Bhagwati was at her pious best on Lakshmi Puja. Although the goddess of wealth blessed her faithful devotee with abundant financial hardship in return, the oldest Neupaney’s fondness for the festival didn’t dwindle a bit.
There would be fireworks in Gangtok—rocket-shaped crackers, miniature atom bombs, and onion-like explosives—and there would be fireworks at home. Bhagwati only hoped that the inevitable accusatory conversation between the wronged grandmother and the erring grandson wouldn’t happen today. It was a relief not to be the biggest villain in the house for once, yes, but the spectacle could be postponed until Lakshmi Puja was over. The plate-throwing pandemonium yesterday was rough. Prasanti and Aamaa, two members of the same team, had split up unceremoniously. Ruthwa and Aamaa’s interaction today would result in more turmoil.
People worshipped cows today, but because the Neupaneys had no cows of their own, they would participate only in the evening ritual. They would invite the goddess of wealth into their lives as a family—the five-member family they were trying hard to become again. They’d light earthenware lamps and perch them on windowsills. Prasanti and Ruthwa, the unlikeliest of allies, had already decorated the doors and windows with marigold garlands. The worship space, which was a room in itself, needed a thorough cleaning. Prasanti’s slapdash mopping of the floor and sloppy wiping of the marble statues of various gods and goddesses wouldn’t do today, so Bhagwati set to work. All the while, she compared her altar in America to the one here. Her husband must have already tidied up their apartment in Boulder in the hopes that Lakshmi would finally include him in her altruism this year. When surrounded by gods and religious paraphernalia, any memory of Ram, even after all these years, was entwined with the cold, hard truth of his caste, so Bhagwati determined that Aamaa might not like her playing this active a role in the puja. She was, after all, not a Neupaney anymore. She would instruct Prasanti to do the cleaning while she stood watch. It was a fate Bhagwati was resigned to.
Prasanti was not in her room, but her personal altar, which contained spotlessly wiped diminutive statues of Ganesha, Shiva, and Lakshmi, was fragrant with incense. Curious whether the servant’s negligent cleaning efforts extended to her personal space, Bhagwati did a quick survey and was struck by the neatness of the room. The eunuch wasn’t unskilled. The sheet on Prasanti’s bed was fresher than the sheets on theirs. The floor had been swept and mopped. In the Godrej wardrobe, the clothes were neatly folded. Some were even ironed. In the trinket box was a stack of 500-rupee bills. Deeper in it were jewelry pieces—earrings, bangles, and a necklace.
If Prasanti and she were to compare their net worth, the eunuch definitely had more money. To be made aware of this wide gap in income between her and a servant on a day like today was cruel. Yet, Bhagwati’s faith in the goddess of wealth did not waver. She would pray even more fervently this year than she did previous years.
Ruthwa was puttering around the kitchen in pajamas and a torn T-shirt. They were his sleeping clothes, his house clothes, and his going-out clothes. Her brother did not believe in being impeccably turned out.
“Good morning,” Bhagwati said.
“Oh, hey, you’re up early.”
“So are you.”
“Is it so we can have our alone time like we did yesterday morning?”
“It’s my favorite day of the festival.”
“Yeah,” Ruthwa said, slathering Amul butter on a piece of bread. “Just thought I’d take a walk around town or go to some of the viewpoints.” He made a face before spitting the bread out into an overflowing trash can.
“This early?”
“Why not? I want to experience Gangtok’s beauty in the morning.”
“When will you be back?”
“Back for what?”
“It’s Lakshmi Puja. Please tell me you knew about it.”
“Oh, yeah, it is Lakshmi Puja,” Ruthwa said in a tone that suggested he could have been mocking her. “I’ll probably be back in the evening for the actual puja.”
“Wasn’t the purpose of your visit to make amends with Aamaa? Go talk to her in private.”
“Nah, I saw her at lunch yesterday. You don’t expect me to wait around all day so I can have a glimpse of the queen, do you?”
“Just saying. It’s Lakshmi Puja today. I hope there are no fights.”
“Like the one between mistress and servant yesterday?” Ruthwa laughed.
“Yes, it wasn’t pretty.”
“How nice it feels not to be at the center of these family feuds.”
“I feel exactly the same way. I am glad I’m not the cause of all these fights.”
“Now that Aamaa is running out of people to have fights with, she’s quickly crossing over to picking them with nonfamily members,” Ruthwa said.
“Prasanti is hardly nonfamily.” Bhagwati boiled water for coffee. “She’s probably more family to Aamaa than I am.”
“Or I am,” Ruthwa said.
“You’re a bully. Bullies are afraid of bullies. She’s scared of you.”
“So, I thought Aamaa didn’t want you in the kitchen. Are you allowed in?”
“I don’t know what the rules are. I have to admit I thought of cleaning the puja room but then stopped myself because I have no knowledge of the rules.”
“The one who married the outcaste touched the gods—what nerve,” Ruthwa said.
“It’s a shame. I just love Lakshmi Puja.”
“And the goddess has been so good to you.”
“She will be soon.”
“You need to let one of them help you. You probably won’t accept my financial support because I am, you know, Ruthwa. Not that I have very much.”
She wouldn’t talk about money today. “And I am, you know, Bhagwati—worse than you are. You simply portrayed Aamaa in an unflattering light, and very few people outside the family even know it was her life you wrote about. People who know us barely understood the book. They said all the big words drove them to the dictionary from page one itself.”
“The way you spoke to me yesterday—with all that talk asking me to stay away from Prasanti’s story—I’d have thought the book had a far bigger impact than that.”
“What I am trying to say is that in the pyramid of the unforgivable, I am higher than you are, and Aamaa talks to me, so she will talk to you, too. Just make an effort.”
