Bishnu sat on the verandah, warming his toes in the morning sun. The neighbor’s pots and pans clattered as if they were quarreling, and somewhere in the building, a baby wailed insufferably. Bishnu closed his eyes and dreamt that he was the landlord of a big house, with servants tending the garden. To gain his favor, people lined up outside the gate with imported Red Label. The flattery annoyed Bishnu, so he kept them waiting.

A worm fell from the ceiling and landed on his toe. Winter was not a season for worms, and so Bishnu threw some water from a glass and the worm went away, but a deep fear that coiled within him refused to leave. 

This morning Bishnu’s frustration at his son’s poor grades had reached a level where failing to act promptly would confirm his fears that he was a soft father. After much speculation and rumors, Nepal’s Ministry of Education had finally released the timetable for S.L.C., the dreaded high school board examination. But Sanjay still hadn’t pasted the timetable on his wall unlike thousands of students across the country who were undoubtedly fine-tuning their study schedules, memorizing chemistry formulas. Sanjay’s future depended on the words First Division printed in Gorkhapatra on result-day, but the boy lacked lofty ambitions, including any desire to feign it for his father. 

Loud music reverberated through the door that was always locked from inside. Bishnu walked over, knocked.

“Stop this nonsense,” he said, raising his voice. 

“It’s Metallica,” Sanjay said without opening the door.  

“If you fail to secure first division, what will you do? Dance like Metallica?” Bishnu waited for a response. After testing his father’s patience for a few more minutes, Sanjay lowered the volume.    

Back in the veranda, Bishnu watered the money plant whose stem looped around the railing. He was troubled by the thought that he may have been ineffective as a father. He wished he had a more commanding personality. Someone like Regmi, his younger colleague at the Ministry of Electricity. Regmi spoke with such confidence. He even dyed his hair red, inspiring coy looks from Shruti Singh. The job of leafing through bills and memos was so tedious, and a bashful smile from Shruti Singh would surely brighten up Bishnu’s day, but the woman saved her compliments for the younger Regmi whose red hair shone like fire in their dingy office.  

“Lost in your dreams again?” Gayatri said, bringing two glasses of lemon tea. Twenty-five years as a housewife had formed deep lines on her palms and cracks on her soles. 

Bishnu took his cup and lit a cigarette. “It is your love that has spoiled him,” he said. Gayatri sat on the landing, making her grocery list on a crumpled piece of paper. 

“When I was half his age, Baba beat me with a cane to make sure I studied for S.L.C.,” Bishnu said. “And your son has started smoking also. Have you noticed how dark his lips are?”

“Beating him isn’t the answer,” Gayatri replied without looking up from her grocery list. 

“Of course. He’s your prince, after all.” 

“Why don’t you quit smoking? One smoker is bad enough at home.” 

“Please be serious,” Bishnu said just as the ring of the telephone interrupted them. Gayatri stood and took the call. It was Priya, Sanjay’s sister. “I am blamed for everything that happens in this house,” Gayatri complained to their daughter who had only recently gotten married, but Bishnu knew the words were aimed at him. He took a long drag before tapping the cigarette to break the ash.  

Later in the kitchen Gayatri removed a steaming pot of rice from the kerosene stove and put it on the floor. Bishnu, sitting cross-legged on a pirka, waited for his wife to scoop up the rice with a ladle and serve him. He wouldn’t start eating until his wife made a mound of rice for him and poured dal and vegetable over it. Squatting on her haunches, Gayatri called out to Sanjay. 

“I’m not hungry,” he shouted from his room. 

“Come, now. Your father means well.”  

Sanjay stepped out and paused by the door to look at them, frowning, his appearance haggard.

It annoyed Bishnu to see Sanjay’s jeans torn at the knees, his hair bristled like blades. Sanjay sat on the pirka next to his father and without looking up, pulled his plate of rice toward him. 

“Spoon,” he muttered. 

“Eating with spoon makes you thin,” Gayatri said and plopped a ladle of squash on his plate. Sanjay crumpled his nose. 

