The Guru of Love by Samrat Upadhyay Read Free Book Online Page A

lawn in front was dotted with marble statues.
    That the Ranas had hoarded the country’s wealth while its citizens struggled to feed their families hardly entered Mr. Pandey’s awareness. But it was never sufficient for Ramchandra to think that Mr. Pandey realized his complicity in enjoying the wealth his grandfather had hoarded.
    â€œThese people,” Mr. Pandey said, “they don’t know what they’re doing.”
    Ramchandra remained quiet.
    â€œThey think Western-style politics have all the answers. But mark my word, son-in-law, this is the best system for Nepal.”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œMaybe? Maybe? That’s all you can say?”
    â€œI mean—”
    â€œLet me tell you. I have hobnobbed with some of the most powerful people in the country.” Then he started to reel off the usual names of those he’d known during his Rana days and after, and the government bureaucrats and statesmen he could still call on whenever he needed something.
    Listening to Mr. Pandey, Ramchandra couldn’t help going over the reasons his in-laws considered him such a failure. He’d never made the career leap they’d expected when they joined their daughter’s hand with his. After graduating, he floundered from one part-time teaching job to another, discovering competitors who were brighter than he was, or those, less bright, who had powerful uncles or cousins or in-laws to pull the strings. Time after time, Ramchandra watched helplessly as a job he thought was within reach slipped away to someone not half as qualified as he was. Occasionally, Mr. Pandey had offered to help, but Ramchandra’s pride had stepped in, and he’d told his father-in-law that he’d find something through his own merit.
    His relatives and friends had expected him to teach at a well-known school, perhaps St. Xavier’s, which was run by white priests, or the Budhanilkantha School, nestled in the northern outskirts of the city and famous for its innovative curriculum. He’d run into teachers who taught at these English boarding schools, and they always seemed well-dressed and content. He could imagine them living in nice brick houses with television antennas on the roofs or miniature pagodas dedicated to Lord Ganesh or even Goddess Laxmi, who could, if pleased, play with the direction of the winds so that more wealth would flow into the houses. But his applications were rejected by both schools, and ultimately he’d had to accept his status as a parttimer, someone who was only temporary at the Bhanubhakta School. Sometimes he found himself repeating the word
asthai,
until the sensation of impermanence, of something fleeting and flimsy, became part of his image of himself, as if at his birth the gods had decided to stamp his forehead with a warning to those around him— TEMPORARY .
    And then a few years ago, he’d found his present job, at the financially strapped Kantipur School, housed in a crumbling building in an alley where stray dogs quarreled and garbage accumulated. His monthly check of nine hundred and ninety rupees was only slightly better than what he’d made when he rushed from one school to the next, often sweating in crowded buses, across the city. But it was permanent, and now he was full time, and this realization occasionally lifted his spirits like a sharp rejuvenating breath.
    He’d thought his full-time, permanent status would change his in-laws’ minds, that they’d begin to see him as a full-time, permanent son-in-law. But Goma’s parents had quickly shifted their focus. “You must build a house, Ramchandra babu,” they said to him at family gatherings. “Without a house of one’s own in this city, it doesn’t matter what you do.”
    When Ramchandra told them it took time to build a house in Kathmandu, they shook their heads contemptuously. “Of course it takes time,” Goma’s father said. “But