The Gurkha's Daughter (5 page)

Humera had just given him a daughter, which had disturbed his father and resulted in the trip to Mecca. Munnu would have preferred a son, but he wasn't unhappy with the girl. He planned on sending her to school, at least up to Class Three. He had grown to like his wife, although many aspects of her personality baffled him. She was horrified when he cooed to the baby using Nepali words. She was unyielding about the burqa. She repeatedly reminded him when he forgot to offer
Namaaz
. She sometimes apologized for having given birth to a daughter. Besides these few quirks, she was everything Munnu had wanted in a wife—she was fair and beautiful (not that he could show that off), submitted to his needs (not that he demanded anything unreasonable), and cooked very well (not that he was a glutton). She also disliked traveling, so there had been no visits to her parents' place since the marriage, which Munnu couldn't complain about.

Humera's mother was too sick to travel to Kalimpong, so when Munnu disclosed to Dr. Pradhan that his wife was pregnant, the landlady played surrogate.

“She hasn't seen a doctor since she fell pregnant?” Dr. Pradhan had shouted at Munnu. “What age are you Muslims living in?”

“She doesn't like seeing doctors.”

“Who does? It's going to a doctor, not a
Dashain
celebration, not an
Eid
celebration.”

“She doesn't like
Eid
celebrations either.”

“Now is not the time to joke, Munnu. Tomorrow, after my shift at the hospital, I shall come see her. Please see to it that your apartment is clean for that.”

“I don't know if she'd be willing.” Munnu gave her an apologetic look.

“Then have a deformed baby and be happy with it,” Dr. Pradhan said with uncharacteristic anger.

At home, he asked Humera to be prepared for a visit. He had never seen her so livid.

“Think of it,” he reasoned. “If she's not happy with me, she could throw us out of her building. What will the baby eat if we have no shop? She has lost her own child, so she just wants to make sure ours is okay.”

Humera had finally relented, but only on the condition that the landlady be allowed just one visit. Dr. Pradhan criticized Munnu for considering a midwife. When Munnu remarked it wasn't his idea but his wife's and that he'd definitely be more comfortable with a doctor involved, Dr. Pradhan scolded Humera. One visit turned to two, three, and four. How someone in his landlady's position mingled so freely with an illiterate, orthodox Muslim like his wife confused Munnu. Maybe it had something to do with the loss of her daughter; perhaps she had found an excellent listener in Humera. Initially, he was happy about it.

Then things began to change. Little by little, his wife started talking back to him. Again, he was pleasantly surprised that she had grown a spine, but when the retorts became snarkier and
more common, he knew he'd have to put a stop to it. He threatened to beat her if she continued misbehaving. Humera retaliated that she'd tell Dr. Pradhan about it, which would jeopardize his relationship with the landlords.

Humera had now been talking about making her own money by helping in Dr. Pradhan's pediatric clinic. It would be only babies and women, she argued. That, he wasn't going to allow. Thankfully, she still wore her burqa. He regretted ever having pestered her to give it up for a veil.

Dr. Pradhan was close to both Munnu and his wife, but she never saw them together. She only interacted with Munnu at the store, and she and Humera visited at home. With Humera, Munnu wondered if she discussed how to be a modern woman. With Munnu, she discussed business and the store. And Shraddanjali.

Six months ago, when both Shraddanjali and she were at the store, Dr. Pradhan noticed her pilfer a cigarette from behind the counter. Shraddanjali must have thought she was being cautious, but the landlady was wearing her sunglasses, a pair too large for her face, and that made it difficult to tell exactly where she was looking. The moment Shraddanjali left, Dr. Pradhan's eyes met Munnu's, and Munnu Bhaiya, her tenant, broke down and told her everything.

It had gone on for ten years, even when he ran his father's store, he said. When she was a child, she stole the occasional cheap toffee. Sometimes, she bought two toffees for a rupee and returned minutes later to exchange one for a different type. She'd then open the bottle in which the candy belonged, throw it in and fish a different sweet from another jar. Munnu soon discovered—when a taxi-stand regular broke his tooth on it—that the returned toffee was actually a pebble in a sweet wrapper. In the beginning, Munnu had found the petty stealing endearing.

