Roots, a book by Alex Haley

After a real long time, a book disturbed my sleep, a character denied to be forgotten even for a while and I spent quite some time turning side. The imaginary cacophony of African tribe didn’t let my consciousness drowse. The drums kept beating and “Kunta Kinte” kept me engaged. I felt sorry for him, my throat choked several times as his story unfolded. I saw him being dragged from his tribe in Ghana, in chains buried in his filth into the slavery. The images of his attempts to run back, the atrocities of whites, the trading of blacks like any other good, barring them from speaking their tongue, barring them from allowing them to inherit the name of their father, their children put to labor at an early age, their women raped. Throughout the book I detested that I am among those who grinded their fellow human being and I kept feeling sorry for the poor men. The small post card of Bob Marley glued in my closet kept singing ‘Buffalo soldier..’. How many times I sang his lines ‘Get up stand up, stand up for your right’ as Kunta Kinte fall prey to brutal atrocities. I had a tough time controlling my tears roll down when he caught the feet of his ‘Massa’ pledging him not to sell his beloved daughter. I was really torn down when his wife’s plea to not sell his daughter reminding him how much had she done to the deaf ‘Massa’. I just couldn’t continue reading and to console myself I had to switch on the TV. My heart wrenched when their 16 year old daughter Kizzy was raped the very first night she was bought by a new massa. The book told a history of a family of people who lived in America. I felt so sad as she told the story of his father ‘Kunta Kinte’, his tongue which became a tradition and every new born generation after generation told the same story to their ‘yunguns’ (young ones) until seven generation later Alex Haley, the author of the book thought about doing a research and wrote the book. I rejoiced when his great-great grand children were freed from slavery and how much respect I had for Abraham Lincoln for abolishing slavery. I understood why a black man had cried when Barrack Obama was elected the new president of the United States. The gaunt, black figure of Kunta Kinte revisited me throughout the day even when I was not reading the book. I admired him for having the courage to share the story of his homeland and his people to his child who set this up as a tradition. Just when one is playing a video game one gets so engaged in the game (racings) that when one has to swerve the graphical car in the screen he bends his entire body, I prayed for Kunte to succeed when he tried to escape. I respected him when other black mates of his called him ‘Toby’ the name given by his massa, and he yelled back at them that his name was ‘Kun-tay’. Probably that protest led his generation to come out with this heart wrenching book and as the book concludes ‘ history is written by winners’ the blacks have really won the battle to freedom and its their history and it has been written with pride.
While reading this book I remembered years back when I went to home of these two girls named Nizu and Rizu once we talked about family name. The former asked me why is family name so important, I had told them it gives one ancestral identity and about lineage. I wish I had read this book back then and had been able to tell them the true story of ‘Kunta Kinte’ of Gambia.
The next book that awaits me is ‘Hot, flat and Crowded’. I hope it leaves me equally fascinated.

The experience of falling into the gutter

Who wants to fall into the pit? Who wants to get dirty? I don’t want, nor anyone who I know but I have this feeling that I have fallen into a gutter, too dirty to acknowledge. Aftermath, I wonder if I fell voluntarily or if I was pushed over the edge.
Jumping like a calf over the top of Sarangkot in Pokhara, I had not any faintest of idea that disturbances were awaiting my return. To my amazement everyone I met in my office asked me if I enjoyed. I haven’t been someone popular who have talk with everyone. In my office I am still stranger to many colleagues and to have very small number of people I exchange pleasantries, but all of a sudden everyone’s interest in my tour made me feel important at first. Then a colleague of mine commented that the whole office seemed to know I had been to Pokhara and everyone he met asked about me. I later learned someone had been spreading rumor that being a close ally to my boss I was sent on vacation. I did get an idea who could have done that. I was really let down but in these cases there is nothing one can do.
Before leaving for Pokhara, I had forgotten to sign myself on the office register so I was marked as absent. Being a normal case I sought for my boss (Department Chief) who was not available and the other day I forgot the matter. Same case repeated again and by sheer carelessness and foolishness I forgot to report the matter. In these cases staffs have to write an application to the department chief who then requests the Human Resource Department to mark the staff as present. The day before going to Pokhara, I wanted to write the application but again there was no one to make recommendation, so on the day when I was supposed to leave for Pokhara, I wrote an application got it recommended from my immediate boss and looked for my boss who had not come to office and I handed the application to the Peon asking him to get it signed from the Department Head.
I went to Pokhara and I had thought my tour to be successful and fulfilling. On the day I returned, my boss asked me why I had been so late in submitting the application. I could have told him the whole story but it seemed unnecessary and I said I had been really careless about that. After all it was my mistake and it was an obvious case of carelessness. However these cases get repeated in all departments and in ours case its too frequent. Again this was the first time this year I had committed the mistake. While I was looking for a document in my boss’s P.A.’s computer I located the application file I wanted. Since I had missed to sign twice, I thought I had to make two application. The application file I found, was an application a colleague of mine had prepared on a same case and he too had missed to sign for two days. He had clarified the whole thing in a single document and so I just replaced his name with mine and made changes in the date. I got that application printed and gave it to the peon. When my boss complained such mistakes are usually taken in wrong sense by the people in HRD, I acknowledged it promising him not to repeat the mistake. I had assumed he would approve my application.
My head swing as I was returned the application with only one day approved. It meant I would be marked absent on a day when I had come to office and worked. I would have taken that as a normal case had there been strict rules for everyone and had other colleagues of mine been slapped with similar consequences. The very department that turns blind for staffs who shun office for whole day just after signing the register. Same department has no rules to be enforced for staffs who return to office after lunch, no rules for staffs staying away from office for hours in the name of tea. Being considerate is different from encouraging indiscipline. If discipline has to be enforced, it should be enforced to everyone.
I don’t remember the last time I had been so furious. I was helping a staff prepare audit report when I was handed the application form. I tried to concentrate on work but my ears were ringing and I had to ask the staff to come to me next day. I sat still a while thinking what can be done and what should be done. But when anger takes its toll upon mind, sanity and the power to make proper decision get lost. I tried to return the application back to my boss telling I don’t need approval even for one day. If forgetting to sign the attendance register once is unpardonable mistake its nature and serious remains same for any other days. But I was destined to know a part of me that had been hidden or I had deliberately hidden. I thought I knew what I had to do. I went to the representative of a union without caring the orientation of the union (political, general), I would have joined any other union had I met its representative first. I asked him to get me a membership form who was himself so surprised to hear that. He asked me what had happened and I told him everything. He said he would get my application approved for both days without any consequences. Had I cared for consequences I would have never come to him but then came my ego which said I should not get the application approved. He talked me about political convictions which I would just ignore, it would have been vaporized by my anger. He got me a form later which I filled however since executives are not allowed to get enrolled to union I could only give them moral support, I became ready even for that. I filled the form to give moral support to the union.
Later another much influential member from the union came to me. Without knowing anything he said he was glad that I joined his union but then what he told next made me realize I was inside the gutter. He said, his union would always be ready to push my points, they would help me get promoted when opportunities come. I would have spit on my own face had it been possible. If I had compromised, the compromise was for survival, but the compromise had been too costly. Had I not already handed the form I would have torn it right away but as the saying goes ‘living in jungle you cannot afford enmity with the lion’. I had never felt so weak. I only said I hope I won’t need their help when it comes to getting promotion. My desire to win genuinely has not yet stooped even by an inch.
I do not think my getting angry on whatever happened over the missing attendance was very wrong. I do accept I did a mistake but there is a provision in the office rules itself for that. Unfortunately I had already wasted one leave just a month ago and I could not afford that. If correction and action were needed why more serious offenders be spared. Everyone says my boss is more considerate toward me, I don’t want that consideration if I am chosen to teach lessons to other. As far as union is concerned, I know how to deal with it, just ignore them, ignore their invitations, ignore their programs.
The other day when I was going to office, I was seriously thinking about preparing for GRE, its not for the missing attendance but its for the offer of ‘help for promoting my career’ and its for the confidence with which I was told not a single person in the office had risen to higher levels without one or other helping hands. I do not smell of a gutter but I know I stink of gutter.

Direct from Pokhara -2

My sleep broke a little early in fact lot early than it should have. Under the light of the full moon, in the earth that glowed like silver, the silhouette of the huge mountains watched me as I turned one side to another. Sleep had evaded me, yet I was under the delusion of sleep. When I had opened my eyes I took the beam of moonlight to be the soft light of the dawn. There was an instant freshness in my body, my hands went out for watch that I had got rid of last night, it said 12:30. The sight of the watch washed away all the freshness. I woke up to see the mountains, to ensure I was not dreaming. I could see the shape of the mountains that lifted the sky. May be it had been a long time since I took a vacation and in this auspicious land I had truly became a child. I had behaved like a child who wakes up in the middle of the night just to check if the gift he received last evening was still there in the room. I returned to my bed but neither did I feel asleep nor I was fully awake. My consciousness and my sleep fought each other, unfortunately neither won. The day was destined to be gloomy as I was destined to feel low the other day.
I must have been awake lot earlier but I picked the book with which I had slept. Hearing the honks and the voices of people, I yet again looked at the watch which said 7:30. I hurried for the morning choirs. The mountains waited me and in the morning sun they smiled. Yet another morning in Pokhara. The shape of tiger not as distinct as it had been the other day. The snow was lesser and only stiff rock lay on the foundation of earth. I wondered if the light of moon had melted them, they are always eager to run to the womb of the earth into the mighty lake of Phewa, Begnas and Rupa. Yesterday I had imagined them to have blushed and today they had melted out of shyness. I wanted to run to the Phewa lake to see if its level had risen up to see the city of Pokhara, like a little girl standing on her toe to witness noise beyond the wall taller than herself. I knew my comparison was a mistake, how can a lake as big as this be compared with a small child. My host, the branch Manager of my office at Pokhara had told us that we were visiting the temple of Bindabasini, a Goddess. After a cup of tea he asked me if I was ready and there I was standing at the other side of the main entrance into the office building while my host swerved the car. A ant hurried as the car rolled but before it could reach to safety, the wheel of car stole its breath. I didn’t see it die, neither did I see its body which might have stuck to the tire yet I could say for certain it was dead, no more in this earth, I don’t know where. I have heard and even read, soul the energy, the real life in our body is same for man and an ant but the size does matter. I saw that particular ant loosing its life but how many ants might have come under my very own feet and tasted death. Larger the corpse, larger will be the guilt of killing it. I didn’t feel sorry for the ant but believe me I would have been glad had it been able to come to safety. I couldn’t stop the car for an ant, its importance to me depended on its size. I do not feel proud for it, but a tint of shame shows in me. Very next moment the ant is forgotten and I start humming with the music that is being played. I watch the Phewa lake, its level has not risen, but where did the melted snow go. Did it vapourize? I looked into the sky, it didn’t appear nearer than yesterday. On my way to the temple I don’t know how many ants got crushed. If all those lives I had taken rose up with the body with size of even a cat, I would get insane with the sins I have committed, the brutal murder I had committed.
The sun was gloomy today and in the gloomy sun, the tiger didn’t appear clear only lifeless stiff rock remained. A ring of cloud rested on it like a neckerchief. Later when more lumps of cloud approached the tiger, its tip seemed to penetrate the entire sky and soon something will be dripping. I thought may be it wanted to see if there were rain inside the clouds. If it rains in city it will snow in the mountain. It feels sorry for itself for not being able to hold its snow but it expects snow fall pretty soon. The tiger might go into a sleep under the snow till April. Neither its face nor its stripe will be seen.

