The City Son (5 page)

The person Tarun is beginning to feel the most connected to in Bangemudha is Didi. “My beautiful son,” she says. “Look how beautiful our Tarun is,” she says in front of everyone, and Tarun can feel Amit’s dagger eyes on him. They sit on the carpet on the floor next to the bed, where the Masterji sits. He’s aged since Didi has arrived. He smiles at Tarun, as though delighted by the love Didi is showing toward him. But his eyes are constantly checking Didi’s face, gauging her moods. When she’s pleased, and she’s often pleased when Tarun visits, he relaxes. But most of the time his face is taut, tense as though he is expecting someone to come from the side and strike him a blow.
Tarun is reminded of the adage his Nepali teacher likes to repeat:
Agultole haneko kukur bijuli chamkida tarsinchha
. It fits Tarun’s father: he is indeed like the mutt who, once someone hits him with firewood, winces every time lightning strikes the sky.

Didi’s fingers caress Tarun’s face, his chin. “I think he’s the most beautiful boy in the whole world,” she says, her gaze fixed on him.

“Eh, beautiful boy!” Amit calls him when everyone’s out of earshot. “Eh, beautiful boy,
randi ko chhora
.”

Tarun loves the food Didi cooks:
kheer, malpua, haluwa
, and an assortment of sweet stuff. Increasingly she seems to cook just for him. “I made this especially for my son today,” she says as she puts a plate of his favorite snack in front of him. She watches as he eats. Sometimes she gives him more food than she gives her own two sons, as though she knows that he hasn’t been eating well in Kupondole. Didi never asks him about his mother. Once or twice he’s had the urge to blurt it all out to Didi. She will understand what he’s going through. She’ll wipe his tears with her palm, kiss him, then lead him to the tap where she’ll wash his face, her thick, stubby fingers vigorously eliminating all remnants of pain and suffering, then set him down on the floor and ask him what he wants to eat. After he’s had his fill, she’ll pull him into her lap and massage his head, her fingers gentle and caressing, and as he feels drowsy, she’ll murmur into his ears, words that he doesn’t understand but
that are nonetheless pleasant. He’ll squirm in her lap, and she’ll stroke his back, his buttocks. She may even murmur, “Why does my son need to go home tonight? Why doesn’t he stay the night here, with his Didi?” And half drowsy, he’ll smile, for spending the night here in Bangemudha, cuddled next to Didi, appeals to him greatly.

If it were up to Didi, she’d keep Tarun in Bangemudha. “That so-called mother of his will starve him to death,” Didi says to the Masterji. “Look at my Tarun, all skin and bones. Is that what you want for our son?”

“Well,” the Masterji says. “It’s her son … after what has happened …” The Masterji no longer seems capable of speaking in full sentences to Didi. He stutters and stumbles. There are moments when he appears to be speaking a foreign language, so hard is it to understand his words. “
Yo
 … 
Oohi
 … 
Tya
 …” and he stops with a dazed expression. Vertical lines have appeared on the corners of his mouth that now make him look prematurely old. Even with his glasses on, he squints and makes faces when he reads. His blanket around him, he sits on his bed and tutors his students, but these days in a low, muted voice. Students still flock to him, but he makes mistakes, some of which his students catch.

“Once you declare someone your son,” Didi tells the Masterji, “don’t you then need to take care of him as if he’s indeed your son?”

