The Guru of Love (24 page)

“The government scared?” said another. “It's just waiting for the right moment. It's like a cat playing with a mouse. Wait and see.”

What do you think will happen?” Ramchandra asked the man whose newspaper he had been reading.

“How do I know:'” the man said testily. “Am I God? All I'm worried about is that the schools are going to close, and my son will lose another year. These bastards.”

“Such a momentous thing happening in our country,” another man said, “and you're worried about your son? What about the rest of the janata who are suffering?”

The two of them started arguing, their voices lashing out at each other, and the cold evening air became charged.

Ramchandra walked into the house, wondering whether the country was indeed plunging into a revolution, or whether it would whimper and die down when faced with the government's wrath. What did Mr. Pandey make of this latest development? He must be fuming, Ramchandra thought with some relish.

T
HE FIRST MORNING
of the S.L.C. exams, which ran for ten days this year, was so cold that Ramchandra walked around the house wrapped in a bulky sirak. Goma put some tika on Malati's forehead and prayed to the small statue of Lord Ganesh in the kitchen. “No need to worry,” she told Malati. “You've worked hard for this, and you'll succeed.” Besides, the first exam was on Nepali, in which Malati excelled.

Before they left, Malati touched Ramchandra's feet and said, “I need my guru's blessings.” Ramchandra helped her up, kissed her on the forehead. Malati had said that she would go alone to the testing site in Patan, but Goma wouldn't hear of it. At least on the first day, she should be accompanied. Goma looked questioningly at Ramchandra, who agreed to take her.

They caught a crowded bus in Ratnapark, and it lurched toward its destination. The bus was filled with other S.L.C. candidates, all nervously talking about the exams. Malati, too, talked to some of them, and Ramchandra recalled his own S.L.C. days, when he'd stay up late at night, studying by candlelight because they couldn't afford to use the electricity too long. Sometimes his mother would get up and coax him to go to sleep, or she'd make him some tea. The nervous excitement of the exams, he and his friends testing one another's knowledge before the exam, then quizzing each other afterward to see which answers were correct—Ramchandra recalled it vividly.

They got off in Pulchowk and walked toward a high school near a dirty pond. Malati chatted with her newfound friends while they walked, and when they reached the gate, she turned to Ramchandra and smiled. “You can go now. You have to go to school.”

He put his hand on her head to bless her and walked away. This is it, he thought. All these months of work, and in ten days, it will be over. He felt as if he were already losing her.

When she came home later that morning, Malati said, with a laugh, “It was so easy.” He congratulated her, and then reminded her that for her math exam, to be given in three days, they needed to go over some of the main points. This was especially necessary in algebra, where she was most weak. “It might confuse me more,” she responded. “I think I'm fine now.”

Although he wanted to tell her that he didn't share her confidence, he was afraid to rattle her, so he kept quiet.

That evening, as they were eating dinner, they heard quiet footsteps on the stairs. Panic covered Malati's face, and Goma quickly got to her feet and went to the door. “It's only Nalini,” she called. Goma invited her sister to dinner, but she declined, saying she'd already eaten. She glanced at Malati and said to Goma, “No phone call, no visit. Have you forgotten about us completely?”

“Well, after Mother's visit, I didn't know what to think.”

“I don't know what's happening, Goma Didi. What's going on in this house?”

“Whatever is happening, it's better for everyone.”

“It's hard to live with all the rumors. People are mocking us.”

Goma took Nalini to the children's room while the others ate. Malati finished her dinner and helped Rakesh wash his hands and mouth. When she began to do the dishes, Sanu helped her. “Don't you need to study for tomorrow's exam?” Ramchandra asked Malati. He told her to let Sanu finish the dishes, but she continued, saying she'd be done soon.

Goma and Nalini appeared, and Nalini quietly left the house.

“What did you say to her?” Ramchandra asked.

“She was upset, but I explained everything.”

Ramchandra didn't ask her what “everything” was.

