Arresting God in Kathmandu (6 page)

The next Saturday he had called the office just to check, and her coarse voice answered, “Deepak Financial.” He put the phone down.

Now, watching her staring at the corner, Deepak called her into his office and asked whether she was sick. “I feel fine,” she said.

“I saw you sitting still—”

“You want me to work like a slave?” She cleared her throat.

Deepak was taken aback. “No, I mean—”

“Did you see your wife? Is that why you are so perky?”

He looked closely at her face. Her eyes were small behind her heavy glasses. He started to tell her about the night before, but she interrupted him.

“What did she have to say?”

“Nothing,” he said, suddenly unsure that he should be talking to her about Jill.

“These foreign women,” Bandana-ji said, her face angry.

“She is just—”

“They think they can play with other people’s lives.” And she went back to her desk.

Deepak was touched by her concern. She had never given an indication that she thought about Deepak’s life outside the office, other than the one time she said, “It seems unnatural,” when he came back to work the third day after Jill left. He thought, then, that she meant his returning to work so soon, but now it occurred to him that she may have been referring to Jill’s abrupt departure.

His mind on Jill, Deepak didn’t speak to Bandana-ji for the rest of the day. After work, he drove to the hotel, where the receptionist informed him that Jill had checked out an hour before. When Deepak asked whether she had left a forwarding address, the receptionist, a young man in an oversized suit, shook his head. “Did she get my message?” Deepak asked.

“She must have,” the receptionist said. “There’s nothing in her box.”

For a few minutes, Deepak lingered in the lobby. He checked the restaurants, the dance club, the swimming pool, but Jill was nowhere.

He left the hotel and, leaving his car in the hotel parking lot, walked toward the area of Ghantaghar and Ranipokhari. Near the Ghantaghar clock tower, he saw students walk into Trichandra campus for their evening classes, the girls holding their notebooks close to their chests. The clock tower chimed six as he walked beneath it. At Ranipokhari he stood near the railings that surrounded the pond and stared down at the greenish murky water. He moved on to Asan, the bustling marketplace, and slipped into the crowd to distract himself from thinking about Jill.

As he passed a sari shop, he saw a reflection of Bandana-ji in one of its large mirrors. She was looking at the colorful saris laid out on the counter. Deepak stood still. She appraised a sari and bantered with the shopkeeper. Then she looked up and their eyes met in the mirror. Deepak wanted to pretend he hadn’t seen her, but she was staring at him, so he stepped inside.

“Buying something?” he said.

“I’m trying to,” she said, “but he’s asking too high a price.”

The sari was bright pink, with a delicate embroidery of flowers and hearts. A thin strip of velvet bound the edge.

“How much?” he asked the shopkeeper, who, on seeing a well-dressed man, became deferential. “Only three thousand rupees, sir,” he said. “Discount price.”

“Pack it up.” Deepak reached into his pocket and gave him the money. He expected a strong protest from Bandana-ji, but she just stood there, clearing her throat.

They left the shop and moved toward Indrachowk as if they had planned this encounter. She walked with short, brisk steps, holding the bag with the sari and not looking at him. He found himself matching her steps. He knew she lived in the opposite direction, toward Baghbazar. They were repeatedly separated by other pedestrians, and every time they joined up again, Deepak had nothing to say. The sun, about to set, cast a pink glow on the buildings. The crowd thinned once they reached New Road, near his office, where Deepak felt compelled to say, “Where are you going?”

“You?”

“Just walking around.” He told her he had left his car at the Annapurna Hotel.

“It’s a beautiful evening,” she said. She was attempting a smile.

“Are you going to wear that sari to the office?”

“You want me to?”

He nodded.

“Then I will.”

Together, they went toward the office. Now she walked close to him, the bag held to her chest, her shoulder occasionally touching his. He opened the door to the office and thought, This is crazy. Once inside, they immediately walked into his office. She looked at Jill’s paintings on the wall as if she had never noticed them before. He sat in his chair and watched her.

“She’s not that good,’’ Bandana-ji said.

“She’s talented.”

