Arresting God in Kathmandu (3 page)

At this, some of the men nodded and remarked, “Well said” and “That’s the truth.” Pitamber smiled with embarrassment and said, “I was only joking, Shambhu-da. After all, this is a time of festivities.”

“You don’t joke about such matters,” said Shambhu-da with unusual sharpness. “Why should you joke about this, anyway? What about the time you embezzled five lakh rupees from your office? Who rescued you then?”

The room became quiet. Shambhu-da himself looked surprised that he’d mentioned that incident.

Pitamber threw his cards on the floor and stood up. “What did I say, huh? What did I say? I didn’t say anything to you. Just because you’re older, does that mean you can say anything?” With his right hand, he gesticulated wildly; with his left, he rapidly stroked his beard. His voice grew louder. “What about you? Everyone knows you had that police inspector killed. We aren’t fools. How do you make all your money, donkey?”

The use of the word
donkey
prompted the other men to stand and try to restrain Pitamber, who seemed ready to froth at the mouth. “Enough, enough!” cried one woman.

Radhika came back. “What happened?”

A shadow covered Shambhu-da’s face, and he too got up. “What do you think, huh? What do you think? Say that again, you motherfucker; just say that again. I can buy people like you with my left hand.”

Radhika went over to Pramod and said, “See what you’ve started?”

Bitterly, he said, “You are a fool,” and walked out of the room.

He was engulfed by numbness; things disappeared in a haze. Words and phrases floated through his mind. He remembered stories of people jumping into the Ranipokhari Pond at the center of the city and being sucked under to their death. Could he do it?

Pramod walked the two miles to Asan and moved through the darkness of the staircase to the housemaid’s room.

She was pleased to see him.

“I’d like to lie down,” he told her.

“Shall I make you tea?”

He shook his head and sank onto her cot. It smelled of her sweat and hair oil. He felt like a patient, ready to be anesthetized so that his body could be torn apart.

“Are you all right?” She put her palm on his forehead.

He nodded and fell asleep. It was a short sleep, filled with jerky images that he forgot when he woke.

She was cooking rice. “You’ll eat here?”

For a while, he said nothing. Then he asked, “Aren’t you afraid your husband will come? Unannounced?”

She laughed, stirring the rice. “He’d catch us, wouldn’t he?”

“What would you do?”

“What would I do?”

“Yes. What would you say to him if he catches us?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I never think about it.”

“Why?”

“It’s not in my nature.” She took the rice pot off the stove and put on another, into which she poured clarified butter. She dipped some spinach into the burning ghee; it made a
swoosh,
and smoke rose in a gust. Pramod pulled out a cigarette and set it between his lips without lighting it.

“You know,” she said, “if this bothers you, you should go back to your wife.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“Sometimes you look worried. As if someone is waiting to catch you.”

“Really?” He leaned against the pillow. “Is it my face?”

“Your face, your body.” She stirred the spinach and sprinkled it with salt. “What will you do?”

“I’ll never find a job,” he said, sucking the unlit cigarette. He made an O with his lips and blew imaginary circles of smoke to the ceiling.

“No. I mean if my husband comes.”

He waved away the imaginary smoke. “I’ll kill him,” he said, then laughed.

She also laughed. “My husband is a big man. With big hands.”

“I’ll give him one karate kick” Pramod got up and kicked his right leg vaguely in her direction. Then he adopted some of the poses he had seen in kung-fu movies. “I will hit Pitamber on the chin like this.” He jabbed his fist hard against his palm. “I will kick Shambhu-da in the groin.” He lifted his leg high in the air. His legs and arms moved about, jabbing, punching, kicking, thrusting, flailing. He continued until he was tired, then sat down next to her, breathing hard, with an embarrassed smile.

“What good will it do,” she said, “to beat up the whole world?”

He raised a finger as if to say: Wait. But when his breathing became normal, he merely smiled, leaned over, and kissed her cheek “I think I should go now.”

“But I made dinner.”

“Radhika will be waiting,” he said.

