Arresting God in Kathmandu (16 page)

Each time his mother showed him photographs of a prospective bride, he feigned interest for her sake. Some of the women were indeed beautiful and came from respectable families; some even came from quite well-to-do families. But none intrigued him. Finally, he said yes to the photograph of Shobha, despite the pockmarks on her face. The only reason he had picked her, he later understood, was the sight of her shy, timid eyes and soft chin; she didn’t appear the type to ask too much of anyone.

He often wondered why she had agreed to the marriage. Aditya himself was not an attractive man. He was short and thin, almost emaciated. He had a crooked nose—for which he had been taunted as a child—set off with thick eyebrows and cloudy eyes. He had always been conscious of being unattractive, and now he wondered whether this was the reason he found himself obsessed by, even envious of, the beautiful man with the long hair. But it was more than envy, Aditya knew. The man had surfaced because he had something to pass on to Aditya, something that had to do with how Aditya was living his life.

Aditya went to the National Dance House early the next morning to buy a ticket for another show, this time just for himself. The woman behind the counter was reading a cheap Hindi novel, and he had to tap twice on the counter to get her attention. She slowly removed her eyes from the book and looked at him.

“One for tonight,” he said, pushing twenty rupees across the counter.

“It’s twenty-five,” she said. “The price went up.”

He gave her the money and pocketed the ticket, but hesitated for a moment.

“What now?”

“What’s his name?” he blurted. “The one with the long hair?”

“All actors have long hair these days,” she said. “Which one?”

“Madan,” Aditya said, looking around to make sure no one heard him. A couple had entered the lobby.

“Oh, that one,” she said with a smile. “Can’t you read? Right there.” She pointed to a handwritten poster behind his back.

Nirmal Kumar. Aditya read the name slowly.

Just then some men came into the lobby through a side door marked
NO ENTRY,
arguing about some lighting problem during last night’s show. They threw him a glance and resumed their discussion. One of them lit a cigarette and went to talk with the woman behind the counter.

Making sure no one was watching him, Aditya opened the side door and found himself in a narrow, dimly lit corridor. He walked through and ended up backstage, facing a couple of doors. Makeup rooms, he imagined. At first he considered turning back, but when he saw no one in the area, he became curious. To his right was the stage, lit by a bright spotlight on the ceiling. As he went through a small side opening, the spotlight threw the shadow of the seats across the side walls, making them look like tall people appraising him, with his arms dangling awkwardly by his sides.

He paced the stage for a few moments. Then he lay down on the floor, propped up on one elbow, and gesturing with his hand. He whispered, trying not to laugh:

Could a flower survive without

its lover bee?

Would a moth want to live

without its killer light?

He stood up just as the door from the lobby opened, bringing in a shaft of light and a human figure. Aditya wanted to run and hide backstage, but that might have given the impression that he was stealing something. So he stayed where he was, in the middle of the stage, his hands in his pockets, and watched the figure approach.

It was the man with long hair. Today, his hair was untied and waved slightly as he walked. He came to a stop in front of the stage and looked at Aditya. “You’re the new actor? Where’s your script?” His voice was high and feminine.

“Script?” Aditya said.

The man stroked his nose and said, “They didn’t give you a script yet? Maybe that moron took it with him. Imagine, quitting right in the middle of our tour. And he wasn’t that good either. Where did they find you?”

Aditya jumped off the stage and stood in front of him. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“What are you sorry for?” Nirmal said. He leaned against the stage and lit a cigarette. “It’s not your fault they dragged you into this.” He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, then back at Aditya. “Go get a script from the so-called director,” Nirmal said. “He’s probably boozing it up in that bar across the street. I’ll show you what needs to be done.”

“I have to leave,” Aditya said, and quickly made his way up the aisle.

“Don’t worry,” the long-haired man shouted. “It’s an easy part.”

Aditya stood outside the theater, his heart pounding. For a moment, the sights and sounds around him became strangely lucid: the blaring horns, cries of vendors, pestering beggars, the unruly children and their concerned mothers, the movement of the cars, the sunlight flickering on Queen’s Pond a hundred yards away.

