By Govardhan Pooja
“Don’t work so hard!”
“Okay. I will be careful.”
Our intimacy started with this very conversation. I am a worker at a grocery store and he is my regular customer.
Both of his legs have been amputated and he comes to my store in a wheelchair. As soon there is a wheelchair with a black bag hanging behind it, it signals Peter’s arrival. The bag is so filthy that it is disgusting. It’s as if he has not washed it since its purchase.
My job is to fill his bag with two bottles of the cheapest beer as soon as he arrives. As he can’t make out to the counter desk in his wheelchair, he trusts me with his debit card and says his password aloud: “Six, four, one, three…”
I always get mistaken before putting the pin and confirm with him, “Four, six, one, three?”
“No, no,” he says, “six, four, one, three.”
He is well aware of the American law regarding the purchase of alcohol; so he never comes before 8 in the morning. As soon as the clock handle points to eight and twelve, he sneaks out through the door. During Sundays, he makes a visit to the Church and only appears later in the evening.
A hat inscribed with the word ‘Boston’ and a jacket printed with a large image of a bald eagle—the national bird of America—make his regular outfit. He always covers his legs with blue jeans.
Whether it’s hot or cold, raining or sunshine, I’ve never seen him take off that jacket. Or maybe I haven’t noticed him without his jacket. Sometimes I close my eyes and think about my customers. During those times, Peter comes to my mind first. One part of my heart tells it is my love or affection toward him or the curiosity to know about his mysterious life. At the same time, the other part tells me that it is just the relation between a businessman and his costumer. My duty of a dutiful businessman!
Actually, I don’t think I am a good businessman. I don’t assume that a businessman can work selflessly. In any business, there is a sort of self-interest somewhere and I take it as a mandatory part. But in case of my relationship with Peter, I might have become more liberal.
Moreover, as he pays with his debit card, he never gives less money and as he receives government money, he is never short of funds. He neither asks for credit nor he goes to other stores feeling hurt.
I take it as my business morality to serve him and fulfill his demands on a regular basis.
In these two years of our intimacy, he once asked me, “Can’t you provide me the facility of home delivery?
“What do you mean?”
“When there is a snowfall, my wheelchair doesn’t work and I can’t make a visit during.”
I took his request with modesty and answered, “Maybe, sometimes.”
“Just a maybe or you can?” he asked to confirm.
“It can be done. Call me at 681-344-5450; I will be at your service whenever possible.”
Triumphantly he said, “If you are comfortable you can give me your cell number too.”
I couldn’t deny his request and gave him my number.
“Aren’t the last digits 5874?” He wanted to confirm.
“Yes.”
“Well, I memorized.”
He had an amazing memory power. At once, he was able to memorize a 10 digit phone number forever.
“But Peter, call only when I am free.”
“Sure. I don’t want to give you trouble unless it is important. It’s not my habit to do so. I am a masochist, not a sadist.”
His last words made me feel dizzy: “I am a masochist, not a sadist.”
I was eager to know more about him. And I waited for the right time. It was the last day of February. Suddenly, there was heavy snowfall in Boston. I went to my place of work quite reluctantly. Costumers were going in and out of the store. Suddenly, I got a call from Peter.
“Can you help me? If you can, the list of the goods is ready. I will text you.”
Accepting his order with ease, I asked for an hour. He replied to me that he would be waiting happily. At his residence which was four blocks away, the door opened no sooner had I put down the bag containing the delivery order, and smiling, Peter stretched his hands.
He said, “Thank you, thank you. Thank you very much.”
Before I could say anything, he signaled me to go in and following his orders, I entered his flat. He signaled me to sit on the sofa. Like an obedient child, I sat there.
“I am sorry for the trouble I gave you.” He started the conversation.
“No worries…the store was not that busy and I wanted to get fresh air myself. You made it easier for me by calling.”
“Really? As soon as people hear that something hazardous is going to happen, they immediately buy
goods and hoard them; so there is not much crowd on such days.”
I agreed with him. He was saying, “But I don’t do that. I never keep stocks. I don’t have a habit of collecting unnecessary supplies. I think I can live without foods for a few days, but I can’t make it without drinks. I am so addicted to alcohol that I have an urge to drink regularly.”
