The Gurkha's Daughter (16 page)

Disappointed at having lost, I pulled a stool to the shelves where the plastic bowls and mugs were stacked. I rinsed a bowl, and carefully, for Aamaa wouldn't tolerate any spills on the dining table, I poured the soup from my bowl to Gita's. Twirling the spoon that Aamaa had left facing downward by the bowl, I cautiously wrapped some curly strands of noodles on it and transferred them to the other bowl while Gita kept vigil to ensure that I wouldn't sneak a spoonful into my mouth. I repeated the process and then stepped back to inspect the two bowls.

The bowl Aamaa had set for me now looked like it hadn't as much of the noodles as the next, so I used my thumb and index finger to pinch some noodles from the plastic container to the steel one. More or less assured that both the bowls now contained equal quantities, I signaled to Gita that I was done with a thumbs-up.

Gita weighed one bowl in her right hand and then the other in her left. She went for the steel bowl, which Aamaa wouldn't have approved of, for no guest, not even ill-mannered Gita, was to eat out of a steel bowl while I used a plastic one, a sacrilege, because plastic was meant strictly for guests.

But that wasn't our big secret.

After we slurped the soup and licked the bowl as deep as our tongues would allow, Gita had an idea.

“Aren't we best friends?” Her pretty blue eyes sparkled.

“Yes, we are.”

“Then let's have a little ceremony to prove that.”

“What ceremony?” I was excited. It was Gita's idea after all.

“You will spit into my bowl. Spit. Spit. Spit. And I'll spit into yours. Spit. Spit. Spit. And when the bowls are filled to the brim, we shall both drink each other's spit. That way we will have each other in our bodies. We will be real best friends.”

Arduous as the task was, we persevered. I generated spit from my throat, from under my tongue and summoned it from the depths of my stomach. Gita, despite having trouble, had already spat out far more than I did. My jaws acted funny, my tongue refused to cooperate, and my mouth felt the way it did when I didn't brush my teeth on nonschool days. I coughed. I choked.

“I think the Ra-ra wants to come out from my stomach,” I said, afraid Gita would think me weak.

“Okay, then, this should be enough.” Gita gauged the depth of my bowl by inserting her little finger in the sea of spit. “Here, you drink this; I'll drink that.”

And with three gulps—she with one, and I with two—we completed our first ceremony to seal our friendship.

If Aamaa found out, she'd probably borrow the
gauri bet
from Gurung Badi to give me the most severe beating of my life.

Would the pointy-nosed astrologer know what we did?

We needn't have undergone the rigorous process of accumulating the last droplet of dribble from our bodies to mark our friendship. Our families, we'd later find out, would have put us through another ritual anyway.

A few days after the pointy-nosed astrologer left with his prediction of doom for me, Appa invited himself and the rest of his family to dinner at Gita's place.

Appa said Gurung Bada was a
jardiyaa
, a drunkard, which wasn't Gurkha-like at all. He often complained to Aamaa about the violent outbursts that accompanied Bada's drinking and about how one of the two white men from the regiment had gotten wind of it and a few times given Bada a talking to.

“The fool is paving the shortest way to his funeral,” Appa said to Aamaa as he helped me get into the frilly new dress he had brought from Hong Kong. “Drink a glass or two, but no, we
laureys
, we Gurkhas, think drinking is our birthright. He thinks he can do anything because the Gurkha Sahib likes him. McFerron has threatened to report him to the higher-ups a few times.”

Aamaa listened quietly and looked at me, her eyes dancing. We exchanged a smile, a furtive smile between mother and daughter, about Secret Number Two. Aamaa and Gurung Badi often drank together. It was only fair, they'd remark in between gulps of Hit beer, that they be allowed a little release, for their husbands were away, and they were fulfilling the roles of both the parents in the house.

It didn't seem harmful, the way they drank. Gurung Badi and Gita came to our place with a few bottles, and we'd listen to Bollywood songs on our old tape recorder. After a few cups, Gurung Badi danced, which never failed in bringing out peals of laughter from my mother. Gurung Badi was a comical dancer—she tried coordinating Nepali steps with Hindi beats, and no amount of teaching on Gita's part would ever help her mother get it right.