He walked home, unable to understand what was happening. Now he seriously considered what had occurred to him before: that he may have had some connection with the actor in a past life. Nothing else could explain his obsession, the incredible energy he felt in his body at this moment.

At home, he found his photo album and looked at the pictures of his childhood. Aditya was a timid-looking child, always holding the hand of either his father or his mother. His mother was a chubby, matronly woman. His father was tall and thin, with a heavy mustache and laughing eyes. Aditya scrutinized his father’s face, noting that he himself didn’t have his father’s strong chin and laughing manner.

Before the performance that evening, Aditya set out his best trousers and shirt.

“Where are you going?” Shobha asked.

“To visit some friends,” he said, ignoring her quizzical look.

He ironed the shirt and trousers while she watched him from the kitchen. Once dressed, he combed his hair in front of the bathroom mirror. Her face appeared behind him in the mirror. “Dinner?” she said. “Will you eat?”

“I’m not hungry right now,” he said. “You can go ahead and eat.

On the landing downstairs he saw the old lady, who immediately blocked his way and said, “Where to?”

“A friend’s house,” he said.

“Hmmmm,” she said but didn’t step aside. “When does your school start?”

“In about two weeks.”

He tried to move past her, but she wouldn’t budge. “You have too much free time on your hands,” she said.

Aditya glanced at his watch. The show was to start in ten minutes. “Old witch,” he muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” She looked him up and down. “Aditya, I’m telling you. Take that wife of yours out with you. Otherwise one day she’ll go crazy.”

“Get out of my way, Sharda-Ma.”

“You should be having a child, but here you are, gallivanting around town by yourself—”

“Old woman, will you get out of my way?”

Because he was late, he had to sit at the back of the theater. Right in front of him sat a man with a neck as thick as a bull’s. As the light dimmed, Aditya tilted his head to the side and heard a woman behind him mutter, “What is he? A camel?” When Nirmal came onstage, Aditya held his breath. Nirmal was beautiful, his eyes outlined in kohl, his lips reddened with lipstick.

As he started to sing, someone in the audience shouted, “Madan is a faggot,” eliciting both laughter and demands for quiet. Nirmal glanced in the direction of the voice and continued his song. The brief distraction didn’t affect the beauty of his singing, and, again, Aditya felt a stirring within him.

“Madan likes men,” the same voice rang out, this time louder, more menacing.

“Be quiet,” a woman shouted.

“Madan is a faggot.” This time there were two, three voices. The singing began to falter. “Madan is a faggot.”

The activities on the stage stopped. Nirmal glared in the direction of the noise.

Aditya stood up and, bumping past other people’s knees, made his way toward the voices, a slow anger filling him. The lights came on, and there was a collective groan from the audience. A couple of elderly men argued with the young men, who were now seated but laughing.

“What kind of behavior is this?” one of the old men said. Aditya recognized him as the man with the cane who had shouted at him when he’d rushed out of the theater with his wife.

“What’s the problem?” Aditya said, his heart pounding.

Sensing trouble, some people had started to leave.

“There’s no problem,” replied one of the young men, a tall lanky fellow with a hooked nose. “Who said there’s a problem?”

“What is the problem?” A rotund man wearing a tie approached.

“Who are you?” the young man asked.

“The manager,” the man said. More people hovered around the scene while many stood near the exit, watching. The harmonium player must have accidentally touched the keys; there was, for one brief moment, a soft wail.

The young men looked at each other in mock surprise. “What happened? Is there a problem? What’s the problem?”

“Please,” the manager said. “Let the show continue. If you don’t like the show, please leave.”

“Madan is a faggot!” one of the young men shouted.

Aditya looked at the stage, where Nirmal was whispering to another actor. Some people in the audience laughed.

“You,” Aditya said loudly to the young man, his voice shaking. “Come outside and settle this with me. You want to insult a great actor?” He had no idea where his bravery had come from. He had never in his life initiated a fight.

