~Unknown~
Ram Kumar was a second-class officer in The National Bank of Nepal. Married for thirty-five years to the same devoted woman and working year after year amidst the same stack of ledger files, he could be best described as normal. With gaunt features, thick horn rimmed spectacles and a toothbrush moustache, Ram looked as if he was born to be a bank clerk. Now at the age of fifty-five, with just three more years before retirement, he had only one more obligation to fulfill-get his young son married.
Maya Devi, Ram’s better half was a small and stout woman. Physically they made a strange couple, like an unmatched pair of shoes. His swarthy, bony features against her sagging, milky countenance. However, when they were married, appearance was insignificant. Keeping with Hindu traditions, they had seen each other only a few days before their marriage had been arranged. Now after years of solidarity, you could say their union was an old gray institution, slowly weathering but never falling. Ram did not remember the last time he physically displayed love to his wife. Only memories remained, like work out black and white pictures.
Maya Devi was uneducated and before she had learned to play as a child, she was taught to submit herself to fate. The fate of being born a girl child. It was carefully instilled in her that all girls grew old before they grew up She was married when she was a nubile twelve-year-old and had looked up to her nineteen-year-old husband as a father figure, an impression that left an indelible mark in her mind. In the course of her life, her sole purpose had been to bear children for her husband and look after them. Day in and day out. It seemed that in their married life, she had been everything to Ram, from a faithful servant to a caring nurse-except a passionate wife.
They lived with their son Rajesh, in a one storied house in a dusty suburb of the town. The peeled off painting on the fa?ade told the age of the house and like every other house clustered in their neighbourhood, a tall antennae shot up from their roof, telling the world they owned a TV set.
Rajesh was the youngest and the only son among the five children. A young man of nineteen, he had just finished college. He was frail and docile and had lived a life cowering in his father’s shadow. Every decision in his life was taken by his father, right from the kind of clothes he would wear to the college he went to, which he obliged without questioning.
In college he had taken a fancy to some of the girls in his class but the courage to go and speak to them was always thwarted by his father’s looming shadow that stuck to him like his own. On the last day of college, Rita, the girl famous for her loose hair and looser remarks confided in him, rolling her eyes in a particular way.
“You know Rajesh, had it not been for that pencil moustache of yours, you and I could have been a hit item.”
She made her remarks and vanished, but it fluttered the wings of Rajesh’s heart and for the first time in his life, without his father’s consent, he shaved, and walked around like a blushing peeled potato.
Now, as a graduate in science, Rajesh was at the threshold of a career. His father, who had always dreamt of his son becoming an engineer, had used all his resources, spoken to all friends and relatives to put in a word or two at various sectors of His Majesty’s Government. Finally a neighbour who knew people in high places agreed to put in his influence.
“Look Ram ji, I will have to stoop down to a lot of officers; eventually your son should not let my name be tarnished.” The neighbour’s word came down as a stern warning.
And so after months of groping around, Rajesh finally landed up with a job, as a sub-overseer for a road construction project, under His Majesty’s Government, in the western region of Nepal. Ram himself accepted the offer with folded hands. With pride in heart and trepidation in his eyes, he sent his son off, on a rickety bus, to work in one of the most rural parts of the country.
Rajesh’s work consisted of going to the fields all day, carrying maps and running around to the engineers’ orders. He stayed at the staff colony, a cluster of white single storied houses with tin roofs, the only prosperous township in the impoverished lands of the village. Each employee was given a room with an attached bathroom. The rooms were sparsely furnished with a bed, and a creaky steel cupboard, which was like an old woman treasuring secrets of everybody who occupied the room.
In the evenings, while the seniors drank rum and played cards, Rajesh sat beside them snatching a drink or two himself and sometimes even having a few hands at the game. He enjoyed this new found freedom, away from the glaring eyes of his father and mingling with senior officers gave him a sense of fulfillment. But now there was only one thing lacking in his life-a pretty wife. Slowly the thought was hitting him harder, especially when he saw that every evening while all the other officers had their wives to go back to, he was left with no choice but to go back to a lonely, dingy room. He wanted a change desperately, and lately spent his nights figuring out ways to bring this up with his father.
However, proposals for him had already been pouring in from various sectors in Kathmandu, but as the father of the groom, Ram himself wasn’t satisfied with any of them. Sometimes the girls were not pretty enough while at other times no agreement could be reached on the dowry issue. He was quick to point out that he wasn’t after money but for his own daughters’ marriage, he had to sell the small patch of ancestral land that he had in the village. Now it was only fair he got a portion of the fortune back.
After rejecting scores of proposals, finally hope had come through a colleague at the office. The family in question was the colleague’s neighbour. They were looking for a suitable boy for their daughter who had passed matriculation examinations with second-class honours. The colleague, Kiran ji, was carefully handpicked by the girl’s father to act as the middleman and Kiran ji flourished in the honour. Twitching his long handle bar moustache and adjusting his traditional cap every now and then, he painted his masterpiece, expertly blending his stroke with fluidity and caution.