The Masterji smiles weakly. He knows that Apsara will put up a fight if he tries to snatch the boy away from her.
Tarun thinks that perhaps he should stay a night or two at Bangemudha just so he can see what his mother will do, whether that’ll pull her out of her rut, and she’ll come looking for him. He wonders how Amit will react if indeed Tarun starts living in Bangemudha. Sumit will be fine with it, even happy, for he likes Tarun, calls him “Tarun
da
,” and when Amit is not present, follows Tarun around and obeys his instructions in play. But Amit’s grudge against Tarun and Didi is growing. One Saturday Didi returned from the bazaar and handed Tarun and Sumit colorful sweet-smelling erasers, one each, which had images of the masked Betal. She told Amit that she ran out of money for a third one; besides, he was too big and could share Sumit’s eraser. Amit snatched the eraser from Tarun’s palm and said, “He can share with Sumit. I’ll keep this.” Didi’s hand moved quickly through the air and landed on Amit’s cheek, which turned red. He dropped the eraser to the floor, from where Sumit picked it up and handed it to Tarun. Sumit then offered his eraser to Amit, but he shoved away his younger brother’s hand and stormed out of the house. Didi’s thick fingers cupped Tarun’s chin, and she asked, “Does my son like the eraser?” and Tarun nodded shyly. Not too long ago Mahesh Uncle had given Tarun a stationery box with a variety of pens and pencils, a ruler, and two erasers, but Didi’s eraser was his favorite until it shriveled to a stub.

CHAPTER SEVEN

M
AHESH UNCLE’S HOUSE
is in Lazimpat, next to a hotel. The house has a gate with a guard who opens it and salutes you as the car glides in onto a paved driveway. The house, two stories with a marble façade, has a lawn big enough to play on. As Tarun enters the front door, he touches its wall, and Mahesh Uncle says, “It’s from the quarry in Godavari.”

Inside, there’s a spacious living room with leather sofas, vases, paintings, and luxuriant rugs. The living room opens into a dining room, where there’s a table large enough to accommodate ten people. There are three rooms upstairs, each with its own bed and furnishings, even though it’s only Mahesh Uncle who lives on the upper floor. The old
servant Sanmaya sleeps in the small storage room next to the kitchen. Mahesh Uncle says that he’s asked her to move to one of these empty rooms, but she refuses, says she likes it down there, surrounded by sacks of rice and flour and tins of dal and oil and tea.

Mahesh Uncle has never married, which is another reason that people say he has designs on Apsara. They say that after all these years of living alone he has begun to yearn for companionship. Those who are envious of his wealth and contemptuous of Apsara say that he has found himself a gold digger. Those who are sympathetic toward her say that he wants to take undue advantage of a fallen woman. Those who like both of them think that it’s mutually beneficial: she’s saddled with a young son and needs a guardian, and he needs a female companion for old age.

The large glass doors in the living room that Mahesh Uncle refers to as “French windows” open to a sumptuous garden enclosed within high walls. No noise from the street encroaches; the walls also prevent obtrusive neighbors from peeking in and coming to conclusions about your inner life. There’s a fountain against one of the walls. Water gurgles from Lord Shiva’s mouth and flows down in meandering rivulets, as if he’s spitting out River Ganga herself. The water enters and exits other statues—Fat Buddha, Ganesh, Meditative Buddha, an owl, a dalmatian dog, a frog—moving in and out of their bodies, forming small pools where lotus flowers float. Mahesh Uncle says he designed the fountain himself, and one of his foreigner friends built it. When it
was first built, Mahesh Uncle came here often, but now he’s so busy with his work and his travels that when he comes home all he wants to do is take off his shoes and sit on the sofa with his legs pulled up and his newspaper on his lap. “Maybe you can take over this fountain, Tarun, and this garden,” he says. He calls his garden a Japanese garden, and at first Tarun thinks he calls it Japanese because the builder, his friend, is from Japan. Then Mahesh Uncle explains that the garden is built in the Japanese style, with the fountain and the rocks placed in certain ways; although with the dalmatian and the Ganesh, the garden, he jokes, is more international than Japanese. His hand on Tarun’s shoulder, he asks whether Tarun would like to be in charge of the garden, since Mahesh Uncle is getting old and needs someone responsible to make sure it works properly. Tarun nods shyly. “But, Tarun, how will you be the manager of this garden when you live in Kupondole? You’ll have to travel here every day, maybe even twice a day, in order to water the plants and to make sure that the fountain flows well. I do have a gardener, but”—he lowers his voice to a whisper—“he’s not reliable, and I need someone trustworthy to keep an eye on him. But how will you do it if you continue to live in Kupondole?” He addresses Apsara: “Why don’t we make it simple and have you and Tarun move here? There are two rooms upstairs, sitting empty like unemployed workers. Our Tarun can have a separate room if he wants. And you can take that room”—he points to the window that overlooks the garden—“with a view of the garden. Sanmaya will
take care of everything, the cooking, the laundry. Where’s the harm in this?”