Direct from Pokhara

I had not realized I was away from home when I took a murmuring break early in the morning. The mighty range of Annapurna was smiling at me with the Tiger Mountain on its side. Yesterday my colleague had tried to show me the shape of the tiger in the mountain which I had failed to realize. I had however confirmed the appearance of tiger in the mountain. In my night dress I had walked to the balcony to see the morning more clearly, to see the snow flowing in the slope of the mount Annapurna, just then followed the Tiger Mountain from tail to its head and I could clearly see the tiger sitting, its stripes, its tail, its face and paws were so clear. I stood with a sparkle in my eyes without a blink wondering at this work of nature. The huge white tiger made of rocks and sprinkled with snow would always get my attention throughout the day. My eyes and my heart were never satisfied with what I beheld. I wanted to slid through the wonderful mountain. The tiger rested throughout the day as it had been resting on its huge body for the entire history and will rest till eternity. I was thinking if it snowed, the snow will spill all the way to Pokhara burying the entire city, but it has never happened and I don’t think it will ever happen. In spite of a citizen from the country with so many mountains this was my closest encounter with this structure in the heart of earth. Watching the ranges from the small window of the plane had no effect on me as I remained watching the mess that the human race had created on the heart of earth in the name of civilization and development. The tiny vehicles that were moving on the vein like streets looked like ants rushing to the holes before it rains.
I don’t know how long I watched the snow tiger but I knew the sight had made my day. The morning haze had the smell of smoke but that was not the smoke of pollution but of firewood. The sweet smell suggested meals are being prepared for people. The very human race could be excused to mix this smoke into the air after all he got to survive and in this poor country not everyone can afford kerosene or gas. The smell in the smoke made me yearn for tea. I do not drink milk tea early in the morning but today nothing could substitute my longing for milk tea. The taste of tea in a small hotel, on the evening of the day I had arrived had stuck to my tongue. I just washed my face as if I were a child who had to meet a condition before being allowed to join his/her friends on play. I hadn’t brought slipper and I don’t remember when I last hated myself so much for such a small thing. Lacing the shoes would not even take a whole one minute but still that was a huge loss of time. I rushed downstairs where the guard wished me good morning with a smile however I had not yet come out from the mould of a child. I rushed to the road ignoring the guard with a annoyed smile like a child who approaches the toy he finally likes ignoring the sales staff busy showing him other toys. Five minute later my hands held a cup of tea. The city had woken long before I had woken though the shutters of most of the shops were still closed. School going girls had folded their skirts in their waist so that it would remain little above the knees. Surprisingly these girls looked more elegant than those who let their skirts flow below their knees.
This was my third visit to Pokhara but if really knowing the place is to be taken into account this is my first visit. This was still a strange city for me though people spoke my language and they looked so similar. However I had frequently seen an old woman from the very first day and even this morning I met her on my way back to my office. She smiled at me showing me the hole among her teeth. I tried to smile back and I know it was a very tightly composed smile. Encountering the same woman time and again chased away the feeling of stranger from me. I was again a free boy who had been set free to explore the entire toy shop on his own except that I was not running here and there in the city. This visit will certainly postpone my desire to take a small holiday from the routine life at least for a while. The tiger was sitting composed as if it were watching its cubs play.

NO TITLE

When my colleague took the first yawn, even 10 minutes hadn’t passed since our training had started. Yawning is contagious and soon another colleague of mine yawned and then I joined the yawning bandwagon. Our regular yawning however had no effect on our trainer for he didn’t yawn even once for the next forty-five minutes when I was with the team. Later I left since I had some work. I do not remember what I had in my head but I realized I had walked long past my bus station. I felt foolish when I had to backtrack half the way to the bus station. For some unknown reasons public vehicles have become scarce and to find a bus or a tempo is a struggle I involve into daily. Among so many other people waiting for vehicles, my eyes fell into one particular girl with a very silent profile. Since my parents are head bent to see me married soon and as they have already started looking for girl, I thought this girl might be a good wife for me, may be a good match. She had little dark complexion, dark and compassionate eyes and she waited for the bus as if she won’t mind if the bus came the next day however that does not indicate she looked clumsy. Where she stood was enough to make her one among us i.e. those who waited for bus but the way she looked at the bus and to the crowd suggested she was just an onlooker though her friend looked very anxious, clearly they had been waiting for some while. When I realized I was considering her to be my wife, I felt foolish again but foolishness I would not seriously regret. Even in the morning while I was in the Temple, I had thought might be my match be somewhere around the same temple. I had felt the same foolishness in the morning as well.
The girl vanished just the way she had come to my sight. I had no intention to look for her either, the thought had come just the way the whiff of air had hit me while I waited the bus. Soon a bus came and the people pushed each other to be able to get into the small bus, luckily I was the first one to get into the bus and secured a seat. The bus moved though the people were waving hands to the conductor to wait. I had bought a new book after almost three months so that had given me a little pride, I felt the weight of the book in my bag and was already eager to turn its leaves. I could see the para-military police force moving in line their hands holding automatic rifles. It gave an uneasy impression but that was not for anything special. They have been made to guard the city after rise in criminal activities around the city. When I turned my face away from the window, it fell upon the face of a woman who was holding the rod to support herself as she stood in the bus. The expression was that of disgust and disapproval. She had just turned her head away from the other side so I looked at that site. A boy looking not more than fifteen sat with his face close to the face of a girl. They were holding hands and were talking in whispers, the hand of the boy tried to hide their face. I cannot say what pleasure did the sight give me, I didn’t take my eyes off them. The bus was packed beyond its limit and not many people can afford to sit that way in public. Later the boy kissed the girl in the lips lightly as if he was only trying to feel how her lips tasted. Now that is what I call courage. Is that the young generation? Why did I feel so, how can the act to kiss a girl be laudable as courage? I have no answer but that was what I thought that moment.
At a place the bus was stuck in the traffic jam. From the window I could see few men gathered around a table inside a tavern. Only a candle was trying to keep away the dark though it was not very dark outside. Small glasses reflected the light of the candle and I knew what those glasses had. They were filled with booze. I looked at my watch which said 4:45. What made the glasses fill so early? Did the men have to go home early? I knew the answer was no. Time had nothing to do with their thirst for the booze. Night does not start at the time of a clock, it starts when the curtains of the day is drawn.
At a little distance, the road narrowed and the bus had to move so close by the walls of people home that the twigs and the branches of the trees and plants from the homes extended as if they wanted to shake hand with the passengers. The leaves of these plants had thick layer of dust and clay. When it will rain they would bath to be pure and holy and as soon as the very rain stops they would be covered in the sins of dust again.
I got down at my place and it was already dark, students in their school uniform chased each other. They were just having fun; these are the things they will miss when they will come out of schools and of colleges.
Today the roads look vacant, I need not wait to cross the road. A shivering beggar lying with her knees pulled up to her chest draws my attention. I bend to spill three coins, one rupee each before her. I see her face when she pulls her tattered shawl to collect the coins. I know her, I have seen her in her good days, in the days when her husband was alive. In the days she had no mercy for her step sons. Her husband died young and her very step sons kicked her out of home and there she lies looking for mercies from those who don’t know her. I move on and there is no thoughts of her, no thoughts of anything but just the desire to reach home as early as possible to read the book. At home the first thing I do is write this piece again with no story with no content.

