The Gurkha's Daughter (2 page)

“No, I haven't really been crying,” replied Sarita. “I didn't feel bad, but when the servant girl told me you couldn't come to the phone because you were crying, I felt bad that I wasn't feeling so bad. Must have been the guilt. Aamaa never treated you well, and yet you are sad about her death. It's funny.”

Kaali, after shrugging off a stinging remark about her ugliness from Sarita's teenage son, was now safely on top of all the luggage bags in the trunk. She was staring at one of her co-passengers—the one seated up front—and trying to hold back a giggle. Parvati tried staring her down with bulging eyes, but Kaali paid no attention to anyone but the old white passenger—a big, perspiring woman who grunted when the van finally moved.

“She didn't treat me that badly, Sarita,” said Parvati. “What family hasn't had
saasu-buhaari
spats? It's two women trying to win the affections of the same man, so there's bound to be
some friction. You yourself told me you had problems with your mother-in-law. By the way, is this the woman staying with you?”

“Yes, although the man whose affections you were both fighting for has long been dead.”

“So is your mother now. It wouldn't be right for us to talk about how she treated me. Who's this woman again?”

“Oh, this is Erin, my mother,” Sarita said, and in English added, “Erin, this is my sister-in-law. I am telling her about how you're my mother from today onward.”

Erin smiled at Parvati, who tried to smile back.

Sarita broke into Nepali. “She's a paying guest. She's been with me for a month. After the news of Aamaa's death today, she told me she'd be my mother from now on. I call her Aamaa, and she likes it. She wanted to see a proper Nepali funeral, so I told her to come along. You don't happen to have the money with you right now, do you? I figured we should fill up before we run out of gas in the middle of nowhere.”

Be careful of the money,
he reminded her every time they spoke.
Don't let anyone know you have money with you. The bus fare from Birtamod to the border should be no more than ten rupees. In fact, you may even be able to ride for free because you have the kind of pleasant disposition that inspires kindness in the most hard-hearted strangers.

“You're taking her to attend your mother's funeral?” Parvati asked, not making an effort to hide her horror while she ferreted for two thousand-rupee notes in her purse. “Your mother dies, and you already have a new mother. That's a convenient life you lead.”

“
Arrey
, you never know with these Australians. Once they like you, they could even sponsor you. In two years, you become an Australian citizen. And she's already grateful to me for taking her to my mother's—my birth mother's—funeral.”

“Would it bother you if Sunny found himself another mother too?” Parvati asked, pointing at Sarita's son, who sat sulking by the window.

“Why not? If it benefits him, why not? He can even have one when I am alive.”

“And when is your husband coming to the funeral?” Parvati asked.

“He may not be able to make it. He has to go to China for work tomorrow. But he'll be there for the thirteen-day
kaam
. The representatives from our family are my son, me, and Aamaa.”

“Yes, your family's representatives for your dead mother's funeral are you, your son, and your new mother,” Parvati said, aware the sarcasm was lost on Sarita.

They had now left the main city and the heavy traffic behind and were traversing serpentine roads. Erin clicked pictures when a particularly scenic mountain view greeted them. Sarita, ever the dutiful daughter, asked her if she wanted to get out and take photos.

“That's fine,” Erin muttered.

“No, Aamaa, that's no trouble, please, please,” she said and then asked the driver to stop, following which Erin got out, stared at the mountains, sighed, shot pictures, said a prayer, and got back in.

“Her camera is the size of a TV,” Parvati said.

“When you use English words that way, she knows we are talking about her.”

“People would think we are on a sightseeing trip and not mourning Aamaa's death,” Parvati added. “And why does she keep praying? Is she calling her
Yeshu
to bless her?”

“She's a Hindu.”

“Like these white people are ever Hindu.”

Sarita switched to English: “Hey, Erin, my sister-in-law doesn't believe me when I tell her you're Hindu.”

“Maybe I should recite the
shlokas
for her,” Erin said.

