The Gurkha's Daughter (9 page)

“And new clothes. Those track pants have holes in them.”

“Maybe we are getting richer, Supriya.”

“I know. Richer than the
Kaiyas
downstairs at least.”

Sahil arrived the next day with bottles of champagne, a cake, and a present for Prabin. The wedding was three weeks later, so the trip wasn't necessary, which touched Prabin. Up in the crow's nest, his favorite place in the world, they, along with a group of a dozen close friends and relatives, toasted his sixty years, his longevity, the wedding, Khusboo's cooking skills—the vegetable pakoras and koftas she was passing around as appetizers
were delicious—and a happy life. Soon, everyone downed flutes of champagne while Khusboo watched indulgently and saw to it all the plates were replenished. She was a happy woman these days.

People filled out into the terrace. Trays of lit coal dangling in the four corners of the rooftop kept them warm in the December cold. Khusboo's sister wanted to dance, and the Bollywood music blaring from the stereo persuaded all to their feet. Prabin looked around himself in satisfaction. It had been a good sixty years.

As though reading his thoughts, his daughter stopped dancing and walked up to him.

“Not a bad innings, huh?” She used a cricket term.

“Not at all.” The music blared, a 2009 Bollywood hit.

“Not dancing?”

“You know how I feel about it.” The music carried on as cheers from the revelers doubled.

“What about at least standing around and clapping?”

“I don't know. I'll look like an idiot.”

“It's your birthday. No one cares.”

“How're you feeling?” Prabin asked.

“I hate it when he drinks. Look at him making a fool of himself.”

“But you always knew that, didn't you?”

“Yes, but he's these people's future son-in-law. Look at them laughing at him.”

“Ah, c'mon, they're laughing with him.”

“No, Bua, they are pretending. They'll probably go home and complain about your alcoholic son-in-law.”

“Is he?”

“What?”

“An alcoholic. Is he an alcoholic?”

“He drinks, Bua. Every so often.”

“Then why are you afraid of what people perceive of him? When did you ever care about what people think?”

“This is different, Bua.”

Prabin saw Sahil tinker with the stereo. Women's laughter peppered the silence. Shakira filled the air.

“
Chyaa
, English,” someone screamed.

“Yes, English—that too a vulgar one,” another chimed. Laughter followed.

“Our son-in-law is making us women with no character,” Khusboo's sister said.

“Why is it different now, Supriya?”

Sahil kept moving from woman to woman. Those who weren't dancing, like Khusboo, he tried carrying to the dance area. People around him shouted and clapped in encouragement while he lost his balance and came down, legs and arms entwined, with his future mother-in-law. Half the onlookers were amused, and half were scandalized. Khusboo hurriedly gathered herself while an inebriated Sahil lay on the ground laughing. He was having a good time.

“I don't know, Bua, but look at that.” Supriya didn't look at Sahil. She pointed at the computer. Prabin had taught her this time-tested method of talking about people without making it too obvious who was being spoken about.

“You're getting married in weeks. You don't seem very happy, Supriya.”

“I am, Bua, I swear to God, I am. It's just that when this happens, I hate him.”

Sahil was up by now, and he was running around the terrace in circles with Supriya's mysteriously procured twenty-five-year-old water bottle around his neck. His speed increased with every round. The few guests who were amused earlier were now quiet. Prabin saw eyes talking and heard hushed whispers.

“Do you ever miss Anwesh?”

“Don't do this to me, Bua.”

“I am just curious. You don't have to answer the question if you don't want to.”

“He wasn't much of a drinker.”

People began clustering around the buffet on the terrace.

“Where's the birthday boy?” someone asked. “Shouldn't he be eating?”

Prabin paid the man no attention.

“Do you think you should have a talk with him, Supriya?”

“You've no idea how many talks there have been.”

A plate came crashing down. It was Sahil.

“
Mazel Tov
,” he screamed.

No one knew what to do with that.

“There should probably be one more,” Prabin said.

“You don't like him, do you, Bua?”

“I didn't say that, Supriya.”

“You don't need to.” She was crying now. “Your voice says it. Your body language says it.”

“He's a good boy.”

“You could have told me sooner that you didn't think we were a good match.” The tears were back.

“Supriya, I never said he wasn't a good match,” said Prabin. “I think you're capable of choosing someone good enough for you.”

Prabin turned his attention to Sahil picking up chicken drumsticks from different plates. After having collected six pieces, he mumbled something about a game, threw the drumsticks up in the air and yelled at people for not catching them. Khusboo looked like she was about to faint.

“Anwesh would never have done this,” Supriya said, wiping her tears. She forced a smile at someone and headed for the buffet.

Prabin knew he should resist saying it, but he couldn't help himself. “It's still your choice.”