Ruthwa made for the bathroom.
“See you later?” Bhagwati was hopeful.
“Yeah, if you’re lucky.”
All these years, when they were forced from one country to another and to another, from one home to the next, one camp to a different one, Bhagwati often wondered how happy her brothers and sister were.
When a person had been as poor as she had for as long as she had, it was easy to assume that all her siblings, who would never lack money, were far more content than she’d ever be. In addition, not one of them would have caste issues to contend with. Her formal education, which Bhagwati often used to demarcate herself from the rest at the camps, had ended at high school, its posh public nature notwithstanding. Her siblings had gone on to receive advanced degrees. While she, the oldest, preferred obscurity, the youngest had become a critically acclaimed writer. Bhagwati had always been sure that her siblings were all so much happier than she was.
Now, as she explored her home, the house from which she had run away, she realized she had been wrong. Manasa’s life showed in her face. Her sister, the satisfied one, the happy one, had become the exact antithesis of her adolescent self. Manasa had a marriage that was going wrong and a career that was stalled. What had she worked so hard throughout life for? What good was a 93.75% in her board exams? Did Manasa get an Oxford degree, the proof of which stood so proudly framed on the windowsill by the landing, to become a home-care aide to her father-in-law? With an arranged marriage to a Brahmin from a well-known family, Manasa had won the lottery. But lottery winners paid for their luck after the initial jubilation died down, and Manasa was doing just that.
Agastaya was a doctor—shouldn’t he have had the most fulfilled life of them all? Yet, he was so guarded, so cautious. Bhagwati admitted that adulthood made you cynical, but to be as mundane as Agastaya was to not live at all.
And Ruthwa? For all his appearances, here was a boy trapped in a man’s body. Was he happy? Bhagwati didn’t think so. He was trying hard, too hard, to live up to the image he had created for himself. Yes, with the scandal he had been through a lot, but it didn’t appear as though he regretted it. If anything, her brother was remorseless—how happy could an unrepentant person be?
She may have been a dishwasher—a fired one—but she now had little doubt that she was more content than her siblings. It had taken her this trip to realize that she had been an idiot to question her joyless life all along, to hold her siblings’ nonexistent happiness as a benchmark.
Feeling guilty that besides a hasty e-mail that she sent him soon after arriving in Delhi, she had had no interaction with her husband, Bhagwati called him from the landline. It wasn’t Lakshmi Puja in Boulder yet, but Ram would feel nice about being thought of when this rare moment of positivity gripped her.
“Is it time for the puja yet?” he asked her right after picking up.
“No, no, it’s just morning here. Another eleven or twelve hours left. I’ve just made a beautiful discovery. You, Mr. Self-Help, will be so pleased.”
“Okay, I’ll call you back right away”—because phone calls from America to India were so much cheaper than those from India to the United States.
“Happy Lakshmi Puja to you,” he said when she picked up after the first ring.
“And to you, and to Virochan and Aatish—how are they?”
“The same.” He laughed. “Want nothing to do with Lakshmi Puja.”
“Why aren’t you at work?” She was afraid he might have gotten fired again.
“I will be in another twenty minutes.”
“How’s it coming along?”
“Good—not as bad as the last one. By the way, how are you doing, money-wise?”
“This is Gangtok.” It was slightly odd that Ram should ask the question. “I haven’t set foot outside the house since I arrived, so I’ve spent no money.”
“Good,” he said.
Something was definitely amiss. “Wait, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, to be honest.”
“You’re a horrible liar,” Bhagwati said. “Tell me what’s up.”
“First tell me how much money you have in your Chase Bank account.”
“I think I have about a thousand dollars.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“But there’s a problem—about eight hundred and fifty there is Agastaya’s. Remember he purchased my ticket? He hasn’t cashed the check I sent him.”
The line went silent for a few heavy seconds. “May I ask you for a favor?”
Just what was going on? “Go ahead.”
“Can you ask Agastaya not to cash the check?”
Ram had always been adamant about not using her family’s money. For him to make this request was disconcerting. She said nothing.
“I feel horrible, but something has come up,” Ram said.
“Is it one of the kids?”
“No, no, they’re fine.”
“Then, what is it?”
“I was learning how to drive.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine, by the grace of God.”
“Did you finally get a learner’s permit?” Molly, their Christian friend at the International Organization for Migration, had told them time and again that they shouldn’t take driving lessons without a proper permit, which they could easily acquire by passing a written test. Both Bhagwati and Ram had been putting off taking the test all this while.
“I am sorry to say that Ravi Daai, of the second floor, and I took his car for a ride.”
“And you do not have a permit.” She knew the answer. “What happened?” she asked.
“It wasn’t anything major. I didn’t slow down enough when making a turn, so I ended up driving the car into a ditch. I am so sorry, Bhagwati.”
“Does Ravi Daai not have insurance?”
“He told me the premium would go up if he notified the insurance company. He has been kind enough to allow me to compensate him after you return.”
“He could’ve simply called the insurance company.”
“The repair center estimated the damages to be around eight hundred dollars.”
“Eight hundred dollars that we don’t have.”
“I am so sorry, Bhagwati.”
“I am, too. Excellent news on Lakshmi Puja.”
“I am not driving another car until I pass the driver’s test.”
“Good decision, Ram—too bad it’s already too late. I have to go.”
“Wait, what was the amazing discovery you made?”
It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how happy she had felt. Somehow, she wasn’t feeling chipper anymore.
