End of the Road Read online

Mrs. Kansakar clicked her tongue and shook her head.

  “What, can’t you picture me as an officer?”

  “Oh, child, there are so many better things I can picture for someone as pretty as you.”

  “Yeah, you and Mrs. Ranjeet.”

  “You could do worse, chhori. Yesh will be a good earner, and he’s not bad-looking.”

  In the relative calm of the past couple of weeks—and she would not like to admit this to Mrs. Kansakar, for fear of encouraging the two old ladies—Emily had entertained the prospect of accepting Yesh, whom she had not actually met. So far, he was little more than an abstraction, but still intriguing. What shape might their lives together take? Could she be content as a shopkeeper’s wife? Could he stomach the sort of choices she might prefer, left to her own devices?

  More importantly, could she safely diffuse the mischief her grandfather (and her mother) may have wrought in her genes among these people dwelling at the top of the world? And if her genetic materials were not sufficiently diluted, if her warrior-spirit were transmitted in its full intensity down the generations, what might her descendants make of such an inheritance? Would they eventually seek dominion over the Earth from this little cul-de-sac in the Himalayas? And what would they be willing to do to achieve it?

  A picture of her little ones, hundreds of them, thousands, charging into battle flashed before her mind, still children, armed with toys, and it brought a smile to her face. Their battle cry echoed in her ears: Jaya Mahakali—Glory to Kali. “Yes,” she thought. “That’s how they’d remember me, as the goddess of death.”

  The tone of the voices crying out to her changed under her mental gaze, deepening into the full-throated cry of mature young men and women. No longer fighting with toys, the scene in her imagination had become horrendous. A real battle now, not just child’s play, fleeting glory to be won as death stalked gigantically among the warriors. They would fight and die, or live, but they’d never know peace. She would not be there to teach them anything about serenity.

  A sudden chill shivered her whole body at the path her thoughts had taken. But did she need to pass her spirit on at all? Couldn’t she simply arrange to be the last of her line? Perhaps that would be the wisest choice, though something inside her rebelled against it.

  Almost against her will, she found herself thinking about Midshipman Hankinson, the young man who first suggested the Naval Academy to her. He planted the seed of an idea that military service might help shape the moods her extraordinary martial discipline tended to produce. He was no more prepared to marry Kali than Yesh could be, than anyone could be. But hadn’t he caught a glimpse of what violence truly is, the violence that resides at the bottom of her heart, when he sparred with her? He’d tried to fight back as none of the other midshipmen had. Was there, perhaps, the tiniest spark of some warrior demon in him, something to carry him through the dark times that were sure to come if he allied himself to her?

  “Has your family already arranged someone for you, chhori?” Mrs. Kansakar asked, after Emily took such a long time to reply.

  “Arranged someone? Why would I let anyone arrange something like that?”

  “Because your elders might be wiser than you in such things, child.”

  “I doubt that. Nobody knows my heart better than me.”

  “Of course not, but the heart is fickle, and marriage depends on other things, too.”

  How odd that Mrs. Kansakar’s explanation of arranged marriage should seem so reasonable to Emily. That it did probably said more about the changing contents of her heart than about any supposed wisdom of the elders of her acquaintance. What did she know about love, after all?

  Some of her new clothes had required alterations, and Mrs. Ranjeet sent word for them to come by in the afternoon for a final fitting. It all sounded rather suspicious, but she decided it was simpler just to go along, rather than spoil the old ladies’ fun.

  On the walk to Asan Chowk, Mrs. Kansakar was slightly more officious than usual. Apparently, even the smallest details of Emily’s gait required emendation.

  “Don’t slouch,” she said. “Hold your head up, child. Shoulders back. Why do you place your feet down like that when you walk? Are you trying to sneak up on someone?”

  “Just old habits, I guess.”

  “A woman can be a force in the world, if she simply presents herself in the right way. No slouching, no sneaking. When you’re wearing your new clothes, take pride in yourself.”