I was listening to him. My eyes suddenly settled on the picture of a lady hanging on the wall of that small but elegant room. He perhaps perceived my curiosity, so he said, “She is my wife.” “Your wife?”
“Yes, my wife. Is it not possible for such a beautiful lady to be my wife?”
His uncomfortable question dragged me to an awkward position. I couldn’t determine what to say.
But I answered in a calm way, “Why not? Everything is possible in love and war.”
He was probably satisfied with my answer and said in an exciting way, “Yes, you are right about war.”
After a few minutes of silence, he spoke in a low tone, “But I don’t know what to say about my love. I feel stuck in a situation whose definition I need to change.”
“I didn’t get you, Peter.”
“I mean, I tried to change the form of love.”
“How?”
I could see a shadow of the past gathering on his face. I knew my query had done the trick. He was beginning to get lost in the memories of the distant past. “Yes, I tried to transform the definition of my love. I had no choice either. I tried to establish the values that love and devotion should exist between lovers. Now, I have become lonely, struck hard by my own beliefs.”
“When my legs had to be amputated, then…”
“Then?”
“I had Type-1 diabetes. They say I inherited it from my ancestors. It was diagnosed when I was three. Since then, I had to inject insulin on a regular basis. Now, I am forty and all my life, I have injected it at least twice a day.
My belly is full of holes; there is no spot left unhurt.”
He took off his t-shirt and showed me his belly. It was full of scars. I understood his pain even in silence.
“What happened after that?”
“We used to live in Florida. Our marriage, which was the result of five years of our love, hardly lasted for the next five years. During this period, I had lost one leg due to the infection. I felt as if I was holding her back from visiting anywhere outside. There used to be separate food for us. How could someone be happy in such a condition? There was nothing but pain. I felt as if she had to sacrifice all her happiness for me.
“One day, I talked about getting separated. She didn’t speak a single word. Tears kept rolling from her eyes. I immediately understood her intentions. She had had to suffer due to me; I was the sole cause of her pain. I thought separation in freedom is pleasanter than love that forces one to live in suffocation.
“Then, I proceeded with the divorce process.”
He said with a tragic smile, “Well, you know I am a masochist. The day we signed the divorce paper, my second leg also had to be amputated. After that, I had to live separately from her. We divided the money after selling our house. Then I came to Boston with my share
of the cash. And I have thus lived like this so far.”
“So, did she get married again?”
“I don’t even know about that. While we were parting, she had said, ‘I am yours and will remain yours forever.’ At the time of my departure, she had come to drop me in the airport. She cried a lot while parting. I also cried for the last time. I emptied my tears as if I won’t have to cry anymore in my life. Since that day, I haven’t noticed any tears rolling from my eyes.”
Though he had returned to his present, I was dwelling in his past. I parted from him, carrying with me the wounds of his heart.
***
Four years passed following the cycle of spring and fall. I met Peter four times in his room during this period. Every time I went there, it occurred to me that picture of his wife on the wall was smiling. He did not want to open up further. Neither did I have any strength to ask him.
Surprisingly, he came to my store yesterday with a lady and introduced me to her: “She came from Florida to stay with me forever. We have united again after 14 years.”
I looked at the lady. Smiling, she brought her hands forward. I shook hands with her. She expressed gratitude with a smile and said, “Thank you so much for helping my Peter in my absence.”
Peter added, “She said she suffered more without me.” He giggled, and added, “Well, I am not a sadist; I can’t live by inflicting pain on others.”
That moment, the face of Peter was as bright as the full moon. It appeared as if darkness would never befall his life again.
***
[Translated from Nepali by Anup Joshi and Pawan Pokharel]
[Govardhan Pooja (b. 1970) is a US-based Nepali writer. Also associated with journalism for some time during his youth, he is now a dedicated writer and a literary activist. He writes fictions and poetry, and his published works include Asahamatika Pailaharu (stories), Shunyatako Aanchalbhitra (novel), Dhartiko Dhulo (ghazals), Aba Itihas Rundaina (serial novel), Peeda Avadata (poems), Wachal Othharu (poems), Prem Avatar (poems), Bikrima yo Jindagi (ghazals) and Anamnagarki Ambika (poems). He lives in Boston and is the Senior Vice President of International Nepali Literary Society (INLS). ]