•
Agastaya had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Bhagwati had three times asked him about seeing some girl—a pediatrician six years younger than he who had recently graduated from JIPMER, his alma mater. The third time, he had been impatient with his older sister, asking her to stop masquerading as Aamaa’s mouthpiece, an insinuation at which she appeared hurt. She didn’t deny the accusation, though, so he was sure that she and Aamaa were in cahoots to see him married off.
That, though, was only a small problem.
The bigger issue—again—was Nicky. For days, his boyfriend hadn’t replied to any of his texts or calls. The first message Agastaya sent Nicky after arriving in Gangtok was to let him know that he had finally reached home. The second one asked Nicky how he was doing. The third wondered if everything was all right. The fourth was to ask his boyfriend if he was sick. The fifth message was a plea to call him. This, Agastaya followed with a handful of phone calls, all of which went straight to Nicky’s voice mail.
Agastaya had last felt this nauseated only when Nicky stormed out of One If by Land, Two If by Sea on their anniversary. The reason: Agastaya had asked his boyfriend of a year to go easy on the Dom Pérignon.
“I can’t have you dictate every damn thing in my life,” Nicky had said.
“But you’re slurring.” They hadn’t even begun their main course.
“As I should. It’s our anniversary dinner.”
“Please be quiet.” He could sense that other patrons, out on romantic dinners, were distracted by Nicky’s belligerence.
And, out of the blue, Nicky had dropped the bomb. “I think we should take a break from each other. You’re a control freak and boring.”
Agastaya lost all appetite for his lobster bisque. Before he could say anything to placate Nicky, his boyfriend had made a dramatic exit. The two-day-late text that Nicky deployed to explain his misconduct stated that he had been feeling suffocated for a long time and that perhaps they should consider dating other people. Agastaya was aghast. Nothing in his partner’s comportment had suggested that things weren’t all hunky-dory in their relationship.
Yes, when Nicky was a handful, Agastaya did consider leaving him, but Nicky was not just the first man Agastaya had been with—he was also the first person. The highest extent of Agastaya’s physical intimacy pre-Nicky had been two drunken makeout sessions with barely conscious women in college. Agastaya hadn’t ever courted women (or men) and hadn’t ever been on dates. Nicky, one of his nurses at Beth Israel, had initiated him into the world of nonplatonic relationships and helped him navigate his way through it.
The more Nicky talked about how difficult a time his friends were having finding “the one,” the more Agastaya became convinced that eschewing his relationship in favor of the unknown wasn’t a wise idea. Agastaya was not interesting; he was not beautiful. Financially, he did all right, but he would hate to be out on a date where his biggest selling point was the size of his wallet. Agastaya was aware that he was a difficult person to date, not because he threw temper tantrums or was high maintenance but because his partner would have to go without letting many people know that they were in a relationship. It’d have to be kept secret from Agastaya’s world—no introductions to his friends, no movie nights with relatives. It was a solitary, isolating relationship. That was a big sacrifice, and for three years, Nicky had put up with it.
To win Nicky back after the restaurant incident, Agastaya had asked him to move in. It had meant some big adjustments—firing Sabitri, his Nepalese maid, for one. To live together was what Nicky wanted, and this Agastaya had found out when he checked their e-mail. The e-mail, by the way, wasn’t just Agastaya’s. It wasn’t just Nicky’s. Coined by a conflation of their names, Nickgastaya@gmail.com was the e-mail address Agastaya had created a few months before. Nicky had said the new ID made him want to vomit, but he was mighty pleased to have his name kick it off. Sneakiness, not sappiness, had driven Agastaya to create the joint address: he could now keep track of his boyfriend’s goings-on. Nicky soon migrated from Hotmail to Gmail once he discovered how much more user-friendly the latter was.
With the password still unchanged, Nickgastaya@gmail.com became Nicky’s primary e-mail. And with that, it also evolved into an all-encompassing source of anxiety and stress for Agastaya. He read and reread e-mails between Nicky and his friends, tried discerning flirtations, and wondered if he was being cheated on. When the contents of his boyfriend’s e-mail gave him sleepless nights, Agastaya would try to wean himself from checking the account. But he would always relapse a few days later, when, like a man possessed, he’d rifle through every e-mail he had missed out on and obsess over it.
When things were going very well or terribly, Agastaya would check the e-mail twice a day. As the relationship returned to normalcy—a place between too much love and too much hate—he’d stay away from Nickgastaya@gmail.com, password: gastayanick. Things were bad now. His boyfriend wasn’t responding to any of his texts or phone calls. Agastaya needed to check the account desperately, but at eight in the morning, on Lakshmi Puja, he was sure no Internet café would be open. He wished he had brought his laptop. At the last moment, in character for a person who was living a secret life, Agastaya had left his MacBook Air behind in New York. In Gangtok, notions of privacy were left at the door the moment he stepped into his grandmother’s house. He wouldn’t check his e-mail on the decade-old desktop computer even if it had Internet connectivity, which he doubted. He wasn’t about to risk being outed by one of his siblings to all the other members of the family. Nothing in his family was a secret. He decided he would activate the Internet on his phone for the rest of his trip.
Outside, in the garden, as though with thoughts as heavy as his to bog her down, nursing a cup of coffee and staring at the balcony upstairs, was Bhagwati.
“Beautiful day,” she said when he approached.
“Yes, it’s getting colder, though.” He shivered.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“I’ll pass.”
“Are you angry with me?”
Of course, he was. “For what?”
“For talking to you about the doctor woman.”
“I’ve made it clear to you that I don’t want to get married,” he said, glad he could talk about the issue in private before everyone was in his face. “You need to be in the right mood for it. I don’t feel like marriage now. Perhaps I’ll be up for it in a few years.”
“That’s fine. But what harm is there in going for lunch with a girl or two?” Bhagwati said. “Who knows if you might click?”
