The City Son Read Online Free PDF Page B

standing, watching, smiling, but he wasn’t smiling at what had happened; he was just smiling his sweet smile. Was Didi watching? Tarun’s eyes fell on the window of the kitchen, where she was, but the figure inside was too blurred for him to know whether she’d seen anything. “How’s that mother of yours?” Amit frequently asks him, then laughs. Somehow Tarun doesn’t feel like arguing with him or resisting him when he bullies him or even when he calls Apsara names. It’s as though Tarun has granted Amit the right to antagonize him.
    The person Tarun is beginning to feel the most connected to in Bangemudha is Didi. “My beautiful son,” she says. “Look how beautiful our Tarun is,” she says in front of everyone, and Tarun can feel Amit’s dagger eyes on him. They sit on the carpet on the floor next to the bed, where the Masterji sits. He’s aged since Didi has arrived. He smiles at Tarun, as though delighted by the love Didi is showing toward him. But his eyes are constantly checking Didi’s face, gauging her moods. When she’s pleased, and she’s often pleased when Tarun visits, he relaxes. But most of the time his face is taut, tense as though he is expecting someone to come from the side and strike him a blow.Tarun is reminded of the adage his Nepali teacher likes to repeat: Agultole haneko kukur bijuli chamkida tarsinchha . It fits Tarun’s father: he is indeed like the mutt who, once someone hits him with firewood, winces every time lightning strikes the sky.
    Didi’s fingers caress Tarun’s face, his chin. “I think he’s the most beautiful boy in the whole world,” she says, her gaze fixed on him.
    “Eh, beautiful boy!” Amit calls him when everyone’s out of earshot. “Eh, beautiful boy, randi ko chhora .”
    Tarun loves the food Didi cooks: kheer, malpua, haluwa , and an assortment of sweet stuff. Increasingly she seems to cook just for him. “I made this especially for my son today,” she says as she puts a plate of his favorite snack in front of him. She watches as he eats. Sometimes she gives him more food than she gives her own two sons, as though she knows that he hasn’t been eating well in Kupondole. Didi never asks him about his mother. Once or twice he’s had the urge to blurt it all out to Didi. She will understand what he’s going through. She’ll wipe his tears with her palm, kiss him, then lead him to the tap where she’ll wash his face, her thick, stubby fingers vigorously eliminating all remnants of pain and suffering, then set him down on the floor and ask him what he wants to eat. After he’s had his fill, she’ll pull him into her lap and massage his head, her fingers gentle and caressing, and as he feels drowsy, she’ll murmur into his ears, words that he doesn’t understand butthat are nonetheless pleasant. He’ll squirm in her lap, and she’ll stroke his back, his buttocks. She may even murmur, “Why does my son need to go home tonight? Why doesn’t he stay the night here, with his Didi?” And half drowsy, he’ll smile, for spending the night here in Bangemudha, cuddled next to Didi, appeals to him greatly.
    If it were up to Didi, she’d keep Tarun in Bangemudha. “That so-called mother of his will starve him to death,” Didi says to the Masterji. “Look at my Tarun, all skin and bones. Is that what you want for our son?”
    “Well,” the Masterji says. “It’s her son … after what has happened …” The Masterji no longer seems capable of speaking in full sentences to Didi. He stutters and stumbles. There are moments when he appears to be speaking a foreign language, so hard is it to understand his words. “ Yo  …  Oohi  …  Tya  …” and he stops with a dazed expression. Vertical lines have appeared on the corners of his mouth that now make him look prematurely old. Even with his glasses on, he squints and makes faces when he reads. His blanket around him, he sits on his bed and tutors his students, but these days in a low,