Chapter Two

I looked around. The boat was docked at the Vypin quay and passengers were disembarking.

The meeting with the headmaster of the local school had consumed more time than I had bargained for, and it was almost evening before I returned to my empty flat at Kaloor, a minor suburb of Kochi. The late lunch I had taken at an unpretentious hotel was making me heavy and drowsy. Without bothering to change, I stretched my weak and pitiable body on the bed as the sleepy eyes fell on the ceiling. Ignoring the weak and pitiable body, the energetic and enthusiastic mind asked whether it could return to Kathmandu. I nodded drowsily.

Four days had passed since the encounter at the canteen and the interactions between us were trying to move on from the ‘hello- hello’ phase.

It was five past nine on that day. She and her friends were standing in the shadowy corridor, leading to our class.

The corridor was crowded with boys and girls, the chaos perfect for a college setting. There was laughter all around, accompanied with animated conversations and energized shouts.

 “Good morning,” I said merrily.

“Good morning, Alexei,” they all sang together.

She was staring at me, her attractive face, a little concerned. Before I could say anything, she came forward, gaped at my hands as if searching for something and asked in a serious note, “You didn’t bring the gift?”

“Gift? What gift?” I asked curiously.

She looked distressed, “You mean, nobody told you?” she asked.

 “Told me what?” ‘Baffling!’ I decided.

She glared accusingly at her friends. Hanging their heads like little kids, a couple stared at the grubby wall while the remaining three inspected their toes absorbedly.

“Will someone say something?” I was getting a little edgy.

Slowly and deliberately she said, “At the beginning of a new academic year, the new-comers are required to give the HOD a gift,” she paused for a micro-second before continuing in a conspiratorial tone, “You know, Srestha sir is our HOD. You are the only foreign fresher this year and it is for you to give him the first gift.”

“Oh!” I was relieved, “I will bring something tomorrow.”

“No, no, today is the perfect day. You know, today is sir’s birthday and you must give him the gift today itself,” she said emphatically.

“But….,” I tried to gripe.

She wouldn’t allow me to continue, “There is a gift shop across the road. Come, let’s get something from there,” she took my hand and headed towards the main gate.

Half-way, she stopped, “Better, we stay here and write the message for him.”

She summoned a boy, shoved some notes into his hand and asked him to get the gift.

She turned to me, “What would you like to give sir?”

 “Well….,” I began.

“Okay, that’s then settled,” she turned to the boy, “Go; buy a bottle of perfume… the best one; quick, quick,” she looked at the others and shouted, “Hey, you also go with him.”

Turning to me, she smiled and said in a sugary voice, “You

know, sir will appreciate this gift, a lot,” then, lowering the voice, she whispered, “He splashes perfume all over the body.”

I wondered how she got such classified information, “But the money….,”

She cut me, “Okay baba, return it tomorrow, the day after… any day… no day. Let’s not waste time on such trivial matters.”

Looking at me keenly she raised her right hand to smoothen the silken hair before continuing, “It’s only ten minutes to the class. Come, let’s write the message.”

“What shall I write?” I asked, spreading a neat sheet in front of me.

She looked at me pensively before saying gravely, “Hmm… let me think...,” I watched her face. The crimson tongue was going around the generous lips in a spherical motion. After three rounds, she took the lower lip in the mouth and started sucking it; slowly, very slowly. I watched in fascination as the lip went deep into the mouth before slowly coming out, only to once again begin the return journey.

She caught me watching, abruptly stopped the ‘tongue and lips’ show before twitching the face in a comical way, “I have it; write on the top of the paper, ‘Happy Birthday Sir’..., in capital letters; below that, ‘Love and greetings from India’, and at the bottom, ‘Alexei Thomas’,” she stopped before asking in an impertinent tone, “That’s your name, right?”

I was not pleased with the question but wrote as she said.

 “Fine; now sign it,” she said.

Her friends returned with the beautifully wrapped gift box.

“Sir has left the department and will be here any moment,” one of her cronies said.

“All right, you all go to your seats,” she took the box from the boy, looked at it intriguingly before turning to me, “As soon as sir comes, wish him ‘Happy Birthday’ before giving the box and the note.”

Thrusting the box into my hands, she ran to her seat.

