Free Arresting God in Kathmandu by Samrat Upadhyay Page A

Moti’s room and had to shake his son a few times before he opened his eyes.
    “There’s a proposal for you,” Hiralal said.
    Moti sunk his face in the pillow. “Ba, I’m sleeping.”
    “A beautiful girl. From a very good family.”
    Moti turned his head. “What are you talking about?”
    “I’m saying that you should get married. And we’ve found the right girl for you.”
    Moti laughed. “Where’s this talk coming from?”
    Hiralal didn’t know how to answer. “Is this how you’re going to spend your life? Getting drunk, no job, no school?”
    “Please, Ba, I have a headache.”
    “Oh, really? I wonder why.”
    Moti again buried his face in the pillow.
    “I’ll arrange for a viewing.”
    “Do what you want,” Moti said in a muffled voice. “I’m not getting married.”
    “We’ll see about that.”
    On the bus to Jawalakhel, Hiralal puzzled over how to persuade Moti to come to the viewing. Over the past months, Hiralal had been remembering how, as a child, Moti liked to tour the city with him on Saturdays. They’d go to Patan, stroll in the square, with its intricately carved temples and the curio shops where foreigners bought small replicas of city monuments. They’d go to the Balaju Garden, with its twenty-two stone spouts gushing water, watch men bathe in their white underwear, women wash gigantic mounds of clothes. In Budhanilkantha, at the northern edge of the valley, they’d circle the huge statue of Vishnu reclining on a bed of snakes. Moti’s favorite place was the Swayambhunath Temple, perched on a hillock to the west. They would climb a steep staircase to the top, and Hiralal would have trouble catching up to Moti, who’d bound up the stairs like one of the hundreds of monkeys that roamed the temple complex. When they reached the top, Moti’s face would be flushed, and he’d rush to the lookout that opened on a breathtaking view of the valley. Moti loved to identify the city landmarks: the royal palace, with its strange curves; the large Tundikhel field, which now looked like a small green patch between the buildings; the Dharahara tower, standing like a white pencil. “Our house is there,” Moti would say, his finger struggling to pinpoint the exact location of Jaisideval in the cluster of houses far away.
    Hiralal worked as a driver for a rich Marwari businessman, Chaudhari saheb, who owned shops and restaurants in the city and two distilleries in the outskirts of the valley. Hiralal had been working for him for nearly twenty-five years, shuttling Chaudhari saheb in a Toyota Corolla between his shops and factories. Chaudhari saheb had treated Hiralal well, giving him bonuses during the Dashain Festival and the New Year, but he had one habit that annoyed Hiralal: he was a back-seat driver. When Hiralal became really annoyed, he would say, “I’ve been driving for years, hujoor.” Chaudhari saheb would grimace and say, “That doesn’t mean you don’t have to be careful.”
    This evening Hiralal was tired. In Thapathali, Chaudhari saheb had shouted, “A bus to your right,” directly into Hiralal’s ear, making his head ring. Later, when Hiralal swerved too close to another car, Chaudhari saheb let out a series of grunts, like an animal. Hiralal had half a mind to stop the car and ask Chaudhari saheb to drive while he sat back and offered advice. As it was, driving in Kathmandu had become increasingly nerve-wracking. Hiralal was always having to avoid ricksaw-pullers, pedestrians who crossed the street with abandon, reckless taxis, bus drivers who smirked as they tried to run him off the road, government cars that cruised as if they owned the road, and village idiots who waited until the last possible minute to jump in front of him.
    But Hiralal’s exhaustion vanished when Rudra’s wife came to his house to show him the picture of the girl. She was indeed beautiful, with large, kind eyes and a slim nose. “She looks like a good girl,” he said to Rudra’s wife, who