 “Your royal highness, if you don’t score first division in S.L.C., you’ll spend the rest of your life cleaning other people’s shit,” Bishnu said. “Your grandfather should have been here to set you straight.” 

Gayatri covered her nose with the hem of her sari. “Eat now,” she said.   

≈

 At work, Bishnu sat at his desk, staring at an old file. He pulled the electric heater close to his feet. Since one of the coils was not working, the glow was too faint to warm him, so he took his shoes off and rubbed his feet together. 

“Do you want to go for tea?” he asked Regmi, seated behind a computer on his desk. Regmi shook his wrist to roll down the watch that was too big for him. 

“What’s the hurry?” Regmi said. From his jacket, he fished out a small container and took a pinch of khaini, which he put in the pocket of his mouth. The khaini gave off a sharp smell, which clung to Regmi all day.

 “Maybe the fragrance of your khaini will pull Shruti-Ji to you, no?” Bishnu said.   

“Shruti-Ji is a happily married woman. Why do you say such things?”

“Just joking. Don’t mind hai, bhai?” Bishnu said, attempting a smile. He kept a pocket-sized mirror and comb in his desk drawer, which is now put to use, combing his thin hair with a side part.   

When Shruti Singh walked in, wearing a bright red sari, a pair of sunglasses perched on her head, Bishnu opened his file. Shruti Singh adjusted her shawl, and Bishnu noticed the tiny sweat patches under her armpits.

“Your husband must have dropped you off on his motorcycle?” Bishnu said. 

“We are soon buying a car. Shekhar got a promotion,” she said. She turned on the computer on her desk, which she had inherited from the previous clerk, who, like Bishnu’s current younger colleagues, had a college degree and had moved up, leaving Bishnu as the only long-term resident in the meter-regulation section. 

Regmi pulled a chair and sat next to Shruti Singh. “Solitaire or Chess?” he asked.

“What difference does it make? You’re such a cheat, Regmi-Ji.”

“Hoina Shruti-Ji, when will I have the pleasure of playing paplu with you?” Bishnu chimed in.

“First learn to use the calculator, Bishnu-Ji,” Regmi said and Shruti Singh laughed with him. 

“Isn’t your son taking the S.L.C next month?” Shruti Singh asked Bishnu.

“He is,” Regmi interrupted, “so is my nephew. Top class student, my nephew. Will ace it with his left hand.”

“There’s a reason why kids who fail in S.L.C. turn into drug addicts. They are trapped in the cycle of failure,” Shruti Singh said. 

A prolonged silence followed. Bishu felt a trickle of fear, though he didn’t show it.

Regmi stretched his arms. “Join us for tea, Bishnu-Ji?” he asked. 

“I have some calculations to finish,” Bishnu said.

“Do it well, hai? Someone might actually evaluate your work,” said Regmi.

“Stop it now. Poor man,” Shruti Singh said. 

Bishnu watched her as she left. Despite being a young mother, Shruti Singh had maintained her figure quite well. 

Bishnu lit a half-stubbed cigarette, suddenly worried that the goat sacrifice he had made the other day at Dakshinkali hadn’t worked. He had drawn six thousand from his retirement saving for the slaughter, a sacrifice meant to ward off bad omen from Sanjay’s kundali. At this age Bishnu had only one wish: to see his son get into a good college, be a first-class officer someday, an owner of a house. But Sanjay was attracted to a life of misfortune, always failing in science, not unlike Bishnu when he was in school. Bishnu crossed his legs on the chair and imagined that he was a first-class officer. He would have a personal office, a plaque on the door to indicate whether he was “in” or “out.” Out meant people had to wait on a long bench for him to arrive. In this personal office, he would sign documents with three different pens, his grand signature deciding the fate of hundreds. At the touch of a bell, his peon would scramble to his door, followed closely by his driver, who would be sent to fetch Shruti madam from her manicure appointment. He imagined that they would go to cocktail parties, she by his side, wearing watches and jewelry he had brought her from Dubai. 

Bishnu stubbed his cigarette on the broken coil of the electric heater. Finally, he looked at the file on his desk and opened it with a yawn.  