  Emily couldn’t help smiling at this last piece of advice. Mrs. Kansakar’s sense of a woman’s place was completely respectable, even admirable. But somehow, Emily couldn’t help thinking that a little bit of sneaking might be more suitable to her own personality. She felt forceful enough as it was.

  “I still like my old clothes.”

  “Don’t be silly, child. We can give those old things to the poor. There’s always a need.”

  Before Emily could protest, they’d arrived at the front door to the shop. The little bells jingled as they stepped inside. A plump, white-haired lady standing at the back counter haggled over the price of a shawl with Mrs. Ranjeet, who flashed a furtive little smile their way and sought to extricate herself from the negotiations. Try as she might, however, the customer was unmovable. Emily understood nothing of their conversation, but in the end the self-satisfied smile on the customer’s face told Emily who had won.

  “Come this way,” Mrs. Ranjeet said, after all the formalities had been gone through. “I have something for you upstairs. Just let me lock up down here and I’ll be right up.”

  Emily rolled her eyes as they climbed the back staircase. “Let’s see who’s waiting up here,” she thought. A dark landing at the top, Mrs. Kansakar took a moment to find the doorknob. Mrs. Ranjeet’s light and airy apartment smelled of cumin and sugar. The front room was sparsely furnished with a few caned chairs lined up neatly along one edge of a low table. Two tufted ottomans on either side of a cushioned armchair filled out the seating options. A short, stout statue of the elephant-headed god watched over the room from the far corner.

  “You’ve been baking, Manisha,” Mrs. Kansakar called out.

  “Welcome, welcome,” a sweet voice chirped from the kitchen. “Please make yourselves comfortable.”

  “Sabina-bahini,” Mrs. Kansakar replied. “You’re back. How is your mother-in-law?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid. I’ll be returning to her tomorrow. And who have we here?” she asked politely.

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Kansakar said, remembering her manners. “This is my houseguest, Michiko…”

  “Please call me Emily. All my friends do.”

  “And this is Sabina Malla, Mrs. Ranjeet’s daughter.”

  “Please, sit, while I bring the tea,” Sabina said with a shake of her head.

  When Mrs. Ranjeet finally came up the stairs, her daughter had some hushed words for her in the kitchen. Emily caught only a few bits and pieces that chanced to be in English.

  “Maa, this is who you want to introduce him to?” When her mother made no audible reply, Sabina continued. “I thought you wanted a Newar for him. She’s not even Aryan. Do you really want your grandson to marry a Mongol?”

  “So you don’t like Mongols now?” Mrs. Ranjeet asked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the one who rejects all the girls he likes, and you know he’s attracted to them. And she’s so tall.”

  Mrs. Kansakar smiled nervously at Emily and tried to look like she heard nothing. Emily growled out a quiet “hmm” to let her know she wasn’t fooled. Meanwhile, Mrs. Ranjeet tried to shush her daughter with a sharp whisper to no avail.

  “Yes, she’s pretty enough,” Sabina hissed. “But aren’t you the one who said she had to be Newar? And the blue jeans? You hate those. Don’t deny it.”

  “We’ll see to that in a little while.”

  A moment later, Sabina and her mother came out of the kitchen wearing unconvincingly broad smiles and carrying a large tea set and a tray full
of little cakes.

  “How delightful,” Mrs. Kansakar gushed, trying to turn around an uncomfortable situation. “Here, chhori. Have a piece of spice cake.”

  Emily sipped tea and ate whatever was put in front of her. Gradually, afternoon turned into evening, and tea cakes gave way to more substantial fare. Before she even had time to register what was happening in the kitchen, Sabina brought a tray full of little bowls, some steaming, others cold. Plates of rice were handed around and bowls of a lentil stew called dal, as well as what Emily assumed to be steamed kale. Best of all, she thought, were the spicy pickles Mrs. Kansakar called aachar.

  “Do you eat meat?” Sabina asked.

  When Emily nodded, she passed around a plate of dumplings. Momos, she called them.

  “I thought you didn’t eat beef,” Emily asked after a bite.

  “Don’t worry, chhori,” Mrs. Ranjeet said. “It’s buff.”