When it was time for them to leave, Gurung Badi would stagger to the door, knocking a flower vase here or a shoe there, and Aamaa always asked her to stay. Gita and I slept together and spent half the night talking about school. Occasionally, we'd hear a giggle from the other room, which made us giggle, too. Drinking didn't seem as destructive as Appa made it out to be.

We weren't about to let Appa know, though—he wouldn't approve. If he frowned on Gurung Bada's drinking, a man's drinking, Aamaa's drinking would probably kill him. It may not have been as big a secret as my saliva exchange with Gita, but I guarded it as I did the bigger secret, promised myself every night—before falling asleep and asking God to take my bad luck away—that no one would know.

Tonight Appa was in the mood to drink.

“We don't get to be together with friends and family this way,” he told Gurung Bada. “Your entire family and my entire family are here, Numberee, so tonight I will drink with you.”

Appa wasn't even much of a social drinker. All of Aamaa's family made fun of him, even in his presence, for not loving his drink despite being a Magar.

“Our ancestors must have invented the
tongba
,” they'd tease. “And here you are betraying your identity and caste.”

Appa smiled kindly at them and resumed taking very small sips of his liquor. There'd never be a refill. More often than not, he'd not finish the drink. But tonight he was already on his second glass.

Gita asked Gurung Bada if he had killed anyone on the battlefield. She always asked him that.

Gurung Bada looked at Appa and laughed.

“Killing is bad,” he said seriously, and burst out laughing.

“Yes, ask Ghale,” Appa said.

“Or Dilley.” Gurung Bada guffawed with Appa.

Our mothers looked on indulgently.

“Who are Ghale and Dilley?” Gita asked.

“Yes, Ghale and Dilley,” I repeated. “It's like a rhyme.”

“Yes, a poem,” Gita said.

“Our daughters are such intelligent girls,” Gurung Bada said, taking a big gulp and placing the steel glass on the table with a thud.

“Unlike their old men,” said Appa. Hoary laughter followed.

“Yes, their old men are brothers. We are brothers.”

“You know what, Numberee?” Appa remarked. “We need to seal this relationship with a
miteri
.”

“Yes, you and I could be
mit
,” Gurung Bada said. “And every one of us will be related.”

“No, we are old. We don't need a
miteri
connection. We already have it. How about our daughters? That would be perfect.”

Aamaa beamed. Gurung Badi beamed. Gurung Bada looked confused.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “Your daughter will be my daughter's
mitini
.”

Appa asked for another beer. Gita and I looked shyly at each other. Aamaa let go of the loose end of her shiny new sari—the one with no tear—and hugged Gurung Badi.

I performed my
miteri
ceremony with Gita a week before Appa and Gurung Bada headed back to Hong Kong. Gita and I would be bound in fictive kinship, the bond unifying our families. It was like the gods were listening to our prayers—we sometimes lied to our friends at school that we were cousins.

The pointy-nosed astrologer recommended a simple ceremony, while both our mothers desired to at least invite a couple of neighbors and other Gurkha families. Gita's mother wanted the ceremony at her place, while Aamaa wanted it at ours. When Appa pointed out that we had a terrace conducive to a
havan
and that the blessed pyre of fire was far more convenient to build outside, Gurung Badi complied. Our mothers also wanted to dress us in
guniu-cholo
, but the astrologer thought it was a silly idea.

“They haven't even attained puberty,” he said. “That's when you can have a proper
guniu-cholo
ceremony. Dress them in anything you want.”

“But in our community, it is different,” Gurung Badi declared.

“I am the priest here, so I'd like to do things my way,” the astrologer said. “I have to be comfortable. Don't add your own rituals to mine.”

Gurung Badi glowered at him. In the end, the astrologer won.

