The Inheritance of Loss - Kiran Desai [90]
He owned twenty-five pairs of shoes at this point; some were the wrong size, but he had bought them anyway, just for the exquisite beauty of them.
Biju’s leg had mended.
What if it hadn’t?
Well, it had.
Maybe, though, maybe he would return. Why not? To spite himself, spite his fate, give joy to his enemies, those who wanted him gone from here and those who would gloat to see him back—maybe he would go home.
While Saeed was collecting shoes, Biju had been cultivating self-pity. Looking at a dead insect in the sack of basmati that had come all the way from Dehra Dun, he almost wept in sorrow and marvel at its journey, which was tenderness for his own journey. In India almost nobody would be able to afford this rice, and you had to travel around the world to be able to eat such things where they were cheap enough that you could gobble them down without being rich; and when you got home to the place where they grew, you couldn’t afford them anymore.
“Stay there as long as you can,” the cook had said. “Stay there. Make money. Don’t come back here.”
Thirty-one
In the month of March, Father Booty, Uncle Potty, Lola, Noni, and Sai sat in the Swiss Dairy jeep on their way to the Darjeeling Gymkhana to exchange their library books before the trouble on the hillside got any worse.
It was some weeks after the gun robbery at Cho Oyu and a program of action newly drawn up in Ghoom, threatened:
Roadblocks to bring economic activity to a standstill and to prevent the trees of the hills, the boulders of the river valleys, from leaving for the plains. All vehicles would be stopped.
Black flag day on April 13.
A seventy-two-hour strike in May.
No national celebrations. No Republic Day, Independence Day, or Gandhi’s birthday.
Boycott of elections with the slogan “We will not stay in other people’s state of West Bengal.”
Nonpayment of taxes and loans (very clever).
Burning of the Indo-Nepal treaty of 1950.
Nepali or not, everyone was encouraged (required) to contribute to funds and to purchase calendars and cassette tapes of speeches made by Ghising, the top GNLF man in Darjeeling, and by Pradhan, top man in Kalimpong.
It was requested (required) that every family—Bengali, Lepcha, Tibetan, Sikkimese, Bihari, Marwari, Nepali, or whatever else in the mess—send a male representative to every procession, and they were also to show up at the burning of the Indo-Nepal treaty.
If you didn’t, they would know and… well, nobody wanted them to finish the sentence.
______
“Where is your bum?” said Uncle Potty to Father Booty as he got into the jeep.
He studied his friend severely. A bout of flu had rendered Father Booty so thin his clothes seemed to be hanging on a concavity. “Your bum has gone!”
The priest sat on an inflatable swimming ring, for his gaunt rear ached from riding in that rough jeep running on diesel, just a few skeleton bars and sheets of metal and a basic engine attached, the windscreen spider-webbed with cracks delivered by stones flying up off the broken roads. It was twenty-three years old, but it still worked and Father Booty claimed no other vehicle on the market could touch it.
In the back were the umbrellas, books, ladies, and several wheels of cheese for Father Booty to deliver to the Windamere Hotel and Loreto Convent, where they ate it on toast in the mornings, and an extra cheese for Glenary’s Restaurant in case he could persuade them to switch from Amul, but they wouldn’t. The manager believed that when something came in a factory tin with a name stamped on it, when it was showcased in a national advertising campaign, naturally it was better than anything made by the farmer next door, some dubious Thapa with one dubious cow living down the lane.
“But this is made by local farmers, don’t you wish to support them?” Father Booty would plead.
“Quality control, Father,” he countered, “all-India reputation, name brand, customer respect, international standards of hygiene.”
Father Booty was with hope, anyway, whizzing through the spring, every flower, every creature preening, flinging forth