“And how is that any of your business?”
“It’s not. But I want to see you happy. Marriage made me happy.”
“Huh?” Agastaya said.
“What?”
“Nothing, Bhagwati,” Agastaya said. “It will sound too mean. Forget it.”
“No, no, tell me.”
“Sure, if you want to hear it. You’re hardly the person I’d look at as a model of happiness.”
“Because I’m poor?”
“Among other things. Look at you—so self-righteous. How about you concentrate on getting your life in order before straightening mine out?”
Bhagwati was sullen. He might have said too much. “I am sorry,” he said. “I sound as insensitive as Ruthwa. I’m just tired of all this marriage talk.”
“You don’t have to look at it like it’s prison, Agastaya. You’re thirty-three. Marriage will do you good.”
“I know. It’s just not the time now.”
“Look at you—you’re so unhappy,” Bhagwati said. “You need some fun in life.”
He clenched his fist. “Again, how do you know I am unhappy?”
“I can tell. Everyone can.”
“What if what you see of me is not who I am?”
“It’s a very unhappy face that you decide to present to the world, then.”
“What’s it to you, Bhagwati? Seriously, I’d understand it if it was a lady of leisure analyzing my unhappiness. But don’t you have your plate full? You need to start with admitting your kids to a private school. Do you know how bad state schools in the U.S. are?”
“From what I know, they’re better than private schools in Bhutan,” she said defensively.
“Is that what your target is? If it’s better than what it’d have been in Bhutan, it’s good enough for your children? Dream big.”
“We were talking about suitable women for you.”
“And now we are talking about your poverty. Marriage is a topic that makes me scream. Poverty is a topic that makes you see red. We’re even.”
“If that’s the way you want to look at it,” Bhagwati said, taking a big gulp of her coffee. “If that’s the way—fine.”
He had to get out. It didn’t matter if the Internet cafés didn’t open until later. He needed to get the hell out of there.
Up a dingy flight of waterlogged stairs on MG Marg was a cyber café that was just opening for the day. The skullcaps on all the three workers’ heads explained why. Become even more in-your-face with your faith during some other religion’s festival, Agastaya thought, surprised at the vitriol in him.
Urdu conversation droned in the background. The Internet became even more lethargic in the foreground.
Username: nickgastaya
Password: gastayanick
Agastaya felt guilty about checking the e-mail, but then again, he was only going through what was jointly theirs.
There it was. The e-mail. The answer to everything. The answer to Nicky’s behavior. And, yet, the answer gave way to so many questions. It made way for so many emotions. First, Agastaya was elated. Then his mouth went dry. The hair on his hands stood up. He hoped the men around him wouldn’t see his torrent of tears. He was curious about so many things, and he wouldn’t find the answer to them in the cacophony of Urdu that grew louder by the minute.
Deep in thought, grave in demeanor, Agastaya walked to the window and stared out on to the square, where, sitting on one of the benches and smoking a cigarette was his younger brother—legs spread wide apart, the hair on his head an unruly mess, and his eyes on the posterior of every woman who walked by. Gangtok was such a small place.
Agastaya called Ruthwa’s name. His younger brother continued smoking.
“Hey, look up, Ruthwa!” he shouted.
“Ha.” Ruthwa strained to see in the sun. “What are you doing here?”
“Came to check my e-mail. Want to go for a coffee?”
“Nah. I like the sun.”
“Why don’t I grab some coffee and join you in the sun?” Agastaya asked.
“Yeah, do that.”
The skullcapped men had no change on them, so Agastaya asked them to keep the hundred-rupee bill.
“Lakshmi Puja?” one of them asked.
“No, no change on you, and no change on me.” Agastaya hurried out. He hated Muslims today. He was a bigot today. He hated everyone today.
Baker’s Café was closed for the holiday. Agastaya purchased a bottle of Coke from one of the stores lining MG Marg and strode over to his brother, who was scratching his groin.
“You, too, couldn’t bear it, could you?” Ruthwa said.
Agastaya was quiet.
“The house and its forced festivities—couldn’t bear it?”
“I had to step out to check my e-mail. I had a little tiff with Bhagwati.”
“Yeah, I had a talk with her, too. I wouldn’t call it a tiff. It was more a talk—not pleasant but not wholly a tiff.”
“She’s been going on and on about getting me married,” said Agastaya, suddenly willing to talk about marriage with Ruthwa, with whom he had never been very close. When a bigger issue presented itself, it was Agastaya’s nature to seek refuge in smaller ones. It was easy to pour his anxiety about Nicky into his annoyance with Bhagwati’s marriage talk. It would take his mind off his boyfriend.
“She’s been going on and on about Aamaa to me.”
“It seems she’s in a mood to talk sense into everybody when she should be worried about feeding, clothing, and sheltering her family.”
“I don’t think her situation is that dire. I wonder if she talks about marriage-rescuing with Manasa.”
“I strongly suspect she has been recruited by Aamaa to do this marriage talk. I told her off today, and now I feel bad about it.”
“Good thing no one asks me to get married.”
“Why are you here again?”
“To see my loving family.”
Agastaya asked Ruthwa if he had another cigarette. “I need to smoke.”
Ruthwa elevated his left eyebrow. “Since when?”
“Since now—I’m stressed.”
“Yeah, family does that to you.”
“So, are you here to avoid Aamaa?”
“Are you going to get married?” Ruthwa asked.
“Are you ever going to stop being an asshole?”
“Are you going to stop channeling Bhagwati? Or Manasa?”
They both laughed in between puffs. A combination of laughter and nicotine accounted for Agastaya’s feeling a whole lot lighter. But then, almost as soon as they had left, Nicky-related thoughts came back. The heaviness returned.