  “She means it’s buffalo meat,” Sabina whispered.

  Emily was worried, of course, though not about what was in the momos. Mrs. Kansakar gave her one word of caution when she first arrived: don’t touch food with your left hand. She supposed some important truth hid somewhere in the distinction between hands, though it seemed like an arbitrary abstraction at that precise moment. Still, it took a little bit of attention to avoid any manual inadvertence.

  It was dusk before Mrs. Ranjeet remembered the fitting that provided the ostensible reason for this little get-together. It turned out to be nothing more than letting down the hems and taking in seams on a few pairs of pants. Emily was lankier and taller than the women these outfits were originally imagined for. A few chalk marks and some hand sewing later—Sabina turned out to be a speedy seamstress—and Emily had three very form-fitting outfits.

  “You’re so slender, chhori,” Sabina clucked over her. “Don’t you eat?”

  “I eat,” Emily protested. “You saw.”

  “She eats,” Mrs. Kansakar chimed in. “It’s all the running…”

  Some rustling at the kitchen door announced the arrival everyone else had been waiting for. Emily heard Mrs. Ranjeet making a fuss in the next room.

  “Hajurama…” she heard a man’s voice call out.

  “Oh, my dear boy,” Mrs. Ranjeet said loudly. “Use English. We have a guest,” she said not quietly enough.

  “Again,” he moaned. “Who is it this time? Not another market girl, I hope.”

  “Hush up, silly boy. Come meet her.”

  Overhearing this exchange didn’t enhance anyone’s comfort level, and certainly not Emily’s. Once he saw her, however, Yesh looked more embarrassed than everyone else put together. After the introductions, and while he still had her hand, he leaned over and whispered: “I’m sorry about this.”

  Not particularly athletic, but tall and well-built—Emily sized him up. Brown aryan features, dark eyes and a sharp nose, his salient feature was a huge mane of wavy black hair hanging down below his shoulders. He wore it tied loosely behind his neck.

  “Yesh,” Sabina snarled. “What about that haircut you promised?”

  “I’m sorry, Ama,” he said to his mother. “There were just so many things to do this week.”

  “It’s always something,” Mrs. Ranjeet scolded.

  “I like it,” Emily said, though as soon as the words left her mouth it felt like she had intruded where she didn’t belong. All three women turned to look at her, as if they’d just realized she was there. “It looks good,” she added, sheepishly.

  “Oh, I like this one,” Yesh said. “Where’d you find her, Grandma?”

  An hour of stiff conversation followed, in which Emily learned that he was only a year older than her, not yet twenty, taught maths at a nearby high school and awaited an unspecified, life-changing event. She could sympathize.

  Yesh insisted on walking them home, once the dark of the evening had overtaken them. It was impossible to get a private moment with Emily in his grandmother’s apartment. The dark streets of Bangemudha weren’t much better with Mrs. Kansakar in tow, but the old lady was crafty enough to lag a few steps behind the young people, just enough space for them to make a plan.

  “I’ve been visiting Ganesh temples,” Emily said.

  Have you been to Chobar?” Yesh asked. “It’s beautiful, one of the largest temples anywhere, right on the river, just a few miles out of town. We can take a bus in the morning.” By this point, he was simply gushing.

  “We?”

  He blushed, having been caught in his own enthusiasm. She’d go with him, of course, but not without putting him just a little off balance.

  6: Amaterasu is not so easily evaded

  Light and shadow flickered across her face and the cool air of the forest ruffled her hair as she walked along the familiar path. One foot in front of the other, heel aligned with toe, the dirt crinkled as she walked. Water burbled somewhere in the distance, tropical foliage brushed against her as she walked past, pushing forward to the light of a clearing that gleamed through the last few branches up ahead.

  She knew this place, her place. Her father’s spirit lived here. The meadow beckoned, bright with no light of its own. One step, two, three, and she felt the warmth of the sun shining all around her. But something was different this time. The light was hot, and growing hotter. The voice of the sun shrilled at her.

  “The sword of the true master takes life when it is necessary, and gives life when it is good.”

