Arresting God in Kathmandu (23 page)

In the following months, Nani Memsaheb brought all sorts of men to the house. They were much older than she, almost my master’s age. There was the chief accountant of a travel agency, a thin man who said almost nothing. The next man was a kuirey journalist, a white foreigner with body odor, who spoke to Nani Memsaheb in English. There was a businessman, the owner of a fan-manufacturing company. There were others; I don’t remember all of them.

What I do remember is the big fight Nani Memsaheb had with her mother that took place the night the kuirey journalist came for dinner. As soon as Nani Memsaheb closed the door behind him, still smiling at something he had said, her mother grabbed her hand and led her into the living room, where, once again behind closed doors, they argued. This time, I heard them throw things at each other. Her mother called her a whore, and Nani Memsaheb retorted that her mother was the one who had made her that way.

“What’s the matter?” my master called out in his weak voice.

When they opened the door and came out, Nani Memsaheb’s mother was crying. The next morning, she packed her clothes and left in a taxi. Nani Memsaheb didn’t even say goodbye to her.

For a few days Nani Memsaheb stayed home, tending to my master. She took care of him with a diligence that made me optimistic. I thought that perhaps she wasn’t such a terrible person after all, and that the argument with her mother had made her realize the error of her ways. But soon she grew restless, and reverted to the routine of staying out late. She also started to drink. I was surprised when she came home one night, swaying on her feet. I asked whether she was all right, and she said, her tongue thick, “Of course I’m all right, Ramey. Why wouldn’t I be?” And she tripped on the staircase.

My master is in constant pain these days, and all that is left of him are gray skin and thinning bones. He can hardly get out of bed, and beside him on the night table are enough tablets, capsules, and syrups to make a healthy man ill. When he has to take care of his needs, he calls me, and I bring him a basin, which I then empty in the bathroom. Even though the stench is often overwhelming, I look at his face, the way pain has made his eyes pale and dull, and I don’t mind. He was a great man once, and he’s still a great man as far as I am concerned. As he used to say, the body is only a vehicle for the soul, and the soul has no physical form.

Right now as I stand in the kitchen waiting for my master or Nani Memsaheb to call me, all I can think of is how she shouted at me last night, and I am covered with anger and shame.

She came home late from the hotel, smelling of alcohol. I was about to serve her dinner when she drunkenly waved her hand and said, “No food, Ramey, no food.” She lingered at the door of my master’s room, her forehead resting against the wood frame, and after a while she staggered upstairs to her room.

I finished the dishes, turned off all the lights, and stood in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the night. Then I walked upstairs to make sure that her lights were off and her windows dosed. The house was very quiet, and as I headed down the hallway, the only sound was of a dog barking in the distance. Her door was ajar, and light filtered into the hall. I pushed open the door softly and walked inside. She was lying in bed in the black sari with red-flower patterns she’d worn that evening. Her breathing was heavy, and the end of the sari had slid down, exposing her navel and the rise and fall of her breasts. Even in sleep, the deep crease cut across her forehead, and her left eyelid was fluttering. I watched her for some time. Then I closed the windows and picked up the blanket folded at the end of her bed. I was about to drape it over her when a tightness in my throat and chest made my legs tremble. As I lowered the blanket over her breasts, she abruptly opened her eyes and said, “Ramey.” Her eyes moved to my hand, and she shouted, “You old pervert!” I swallowed and left the room.

Why was I overcome with that strange feeling? Why, at this age, did my legs shake at the sight of her navel? Since last night I have tried to calm my frantic thoughts by chanting Om, but my thoughts have a life of their own and refuse to obey me.

My master probably won’t live more than a few months. What will Nani Memsaheb do then? Will she wear a widow’s white dhoti, leave off her makeup, and devote her thoughts to her departed husband? Highly unlikely. What will happen to me? Will she continue to use my services? Or will she let me go? Thinking that far ahead worries me. I must keep my thoughts focused on the present: the cauliflower frying in the hot oil; the sound of our neighbors, a gambler husband and a rancorous wife, arguing; a child playing outside in the dark, mumbling about ghosts and demons; my hands, through years of washing and cooking, now veined, old, tired.

S
AMRAT
U
PADHYAY
is the author of
Arresting God in Kathmandu
, a Whiting Award winner,
The Royal Ghosts
, and
The Guru of Love
, a
New York Times
Notable Book and a
San Francisco Chronicle
Best Book of the Year. He has written for the
New York Times
and has appeared on BBC Radio and National Public Radio. Upadhyay directs the creative writing program at Indiana University.