Apsara blushes red, as though Mahesh Uncle has made a marriage proposal. “We’ll be a burden,” she says. Her arms are crossed at her chest. She has half-heartedly combed her hair but she hasn’t tied it properly because the wind is blowing it all over her face.

“What burden?” Mahesh Uncle says.

“I can’t do it,” she says.

Then Sanmaya comes into the garden to call them for dinner. She has wrinkled, pleated skin and teeth missing. But she has a big smile and bright eyes, and anyone Mahesh Uncle likes she likes, and anyone Mahesh Uncle dislikes she dislikes.

“
Dukh paryo timiharulai
,” she says inside when Mahesh Uncle is out of earshot. Apsara doesn’t like words of pity and commiseration. But it’s this very pride that makes her feel worse. She doesn’t break down and cry. Tarun wishes she’d cry with Sanmaya when the old servant offers sympathy. He wishes his mother would admit that yes, we are suffering, I am suffering, and as a consequence my boy is suffering. He wishes she’d cry on Mahesh Uncle’s wide shoulders, let him comfort her, perhaps even kiss her.

Mahesh Uncle is on the phone upstairs, so Sanmaya talks: “He thinks the world of you. I have never heard him speak as fondly about anyone as you two. He has been so alone for so long—it’s really good to see him feel connected like this. People say about him, ‘Oh, he is such a wealthy man
living such a high life,’ but these people are
murkhas
. What do they know about him? I have seen him in his loneliest state. I came to work for him when I was much younger, about twenty years ago. Did you know that he was already a successful businessman then? He is one of the most hardworking men I know. There is something in him, a drive, that most people don’t have. Only very important people, like prime ministers and presidents, have that kind of drive.

“He started from scratch. He came to this city as a young boy, and at first he sold newspapers, then as he put himself through college he opened up a restaurant in Ranipokhari, when he was twenty. Twenty! The rest is history. Do you know that the finance minister has come to this house for dinner? And we’ve had parties where the who’s who of this city have come. But he’s never let his success go to his head. As big a man as he is, his heart is even bigger. Do you know how many struggling and suffering people he has helped? It will take me all day to count them. Yet he never asks anything in return, doesn’t expect anything back. He doesn’t even tell me when he has helped these people. I hear it from them, and they can’t stop from singing his praises. I can tell you that when he wants you to come and live here, he has no ulterior motives. I know people are saying this and that, casting aspersions on his intentions, but I challenge these
murkhaharu
and
bekammaharu
to find me someone with a purer heart. I challenge them! In fact, I say that instead of talking behind his back, if they come and touch his feet, then the darkness in their own hearts will begin to evaporate.”

Sanmaya goes on and on, but Tarun doesn’t mind because he likes her leathery face and how the skin around her eyes turns into multiple folds when she smiles. Even when she’s complaining and calling people
murkha
, her face is soft and open. Most important, she doesn’t expect you to give her your undivided attention when she talks. She continues her monologue even when you’re watching the birds in the garden or if you’re staring at a painting or if you ask for a glass of water. So when Mahesh Uncle is on the phone, Sanmaya keeps on about what a great man he is, and Apsara, her gaze on the floor, is only half listening.

Tarun wonders if he is betraying her when he enjoys Didi’s affection. His mother rarely asks about Tarun’s Saturday visits to Bangemudha, but when Sanmaya briefly leaves the room, she asks him, “So what does the Masterji have to say when you visit? Anything?” She then asks about Amit and Sumit, trying to hide the bitterness in her voice, as though she really likes Didi’s sons. Tarun tells her that they are fine and that he plays with them. He brings a neutral inflection into his voice, pretending that his playing with Amit and Sumit is the most natural thing in the world. His mother doesn’t ask Tarun about Didi, but she says, “So you must have eaten delicious snacks in that house,” and Tarun tells her, as indifferently as he can, “It was all right.”