The Guru of Love (16 page)

He went to his room and sat on the bed. Goma's mouth was slightly ajar, her eyes partly open. This was how she slept, and during the first months of their marriage, he'd been amused by those eyes that never fully closed. He'd teased her, saying she wanted to keep an eye on him all the time, even in the darkness of the night, so that he wouldn't escape. In frivolous moments, when she was asleep, he'd taken some sugar and sprinkled it into her open mouth. She'd wake up, her tongue tasting the sweetness, and scold him, and he'd laugh.

Now, he placed his hand on her hip and jiggled it. She woke up instantly, saying, “What? What?”

“I have to tell you something.”

“What time is it?” She sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. “Why are you up?”

“It's about Malati and me.”

She stared at him. “What about you two?”

“There's something going on.”

Her face became very still.

“I've kissed her.”

“Are you still drunk?” she said softly.

He shook his head. A strange sound floated up from the courtyard, like the howling of a distant dog. Then it became more clear; Mr. Sharma was chanting. Goma lay down.

“Goma.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I don't know.” He picked a piece of lint from the bed. “I don't know what's come over me. I don't know why—”

“I think I understand.” Her face was slightly turned away. “You don't want me anymore.”

“That's not true.”

“Please leave the room.''

“Goma.” He placed a hand on her arm.

She moved away. “Please.''

He wanted to tell her more, tell her that he could not control himself, that perhaps if she helped him, he could. But with no response from her, he left the room and went to the kitchen, where he sat on the cold floor.

He had no idea how long he sat there, and whether he'd dozed off. But a gray light appeared in the window, and Mr. Sharma's chanting had stopped. Silence surrounded Ramchandra.

Goma stood in the doorway. “I will leave for Pandey Palace with the children,” she said.

“With the day of Tika so near? Maybe you can go after that,” he offered.

“It doesn't make any difference,” she said. And she was right. After a moment, she said, “I don't know what I'll tell the children.”

He had nothing to say.

“Perhaps we should get a servant, to feed you and wash the dishes and your clothes.”

“How long will you be gone?”

She didn't answer his question. “I'll send my parents' servant for a few days, until we find someone permanent. It's good that your school is closed for these few weeks of the festival. You'll have some time to cook for yourself.”

“What about that girl from Chitwan?”

“She'll be too hard for you to train. I'll keep her with me, there. Her father is supposed to bring her to the city in a couple of days.”

“Sanu will be unhappy in Pandey Palace.”

“I'll start to pack now.”

She lingered as if she were waiting for his permission. Then she entered the kitchen, set some water to boil for tea, and stood by the window. He watched her. She made the tea and set it before him. “Aren't you going to have some?” he asked.

“I don't feel like it right now.” She hesitated, as if she expected him to say something. But a lump had formed in his throat; he couldn't talk. He sipped the tea. It tasted bitter—she'd forgotten the sugar.

“I'll start packing now,” she repeated, and left.

Later, he heard her wake the children. Rakesh sounded excited about going to his grandparents so early in the morning, probably pleased that he'd spend the next few days of the festival at Pandey Palace, where he'd be given money and gifts. Sanu sounded querulous. Ramchandra heard her ask Goma whether her father was coming, too. When Goma didn't respond, Sanu asked again, and Goma scolded her. No one came to the kitchen, and soon footsteps descended the stairs.

F
OR A LONG TIME
Ramchandra sat in the kitchen, listening to the birds chirping in the guava tree in the courtyard. The gray light had given way to a golden hue that painted the courtyard, and people were waking in the surrounding houses. Someone coughed, then gargled by a window. The old lady living in the apartment above Mr. Sharma tuned her sitar.

Ramchandra put his head between his knees, and tried to make sense of what had happened, but the lack of sleep confounded him; he couldn't think. He went to the bedroom to see what Goma had packed. All her clothes from the closet were gone. In the children's bedroom, one of Rakesh's shoes had been left behind. Ramchandra picked it up and thought it might serve as an excuse for him to go to Pandey Palace and urge Goma to come home. He'd plead with her; he'd tell her it was all a mistake, that he'd slipped in a moment of confusion.