She came to him and sat on his lap, still holding the bag. “Deepak Misra,” she whispered. Deepak put his hand on her back. There wasn’t enough flesh between each vertebra. He pulled her face toward him, kissed her on the lips, lightly, then with more force. His hand went to her breasts, so small that he could scarcely feel them. She responded with vigor, darting her tongue inside his mouth while her palms held his head. “Deepak Misra,” she whispered again. When he found himself groping for the gap between her thighs, he became aware of the absurdity of the situation and gently pushed her aside. He opened a file and bent his head.

“You’re thinking about her,” she said accusingly.

“Who?” He brushed his hair with his fingers and sat up straight.

“Your American wife.”

Deepak shook his head. “I’m going to leave now.”

“She’ll hurt you. You want that?”

“Bandana-ji,” he said, “this is unbelievable. If you don’t mind my saying so, it is none of your business.”

She stood before him, her arms crossed over her scrawny chest. She started to speak, but when he said, “Don’t,” she stopped.

“I think of you all the time, Deepak Misra,” she said softly.

Deepak, not knowing how to respond, smiled.

“I can give you much more than she will.”

Deepak stepped toward the door, but she was in the way.

“I thought she had gone back to her country.” Her small eyes behind her glasses were filling with tears.

He put his hand on her shoulder. “This shouldn’t have happened,” he said. “You are my secretary.”

On the drive home, Deepak was troubled by what he had done with Bandana-ji. Now she was acting as if she were competing with Jill.

Deepak took home some Chinese food and listened to the sarod-playing of Amjad Ali Khan, another of Jill’s favorites. She was crazy about Indian classical music. When Deepak first met her at the party, she had talked about how she loved Nepal and India (Nepal more than India, she assured him), how she got ideas for her paintings by just walking the streets of Kathmandu and gazing at the carvings on the temples. Deepak had found her charming, although she was like many of the Nepal-crazy foreigners he knew, people who lived in the country in a romantic haze, love-struck by the mountain beauty and simple charms of the people, but grossly naive about their suffering.

Later during the party, he found her in an upstairs bedroom, lying on the floor, her eyes closed, listening to the sitar-playing of Ravi Shanker. There was something about her, the way her blond hair fell about her face in disarray, the way her nose twitched when the music took a turn, that made him sit beside her and study her face. A while later she opened her eyes, started to say something, then merely smiled at him.

After they were married, he discovered that she lived in a space inside her mind that he could not reach. When they returned from their honeymoon in Pokhara, she concentrated so much on her painting that he believed she wouldn’t even notice if he left. At social gatherings, she mingled with other guests with an ease that was alien to him. He had always been shy, and he felt abandoned when she left his side to talk with her friends. She became increasingly critical of his mannerisms, of his taste. “You didn’t even smile at him when I introduced you,” or “You call that a suit?” Her criticism hurt him, and before long he struck back, mocking her friends, calling them superficial, making negative comments about her paintings, criticizing her lack of cooking skill. He didn’t want to, and he suffered pangs of self-loathing. So he began spending more time at work, for he loved her, and he couldn’t abide the way she wounded him with her words. Often when he reached home at night, she was at a party. When she returned, she’d slip into bed without a word, and he was left staring at the ceiling. After a few months, she told him she was not happy. He held her, caressed her face, refusing to believe they couldn’t be intimate again.

The morning she left, two years ago, he got up around six o’clock, just as the sun was rising, and saw the empty bed beside him. Although for the rest of the day he pretended that she was visiting friends, he knew that she had left him. What Deepak remembered most clearly about that morning was that the neighbor’s cat, who always came into their house and cuddled up beside Jill, was sitting on the windowsill, staring at him, its green eyes eerie in the dim light. When he reached out to stroke its fur, it shrank back as if it were fearful of his touch.

“It’s your wife,” Bandana-ji said as she transferred the call.

“I need to talk to you,” Jill said.

“What can I do for you?”

She told him she was coming over.

When she appeared at the door, Bandana-ji didn’t look in her direction. Jill, wearing a sari, walked past Bandana-ji and said, “You’re still working for him.” Bandana-ji kept her eyes on the computer screen. She hadn’t yet worn the sari Deepak had bought for her.