An evening in the alleys of Asan

When I was wandering on the narrow streets of Asan and Indrachowk a thought with some satisfaction, with some confusion and with some surprise had taken hold of me. In spite of so many malls and shopping centers that had taken birth at almost every major points of the city, Asan was still crowded, the meaningless hubbub and rushes of people made it look no different than its earliest memories I have in my head. I had left my office a little earlier than usual as I had to get a sweater. Not many years ago, I used to buy things driven by needs rarely by wishes. The sweater that I held in the plastic bag in my hand was not a need, I just wanted to have that so I bought it. To be able to fulfill the wishes had given me the feeling of content. My head might have been little raised and my chest broadened. My wish however had not been very expensive mere Rs. 500 but a wish is wish after all. I wanted that sweater to wear on a wedding party of one of my cousins. Even after stuffing it in the plastic bag, I didn’t want to backtrack and head towards home. I wanted to be swayed away by the flocks of men and women and children along those narrow streets. Winter evenings need to do very little to make me romantic and thoughtful. I do not know the reason but that is the truth. The Sun was already preparing to live as the grand stage of the sky had its curtains of night already falling slowly. I had not counted the number of shops that peeped through the small doors along those narrow streets but I was sure their number had been fairly constant. The winter wears had replaced the light clothes in the cloth shops. Even the mannequins had their jackets, caps and woolen trousers. Women were wrapped in their pashmina shawls and sweaters while men bent themselves in jackets. Probably many children were already inside their warm blankets doing home-works or busy playing indoor games.
Not everything was same in those narrow streets. Modern cement buildings had outnumbered the old clay houses. There were many clay buildings with history of fifty and hundred years but as time progressed they posed the threat of falling. They looked old and frail before the stronger cement buildings. However not all clay buildings have been demolished. While some stooped among the tall cemented buildings few still stood taller among the cemented buildings. They looked like old grandfathers who leaned toward each other to talk in whispers as if they were complaining about the city, the vehicles, the dwellers of the city. May be like my grandmother they knitted their brows citing the shortening length of girls skirt, the way they flaunt their bare bodies, the color of their hair, the way boys and girls walk holding hand in hand. They might be saying that in the name of modernity they have dumped their culture and customs. The small clay buildings looked like neglected elders dumped at elderly homes ran by NGOs and INGOs. They did seem to have so many complaints but they feared to spill their feelings and so they crouched between the mighty cemented buildings. Just few years to go and all these old houses will see their funeral and their spaces will be taken by new malls and shopping complexes. In no way it seems Asan might loose its charms, may be it might be busier when I will visit it again with stooped body, gray hair if I lived to see myself that old.
When I was a child, I used to be brought to this place by my mother and she would never leave my hands fearing I might be lost. She used to say the streets in Asan and Indrachowk were so intermingled among themselves that even the grown up would get lost in these streets. That had made me the immature child conscious not to leave my mother because the streets were like puzzles that would never let me escape if I were caught alone in them. Those days more than observing the fascinating shops, people, their dresses I used to be more conscious in not leaving my mother yet I clearly remember how these streets and shops looked like. How these temples along these streets looked like. I remember the smell of spices in the main courtyard of the Asan. I remember the innocent smiles of toothless old men and women that glittered the cover page of so many magazines. Soon I came to the wider street and moved toward Newroad. The road was built more than 60 years earlier but still it enjoys its name as Newroad that gives the glimpse of city and the people who are accustomed with modern technologies, luxuries etc. The shops flaunting electrical appliances, cameras, curios and so on. While Asan still gives the glimpse of old Kathmandu, its tradition and way of living, it leads to Newroad, the face the people and the city is trying to take and display.

One night on the road

Today I am wandering in the road not because I am drunk, not because the world is moving before my eye, not because my vision has blurred and not because I am living the excitement fed to my body by alcohol but still I am swinging here and there. Standing near the road divider I watch vehicles escaping into the smoke of dark once in a while. My eyes miss to catch their speed but abrupt light jolts by brain. My brain that had been a factory of thoughts that disrupt peace. I have to rely more on my ear than my eyes. The swift whiff try to blow me with it, my hair fly, I feel the chillness in the air of the wintery breeze. The whore that offered herself to me is laughing, I cannot see her face in the street light under the pole but I can still see her face, I assume the smoke that rises from under the pole as the smoke of her cigarette. Same cigarette I gave her, since I had paid for the cigarette, the cigarette was mine but the smoke was not mine. I hear her laugh, meaningless laughter that rip apart the silence of the road. The laughter that ring my ears more than the sound of the vehicles that slides into the darkness. Where there is meaninglessness there is no question of ‘why’ still I question the meaninglessness itself. There is a man with her now and now I hear her shriek. I want to rush to her to check if the man is not hurting her but this desire is not because of any kindness but because of my male chauvinism. Someone was hurting a ‘poor’ woman, a human being who is taken as ‘weak’ for granted just because her genitals were different as mine when she was born, that arouse my ego, that challenged my strength I have carried by birth. Before I reclaimed my self hatred, I saw the two shadows under the poll becoming almost one, the shadow was larger than the shadow of one, it roughly sketched the silhouette of a human being but still they were human being. They had embraced each other ignoring me who was standing just about twenty or thirty meters apart. I wondered if they would make love right there on the cold footpath. The hunger of the body can make one forget the cold. The girl laughs again, she was laughing because the man had said something. She was laughing not because she understood anything, she was laughing not because the man told her anything funny. She was laughing on herself. It was the laughter that mocked on what she was. I remembered her face when she had stood in front of me staring at me top to bottom. The air that carried the smell of her breath said she was drunk but still she knew her business. If she was beautiful or not that is something I don’t care. The strong smell of her perfume had my stomach churn, fifteen hundred for the night she said. I didn’t say anything. Seeing neither approval nor rejection she said five hundred. Probably she would have said thousand but my appearance made her guess my caliber. I didn’t say anything again. She brought her face close to mine, I could smell her lipstick and I moved my head in other direction. She asked for a cigarette, I gave her one. She yelled at me, smiled and moved away. I could have slept with her for free but money is not a problem, had I allowed myself even a little pleasure, I would have paid her ten times what she wanted. My hatred for myself had been so much that I had not allowed any pleasure for myself. When life had become burden of responsibilities rather than wish to live, how could I allow myself bodily pleasure no matter even for few minutes?
My cell had been ringing in desperation. I once see who is calling me though I knew it was from home. Its eleven thirty and more than half of the city around me is asleep. My cell says I had missed fourteen calls and twelve are from home. Two are new numbers I don’t recognize. I get angry on my people at home because they love me, they worry for me and I get angry on rest of the world because it ignores me. It ignores me, it ignores the whore who has just slipped into the darkness. Anyone can drive his/her car over me, anyone can come and rape that women.
Why am I wandering in the street, I have no answer? I have lost nothing that I need to seek. Even if I had lost anything, I didn’t want to seek it. A van passes so close by me that it misses me by an inch of a hair, the driver slows down and yells at me. I borrow the laughter from that prostitute, I feel with my laughter the whole city has been disturbed, all the dwellers are in panic, I feel a grandeur in me. The driver gets scared and vanish soon. My mobile rings again, it says ‘Wifey calling’, ‘wifey ‘ how lovingly I had replaced the name of my wife with this term. I know how much I loved her when I had just married her, in the years that followed, what ate me I don’t know. My feelings for her is more ‘sorry’ than ‘love’. I dislike her because she seeks her happiness in me, I am angry with her because she is sad since I am sad, I have lost myself. Just yesterday, I fought with sleeplessness. I had just fallen asleep when I woke up, I lighted the lamp, my wife slept so silently beside me. Her face still as pretty and innocent. The hair that spread on the pillow as soft as they had been when I had first touched them. My life has halted there, entangled on the string of her hair. If there is one thing that has made me drag my body through days and night in this earth its only that face, its only that life. The life that peacefully slept by my side. I had slowly put my lips on those beautiful cheek. If she were awake I could have never shown that gesture. She is not like other women I have seen, who enjoys independent identity, she is a poor creature who had submitted herself to me. I switch off my cell. I realize that would make her more desperate. If my deeds made her hate me, that would be the only happiness I could grant myself but she doesn’t. she will never leave me no matter what I become, what I do. The prostitute appear from the darkness making her clothes, she wraps the neckerchief and walks along the light. There is no man beside her. She fears no darkness because she has nothing to loose. Far away a dim light is still simmering, that is not my home but somewhere beside all these houses the lights in my house are also lit. Somewhere a woman with the most beautiful eyes in the whole world is worried. I switch on my cell and it rings abruptly. I pick it up, “Where are you?”, its her. “I am coming”, I reply. I too follow the light. Further I move from the street lamp my shadow elongates, as soon as I reach the other lamp post my shadow becomes a dwarf. Soon I am in the road that ends at the gate of my house, yes the light is still on. When I open the entrance gate, those very two eyes peep from the windows wiping the dew deposited by night. She rushes to open the gate. My parents are already asleep, the tears have dried in her face but she still looks beautiful. She says nothing and I hate her for it, she does not quarrel. I know I have to live the other day as well because by saying nothing she has given me a verdict to hate myself the other day as well.

Golden tooth, brown hair, fair face and gap between the teeth

From a distant I could see the dying rays of Sun brightened only my house. The evening sun looked warm and charming as if it were smiling at me. My home seemed to smile back at me. On the courtyard of the house close to the road, a smiling grandfather had stretched his both hands; his body little bent luring a toddler who seemed to have just learnt to walk to come to him. I wanted to believe the sun would have a similar face if it were to take the look of a man. On the corner where the main road bade bye to a small path leading to my home, the wall read ‘Punk is not dead’. I do not know exactly what does that mean, but I like it somewhere, I like the way ‘Punk’ is written, the way ‘P’ is bulged. If Punk is not dead he/it/she is being lived by somebody else. I read that line whenever I realize there it is written, I take ‘is not dead’ to inspire myself. ‘Long live death metal’, a line that comes attached to signature in every mail from a friend comes in my mind. I like that passion, his passion in spite of the fact I run away from heavy metal etc.
At home the living room with books spread on the floor welcomes me. The unfinished homeworks of Sarita stares back at me and I take it for granted that she has sneaked into the other room to watch tv programs. I do not know which book is that but the image looks familiar, not even the image but the color, light pink. The image of the book vanishes and there gets stuck the image of cave-men roasting meat inside the cave. Their monkey looking face, wire like beard and their eyes focused on the fire brings before me the bare nature of the man, his greed. That is the image from ‘Social Studies’ book I studied when I was in grade 3, almost 16-17 years back. I am there in the living room bent, my body resting on my bent knees, pencil moving in my hand. I remember the golden tooth, the brown hair of my teacher, the gap between the teeth. She smiles back at me, soon I am in my 3rd grade classroom. Soon the noise fills in, few known faces few forgotten faces brighten up the whole environment. ‘Tukk Tukk’ a thin stick pats the blackboard. The golden tooth, the gap, the brown hair, the fair face and the stick have become inseparable in my memories. Once my brother told me a woman had recognized him, asked him what I was doing telling she had taught both of us. He didn’t remember her name, I asked him if she had golden tooth, fair face, brown hair, gap in the teeth. I must have been silly she might be looking completely different now but deep down I thought it was her. The next day I went to the shop described by him but didn’t find her, no one knew someone like her, someone with name ‘Ambika Shrestha’, I must have gone to wrong place or I must have guessed wrong. She looked so different from my mother except that she shared her first name with my mother I found her similar to my mummy. Why are few pictures, few people, few events get permanently written in our memory. The squatting cave men, the cave with faint carvings I cannot identify, the fire, the pink color and a steel lunch box of a friend whose name was carved in it (I don’t remember the name) they wag before me. I remember few faces and remember few names. Has time treasured these things inside its embrace, I wonder. My dog who had been taken out for a walk runs toward me after smelling my presence. Slowly the noise become silent, the image of the cavemen and their cave gets wiped away, the same image that was in Sarita’s book is there again. The golden teeth, grey hair, thin stick and the gap everything vanishes. Sarita comes gathers her things and I sit alone in the empty room refreshed, rejoiced but still missing things.