•
Manasa had awoken early, too, but chose to stay in bed when she heard Bhagwati talking to Ruthwa in the kitchen. Then she heard voices from the garden, which was right outside the guest room, and this time it was Bhagwati talking wedded bliss to Agastaya. With her sister at her pontificating best, Manasa decided that she wasn’t going to leave the room for a long time now.
But an hour or so later, someone drummed at her door. When the knocks grew more urgent, Manasa finally left her bed.
Prasanti, excitement writ large on her face, stood outside.
“What, Prasanti? Are you going to throw stones at me because your plan yesterday backfired?”
“There’s someone at the gate,” Prasanti said. “He’s a foreigner—looks like an over-boiled potato.”
“So, what am I to do?”
“I can’t speak to him. I know no English.”
“He must be lost.”
“No, he keeps asking for Agastaya,” Prasanti said. “Agusta, Augusta, Oogoostoo, he says. It took me some time to figure out.” She tried a few more permutations of Agastaya’s name.
“Where’s Agastaya?”
“Gone to town, I think.”
“Can’t Bhagwati talk to him?”
“She is cleaning upstairs.”
“Yes, because that’s not your job.”
Prasanti pretended not to understand. Manasa grabbed her robe and rushed out to the garden with Prasanti following her. Outside the gate stood a tall, lanky white man.
“May I help you?” Manasa asked.
“Hi, I’m from New York.”
“Yes?” Manasa said somewhat rudely. Being a New Yorker didn’t give one the liberty to show up at people’s doors in foreign countries unannounced.
“I am an acquaintance of Agastaya’s,” he said. “He told me he’d be home, and I was paying Gangtok a visit, so I thought I’d stop by. Finding Neupaney Oasis isn’t difficult—everyone knows where it is.”
“Oh, okay. I’m sorry if I was rude.”
“You weren’t.”
“Agastaya has gone to town, but he should be back soon. Why don’t you come in?”
When he walked in, the American hit his head on the ceiling of the wicket door.
“Sorry,” Manasa said. “It’s not used to people over six feet. I am Manasa, Agastaya’s sister.”
“Very nice to meet you. Do I detect a slight British accent?”
“I live in London.”
“So, you’re also visiting?”
“Yes. My sister from Colorado is here, too. As is the youngest sibling. In fact, all of Agastaya’s siblings are here. You do know that we have a festival going on, don’t you?”
“Yes, the Diwali.”
“The Nepali-speaking people call it Tihaar,” Manasa corrected him. “You’ve come right on time for the festivities. And tomorrow is our grandmother’s birthday.”
“I hope my presence isn’t an imposition.”
“It isn’t, but I’ve just awoken. I need to freshen up. Why don’t you sit out in the sun for a while? I shall have someone bring you tea.”
“Prasanti!” Manasa shouted. The servant had been observing them unobtrusively, choosing to spread on a mat fermented leaves of mustard, cauliflower, and radish, which she’d soon use as a base for gundruk, Manasa’s favorite soup. “Bring this man some tea and biscuits.”
Inside, Bhagwati was scrubbing the stairs.
“Since when did that become your job?” Manasa asked.
“It’s fine. I woke up early. I had nothing to do.”
“A friend of Agastaya’s from New York is at the door. Can you entertain him for a while? I need to use the toilet.”
Bhagwati agreed. “What’s his name?”
“I realized he didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask him. How rude of me. Let me go find out.”
She returned a minute later.
“Nicholas,” Manasa said. “Nicholas is his name—he’s not bad-looking.”
Not one of the water geysers in either of the two bathrooms was on. That was the problem with Gangtok—Manasa had to plan a shower at least an hour in advance in order to have ample hot water. She quickly brushed her teeth, rinsed, examined with indifference the blood in her saliva, wiped her mouth, and counted the number of days left before she’d be back in Kathmandu and then in London.
The bathroom was filthy. She did not understand why people in India had a partiality for wet loos. All it took was for the shower area to be barricaded, but with the shower being bang in the middle of the bathroom, this was nearly impossible. Manasa was always conscious that the commode not get wet when she bathed here, so she covered the toilet with a dirty towel before she let the shower run. Hairs of various lengths and shapes spun about in puddles on the floor. This wasn’t very different from being greeted by Himal’s beard hairs, lumped with his shaving cream, that she often found in the sink of their London bathroom. Beard and books and the foul discharge from his ear—she had given her husband so much grief about them. She had forced him to install a small shelf above the flush, but a day or two later, all his books—their titles ranging from Donald Trump: Master Apprentice to How to Win Friends and Influence People—were back on the floor, open at various pages, big words underlined aggressively. The sink would be cleaned meticulously the day she shouted at Himal but was back to its hair-covered glory the next day. Himal would keep complaining that his perforated eardrum wasn’t a big deal and that he had no time for surgery. It was maddening.
London would be awful once she returned. She would soon be surrounded by the forced feel-good spirit of Christmas that her father-in-law wanted to be a part of. She had to wheel him to ridiculous shopping centers where the lights were, where the celebrations were. The thought of that life—her life, her real life—being only three days away filled her with dread. She would do herself a giant favor, she decided as she dried herself, by attempting to enjoy her last few days here.
She ran a dryer over her hair and avoided the sight of her body in the mirror. She wasn’t fat, but she couldn’t bear to look at her naked frame. She was afraid of things she might find—stretch marks, flab, wrinkles—but it was her face that scared her the most, and her face she couldn’t help inspecting. All one had to do was look at her Facebook profile picture from two years before to see how much she had aged. Sometimes, when she saw her reflection in a windowpane or a car mirror, it took her a few seconds to recognize the woman looking back at her.