It was already twilight when he left. The air had a fresh, tangible quality. He took a deep breath and walked into the marketplace, passing rows of meat shops and sweets vendors.

At the large temple complex of Hanuman Dhoka, he climbed the steps to the three-story temple dedicated to Lord Shiva. A few foreigners milled around, taking pictures. He sat down above the courtyard, which started emptying as the sky grew dark.

When he reached home, Radhika didn’t say anything. She silently placed a plate of rice, dal, and vegetables in front of him, and he ate with gusto, his fingers darting from one dish to another. When he asked for more, she said, “How come you have such an appetite?”

His mouth filled with food, he couldn’t respond. After dinner he went to the baby, who stared at him as if he were a stranger. He picked her up by the feet and raised his arms, so that her tiny, bald head was upside down above his face. The baby smiled. Rocking her, Pramod sang a popular song he’d heard on the radio: “The only thing I know how to do is chase after young girls, then put them in a wedding doli and take them home.”

When Radhika finished in the kitchen, she stood in the doorway, watching him sing to the baby. Without turning to her, he said, “Maybe we should start a shop. What do you think?”

Radhika looked at him suspiciously, then realized he was serious. Later, when they were in bed and he was about to turn off the light, he said, “Can you imagine me as a shopkeeper? Who would have thought of it?”

“I think you would make a very good shopkeeper,” Radhika assured him.

“I will have to grow a mustache.”

In the darkness, it occurred to him that perhaps he would be such a good shopkeeper that even if Kamalkanth did come to buy something, Pramod would be polite and say “Please” and “Thank you.” He smiled to himself. If Shambhu-da came, Pramod would talk loudly with other customers and pretend Shambhu-da was not there. And if the housemaid came, he would seat her on a stool, and perhaps Radhika would make tea for her.

This last thought appealed to him tremendously.

H
E WAS
a well-known poet in Nepal. During the rule of the Rana dictators, which lasted for one hundred and eight years, he had been their outspoken critic, lashing out at their cruelty, writing poems comparing the situation of him and his countrymen to that of a caged parrot, whose hunger is not for food but for freedom, whose only desire in the world is to fly away into the woods. The Ranas immediately banned the circulation of the poems and threw the poet in jail. When the revolution finally toppled their regime (it was a classic rebellion, led by the legal king, who had been treated by the Ranas like a eunuch, locked inside the palace and barred from even reading the news), the poet, generally known as Acharya, was regarded as a hero by the people. The king called him into the palace and awarded him several prestigious tides, including one given only to outstanding soldiers on the battlefield, although Acharya had never advocated physical violence. After the elections—as bitter quarrels erupted among the freedom fighters for high-ranking positions in the government, causing a general climate of corruption and ultimately a severe setback in the economy—Acharya was presented with an award given only to the nation’s foremost poets.

Acharya was not dazzled by his fame. His quest for truth far outweighed any desire for personal recognition. It amused and surprised him that people made a fuss about his poetry—some critics went so far as to call him “our Shakespeare”—for he loved poetry as an art, not as a means to achieve personal aggrandizement.

Now, at the age of sixty, Acharya lived with his wife and two children (his elder daughter was married and living in another part of the city) in a comfortable house in a quiet part of the city. Royalties from his anthologies and books of poetry, still used in classrooms throughout the country, brought him a decent income, and he spent his time reading, relaxing, and being guest of honor at various functions at schools and colleges. Over the years he had also been a mentor to those whom his friends recommended as serious young writers. Often he judged a poet not only by his writings, but also, after careful observation, by his character, maturity, and humility.

One young man who presented himself to Acharya made an immediate impression by the deep insights expressed in his poems and the masterly way in which they were shaped, with subtle echoes of the classical tradition, infused with a rigorous quality of modernity. After spending some time with the young poet in his study, however, Acharya became offended by his arrogance. The man kept pointing out the impressive manner in which he had employed certain images and his adroit handling of the language. Acharya, convinced that so large an ego is detrimental to the art of poetry, refused to take the young man under his wing, much to the dismay of the colleague who had recommended him. But Acharya was resolute: the poet does not make the poem; the poem makes the poet.

