Read Online Oleander Girl by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
Tags: Contemporary, Adult
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nightly visits to the Roy household is that Asif has struck up a friendship with Bahadur.
At first Asif had looked upon the Nepalese gatekeeper with disdain. Dozing by the gate in a frayed khaki uniform that had not encountered an iron in years, the old man clearly belonged to that obsolete generation of retainers whose dowdy servanthood was their entire identity. His face wreathed in a gap-toothed grin, he salaamed Rajat entirely too many times as Asif pulled onto the gravel driveway. Bahadur embodied everything Asif detested about working for the rich, everything he was determined to avoid. So he would give a curt nod in response to the old man’s effusive greeting, refuse his offer of garam garam chai with spices from Kathmandu, put on a pair of fake Armani sunglasses, and pretend to sleep. Through the rolled-down window, the scent of the tea, brewed with generous helpings of milk and sugar on a kerosene stove outside the gatehouse, assailed him. A nice, hot cupful would have improved the quality of these boring, mosquito-infested evenings. But Asif didn’t believe in being obligated to people unless he liked them.
One evening Bahadur knocked apologetically on the windshield. Would Asif mind moving his car? Bahadur needed to take the family vehicle out to make sure everything was working right. Asif reversed the Mercedes, scowling to make sure the old man registered his irritation. But when he saw the car Bahadur brought out of the garage, he couldn’t help loping over.
“You have a Bentley! How old is it? Looks like an antique.”
Bahadur scratched his head. The car had already been in the family when Bahadur was hired—what was it?—forty-four years ago. He didn’t get to drive it for a long time, even though he had a license from Park Circus Auto School. The Roys—richer then—had a chauffeur just for the Bentley, a military-looking Sikh whom everyone called Sardarji. He drove old Tarak-babu wherever he needed to go. If Bahadur wasn’t on gate duty, he would sit up front with Sardarji, jumping out to open the door. When Tarak-babu passed away, Bimal-babu, too, insisted on being driven only by Sardarji. Relegated to taking Sarojini-ma shopping in a cumbersome Ambassador, Bahadur began to despair of ever being allowed to handle the Bentley. He confessed that he would wish for it at night: just once to feel that steering wheel in his hands, that accelerator under his foot.
And it did happen, but not the way he had wanted it. When Anu-missybaba died, Bimal-babu went a little crazy. He cut himself off from his friends and sent Sarojini-ma and Korobi-baby to the village home, along with Cook and Bahadur. By the time they returned, the other servants—including Sardarji—were gone. Bahadur was put on double duty, both gatekeeper and driver. But guilt (had he wished this tragedy into being?) kept him from enjoying his elevated position. The first time he drove the Bentley, to take Sarojini and Korobi to the doctor, his hands shook so badly that he almost landed them in a ditch.
Asif wasn’t interested in this ancient ramble, but he loved the Bentley. He’d never seen an old car that had been taken care of with such diligence. When Bahadur, noticing how reverently Asif ran his hands over the car, asked if he would like to drive it, Asif was ambushed by a boyish delight he hadn’t felt in years. Seconds later, they were on the street, Asif pressing cautiously on the accelerator, Bahadur urging him on.The car ran as smooth as—Asif couldn’t even imagine a simile for it. When they returned, he asked Bahadur, a trifle shyly, if he might take him up on that offer of chai. Soon they sat on the porch of the gatehouse, sipping, fanning themselves with old copies of the Telegraph and cursing the mosquitoes.
Over the next nights, they shared dinner—the dal and coarse chapatis that Bahadur cooked, the fancier meal that Sarojini sent out to Asif. They told each other about their faraway homes near Kathmandu and
At first Asif had looked upon the Nepalese gatekeeper with disdain. Dozing by the gate in a frayed khaki uniform that had not encountered an iron in years, the old man clearly belonged to that obsolete generation of retainers whose dowdy servanthood was their entire identity. His face wreathed in a gap-toothed grin, he salaamed Rajat entirely too many times as Asif pulled onto the gravel driveway. Bahadur embodied everything Asif detested about working for the rich, everything he was determined to avoid. So he would give a curt nod in response to the old man’s effusive greeting, refuse his offer of garam garam chai with spices from Kathmandu, put on a pair of fake Armani sunglasses, and pretend to sleep. Through the rolled-down window, the scent of the tea, brewed with generous helpings of milk and sugar on a kerosene stove outside the gatehouse, assailed him. A nice, hot cupful would have improved the quality of these boring, mosquito-infested evenings. But Asif didn’t believe in being obligated to people unless he liked them.
One evening Bahadur knocked apologetically on the windshield. Would Asif mind moving his car? Bahadur needed to take the family vehicle out to make sure everything was working right. Asif reversed the Mercedes, scowling to make sure the old man registered his irritation. But when he saw the car Bahadur brought out of the garage, he couldn’t help loping over.
“You have a Bentley! How old is it? Looks like an antique.”
Bahadur scratched his head. The car had already been in the family when Bahadur was hired—what was it?—forty-four years ago. He didn’t get to drive it for a long time, even though he had a license from Park Circus Auto School. The Roys—richer then—had a chauffeur just for the Bentley, a military-looking Sikh whom everyone called Sardarji. He drove old Tarak-babu wherever he needed to go. If Bahadur wasn’t on gate duty, he would sit up front with Sardarji, jumping out to open the door. When Tarak-babu passed away, Bimal-babu, too, insisted on being driven only by Sardarji. Relegated to taking Sarojini-ma shopping in a cumbersome Ambassador, Bahadur began to despair of ever being allowed to handle the Bentley. He confessed that he would wish for it at night: just once to feel that steering wheel in his hands, that accelerator under his foot.
And it did happen, but not the way he had wanted it. When Anu-missybaba died, Bimal-babu went a little crazy. He cut himself off from his friends and sent Sarojini-ma and Korobi-baby to the village home, along with Cook and Bahadur. By the time they returned, the other servants—including Sardarji—were gone. Bahadur was put on double duty, both gatekeeper and driver. But guilt (had he wished this tragedy into being?) kept him from enjoying his elevated position. The first time he drove the Bentley, to take Sarojini and Korobi to the doctor, his hands shook so badly that he almost landed them in a ditch.
Asif wasn’t interested in this ancient ramble, but he loved the Bentley. He’d never seen an old car that had been taken care of with such diligence. When Bahadur, noticing how reverently Asif ran his hands over the car, asked if he would like to drive it, Asif was ambushed by a boyish delight he hadn’t felt in years. Seconds later, they were on the street, Asif pressing cautiously on the accelerator, Bahadur urging him on.The car ran as smooth as—Asif couldn’t even imagine a simile for it. When they returned, he asked Bahadur, a trifle shyly, if he might take him up on that offer of chai. Soon they sat on the porch of the gatehouse, sipping, fanning themselves with old copies of the Telegraph and cursing the mosquitoes.
Over the next nights, they shared dinner—the dal and coarse chapatis that Bahadur cooked, the fancier meal that Sarojini sent out to Asif. They told each other about their faraway homes near Kathmandu and
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