But he wasn't sure that it wouldn't happen again. Even now, as he rehearsed what he'd say to Goma, his thoughts linked themselves into a chain that led him to Malati. She would arrive soon for her session; this thought entered his mind like a breeze. He began to imagine what they would do together. Perhaps he'd cook lunch for her. Or she would cook for him. Then he became ashamed. Goma and his children had left, and here he was, thinking about someone he'd known for only a few months.

It occurred to him that he and Malati may have had some connection in a past life. Usually he scoffed at belief in reincarnation, but right now he couldn't think of any other explanation. How else could he account for his surge of anticipation at Malati's arrival, in this pathetic apartment, the morning his family had left him? Even this hellhole didn't seem bad now. He looked around the bedroom. The sparse furnishings: a bed and a small bedside table with a lamp, some photographs on the wall, a religious calendar of Goddess Kali with her fangs showing and decapitated heads at her feet. That was it. And yes, the traffic noise. As he imagined spending the afternoon in bed with Malati, his body trembled, and he quickly walked back to the kitchen.

He set some rice to boil, and found some green onions and potatoes in the cupboard. But there was no meat in the refrigerator; he'd have to buy some. Quickly he put on his clothes and went downstairs. There was a meat shop only a few yards away. He usually avoided the place because it was expensive, and the shopkeeper sold terrible meat, with bones that appeared only after he got the package home. But Malati would be here any minute, and he didn't have time to go to the shop down the block.

Back in the apartment after buying the chicken, Ramchandra chopped onions and cut the meat into small pieces. As he was about to turn on the kerosene stove, he heard footsteps on the staircase and went out to the landing. Malati was wearing the same old kurta suruwal she'd worn the first time she'd come to him. She smiled up at him. The long scratch on her left cheek made her even more beautiful, he thought. He held out his hand. She didn't offer hers, but motioned with her head to find out whether Goma was inside.

“They all went to her parents' house.”

“So early? Something happened?”

“No, just a visit,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she said shyly.

“No tutoring today,” he said. “We're going to cook.”

“No tutoring?”

“I bought some chicken for you.” She looked disappointed, so he asked, “What? You don't want to cook?”

“Sir, the S.L.C. exams are nearly here. At this rate, I won't pass.”

“I'll make sure you pass.”

She crossed her arms and said, “Sir, give me your honest opinion. Where do you think I stand?”

“You've made some significant progress,” he said, matching her serious tone. “My honest evaluation: you will pass.”

“You aren't lying to me?”

“Why would I lie to you?” She still needed a few more days of intense studying, but right now he was ready to say anything to reassure her.

His confidence seemed to buoy her up, for she said, “Okay, we can cook and eat, and then we can study.”

Her proximity made him catch his breath. “What about Rachana?”

“Malekha Didi is in a good mood today. She got a big order of chicken for a Dashain party, so she won't mind if I'm late. What shall we cook?”

She turned out to be a very efficient cook. There was a quickness to her movements that was a pleasure to watch. She seemed to know instinctively where things were, so even before he could tell her where to find the coriander, she was sprinkling it on the potatoes. In contrast, Goma's movements in the kitchen were slow, even though her meals were delicious. Goma would worry about how much salt to add to the food, or what amount of oil was best. Malati appeared to cook without thinking. Her hands flew in all directions.

Their bodies inevitably touched, and he smelled the fragrance of jasmine in her hair. At one point, when she was stirring the chicken, he put his arms around her from behind. She leaned her head back against his shoulder and said, “Sir, why are you doing this to me?”

“I'm not doing anything to you,” he whispered. He was getting an erection, and she felt it, because she pushed him away and said, “You are shameless.”

They sat to eat, and when he offered her some food from his hand, she opened her mouth wide. Then she did the same to him. They fed each other, and any thought of Goma and the children in the house began to fade like a memory. Outside in the courtyard, Mr. Sharma was singing a hymn as he took his bath.