“You should,” Sarita replied with recently formed filial indulgence.

“So, she knows the
shlokas
too?” Parvati asked Sarita, impressed with herself for having gathered some information from a conversation in a language she barely understood.

“Yes, she does. You know, they wouldn't allow her entry into the Pashupatinath Temple; they said only Hindus allowed. She then recited the Hanuman Chalisa in front of the priests. You should have seen the look on those priests' faces.”

Erin chuckled in the front seat. She turned pinker when she laughed. Kaali let out a giggle.

“Does she understand our language?” Parvati whispered.

“No, but she knows what story I am narrating because I tell it to everyone. I think it makes her proud.”

“I can't believe you call her Aamaa. She doesn't even speak Nepali. I could never do it.”

“But doesn't the servant girl—this one in the back—call you Aamaa?”

“No, she doesn't.”

“I thought she did. Maybe you should ask her to call you Aamaa. It could make things easier for you. Does this one still steal?”

“No, Kaali doesn't steal. She's been with us five years. She's good.” Parvati looked at Kaali from the corner of her eye; her servant was listening intently. “If she continues behaving, we can maybe get her lip operated on. It will cost us a lot of money, but I don't have anyone else to spend it on.”

My mistress promised to get someone to teach me how to drive when I turned fifteen,
he had said.
I turned sixteen, and she said I wasn't tall enough. I turned seventeen, and she said it was better to wait until the legal age. I turned eighteen, and she said I hadn't been satisfactory all of last year and didn't deserve to learn it. I didn't learn how to drive until I ran away. These people love
making false promises. Tell me, does your mistress tell you she will one day get your lip fixed?

“Yes, at least Daai built the house before he passed away. You're lucky you don't need to save for your children's education. Nowadays even the most stupid of them wants to go to America. I wonder where we'll get the money from.”

“We've had three deaths in six years,” Parvati observed, cautious of any money talk. “Does that say something to you? Maybe we are cursed.”

“I don't know. Baba died because he was sick and because it was time.”

“Yes, that was expected. Do you think Aamaa will go to heaven?”

“I don't think so. She has always made a lot of people suffer. She doesn't deserve to go to heaven. I know she's my mother—my biological mother—but a fact is a fact. Thankfully, God gave me another mother.”

Sarita squeezed Erin's right shoulder and lightly massaged it.

“Don't think she only treated me badly. She was sometimes nice. Maybe if I tried to understand what she was going through—a son's accident, a husband's passing—I'd have been able to tolerate her better. She could have stayed with me in Kathmandu instead of Birtamod. I could have offered.”

“She'd have burned you alive if you women lived together. She'd have sucked out your blood, minced you into pieces, roasted you, and eaten you like a
khasi
. Honestly, Bhauju, how did you feel when you heard the news?”

“I was sad. Ask Kaali. I couldn't help crying. I am better now—more in control—but then the tears just wouldn't stop flowing. They went on and on and on like the Simara rains. I didn't know I'd be so affected by all this.”

“You're definitely a better person than I'll ever be. I need to feel sad, I know I need to cry, but I just can't. It's my mother we're talking about, you know, my biological mother.”

“Your only mother, Sarita. All this talk about another mother is nonsense.”

“No, I knew you'd find the concept ridiculous. I would be grateful if you didn't. This woman is nice. You would discover how nice she is if you could talk to her.”

“Oh, what will I talk to her about in my
tutey-futey
English?”

Kaali said she had to pee, which immediately flustered Sarita.

“We've only been on the road five hours, and you already have to pee?” Sarita said. “I told you to take care of your business before coming.”

After they passed a resort village, from which Sarita asked the driver to stop a good distance away, because it was crowded with rafters and tourists, they all got out to stretch their legs. Sarita and Erin disappeared behind the bushes. Kaali squatted by the van, and the rivulet springing from between her legs irrigated, among other things, a colony of red ants, spurring them to zigzag their way to dryness.

