Kiran Desai - The Inheritance of Loss

The cook was walking, too, shouting, "MUTTY," his worry over his son gloved in Mutt’s vanishing, "MUTTY." He was talking to his fate – his hand was out, his palm was open, the letter, it had not come.

" No bus to Kalimpong. "

"Why not?"

It was in the newspaper, wasn’t it? The man at the Siliguri bus station had been surprised at Biju’s ignorance. On TV? In every conversation? In the air?

Then the problems were continuing?

Worsening. How could he not know? Where had he come from?

From America. No newspaper, no phone…

He nodded, then, in sympathy.

But: "No vehicles going to Kalimpong. Things are very tense, bhai. There was shooting there. Everyone has gone crazy."

Biju became insistent. "I have to go. My father is there…"

"Can’t go. There’s no way. There’s an emergency situation and they’ve put up roadblocks, spread Mobil oil and nails all over the streets – roads are completely closed."

Biju sat on his belongings in the bus station until the man finally took pity on him.

"Listen," he said, "go to Panitunk and you might find some vehicle from there, but it’s very dangerous. You will have to beg the GNLF men."

Biju waited there for four days until a GNLF jeep was leaving. They were renting extra seats for extortionary amounts.

"No room," the men told him.

He opened his new wallet to dollars.

He paid. Abraham Lincoln, in God we trust… The men had never seen American money, passed the bills around and studied them.

"But you can’t take so much luggage."

He paid some more, they piled his cases onto the roof and banded them with rope, and then they left, riding high on the thin road above the flooded fields, through the incandescence of young rice and banana, through a wildlife sanctuary with giant signs, "DO NOT DISTURB THE WILD ANIMALS," hammered onto the trees. He felt so light-hearted to be back, even this journey with these men didn’t unsettle him. He poked his head out and looked up at his bags to make sure they were still properly fastened.

The road tilted, barely a ledge over the Teesta, an insane river, he remembered, leaping both backward and forward within each moment. Biju hung on to the metal frame of the jeep as it maneuvered through ridged gullies and ruts and over rocks – there were more holes in the road than there was road and everything from his liver to his blood was getting a good shake. He looked down over at oblivion, hurried his vision back to the gouged bank. Death was so close – he had forgotten this in his eternal existence in America – this constant proximity of one’s nearest destination.

So, hanging tightly on to the metal carapace, they twisted uphill. There were many butterflies of myriad varieties, and when it rained a bit, the butterflies disappeared. The rain stopped and they returned; another little spasm, and they vanished again. Clouds blew in and out of the jeep, obscuring the men from one another every now and again. All along, the frogs sang lustily. There were at least a dozen landslides on the road between Siliguri and Kalimpong, and as they waited for them to be cleared, vendors came by offering momos in buckets, coconuts cut into triangle slices. This was where his father lived and where he had visited him and where they had hatched the plot to send him to America, and Biju had, in his innocence, done just what his father had, in his own innocence, told him to do. What could his father have known? This way of leaving your family for work had condemned them over several generations to have their hearts always in other places, their minds thinking about people elsewhere; they could never be in a single existence at one time. How wonderful it was going to be to have things otherwise.

The judge, exhausted from waiting, fell asleep and dreamed that Mutt was dying – for a moment she came out of a delirium, gave him a familiar look, wagged with a heroic effort, and then, in a second it was gone, the soul behind the eyes.

"Mutt?" The judge bent toward her, searching for a nicker.

"No," said the cook, also in the judge’s dream, "she’s dead, look," he insisted with an air of finality, and he lifted one of Mutt’s legs and let it go. It didn’t snap back. It settled slowly. She was stiffening, and he flicked her with his nails, but she didn’t flinch.

"Don’t touch her! I’ll kill you!" screamed the judge aloud, waking himself up, convinced by the logic of his dream.

The next day when he came back from another fruitless search, he repeated the words. "If you don’t find her RIGHT NOW," he said, shrilly, to the cook, "I’LL KILL YOU. That’s it. I’ve had enough. It’s your fault. It was your responsibility to watch her when I went for my bath."

Here was the difference: the cook had been fond of Mutt. He had taken her for walks, made toast for her breakfast with an egg in the wintertime, made her stew, called to her, "Mutty, Ishtu, Ishtoo," but it was clear, always, that she was just an animal to him.

The judge and his cook had lived together for more years than they had with anyone else, practically in the same room, closer to each other than to any other human being and – nothing, zero, no understanding.

It was so long since Mutt had gone missing. She would be dead now if she’d been bitten by a snake or she’d have starved to death if lost or injured far away.

"But FIND OUT," he told the cook. "FIND HER. RIGHT NOW."

"How, how can I, sahib?" He begged… "I am trying, I have tried…"

"FIND HER. It’s your fault. Mutt was in your care! I will KILL YOU. Wait and see. You didn’t do your duty. You didn’t watch over her. It was your duty and you let her be stolen. How dare you? How dare you??"

The cook wondered if he had done something wrong and his guilt began to grow. Had he indeed been negligent? He had failed in his duty, hadn’t he? He hadn’t looked hard enough. He hadn’t shown respect. He should have been watching the dog the day she went missing…

He began to weep without looking at anyone or anything and disappeared into the forest.

It occurred to him as he stumbled about that he’d done something so awful, he’d be paid back by fate and something even more awful would happen -

Sai now walked up and down the path shouting into the trees for the cook: "Come home, it’s all right, he doesn’t mean it, he is so sad he’s crazy, he doesn’t know what he’s saying…"

The judge was drinking on the veranda and telling himself he felt no remorse, he was perfectly justified in what he had said to the cook… Of course he was! I’ll kill you!

"Where are you?" called Sai, walking under the Milky Way, which, she had read in My Vanishing Tribe, the Lepchas called Zo-lungming, "world of rice."

Uncle Potty called out – "Did you find the dog?"

"No, and now the cook has also gone."

"He’ll be back. Join me for a tipple?"

But she continued.

The cook didn’t hear her because he had stumbled into Thapa’s Canteen, full of men drinking, spending the dregs of their money. He told them what had happened and it made them laugh, a bit of humor in these frightening days. Dog died! The hilarity spread. They could barely stop laughing. In a place where people died without being given any attention. They died of TB, hepatitis, leprosy, plain old fever… And no jobs, no work, nothing to eat – this commotion over a dog! Ha ha ha ha ha ha.

"It’s not something funny," said the cook, but he laughed a bit, too, out of relief that this was clearly humorous, but then he felt worse, doubly guilty, and he resumed his mewling. He had ignored his duty… Why hadn’t he watched that kutti…