The Guru of Love (11 page)

“What's on your mind?” Goma asked.

“Nothing's on my mind. Why?”

“You've been very distracted these days. I keep feeling you're not telling me something.”

“There's nothing,” he said. “I'm tired.” He rolled over the other way and closed his eyes.

“Shall I give you a massage?” she asked softly, and, just to keep her from questioning him, he nodded.

She started on his lower back. Her hands were warm; they felt surprisingly good. He imagined them to be Malati's hands, and his pleasure intensified. He turned over again, and, his eyes still closed, reached for her breasts. Goma laughed softly. “What are you doing? I thought you were tired.”

He lifted her gown and pulled down her underwear. It had been quite some time since they had allowed themselves this.

His penis was hard, and as he entered her, he shut his eyes. Malati floated enticingly into his mind, but he pushed her away and focused on one of his fantasy scenes: a park, with radiant flowers, daisies and hibiscus and camellias and rhododendrons, frogs croaking, a colorful parrot perched on a branch, the sky blue, like a crystal lake. As his mind became brighter, he opened his eyes and looked at Goma, who was now moaning.

F
ROM WHERE THEY STOOD
, on an elevation on the opposite side of the river, they could clearly see the stone steps that led up from the ghat to the Pashupatinath Temple. Devotees moved up and down the stairs, some descending to the bank to dip their bodies in the holy Bagmati River; others climbing to enter the temple, and perhaps the main shrine, of which only the upper tier and the shining gold pagoda were visible to Ramchandra and Malati. The gazebo inside the temple complex that overlooked the river, usually crowded with chanting devotees and a harmonium player, was deserted today, except for a man, perhaps a laborer, taking a nap. Occasionally one of numerous bells around the temple sounded—a devotee waking a god for a blessing.

On the bank of the river below them, a woman was washing clothes, the soapsuds drifting south, past the bridge. The river was filthy, its color resembling sewage water; the deep black must contain some desperate sin, Ramchandra was sure, even though the river was revered as the sustainer of life. Still, a naked boy of about twelve was taking a bath, pinching his nose and immersing himself in the muck, then coming out with a whoop. Against the wall of the ghat sat a sadhu, on this cold day dressed in only a loincloth. His body was smeared with ash—all signs of the ascetic life he'd devoted to Lord Shiva. He held a small chillum in his hands, and occasionally inhaled from it, blowing the hashish smoke into the morning air, his eyes on the boy.

“It must be difficult to abandon everything in order to live as an ascetic,” Malati said. Today she wore a blue sari; it made her look serene, pure. “No family, no home,” she said. “Don't know where you're going to be next month.”

“There's a certain charm to it, don't you think? Imagine the freedom you'd have.”

They were standing, their bodies touching, and now she moved back and sat down on a stone platform. He joined her and took her hand. “How's Rachana?”

“She's with Malekha Didi.”

“She's such a lovely baby,” he said, although he'd caught only a glimpse of Malati's daughter, that day when he first went to her house.

“All babies are lovely,” she said distractedly, then looked at him and said, sharply, “I don't know what I'm doing here with you.”

Earlier that morning, when they'd finished the tutoring session, she had readily agreed to meet him at the temple. After she'd left, he'd gone downstairs to the shop and called the school, telling Bandana Miss that he didn't feel well and wouldn't be able to come. “A little sickness should not prevent you from teaching,” she'd said. “How am I going to find a substitute on such short notice?” Ramchandra had coughed viciously, said he was burning with fever, and hung up. Then, after his morning meal, he'd left the house as if he were going to the school. He didn't know what Malati would tell her stepmother, whether she had to lie to her at all, what her stepmother would think of her meeting her tutor like this. But she'd been happy to be with him and had talked to him gaily, until now, when her mood shifted. A tension line on her forehead was clearly visible. Perhaps she was a moody girl, he thought, like the monsoon sky, clear one moment and the next filled with dark clouds.

He had no answer for her, so he reached out and touched her face.

She drew away. “Someone will see, sir.”

“Let them see,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “What difference does it make?”

“It makes all the difference,” she said. “Goma bhauju will learn about this. Everything will fall apart.”

