The Guru of Love by Samrat Upadhyay Read Free Book Online

imprisoned. “Rakesh, bring me a glass of water,” Mrs. Pandey commanded, and Rakesh bounded toward the kitchen. Goma handed Sanu money to go fetch some sweets and sugar from the shops. Ramchandra eyed the money—fifty rupees.
    Goma said that her parents should have let her know about their visit, but Mr. Pandey said, “You mean we have to send a messenger before we come to our daughter’s house?”
    â€œDaughter’s flat,’’ Mrs. Pandey commented. She found a packet of expensive-looking chocolate in her bag and gave it to Rakesh, who’d brought her water. “Share it with your sister.”
    After Goma went to the kitchen to make tea, Mr. Pandey said, “So, son-in-law, how is your school?”
    â€œIt’s going well,” Ramchandra replied. He was seated on the floor, as Mr. and Mrs. Pandey had taken up the bed. Rakesh was studying the chocolate wrapper.
    â€œHow many tutees do you have these days?”
    â€œTwo in the morning.” He’d had an evening tutee a few weeks ago, but after a couple of sessions the student stopped coming, because Ramchandra told him that he couldn’t continue unless he paid in advance.
    Mrs. Pandey sighed, then looked around the bedroom and up at the ceiling, where some of the plaster was coming off.
    Ramchandra avoided her eyes. “And how are you two?”
    â€œOur lives have become very passive,” Mr. Pandey said. “Nothing to do all day. We’ve been thinking about walking every evening, and thought we’d give it a start today by walking over here. But your mother-in-law here couldn’t do it, so we came by car.” The Pandeys owned a sleek red Honda.
    â€œWe should call the driver in for tea,” Ramchandra said.
    â€œForget it,” Mrs. Pandey said, and looked around the room again, as if to imply that even her driver wouldn’t want to enter a dump like this.
    â€œDid you hear of the agitation today? What do you think?” Mr. Pandey asked. The afternoon newspapers, which Ramchandra had read during tea break at school, reported that an angry mob in the city of Biratnagar had burned two buses and hurled stones at the police, who had fired tear gas, then real bullets, killing two people. One newspaper had run a scathing criticism of the government for the shootings, and talk reverberated through the city that the editor of the newspaper would be whisked away to an unknown destination. The word buzzing through the city was “khattam”—finished or stopped or gone—and after a while it acquired a special currency, rolling off citizens’ tongues like a mantra. The country’s situation is khattam; the prime minister, appointed by the king, is khattam; the pothole-filled, accident-prone roads are always khattam; the king, with his English education and his royal sideburns, is maha-khattam, super-gone.
    â€œWhat can I say?” Ramchandra said. He didn’t want to get into a political discussion with his father-in-law, who was not interested in anyone else’s opinions, let alone those of his failure of a son-in-law. Clearly, he was asking only to make conversation. Even more infuriating, Mr. Pandey’s allegiance was unflinching. He lambasted any inkling of rebellion and constantly praised King Mahendra, the now-deceased father not only of the current king but also of the strict one-party system. What most annoyed Ramchandra was Mr. Pandey’s unwavering praise of the Ranas, tyrants who had amassed an obscene amount of wealth in their ridiculous English-style palaces while the rest of their countrymen wore tattered clothes. It was one of these Rana palaces that Mr. Pandey had inherited from his grandfather. Pandey Palace, as the family called it, the alliteration rolling off their tongues with pride, was a four-story, old, but frequently renovated structure in Bhatbhateni. Its broad balcony afforded a pleasant view of the neighborhood, and its large