But the thefts increased in frequency and intensity over time. Shraddanjali no longer stole fifty-paise toffees these days but went after cigarettes—entire packs of them—or chocolate bars, the expensive ones that cost more than twenty rupees. And it happened almost every time she came to the store, which was almost every day.

Dr. Pradhan had listened with exaggerated clucking and concern. Since then, Munnu shared everything about Shraddanjali's thefts with her. Theirs was a special bond, a relationship that had grown with Shraddanjali's escalating bravado—Munnu went over what Shraddanjali had stolen that day or the day before, and Dr. Pradhan would estimate the losses he incurred. On a particularly expensive day, Dr. Pradhan insisted that Munnu talk to Shraddanjali's parents, but the
paanwalla
was unconvinced it would do him any good.

“I am a
Musalmaan
who enjoys a very good place here,” he repeatedly reasoned. “I make more money than any other storekeeper, and everyone trusts me. I wouldn't think of doing anything that might disrupt that. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Soon, she'll be stealing these scents here.” Dr. Pradhan pointed at the little unlocked shelf of mysteriously spelled Calvin Klein and Dolce & Gabbana cologne bottles, all neatly set with more reverence than they received at the cosmetic stores on Main Road.

Soon enough, that's what happened. Every time her friend had a birthday, Shraddanjali was at the store, greeting Munnu with a Namaste and asking for packs of Maggi before she opened the sliding glass door and pretended to peruse the new arrivals while still making small talk. All she had to do, after this, was to deposit the cologne bottles in her purse—she had begun carrying a purse—while Munnu reached out for her noodles.

Munnu didn't keep an inventory of everything in the store, but he knew how many cologne bottles there were. The margin of profit might be the highest in colognes, but they also cost a lot
to begin with. Twenty bottles would trickle down to nineteen—sometimes eighteen—with Shraddanjali's departure. This was costlier than five chocolate bars put together. The profits were getting scantier every month.

“Today there were three bottles of scent gone,” he said to Dr. Pradhan one evening.

“Yes, it's her mother's birthday tomorrow,” Dr. Pradhan remarked. “I assume that will be the gift.”

“Oh, you all celebrate birthdays at this age, Memsaab?”

“At this age? What do you mean,
Paanwalla
? Of course, we don't. We just get together for lunch or something.”

“But that is celebrating, right?” He laughed.

“Maybe you should have a big birthday for your daughter when she turns one soon.”

“We are Muslims, you see. We don't celebrate girls' birthdays.”

“You live in Kalimpong now, Munnu, you need to adapt to the ways here. Forget Bihar, forget Islam.”

“I wonder if I should talk to her mother now.” Munnu had become adept at changing the course of a conversation. “It's just gone on for too long.”

“I'd do that. I'd really do that if I were you.”

“You know I can't, Memsaab, you know how it is. Her father is powerful. What if he puts me in jail?”

“I would like it if you came to me if my daughter were stealing.” His landlady was stoic.

“It's risky.”

“If you can't, then don't complain,
Paanwalla
. As it is, you're making
lakhs
. Hire a runner—a starving boy from your hometown.”

“No, Memsaab, the storekeeper next door is stealing a lot of my customers. I want to talk to you and Saab about taking his space, too. The profits aren't what they used to be. That's why I can't hire anyone.”

“Don't complain to me. Saab likes that two stores complete the look of the building. He thinks they make for a twisted visual harmony—if only I knew what that means. You don't have cards here, do you? Birthday cards, anniversary cards? Maybe I will buy Mrs. Gurung a card for her birthday. It'll be a nice gesture.”

“For the mother of a thief, yes, a very nice gesture,” said Munnu bitterly.

“Don't speak that way, Munnu, don't forget they are rich, powerful people. Just because I talk to you like you're not a
paanwalla
, like you're one of us, doesn't mean you can talk ill of my friends. Try to stay in your place. I'd talk politely to her parents. I admit no one wants to know her daughter is a thief, but you need to stay afloat. And poor Mrs. Gurung, I wonder how many people you share her daughter's stories with. I am sure I am not the only one.”

“No, Memsaab, you're the only one,” Munnu said. “No one really knows about it.”