  Emily recognized the words. They were from another saying of the Japanese monk, Takuan Soho. Her sensei taught it to her a few years earlier, but Rinpoche helped her understand it. She knew what came next: “The true master knows no friendship.” Just as she heard herself shrieking out the last few words, the warmth of the sun became unbearably hot. Tears ran down her face.

  “Please, Granny. You’re hurting me!”

  She felt herself being consumed by the fire, her skin boiling, about to be turned to ash. She would scream out in pain if she could, but the stench of burning flesh choked the sound off in her throat. And then it was dark.

  She opened her eyes onto a pitch-black room on a moonless night. It was her room and her bed, she realized after a moment.

  “What’s the matter, child?” Mrs. Kansakar cooed from the door. And then the old woman was at her side, one hand caressing her face. “You must have had a nightmare.”

  “Yes,” she replied in a groggy voice. “It was a bad dream.” She turned her face away, uncertain whether Mrs. Kansakar would be able to see in her eyes the turmoil she felt in her heart.

  “You gave me quite a fright, crying out like that. It’s a good thing there are no other guests, or they’d have been in here, too.”

  Eventually, fatigue overtook her and she slept soundly until well after dawn. Normally, she hated letting the sun get the drop on her, but today she just couldn’t face her right away.

  Breakfast put away, and all questions politely deflected, Emily left to meet Yesh at the bus. The ride to Jal Vinayak in Chobar took the proverbial twenty minutes. It turned out to be an impressive temple complex stretched out along the Bagmati river. At seven thirty, they had the place pretty much to themselves, but by ten the tourists began crowding in, along with the many young singles and newlyweds who came to dream of love or children.

  The god of obstacles listens to all prayers and is the first god honored in any puja ceremony. Emily was surprised to find that the main image of Ganesh was little more than a natural rock outcropping, framed in a brick shrine off to one side of the complex. The suggestion of two lobes of an elephant’s forehead was all it took for the ancient worshippers to discover the presence of the god at this holy site.

  By eleven, with the crowds beginning to feel oppressive, Yesh was ready to go back to town. A bus left in ten minutes and there wouldn’t be another for an hour. Emily brushed off his impatience and wandered down to the river. A few hundred yards north along the river bed, past a bridge and off to the right in the shade afforded by the woods clin
ging to one of the few remaining undeveloped hillsides, she found a secluded corner to sit quietly.

  “We should get back soon,” Yesh called up to her inopportunely. “There’s nothing left to see here.”

  Emily glowered at him, then thought better of it. “Come up here and sit with me,” she said.

  Of course, he complied. There was no way to resist such an invitation from a pretty girl in a place like this. She had found one of the very few spots where one couldn’t see the road or plowed fields, or the nearby cement factory. He picked his way up through some dense underbrush, getting a little scratched up along the way. At one point, his hair caught on a branch and she had to help disentangle him.

  “Listen to the water,” she said after a moment.

  “That’s the rapids of the Chobar Gorge,” he said. “Legend has it the entire Kathmandu valley was once a vast lake, until the people cut the gorge into the mountain as a channel to let the water drain away.”

  “That’s a nice story. Is it true?”

  “Who knows? But people like to imagine that rivers are divine things. I’m sure later today families will cremate their dead at the water’s edge just below the temple hoping the river will smooth their passage.”

  “I like that story better,” she said. “And I like this place. Ganesh is such a pure, generous spirit. It’s like I can feel him here more than in the city shrines.”

  “Maybe you’re just glad to be away from the noise of the city.”

  “Close your eyes for a moment and listen to the sound of your own breathing.”

  “Are you some sort of bikchuni, then?”

  “I’m no nun. Just do it, for me.”

  Yesh tried to sit quietly, even closed his eyes for about half a minute. Another minute and he was fidgeting and squirming like a little boy in church. She turned an irritated glance his way. He drew back when he saw her eyes, as if he were looking into the eyes of a wild animal, or some untamed spirit. Emily caught herself and tried to direct something softer his way.

  “Please. This is what I came here to do.”

  “What, meditate at Jal Vinayak?”