Thoughts, thoughts and thoughts

While returning home, my eyes caught the sight of the tiny grasses whose blades bent as if someone was crouching to warm himself. Had it been bigger its silhouette would have confused me as if it were a real human. Just a little later the autistic girl wrapped in thick jackets. With evening already veiling the sky from the earth and moon somewhere in the backstage preparing to take its position people were seen little bent their jackets pulled. The autistic girl looked at everything with an expression of surprise. She moved her fingers which were meaningless to me which she must have some meaning for herself. She smiled at the dog, I don’t know if she was teasing the poor animal that it had nothing for the winter. Her mouth continuously dribbled, but the smile never left her face. I do not know if God had punished her or had spared her from witnessing and understanding the trickery, intricacies, and the false world. I have always seen her mother worrying about her at least what the girl is, is obviously a punishment for her parents. I have seen the other kids play with the girl, they make her dance and she moves, twists and turns leaving the other kids laugh. She is elated for having others laugh without understanding that the laughter is a mockery of her innocence. They do not laugh at what she does but they laugh at what she is. My feet take wider paces not to escape anything neither with expectation of any other thing. What is there in home? I will go drop my things and watch TV or talk with my parents. New things do not happen everyday but I have realized new things haven’t happened for quite some time. Its time for change even the weather is in transit. The moon has appeared. Its silver color has made it look solemn but not sad. I have already forgotten the autistic girl, where I am is what my world is. They say Obama defeated McCain in the country called United States, who knows if there is such country. Who knows I will wake up all of a sudden to realize what ever I had heard, learnt or experienced was just a dream. What if no McCain and Obama exist where I wake up, what if there is no country called America, what if there is no autism; what if I do not look the way my mirror shows me. The small lumps of white clouds are scattered in the sky, an object shines by the side of moon. I do not see it twinkle, may be its Venus. I wonder if they see me and think so many things just the way I do while watching them. Are they the spies left to track me? They look innocent. The smell of green vegetables being fried jolts me to a new world. I had just few pieces of ‘paratha’ in the day, the smell makes me realize I am hungry but I do not hurry, the hunger is under control. At a corner, a girl in her early twenties runs a cosmetic shop. I have observed her looking at me, I don’t know if she finds me weird or she thinks something else when I pass by. I like her simplicity but I have never thought about her when I don’t see her. I like so many girls, women, ladies for so many different reasons. Few I see regularly just like this cosmetic shop’s girl and few I see on the road.
Tomorrow I have lots of work in office and that thrills me. To be busy is so good, it’s a kind of meditation. To realize its time for lunch when one is expecting its time for early tea gives a satisfaction for which I find no words but I feel good that tomorrow will be a busy day. That excites me and I walk faster just to ponder why tomorrow’s schedule is making me walk faster, why don’t we walk slower when we are excited. A little boy collides with me, his friends were chasing him in a game. The boy mustn’t have been more than seven years, when he recollects himself and resumes his run he looks at me with his dark eyes, dark complexion and curly hair. He does not move his lip but I know he must have told me something, I cannot read his eyes. The autistic girl has never ran thus, she has never given me those looks, she has never seen me, I take the same route to office and back home and I always see her there dribbling, drawing things in the ground, running as if she had tripped on a stone but I do not exist for her. The horn of a motor-cycle disturbs me, the boy is nowhere in the sight, I must have stood there for almost a minute. The street lights looks at my tiny size with scanty brightness. I can see my home and the dome in the upper verandah is also lighted. I can see the wind bell, I want to know if the wind has told it I was coming and if it had sang to tell my people that I was on my way.

Its winter now

The noise, honks had returned to the city that had crept into an almost weeklong holiday. It still made me wonder that this very busy city had been quiet; the dwellers vanished into their homes in the various parts of the country. I turned my wrist to see the time and it was already 3:00 PM, there was no way I could reach at the venue of an inauguration program. It could have made me regret but it didn’t, to be indifferent to things can sometime save one from anxiety. Why would I regret, I was just an invitee not the chair person of the program or anyone who would be invited to dais and who had to address the mass. I didn’t have to please anyone and that gave me comfort. Being trivial and inconspicuous has its own advantage.
More than the program I was involved in observing the city I was born, the city that has changed with every fleeing year, the city that has seen developments and destruction. The city that has been the city of opportunity to so many people, just few days back this very city was silent and asleep, which still astonished me. The process of its waking up was very abrupt, there were no transition. A day back it was calm and quiet with few vehicles owning the roads, rolling with pride and the very next day the city had gained its business, the offices were open, the people had returned, the music from an audio store lost among the noise.
I didn’t bother to look into my watch when I was at the venue, looking at watch is often just a formality, just like blinking of an eye the involuntary action. The minister who had to address the mass had not come and I pondered whether the minister didn’t come in time because the audience never came in time or the audience didn’t come in time because the minister never comes in time. I heard a staff hurrying towards the gate anxious and worried. I heard him say its already 4:30 PM and the minister had not come yet. That again saved me from pulling up my sleeves turning my watch turning my head lowering it looking into watch interpreting the sight in my brain and acknowledging it was 4:30 PM. Just to see time one had to go through so many trivial activities. A little later the minister dropped in. He spoke on everything except about his ministries and its work, he told things of which even a Kid will be well known and after he finished the hosts appreciated how he had shed light on so much important thing that gave me a nausea. My head being lethargic and dull, I took leave from the hosts exchanged pleasantries, laughed on things I would not laugh otherwise, appeared cordial, grinned and just few minutes later I was in the back seat of a local bus back to the thing I had started enjoying long back. A girl at the other end pulled up her shirt and tucked her head in. That made me realize the winter was already making its presence felt. I could see tiny blisters on my arms left open by my T-shirt, I felt cold as if I were shivering. I rubbed my right hand with the other hand, the red sun which was already very low in the sky seemed to be smiling. The headlights of the vehicles had sparsely lit the road apart from the street lamps which were themselves sparsely located. I thought I was late and this time I couldn’t resist watching my watch which said it was 6:00 PM. This very city was bright with no tints of darkness just before the holidays were now dark and black, the days had really shortened. Winter is my favorite season, the sun is loved most in this season, the moon is most beautiful, and the bent flowers give impression as if the nature is itself resting, hibernating to revive for spring. My reasons are vague as there is no strong reason why I like winter. I thought from tomorrow I should get the full shirts, warm clothes out from the closet. While I was getting over these things, the crimson sun was already replaced with golden moon. I looked at it for a long time before I got down at my station. On the road the cool air which I had blocked from the window in the bus attacked me, I bent a little and I gathered pace excited for no reason. I was at home very soon.

Thinking whenever, wherever

The golden moon was in its fullest glare on the canvas of the sky cushioned over the cotton looking clouds. In the day itself I had realized the temperature had dropped in the city and the winter was somewhere close by. I find travelling along the city forcing itself to stay awake in the neon light from early evening very fascinating. The day had been very tiresome and I could feel the aches in my muscles and a desperate desire to have some rest but sitting by the side of the window of the bus overlooking the moon took away all my tiredness. I didn’t require looking at the watch because from the chilly hint I had got in the day heralding the winter, I was sure that the clock had not stroke 7:00. With winter the days are shorter and from last few days I had realized that I had to switch on the lights early. As the bus slid in the road of the busy city preparing itself for the Dashain, the moon followed us or may be the bus was following the moon. I knew the city was inside the mist of the incomprehensible sounds of the people. When one speaks the other can understand what he/she is talking but when so many people speak the meaning is lost and the words become mere noise. The city was not quiet in the evening but noisier and in hurry. Paces of people longer than normal, their bags holding groceries, vegetables, cloths and so on. I watched a college girl who sat in the seat just before me and who moved her head almost like a sparrow incessantly, I saw she had placed her sweater roughly folded over her shoulder. Sweater was another hint that the winter had already made its presence felt. In spite of the mark on its face the moon still looked beautiful, and as thoughts started simmering inside my head the world that spread across me slept in silence, the men vanished. The silhouettes of buildings, few trees remained somehow as the cool breeze patted my cheek as if it were healing me from the tiredness I had collected during the process of survival of the day.
The inauguration of the website of the office that I had developed had gone well in spite of the trouble with database. The problem identified had already made my next day busy amid commitment to friends to have a meet. The part of year when I become busier than usual has come and this will last for few months. There will be so many things to be taken care of all at a once. Had it been possible to do these works throughout the year, passing time in office would not have been an ordeal. The works that need immediate concerns would not queue up but will jumble up all at once. It will give me a pride postponing personal interests, meetings citing business and pending work. It will make me appear important which I would not otherwise acknowledge. I didn’t know how the moon guessed what I was thinking and it smiled at me out of mockery and I blushed. There is nothing is regret though, what I felt could have been childish and I am proud that I am still childish. During the inauguration program I chatted with colleagues laughed with them made fun shared jokes which were hard to remember. The moon reminded me that my laughter was louder, I had talked most of the time and even that was part of my attempt to drag attention toward me though I don’t know for what. I am not going identity crisis however. After the inauguration when many colleagues of mine came to me congratulating me, wowing what I had done and how it was really something new I felt elated wanted to hop around like a child out of excitement. All of a sudden the feeling of ‘my’ work had taken its toll over me, I have been arrogant at times but I knew that was not arrogance, just an excitement behind the ‘my’ mania.
When the bus rolled around the ‘Ranipokhari’ (the huge pond in the heart of the city) I watched how fast the metal fence moved, I could see them individually through the speed of my bus. The top of the fence pointed and painted yellow. As I looked at the city through the yellow top of the fence the shops that lay on the other side of the pond looked yellowish almost like the moon in the sky.
A sudden jerk of the bus woke me up from my fantasies. The bus was already packed and the conductor was trying to make place for more people. I felt the bag that lay in my lap carrying a projector of my office. I could have left the projector in the venue itself and had it delivered the other day but to show the projector to the children at home excited me. I doubted if my mother had seen something like it (though she has been to movies more than myself she has never wondered how they show movies in those huge curtain). I was thrilled when I imagined the excitement, awe and happiness in the faces of children when I will show them a movie through the projector. I took a sigh and at next stop I got down, fifteen minutes later I was at home.