After they'd finished eating, Ramchandra led her to the bedroom. He lay down and pulled her on top of him. He kissed her and stroked her breasts, which began to rise under his touch. He put his lips to her breasts over her dress and licked them. “Sir, sir,” she said. She had closed her eyes and was beginning to moan. He felt under her kurta and unraveled the string that tied her trousers. He helped her out of her suruwal, her panties, her kurta, and her bra. She straddled him, completely nude, her arms covering her breasts in shyness. Her face was flushed crimson, as if she were his bashful bride. The monkey scratches ran down her right forearm, and on her leg he saw small boils. He thrust his pelvis under her, and gradually she responded to his movement. Her hands moved away from her breasts, exposing her nipples, and she fumbled with the string on his suruwal. Soon, he too was naked.

A shout was heard on the street, and for a moment both lay still. But the call was for someone else. The
rat-rat-rat
of a motorcycle rose from the street into the room, but the sound no longer bothered Ramchandra. A great serenity came over him. There was more light in the room now—the sun had moved higher—and all the objects were brighter. He smiled at Malati, who seemed to be waiting for a signal. Her face was serious. He felt like laughing at his chain of thoughts. Of course, it was serious business. He was about to make love to his student right in his bedroom, on the very bed where he had slept with his wife a few hours ago, the very bed where his children had played with each other. His wife and children were gone, and this was serious business. A burst of melancholy and amazing joy erupted inside Ramchandra, and he quickly entered Malati, who started rocking on top of him. Her earlier bashfulness vanished, and now she moved with the same quickness she'd displayed in the kitchen. She bent over and took his head in her hands and kissed him on the mouth. “Sir, sir,” she said.

“Goma,” he cried as he ejaculated, but the first syllable got stuck in this throat and it came out as “O ma,” repeatedly, as if he were calling his mother in distress.

 

They must have fallen asleep, for both were startled by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Malati hurriedly began to put on her clothes, and Ramchandra rushed to close the door. He latched it from the inside and leaned against it, holding his breath. At first, he thought that Goma had come back to get something. But the footsteps were heavy, and something clicked inside Ramchandra's head at the sound of a rap on the door. Ashok, he mouthed to Malati, who was struggling to tie her suruwal. “Sir? Anyone in there?”

“One minute,” Ramchandra shouted. He picked up his clothes and put them on.

“Should I hide?” Malati whispered.

“There's no place to hide,” he whispered back. “Just pretend nothing is wrong.” He said loudly to Ashok, “Why are you here? There's no tutoring today.”

“I know, sir. I came for something else.”

When Ramchandra opened the door, Ashok was grinning. “I was wondering if I'd entered the wrong house.” His eyes fell upon Malati, and the smile on his face became bigger. “Ñamaste, Malati,” he said.

Malati mumbled something and sat on the bed.

Ramchandra didn't invite Ashok in. “Everything all right, Ashok?”

“Of course, sir. Why wouldn't everything be all right?” He stretched his neck to look past Ramchandra toward Malati. “How's the tutoring going?”

“Fine.”

“You think you'll pass?”

“Of course she'll pass,” Ramchandra said testily. “What about you, though? You think that smile is going to impress the S.L.C. examiners?”

“Better to smile than to cry,” Ashok said. “But I didn't come here to disturb anyone, sir. I came to give you this. It's from my father.” He handed an envelope to Ramchandra, who opened it and saw a hundred-rupee bill. “Dashain bonus. He wants you to make sure that I pass.”

“No teacher can give that kind of guarantee. You know that.”

“I know, sir. I just wish I were given some special attention, too.” Again he smiled at Malati, who got up, mumbled that she was late for something, and left. Soon, Ashok also left.

Ramchandra went to the kitchen and washed his face with water from a jug. Then he headed outside, but he got no farther than the New Road Gate when a wave of nausea swept over him. He sat down on the street, right near a newspaper vendor who had spread out his wares in front of a shop. The vendor rushed to him, lifted him up by the arm, and asked what had happened. “I'm fine,” Ramchandra said. He brushed off the dust from his pants and walked toward Bhatbhateni.