“Is she still strange?” Jill whispered as she sat in front of Deepak.

He nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me you were checking out of the hotel?” She was wearing the gold necklace he’d given her for their wedding. Her earlobes were weighted with heavy earrings, and she’d pulled her hair back so that her smooth cheeks shone under the office lights.

“Didn’t have time,” she said. “Birendra offered me a room in his apartment.” She’d lost money in the casino, and now, since she didn’t want to stay with Birendra, she needed to borrow money from Deepak.

“The house is still there,” he said.

“I can’t stay with you, Deepak.”

Deepak went to the window. On the street below, two drivers were arguing, and traffic had stalled. He knew she was using him, yet he couldn’t bring himself to say no. He opened the safe in the corner, extracted ten thousand rupees, and handed them to her.

“I’ll return this soon.”

He waved a hand in the air and became conscious that Bandana-ji was watching them through the glass. “Let’s go for lunch,” he said to Jill.

They went to a nearby restaurant, and Jill told him that Birendra wanted to sleep with her. “The other night he just slipped into my bed,” she said. “Nepali men, you know. Either you’re a mother, a sister, an aunt, or you’re a whore.”

Deepak laughed, and she, apparently pleased to see him happy, laughed with him. Before they parted, he demanded she promise to call him as soon as she found an apartment.

On his return to the office, he found the door locked. Inside, on Bandana-ji’s desk, was a note: “I am not feeling well.” Finally some time off, Deepak thought.

The next morning Bandana-ji came to the office wearing the pink sari and a matching pink blouse. “How different you look,” he said. He wasn’t sure someone so dark should wear such a light, buoyant color. He also noted a trace of lipstick on her lips, and was reminded of the story of the crow who wanted to become a swan.

Deepak asked her to stay after closing to finish some important documents that had to be mailed the next day. She came into his office, and they were cross-checking some numbers when he reached up and touched her lips. As the lipstick smudged his fingertips, he told her, “This color really suits you, Bandana-ji.” She smiled, and suddenly Deepak felt his head become lighter. She bent toward him. “Deepak Misra,” she whispered. “Every night in bed, you come and settle in my heart.” They kissed, and his hands roamed her body. He unbuttoned her blouse, pushed up her bra, and began to suck her breasts. She helped him undress, and as he sat ridiculously naked on the Tibetan carpet, his penis firm and standing like the tower of Dharahara, she carefully took off her sari and petticoat but left her glasses on. She reminded him of a stork as she stood in front of him, her palms feebly covering her breasts. She smiled shyly, like a bride, and he felt a surge of happiness.

When he entered her, she kept repeating, “Oooohhhmmm,” which sounded a lot like Om, the mantra for Lord Shiva, and it made him laugh, which made her laugh. Deepak’s erection grew stronger by the minute. He was alive, as if the cells inside his body had awakened from sleep.

They had sex in the office once a week. Deepak became convinced that he had never before experienced such pleasure. Although sex with Jill had been satisfactory, she liked to talk about her paintings while he was inside her, and that bothered him. It excited her to talk like that, she said. But Bandana-ji gave him her complete attention, and the sweetness that entered his heart lasted for a couple of hours after they climaxed. They lay on the carpet, and she fell asleep, her head tucked neatly on his chest. Each time the pleasant feeling passed, however, and Deepak would get up abruptly, overcome by guilt and loathing. She would ask, “What happened?” and he would quietly put on his clothes and leave, without uttering a word.

For the few days between, they were boss and secretary again, but she came to be more and more beautiful to Deepak. Even the disfigurement on her face appeared to him a beauty mark, enhancing her appearance.

At Jill’s housewarming party, Deepak sat with a glass of whiskey and watched Jill and Birendra whispering in the corner, like lovers. There were roughly a dozen people in the room, most of them expatriates working as artists or journalists in Kathmandu. Earlier, he had talked with a few of them, but he was bored with their incessant complaints about the Nepalese bureaucracy. When they went on like that, he wondered why they chose to live in a country they only found fault with.

Birendra was laughing at something Jill said, and, the whiskey warming his neck, Deepak walked over. They continued as if he weren’t there.