“She is not only beautiful but an expert cook as well. She sprinkles her food with a pinch of spice and a dash of love. No wonder. I keep smelling my hands hours after eating and what’s more, she is 10th passed. I’m telling you, don’t let this chance slip away. They are willing to give twenty thousand rupees in cash along with a bed and a cupboard.”
He then dug his hand into his back pocket and took out a passport size photo of the girl. When Ram looked at her, he was at once engrossed. He felt the young cherubic girl smiling at him was someone he had known for a long time. Perhaps a beautiful daughter he had never had, since his own daughters had not been blessed with any striking quality. After some thought, Ram consented to meet the party at their house, on the following weekend.
That night he told Maya Devi about the proposal over dinner. She crouched in her space, listening to every word without giving any response. Ram slurped to his satisfaction, pushing balls of rice into his mouth, licking daal that trickled like teardrops down his wrist. After he finished, he belched, abruptly got up to wash his hands and left the kitchen. He sat on his cane chair kept on the small patio, and lit his yak cigarette.
“Sharmas from Baneshwor.Wonder if they’re related to the Sharmas from Chahbail. Anyway, if they’re giving a bed and a cupboard with twenty thousand rupees, it’s not such a bad deal,” he murmured under his breath and gave a long sigh, as his eyes fell on the small patch of unkempt garden growing wildly outside the patio. He flicked the cigarette butt into the garden and went in.
All week, Ram thought about the forthcoming meeting, and was suddenly overtaken by a new gust of energy. Whatever he did, he had the event at the back of his mind. At the office, he sat on his desk with the ledger open in front of him, peering over at Kiran ji’s table, eager to strike up another conversation about the Sharmas. Kiran ji, himself tremendously excited with his role, sneaked to his table at every given opportunity, carrying a brown file to give the impression that it was official, and sat beside him to divulge yet another piece of information on
the Sharmas.
At tiffin time both of them went down to the tea stall and discussed the background of the Sharmas at length. Their roots, branches, sub branches. Inevitably somebody or the other would have been an acquaintance of Ram. After their tea and fried peas were consumed, Ram paid for both, and they walked back to the office; Ram in a pensive mood, stroking his chin with his fingers and Kiran ji wiping his greasy fingers on his long moustache, a perpetual grin pasted on his face.
The day finally arrived. Ram got up earlier than usual, and as he did every morning, went to say his prayers in the puja room. Bare-chested, clad only in a white dhoti with the sacred thread hanging loose on his shoulder, he briskly made his way around as if he had ten other things on his mind. For Ram, the half an hour spent there was the most peaceful moment of his day and he rounded up his ritual by rotating the incense stick with his right hand and tinkling the bell with his left hand.
Immediately after the prayers were over, he hurried to Rajesh’s room and banged on his door.
“Rajesh, eh Rajesh, get up fast and wash yourself. Your mother is waiting for you in the puja room. These young men today.” he muttered and went about like a man on a mission with no time to waste. But Rajesh was up already, lying on his bed, staring vacantly at a crack in the ceiling. He had been waiting for this day and could not contain his excitement when his father had asked him to come to Kathmandu. The deal had been struck without him having to bring it up, which had made him so happy that he had celebrated the occasion by swigging half a bottle of rum all by himself and making his seniors dance with him to folk music. And now when the moment arrived, he felt at peace with his burning desires. He had seen the girl’s picture and had coyly nodded his appreciation to his sisters. He felt lucky that such a beautiful girl would ever come his way and already in his mind, started fantasising about their first night together. Now he was doing the same when he was roused by the loud thuds on his door.
By ten, the Kumar family was ready. Ram was dressed in a gray tunic with traditional close-fitting trousers and a flower-patterned cap resting proudly on his head. Maya Devi, was adorned in a red sari and jewelry, which she had worn only during her daughters’ marriage. But even the lavish dress failed to bring any light to her face. Rajesh wore a neat white shirt and a pair of red trousers crisply ironed and properly creased. The dress was a perfect match for the blush on his face. When the daughters arrived, carrying their babies like bundles of clothes, they all headed off, squeezed in two taxis to the house of the Sharmas.
The Sharmas greeted them at the door. The father of the bride, an officer in the Ministry of Health was a cunning Brahmin with an aquiline nose and sly eyes. He received them with the traditional namaste and a wide grin, flashing an uneven row of tobacco stained teeth. His wife who had appeared from behind had a striking resemblance to Maya Devi.
Stout and plump, Mrs Sharma was also dressed in a garish red sari, matched by colourful sets of bangles that tinkled against each other as she proffered her namaste. But the similarities ended with the features because unlike her counterpart, the mother of the girl greeted her guests looking straight into their eyes.
