Arresting God in Kathmandu Read Online Free

Could he do it?
    Pramod walked the two miles to Asan and moved through the darkness of the staircase to the housemaid’s room.
    She was pleased to see him.
    “I’d like to lie down,” he told her.
    “Shall I make you tea?”
    He shook his head and sank onto her cot. It smelled of her sweat and hair oil. He felt like a patient, ready to be anesthetized so that his body could be torn apart.
    “Are you all right?” She put her palm on his forehead.
    He nodded and fell asleep. It was a short sleep, filled with jerky images that he forgot when he woke.
    She was cooking rice. “You’ll eat here?”
    For a while, he said nothing. Then he asked, “Aren’t you afraid your husband will come? Unannounced?”
    She laughed, stirring the rice. “He’d catch us, wouldn’t he?”
    “What would you do?”
    “What would I do?”
    “Yes. What would you say to him if he catches us?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “I never think about it.”
    “Why?”
    “It’s not in my nature.” She took the rice pot off the stove and put on another, into which she poured clarified butter. She dipped some spinach into the burning ghee; it made a
swoosh,
and smoke rose in a gust. Pramod pulled out a cigarette and set it between his lips without lighting it.
    “You know,” she said, “if this bothers you, you should go back to your wife.”
    “It doesn’t bother me.”
    “Sometimes you look worried. As if someone is waiting to catch you.”
    “Really?” He leaned against the pillow. “Is it my face?”
    “Your face, your body.” She stirred the spinach and sprinkled it with salt. “What will you do?”
    “I’ll never find a job,” he said, sucking the unlit cigarette. He made an O with his lips and blew imaginary circles of smoke to the ceiling.
    “No. I mean if my husband comes.”
    He waved away the imaginary smoke. “I’ll kill him,” he said, then laughed.
    She also laughed. “My husband is a big man. With big hands.”
    “I’ll give him one karate kick” Pramod got up and kicked his right leg vaguely in her direction. Then he adopted some of the poses he had seen in kung-fu movies. “I will hit Pitamber on the chin like this.” He jabbed his fist hard against his palm. “I will kick Shambhu-da in the groin.” He lifted his leg high in the air. His legs and arms moved about, jabbing, punching, kicking, thrusting, flailing. He continued until he was tired, then sat down next to her, breathing hard, with an embarrassed smile.
    “What good will it do,” she said, “to beat up the whole world?”
    He raised a finger as if to say: Wait. But when his breathing became normal, he merely smiled, leaned over, and kissed her cheek “I think I should go now.”
    “But I made dinner.”
    “Radhika will be waiting,” he said.
    It was already twilight when he left. The air had a fresh, tangible quality. He took a deep breath and walked into the marketplace, passing rows of meat shops and sweets vendors.
    At the large temple complex of Hanuman Dhoka, he climbed the steps to the three-story temple dedicated to Lord Shiva. A few foreigners milled around, taking pictures. He sat down above the courtyard, which started emptying as the sky grew dark.
    When he reached home, Radhika didn’t say anything. She silently placed a plate of rice, dal, and vegetables in front of him, and he ate with gusto, his fingers darting from one dish to another. When he asked for more, she said, “How come you have such an appetite?”
    His mouth filled with food, he couldn’t respond. After dinner he went to the baby, who stared at him as if he were a stranger. He picked her up by the feet and raised his arms, so that her tiny, bald head was upside down above his face. The baby smiled. Rocking her, Pramod sang a popular song he’d heard on the radio: “The only thing I know how to do is chase after young girls, then put them in a wedding doli and take them home.”
    When Radhika finished in the kitchen, she stood in the doorway,