…

That evening, as usual, Shruti Singh’s husband came to pick her up. He brought their son along, a tired-looking boy still in school uniform. The boy wore glasses with cheap plastic frames. Bishnu had suggested buying the poor boy a new pair of glasses, and Shruti Singh had replied, “Good manners are what matters at his age,” disregarding the voice of experience. What did she find in that awkward-looking husband of hers, Bishnu wondered now. 

The husband paced the narrow room up and down like an animal in a cage, not bothering to take off his helmet. 

“Is something troubling your mind?” Bishnu asked him light-heartedly.

“Just thinking about important office matters,” the man said, then turned to his wife and asked, “still not ready?”

Shruti Singh held up a small mirror and slowly applied lipstick on her top and bottom lip. Regmi was pretending to read a newspaper; he lowered the newspaper to peek at Shruti Singh, then Regmi pretended to read again. Taking your chances, you fraud, Bishnu thought, and silently mocked the husband who seemed occupied with thoughts of his own misery, perhaps hiding a bald patch under that helmet. After Shruti Singh finally gathered her belonging, Bishnu remembered that he had bought a gift for her son. “Wait, wait,” he said. He took out a Five Star chocolate from his drawer. 

“For you,” he said to the boy.

Shruti Singh rolled her eyes. The boy sprang forward and grabbed the chocolate, causing Bishnu to marvel at his alertness.

“Very sharp boy,” Bishnu said and ruffled the boy’s hair.    

Say “thank you,” Shruti Singh told her son.

“Thank you,” the boy said, his fingers already covered in chocolate.

Bishnu smacked his lips in the air. 

“You spoil him so much, Bishnu-ji,” Shruti Singh said. She actually smiled at Bishnu. He groped for the right words before saying, “please allow me this small luxury.” But Shruti Singh was already out the door. 

…

Gayatri bent over the sewing machine, which took up space in the corner of their room. 

Bishnu lay in bed.

“What is it?” Gayatri said. Even with her hand on the wheel and eyes fixed on those patterns, she knew what he was thinking. 

Bishnu took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and waved at a fly. “Whatever your opinion may be, Baba’s strict ways were good for me,” he said. He wiped his forehead with the hanky. “I did well in Nepali and math. After Baba passed away, I became champion in smoking and teasing girls. And how old was I? Twelve, thirteen? What good came of that?”

Gayatri made no reply. The rhythmic sound of the machine filled the silence. “It’s not right,” she finally said. “You never speak of your father without remembering how strict he was.”

“He was equally loving, mind you. Until I was about ten, he would grab my hair and lift me until tears rolled down our eyes, his and mine.” Bishnu paused, and said, “Then I had to sit on the floor with a straight spine. He’d pour mustard oil on my scalp and rub it with his fingers, ending with the words, ‘A man doesn’t live. He conquers.’” Bishnu took a deep breath.  

“All I know is that you always quarrel with Sanjay but have nothing to say to him.”

“I needed a strict hand to guide me. Sanjay is the same. We’re similar that way,” he said.

“He’d also like to hear a few words of praise or love.”

“When has he ever given me the chance to show it?”

“Constantly scolding him is the solution then?”

“It is known as discipline. It was taken away from me when Baba passed away.”

“Then what is the difference between you and the school principal?” Gayatri said.

Bishnu turned to face the wall; he was in no mood to argue with his wife.  

Gayatri resumed stitching table clothes and pillow covers, which she sold for a small price to the neighbors. 

The machine rattled late into the night. Bishnu shut his ears and tried to sleep. 

…

Bishnu was up at six a.m. He wrapped himself in a thick blanket and banged on Sanjay’s door. 

“Sanjay…eh Sanjay, get up, it’s time for your tutoring sessions.” His voice broke the stillness of the morning. Somewhere, a neighbor’s toilet flushed, discharging water through the drainage pipe. “Sanjay, get up, I said.”

The thumps got louder prompting Sanjay to finally say, “Let me sleep for two more minutes.” 

