Maleah, Maleah: if she could see where he was from would she love him more, would she love him less? She of the tides and oceans, of fishing boats and papaya groves: what would she make of these backbreaking hills? Would she find them as bitter as he did? Or would she see beauty in them? Would she ever even come here? Bishnu bathed at the tap, the water stinging his flesh, quickening his pulse and reawakening him to the world of desire. His limbs were swollen from lack of salt, and his body was stiff from the thirteen days of austerity that he had observed for his stepfather’s mourning. As he towelled off and dressed, he looked out at the spread-out gulmohar trees near the old mud huts. Several concrete houses had cropped up since his last visit three years ago. The terraced fields were covered, in this season, with corn. Beyond lay the blue hills with their sparse forests, where he and his friends used to pick gooseberries as boys. How green everything was here, even in the wintertime. He’d forgotten that. Or he had grown unused to such greenery in the desert. Granting him leave from Five Spices, Harkrishan Dulal had said to him, ‘Exactly thirty days, son. If you don’t return in thirty days, then…’ Bishnu had told Maleah he would be back after the funeral. He had not specified when; and she had not asked. Arriving in Nepal he had steeled himself for the worst—and yet, from the first glimpse of Kathmandu through the airplane window to the long, winding drive back to the village, he had found himself staring at the greenery, astonished by its feeling of abundance. He had to remind himself that it was deceptive. From a young age he had turned away from here. It always surprised him when he returned. He had reached the village just in time to say farewell to his stepfather. He had had his hair shorn, dressed in white, and lit the
The Book of Aleph
WI NT ER