Supriya didn't look back at him.

The clock chimed midnight soon after their dinner. The drinking had stopped for everyone but Sahil. Prabin had carefully hidden his strong brandy under the computer desk but discovered that Sahil had excavated it. An exhausted Khusboo brought the cake with sixty candles. It took Prabin two minutes to blow them out. After he cut the cake, Sahil demanded to rub the cake on Prabin's face. This wouldn't have been a ridiculous proposition had Sahil been in a position to string his words together, but he wasn't, and Prabin quietly asked Khusboo to give him some water.

“Lie down, Sahil
jwaai
saab
,” Prabin said.

“Cake first, cake first,” Sahil mumbled and made for the cake with his hand.

After digging out a handful, he turned to Supriya. His shirt was unbuttoned to his navel, and he rubbed cake all over Supriya's chest, who murmured something into his ears. It wasn't the stern voice she had used with Anwesh. This voice was calm and soothing, as if Sahil were a baby. In fact, it looked like she was putting a big baby to sleep.

“Enough,” Prabin said. “Enough,
jwaai
saab
.”

Sahil was laughing, having an excellent time.

“Enough,” Prabin shouted. “I don't care about whether you're my future son-in-law—you have to leave.”

Sahil's hands flailed; his eyes were bloodshot. The friends and family stood around, horrified, awkward, confused about what their roles should be.

“I don't care if a son-in-law is the next thing to God.” Prabin looked around. “I'll slap his silly face if I have to.”

The look on his wife's face was a mixture of disbelief and self-pity. The night had gone entirely out of control, and his future
son-in-law was crazy. He went to the bathroom downstairs to get away from it all. The crow's nest was a mess of broken glasses, uneaten cake, and torn streamers.

He stayed in the bathroom for a long, long time. By the time he returned, all was quiet in the house. Everyone had either left or gone to bed. Prabin went up to the crow's nest to inspect the damage done. It would also clear his head. He didn't know what to think of the night.

The cake was everywhere: on one of the bamboo chairs—God knew where the other had gone—the computer desk, and the rug. He tiptoed to get the trash can from the terrace, careful not to step on broken glass. The terrace lights were already on. Sitting right next to the trash can, on the missing bamboo chair, was Sahil with a vapid look in his eyes, carefully licking every speck of cake from his little finger. Once finished with the little finger, he moved to the thumb. After licking his thumb clean of the cake crumbs, he moved to the middle finger. He licked it clean, sucked it, and he saw to it not a bit of cake remained. He was oblivious to the standing Prabin in the doorway. His last finger was the ring finger. When his teeth retrieved the ring, along with the cake crumbs, he sucked the engagement ring dry of the cake remains. After he had licked the last crumb of cake off his hand, he spat out the ring, looked at Prabin, mumbled “Cake, cake” and passed out there.

In the shadows lurked Supriya.

“He's a Brahmin, though, Bua, he's a Brahmin,” she sputtered.

“Is he stingy?”

“Not all Brahmins are stingy. Not all women weak. Not all Bengalis are intelligent.”

“Sradda is stingy, though, and she's a Brahmin.”

“The name is Pooja, Bua.” She smiled through her tears.

M
ISSED
B
LESSING

On a wall in Rajiv's four-bedded room hung pictures of all the recently deceased members of his family—his mother: blood cancer; his father: a failed liver; his father's brother and the brother's wife: a car accident; and his grandfather: old age. The
khadas
, silk scarves decking each of the frames, had turned light brown with age. The frames themselves had accumulated thick layers of dirt that the early-morning rays dancing through the windows now betrayed. Rajiv wondered aloud if his brother, who he saw was trying to go back to sleep in the bed across from him, might want to clean the frames one of these days.

“Yes, they've been neglected for too long,” said his brother, Sandeep, home on his
Dashain
vacation from boarding school.

There's no way the pictures are neglected, Rajiv thought.
I begin my day looking at them and thinking about the people in them.

He stared at his dozing brother and wished he, too, could sleep that way. His grandmother wasn't in her bed. She was probably already in the kitchen, preparing tea for him and Sandeep despite the arthritis that caused her difficulty in lifting even a small pot of water. His distant cousin, an eleven-year-old from perhaps the only family poorer than Rajiv's, wasn't in his bed either. Rajiv heard no sounds of pots clanking on the floor,
so he assumed Tikam was in the kitchen doing most of the work while the old lady supervised. Tikam's bed, the smallest in the room, was already made—the quilt had been folded into a neat rectangle and set against the wall.