That night, while Malati studied for her second exam, which was on English, Ramchandra listened to the BBC on the radio. The news was mostly about the threat of the uprising. It was said that those in power were preparing to crack down on any sign of rebellion. Occasionally Malati would ask him a question: Was this a proper grammatical construction? Was this the correct interpretation of the passage? And he would try to answer as best he could. He'd seen her writing in English, and knew she'd pass that exam.

All this while, he could hear the faint murmur of Goma's voice. She must have been talking to Sanu, for Rakesh had gone to sleep right after dinner. Her voice was a steady hum, rising or lowering in intonation. A question? An answer? He could imagine the attentive expression on Sanu's face, the faint knot that formed between her eyebrows as she processed what the world presented to her. She was no fool. She knew how to think for herself. Even as a baby, she had been quick, her sharp black eyes judging and comprehending her world instantly, much to the amazement of those around her, especially the Pandeys, who had once commented that baby girls usually weren't as smart as baby boys. Ramchandra recalled the day she was born, the anxiety he'd felt, waiting for the nurse to come from the delivery room at the Prasuti Griha—heightened by the maddening chatter of Mrs. Pandey, who was sitting beside him on the rickety bench. He'd felt like shouting at her, but after the nurse summoned him into the room where Goma lay, and handed him little Sanu, he'd looked into those piercing eyes, and his entire body was filled with feathery lightness. He'd cooed to his new daughter, held her for a long time, comparing her features to Goma's and coming to the conclusion that she resembled him more than she did her mother, especially with that pointed nose.

These memories made Ramchandra want to see Sanu right now, and, telling Malati that he'd be back soon, he left the bedroom, shut the door, and knocked lightly on the children's door. The murmuring stopped. “Come in,” Goma said. Ramchandra opened the door and stood there. “Why aren't you sleeping?” he whispered.

“We're talking about old times.”

He entered and sat on the floor with them. “What old times?”

“When Sanu was younger. How you two used to romp around the room, how you'd make faces at her and she'd start laughing aloud.”

“I too was thinking about the past. That's why I came here.”

Sanu was watching him intently, but when their eyes met, she looked away, as if embarrassed. After a while she said, “Ba, do you remember when you brought me my first painting kit?”

Ramchandra remembered. He'd been impressed by the little drawings Sanu made when she was in second grade, the confident lines, the attention to detail. Once, she'd drawn a postman, with a large head, and a bag that had
POST OFFICE
written on it. He'd taken it to the school where he was teaching and shown it proudly to his colleagues. And that afternoon, he'd gone to the market and bought an expensive painting kit, made in Hong Kong. “It's the best in the market,” the shopkeeper said. “All the foreigners buy it for their children.” Goma had scolded him for spending so much money, nearly thirty rupees, for what she'd called a luxury, and he'd said, “My daughter is an artist. Don't stand in her way.”

“Where is it now?” Ramchandra asked.

“It's still here,” Goma said, “in that cupboard.”

“You were such a good painter.”

“I never showed one painting I made, though,” Sanu said.

“Why didn't you?”

“I didn't think it was good.”

“Impossible. I don't believe it.” She'd stopped painting when she went on to fourth grade, and he'd been disappointed. He'd encouraged her to continue, but she'd concentrated on reading, and since that too was “an intellectual endeavor,” as he'd told Goma, he'd been pleased.

“Do you want to see it?” Sanu asked.

“You saved it?”

“Somehow, it was the only painting I saved.”

She got up, rummaged in the cupboard, and pulled out a large sheet of paper, the corners curling, and handed it to Ramchandra. The drawing was of a large mansion, and the caption, at the bottom, read
PANDEY PALACE.
The two people standing above the house were labeled Grandfather and Grandmother. Their faces were clearly unhappy; drooping curves were drawn as their lips. Above Grandfather's head she'd written, “The Guru of Money.” Alongside the mansion was a smaller house, with broken windows (Sanu had neatly cut the windows in half, with jagged lines showing their panes), and a door that seemed to hang on the hinges. Underneath was written “The Acharya Hut.” The four people above the hut, who reflected her own family, had smiling faces, and above Ramchandra's head was written, “The Guru of Love.”

