The Guru of Love Read Online Free

dangerously under his weight.
    Malati had told him that she lived in the neighborhood of Tangal, right behind the Sunrise Boarding School, and Ramchandra began to walk in that direction. But it was already eight-thirty, and if he wanted to see her, get back home for lunch, and make it to school on time, he’d have to take a threewheeler. He contemplated turning back. What was the point of spending his hard-earned money on this girl? But he needed to see her, say something to her. He hailed a three-wheeler, in his head deducting the nearly seven rupees’ fare from his savings account, and gave the driver directions.
    The wind whipped inside the small cab, and Ramchandra tightened the muffler around his face. The driver drove at breakneck speed, often missing bicycles and pedestrians by inches. Ramchandra leaned forward and shouted into the driver’s ear, “Slow down. What’s the hurry?”
    â€œYou think you’re the only passenger I’ll have today?” the driver said.
    It was impossible to talk reasonably to anyone nowadays, thought Ramchandra. It wasn’t like this even ten years ago, when civility existed among the Kathmandu people. Within the last few years, the city had swollen to such a point that it was ready to explode. People from the hills and mountains to the north and the plains to the south were migrating here daily, trying to survive. The land in their villages didn’t yield good crops, and the rising inflation made it impossible for them to feed their families.
    Because of the steady influx of migrants, the city’s skyline had become dotted with satellite dishes, and one couldn’t walk anywhere without inhaling fumes from three-wheelers and old, rickety buses. Ramchandra understood the suffering of these poor people, who’d had to abandon their villages and towns, but the result was that too many hands prodded, probed, and fed on the innards of Kathmandu. Soon only its carcass would remain. The other day he’d seen small huts that had sprouted up on the shore of the Bishnumati River, a sight he’d previously thought was limited to cities in India, like Bombay.
    But—Ramchandra was bitter when he thought of it—the city was not his. He didn’t own a house; he didn’t even own a piece of land. He was no different from the driver of this threewheeler, who probably had to rush passengers to various destinations all day and then go to the small room in a squalid part of the city where his wife and kids waited for him.
    In Putlisadak, the three-wheeler got tangled in traffic, and they had to wait for several minutes. Nearby, outside a shop, stood a long line of people, plastic containers in hand.
    â€œLook at that,” the driver said. “These bastard Indians. This is all their doing.”
    â€œIs that for kerosene?”
    â€œYes, what else? They’ve reopened the borders, but it’s going to take a while.”
    â€œWell, at least it’s not as bad as it was before.”
    â€œWell, Dashain is here, and people have a lot of cooking to do. All donkeys, these politicians. This hahakar, this chaos, just because our king and the Indian prime minister couldn’t stand each other’s egos.”
    Whether there was any truth to that, Ramchandra didn’t know. Rumors had it that contest of one-upmanship between King Birendra and the Indian Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi had led India to close most of its borders to Nepal. Supposedly each felt the other hadn’t shown him enough respect at political meetings. But most likely, Ramchandra thought, India was unhappy with King Birendra’s purchase of military hardware from China, not to mention the way Nepal now required Indian workers to obtain permits.
    â€œDhotis,” the three-wheeler driver cursed, spitting out his window onto the pavement. “They’ll suck this country dry.”
    In the past few months, Ramchandra had heard similar sentiments