The missionaries would be here soon. During the past three weeks, a middle-aged couple from America had shown up at Rajiv's place at six almost every morning. They had lived in Darjeeling for a year or so, helping poor people get to know Christ. Rajiv had difficulty believing the Scotts—he called them Mr. and Ms. Scott despite their wanting to be addressed as Michael and Christa—had been around only for a year because they conversed in fluent Nepali and seemed extremely comfortable in their unfamiliar surroundings. They sat cross-legged on the floor and drank boiled water, unlike those foreign tourists who wouldn't touch any liquid that didn't come in sealed bottles. They also didn't marvel every three seconds at the beauty of Darjeeling's sunrises.

These were the first missionaries Rajiv had known intimately, and he was fond of them. He especially liked Michael, who didn't talk much, just like Rajiv's father. Christa was always in good spirits and was ready for a good, civilized debate—no voice was raised, no hot words thrown. Rajiv never found in the Scotts any of the mendacity his father was convinced characterized missionaries. The Scotts didn't sugarcoat, they didn't question his faith in Hinduism, and they seldom extolled the virtues of Jesus. It sometimes felt like they were his sounding board, a respite from the mundane cycles of his life. Their positive take on everything was inspiring, and these hourly sessions were incentive enough to get out of bed. He always found that after spending time with the couple, more so with Michael, he felt calmer, like their cheer rubbed off on him, so when Rajiv heard a knock, followed by Tikam's greeting, he sprinted to the small terrace, where he often convened with the Scotts when the weather was right.

It wasn't the Scotts. Rajiv should have known better—it was a Sunday, and they never came to his place on Sundays. Their duties at church made morning visits nearly impossible. Rajiv's
mama
, his mother's younger brother, came barging in.

“You were still sleeping,” his
mama
said, lowering his glasses from the top of his bald head. “All your mother's siblings will be in Darjeeling on Friday for
Dashain.
Their families will be here, too. They will mostly be staying at my place, but you will have to make room in yours for your Manju
chema
and her daughter. Her husband is staying home so he can offer
tika
there. He's the oldest brother; it makes sense.”

“How many of them will be there?”

“She and her daughter. Her husband's brother's daughter will also be there. These Shillong people love Darjeeling.”

“That's three, then.”

Rajiv knew who the cousin's cousin was. Her name was Niveeta, and they had met once when they were both toddlers—she had bitten him when he touched her toy rabbit, and he had had to get a tetanus shot. It was a painful childhood memory, but he found himself smiling at the absurdity of now meeting this person from his past. He wondered what she'd look like as an adult and if she remembered what she'd done to him.

“Yes, and they are leaving tomorrow. Manju
nana
has to return to Shillong because she doesn't trust her
bekaamey
husband with the house, and the girls are returning to college in Delhi. Who allows their daughters to come home during the
Dashain
vacation, I don't understand.”

“You know there's no space here,” Rajiv said. “All the four beds are occupied.”

“Work something out. Share a bed with your brother and put some mattresses on the floor. It's festival time, and you should be open to such eventualities. If relatives don't visit one another during
Dashain,
when will they?”

“Do you know how many there will be? You know how small the room is. If they don't mind sleeping on mattresses in the kitchen, I might be able to make something happen.”

“They are guests. You need to treat them well. You, your brother and the boy can sleep in the kitchen. That way, you make room for three guests in the beds and a couple more on the floor of the sitting room.”

“There's no sitting room,” Rajiv said.

His
mama
didn't seem to notice.

“Also, clean this place up a bit. It's always a mess.”

His uncle was on his way out now. Rajiv asked him if he wanted some tea.

“That cousin of yours makes terrible tea,” the older man said. “I'd be a fool to start off my day with it.”

And with that, he snapped around on his heels and walked away.

Rajiv stood quiet. It was just like his
mama
to drop in unannounced this early in the morning with news like that. He wanted to tell his
mama
about his grandmother's health, about her anxiety attacks, about how he couldn't sleep well if he heard so much as a whisper. He wanted to ask his
mama
who would cook. Tikam was too young, and his grandmother was too frail to prepare a meal for her small family, let alone for guests whose numbers threatened to engender economic imbalance in the house. Rajiv was good in the kitchen, but his experience was limited to a handful of dishes. Their house probably didn't even have enough plates to feed three extra people. Rajiv dreaded the idea of asking the Scotts to lend him additional serving dishes. They would undoubtedly understand, but the humiliation of borrowing yet another thing from them was too much to bear. They had already given him an old set of chairs they said they had no use for. Asking his friends was out of question—he
was too proud. He decided to share with his grandmother this bizarre development; she wouldn't have a solution, but he'd feel better if she was involved.

His grandmother was deaf in her right ear, so he had to position himself close on her left side.

“
Mama
says there might be about six of them for three days,” he explained.

“And where exactly would we fit them?” the toothless lady asked. “On the terrace? Like they do in the plains?”

“This is Darjeeling, not Bagdogra. They'll freeze to death on the terrace.”