We all got up and chanted ‘good morning sir’. Running the eyes from east to west and then west to east, the professor smiled cheerfully before signaling us to sit.

He had a round face with soft, olive toned clear skin. Unlike most Nepalese people, sir had a moderately brown complexion. 

He was about to move to the podium when I got up and screamed, “Happy Birthday, Sir.”

He watched me silently as I moved towards the dais holding the gift and the note. I handed him both. Placing the box on the table he spread out the paper and read it. I watched gleefully as glimpses of a smile broadened on his awe-inspiring face.

Slowly it turned into a huge beam. Looking at the class, he read the note again, this time aloud, ‘Love and greetings from India!’ The whole class clapped with great enthusiasm. He gestured the class into silence.

“India,… a great country,... great people,” he declared while throwing a benevolent smile at me.

It was my moment and I felt immensely happy.

I looked at her. She too was happy and gave me the thumbs-up sign.

I nodded pleasantly.

“Sir, can we see the gift?” the voice was from the front row.

“Why not?” The HOD tore-off the colour insulation before opening the box with impetuous fingers.

What happened next was like the frequent power-cuts in my native village. In a flash, the smile and the benevolence went out of the professor’s face. At that moment I knew that something had gone wrong terribly. There was pin-drop silence in the classroom.

The Head of the Department raised his head to glare at me. The fierce look had the potential to reduce this simple and humble Indian student to the status of that simple and humble cockroach I had encountered inside the urinal of the New Delhi railway station.

“Come here,” he roared.

I went near the table.

 “What is this?” now, it was a bellow.

I peeked into the box. I could see some type of clothing inside.

“Take it out,” his voice was like some heavy metal hitting a solid surface.

It was not the time to complain about my ear drums. Slowly I picked up the clothing from the box.

As the howling and yelling reverberated throughout the room, I stood there paralyzed, holding the filthy and mucky red panty. A horribly sickening stench was emitting out of it. With a screech I threw it on the stage. The laughter and the howling rose to an implausible crescendo of sound that could only be the prelude to disaster.

I looked at the professor pitifully; inside, my soul was howling like an injured puppy in intense pain.

“Silence,” bellowing to the class, he turned to me, the cherry nostrils flaring to their maximum, “Get out and don’t come back.”

I was categorical that it was the end of my master’s degree. Even if the university authorities tolerated this hideously stinking undergarment, my father wouldn’t; he had a better sense of smell.

I turned to her. Her eyes were fixed on me but I couldn’t read the thoughts behind them. My lips were pressed tightly together as I desperately tried not to make a donkey of me.

I had almost reached the door when her voice stopped me.

“Excuse me sir; it was not his fault,” the voice was unwavering.

He turned to her and asked, “What do you mean?” the tone had suddenly become soft and munificent. Even HODs were in awe of royalty.

“He was tricked.”

“By whom?” again, the almost submissive voice.

 “Me,” she said in a small voice.

The professor signaled me to return to the seat and stared at the high ceiling, as though seeking out some divine wisdom.

Turning to her, he said, “You go to the department and sit in my room; I’ll see you after the class.”

Collecting the shoulder bag, she looked at me before marching towards the door. I don’t know who else saw the mischievous wink.

After this stinking incident, we often met in and out of the class; discussed Shelly, Shakespeare and the quality of samosas in the canteen; exchanged books and chocolates, shared secrets and tea and before anybody could realize, had become inseparable friends. She mediated between the professor and me, and everything was settled amicably, resulting in me buying an expensive urn of cologne for him. I started accompanying her to different parts of Kathmandu valley, to new and unknown places. Together we’d go to the Pashupati Nath temple where she’d have darshan and I, jelabi and tea at an adjacent hotel. Occasionally, I visited her father’s mansion in Patan, a satellite town of Kathmandu. There, her mother would entertain me with sweets and butter tea while Savi, her younger sister laugh quietly at my broken Hindi. Once in a fortnight or so, we’d go to a Hindi movie at one of the few theaters in the town. All the while, she’d ask me endless questions about India, the people, the tropical fruits, the rivers, the seas, the Indian Ocean and particularly about Kerala. For some strange reasons I could not determine then, she asked a lot about the Western Ghats, especially the Anamudi and the Nilgiri mountains.