 “You will miss your class.”

“Two more minutes.”

“Get up, I said.”

When Sanjay didn’t emerge, Bishnu shook the doorknob, unhooking the latch. He walked in and yanked away the quilt that enveloped his son.

“Nine hundred rupees every month for the extra classes. For this?” he said.

 Sanjay grabbed the quilt and wrapped himself in the thickness of the fabric, clutching the end so firmly Bishnu was unable to pull it away. Bishnu knew this game well. He pulled the other end of the quilt, exposing his son’s feet to the sharp morning chill. Sanjay finally sat up, looking straight into his father’s eyes, a daring stare that filled Bishnu with a sudden rage. He slapped his son; the fingers struck the bone below the eye. Sanjay stood, glared at his father. He was already taller. Startled by this, Bishnu played with his shirt button. And not knowing what else to do, he left the room.

“What happened?” Gayatri asked. 

Bishnu’s hand was trembling. He slid it under his blanket. 

“What did you do to him?” 

When no answer came out of his mouth, she said, “Your father’s beatings couldn’t get you a college degree, could it?” 

“I am a government officer. I have managed to marry my daughter off to a respectable family,” he said.

Gayatri went to her son’s room. “It’s okay, now, don’t create a fuss,” Bishnu heard her say.

“He can’t bully me anymore,” Sanjay yelled from his room, his voice piercing through the wall that separated the two rooms. A few minutes later, Sanjay was out of the house. If it hadn’t been for the winter chill, Bishnu would stealthily follow his son because he was sure Sanjay never went to those classes.

For a moment he’d felt a sharp pain on his fingers. He clutched both hands firmly under the blanket.   

Now, it was Gayatri’s turn to be sulky. She dialed Priya’s number. 

“I feel like I have to take care of two children at home,” she complained. Holding the mouthpiece between her ear and shoulder while she rubbed the dry flakes off her palm, Gayatri listened to her daughter’s advice, or more likely, to Priya’s own mutterings about trivial matters. Judging by the signs, Bishnu knew his morning tea wasn’t forthcoming. Fate beckons me to a teashop, he thought. From the cupboard hanger, he picked out a faded jacket. The patch that Gayatri had sown under the elbow had come loose again, exposing the threads. Still, Bishnu put it on and left the house. 

The street basked in the glow of the breaking dawn. Some people huddled around burning trash; a woman with a baby wrapped on her back swept the sidewalk. Instead of going to a teashop, Bishnu took an unexpected turn.

The long alley leading to the temple was busy with devotees and morning-walkers. Beggars lined the side of the street, clanking their tins; next to them flower sellers, weaving strands of marigold, dangled fresh garlands to tempt Bishnu, but he walked past, eager to get inside the temple. 

In the courtyard, he sat on a cold bench. He couldn’t remember the last time he was here. He watched the devotees circling the shrines barefoot. They had mastered the art of ignoring the monkeys that hung from pillars, eyeing an easy target to snatch food from. Bishnu lit a cigarette; its smoke blended into the morning fog. When the conch was blown in the main shrine, accompanied by chiming bells, it set off a flock of pigeons into the sky but did little to clear Bishnu’s mind. Why didn’t Sanjay ever fear him? He constantly defied Bishnu’s effort to set him on the right course. Bishnu knew his son had no affection for him. From his mother Sanjay had learned how to brood and show defiance, and Bishnu found it more and more difficult to communicate with his son. He knew that he wasn’t made up of the same solid steel as Baba. He had seen the defiance in Sanjay’s face that morning. Even at such a young age, Sanjay’s anger had hardened into his skin. What would Bishnu do if Sanjay slapped him back?      

When a pujari tapped him on the shoulder, Bishnu stood up with a fright. 

“I thought you were Baba,” Bishnu said.

The dhoti-clad pujari said nothing; he smeared a long tika on Bishnu’s forehead and walked along briskly, chanting a sloka, toward other people milling about at the temple courtyard. 