He was annoyed. “Then why did you agree to meet me?”

“I wanted to see you.” She inspected her fingernails.

“You'd have seen me tomorrow morning, during the session.”

“What about you? Why did you ask me to meet you here?” she asked in a challenging tone.

“I wanted to see you in the open air, in the sunlight.”

“Why?”

“So that I could get a different perspective, see your face clearly.”

Her challenge dissolved, and she probed his face with her large eyes. “Do you like what you see?”

He touched her lips.

“Sir.” This time she didn't turn away.

He kissed her, grinding his lips into hers, hard, and she said, “Let's go someplace else. Everyone will see us here.”

They wandered through the woods behind them and finally found shelter in a ruined, abandoned temple. Inside, it was nearly dark; a stone statue of Lord Ganesh lay in the corner, the lower half of its elephant trunk broken. Someone had painted a red mustache above the statue's upper lip so that it looked like a warrior with a broken nose. Cobwebs hung from the corners, and the floor was dusty. Ramchandra wrapped his hand around Malati's waist and pulled her toward him. This time she responded. She ground her groin against him, and he felt himself rise. They explored each other's mouths, and he squeezed her breasts. She began to moan. He lowered her to the floor—and at once, both of them sneezed from the dust. They laughed. His lips against hers, he fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. She stroked the back of his head.

He felt a tug at his trousers and thought it was her hand, but then he turned and saw a large monkey. It was an arm's length away, watching them. Ramchandra waved a hand to shoo away the monkey, but it blinked once and kept gazing, its eyes watery, as if the creature were saddened by the sight of the two. Malati let out a cry. Ramchandra heaved himself up from the floor and was looking for something to throw at the monkey when two more monkeys entered the temple. All three sat on their haunches and observed Ramchandra and Malati. “Do something,” Malati cried, and Ramchandra, scanning the floor, saw the broken elephant trunk lying beside the statue. He picked it up and hurled it at the animals, who merely ducked their heads. A few more monkeys now stood at the entrance of the temple.

“Hurry!” Ramchandra told Malati. “Let's go.” But Malati was frozen on the floor. One of the monkeys approached her and, grabbing the end of her sari, tugged at it, and it began to unwind. Another monkey joined the effort, and soon there was a tug of war between the monkeys and Malati. Malati was screaming, pulling the edges of her sari, while the monkeys, chattering, tugged with great vigor. Ramchandra threatened and shouted, but the monkeys at the entrance had sidled toward him, some of them baring their teeth. Then, incredibly, in one swift motion Malati's sari was in a large monkey's hand, part of it covering its body so that it looked as if it was the one wearing the blue sari. It ran out the entrance, the sari trailing behind. Malati, in her petticoat and her blouse, feebly tried to cover her chest with her hands, while she whimpered and the tears streamed down her face. And then, as if it had all been a big show, the monkeys left the temple, one by one.

Ramchandra went to Malati and put his hand on her shoulder. She jerked it away, and buried her face in her knees. Scratch marks covered her legs, and her hair was disheveled. Ramchandra stood there, helpless, afraid to touch her again. But he had an idea. “Stay right here,” he said. “I'll be back soon.”

“I don't want to be here alone,” she said in a muffled voice.

“I'll only be a few minutes.”

He walked out and headed toward the main Temple of Pashupatinath, wondering whether the gods had sent the monkeys as punishment for what he was doing. After he crossed the small bridge, he found a shop that displayed saris and, cursing himself over and over, bought a cotton dhoti for seventy rupees. It was a cheap-looking bright red dhoti, the kind village women wore when they came to the city to sing and dance and fast for the festival of Teej.

When he returned, Malati was in the same position. She took the sari silently, and as she put it on, he turned away. They walked out of the temple, down the steps toward Guheswori, and when she told him she wanted to walk home alone, he didn't object.

 

It was only eleven o'clock, and Ramchandra wondered whether he should go to the school to teach some classes. Bandana Miss might be partly appeased. If he hurried, he could get there during the lunch break and teach his three remaining classes. But the prospect of standing in front of the classroom and solving mathematical problems on the board depressed him. His mind whirled with images of Malati, crouching on the floor in her petticoat and bra, monkey scratches on her thighs, and her face contorted in terror as the monkeys unrobed her.

