Authors: Samrat Upadhyay
Finally, what about this man, Tarun, standing a few feet away from her? After Rukma’s discovery, after he was “caught red-handed”—Rukma’s words when she’s angry, feels trapped—his turbulent emotions surfaced. At night he thrashes in bed, like a body in the throes of exorcism. Twice he’s wept in her arms.
What about all these people? By going away she’ll be announcing that they don’t matter. But she wants to believe that they do. That at some level all the small moments with Mahesh Uncle, with Sanmaya, Sumit, the Masterji, with Tarun, they amount to something. That they accrue.
For now, she has only this instant to take care of, so she goes and stands next to him. It’s not very deep below, but the water swirls about at a speed that’s dizzying. He’s not looking at the water; his eyes are fixed on the horizon. When did it start? She’s wondered about this many, many times. What was the first instance like, when Didi touched him with improper desire? Tears have come to her eyes when she’s pictured it. Oh, he was only a child, only a child!
“What are you thinking?” she asks him.
“My mother,” he says. “She was such a weak woman.” It’s said without any rancor or disappointment. There’s even a hint of compassion in his voice.
She searches for something to say. “Come,” she says at last, “let’s return to the hotel.”
In the taxi she clasps his hand. He looks at her, shyly, as if he is just beginning to get to know her. “I’m glad we came to Pokhara,” he says. “It was good to get away from all that noise, that confusion.” He squeezes her hand. “Get away with you.”
That evening—their last night in Pokhara—they watch a dinner dance show on the lawn of the hotel. The final performance is of a masked dancer, who startles the guests by running toward them from the kitchen area rather than appearing on the stage. The dancer’s movements are robust, even aggressive. He is accompanied by the beats of drums and cymbals coming from the shadows. He prances from table to table, especially targeting children. There are gasps, laughter, even whimpers of complaints at this invasion. But mostly the guests are awed by the electric charge he’s brought to the evening, to what had otherwise been a string of lackluster ethnic dances. “Lakhey! Lakhey!” someone shouts.
The lakhey stops at Tarun and Rukma’s table. His engorged eyes are focused on Tarun. “The lakhey is going to eat him,” a voice says loudly, with relish, then the air becomes silent. The lakhey leans over and inches his face
closer to Tarun’s until their noses are nearly touching. All color has drained from Tarun’s face. Alarmed, Rukma is about to rebuke him, ask him to move on, when he takes Tarun’s hands and, with gentle nods of his head, urges Tarun to stand. Tarun appears paralyzed. Sweat dots his forehead. Then, his frightened eyes affixed to the lakhey’s face, he slowly gets up from his chair.
The lakhey leads Tarun to the open area in the center of the lawn, where he begins to dance with him. Tarun is hesitant at first. He looks ready to bolt. Then his shoulders loosen, and he distrustfully shakes his body. Soon, his movements become more vigorous.
The crowd is whooping and clapping and hollering. At one point he turns toward Rukma, and under the lawn’s reddish lamp, he looks fierce. He pivots toward the lakhey.