One winter morning, when the city was waking up, a young man, holding a recommendation letter, knocked on Acharya’s door. “I hope I’m not intruding, sir,” he said nervously, regarding the poet with reverence. “My name is Giri.” Acharya invited him to his study and did his best to make him feel welcome. Giri was a short, thin man, with a tuft of black hair hanging over his forehead. His face was delicate, with an aquiline nose that could only belong to a Brahmin, and his eyes were large, with long eyelashes. His face made Acharya think of men who live under the strong influence of their mothers.

After Acharya’s wife, Durga, brought in a tray with tea and biscuits, Acharya extended his hand and requested the young man’s portfolio.

It contained an epic, running nearly seventy pages, about a young man’s passion for his lover (nothing new there), but the poet had taken Lord Bhima, one of the five brothers of the Mahabharata, and turned the strongman into a jealous and passionate lover. In the poem, Lord Bhima was obsessed with Draupadi, the wife who had been bestowed on all five brothers. Lord Bhima’s wish to have Draupadi all to himself disrupted the harmony among the brothers, who, in the myth, were known for their loyalty to one another. Giri’s control of the verse was so flawless, his characters so believable (despite the ironic twist of the old text), that Acharya found himself transported back to the era of the Mahabharata, with its clanking armor and noble warriors, its beautiful demure women and royal gardens, thundering skies and the gods’ frequent interference in men’s affairs.

When, after a long time, Acharya lifted his eyes from the final page, Giri was looking up at the large oil painting of the past kings of the country.

“How long have you been a poet?” Acharya asked, clearing his throat.

Giri jumped as if he’d been caught stealing.

“That is my only work, sir,” he said. “About half a year.”

Surely he is lying, Acharya thought. Such precision of language comes after years of practice, only after the technique becomes second nature to the poet so that his pen can plumb the depths of meaning.

“You must read.”

“Occasionally, when I can take time from my college work.” Giri had a guilty look.

Acharya noticed the curtains moving softly in the wind. “You have potential.”

“Thank you, sir,” Giri said.

“We could work together,” Acharya said. They would meet every Saturday in his study, and Giri would present his work, which Acharya expected to be substantial.

Giri was obviously overwhelmed, for he kept saying, “Thank you, sir. You’re so kind, sir.”

After escorting Giri to the main entrance, Acharya went to his study and read the entire work again, this time with a critical eye. But the poem was almost flawless. For a brief moment, he was anxious. What could he teach this gifted man?

At the academy, Acharya could not stop talking about Giri’s epic, surprising his colleagues, who had rarely heard him speak such praise.

“He is a genius,” Acharya said in the canteen over a cup of lemon tea. He was startled by his own assertion.

“Then we should publish him,” said one of the men who supervised the printing press in the basement.

“No, no, no.” Acharya shook his head. “He needs time. One more year.” He looked around the table and saw his colleagues nodding solemnly, although Acharya knew they were more interested in promoting themselves than some young novice who had taken a fancy to poetry. Later, the conversation changed to politics, but Acharya found himself thinking of Giri’s poem, and he started humming an old song to himself, distractedly, like a man so overwhelmed by a new discovery that he cannot concentrate on anything else.

When Giri arrived the next Saturday, Acharya was playing with one of his grandchildren on the lawn, while his elder daughter, visiting for the weekend, watered the flowers. Durga sat in a white plastic chair, knitting. His son—who was about Giri’s age and was studying engineering—and the younger daughter had gone to the temple. The winter sun warmed Acharya’s back.

“Come in, come in,” Acharya shouted when he saw Giri standing hesitantly at the gate, as if afraid to break into this family scene. “Make yourself comfortable; don’t be shy,” Acharya said. “Consider yourself family.” He had never before offered such hospitality to a pupil, and he detected a note of awkwardness in his voice.

After the formalities were over and Acharya had read Giri’s new poems, he once again found himself transported—flying, weightless, over the crowded streets and alleys that these poems described. When he finished reading, Acharya could feel himself smiling. “This is good,” he said, trying to calm his excitement.