Bishnu sat down again. Sometimes he thought Baba might emerge from behind, carrying the smell of talcum powder on old skin. The more Bishnu feared the beatings, the more he would crave them, and when Baba put his arms around him and they cried together, Bishnu knew that his father loved him. He would sit on his father’s lap, not scared to run his finger along the veins of those big hands. 

Now, Bishnu bent to pick up a pebble. He rolled the pebble in his fingers wondering if Gayatri had been right about talking to Sanjay, perhaps listening to Sanjay’s enlightened views about life. Bishnu smiled at the thought. He threw the pebble at a monkey, failing to arouse any reaction from the animal. He had read somewhere that monkey balls were a delicacy in Africa, and this thought made him chuckle.

He was still looking at the monkeys when he spotted Shruti Singh coming out of the main shrine. Dark glasses shielded her eyes, and her head was draped in a shawl, but there was no doubt it was her. She walked fast.

“Shruti-Ji,” Bishnu called out. She stopped for an instant to look at him, then resumed walking faster.

“It’s me,” Bishnu said.

He pushed through the swelling crowd. “Hello? Shruti-Ji, it’s me.”

But she kept walking. Just as he was about to catch up with her, she slipped into a waiting taxi. In it was Regmi, the red hair visible through the rear window. The taxi sped off before Bishnu could reach it. 

A married woman never went to a temple with another man, especially at this hour, Bishnu thought. His head heavy, Bishnu walked back home. Despite the many attempts to tease Regmi about Shruti Singh, the man had always acted superior. Now Bishnu wondered how long this had been going on? Did Shruti Singh’s husband know? Did Shruti Singh and Regmi secretly laugh at Bishnu’s innocence? Did they mock him behind his back for his simple ways? Bishnu was so angry he felt like wringing Regmi’s neck with his bare hands until the man shook violently like a fish without oxygen. So absorbed was Bishnu in this thought, he almost walked into an oncoming car. The driver stuck his head out and called him a “useless old man.”   

“You look lost. Is anything the matter?” a neighbor inquired outside the building. “Fighting with your son again?”  

“Mind your own business,” Bishnu said.

“What is your problem?” The man said. “Motherfucker.”  

When Bishnu reached their flat, he said to Gayatri, “I don’t feel like going to work today.”

She left the room.

“I don’t want to fight,” he said. “Please don’t argue with me.”

She came back, touched his forehead. “No fever,” she said.

“I want to rest, please,” he said. 

She brought him lemon tea and sat on the bed with him. “Sanjay is no longer a child. Slapping him won’t solve anything,” she said.

 “I don’t know how to handle him,” he said. He placed his hand on top of hers. She looked at him. He gently rubbed her finger.   

“I’m scared my son will make the same mistakes I made,” he said.

“Do you care to know what goes through his mind?”

Bishnu sighed. “There is so much betrayal in the world,” he said. 

“Your heart is heavy today,” she said. “Go talk to him. He’s back. Sulking in his room.”

“Talk about what?”

“Say sorry.”

She took his tea from him. “Go,” she said. 

He grabbed the cup, but she firmly held onto the curved handle, causing the hot tea to spill between his legs and form the map of Sri Lanka.

“Why did you hit him?” she asked. 

“Nonsense,” he said and left the room.

Bishnu knocked on his son’s door, which was always locked from inside. What does he do in there so secretly, he thought as he squeezed the doorknob, banged louder.

“How do we know you’re still alive?” he said.

Sanjay didn’t respond.

Bishnu kept banging.

“One minute,” Sanjay finally said. 

While he waited for his son to open the door, Bishnu felt a lump in his throat. Somewhere in the building, a nail was being hammered into a wall, causing the whole building to tremble. 

===

                                            

About the Author:

Ranjan Adiga’s stories and essays have appeared in the New York Times, Huff Post, Story Quarterly, among others. In 2024, his debut story collection, Leech, was published in Asia by Penguin Random House India, and in the U.S. as Diversity Quota by the Univ of Wisconsin Press. He teaches creative writing and literature at Westminster University, Salt Lake City. 

*Feature image by Persnickety Prints on Unsplash