After the courtesies were exchanged, they were led into the drawing room, which had a green sofa set on each side of the wall and a round table with a colourful spread of sweets and biscuits in the middle. Ram sat down, stealing a furtive glance of the room. Maya Devi, out of general courtesy parked herself on the edge of the sofa and Rajesh, on whom the blush still hung like a curtain, cringed next to her. The room was painted in grim gray, matched by a spread of dull linoleum on the floor. Ram reacted to the linoleum with a quick mental calculation.
“Hmm.no carpets. Perhaps doesn’t want to show he takes bribes.”
On top of the TV was a cluster of tiny animal statues, some wooden, some brass and some plastic. As Ram Kumar covertly continued his inspection, his eyes fell on the framed picture on the wall of Mr Sharma standing proudly in front of the Eiffel Tower. When he turned his head, he found Mr Sharma looking at him.
“My 1985 trip to Paris. Office expense. Beautiful city. Ever been there?” Ram, who had never been farther than India simpered, shaking his head. For some time they sat there smiling at everybody but nobody in particular. It was Kiran ji who broke the silence. “I’m telling you, this pair is made in heaven, just like Lord Ram and Sita.” Another burst of mandatory laughter followed and after some small talk Mr Sharma called for the bride-to-be.
Bina finally entered, in measured steps, her head bowed down, her fingers clutching the edges of her silk sari. Her hair was tied in a delicate bun, partially shielded by the sari, like a veil covering a woman’s blush. Her cheeks were soft and rosy, with just a teasing dab of powder on each side. On her lips hung a faint and demure smile. Suddenly everything in the room, from the sofas sets down to the last grain of dreary paint seemed to have become younger in the presence of this fresh young being. She sat next to her mother, so delicately that she seemed to melt into the sofa. At this very first glance Ram felt the magic and like his son, sat frozen in his seat, transfixed by this picture of pure beauty.
“Ram ji, Ram ji.” Suddenly he was jolted from his trance by Mr Sharma. “Would you like tea or coffee?” Ram looked up, the words struggling to come out.
“Tea would be fine.” He muttered. Then Mrs Sharma, teasingly rolling her eyes, asked Rajesh.
“And what would it be for you Rajesh Babu?”
Rajesh squirmed a little bashfully looked into Bina’s eyes and said, “I want coffee.”
“Bina nani, make sure you sprinkle enough sugar for him, huh? Hahaha.” Kiran ji cut in, twitching his moustache. Bina gave an easy nod and walked out of the room. Rajesh was smitten and felt defenseless against her bewitching charm. Sheepishly, he edged closer to his mother and clutched her hands as if to say, “I want her.” Maya Devi, out of character, pinched his hands, a cheeky smile appearing on her own face. Ram on the other hand managed to pull himself together and complemented his host.
“Well our only daughter, now will be at your mercy.” Replied the host, passing around the biscuit tray. When Bina came back with the tea tray, Kiran ji was complementing her cooking skills, especially her expert hand at making pickles. Her entry made Ram once again divert his complete attention on her and her every delicate feature. As she approached, he felt he was drowning into a world where there was nobody else in the room but the two of them, her beauty floating in a wave of surreal images and her faint but depraved whiff of perfume enveloping his very being.
“Tea Buwa?” He was the first one she served, slightly bowing down, glancing at him for a fraction of a second then looking down, the eyelashes covering her big eyes like a beautiful screen, the honeydew dripping from her lips. When he took the cup their eyes met once again and Ram made an effort of returning the smile but she sauntered past him, the silk of her sari brushing against the fabric of his trouser, giving him a strange sensation.
“Is the sugar ok?” Mr Sharma asked, which immediately jerked him back to the real world. He turned to his host; nervously adjusting his cap, hoping nobody had noticed his behaviour. When Maya Devi looked up, she noticed beads of perspiration glinting on her husband’s forehead.
In the kitchen that night, Ram could not even concentrate on his food. Rajesh, sitting on the floor next to him was fiddling with a potato.
“So you like her huh?” Ram asked, without looking at his son. Rajesh looked up, the blush slowly giving away to a confident grin. “Yes father.” Ram forced some food into his mouth the suddenly got up, leaving the rice unfinished, with Maya Devi gaping behind him.
He went to the patio, lit his cigarette and started pacing up and down. Soon he was sweating, the heat of the summer evening gripping his body. Images of Bina, her flowery youth, the particular way she glanced at him, the slight drop of her head and the quivering smile, all flashed before his eyes and he felt as if she was sitting right there with him, now inviting him with her smile, now piercing him with her looks.
That night sleep eluded him.
The next day at noon, Ram and Kiran ji sat in the canteen, licking their fingers stained by pea curry. As they got up to leave, Kiran ji once again took Ram’s hands and shook them vigorously. The wedding date had been fixed. (Concluded.)
Winner of the British Council Short Story Competition (18-35 category).
(Source : Nepali Times FROM ISSUE #123 (13 DEC 2002 – 19 DEC 2002))