The morning of the ceremony, Gita and I wore our new yellow dresses with butterflies on them that we'd bought with our mothers at the Bishal Bajaar Supermarket. Our dresses were similar except mine had half-sleeves, and Gita chose hers without them. The elders milled around us, hugging occasionally, looking on proudly, each vocally wondering why the good idea of binding us in
miteri
hadn't struck him or her earlier, while the pointy-nosed astrologer read mantras on the opposite side of the sacred fire, into which he intermittently threw rice and
gheeu
. A bright yellow cloth extended from my waist to Gita's. The astrologer from time to time asked us to repeat chants after him and had us cover our heads with our new hankies. We tried suppressing our laughter as the Sanskrit words trickled out of our mouths, halting and unsure.

“It's like being married,” I whispered to Gita.

“Yes, but I am the wife because I am wearing a sleeveless dress,” Gita explained.

“Yes, you are,” I said, accepting.

The astrologer silenced us with a wave of the hand, and we stifled our giggles.

“Gita, please stand up and give the gift you've brought for your
mitini
and do the
dhog
to her.” He showed her how to do the
dhog
by bringing his own palms—with his wrinkly fingers pointed upward—together in front of his forehead. “Yes, that's how you do it. You can also do it without smiling. And, you,
naani
, can you please do the same for your
miteri
without laughing?”

We then gave each other five-rupee notes using the astrologer as the medium. I presented Gita a doll that was clothed like her, in a sleeveless dress. Gita looked just like the doll—fair, petite, and beautiful. Gita had brought me a doll, too, big and black. She said her name was Sandy. The astrologer told us that we'd have to summon each other with “Mitini” and not our names from then on. It was all so grand. Wait until the other girls at school heard us call each other Mitini. How envious they would be.

From then on, Gurung Badi would be my Mit Aamaa. I'd have to call Gurung Bada Mit Appa. Gita had to follow the same rules with my parents, which she took to easily. I found it awkward. How could I suddenly change from calling them one thing to another? Calling Gita Mitini, though, was easy. It felt right on the tongue, was the right word for her.

Once we had eaten a vegetarian meal that Gita complained about, she and I rushed outside to collect guavas for some mischief. But first, Gita had to pee.

“I don't like sitting down when I pee,” she said conspiratorially. “I'll try peeing standing up. You'll do it with me, too.”

I had tried peeing standing up before. It just seemed more convenient than squatting, but the urine just dribbled down my legs and soiled my underwear. I had since stuck to the conventional method.

“Yes, let's do it,” I said, sounding excited but afraid of what urinating in this new method would do to my frilly yellow dress. I was a little worried that Gita would get into trouble with Gurung Badi now that my bad luck had been transferred to her.

We went into the bamboo grove, about to be cleared to make way for a house for our new neighbors. As a creature of habit, I squatted.

“No, standing up,” Gita ordered.

We lifted our skirts—she her sleeveless one, and I mine with half-sleeves—and pulled down our panties.

“One, two, three, go,” Gita said.

Our urine trickled, hesitantly, guardedly. Some of it touched the ground, but most of it soaked our thighs, calves, and feet. Our panties were drenched. Thankfully, we held our new skirts about our waists, so they weren't stained.

“But how do the boys do it?” Gita asked, taking off her underwear and wiping her legs with it. “God promise you won't tell anybody?”

“God promise.” I made the sign of a cross near my heart.

She put her underwear back on. Her sleeveless dress looked so good on her.

It was the happiest day of my life. The astrologer was right—my bad luck was probably going away.

I now had three secrets to keep from the world, to think of, and to promise myself never to reveal to anyone before I fell asleep. This was Secret Number Three. No, this was Secret Number Two, while Aamaa's drinking was now Secret Number Three. I'd also need to alter my prayer to God about my bad luck; I'd have to ask him to take Gita's bad luck away.

Peeing standing up wasn't the only act of defiance Gita would commit—she was full of ideas for fresh mischief that would ensure that her luck changed for the worse.

Appa and Gurung Bada left early in the morning two days later. Gurung Badi cried with Aamaa for some time, but Gita and I didn't know the reason, as Aamaa wouldn't allow us in the room. We were already dressed for school because Appa wanted pictures of us in our school uniform.

“Let's go to Swayambunath today,” Gita said, pulling me in the direction opposite to the school.

“After school?” I asked her, nervous already, for I knew what the answer would be. My bad luck was her bad luck now, and I'd have to be careful that she was careful. What if Gurung Badi found out?