The Gurkha's Daughter (8 page)

“But she said she'd pay for it with her own money,” Prabin said in his daughter's defense.

“Will you allow her to?” his wife asked, trying her best to catch the fly nervously fluttering around the screens that went with their windows.

“No, of course, not,” Prabin said, mildly piqued. “As you said, she's been saving since she was four.”

“She knew that's what we would say.” She looked at him conspiratorially as she caught the fly, took it out to the balcony and let it free.

Prabin couldn't help noticing how similar his wife was to the insect in the window. The fly darted in and out, just like she did, and he paid both no mind. Every so often, though, it irritated him so much that he was tempted to squish it, just like he wanted to throttle his wife right now. She didn't hurt the fly; hurting his wife right now would not be in keeping with the warped metaphor he had just concocted. She'd always think their daughter was up to no good. If that's what gives her life a purpose, let her be, Prabin thought as he headed to the store.

At twenty-four, Supriya brought her boyfriend home for the first time. They had been together for three years, but Supriya had made it clear to Prabin that it was a relationship going nowhere, a fact that simultaneously disconcerted and relieved her mother.

“
Abbui
, a Pradhan,” she had remarked to Prabin after Supriya's call. “Thank God there's no intention of marriage. But why does she need to bring him home? We'll tell anyone who asks he's her
Rakhi
brother.”

Anwesh Pradhan, Prabin reasoned, wasn't such a bad boy. He spoke well, was respectable, seemed like he was from an excellent family, had received a better education than his daughter had (St. Paul's, Darjeeling; Bishop Cotton, Bangalore; St. Stephen's, Delhi; JNU, Delhi) and was an overall likable man. For a little while he was baffled why his daughter did not think of him as the marrying kind. He had only to ask the next question.

“What do you intend to do with a degree in political science, Ashish?” he asked. Khusboo did very little talking. She hadn't even cooked anything special.

“The name is Anwesh, Bua,” Supriya corrected him with a pat on his head and went on a verbal trip down memory lane, rife with anecdotes that sprang from his name-forgetting ways.

“Politics, Uncle,” Anwesh said, unflustered. “I am already in the GJM. I like Bimal Gurung's leadership, but some day, I hope to be the next Bimal Gurung. Subash Ghisingh did nothing for the Darjeeling district. So many years later, we're still not a state. I worked very closely with Jaswant Singh's campaign and now understand how the grassroots level works. I think he's the one who'll get us out of this quandary.”

“But Jaswant Singh was expelled from his own party,” Prabin interrupted. “He doesn't even know what's going to happen tomorrow.”

“He'll join Congress, Uncle, and Congress will easily free Gorkhaland. We'll no longer be under the oppressive regime of Kolkata. Just you see.”

They finished dinner and went to the crow's nest without Khusboo. Just a week ago, Prabin had installed a minibar in one corner. He poured himself a whiskey, the local brand, and asked Anwesh and Supriya to help themselves. Anwesh made himself a drink by adding a little whiskey to his glass and brimming it with water. Supriya declined.

“So what do you want to do for a career, Anwesh?” He got the name right.

“Politics, Uncle, will be my career. I will see to it that the Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council will be free and continue serving in some political capacity.”

“Do you see yourself as a DGHC minister if it becomes a state one day, Anwesh?” He purposefully avoided calling him “son.”

“Yes, Uncle, I do. I will become the chief minister one day. Your daughter thinks it's impossible, though. She thinks I am wasting my time.”

“Did you say that, Supriya?” Prabin asked, not looking at anyone, or anything, in particular.

“Yes, I did,” Supriya said. “And that's the reason I won't marry you, Anwesh.”

“Just give me five years, Supriya. Five years is all I need.”

“No, Anwesh, I gave you two, and you still don't have a job or money of your own. You're still dependent on your parents for money. We've talked about this before.”

Prabin fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat, shuffling his liquor from one hand to another. He asked if he should leave.

“No, that's fine, Bua, we're having a casual discussion,” Supriya said. “Look at us—still smiling.”

