The Gurkha's Daughter by Prajwal Parajuly Page B

there’s no point talking about employment. We need to find a way to house all these people.”
    Sandeep staggered into the kitchen, combing his cowlicks.
    â€œWhat people?” he said.
    The grandmother filled him in.
    â€œThat’s your mama and your mother’s side of the family for you,” she said. “They have no consideration for anyone.”
    â€œI could always go sleep at Sonam’s place,” Sandeep offered. “That’s one fewer person in the house. And I could take Tikam with me.”
    â€œTikam needs to be here to run errands,” Rajiv countered. “And they will have something to say when they notice your absence. You know how they are—the house is never clean enough, the food never good enough, and we are never hospitable enough.”
    â€œWhy should they stay here?” the grandmother asked. “They don’t even accept tika from me. I am not good enough for them. A dying lady’s blessings aren’t important to them.”
    â€œYou aren’t even related to them, Boju,” said Rajiv. “Why should you put tika on them? And they are probably uncomfortable you’ll give them money with your blessings. They don’t want to be a burden on you. It’s no secret we don’t have money.”
    â€œYou’re your mother’s son, naati —you never think your family is in the wrong. If they understood our struggles, they wouldn’t come to our place as guests for three whole days. Noone chooses to become guests in an eighty-year-old’s house if they are considerate. They know I am a sick, dying woman. They have nothing but themselves in mind.”
    Sandeep tapped the bottom of his glass to release the last few droplets of tea before placing it on the elevated platform in the kitchen corner that served as a sink.
    â€œI am heading out,” he said. “Does anyone need anything?”
    â€œYou never wash anything you use, just like your father,” the grandmother complained. “Even those Christians who have no shame about coming here every day wash their cups.”
    â€œI’ll wash the glass when I return,” Sandeep said.
    â€œThat’s what your father used to say, too,” the grandmother said, and somewhat fondly added, “He’s his father’s son, a true Rai from Pankhabari—unlike his older brother.”
    The last time relatives from his mother’s side visited, Tikam reported that a female cousin had thrown up in the bathroom. She had then elaborately described to everyone the circumstances that led to her vomiting: the sight of leftover rice, tangled in masses of hair, floating near the open drain. Rajiv was determined no one, least of all Niveeta, should tell more tales about the dubious standards of hygiene his household maintained, so he started cleaning. He looked around the kitchen and sighed at how filthy it was.
    The area around the electrical wiring above the stove was black with grime, and the lone kitchen lightbulb, unchanged for years, hung nearly opaque with dirt. He thought of discarding it but opted instead to scrape off the greasy residue with a knife. It took a long time, but when he plugged the bulb back in after washing and drying it, the light shone with an intensity that forced him to squint. A giant spider crawled up his arm as he knocked loose the cobwebs that dangled everywhere from the tin roof. On seeing that Tikam had done an unsatisfactory job doing the morning dishes,Rajiv washed them again. He stopped only when his grandmother expressed concern that he was working himself to death.
    Hardly had the euphoria of this major accomplishment seeped in when he saw the bedroom. The floor, its cracks and pits ignored for decades, would stubbornly cling to its dirt, rendering most of his elbow grease useless. Patching these holes would have to wait until after he found a job. A pile of rusty tin trunks stuffed with clothes threatened to tumble