She heard Nicholas and Bhagwati chitchatting outside. Manasa hadn’t done very much since her arrival in Gangtok and wanted to visit a few old sites. She wasn’t a big fan of the city’s modern avatar and disliked that almost every third building in the MG Marg area housed a hotel of some kind. The Gangtok of her childhood had been slower, less flashy. Tourists were fewer and poorer. These days, big spenders from the West fought with middle-class Bengalis for a piece of the city and state to taint. No one saw the harmful effects of tourism and excessive commercialization. Manasa was nervous for her hometown. She’d perhaps ask the others to join her on her sightseeing trip to the outskirts. If they weren’t willing to accompany her, she’d go solo. Life was sometimes better alone.
“I was telling Byaagg-wuti how understandable her English is,” Nicholas said when he saw Manasa come out. “I can’t believe she’s been in America only two years. Her accent is perfect.”
“And what is a perfect accent?” Manasa asked.
“Well, for us ignorant Americans, anybody who doesn’t speak like us has an accent.”
“That’s the entire world outside America.” Manasa registered the look Bhagwati shot her.
“I know,” Nicholas said. “I apologize for my countrymen’s shortcomings. We should see the world outside of America. You’re from London—wow!”
“That I am,” Manasa said, her voice still icy.
“The weather must drive you insane.”
“It’s no worse than New York—at least the summers in London don’t get as hot.”
“I’d not have minded the cold in London if the sun so much as ever shone,” Nicholas confessed. “The bleakness gets to me.”
“I’d choose London over New York any day.”
“At least October in New York is beautiful,” Nicholas said. “But October in Gangtok is even better.”
“I haven’t been to either New York or London,” Bhagwati declared. “Boulder is a good place to live. I might just live there all my life.”
“I like India the best,” Nicholas said. “I don’t get why upper-middle-class Indians would want to move to America. You have it so easy here—servants, chauffeurs, and living like kings.”
“What do you do?” Manasa asked.
“I am a traveler,” Nicholas answered dreamily. “You could say a pseudo-anthropologist.”
“You take what you have for granted,” Manasa scolded Nicholas. “Everyone in India thinks you Americans have the ideal life. Grass greener—you see.”
Before Nicholas could launch into another silly rationalization about how the upper-middle-class Indian had it best, Manasa ordered Prasanti to get the cordless. This conversation was inane. “We should call Agastaya,” she said.
“That’s fine,” Nicholas said. “I’m quite enjoying my time with the two of you.”
She took no pleasure in this banal discussion of weather and the stupidity of India’s upper middle class. Bhagwati, on the other hand, seemed enthralled by the new arrival. The sooner Manasa dumped him on Agastaya, the quicker she’d start enjoying whatever few days of freedom she had left.
“We’re on our way,” her brother said on the phone.
“Who’s ‘we?’”
“I am with Ruthwa.”
“There’s a surprise waiting for you.” Manasa smiled at Nicholas.
“I think I know what you’re talking about. Is my friend there?”
“Yes, Nicholas from New York is here. Hurry up.”
“I am almost there.”
Manasa relayed the message to Agastaya’s friend.
When her brother finally arrived, he and Nicholas shook hands and exchanged awkward hugs. “I see you’ve met the two sisters,” Agastaya said. “My brother went to buy some cigarettes and should be here later.”
“Yes, we have been having a great discussion,” replied Nicholas.
“About New York, London, and the upper-middle-class Indian,” Manasa said, hoping the despair with which she looked upon the topics hadn’t crept into her voice. “I’ll let you gentlemen catch up in peace.”
Bhagwati, too, excused herself.
“What a boring fellow,” Manasa said to Bhagwati once they were inside the house. “Making the most basic of points and thinking he’s some intellectual. ‘What’s the weather like in London? What’s the weather like in Boulder?’”
“I quite liked him,” Bhagwati answered.
“You were all over him.”
“He isn’t that good-looking.”
“But he’s white,” Manasa teased. “His whiteness had you going crazy.”
“I was just being polite,” Bhagwati said, not very pleasantly. “You were rude.”
“For good reason—I hated him.”
“How can you form an opinion of someone within two minutes of talking to him?”
“I can. At least I don’t have this ridiculous post-colonial hangover where I believe that every whitey I come across is worthy of being fawned over. The way you were so pleased when he called your accent perfect was absurd. You were like a teenager in heat.”
“I wasn’t fawning over him. I treat people with hospitality. You should learn that.”
“What now?” Manasa said. “Are you going to lecture me, too? Lecturing Ruthwa early in the morning not enough for you? Lecturing Agastaya early in the morning not enough for you?”
“Who told you?”
“I heard. I sleep right next to the kitchen and right by the garden, dammit. I keep getting woken up in the mornings. Today it was your nonsense. Yesterday it was Prasanti’s. I am moving to another room, I swear. Maybe I’ll share the bed with Aamaa. I haven’t slept well in days.”
“Those weren’t lectures.”
“Sure, they weren’t,” Manasa said, uncertain why she was so peevish. “Is Aamaa paying you to talk Agastaya into getting married?”
Bhagwati sighed. She said nothing. She hiked upstairs. She didn’t look at Manasa.
It wasn’t supposed to have come out that way. She could have left money out of it. Manasa wanted to kick herself.
Her plan to ask Bhagwati to play tourist with her would have to wait. Her resolve to take full advantage of her last few days in Gangtok wasn’t exactly going well.
•
Chitralekha would stay in bed all day. Her grandchildren would beg her to conduct the puja, and she’d join them only after an entire day’s sulking.
Tomorrow was her big day. The priest would be in later to examine the kiln. Dignitaries had been invited for an extravagant lunch. Friends and richer family members would join them. The poorer relatives would come by later for dinner, which would be cobbled together from leftovers of the previous meal.
