The Guru of Love (7 page)

“What was wrong with it?”

“It was too tight in the chest. And you know, she is getting bigger.”

“She has a mind of her own.”

“Too much mind of her own will make life difficult for her. She has to get married one day.”

Ramchandra thought of Malati, who had brought a child into this world at such an early age, and he knew Goma was right. These days even girls from good families got themselves into trouble. “She'll be fine,” he told Goma. “She is doing well at school. She likes to study. Says she wants to be a doctor.”

“That's good.”

He asked her what Mrs. Pandey had whispered into her ear that evening.

“Oh, nothing.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Am I such an outsider that you can't tell me?”

“Mother was talking about a girl from Chitwan. Her parents are very poor, and they want her to work as a servant here in the city. My sister can arrange to bring her here.”

“We can't afford a servant.”

“I know we can't afford one, but lately I've been very tired. All the cooking, the children...”

Their lack of a servant was another of the in-laws' issues. “My daughter is slaving away in your house, son-in-law,” Goma's mother had remarked a few times. “How about someone just to help with the cooking and the laundry?” They'd even offered to send their own servant to help, but Ramchandra had refused. Now he wondered whether Goma had talked to her mother again about this. He studied her face. She did look tired, but, then, she usually looked this way after a visit from her parents.

“How much do they want?”

“I can negotiate for a hundred rupees a month. And she can wear Sanu's old clothes. She's only eleven years old.”

“Let's think about this carefully,” he said. “If we hire someone, that means even less money in savings. As it is, with Dashain this month we won't be able to set anything aside.” He was about to ask why she had offered them sweets this evening, but he remembered the money he'd spent that morning, and kept quiet.

As he was about to fall asleep, he thought again of Malati, and for a brief moment, he entertained the notion of employing her as a servant. That way, she would get out of her stepmother's clutches, and he could tutor her more. But on second thought, the idea seemed ridiculous. Malati would probably balk at the idea of working as a servant in anyone's house, and, in fact, the idea made him uneasy; it was as if he were contemplating bringing home a second wife. He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on one of his beautiful vistas. This time he was on a mountain peak; the sun was rising, and snow glittered on the slopes all around. The sun cast an orange hue over everything.

W
HEN RAMCHANDRA WENT
to the latrine in the courtyard the next morning, with a pitcher of water and a towel, he found it occupied. Mr. Sharma was inside, judging from the grunts and groans emanating from behind the closed wooden door. He was a small man with a goatee. His wife had died a few years earlier, and he now spent most of his time reading religious tracts. Ramchandra glanced at his watch. He had woken up half an hour late this morning. He usually liked to get up by six so that he could have some time in the latrine before the other occupants of the courtyard came down. On numerous occasions Ramchandra had talked to the landlord about constructing bathrooms inside the houses, but the landlord had told him the rent would then go up by a hundred rupees. That silenced Ramchandra.

One time, when Sanu was in the latrine, some of the neighborhood boys had pried open the latch and teased her while she tried to cover herself. She had cried the whole day, and Ramchandra had walked the streets, with a belt in hand, searching for the boys. He didn't find them, but he quarreled with the parents of one, and then went straight to the landlord, who lived two houses down the street. The landlord had dismissed his complaint, saying that the problem was with the latch, not the latrine, and he'd promised to install a sturdy latch that couldn't be opened from the outside. It had taken him a whole month to do that, and until it was installed, Ramchandra stood guard outside, with Rakesh beside him, every time Sanu needed the latrine. The structure was old and had tiny holes in the roof, so when it rained hard, water dripped on the occupant's head.

Mr. Sharma emerged after a full twenty minutes. “Oh, didn't know you were here, Ramchandra-ji. Would have come out earlier.”

“That's all right,” Ramchandra said and went in, with his pitcher. The stench was unbearable, and Ramchandra had to leave instantly. Resisting the urge to pinch his nose, he said, “Needs some air.”