Disturbed by my own laughter

A colleague came by turning my computer towards her to see what I was doing. She was imitating me because every time I pass by her I do the same thing just with an evil intention to disturb her, today it was her turn. She saw my blog commenting who would read those lengthy posts if it were not in a printed form. I boasted her I had got comments from readers, some in my email and some in the blog itself. I said see the comments and she pouted in disbelief. I guffawed saying most of the comments were my own. I heard myself laugh the way I have never laughed though I knew it was not a planned chuckle. I was surprised at my boisterous laughter which made me silent soon after the realization that it was not my laughter. Had I forgotten the way I laughed just because I hadn’t laughed for a while now, however it does not mean I have been unhappy. I do admit something has been lost in the process, may be its my depression. A trivial thing it may sound but it disturbed me drowning me in deep introspect.
The city did not interest me as it usually do while I was walking toward the bus stand. I missed observing things, people, shops, curios, lamp-posts. When I was in the bus-stand, I was swept with the crowd; there was nothing that could not interest me. I was soon observing the people brought to the stand by purpose or without purpose. I observed the way people talked, the movement of their hands, twitching of their face, the fringes in their dress, latest fashion in the street. The laughter was still reverberating in my head, I knew I was busy observing my world just to avoid the laughter and it was a pretty successful attempt. All of a sudden I realized I haven’t seen the city beyond the route between my home and office, its been a real long time. I knew 8 years was not a long span of time at that instant when I was remembering my days in 11-12 class. Those were loony days of my life. Loneliness is not the absence of people around one, it’s the feeling that one is so away from rest of the world. Yes, I didn’t have many friends then still if numbers were to be spoken of, I have lesser number of friends these days, but I was lonely then, today I enjoy my aloofness. It was not so those days. Those days once in a while I used to take bus that followed a longer route than my regular buses, just because I loved watching the city. I loved the attempts of city to remain alive in the evening. That was my best time. I have rarely recalled those feats; today I wanted to do the same. The bus was empty and I was sitting next to the window, my head resting on my arms which themselves rested on the window of the bus. I am so inconsequential to the world, it does not care if I am watching it, studying it. Truth cannot be extracted from a case, a specimen if it is made aware that it is being observed. I loved watching the movements of lips of children of the crowd, I cannot see the words, their low sound is engulfed by the meaningless noise of the crowd and the meaning of their utterances only become the contribution to the noise. The crowd has no voice (unless it is a demonstration, a rally i.e. the crowd with common cause) still has many faces. It has no shape but it has its existence. People separate from the crowd like the glints from the fire, either they merge into another crowd or vanishes in their inconspicuous homes. I am just the part of the crowd, my guffaw which is not mine is lost in the mob. Yes, that very guffaw that though comes out from me is not mine, I have never heard myself laugh though. My laughter was theatrical. I imagine- I raise my head until I see the ceiling of my cabin, open my mouth wide and spurt the laughter that is not mine. There was nothing to pretend, I was only mocking myself, dismissing the fact that my work has been praised. Now I feel my own magnanimity, the fake enormity of my existence. Here in the crowd I just want to ascertain how trifling my existence is. How my preposterous laughter is meaningless? Why I do not exist for the world when I feel so significant to myself? Not even the dog that is following the crowd begging to be a part of the crowd, a contributor and a representative from his species, has a notion of my existence. Everyone wants to be part of the crowd, I realize somebody has taken the seat next to me. I look at him, he is busy in something I cannot fathom. I keep looking at me observing his small ear, neatly combed hair, birthmark in his cheek, his blue jacket, his smoothly ironed pant, his clean boots, a small spot of dry mud in his left shoe, his long nails, his restless fingers playing among themselves. He becomes aware of my observation, pulls his jacket, looks at me, his small black eyes look irritated and angry. I turn toward the window and smile back. With this smile I have recovered my originality, the fake guffaw has left me.

Anna Karenina

Just a few minutes back I finished Leo Tolstoy’s ‘Anna Karenina’. I read the book after reading ‘War and Peace’ and after reading that Tolstoy considered Anna Karenina as the only novel he wrote obviously because he liked it. Though both his books ‘war and peace’ and ‘Anna Karenina’ are very popular, I liked the former. After reading ‘Anna Karenina’ I wondered why the book was titled thus when Anna’s account is lesser as compared to Levin. Like in ‘War and Peace’ there is elaborate description of parties that used to take place in Tsarian Russia, but I found the book rather dull in the beginning. I loved it towards the end when Anna starts loosing her sanity, she starts living in a fear that Vronsky, the man for whom she left her husband, her son and became a subject of despise to the society has stopped loving her. She puts question and answers the questions on behalf of Vronsky herself. It is such a wonderfully written. One cannot remain without feeling pity for the woman. It’s obviously the story of love if Anna is to be considered but as in War and Peace, Tolstoy ends up with his philosophy about life, religion and the whole world.
While reading ‘War and Peace’, I thought the author is sharing so many things, sufferings of his own through his character Pierre. I was so surprised that what I thought happened to be true. It is written that Pierre is a portrait of Tolstoy himself along with his alter-ego Prince Andrew. Now after reading ‘Anna Karenina’, I am again thinking the character Levin might share resemblances with the author. Even I could associate myself with Levin, the way he thought about death, about religion, about his doubtfulness of his own position if he could change the world.
When Anna leaves her husband, I wondered if that was right thing to do. Isn’t that a cheating, infidelity? Has anyone right to ruin others life. May be it depends upon the circumstances. The instincts of man surprise himself at times owing to the fact that we are selfish by nature. To observe things as a spectator is completely different than actually experiencing the arduous circumstances. It was a pity for Anna who saves the matrimony of her brother in the beginning of the book ruins her own married life and eventually ruining herself. At one end her husband and her son suffers while at others Vronsky suffers for loving her, for fighting the world with might which turns completely against him. Anna a self-confident, lively woman all of a sudden is pushed into never ending suffering.
I have read many books, watched many movies I have thoroughly enjoyed in the beginning but have been let down at the end. When we read a book or watch a movie, we want the zeal to be on the rise. I feel I found many good books insipid because of the way they ended, while there are books that have been dull towards the beginning but highly engaging as it approaches its end. Personally I like books that engages me from its very beginning till its end however if such books are not available I would go for books that might be a little dull in the beginning but progresses eventually. Many people dump a book after reading few pages because they don’t find the book interesting, I on the other hand rarely dump a book once I get hold of it, so for me I like the books which progresses as one turns pages. Anna Karenina is one of such book. The last few pages that deal with Anna’s confusion, restlessness makes the book exquisite.
Though a wonderful tale, I found it dull at times and it was not something I would have repented for not reading.

And its my 100th post

I had a brief notice of it in the morning while coming to office. The sun was high and the atmosphere was the one I have been well acquainted with it. September has just started and there is the herald of winter, the hints of approaching Dashain the biggest festival of Nepalese. I love the atmosphere, as I a child I associated it with colorful kites, dry sky with white smiling clouds and beneath them serene blue like that of a grandfather’s eyes peeping into the world, new clothes, holidays and yummy foods. The hays are ripe, the rice plants ready to be cut and thrashed, the mills busy whistling and its chimney puffing smoke, swings constructed in homes and in open, children running and playing, and bazaars in full life its such a wonderful time of the year. After months of hard work, the farmers are freed and its time their labor yields result. The plants of rice swaying with the air spilling life all over, what a propitious time for festival. Far in the local streets reflections of familiar faces approaching with a smile and with baggage of gifts. What a rejuvenating time, thanks to those who started the culture of celebrating Dashain. Religiously Goddess Durga liberated the world from the evils of demon Mahisasura and lord Ram reclaimed his wife mother Sita by killing Ravana. The muds have dried, everything is beaming in happiness, a new life has come and there’s the sign of a new year, a sign of celebration. The hay smells fresh in the country, and this elates the spirit of the cattle, merry time for them as well.
The dog with its lower teeth protruding to reach its nose, is strolling freely. Its tiny feet are dancing, one after another; as if it were trying to create music with the tap of its padded feet. It looks up in the sky and I wonder if it has just come out watching the happy Pluto in the Disney’s channel. Its eyes smile at me, a bluish spot inside the circular black in its eyes. I cannot be drunk, in my whole life I have tasted wine just twice and there is no way, I come out tipsy; then why is it that everyone looks so happy. What is it in the earth? May be it’s the reflection of my heart, the happiness simmers inside me what I see outside is only its reflection. Its bright, its heyday.
The beggars are there, and a street hawker walks by in dirty pants with holes in it. He searches his pockets, first in his shirt and then his pants finally a coin shines between two fingers of his left hand. I see the coin drop in the begging-bowl of the beggars though I cannot here the sound of its cinkling. What does it make that man to donate his hard earned money, I never do. The beggar has a toddler in her arm, that does not arouse sympathy in me. I loathe people who give birth to children when they are not in a position to sustain themselves. The hawker does not inspire me, I walk past apathetically. The beggar watches me with scorn, I can read her eyes saying in despise ‘See a hawker who won’t earn more than hundred rupees even if he is lucky gives me the only coin with him but you being someone who earn much more are such a miser’. Why would they offend me? Sorry woman I am immune to scorn and despises today. Even in other days your look has no affect on me. I feel for your child, I wish I could do something to children like him wish I was in such a position. If there is really something like sin, then you are a sinner before me at this moment. That is when my toothy dog with his tusks pointing upward comes by my side. He seems to understand, his eyes are so welcoming. He agrees with me, but its not the return of the parathas, and chowmein which I offer to him in the open lunch joint and which he never eats, yet his eyes are appealing. The soldiers standing at the gate of American Embassy seem to be smiling at me. I know they have always stood there, I only do not remember their face, even as I write this, I cannot recognize them. But their smiles look helpless, possibly it is the impact of the SLRs (Self Loading Rifles) they are carrying. They scare my toothy dog, stomping their foot on the ground which makes him wince and they laugh. The dog understand this and wags his tail but now he has come to other side of mine. I feel so happy to have won the trust of the dog. Just before the open lunch joint, he departs. We exchange looks and I smile knowing he cannot read the smile of lips, he is apt at reading only eyes. Hopefully we shall meet in the day but he is a bohemian, a wanderer.

