Arresting God in Kathmandu Read Online Free Page B

the city was waking up, a young man, holding a recommendation letter, knocked on Acharya’s door. “I hope I’m not intruding, sir,” he said nervously, regarding the poet with reverence. “My name is Giri.” Acharya invited him to his study and did his best to make him feel welcome. Giri was a short, thin man, with a tuft of black hair hanging over his forehead. His face was delicate, with an aquiline nose that could only belong to a Brahmin, and his eyes were large, with long eyelashes. His face made Acharya think of men who live under the strong influence of their mothers.
    After Acharya’s wife, Durga, brought in a tray with tea and biscuits, Acharya extended his hand and requested the young man’s portfolio.
    It contained an epic, running nearly seventy pages, about a young man’s passion for his lover (nothing new there), but the poet had taken Lord Bhima, one of the five brothers of the Mahabharata, and turned the strongman into a jealous and passionate lover. In the poem, Lord Bhima was obsessed with Draupadi, the wife who had been bestowed on all five brothers. Lord Bhima’s wish to have Draupadi all to himself disrupted the harmony among the brothers, who, in the myth, were known for their loyalty to one another. Giri’s control of the verse was so flawless, his characters so believable (despite the ironic twist of the old text), that Acharya found himself transported back to the era of the Mahabharata, with its clanking armor and noble warriors, its beautiful demure women and royal gardens, thundering skies and the gods’ frequent interference in men’s affairs.
    When, after a long time, Acharya lifted his eyes from the final page, Giri was looking up at the large oil painting of the past kings of the country.
    “How long have you been a poet?” Acharya asked, clearing his throat.
    Giri jumped as if he’d been caught stealing.
    “That is my only work, sir,” he said. “About half a year.”
    Surely he is lying, Acharya thought. Such precision of language comes after years of practice, only after the technique becomes second nature to the poet so that his pen can plumb the depths of meaning.
    “You must read.”
    “Occasionally, when I can take time from my college work.” Giri had a guilty look.
    Acharya noticed the curtains moving softly in the wind. “You have potential.”
    “Thank you, sir,” Giri said.
    “We could work together,” Acharya said. They would meet every Saturday in his study, and Giri would present his work, which Acharya expected to be substantial.
    Giri was obviously overwhelmed, for he kept saying, “Thank you, sir. You’re so kind, sir.”
    After escorting Giri to the main entrance, Acharya went to his study and read the entire work again, this time with a critical eye. But the poem was almost flawless. For a brief moment, he was anxious. What could he teach this gifted man?
    At the academy, Acharya could not stop talking about Giri’s epic, surprising his colleagues, who had rarely heard him speak such praise.
    “He is a genius,” Acharya said in the canteen over a cup of lemon tea. He was startled by his own assertion.
    “Then we should publish him,” said one of the men who supervised the printing press in the basement.
    “No, no, no.” Acharya shook his head. “He needs time. One more year.” He looked around the table and saw his colleagues nodding solemnly, although Acharya knew they were more interested in promoting themselves than some young novice who had taken a fancy to poetry. Later, the conversation changed to politics, but Acharya found himself thinking of Giri’s poem, and he started humming an old song to himself, distractedly, like a man so overwhelmed by a new discovery that he cannot concentrate on anything else.
     
    When Giri arrived the next Saturday, Acharya was playing with one of his grandchildren on the lawn, while his elder daughter, visiting for the weekend, watered the flowers. Durga sat in a white plastic chair, knitting. His