“Oh, then, boy, do I feel special, a
paanwalla
reveals the secrets of his trade to me.”

She laughed a high-pitched laughter, spiteful and loud, so passersby looked at her and their eyes locked in unison against the stupidity of this
Musalmaan
, this
paanwalla
.

“Sorry, Memsaab, if I offended you,” Munnu said. “It's just that you talk so nicely to us small people that I feel I can share anything with you, even if it involves your friend's daughter.”

“Don't worry about it, Munnu.” Dr. Pradhan was placated. “Maybe I will give Mrs. Gurung a hint tomorrow. She won't be thrilled, but we can't have this continue. I'll let her know I saw it happen and that you said nothing to me.”

That was a very generous offer. But generosity came easily to Dr. Pradhan. She had, after all, taken upon herself to make his wife a woman of the times. Humera had still not stopped her nonsense about working.

Munnu was changing stations on his radio and scratching his lower abdomen, his hands moving surreptitiously toward his crotch, when a hassled Mrs. Gurung charged at the store.

“You called my daughter a thief, you
kukkur
.” Mrs. Gurung almost leapt at him. “You'll see what happens when you do that.”

Mrs. Gurung was still in her floral nightgown. No one ever saw her in a nightgown beyond her verandah.

Munnu Bhaiya was nervous. He tried to smile, but because he was in the midst of chewing
paan
, the open mouth—a mixture of green, red, and saffron—gave an entirely different effect.

“Spit that
paan
out, you
Musalmaan
,” the woman screamed, a sprinkling of saliva landing on the glass-topped rectangular box her daughter had stolen thousands of rupees' worth of chocolate bars from.

Because Munnu always swallowed the remains of his
paan
, he didn't have a trash can around. Without a moment's thought, he spat out the
paan
remains into his palm.

“Look at that, you brainless
baandar
, look at what you do. You people don't bathe, don't wash your hands after shitting, and now you spit your
paan
into your hands. And you then call my daughter a thief? What has my daughter stolen from you?”

By now a crowd had gathered outside. Most were laborers from the nearby taxi stand. They spent their slow days playing cards, chewing tobacco, and smoking
beedis.
They also scuttled in packs to where they could find commotion.

“
Oye
, the
Musalmaan
, the nicer one, is in trouble,” someone said. “He called that lawyer Memsaab's daughter a whore.”

“Isn't she one?” another quipped on the scramble there.

“And now all the coolies are here,” Mrs. Gurung barked. “Don't you have any work to do, you idiots? You're also as disrespectful as this
paanwalla
here. At least as Nepali people, you should help a Gurkha sister. Why does no one beat this dog up? I challenge someone to. A
Musalmaan
insults Kalimpong's own daughter, and all you Nepalis do is stand and watch the
tamasha
. All of you Nepali coolies should be sent back to Nepal if you can't defend one Nepali's honor when a Bihari insults her daughter.”

Mrs. Gurung was hissing now. The prospect of being beaten up enraged Munnu at first and shortly after made him cry.

“Now cry, you eunuch, you donkey,” Mrs. Gurung continued her tirade, punctuating it with a slap. “This will teach you not to talk about bigger people, you fool.”

Pulling her shawl closer together to cover up her nightgown, she stormed out.

Ashamed and fearful, Munnu shut up shop early and narrated the episode to Humera. He eliminated the portion where he was slapped—it was too emasculating—but she'd hear it from someone sooner or later, most definitely from Dr. Pradhan.

“I am afraid that other customers will think I am spreading rumors about them,” he said as he retired for the night. That would eventually result in losing more customers to the new store—a nightmare.

He couldn't sleep. He wished his daughter would cry to keep his mind off the day he had just had. He switched on his color TV and changed channels aimlessly with the remote.

When his wife finally awoke in the morning, she told him that because he didn't permit her to take up Dr. Pradhan's job offer, somebody else would be hired. She said she'd likely ask around for jobs—any job—all day.

“Any job?” he asked.

She nodded.

Munnu had an epiphany.

Excited, he dressed and ran the flight of stairs to Mrs. Gurung's house. He apologized to both Mr. and Mrs. Gurung and added that it was probably his wife who had been stealing.