Standards

I am always very happy when its time to return home. When the office is over I want to be at home as soon as possible. If I didn’t need to earn may be I will never get out of my room. In one of my primary school classes, a teacher had told us story about a witch, her adoption of Hansel and Gretel. In between she told that in earlier days, in the remote areas and in the tribe people who do not come out of their home, shun the world was thought to be practicing black magic. I am pretty sure if one of the tribe men came to our home seeing me shut in my room always with book, uncombed hair, bulging eyes, will be afraid of me considering me as a practitioner of black magic.
As always on my way to home, I came across children playing in the heap of sand in the open ground. They were imitating a dance program that comes in TV. These unprivileged kids could not manage better seats for the judges who sat on the heap of sand, their legs crossed. The judges were relatively older kids while the young with running nose, dribbles were putting on some performance in the stage. The stage was the area inside a rectangle they had drawn with a stone on the ground. I couldn’t help stopping to watch them. A girl, with the flounce of her skirt torn at places and a dirty vest visible danced to a song which she sang herself. She finished the act and the other girl who was playing the anchor of the show asked the judges for their opinion. It was such an innocent and yet very real game. The first judge knitted the skin on her nose, giving her verdict, ‘it was good but not best, the lifting of the foot so high during the act was not needed’ since I had watched the dance of this girl from the beginning I knew she had no moves where she lifted her feet. She was not a good dancer and rarely shifted her position as if her foot were buried in the earth and how come the complain of her foot movement. May be the judges in the TV had commented thus. The stick that represented the mike was transferred to the other judge who was a clever looking fellow. He said the feet were really high because he could see the knickers of the dancer on which everyone laughed including the dancer. The third judge who looked intelligent said the performance could have been better if she had brought expression on her face. She got twenty marks in total. She bowed to the judges and the anchor replaced her while I walked on with a smile. I had seen the anchor blush finding I was watching them.
I wondered how even these little kids learn about standards. They say the hand movement should have been thus, the foot movement was preposterous, the facial expression was lacking. I know in their real life they struggle to be mould in the social standards. The rules, customs will chain them. In some way growing up is a process of getting accustomed with these standards and shaping oneself, one’s behavior on the basis of these norms. They will find these judges everywhere, who take special pleasure in directing others conduct, chiding them when they drift from the standards. They assume they are the standards themselves and they govern things to be done this way rather than that way, rebellion is unexpected, more likely rebel will be crushed. Standards have always existed, probably they define the state of civilization. A society is put against standards to measure its rank in the scale of civilization. Everyone has to abide by these standards. The judges take a great pleasure in deciding the fate of these performers. Most of them being so arrogant and proud that they assume themselves to be some sort of demigod. Standards are either what a majority believes or what a person in power can exercise. Once these standards are in conceived they are destined to be laid on the track of evolution. Darwin’s survival of fittest holds. There are social police who keep everyone under scrutiny to ensure the standards are being followed. There are standards everywhere in art, in music, in tradition, in society, in life. People take pride for possessing the power to ruin and glorify others fate, they are the epitome of standards. Whether its Van Gogh, Aristotle, Galileo everyone is tested against these standards and deviation is scorned. It feels so helpless that one has to live on the mercy of others but what can we do. I take pity on these standards, rather loathe them when they try to bind anyone within its periphery. I do not scorn every rules, every standards but I want leniency in creativity and fertility to differences. Listen to the rebels, convince them, exercise your logics do not take extreme measures at once. Throw your whips and come out of your images of demi-gods. Be lenient to revise the standards.

Falling prey to TV crew

At this moment as I sit before my laptop, an unprecedented friend recently I am overwhelmed with so many things. The confusions, thoughts are hovering at random just like the cloud I see through the edge of my window. Sun and shade are playing game while from a distant I can hear the music celebrating the biggest festival of woman the Teej, where they fast for a whole day without even sipping a drop of water, the married fasts for the well-being of their husbands and the unweds fast in order to have a good husband. They sing and dance the whole day taking their energy from God knows where. The fast will be broken tomorrow after a brief worship.
As a part of a routine these days, I feel lazy and have headache most of the day. I know I am being haunted by a new bout of depression but its been less severe this time. I hope it does not aggravate. After clicking different sites at random in office, I had just drawn my rack to find a book when a colleague announced that he was going in the volley-ball competition at the head office. As a celebration of office-day toward the middle of September, different events are organized. Thanks to the organizers I sneaked out of the office telling my seniors that our team needed spectators so I was going to cheer them up. I came to home with guilt consciousness. It probably was not a propitious time when I left my office, as I was walking on my way home, a TV crew caught me up for an opinion on the state of women in the country and the significance of ‘Teej’. On the day of women nothing but my ill luck had conspired that the TV people hunted me down. The first thing that came to my mind was my colleagues might watch it, after all they broadcast it in the prime time news. It was so disgusting. Sometime I used to wonder while these TV people catch up so many invalid people why don’t they found me. Many times I have missed opportunities like these by the inch of a hair. For not being someone who tries to jump in the crowd of mob just to be in the frame of camera. I have many times despised intelligent looking people for giving flaccid replies before the camera and have thought I would have replied better. Yes I used to want to be caught by television crew but now in situation like today. The lady with the microphone was just in front of me and there was no way I could hide my face or do something silly to avoid being interviewed. Her question ‘Are you going home?’ was a hard blow, I was so confused that I said ‘Rubbish’, I must have looked agitated. ‘I am going to a place on work and I am in a hurry’ was what I said after repossessing myself. She had just began, ‘What do you think..’ and I interrupted citing the urgency of my work. Without waiting for her response I slid away. I was so worried that they might telecast it at the time while my seniors would be sitting at their drawing rooms to watch the news. However since I had not said anything they might edit my part because in none of their opinion poll section I have seen people embarrassed like me. Then I looked back at the crew, at their van which was the intelligent thing I did. The van was painted with a logo of a channel that is only in the process of testing its transmission and very few people know that there is news-channel like that. It was a great relief. Then I thought how silly I had been because even if they had telecasted everything they do not say the time at which the opinion was sought. Since the sun was behind the clouds I would have said upon inquiry by my colleagues that while I was returning home after the game, they had caught me. I felt so foolish for acting like a child. May be I could have boasted before my colleagues that I was interviewed and asked if they saw me in TV. However there was one good thing because I could not say about the state of women and significance of the festival. I am sure I would have told, the whole festival, the idea of keeping a woman hungry just for the sake of her husband was not justified. It was against the whole concept of women emancipation that is being discussed every day in political meetings. I would have definitely said it is a different form of torture and slavery. It was an attempt to make women believe that their destiny, happiness lies in their husband because they cannot do anything on their own to buy them happiness. I know how much I despise these ideas. My comments would have been against the belief of thousands of women who were standing in the queue of 5 to 10 kilometers just to worship the phallus of Lord Shiva in the temple of Pashupatinath. The idea of phallus worship drifted my thoughts to some other territories. I looked back, the TV crew had caught somebody else, and from a little distant I could see an embarrassed smile at the face of their new prey. I walked on.

Adventure in darkness

The summer is slowly fading. The days are gentle while mornings are cooler. I have given up morning walks, cant get out of bed early and the first thing that comes to mind is books, and one is always lying by my side. I cannot deny it and one can find me with a book still tucked in to the bed, my face looking sleepy and lazy.
I went home feeling lazy, dizzy, tired etc.etc. Had just lied flat in my beloved bed with a book. Night was creeping and I could see the tints of darkness all over the earth, the clouds looked gloomy and peaceful. There was no sign of rain though the moon was hiding somewhere behind the clouds. The ground where kids play was empty which made me assume the kids had returned home after being shooed by the falling dark. The neon light was already lightening my room. I must say the ambience was romantic unluckily I was not, I was just indifferent. I could see a shadow in the curtain of my neighbor; someone was reading rather mugging notes, probably my neighbor’s son preparing for exam. He was moving from left to right and back. I could see the shadow of a notebook. I still have reminiscent of my college days and the treacherous exams. I felt sorry for the boy, but the movement of his shadow was disturbing me and I turned to other side. I could see the road gleaming in the street light. I had left my book on the table just to greet the evening but it held me by its unseen hands. I was trying to read the stories of the day brought to me by the smooth breeze. All of a sudden everything went dark. I was inside the pitch darkness. The damn power cuts. I hear we will have it fourteen hours a day. I realized my damnation of the darkness was not very harsh. I felt as if I was standing alone as some mystery was to unfold. I could see nothing only hear meaningless sounds coming from all sides, time and again the howl of the dogs tried to bring meaning. The empty road was nowhere to be seen and I could only guess where it could be. I raised my hand but I couldn’t see it. I had seen a candle in my table but I dismissed it. I was enjoying darkness. Helpless candles and electrical gadgets were already flickering in pride for being able to come to the aid of their masters. Man is falling slave to his own inventions. I had to move with greater precision not to collide with anything, not to fell the things in the table and not to hurt myself. It was such a helpless state still I was cynically enjoying it. My mobile shrieked and from its light I could track where it was. A distant cousin had called as he had been invited for a dinner which obviously I had forgotten. He hadn’t seen our home and wanted me to fetch him from a crossroad where he was strangled. These days I exist in my own home without the notice of my own people. Mummy complains that I see her only on my way to office or in the dining table and I dismiss that in a guffaw. I shout at my mum that I am going to fetch the cousin. I step out of my home without a torch despite the pressings of my mother. I enjoyed the thrill that I might stumble upon anything, fall into ditches still I wanted to avoid that. Sometime its such an adventure to test one’s own instincts. I only had to get to the main road because it won’t be difficult afterward and there was no way to carry on my experiment when my cousin and his newly wed would be accompanying me. I have a torch in my mobile, I dismissed it as well. Afterall I had felt pity on the mankind for falling slave to his own inventions, if I used my torch that would be hypocrisy and for that instant I didn’t want to be a hypocrite.
As I walked along the dark track, I assumed as if someone has spilled black ink all over the earth. The thick clouds were assisting in my experiment by barring the moon from peeping the earth. I thanked them and raised every steps with care, extending my hand just to ensure I do not hammer on wall or pole with my nose. As I walked I assumed myself to be the cavemen who dwelled in Stone Age. They would have done the same thing if they were lost in middle of the night.
I was walking like a blind and that thought washed away all my excitements. My experiment of a short span was a reality of life for so many people. In my childhood when I used to imitate lame, blind, deaf and dumb people mummy used to tell me that one who mocks at helpless become helpless themselves. If I were to imitate a lame man I will be lame eventually. Recollection of those memories scared me to death. I slipped my hands into my pocket briskly and soon I was walking in the light of my mobile’s torch. I had only few steps to get into the main road but I was happy I had light and I could see.