After a couple of minutes, Ramchandra entered again, and when he came out, Mr. Sharma had already started his bath at the tap. The city water flowed in abundance in this neighborhood, even though it was scarce in most parts of the city. Sometimes women from the neighborhood came to the courtyard to fill their gagros, because their own taps were dry. This had led to confrontations, the residents claiming that if the women used the tap too frequently, it would soon run dry, and the women asserting that decency demanded the insiders to grant their neighbors access to this water, which, in its ethereal form, belonged to no one. The shouts and screams and back-and-forth accusations had annoyed Ramchandra, and he finally came up with a compromise. He and his fellow residents would allow in two neighborhood families every day, and it was up to them to make the arrangements. So far, this had worked pretty well.

No one had yet come this morning, but they would soon, and Ramchandra wanted to finish bathing before the courtyard became crowded.

“That student of yours, how old is she?” Mr. Sharma said, applying soap to his armpits. “Twenty? Twenty-one? She's pretty.”

Ramchandra was pouring water over his back, and it took him a moment to realize that Mr. Sharma was talking about Malati. “I don't notice such things, Sharma-ji,” Ramchandra said. “Perhaps for a widower like you, they are important. For me, what's important is that I earn some income, and that the students pass the S.L.C.”

Mr. Sharma laughed. “I was just making conversation, Ramchandra-ji. She is attractive. Only an observation.”

Ramchandra grabbed his towel and said, “It must be hard for you, eh, Sharma-ji? All these years without your life partner.” He started rubbing his back vigorously so that the heat from the friction would ward off the cold. He couldn't keep his teeth from chattering, whereas Mr. Sharma, whose head had just emerged from under the tap, seemed unaffected by the cold. Mr. Sharma said, “It's not hard at all. It's all a matter of willpower. Self-control. It's a question of bringing your mind to focus on something and exerting all your energy to bear upon it.” He went on to recite some lines from the Vedas to illustrate his point, and Ramchandra's mind wandered toward Malati. He imagined her in the small chicken-feathered house in Tangal, in that cramped kitchen, frying potatoes while holding the baby in her arm, the baby's nostrils running with mucus, Malati's stepmother on the floor, sifting a pile of rice through her fingers to filter out pebbles and then tossing the pebbles behind her, to be swept up later.

With his towel, Ramchandra rubbed his belly and his crotch, and looked at Mr. Sharma, who, having realized that he'd lost his audience, was humming a song. The sacred thread he wore around his chest, a sign of his orthodox Brahminism, was shriveled, and Ramchandra couldn't help noticing, as he did every morning, the bulge in Mr. Sharma's underwear, unfazed by the cold it had just endured.

“To tell you the truth, Ramchandra-ji,” Mr. Sharma said, his tone one of camaraderie and cunning, “sometimes it's hard. This life of celibacy.”

Ramchandra was in no mood to hear his neighbor's confessions.

Mr. Sharma looked up at the sky. “Ever since my wife died, it's been a struggle. Sometimes I think I'll go mad. If I were in your position, with pretty young girls sitting next to me every day, I don't know what I'd do.”

“Why don't you get married again?”

“That's not it,” Mr. Sharma said. “I don't want a new wife. My departed wife's memory would not allow me to have someone else permanently in the house. It's just that my body sometimes...'' And even the thought aroused him, for suddenly the bulge in his underwear stirred, and Ramchandra quickly excused himself and went upstairs.

Mr. Sharma had unsettled him, and he wondered whether it was a good idea for him to see Malati every day. But he'd already made the offer, and he'd even told Goma about it, told her that he felt sorry for the girl and had agreed to tutor her more for the same price. Goma hadn't questioned him. “Poor girl,” she'd said. “You're doing the right thing.”

Ramchandra combed his hair in the bedroom and went downstairs to the bicycle shop to call Ashok and ask him to come to his session an hour later from now on.

Ashok didn't like the idea, and Ramchandra said, “I'm trying to solve a problem here, Ashok. I hope you understand.”

“It's not that girl, is it, sir?” Ashok asked.

“What girl?”