Tonight, the Bhailo singers, mostly young girls, would hop from house to house singing Diwali carols all night and disrupt Chitralekha’s peace. Bhagwati volunteered to take offerings out to the girls and had readied a plate on which she placed some uncooked rice, a tiny copper pot that held a marigold, and an earthenware lamp. As the girls arrived, Bhagwati would count the strength of each group and accordingly place money on the plate, the ornateness of which was very often sidelined by the amount of money it bore. The task of paying the girls, thanking them, and sending them off usually fell on Prasanti, who, Chitralekha was aware, cut the amount to be paid to each group by half and pocketed the remaining money.
What Prasanti had done yesterday was inexcusable, but after Chitralekha’s fury had subsided, she decided that her servant had just made an unfortunate mistake. Yes, she’d pardon the brainless eunuch, but Chitralekha hadn’t had a moment to declare to Prasanti that all was forgiven. Her servant hadn’t brought her tea and hadn’t even asked her down to breakfast. Chitralekha was ready to overlook yesterday’s indiscretion, but she didn’t like this lack of follow-up.
The eunuch wasn’t the only person who should have been begging her for exculpation. Ruthwa had knocked at her door early last morning with all the earnestness of the remorseful but quickly disqualified himself for redemption when he shouted, “Aamaa, can you hear me?” following it with a chortle. To her grandson, everything was a joke. What he did to her was a joke. What he did to the family was a joke. His cruel laughter had rung in her ears until she again fell asleep. She could have slapped him, but an old woman’s slap on a thirty-one-year-old man would not have the kind of effect she desired. If anything, it would invite ridicule from all the grandchildren. Yet another story in the endless book of tyrannies Aamaa had supposedly inflicted on the children.
Her heart had palpitated after the outburst with Prasanti. She felt old—as though she didn’t have in her the will to fight anymore. The realization alarmed her. Isn’t that how old people—people who had given up—felt? A part of her didn’t want to let go, but there was another part—this one, these days, more victorious—that constantly commanded her to rest, to spend her days in reflection at the great life she had led, to twiddle her beads and contemplate where her cenotaphs would be. She was sleeping and dreaming so much more these days. She felt useless.
If she had no ambition left in her, she’d have happily moved to Kalimpong. Gangtok was wonderful, and it was home, but there was always too much going on. The central location of her house didn’t help matters. People who had no business dropping by stopped by all the time. Some were there to talk trade and commerce. Others didn’t want to use public restrooms on their trips to town, and Chitralekha’s bathroom was a convenient choice. Many wanted favors. Some came to offer her their respects, as if she was some guru. Others wanted her blessings because an old woman supposedly had the power in her to sway the minds of gods.
She had piled too much on her plate the last few years. Her level of civic engagement was at an all-time high. Why would a school invite her, a person with a second-grade education, to give away prizes? And why would she, a person with a second-grade education, accept the invitation? Yes, allying herself with the right political candidate was important at one point in her life, but, for a long time now, Gangtok had had no opposition party, no politician worth being friends with other than Subba. And Subba was already her friend, so there was no reason, really, for her to go to parties, to be seen at rallies, to give rousing speeches. She didn’t look forward to attending these events—she went as a creature of habit. Cutting down on these commitments would be difficult—no, impossible—if she continued living in Gangtok. She often discussed with Prasanti the temptation to post a sign that read Please come in only if you’re expected at her gate to lower the number of visitors. There was just no respite.
Moving to Kalimpong wouldn’t have been much different from staying in Gangtok if she settled in her bazaar house there, but she had no intention of doing that. Her textile factory in Sindebong was four acres of paradise, two and a half miles away from town. It was well connected by road to the market but amply far from it so she would never have to encounter a traffic jam for miles.
The two bedrooms on the third floor of the factory were more manageable than this big house. She could take Prasanti with her, but Prasanti had become too much of a city girl to like living in the country. Didi, the previous helper, was now based in Kalimpong, but she was old and frail. Old and frail people irritated Chitralekha. She’d have to raise Prasanti’s pay if a Kalimpong move occurred. If the lack of something to do bothered her (or Prasanti) too much, she (or Prasanti) could simply head down to the workroom to supervise the sewing, dyeing, and tanning. She wouldn’t think of expansion, of making more money, of destroying her competitors. Kalimpong was also warmer. It would be good for her health.
But what was good for her body wasn’t necessarily good for her mind. The first few days would be peaceful, and then she’d feel stifled. The factory, as idyllic as its location may have been, would not have views of the Kanchendzonga. Even if it did, she couldn’t possibly stare at the mountain the entire day. She still had so many things to sort out here. She wasn’t about to retire with no one in sight to continue her legacy. One grandson was opposed to marriage, and she’d avoided thinking of the other all these years. What harm would it do one of them to give her an heir? At least she could be on her way to death knowing that the Neupaney family wouldn’t die after her grandchildren’s generation. The only great-grandchildren she had didn’t count. Shouldn’t her frustrations, therefore, be forgiven? Wasn’t her behavior justified?
Manasa’s reedy voice put an end to Chitralekha’s reverie.
“Aamaa, are you going to eat breakfast or not?” Manasa asked from outside Chitralekha’s room. “You must be hurting because your beloved has betrayed you, you poor thing.”
Chitralekha stayed silent. Manasa let herself in.
“It’s Lakshmi Puja,” her granddaughter said. “We have a white male Lakshmi in the garden.”
“Who?” Chitralekha asked.
“Agastaya’s friend. Irritating man.”
“He must take good care of his grandparents.”