War and peace

Wow I have finished reading the epic War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy after putting it off twice earlier in my life. The first time I denied myself the treat of reading the book was when I was in class 12, I had brought it home from library but those days the studies used to be so tough that I just gave up the idea. Then I tried again three years back but the names were so confusing to me at that time that I again gave it up for the second time though it was always in the list of ‘books I want to read’ and I am so glad that I finished it. The book is simply amazing. In spite of being a canvass of almost five hundred characters, one is never entangled in conflicts or looses the track of the character. There is love, patriotism, hatred, war, self-conflicts, politics. It portraits the human life so well and one feels so much for the characters. To a wonder one does not loathe any of the characters; the enemies are given the due credits for the bravery.
Surprisingly I finished the epic of 1315 pages in mere six days thanks to no works at office and enough free time at home as well. Luckily no work has been pending because of the book. The epilogue is too beautiful the way it tries to deal with life, happiness, destiny, and rise and fall and so on. What a book?

Morning walk along the banks of Bagmati

I woke up lazily without any mood to go for a walk. This is always a case with me, I never set foot on the road by choice but once I am in the road, the feel is so pretty. I was lulled to sleep by cool breeze yesterday. Many times it feels so good, rejuvenating to be awoke for some time with lights switched off listening the fluttering leaves, a soothing music being swept by the breeze from a distant house. So many times I feel our chase for the bigger happiness and achievements conspires to keep us aloof from the smaller happy moments. Among so many other things I love doing in night one is to see the shimmering light in the hills, I feel as if they are telling a story to me. It is such a blissful experience unfortunately it is not possible to talk with those lights from the busy Kathmandu. Before the formal bowing of heads and recognition of each other begins, the lights from the ostentatious houses dazzle ones eyes and it does not allow the concentration to be build.
I don’t know when did I fell asleep but I was awake around 4:00PM though I was reluctant to get out of bed, I had this mild headache. Yesterday I got a hint that the abominable depression is back to haunt my life and soon everything will start to appear filthy and ugly. May be that was the reason today I was lethargic, lazier than any other mornings recently. Luckily after dragging myself to the road, I had some relief and soon I was walking along the banks of Bagmati River. The river is muddy and silent. Just few years back it roared on its path during monsoon but now it appears it is just tiptoeing to avoid the eyes of passersby. It has come a long way from the point of its origin flowing like snake and soon the drops of water get polluted as they come across human habitation. I wonder why this river had to take the snaky path. I know it has no strength to cut a new path today but once it had. Why it had to follow a rather difficult path of twist and turns. May be it is its generosity that it wanted to avail its water to every part of the terrain. Unfortunately the people for whom it exhibited such generosity so that they can raise farm, produce foods etc., are polluting it and it is loosing its identity. After draining a huge budget in the name of cleaning the river, many people got richer but the face of poor river has not changed. It will only be a narrow sewage as soon as this monsoon comes to end. Generation after generation, years after years it has been washing the holy Pashupatinath and the Guheshwori temple but even the almighty god has not listened to its woes.
Upset by the litters it tries to clean them on its own depositing the plastic bags, carcasses, jute sacks on the banks but it seems helpless. Its attempt to clean itself is futile, I fear in few years there will be no Bagmati. After a little walk along the bank I notice a small boy getting his smaller birdie out to eject the stream of his own into the revered river. Soon he was peeing and he moved from left to right and back as if he was watering the garden. I felt pity for the river. A little farther the monkeys were sipping the water from the river. I felt pity for them as well.
Now as I write this I remembered something. While returning back home, a truck honked its way toward some place flying the dust all over the area. Something got into my mouth and I was coughing and wheezing. I had a gob of cough in my mouth and spat it into the river. The river seemed to give me a mocking smile. I do not think I even have the right to feel pity for the river.

Just another morning

A beam of moonlight had brightened my room when I opened my eyes. It seemed as if the fairies had descended through that light into my room. It looked so beautiful early in the morning while my room still smelled of sleep. I looked into the sky through the window where the full moon seemed to be smiling back to me as if it were saying its not yet time to get up and I can slid into my blanket. The small piece of cloud which had cushioned the moon seemed to be glistening in gold. The moon really looked beautiful. I closed my eyes to go back to sleep or at least try to sleep though I knew it will be futile. At 5:00AM, I heard the fluttering of leaves and the sound like when someone sprinkles water into fried oil. I knew it was raining, may be the last rain of the season. The rain was not fierce rather gentle as if it were bidding goodbye to the earth to the flora promising them that it will be back next year. I pulled the curtain to look into the sky, the moon was not to be seen but the piece of cloud in the sky looked golden, it seemed to be emitting golden light and I knew the moon was inside this very cloud. May be it was letting the rain engage in farewell.
I could hear the movements of people on the road though the road is more than hundred meters away from the home. Early in the morning when the world is still sleeping sounds are clearer. I guessed the students must be hurrying to their morning colleges and other people marching on the road as their morning walk routine. It’s too early for the rain to bid goodbye but may be it was consoling the earth that its time for it to go and after a week or two it will be gone. May be it was pouring the water on the pores of soil so that the plants will be able to live on it. This is the motherly love of nature, I suppose. I expected a cooler day today. The fluttering of the leaves reminded me of mothers tucking their children to sleep lovingly patting their back over a lullaby while the leaves sounded like stubborn child wanting to hear more, the lullaby has ended and now they want to listen a story. The earth looks to me like a child clutching the end of his/her mother’s sari when she wants to go to work, to kitchen or for other homely choirs.
This ritual must have been there from the time the plants and lives sprang from the heart of earth and till today after thousands of years it looks equally blissful. A pigeon is sitting on the railing of my balcony. It must have set out to find food, bring the food back to its nest to feed its children. Unusually the pigeon looks calm just like the hostel warden who allows brief loving chat between the mother and the child even after the time to meet has expired. I hope soon it will warn cooing the rain and the leaves that the time is already over. I love this harmony. I want to see the world standing on my balcony but I don’t want to disturb the pigeon. I am equally pleased to watch its patience. Though except for houses I can see nothing from my balcony, I love greeting the morning from the very balcony and feel the whiff of air push my cheeks as if blessing from heaven. I could see the smooth feathers of the pigeon being drifted by the breeze, I envied it but still let it enjoy the morning glory. The atmosphere is sweet neither it is dark not its bright. The darkness and brightness have mixed with each other to create the color that is very difficult to describe albeit they will separate soon, very soon. The rain is already slowing down and the pigeon is moving its head cautious, may be its judging whether it can fly on or not and soon I see it hovering in the sky. It is no longer visible in a matter of seconds.

Happiness or money; a dilemma

I stepped out of office a little late than usual, not because I had work but just like that as if I wanted to see how it feels to stay a little late, when the rooms are empty, the counters silent, machines in sleep. I wore a T-shirt inside my shirt for no obvious reason and walking on the street I realized that it was a wrong decision. After shining throughout the day in its full glory the sun seemed reluctant to take a leave. The road as busy as always, and the dogs that slept in the pavement were no where to be seen as if they made room for people. The street children busy nagging people especially girls for alms.
On the other side of the road a boy was kicking a pebble; his hands inside the pockets of his rugged jeans. I thought he looked cool; what I liked however is his indifference to rest of the world. I came across a pebble as well and wanted to imitate him but thinking I might hit somebody I dropped the idea. Suddenly I realized the in spite of footpaths that run along same road but just on opposite side, my side hosted a huge crowd while the other side looked drowsy with few people strolling on it. My side would give an impression of some kind of public demonstration while the other side gave the hint of placidity. I found that funny and may be I gave a cynical smile as well.
Soon I found myself on the other side of the road, just before the door of a book shop. I crept into the book shop and the smell of the book liberated my soul when I left the shop my bag was heavier; I had bought three books. My mood was all of a sudden elated with the weight of the books.
Before me, a couple was walking who were talking about their young niece. From their talk I could know that there niece had gone abroad and missed home bitterly. That reminded me of my cousin who is in Australia and who I called this morning. Her ‘hello’ had sounded clumsy but when she heard me saying ‘Didi’ (sister) she was exhilarated. We do have warm relation still there have been never any occasion I had pleased her just by calling. I remembered her thanking me three times and I had phoned her casually, just to inquire how she was. I could read her excitement throughout the conversation. She talked to me without any punctuation inquiring about family; people we both know and about recent festivals, how we planned to celebrate the upcoming festivals etc. It was clear she missed home; I also know eventually she would adapt her new environment albeit she will have regrets for being on another country far away from her people. Just today I had commented on a blog where the writer said people held her as a traitor just because she chose to live her life in another country. I had told her how wrong the people were in her case because according to her she was doing better outside her country. In many other cases like in the case of my cousin; they are only tempted by higher payment abroad. Just for the sake of money they leave behind a good job, reputation to fly into another country where they have no identity and are doing jobs they didn’t even do at their home.
One of my colleagues who had a good job and a reputed life here in Nepal went to US where he is working at a restaurant cleaning dishes and doing other things. He was an executive in a government office here. He said he earns more than in Nepal but cannot enjoy what he earns, even his wife earns and because they work in different shifts they get to talk only in the weekend; even that if they do not have another engagement on the weekend. He has justification and has forced himself to believe whatever he did was the right move. He says his children are getting better education and their needs are being met. Many of my friends who went abroad for further studies are hanging there even after finishing their studies. Looking for opportunities is never a fault and one should grab it when it comes where it comes. But, completing a Master’s degree just to scrub floor, wash dish is something that is not justifiable. Had they been only a clerk in office that fitted their qualification would have been good. If they are enjoying whatever they are doing and content with it then its fine but if they are ignoring reputable jobs (though salary much much lesser than that of a janitor still enough to maintain reputable life ) in their own land, better to return home. Some people say its their struggle; what if the struggle has no prospect; even after struggling he/she will always remain in the similar job. Unfortunately many of them live illegally amid uncertainties.
My cousin sounded happier than last time, but she missed sitting in her cabin of her office assigning responsibilities to other being addressed with respect. Where ever a tree might move with its creepers it will always be fed from the place where it is rooted. Money is the most important thing; it’s the almighty but man yearns for other things as well. I do not say that just because one misses home and his/her people he/she should leave behind everything and return; I just want to say killing oneself just for money (and it gives no happiness) is not justified; at least not justified to me.