“That girl you called monkey?”

“No, no.”

“Strange girl. Nice-looking, though.” Ashok was in one of his playful moods.

“So, is it okay?”

“Do I get a discount?”

“For what?”

“For doing you this favor?”

“No.”

Ramchandra went back up to his bedroom, and he and Goma sat on the bed and drank their morning tea. Sanu and Rakesh had gone downstairs to brush their teeth and bathe.

“What are you thinking?” Goma asked. “Your mind seems far away.”

Ramchandra looked at her sheepishly. “I was thinking about that girl. Looks as if she's had a hard life.” He told her about the baby.

Goma shook her head. “That's not good. A young girl, having a baby without a husband. She doesn't look that kind.”

“I don't think she is that kind.”

“Well, don't worry about her too much. Do what you can.”

 

Malati arrived for her tutoring session a short while after the children had left for school. She was wearing the same worn-out red kurta suruwal she'd worn the first time she came, but today she looked troubled.

“What's the matter?” Ramchandra asked as she sat down. “Is everything all right?”

She nodded and opened her textbook.

It was obvious that her mind was not on the math problems, because she chewed on her pencil and wrote slowly. When he explained the formula for compound interest, she didn't even nod with understanding; she merely kept her head lowered. After a while, Ramchandra gave her some problems to solve and left the room, saying he'd be back in a while. He went to the kitchen and drank some water. Goma had gone to the market to buy vegetables. Suddenly Ramchandra felt an urge for more tea, so he set the water to boil and looked out the window as he waited. Mr. Sharma was seated by his window, chanting, and his voice rang out clearly into the courtyard. Only after Ramchandra had poured milk and sugar into the boiling water did he realize that he should have made a glass for Malati, too. But, not wanting to wait for more water to boil, he poured himself the tea and was about to head back to the room when he saw Malati in the doorway.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Sir, I need to be excused today. I can't do the problems.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. I can't concentrate.”

“Here, I made some tea for you. Maybe this will help.”

She gave him a wan smile. “I've already had my tea.”

Nonetheless, he handed her the glass, which she took reluctantly. “Who's singing?”

He motioned her over to the window and pointed toward Mr. Sharma. Since the kitchen window was small, they had to stand close together to watch, and her shoulder touched his.

“What is he chanting?”

Ramchandra shrugged, his breath caught in his throat. He saw that her eyes had a faraway look, and creases marked her forehead. He put his arm around her and drew her close. “What's bothering you?”

She stiffened, only momentarily, and placed her head on his shoulder. “Nothing is bothering me,” she said in a small voice.

They stood like that for a while. He could smell the baby on her. He looked down at her face again, resting on his shoulder. The glass of tea was still in her hand, and her eyes were closed. He kissed the top of her head, then her forehead. He took the glass from her hand, placed it on the windowsill, and raised her face. Her eyes were still closed, but the creases on her forehead were gone. He kissed her lightly on the lips, and said, “Come, let's solve those problems.” She shook her head and said she couldn't. “Look at me,” he said. She opened her eyes. “You have to make yourself strong,” he told her.

“I'm tired,” she said.

“I'm tired, too. But I go on.”

“You have people who love you.”

“You have a daughter.”

She looked toward the window again. “His voice is good,” she said.

“Yes, he sings like this every morning.”

“I have to go.” She slipped out of his embrace and, as he followed her, walked to the bedroom. There, she picked up her books, smoothed her hair with her hand, and said, “I promise I will put my mind to it next time.”

“Everything will be all right. You will pass the S.L.C.”

He watched her go down the stairs and then went to the kitchen window so that he could see her leave the courtyard. Mr. Sharma briefly stopped his chanting to observe her.

Goma came home about fifteen minutes later and, noticing that Malati was gone, asked him what had happened. “She had a headache,” Ramchandra said.

Goma went to the kitchen to prepare the morning meal.

Ashok arrived soon afterward and sat down with Ramchandra. “So, are you still tutoring Malati?” he asked.

“Yes.”