The Inheritance of Loss - Kiran Desai [128]
He had a lot of time to think, and as the hours went by, he unearthed the grout from his belly button, the wax from his ears with a blunt lead pencil, listened to the radio and tested the cleanliness of the orifices against the music, tilting right, left: “Chaandni raate, pyaar ki baate….” Then, sad to report, he picked some snot balls from his nose and fed them to a giant tiger-striped spider sitting in its web between the table and the wall. It pounced, couldn’t believe its luck, and began slowly to eat. Gyan lay on his back and did languorous bicycling exercises with his legs.
Pleasures existed in the world—intense, tiny pleasures that nevertheless created a feeling of space on all sides.
But then, the guilt came back strong: how could he have told the boys about the guns? How? How could he have put Sai in such danger? His skin began to crawl and burn. He couldn’t lie on the bed any longer. He got up and paced up and down. Could he ever be happy and innocent after what he had done?
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So as Sai lay martyred in her room, and as Gyan first considered the joy of turning the wheels of a simple life and then sickened at the harm he had done to others, they missed the important protest, a defining moment of the conflict, when the Indo-Nepal treaty of 1950 was to be burned and the past consigned to the flames and destroyed.
“Someone will have to go…,” the cook said to the judge after the boys had come to Cho Oyu to make their demand of attendance at the march.
“Well, you had better go, then,” said the judge.
Forty-three
27th July of 1986.
At night it rained and the cook prayed he wouldn’t have to go, but by morning it had stopped and a bit of blue appeared, looking so fake and childish after the moody shades of monsoon, he felt it hollow his heart and lay in bed as long as he could, hoping it would get covered up. Then when he couldn’t delay things any longer, he got up, put on his slippers, and went to the outhouse.
He met his friend the MetalBox watchman, and they walked together to the Mela Ground, through the entrance gate that was mounted with a statue of Gandhi to commemorate Indian Independence. Underneath, it read in Hindi, “Unity Love Service.” Several thousand people were arriving, not only from Kalimpong, but from villages and towns all around, from Mirik, Pasumbang, Soureni Valley, Aloobari, Labong Valley, Kurseong and Peshok, Mungpootista Highway, and many other places besides. When they had all collected, they would march to the police station where they would set the documents on fire.
“The organizational skills of the GNLF are good,” the cook said; he couldn’t help but appreciate them, for this kind of order was a rare sight in Kalimpong.
They stood and waited as hours passed. Finally, when the sun was hot overhead and cast no shadow, a man blew a whistle and instructed them to move forward.
Waving kukris, the sickle blades high and flashing in the light, “Jai Gorkha,” the men shouted. “Jai Gorkhaland! Gorkhaland for Gorkhas!”
“We should be finished in an hour,” said the MetalBox watchman hopefully.
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All was going according to plan, and they began to anticipate their lunch, since they were already hungry; but then, all of sudden when they reached the junction, an unexpected incident occurred. A volley of rocks and stones came pelting down from behind the post office, where the cook had waited for his letters from Biju and which, he noticed sadly, was barred and shut.
The stones hit the rooftops, BANG BANG BANG BANG; then they came flying with greater momentum, bounced down, and injured some of the people,