Human relations

The world simmered as Madan looked through the smoke rising from the fire that cremated his mother. After being bed-ridden for illness the doctored called old age for more than a month, she passed away silently god knows at what time. Shweta, her daughter had slept in the same room to be at her service if she wanted anything in the night or if she wanted to go to toilet. When she woke up, her mother’s face was brighter than it had been the other day. She had been brightening every day since last week and could speak. They thought she was recovering. She also recognized everyone then on but still refused to see her husband to whom she had been married for fifty five years. She didn’t allow him to enter the room they have shared for all those years since she got to bed, helpless and pale. No one understood what had happened to her that she denied her husband by whose side she had stood all her life. Hari, her husband had shifted himself to his grandson’s room who had been to hostel and wouldn’t come home for next three months.
It was something no-one understood why Uma behaved so mysteriously yet very cruelly to her husband. If he sneaked into a room when she was being sipped the soup, she would stop the next feed. If he came in her sight she would turn away and just shout ‘Go, Go, I don’t want to see you’. They tried to calm her but nothing would soothe her unless he was out of her sight. When she was in sleep or out of her conscious she would babble about the year of her marriage, how her in-laws treated her and how she could never satisfy her implacable mother-in-law, how she cried before her husband. She would remember the hard times when they suffered a huge loss when their grocery store turned to ashes in fire and how her husband consoled her saying everything will be fine soon. She remembered how once her only son had nearly died of pneumonia and how the witch doctor had advised her that the case was to be seen by doctor. She said how much she was indebted to the witch doctor for saving her son. She would often remember the time Shweta was born and how she loved to dance in the courtyard.
Shweta had been with her since her mother was bed-ridden. She nursed her, ensured that her bed was clean and to be there during her natural urges. More than love for her mother, it was the greed for heaven whose comfort and luxury will be bestowed upon if she cared for her ailing parents, she had dedicated herself entirely to her mother’s service. She has been a devoted protégé of a saint who told stories from holy books and who said he can guide people abode heaven if they listened to him and practiced his preaching. He always told the greatest route to heaven was through the selfless service to one’s parents and there she was on her selfless service. But as she dedicated herself entirely to her mother’s service she had forgotten her Guru, the holy saint. The incoherent monologue of her mother had made her feel that whether she gets heaven or not she ought to take care of her mother because she had undertaken so much pain to raise her and her brother. In this one month she had really fell in love with her mother and only she knows how much she had wished to see her mother back to her normal life. The monologues also made her clear that her mother was not ignoring her father out of hatred, she had learnt her mother still loved her father probably more than she ever did. But she could never know why she was despising him, ignoring him, resenting him.
At the age seventy-three, Hari never resented the wishes of his wife he was married to at the age of 18. He abided by whatever she wanted like a child. He seemed to know the reason behind the changed behavior of his wife. He would watch her hiding behind the windows but his concealment was more from the world than from his wife. If he found her alone asleep he would go near her, moved his wrinkled hand over her forehead as if he were trying to soothe her, as if he were trying to share the agony his ailing wife was going through. If someone came he would just walk away as if he had come to the room casually to pick something. He talked lesser and one would rarely see him without holding cigarette in his hand. He avoided eye contacts with everyone. He would always stay at home not even go out for a walk in evening to meet his old friends to chat about anything. However he continued his morning walk but he returned soon. He was worried but somber. He rarely exchanged words with his son, daughter, daughter-in-law and the house maid.
The day before Mira died, Hari had stolen a look of her but she caught him. This time she didn’t resent, she looked at him with her frail eyes and dropped a tear. He saw it, Shweta saw it and so did Madan his son. May be Mira wouldn’t have resented if he had gone to her, sat by her and held her hand which he had so much wanted all this month but he didn’t. The drop of tear barred him from approaching her. He didn’t sleep that night but he didn’t even go to the room where his wife was. The next day she was dead, he behaved as if he knew it and was actually waiting for it. He had lost his soul the time he knew what was coming.
Shweta was wailing he stood before her and moved his hand over her head where the hair had already turned gray. He didn’t say a word. Madan was sitting by the body of his mother, looking at her holding the cold hand.
Now they were on the bank of the river. Mira’s existence was slowly vanishing with the smoke and the world simmered. Madan stood by the fire. He remembered the days in his childhood when his leg was broken after falling in a ditch. When he was alone in the room while his mother was busy in the kitchen, his sister assisting the mother and his father still in the grocery, he used to think what if his parents died. He used to get emotional and would shed tears. He used to feel terrified and orphaned. Throughout his childhood he feared the fact that his parents would die one day. He felt really bad to see his mother’s body turn to ashes but this was less easier than the burden of thought of this moment in his childhood. He thought the importance of his parents had dropped after he got married and especially after his son born. His father sat over a small carpet of straw cross legged. His eyes were focused on the burning body but Madan knew he was seeing something else.
The funeral was finished, the world was same. Hari had shifted to his room voluntarily. He had given up smoking the same day his wife was burnt. He rarely came out of the room. He ate little. He needed tea every next hour earlier but now he behaved as if he didn’t know as if there was something like tea existed in the world. The newspaper lay unopened in his table and his bed looked as if no one had slept in it for a long time.
During his childhood, Madan had watched movies where mother protected their child when they did something wrong from the wrath of their father. Madan thought why showed opposite things. In his life he was more afraid of his mother than his father. His father always protected him and even if Mira chided at the children he shouted back at her. Mira always complained that Hari had spoilt the children. When he returned from school he would go to the grocery store and sit on the lap of his father telling him how was his day at school, telling him the colors of news bags of his friends, how his teachers appreciated his sincerity, how his handwriting was better than that of his friends etc. With the passage of time he became closer to his mother than his father. It was not any intentional decision but it just happened. When he used to come to home from his hostel in city he talked less with his father. If his father came to the room where he was talking with his mother he would just stop talking. He never resented his father but was getting awkward before him, till date he does not know the reason. They did talk about so many things but Madan knew something had changed for ever.
Lately they talked still lesser as if they were neighbors. Sometime they talked about politics, business but there was always uneasiness between them. When his mother resented his father he had wanted to sit by his father consoling him, supporting him but he never did. Hari talked with his daughter-in-law, his wife about almost everything but not with Madan as if he didn’t want to embarrass his son who used to feel awkward before his father.
After the death of his mother, Madan would enquire about his father. He liked to know what his father did in the day, what did he eat and if he liked it or not. He once went to his room but found him lying in bed his face turned to other side. He walked out pulling the door slowly behind him. He knew his father was not asleep but wanted to be alone and he felt more awkward. Once while returning home he saw his father on the rooftop looking at the sky as if he were forming some image probably that of his mother. He had learnt by then why his mother resented his father on her last days. She knew she would die and she wanted to disconnect herself from the world. Had her husband been around dying wouldn’t have been easier, she didn’t want to die with a burden. She wanted to believe that she loved no-one, she didn’t want to care for anyone when she died. He thought his father knew this and that is why he had become a different man.
All his life he remembered his mother asking his father to give up cigarette. She always complained about his cigarette and he listened to her smiling but never gave up. He hadn’t seen a cigarette in his hand from the day his mother had died. Now he believed that his father smoked just to irritate his mother, just to listen to her complaints and just to smile.
Madan’s relationship with his wife had just been fine. They took each other for granted. He always came home tired and they talked little. He had altogether forgotten to notice the color of her saree, the new hair style of hers or her makeup. The frequency of their making love had been dwindling. They made love hardly once or twice and this was just a ritual for them. He didn’t resent her either, he thought its in his nature to get tired of relationships fast. His relationship with his wife was similar to his relationship with his father. Many times he fell to sleep long before his wife came to their room after finishing her choirs and the daily TV programs which she was fond of. When he woke up she would have usually busy in the kitchen. Still they talked almost like any other husband wife, knew each other’s preferences and may be loved each other as well.
He remembered his mother complaining her father failing to take care of himself. She would say ‘only after I die, you will know my value’. She had died and may be his father had come to know her value. Once he saw the door of his father not completely closed, one could peep into the room. He looked into the room, his father stood before a big picture of his wife inside a wooden frame. He was looking into the picture without blinking. Drops of tears rolled down his cheek. Madan wanted to rush to his father embrace him saying ‘Papa, do not feel lonely I am here. Tell me what you want. Tell me what I can do to make you feel better’ but he didn’t.
His parents’ happiness knew no bounds when his son was born. He would never forget how their eyes had shed tears of happiness in the passage of hospital. They said that was the happiest day of their lives. His son Mohit grew in the lap of his grandparents. They got him everything he wanted. They protected him when he committed mistakes and Madan and his wife reproached him. He thought his son was being spoilt by too much love and he had decided to send him to the boarding school. He resented going to boarding school. He hated to stay away from his grandparents. His mother cried all the day when Mohit was sent to boarding school, his father had lost the color of his face. He had taken away the happiness from their life and he felt guilty for it. He however was ready to live with guilt than to see his son being spoilt.
Today after seeing his father standing helpless before the photo of his mother he had made a decision. Next day he rang to the boarding school asking if he can withdraw his son from the hostel and dropped him to school everyday. It could have been difficult but the Principal had been his childhood friend who agreed. He just wanted to give life to his father who was already broken. Next evening he brought Mohit back from his hostel, Mohit ran to his grandfather who embraced him as if a falling man holds the only twig as a support. He cried for the first time after the death of his wife. It took a lot of effort for Madan to hold his own tear. That night he made love to his wife without thinking when did he made love last time. This was no ritual, he reclaimed his lost love.