Gandhi's Goat
Barry Rachin
Gandhi’s Goat
by
Barry Rachin
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Published by:
Gandhi’s Goat
Copyright © 2010 by Barry Rachin
This short story represents a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Also by Barry Rachin:
The Misfit Motel
Canary in a Coal Mine
A Waltz Yes, a Heart No
Just like Dostoyevsky
107 Degree Fahrenheit
Gandhi’s Goat
A line ad appeared in the classified section of the San Francisco Gazette: Night clerk wanted for small motel. Mission District. Inquire in person. A half dozen applicants interviewed for the position. I was the third choice and only got the job by default when the others decided not to accept. “What sort of a night are we having?” asked Mr. Chowdhary, the manager and owner of the Bay View Motel. A stocky man, his coffee-colored skin was pock marked below bushy eyebrows.
“Three-quarters full with two reservations pending.” I had been there a month already, checking in the late arrivals and showing the guests to their rooms. When a lodger needed extra towels or a light bulb changed, I doubled as room service. If the motel filled up - which hardly ever happened - I turned on the 'no vacancy' sign and usually had little else to do but answer phones.
“Good! Very good, indeed!” The more guests, the friendlier and more expansive Mr. Chowdhary’s mood.
Behind the front desk of the Bay View Motel was a large, rectangular box sectioned off into twenty four smaller slots for spare keys and mail. A water cooler stood near the door along with a display rack stuffed with brochures describing tourist attractions in the Bay Area. A bronze statue of an Indian goddess rested on an end table in the far corner of the room. Three feet tall, the statue depicted a well-endowed, Indian woman perched in a lotus position; the goddess had three separate sets of arms and a coil of venomous snakes writhing on her forehead. The faint smell of incense - patchouli or sandalwood - emanated from the spot where the statue stood.
“After college, what will you do?” Mr. Chowdhary asked.
I had mentioned that I was taking courses at the local community college. “Haven't decided yet.”
“Not to worry. In time, everything will become clear.” Mr. Chowdhary raised his voice several decibels and waved a finger in the air. “My son, Subir - for years, he drifted about aimlessly from one job to the next. A regular job gypsy!” Mr. Chowdhary grinned at his clever choice of words. “Now he works for the Bay Commission. Decent pay, good benefits. Such a lucky man! “He rubbed his pock-marked chin. “And my oldest daughter, Bidyut, is married. Her husband’s in textiles.” Mr. Chowdhary smiled even more broadly showing his straight, white teeth. Thinking about his successful children made him very happy. “And, of course, you’ve met my other daughter, Terry.”
“The girl who works here,” I replied.
Mr. Chowdhary’s smile faded rather abruptly. “I love all my children equally, but that one - she will send both her parents to an early grave.”
One of the guests, a late arrival, came into the lobby. He checked in and went off in search of his room, dragging a medium-size Pullman down the corridor. “My wife’s people,” he continued, “came from Cochin. The city is slightly inland from the Malabar Coast. There has always been a large, Christian community in south-western India since as far back as the first century. My dear wife is a devout Catholic. After giving the two other children traditional names, she decided to name our youngest daughter after Saint Theresa, the Little Flower of Jesus.”
Mr. Chowdhary made a disagreeable face. “Even as a child, Terry had more in common with Attila the Hun than her 19th century namesake.” “And how she eats!” Mr. Chowdhary lowered his voice as though what he had to say was a mortal embarrassment. “My voracious daughter - that's what I call her. Not to humiliate the girl or hurt her feelings. God forbid! I do it only to remind her that there is a problem.”
“But your daughter isn't fat.”
“Not yet.” Mr. Chowdhary shook his head and the corners of his lips puckered in a bittersweet smile. “No matter. Despite her faults, Terry is a good girl. Her life will fall into place and everything will work out for the best.” He looked up at me with an affectionate grin. “Just as it will for you, my friend.”