Days rolled on to weeks and then months. The camaraderie grew stronger and stronger. Sometime towards the end of the first year, she made an attempt to change my name.

We were sipping hot gooey tea at a roadside stall near Thamel on a cold afternoon. The owner of the stall was alert to her royal lineage and was hovering around to make us comfy.

“Can I call you Devnath?” she asked after placing the tea cup on the bench.

“What is wrong with my name?” I asked snootily. After a few seconds I said slowly, “Moreover, I don’t like Devnath. It sounds like a Hindu name.”

She looked into my eyes with an uncharacteristic expression, “It is neither a Hindu nor a Christian nor a Buddhist name.” She picked up a coiled jelabi from the nearby platter and asked, “This is jelabi; is it a Hindu or a Christian name?”

“I am not a jelabi,” I said insolently.

“No, you are not, but in God’s eyes you are no different from this jelabi: both are His conceptions. He would have preferred all his children to be alike without any divisions. But since man was adamant in having different religions, castes and sects, He, being the understanding and tolerant father, is playing along.”

“When did you become a nun?” I asked, marveling at the intricacy of a woman’s heart and mind.

The mischievous wink was the answer. She picked up the cup to take small sips of the hot tea.

“I am happy with my name,” I said stubbornly.

Placing the empty cup on the bench, she stared at it for some time before asking, “How come you never take me to your church?”

I hesitated, “I am scared of my father. If he sees me with you, he’ll jump into conclusions.”

“What conclusions?” she asked teasingly.

I looked away.

Her hands were on mine as she said, “I am your friend and there is nothing wrong or sinful in that. I’ll talk to your father. He is a man of God and will understand.”

Slowly withdrawing my hand from under hers, I looked towards the horizon and the smog swathed mountain tops of the majestic Himalayas.

Memories of my childhood flashed before me. As a child, I never knew whether my father liked or reviled me. Whatever his feelings, he had always concealed them carefully. He seldom spoke to me and whenever he did, it was always to inculcate a sense of guilt in me; it was as if he expected me to feel guilty from some unspecified charge. Sometimes I could see him searching me with a peculiar kind of intensity. He was highly successful in consistently creating mystifying situations and behaving in ways that caused guilt and a chronic fear in me.  Most of the times, I tried to shrug-off these postures, but then became baffled by the constant complaints, the perpetual accusations and the habitual air of suspicion as if he was always waiting to be hurt.

I shook the head decisively, “No, don’t talk to him,” I took a deep breath before saying harshly, “My father is not in awe of royalty.”

She stirred on the cold wooden bench. I could see the hurt in those hazel eyes.

“I am sorry,” I was downhearted and dejected.

A fleetingly moving smile was the answer, “Okay, I won’t talk to him, but you must take me to your church. I want to pray to Mother Mary.”

“We don’t pray to Mother Mary,” I said slowly.

She looked surprised, “But I have heard that Christians pray to her.”

“Not all Christians: there are different factions in Christianity; like Catholics, Protestants and Syrian Christians. Some pray; we don’t,” I said.

“So, you don’t venerate her???” her tone was serious.

“Well, we respect her as the mother of Jesus, and mention her name in prayers, but don’t pray to her as such,” I said.

“Why is she called Virgin Mary?” she asked.

We were entering forbidden areas, and I was getting a little nervous, “When Jesus was conceived, she was still a virgin,” I said curtly.

“But how is that possible?” she was at a loss.

“That’s God’s way and I don’t think we should poke our nose into His affairs. Remember what happened to Dr. Faustus for his over- inquisitiveness,” I said, referring to a character in our course book.

The tongue came out and I watched it going around, licking the lustrous lips.

I decided to change the topic, “Aren’t you worried of someone telling your father about our frequent outings?” I asked.

“He already knows,” the voice was detached.

 “And he doesn’t mind……?” I asked.

Looking at some point around my shoes she shook the head.

 “You are lucky to have such a father,” I said.

The ironical nod of the head was tinged with melancholy.

“Would you like one more tea?” she asked, adjusting the shawl around her. It was getting chilly.

She passed my nod to the stall-man.

Within seconds he placed two cups of steaming tea on the bench.