“Yes, he probably does,” Manasa said. “By dumping them in old-age homes. We should have done that with you.”
“I’d have been better off there than here.”
“Yes, probably. You’d have found a man for yourself there. Isn’t that what life is all about if you’re female? Find a man and live happily ever after? I hit the jackpot.”
“Yet you think you should throw it all away.”
“I like my man, even if he is spineless. It’s the father-in-law, who looks like he’ll even outlive you, that I am not fond of.”
Bhagwati walked in with a bowl of oatmeal. “You have to eat something, Aamaa,” she said. “You didn’t even eat dinner last night.”
Chitralekha was famished, so she took an unsure spoonful of oatmeal. It was hot.
“I thought you’d never eat anything touched by Bhagwati,” Manasa said.
Chitralekha didn’t answer. She swallowed another mouthful.
“Is Bhagwati not the evil one anymore?” Manasa said, while her older sister made faces at her. “Aamaa and I were discussing marriages. I am sure you have plenty to add, Bhagwati—you’re an expert at making a marriage work. You love talking about marriages.”
“I still think Prasanti is better than all of you.” Chitralekha took the last spoonful of her oatmeal. Then she remembered the crunching of stones from yesterday’s rice and spat out what she was chewing.
“Even when she fed you stones?” Manasa asked with all the innocence she could muster.
“Those stones were meant for you, and you deserved them.”
“More than Agastaya, who’s shelving marriage? More than Bhagwati, who got married to a Damaai? More than Ruthwa, who wrote about the most harrowing experience of your life for the world to read?”
“All of you deserved it,” Chitralekha said. Yes, they deserved it.
“But you don’t deserve all this, right, Aamaa?” Manasa said. “You, the victim, don’t deserve this life at all.”
Bhagwati asked Manasa not to taunt Aamaa, to which Aamaa said, “I can defend myself, Bhagwati. I don’t need your help.”
“No, Aamaa,” Manasa continued. “I want an answer. How is it that all four of your grandchildren are now your enemies?”
“I am an unlucky woman,” Chitralekha said with resignation. “Look at the way you all treat me. What did I do to deserve it?”
“Everything, Aamaa. Why can’t you look at the bright side of things? We’ve come all the way from various corners of the world to help celebrate your birthday. Why don’t you appreciate that?”
“I am going to sleep,” Chitralekha said. “Please pull the door shut on your way out.”
“No, Aamaa.” Manasa was relentless. “Why don’t you appreciate what we do for you?”
“Manasa, that’s enough,” Bhagwati said. “She doesn’t look well.”
“I am perfectly well, Bhagwati,” Chitralekha said. “No need to defend me.”
“Yes, pick on her, Aamaa,” said Manasa. “Pick on the weakest. Why don’t you say anything to Ruthwa? Because you’re afraid he’s going to write about you and make you a caricature again, aren’t you?”
“Manasa, let’s go downstairs,” Bhagwati said. “There’s a lot to prepare for tomorrow.”
Chitralekha had turned to her other side when they left, so she couldn’t see who banged the door closed. It had to be Manasa. Her younger granddaughter had so much anger in her. Manasa was right in her interrogation, though. When had her grandchildren become her enemies? How did she only see faults in them? Why couldn’t she let them be and let them go?
She’d ask the one person who wouldn’t shy away from giving her an unbiased opinion. “Prasanti!” she shouted. “Prasanti.”
Prasanti meekly opened the door. “Did you call me?” she asked, her face toward the floor.
“Yes, I called you. Isn’t your name Prasanti?”
“Yes, but I thought you were angry with me.”
“For what you did yesterday? That I am.”
“I am sorry,” Prasanti said. “I am sorry. The stones were for Manasa. They weren’t for you.”
“I know. No reason to apologize.”
“I was afraid you’d send me away.” Prasanti cried harder. “I was afraid this wouldn’t be my home anymore.”
“Where would you go, you slow girl?” Chitralekha asked. “To your father’s house in Kalimpong or to your hijra house in Bombay? This is your house.”
“But you were so angry yesterday,” Prasanti said, sobbing. “You’ve never been that angry with me.”
“I am angry with you all the time. You don’t do good work around here. Yesterday, I just decided to show it.”
“I am sorry.” Prasanti sniffled. “I am really sorry. I’ll be good to everyone—even Manasa.”
“Don’t you dare be good to Manasa. Continue treating her badly. She deserves it.”
“Okay. And I am trying to find a way to get Bhagwati and Agastaya to be alone.”
“Try harder.”
“I promise,” Prasanti cried.
“Okay, now stop this. I didn’t call you here so you could ruin my bed sheet with your tears and snot. You will have to wash the sheet yourself—you know that.”
“I’ll do my work properly from now on. I will work hard.”
“Pfft. Tell me—and be honest—do you think I am unnecessarily hard on the children?”
“But you were not just a grandmother to them,” Prasanti said, her tear ducts finally worn out. “You were a father and mother, so your expectations from them are higher.”
“So you think I am right to pester them to get married, have children etc., etc.?”
“Yes, you are, but . . .” The servant stopped herself.
“But what?”
“I am stupid, I know, but why would you worry yourself about that? Nobody could tell you how to live your life, so nobody should tell them how to live theirs.”
It made sense. What the eunuch said was clear. Why did they have to fulfill her wants? Why did they have to live life her way? But why not?
“But why not? I gave them so much. Can’t they give me something in return? A marriage? Children? A little push to make their marriage work?”
“There’s one of them who has given you all three.”
“She’s different.”
“Why continue holding a grudge? Your being angry with her isn’t going to change anything. Even if she divorces her husband, her Damaai babies aren’t going anywhere.”
That was true. If only forgiveness came that easily.