“Why can't they all stay at your
mama
's place? At least there's some space there. You know what happens when I can't sleep.”

“I know, but we need to adjust. These are the same people who pooled in money so I could become an engineer.”

“Yes, not that the degree has been helpful in getting you a job. You still spend all day chatting with those senseless Christians.”

Years of experience had taught Rajiv not to react to any of his grandmother's prejudices. He knew she mostly meant well. It was also unwise to explain to an eighty-year-old the current job market in Darjeeling, which had a lot to do with the frequent strikes that various political parties called in an attempt to attract national attention to their demand of a separate state. The economy was crippled; opportunities were nonexistent. And he didn't want this decaying woman to know that she was the reason he hadn't left Darjeeling to go to Delhi or Bangalore for an IT job. His younger brother was in a boarding school in Mirik, and going by his dismal academic record, he would likely be there for a few more years. If Rajiv left home to pursue a career, his grandmother would be alone. The number of trips he made home from his engineering college in Majitar, in Sikkim, to take care of her had made him realize that going too far away was fatal—Bangalore wasn't a taxi ride away from Darjeeling
like Majitar was. His grandmother would not be willing to move to a big city. She wanted to die in Darjeeling, in the hills, surrounded by the mountains and her people.

“I can't get a job three months after finishing college,” Rajiv said. “The competition is intense.”

“Weren't you the boy who always came first in his class? If they don't give you a job, who will they give it to?”

“It's
Dashain
time. All the offices are closed now, so there's no point talking about employment. We need to find a way to house all these people.”

Sandeep staggered into the kitchen, combing his cowlicks.

“What people?” he said.

The grandmother filled him in.

“That's your
mama
and your mother's side of the family for you,” she said. “They have no consideration for anyone.”

“I could always go sleep at Sonam's place,” Sandeep offered. “That's one fewer person in the house. And I could take Tikam with me.”

“Tikam needs to be here to run errands,” Rajiv countered. “And they will have something to say when they notice your absence. You know how they are—the house is never clean enough, the food never good enough, and we are never hospitable enough.”

“Why should they stay here?” the grandmother asked. “They don't even accept
tika
from me. I am not good enough for them. A dying lady's blessings aren't important to them.”

“You aren't even related to them, Boju,” said Rajiv. “Why should you put
tika
on them? And they are probably uncomfortable you'll give them money with your blessings. They don't want to be a burden on you. It's no secret we don't have money.”

“You're your mother's son,
naati
—you never think your family is in the wrong. If they understood our struggles, they wouldn't come to our place as guests for three whole days. No
one chooses to become guests in an eighty-year-old's house if they are considerate. They know I am a sick, dying woman. They have nothing but themselves in mind.”

Sandeep tapped the bottom of his glass to release the last few droplets of tea before placing it on the elevated platform in the kitchen corner that served as a sink.

“I am heading out,” he said. “Does anyone need anything?”

“You never wash anything you use, just like your father,” the grandmother complained. “Even those Christians who have no shame about coming here every day wash their cups.”

“I'll wash the glass when I return,” Sandeep said.

“That's what your father used to say, too,” the grandmother said, and somewhat fondly added, “He's his father's son, a true Rai from Pankhabari—unlike his older brother.”

The last time relatives from his mother's side visited, Tikam reported that a female cousin had thrown up in the bathroom. She had then elaborately described to everyone the circumstances that led to her vomiting: the sight of leftover rice, tangled in masses of hair, floating near the open drain. Rajiv was determined no one, least of all Niveeta, should tell more tales about the dubious standards of hygiene his household maintained, so he started cleaning. He looked around the kitchen and sighed at how filthy it was.

The area around the electrical wiring above the stove was black with grime, and the lone kitchen lightbulb, unchanged for years, hung nearly opaque with dirt. He thought of discarding it but opted instead to scrape off the greasy residue with a knife. It took a long time, but when he plugged the bulb back in after washing and drying it, the light shone with an intensity that forced him to squint. A giant spider crawled up his arm as he knocked loose the cobwebs that dangled everywhere from the tin roof. On seeing that Tikam had done an unsatisfactory job doing the morning dishes,
Rajiv washed them again. He stopped only when his grandmother expressed concern that he was working himself to death.

Hardly had the euphoria of this major accomplishment seeped in when he saw the bedroom. The floor, its cracks and pits ignored for decades, would stubbornly cling to its dirt, rendering most of his elbow grease useless. Patching these holes would have to wait until after he found a job. A pile of rusty tin trunks stuffed with clothes threatened to tumble over. Rajiv started with the bedsheets and mattresses, under which lay mismatched socks. Two roaches skittered to safety as he stripped the beds. He scrubbed and wrung out months of accumulated saliva, sweat, and dirt from the sheets.