly expect me to eat.”

“But you're hungry. Maybe you could start the fasting and sacrificing tomorrow.”

“Yes, why don't you, Bhauju? Tonight we eat, and tomorrow we start.”

But when the driver finally pulled up to a brightly lit restaurant in a town that bustled with night buses and diners, both announced they wouldn't be able to forgive themselves if they ate. Kaali, Erin, Sunny, and the driver walked to the restaurant while Sarita and Parvati shopped for fruit and milk. They couldn't get milk thick enough for their taste anywhere this late, so they made do with tea and bananas. By the time the others had returned, Parvati and her sister-in-law had finished a dozen bananas between them. Parvati discarded her plan of surprising Kaali with a banana early in the morning as she snapped the last fruit in half.

“Six bananas each—we must have been hungry,” Parvati said, hoping Sarita couldn't sleep either.

“What did you eat, Dinesh?” Sarita asked the driver.

“The food was good,” Dinesh said, with an appreciative burp. “They had chicken and fish and mutton.”

“Did you eat like a pig, Kaali?” Parvati asked.

“Yes, she ate quite a bit,” the driver, unexpectedly talkative, answered. “But Madam ate the most. I've never seen a woman eat that way. I never knew a
kuiree
could eat so much Nepali food. Will the spices not destroy her stomach?”

Do you get to eat meat here?
he had asked.
How often do you eat meat? At my mistress's place, they seldom ate meat. When they did, they usually left a smidgen of gravy and a small piece of chicken for me. I would put my plate to my face and lick it clean. Your new life will be different. You'll get to eat as much as you want, but we don't want you to be too fat. Have you seen a fat actress?

“She's used to it. She loves Nepali food.”

“Oh, she eats everything you cook?” Parvati asked, surprised.

“Yes, everything. Earlier she had a problem with the bones, but now she's used to them. She's too old to cook. Otherwise, I am sure she'd make an excellent Nepali cook.”

“Maybe you could teach her. I've heard you make delicious chicken, Sarita.”

“I am learning other recipes. I am taking a home science class at PK. We get to experiment a lot.”

“So, you're actually going to college to do a course you could study at home?” Parvati asked.

“No, this is just one of the classes. I've many others. I like this one best. Maybe I could do a bachelor's in home science, then a master's.”

“Who's heard of a mother of a teenage son with such ambitions? I think you're throwing a lot of time and money down the drain.”

“No, I am not. As Aamaa says, this is an investment. Education is always an investment.”

“Now you're talking like Kaali. She's been asking to be sent to school for some time now.”

“Why don't you? She doesn't do a lot during the day.”

“What will she do with an education and that face? It will all be a wasted effort.”

“She wouldn't bother you during the day,” Sarita countered.

“I want her home during the day.”

“She keeps you company, doesn't she? I always knew you were very attached to her.”

“Who gets attached to a servant, Sarita? But, yes, she keeps me company. If I had a son—or even a daughter—to keep me busy, like you do, I'd happily accept it and live that life. If I had a living husband, like you do, I'd attend to his needs and concentrate on making him happy instead of running off to some college.”

“I know, Bhauju, you wouldn't expect to hear this from anyone, but I like your life.” Sarita looked straight ahead. “I envy the life you live.”

“Why would anyone envy a widow's life, Sarita?” Parvati let out a sigh. “I have nothing to look forward to—no school, no children whose marriages to await, no sons to look after me, no husband's arrival at home to anticipate, no daughter's well-being to be afraid for—and I must be among the most miserable women there are. I wouldn't wish my life on my enemy, Sarita.”

“See, that's why. The only bad thing about your life was the occasional visit from your mother-in-law, who's now dead. You don't have a husband who questions your decisions. You don't have a child who frustrates you with his mischief. You don't have to save for his future. If I were you, I'd use Daai's pension money on pilgrimages to Benares, Bodh Gaya, Tirupathi, everywhere in India. You can pack your bags and leave for anywhere any day. You have no children's vacation days to coordinate and no household budget holding you back.”

“I am still a widow, Sarita,” Parvati said. “I am a Nepali widow. I get discriminated against. You'll see that when we reach Birtamod I won't be allowed to take part in any of the rituals. The world looks at us widows differently. When we haven't been able to give birth, the stigma we face only becomes worse. I look at the colorful
potey
you wear around your neck and the thickness of your
sindoor
, and I get jealous. I have even stopped celebrating
Teez.
Why would I do that? I am a widow, you see.”

