The Guru of Love Read Online Free Page A

expressed many times. Housewives lining up to buy kerosene cursed Rajiv Gandhi, and motorists fumed and blamed the Indians, “dhoti bhais,” while they sat in their cars waiting to be granted the ration of a few liters of petrol. Ramchandra had nothing against the Indians who worked in Nepal—he found most of them to be pleasant and hardworking. But it was true that the Indian government liked to flex its muscles toward its neighbors.
    â€œCan’t live with them, can’t live without them,” Ramchandra said. Yet there was no doubt that the city was filled with growing anger. Fumes of resentment seemed to rise from the people and blend with the polluted air. As the residents of Kathmandu became more vocal in their criticism of the ruling one-party Panchayat establishment, the sense of defiance, long subdued, finally began to permeate the streets and alleys, where people openly discussed how Nepal needed radical reforms, like the ones that had brought down the Berlin Wall. The image of the lone Chinese man facing tanks in Tiananmen Square, shown on television and in newspapers, had excited people’s imagination. The banned political parties, it was said, were attempting to reconcile among themselves so that they could capitalize on this growing bitterness.
    Of the three houses that stood behind the Sunrise Boarding School, only one had a chicken shed next to it. A mangy dog, tied with a rope on the unkempt lawn, followed Ramchandra’s steps to the door with jaundiced eyes. Chicken feathers drifted from the shed onto the veranda, and the chickens clucked in unison as he knocked on the door. A short woman with yellow eyes, not unlike the dog’s, opened the door. She wore a crumpled dhoti, and there were large white blots on her neck and forehead. It occurred to him that she was an albino.
    â€œTell Malati that her math teacher is here to see her, all right?” Ramchandra told the maid.
    Immediately, he realized his mistake. If Malati was poor, it was unlikely that her family could afford a maid. Also, the woman’s authoritative stance, hand on hip, should have told him that she was not a maid. But she didn’t look like Malati’s mother; there was no resemblance.
    â€œAnd who are you?” the woman asked.
    â€œRamchandra. I’m her math tutor.”
    â€œWhat do you need to see her for? What do you need?”
    He was surprised by the roughness of her words, which, combined with her pleasant voice, had an odd effect. A baby was crying inside.
    â€œNo, no,” he said. “She didn’t come to the last session, so I was wondering...”
    â€œDo you go to all of your students’ houses when they don’t come?”
    He didn’t respond. “All right, come inside,” she said, annoyance marking her face.
    She led him past a living room with a worn-out sofa, and into the kitchen, small and gloomy, with grease stains all over the walls. A yellowed poster of Goddess Laxmi, her many hands clasping her trident, conch shell, and lotus, was posted on a door in the corner. It was this door the woman opened. “Malati, someone here to see you. Says he’s your teacher.”
    Once Ramchandra’s eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, he saw Malati sitting on the floor, her hair in disarray, a baby in her lap, one of her breasts peeking out of her blouse. The baby, who couldn’t have been more than a year old, was trying to find her nipple, but the wails indicated that it was having problems. Ramchandra noticed how small the room was—barely the size of a closet. Then it occurred to him that it was indeed a closet.
    Malati, not looking up, continued to struggle with the baby, cooing, pushing its head gently to her breast.
    â€œImagine that,” the woman said with a laugh. “A teacher visiting his student’s home.”
    â€œHow are you, Malati?” Ramchandra asked.
    Malati didn’t answer, but the woman did. “She is