The Gurkha's Daughter by Prajwal Parajuly Page A

more on the floor of the sitting room.”
    â€œThere’s no sitting room,” Rajiv said.
    His mama didn’t seem to notice.
    â€œAlso, clean this place up a bit. It’s always a mess.”
    His uncle was on his way out now. Rajiv asked him if he wanted some tea.
    â€œThat cousin of yours makes terrible tea,” the older man said. “I’d be a fool to start off my day with it.”
    And with that, he snapped around on his heels and walked away.
    Rajiv stood quiet. It was just like his mama to drop in unannounced this early in the morning with news like that. He wanted to tell his mama about his grandmother’s health, about her anxiety attacks, about how he couldn’t sleep well if he heard so much as a whisper. He wanted to ask his mama who would cook. Tikam was too young, and his grandmother was too frail to prepare a meal for her small family, let alone for guests whose numbers threatened to engender economic imbalance in the house. Rajiv was good in the kitchen, but his experience was limited to a handful of dishes. Their house probably didn’t even have enough plates to feed three extra people. Rajiv dreaded the idea of asking the Scotts to lend him additional serving dishes. They would undoubtedly understand, but the humiliation of borrowing yet another thing from them was too much to bear. They had already given him an old set of chairs they said they had no use for. Asking his friends was out of question—hewas too proud. He decided to share with his grandmother this bizarre development; she wouldn’t have a solution, but he’d feel better if she was involved.
    His grandmother was deaf in her right ear, so he had to position himself close on her left side.
    â€œ Mama says there might be about six of them for three days,” he explained.
    â€œAnd where exactly would we fit them?” the toothless lady asked. “On the terrace? Like they do in the plains?”
    â€œThis is Darjeeling, not Bagdogra. They’ll freeze to death on the terrace.”
    â€œWhy can’t they all stay at your mama ’s place? At least there’s some space there. You know what happens when I can’t sleep.”
    â€œI know, but we need to adjust. These are the same people who pooled in money so I could become an engineer.”
    â€œYes, not that the degree has been helpful in getting you a job. You still spend all day chatting with those senseless Christians.”
    Years of experience had taught Rajiv not to react to any of his grandmother’s prejudices. He knew she mostly meant well. It was also unwise to explain to an eighty-year-old the current job market in Darjeeling, which had a lot to do with the frequent strikes that various political parties called in an attempt to attract national attention to their demand of a separate state. The economy was crippled; opportunities were nonexistent. And he didn’t want this decaying woman to know that she was the reason he hadn’t left Darjeeling to go to Delhi or Bangalore for an IT job. His younger brother was in a boarding school in Mirik, and going by his dismal academic record, he would likely be there for a few more years. If Rajiv left home to pursue a career, his grandmother would be alone. The number of trips he made home from his engineering college in Majitar, in Sikkim, to take care of her had made him realize that going too far away was fatal—Bangalore wasn’t a taxi ride away from Darjeelinglike Majitar was. His grandmother would not be willing to move to a big city. She wanted to die in Darjeeling, in the hills, surrounded by the mountains and her people.
    â€œI can’t get a job three months after finishing college,” Rajiv said. “The competition is intense.”
    â€œWeren’t you the boy who always came first in his class? If they don’t give you a job, who will they give it to?”
    â€œIt’s Dashain time. All the offices are closed now, so