She was smiling; Anwesh wasn't.

“I will not get married to someone who makes less money than I do,” Supriya said.

“You're insulting me, Supriya.” The howling of a pack of stray dogs drowned Anwesh's voice. “I keep telling you to give me five years to prove myself.”

“You don't need five years to prove yourself. I wouldn't mind your political
gundagiri
at all if only you had a job. You could teach in a college somewhere and continue to mobilize the youth. You could work someplace—that would put your education to good use.”

Her father stood up to leave, but so did Anwesh.

“I guess this means I should leave?” Anwesh asked.

“Probably,” Supriya said. “Good luck.”

“All right, Uncle, thank you so much for dinner,” Anwesh said. “Namaste.”

“Goodnight, Anwesh,” Prabin said.

“I'll see you to the door.” Supriya led the way.

Prabin had expected some talk to take place downstairs and was surprised when Supriya returned immediately.

“Wow,” he remarked.

“I know,” she said. “He wouldn't have left me alone had I not insulted him here.”

Prabin smiled. “So that's why you brought him here?”

“Well, yes, he knows how much you mean to me, and to impress you was his biggest goal. After the DGHC nonsense, of course. It all went downhill when I brought up finance and independence issues.”

“Wow,” Prabin remarked. “I don't know what to say.”

“I know. There's not a lot for you to say.”

“Do you think you'll ever see him again?”

“I don't know.”

“He seemed pretty shaken.”

“Must have been the drink—you know, with four-fifths water.”

He figured she was trying to make light of the situation. “These Darjeeling people—I love the way they speak.”

“I know. And what they say about St. Paul's products not being able to mingle is certainly true.”

“He seemed social enough.”

“He rehearsed for this meeting a million times. Where do you think the book on how to run a successful business and the bouquet for Mua came from?”

“Did you see her face when he handed her the flowers?” They were back to their chitchat. “I had difficulty controlling my laughter. To be honest, I was a little insulted he brought me a book on how to manage my business. You probably told him I don't manage the bookstore well enough.”

“Yes, he tried. But giving a book like that to the most successful bookstore owner in town is a little silly, I agree.”

“You know everyone says we are more successful than Good Books,” Prabin boasted. “Now we just have to beat Rachna Books.”

“Weren't you always?” Supriya teased. “Or were those lies to appease my childish questions about who had more money, who was bigger, and who was more powerful?”

“Be absolutely honest with me, Supriya. You couldn't have turned down the man simply because you didn't like the idea
of his being in politics. There's something about Anwesh that convinces anyone he meets he's going to do great things. I'll give it in writing that he will be a great man. There's more to it than his involvement in politics.”

“Yes, there is,” she replied, looking straight ahead.

“Is there someone else?”

“No, not at all.”

“Then why?”

“He's not a Brahmin, Bua. Remember to be a Brahmin, both your parents need to be Brahmins? I want my children to be Brahmin.”

“Yes,
chulhai nimto
—of course, everyone's invited,” Khusboo said on the phone. “Yes, bring the children, too. How often do they get to feast on arranged marriages these days? They need to know that they should get married to someone of their own caste. This will be an example. What?
Aye
, no, no, it's not entirely arranged. Who goes for totally arranged marriages these days? But he's a Brahmin, the upper berth, and yes, the
kundalis
match perfectly. Ten out of ten, the pundit says. She's thirty, and he's thirty-one. Perfect. Thank you, thank you. All right, we'll see you at the wedding then. Let's wear something understated and elegant. We need to show them the girl's side is educated and classy, you know. Bye.”

Supriya and Prabin were addressing invitations—he in Nepali, and she in English—and rolled their eyes while nodding their heads in disbelief when Khusboo brought up the issue of the groom's being a Brahmin and the perfectly harmonious birth charts. Supriya wouldn't allow her birth chart to be read, and Khusboo had to acquiesce because Supriya had done her the biggest favor of all by getting married to a Brahmin. All these years, Prabin hadn't disclosed to his wife their daughter's desire to get married to a man from her caste. He often considered telling her about what transpired in the crow's nest after
Anwesh's dismissal six years ago. Something stopped him. He felt petty hiding a matter that would have possibly saved his wife six years of fitful sleep, but he didn't mention a thing. It was his little secret, and he knew why.