The three young men jumped up. “Why outside?” one said. “We’ll settle you right here.” He landed a solid blow on the side of Aditya’s neck, making him reel and fall on the lap of a woman who screamed and pushed him away. He landed on the floor, twisting his right knee, and was pummeled by blows and kicks. First, he felt sharp, suffocating pain in his abdomen, then an excruciating seizure in his throat, as if someone were ripping it open. “Motherfucker,” “pig,” “ass.” Words floated around him, disembodied voices that came from near and far at once. He could tell that some people were coming to his rescue, and the manager’s voice rang out, “These hoodlums!” For an instant his head cleared, and he saw pandemonium in the hall: people pushing and shoving one another to get out. One of the young men, his shirttail hanging out, was tussling with the manager. Someone aimed another kick at Aditya’s head, but this time he blocked it with his hands. His face was wet, but when he touched his lips and his nose, he couldn’t feel them. A black boot loomed above his face, and a stark, white light flashed in front of him. His nose bubbled.

When he came to, Nirmal was holding him. “It’s okay; don’t worry,” Nirmal said. A white object like a butterfly floated before Aditya’s face, and he realized that Nirmal was offering him a handkerchief. Clutching it, Aditya struggled to his feet. “Where are they?” he asked, the words coming out of him in a gurgle.

“They ran away.”

“We’d better take him to the hospital,” the manager said.

Aditya shook his head. His knee hurt, and his face felt as if it were being pressed by a bulldozer. He dabbed his nose with the handkerchief and said, “No need for the hospital. I’ll just go home.”

“In this state?” Nirmal said. “Why did you do that? You’re obviously not made for fights.”

Aditya laughed. “And you are?”

“I know karate,” Nirmal said.

Most of the audience had already left, but some people still milled around, talking in excited voices, analyzing the incident.

“What happened to the show?” Aditya said.

“It’s over,” Nirmal said. “Where do you live?”

“Paknajol.”

“I live in Samakhusi. Come, I’ll walk you home.” He paused. “In case those men are waiting for you outside.”

Nirmal arranged Aditya’s arm over his shoulders and led him out. He asked Aditya again whether he wanted to go to the hospital, and Aditya said no. “You are stubborn,” Nirmal said. They started toward Paknajol, Aditya limping and leaning on Nirmal. When they passed under a streetlight, Aditya noticed that Nirmal still wore his makeup. His hair was tied behind with a rubber band. “You’re a good actor,” Aditya told him.

Nirmal shrugged.

For a moment, Aditya couldn’t believe he was walking home with this man. Although his body hurt, he felt pleasure and relief.

As they neared his apartment, Aditya said, “I need a drink.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Then keep me company.”

Nirmal hesitated, then said, laughing, “Okay, but don’t get drunk in this state.”

They entered a small bar in Thamel. When the waiter brought Aditya a glass of the local whiskey, Aditya told Nirmal, “I feel as if I know you from somewhere else.”

“You saw me this morning,” Nirmal said with a wry smile. “I thought you were the substitute. And you didn’t correct me.”

“No, no,” Aditya said. “That’s not what I meant.” But he couldn’t explain it. What could he say? That he knew Nirmal from their past lives?

The whiskey made his cheeks warm, and he wanted to order another, but Nirmal said, with some authority, “Enough. You need rest.”

When they stepped outside, the sky grumbled and roared. Large drops of rain fell on their heads and clattered on the surrounding roofs. They ran, Aditya limping and holding on to Nirmal’s arm. The apartment was only two blocks away, so they stayed under the awnings of the shops, dashing in and out of the rain.

By the time they reached the apartment, both were soaked and laughing. Aditya asked Nirmal to come inside until the rain calmed down. “I’m already wet,” Nirmal said, but he followed Aditya upstairs.

When Shobha opened the door and saw Aditya’s condition, she gasped. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

Aditya placed his hand on her shoulder and said, “It’s no big deal. Look who’s come for a visit.” But Shobha ran to the bathroom, paying no attention to the actor. Aditya looked at Nirmal sheepishly. Shobha came back with a towel and a bottle of iodine, and forced Aditya to sit on the sofa. She dabbed the iodine on his face, making him wince. “You’ve been drinking,” she said.

“Not much,” Nirmal said. “Just a glass.”