Ramchandra laughed, and so did Goma. “This is very good,” he said. “When did you draw this?”

“When she was about nine,” Goma said.

“So you knew about this?”

Goma nodded. “At first I was angry, but then I thought it was funny.”

Their talking had awakened Rakesh, who looked at them with sleepy eyes.

“Why didn't you show it to me?” Ramchandra asked Sanu.

“I don't know.”

“It's fitting, don't you think?” Goma asked. “The Guru of Love.”

Ramchandra said nothing but reached out and hugged his daughter. Then, embarrassed, he said, “Okay, okay. Do you want to listen to that story I never finished?”

Both children nodded.

“Do you remember where we left off?”

“On the day of the wedding, something surprising happened,” Rakesh said.

“At the very moment the merchant was about to put the garland around the girl's neck,” said Ramchandra, taking care not the mention the girl's name, “a loud voice was heard from the entrance of the tent. Everyone looked, and there was a young man on a horse, his back straight, dressed in very fine clothes. The man came into the tent with his horse and said, ‘This marriage cannot take place.'

“People began to whisper, and the merchant said, ‘And who are you to stop it?'

“‘I am her father,' the man said, pointing toward the girl.

“Everyone gasped. The merchant signaled to his cronies to take the man away, but when they stepped up, the man got off his horse and drew his sword, which was nearly as big as he was, and with such a shine on its blade that people had to shield their eyes. The cronies became afraid, and the man said, ‘Take everything and leave! If I see any of you again, I'll chop off your heads.' The cronies ran away, and the merchant, mumbling obscenities, also took off.

“The girl looked at the man and said, ‘Father?'

“The man laughed. ‘No, I was just trying to show some authority. I am a prince from far away. I have come to marry you.'”

Sanu groaned. “That sounds unbelievable.”

“It's a story,” Ramchandra said. “Stories are supposed to be unbelievable.”

“What happened next?” Rakesh asked.

“What do you think happened?”

“They married and lived happily ever after?”

“Of course they did. Even the mother was happy, because now she was the mother-in-law of a prince instead of a merchant.”

“Idiotic story,” Sanu said, and they all laughed.

Ramchandra wanted to stay in the room, in the glow of their laughing faces. But Malati was probably wondering why he was gone for so long. He got up and from the doorway asked, “It was a fun story, wasn't it?”

The children nodded and became solemn, and he went next door.

“What was all that about?” Malati asked.

“Nothing. I wanted to talk to them.”

She left her books and joined him in bed. “I couldn't concentrate.”

“Why?”

“I thought maybe you were talking about me.”

“We weren't talking about you.”

“So, what did you talk about?”

“Nothing. Just this and that.”

“You don't want to tell me.” She turned her face away.

“It was nothing, really. Sanu showed me something she'd painted a long time ago.”

“I thought I heard laughter.”

“I told them a funny story.”

She sulked for a while, then said, “I wonder how Malekha Didi is doing these days.”

“Do you want to visit her?”

“After what she did to me?”

“She must at least miss Rachana.”

“I'm sure she does, but it serves her right. Crazy woman.” Then she said, “When the exams are over, can you and I go to the Manakamana Temple?” The Manakamana Temple was at least a two-day trip, with a hike up steep hills that took hours. The temple was located between Kathmandu and Pokhara, and the goddess, as her name reflected, was considered powerful in granting people's wishes.

“Maybe we can plan for all of us to go,” he said.

“But I want it to be just the two of us.”

“The others might feel hurt.”

“I already talked to bhauju. She said it would be easier if just the two of us went.”

Ramchandra knew that if the children heard about it, they'd certainly want to go. The last time they'd been there, about three years ago, Rakesh had thoroughly enjoyed the trip. He'd climbed up the hills tirelessly, coaxing others to climb faster.

“We'll talk about this once the exams are over, okay? As it is, things in this country look dangerous right now.”