The Gurkha's Daughter by Prajwal Parajuly

people get to know Christ. Rajiv had difficulty believing the Scotts—he called them Mr. and Ms. Scott despite their wanting to be addressed as Michael and Christa—had been around only for a year because they conversed in fluent Nepali and seemed extremely comfortable in their unfamiliar surroundings. They sat cross-legged on the floor and drank boiled water, unlike those foreign tourists who wouldn’t touch any liquid that didn’t come in sealed bottles. They also didn’t marvel every three seconds at the beauty of Darjeeling’s sunrises.
    These were the first missionaries Rajiv had known intimately, and he was fond of them. He especially liked Michael, who didn’t talk much, just like Rajiv’s father. Christa was always in good spirits and was ready for a good, civilized debate—no voice was raised, no hot words thrown. Rajiv never found in the Scotts any of the mendacity his father was convinced characterized missionaries. The Scotts didn’t sugarcoat, they didn’t question his faith in Hinduism, and they seldom extolled the virtues of Jesus. It sometimes felt like they were his sounding board, a respite from the mundane cycles of his life. Their positive take on everything was inspiring, and these hourly sessions were incentive enough to get out of bed. He always found that after spending time with the couple, more so with Michael, he felt calmer, like their cheer rubbed off on him, so when Rajiv heard a knock, followed by Tikam’s greeting, he sprinted to the small terrace, where he often convened with the Scotts when the weather was right.
    It wasn’t the Scotts. Rajiv should have known better—it was a Sunday, and they never came to his place on Sundays. Their duties at church made morning visits nearly impossible. Rajiv’s mama , his mother’s younger brother, came barging in.
    â€œYou were still sleeping,” his mama said, lowering his glasses from the top of his bald head. “All your mother’s siblings will be in Darjeeling on Friday for Dashain. Their families will be here, too. They will mostly be staying at my place, but you will have to make room in yours for your Manju chema and her daughter. Her husband is staying home so he can offer tika there. He’s the oldest brother; it makes sense.”
    â€œHow many of them will be there?”
    â€œShe and her daughter. Her husband’s brother’s daughter will also be there. These Shillong people love Darjeeling.”
    â€œThat’s three, then.”
    Rajiv knew who the cousin’s cousin was. Her name was Niveeta, and they had met once when they were both toddlers—she had bitten him when he touched her toy rabbit, and he had had to get a tetanus shot. It was a painful childhood memory, but he found himself smiling at the absurdity of now meeting this person from his past. He wondered what she’d look like as an adult and if she remembered what she’d done to him.
    â€œYes, and they are leaving tomorrow. Manju nana has to return to Shillong because she doesn’t trust her bekaamey husband with the house, and the girls are returning to college in Delhi. Who allows their daughters to come home during the Dashain vacation, I don’t understand.”
    â€œYou know there’s no space here,” Rajiv said. “All the four beds are occupied.”
    â€œWork something out. Share a bed with your brother and put some mattresses on the floor. It’s festival time, and you should be open to such eventualities. If relatives don’t visit one another during Dashain, when will they?”
    â€œDo you know how many there will be? You know how small the room is. If they don’t mind sleeping on mattresses in the kitchen, I might be able to make something happen.”
    â€œThey are guests. You need to treat them well. You, your brother and the boy can sleep in the kitchen. That way, you make room for three guests in the beds and a couple