“Why don't you pee standing up like a man, Kaali?” Sunny shouted from the other side of the road. “You look like a boy, and you should pee like a boy.” The comment provoked a guffaw from the quiet driver.

Parvati crouched down to relieve herself where Kaali had and, spotting an ant struggle for life, asked no one in particular, “The dead, do they know when they're dying?”

“No, they don't,” Kaali said with seriousness. “No, they don't know when they're dying. It just happens.”

“Shut up, Kaali,” Parvati said, getting in. “Talk only when you're asked something. Have you even experienced the death of a loved one to know what it feels like?”

The driver claimed the van wouldn't start because of overloading, so they all got out almost as soon as they'd got back in.

“Sunny, can you push the van?” The driver revved the engine up once again.

“Yes, Kaali should, too—she's a boy after all,” Sunny yelled as he pushed the van with an exaggerated display of histrionics.

Erin joined Sunny. When the driver signaled to them that they could get in, Sarita looked proudly at Erin.

“Look, Aamaa doesn't think any job is beneath her,” she said.

Within half an hour, the mauve in the sky would turn pitch black. It would be warmer as they descended into the plains, but it was getting colder now. Parvati asked Sunny to close the window on his side, but he was adamant about its remaining open. When she disagreed, they compromised that the window would be left partially open. When a truck roared past them, Parvati nudged Sarita to talk to Sunny. Sarita remained silent, forcing Parvati to take the matter up again.

“All right, Bhaanjaa, time to close the window now,” she said. “We have to be well rested for the funeral, and your mother will freeze to death if you keep the window open all night.”

Sunny scowled but said nothing. Sarita was quiet.

“Close the window, Bhaanjaa,” Parvati said, her voice hardening slightly.

“Half an hour more, Maaiju,” came the impudent reply.

“In half an hour, we'll turn into ice.”

Sunny mumbled something under his breath and shut the window.

“Do you shout at him at all?” Parvati asked Sarita.

“No, not since Aamaa has lived with us. She has taught us several things about disciplining children. We allow him to do everything. She says that will make him a confident adult. She even told me not to scold him when he broke a windowpane with a cricket ball. They go on all these trips to Changunarayan and Nagarkot, and he comes back so much happier and
more knowledgeable about plants and animals. I could also say he has learned more about Nepal from Aamaa than he has from us or from his exorbitant school.”

“But we're different, Sarita. She's white. She's a foreigner. We bring up our children differently. We need to beat them. They need to listen to their elders. Sunny is thirteen. He'll soon be more difficult for you to manage. Thirteen to nineteen—these are crucial years.”

“I don't know, Bhauju, I was beaten as a child. Aamaa —the one who died—hit me all the time. It was something I could have done without.”

“But who from our generation wasn't beaten growing up? I don't know what nonsense this
gori
is feeding you, but you need to raise your children the way other Nepalis do.”

At the mention of the word
gori
, Sarita quickly stole a glance at Erin, who was fast asleep. Parvati looked to see what Kaali was up to. She was spread across three big luggage bags, with a shawl covering her body from neck to toe. She gave Parvati a cheeky smile, looking more comfortable than anyone else in the van.

“I think what Aamaa says makes sense,” Sarita said. “If I had been encouraged to stitch paper clothes when I was a child instead of Aamaa, the one who gave birth to me, telling me I'd end up as a low-caste tailor, I'd perhaps have been a fashion designer, making clothes for film stars. But when I said I wanted to study fashion designing, Aamaa actually had Daai give me a thrashing.”

Yes, you can even become an actress once people see your real beauty after the surgery,
he had said.
Bombay is a different world. I was the one who first encouraged Manisha Koirala to go to Bombay, and now look at what a big actress she has become. Of course, I can't take all the credit for it, because she was already very beautiful. You will be a film star with the nicest clothes. Now,
now, I must warn you not to wear those
revealing clothes all these actresses wear. That will not make me happy.

“Daai, as in Sir?” Parvati asked, surprised that her docile husband would be asked to carry out so brutal a task.