Ramchandra headed toward the city. If he went home, Goma would ask why he'd left school early. He walked past Jai Nepal, where a movie with Amitabh Bachchan was playing. The façade of the building was adorned with a giant poster of the current feature, showing the actor with a red bandana around his head. He looked angry, with glaring eyes and a defiant stance. In the background was the figure of a dancing woman, the heroine, lifting her buxom chest in the air. Ramchandra had seen one of Amitabh Bachchan's films, one in which he played a mild-mannered friend to another film star who was very popular at that time. But now the same actor had become famous as “an angry young man,” and youngsters in Kathmandu tied red bandanas around their heads and scowled at one another in the street.

Ramchandra hadn't been to a movie theater for several years. Before the children were born, he and Goma used to go every six months or so, even though they'd had to count their rupees carefully. Goma would dress in her best sari, and Ramchandra would wear his daura suruwal and would oil and comb his hair. Before they entered the dim auditorium, Ramchandra would offer to buy some fritters, but Goma always refused, saying, “Why eat this trash when I can cook better food for you at home?'' Ramchandra didn't remember the movies as much as he remembered their shoulders touching in the dark. A couple of times Ramchandra had put his hand on Goma's thigh, tickled by the thought the others around him couldn't see what he was doing, and she, embarrassed, had immediately pushed his hand away. But he had been persistent, and eventually she didn't object. He even suspected that she was smiling at his touch. He could barely concentrate on the screen, and by the time the movie finished, he would have an erection. Once they reached home, she'd head to the kitchen to make tea, but he'd hold her and guide her toward the bedroom.

For a moment Ramchandra was engrossed in these memories, until he realized he had an idiotic grin on his face. He immediately straightened himself up.

Outside the gate of the Royal Palace, he stopped to observe the guard, who stood perfectly still with a rifle on his shoulder. Ramchandra couldn't imagine standing like that for hours—it must take endless stamina. What did the man think about as he stood there? His face was expressionless; his eyes stared blankly at the street in front of him. Did he think of his wife in the village? Was he even married? Did he have a girl somewhere he was hoping to marry, or would he allow his parents to negotiate his marriage for him, as Ramchandra had done? Or was he fearful that, with all the political demonstrations going on, an agitated crowd might knock him down and storm the palace? As if the soldier could read Ramchandra's thoughts, he said, sharply, “What are you staring at? Move on!” Ramchandra wanted to say, “Brother, is this job hard?” The man was once again looking forward, but out of the corner of his mouth he muttered, “Move on, I said.” Someone shouted from inside the small guardhouse by the gate, “Eh, who is it? Who are you talking to?”

Ramchandra walked away and crossed the street toward Durbar Marg, with its rows of hotels and fancy restaurants. He stopped outside the bakery of the Annapurna Hotel, and looked at the cakes and pastries on display. He'd always wondered how much these cakes cost. Sometimes he'd had the urge to walk in and buy something for Sanu and Rakesh, especially Rakesh, who had a sweet tooth, but he knew the price of one of those cakes would probably buy him a two-week supply of rice. Adjoining the bakery was one of the hotel's restaurants, with clear glass windows that allowed the pedestrians to see who was eating what inside. He noticed some Indian families at the tables, and a few white foreigners, one of whom smiled at him and waved. Ramchandra, feeling self-conscious, walked on.

Just as he reached the Ghantaghar clock tower, it began to ring. It was noon, and he had at least another two hours before he could go home without arousing Goma's curiosity. Opposite the tower was Tri Chandra College, and, on impulse, Ramchandra walked through the gate. Students sat on the lawn in small clusters, enjoying the late autumn sun. Their voices were loud, boisterous, and Ramchandra remembered his own college days: the gaiety, the sound of his friends' laughter, the mental clarity he had when he woke in the morning, the way the afternoon expanded before him, the deep, smiling world of sleep that he fell into at night. And now? What was happening to him now? He tried to see himself through the eyes of his in-laws, and what he saw was a small man among rich, powerful men, a man who was worthless unless he continually moved toward better jobs and bigger houses.