He didn't want his wife to relax while he still tossed and turned. Letting her know that Supriya was not getting married to anyone but a Brahmin would be the end of her worries. It, however, wouldn't be the end of his. What if her husband, a righteous Brahmin in every way, ended up treating his daughter the way he, Prabin, treated his wife? What if Supriya's evolved into a marriage deprived of love like his was? Yes, he didn't cheat on his wife, and he knew she didn't cheat on him, but neither gave the other the happiness one expects from a spouse. Days went by without their having exchanged a word with each other. All the joy that came from their marriage resided in their daughter. And he didn't wish that life for his daughter. God knows he had failed as a husband; he didn't want another man like him, the picture-perfect Brahmin, to fail Supriya. He knew his reasons for keeping Supriya's desire a secret were selfish, inhumane even, but he couldn't imagine being the lone suffering person.

“All Nepali cards are ready, right?” Khusboo asked.

“Yes, they are,” Prabin said. “Finally. I still don't understand why we are inviting this many people.”

“I told you I wanted a court wedding,” Supriya said. “You could have given the money to me to buy a house.”

“What an inappropriate thing to say,” Khusboo shouted. “Everything we have is yours. Will we take all our money with us when we die or what? Your husband isn't exactly a poor man. And he's already a deputy secretary in the government now. You're bound to get a government job in no time. What a lucky girl.”

“She doesn't want a government job, Khusboo,” Prabin said, inviting a pinch from Supriya. He looked forward to the battle that would ensue.

“Ah! The Acharyas,” Khusboo said. “Supriya Acharya.”

“She doesn't want to change her last name,” Prabin quipped, once again hoping he had instigated a quarrel.

Supriya's phone rang. It was Sahil, her fiancé, and she went to her room.

Supriya had made Prabin aware of Sahil some time ago.

She called him one day, asked him if he was alone, and said she had something to share.

“His name is Sahil, and he's a Baahun.”

“Oh, good, I don't need to know more, of course,” Prabin joked.

“Good family. A good job. A great personality. Good character.”

“All right.” He gave her the signal to continue.

“Only son.” She laughed. “Sister is in the US. No flirtatious brothers-in-law to worry about.”

“He seems perfect in every way. There must be something negative about him.”

“Um, not that I can think of.”

“C'mon, something.”

“No, none whatsoever.”

“Okay, if not negative, something you don't like.”

“He wears contacts and keeps losing them.”

“Is that it?”

“Hold on.”

“Sure.”

“Let me think.” She repeated herself.

“Well, if we are nitpicking, he drinks moderately. And he tends to get drunk rather fast.”

“Do you think that's serious?”

“Well, I tell him that I love him all the time except when he drinks.”

“What do you want to do when he drinks?”

“Kill him,” she said. “But it doesn't worry me so much. He doesn't go out drinking every night.”

“Not a wife beater in the making?”

“No, about that I am sure.”

“Alcoholic?”

“The reality of alcoholism is different for us than it's for you, Bua. All young people drink.”

“So do I.”

“Yes, and Mua thinks you're an alcoholic. See my point?”

“I do.”

The first time they met him, both husband and wife fell for Sahil. He was suave, tall, very good looking, had impeccable manners, and made excellent conversation. For the first time in years, Prabin and Khusboo talked for some time before they went to bed. Sahil was a charmer. A sincere charmer, they both agreed. And he seemed very into their daughter, who was now back in the room, laughing on the phone at something he had just said.

“He's coming for your birthday,” Supriya yelled. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but you know surprises are never surprising, so I am letting you know. Pretend to be surprised.”

“Oh, all right, so there'll be cake cutting then?” Prabin asked.