The driver stopped the van and got out to relieve himself. It was obvious, however, that he didn't want to smoke in their presence.

“Let him smoke,” Parvati said. “He has to stay awake. He doesn't need to hide from us. What a respectful young man.”

Sarita checked if Sunny was asleep and then asked, “Have you ever smoked, Bhauju?”

“Why would I?”

“Never at all?”

“I tried
khaini
once, but it put my entire mouth on fire. Never trying it again. I am not going to ask you if you've tried smoking, but I have a feeling you have.”

“Yes, I have.”

“When?”

“Some girls in college decided to try some
Hulas
after school. I took several puffs, too. It relaxed me.”

“Something tells me that wasn't the only time.”

“No, I smoke about one every day before I head home. It helps me think with a clear head. Only Aamaa knows about it. She doesn't approve of doing it around Sunny.”

When she saw the driver return, Sarita pinched Parvati, signaling that they should stop talking about the matter.

“Well, at least I am glad it's not the
gori
who has yet again put another idea into your head,” Parvati said.

“Aamaa has been a calming influence in my life. She'd never condone that.”

They had barely covered a few kilometers when, a few minutes before they would have reached the Koshi Barrage, a flat tire befell them.

“Every time I have traveled this road, I have fallen prey to a puncture,” Parvati said. “It's like the road has nails and needles growing on it.”

“Thankfully, the Maoists do tourists no harm, so once they see Aamaa with us, we are safe,” Sarita said with a yawn. “Aamaa is so important.”

The Maoists have destroyed Nepal,
he had said.
Even if you escape the clutches of your cruel mistress one day, what will you do in this country? Join the Maoists? Carry a gun and shoot innocent villagers? Give in to their extortions? It's time for you to leave the country and make a life for yourself, Kaali. The rich go to America, to England. You will go to Bombay and become the biggest star in Bollywood.

“Come here,” Parvati said to Kaali, who, after getting out from the back of the van, seemed lost. “You'll be safe here.”

Kaali hesitantly moved in her direction.

“It looks like you were the most comfortable of us all. Are you hungry? Go eat some
chiwda
.”

“I couldn't sleep at all. I heard you talk about me.”

“Liar. You were almost snoring when we stopped for dinner.”

Kaali's loud chewing of beaten rice complemented the clanging of the driver's tools. Erin and Sarita had vanished into the jungle despite Parvati's warning them not to wander off too far. When they returned, Sarita looked fresher than before. Parvati guessed that her sister-in-law had smoked a cigarette. The gum Sarita was chewing could hardly disguise the smell.

Once the tire was replaced and all returned to their seats, the driver complained to Sarita about tiredness. A little music would keep him awake for the remainder of the drive, but the van had no radio, he said. Sarita repeated his predicament to Erin, who handed him her Discman and showed him how to wear the headphones before falling back asleep. Parvati and Sarita smiled in the backseat.

Some silence later, Sarita said, “I am thinking of divorcing him.”

Parvati let out a yelp. All along, she had sensed the warm-up conversation was leading somewhere—maybe her sister-in-law would talk about some murky waters she was in with her husband's family or financial troubles she'd need Parvati's help to get out of—but Parvati wasn't expecting news of this magnitude. Divorce? Divorce was something that didn't happen in their world. You heard about a woman filing for divorce when the beatings from her husband got unbearable. You talked about how ostracized a woman became after the divorce. You talked about some rich hotelier's wife wanting a divorce. What made the idea of divorce even more inappropriate was that Sarita was talking about it not twenty-four hours after her mother's death.

“You haven't slept,” Parvati said. “And you're talking nonsense because you're in shock about your mother's death. You need sleep.”

“No, I am serious. I feel alive. I feel right. And I am glad I am talking about it with you. Daai is dead, and he was our only connection. I've nothing to gain and nothing to lose from you. We barely see each other once a year. You are the right person to talk to.”

“I am still your dead brother's wife, Sarita,” Parvati feebly said, all the while fully registering that Sarita was right. The one bond between them—her husband, Sarita's brother—was long gone. They didn't know each other very well. In fact, Parvati didn't even remember what Sarita's
dera
in Teenkune looked like—that's how long ago she had last been there despite the close distance—and she didn't know Sarita's phone number. They were practically strangers, so the fear of being judged wasn't so severe. It was natural for her sister-in-law to confide in her. That she chose a few hours before her mother's funeral to do so was only circumstantial. If this was the only time in the last year they had seen each other, there was no better—or worse—time to share.