“Have you ever handled a revolver?” she asked while removing a speck from my trousers.

The question took me by surprise. This time, it was my turn to shake the head, “In fact, I have never seen a real one,” I said.

Looking at me for a few seconds, she said, “I was seventeen and Savi, eleven when one day papa called us to his study and handed me a revolver. It was my last month as a school student before joining the Mahendra College for BA.”

She took a deep breath before continuing, “I was staring at the horrible black metal in my hand, when he said, “This is the second generation SSA colt .45 or The Equalizer as it is generally called. It is a single action revolver with a revolving cylinder, holding six rounds.”

As I was about to place it on the table, his voice struck me, “Keep it; it’s for you.”

“But, papa, I don’t……,” he stopped me with his left hand.

“Do you know how to handle this?” he asked, taking it from my hand.

 Too afraid to say anything, I shook the head.

Pointing to the side of the handgun, he said, “This is the loading gate. Place the revolver on half-cock like this, and open this gate. Now, load each chamber in sequence and close the loading gate.”

The sight of the bullets was disconcerting, to say the least. Savi was shuddering, her hands around me. I held her close. Then, as I watched in horror, he placed the revolver next to his temple and said, “Now, draw the hammer to full cock and pull the trigger…. like this.”

Papa looked at me coldly before saying slowly, “It is simple, isn’t it?”

 He took my right hand and placed the firearm in it.

The revolver was shuddering in my hand as he continued, “Your mother must be telling you these things; but how can she when she herself…,” pausing a little, he said, “Next month, you are going to college. Enjoy your campus life and have fun, but when it comes to marriage, I will decide your husband.”

His frosty eyes were piercing me as he continued, “If ever it crosses your mind to pick your own path, make use of this and spare me the trouble. Remember one thing: the honour of this house is dearer to me than your life. Savi too is your responsibility.”

With that he dismissed us from his presence.”

We sat there silently for many minutes. I was thinking of my first encounter with him.

It was about two months back. I was coming out of the manor after meeting her mother and sister when his car stopped at the portico and he emerged. He was a sturdy, middle-sized man in his late forties. A pair of razor-sharp and piercing cat eyes stared at me before shooting a quizzical glance at her.

“Alexei, my classmate,” she mumbled.

The cat eyes dissected me from top to bottom, “Didn’t your father get any other place to build the church?” his voice had a jarring note.

I stood there, staring at the car.

“His Majesty is interested in that property,” he said, still giving me the penetrating look.

I knew all about it. Some time back king Birendra had called my father and had asked him whether he would consider taking another land in lieu of the place where the church was. When father had expressed his unwillingness the king had left it at that. Moreover, there was the diplomatic angle. Most of the envoys of the western embassies were members of the church, and the monarch wouldn’t have invited an ambassadorial row.

I stared back.

Tell him that we will give good money,” with that he disappeared behind the huge ornate door.

The tea-stall-man bowed with folded hands while shaking the head as she offered him money. Taking his hand, she thrust a few notes into it.

As we walked towards the bus stop, she was saying, “I can even have sex with anybody; he won’t mind as long as I am cautious. But I can’t ever love a man.”

Turning towards me, she searched my eyes for a few seconds before continuing, “I don’t want to be treated like a princess; I just want to be loved.”

I stood there long after her bus had turned the corner.

After that day I saw her in the church on many Sundays with a white scarf covering the head. We were total strangers on those occasions.

The meetings and the outings continued and before we realized, it was the final year.

Now the frequency of the meetings and outings increased.

Sometimes we took her turtle-shaped Volkswagen car for our outings, with Kakka at the wheel. Kakka was her driver, confidant, counselor and auditor, not necessarily in that order. It was during one of those jaunts I came across Hitler’s Mercedes car that was resting on the grounds of the Nepal Engineering College. The car had been abandoned long back by the royal family, and at that time was being used to teach the students of the mechanical engineering discipline.

“But why would Hitler gift such a car to a small time king, so far away from Berlin?” I asked after sitting in the driver-seat of the depleted car.

“You are insulting His Majesty, my great grand uncle,” she was chuckling while taking the broken seat beside me.

“Tell me; why?” I persisted.

“I don’t know but I know someone who might know,” she had said.