Corn fields and thoughts

Under the twilight below the lumps of sadly colored clouds, I sit in my balcony watching the world that is slowly loosing its view from my sight. The leaves of maize that had blushed green upon the touch of spring and ha bore the corn after a consummate love making have withered. So little they live yet with such a pious cause to feed the earth. They rattle against the window. Their corns have been plucked. Their leaves yellow bleached in heat as the last rains of the seasons pour upon the earth. They have no name still they live for cause. They feed when they are young and they burn when they die and dry.
Just few days have slipped into history with nothing much remarkable. Just few days back the children played hide and seek in these corn fields, just few days back the broke corns off its plant and roasted them, celebrated corn-picnic in the mud house at a distance. Just few days back they had the skins of children burn in rashes. They have lost it. Just few days back the owner of the field came to see them, looked at their large corn with pride, and held its leaves in hand with smile. The owners were filled with zeal when their saplings had come out piercing the earth, green and small. They worried when it didn’t rain for mere two days, they became desperate when the heat was little too much. They came to the fields with their children; they showed their children the reward emerging from the earth for their hard work. Just few months have passed and there they lie unattended, they are gasping and very soon they will dry in the sun will reach the kitchens to cook food. This is life, life swinging inside the frame of time loosing care with each move. Hair turns grey and the bones bend, beloved life looses itself. It leaves behind the earth, the sky, the water, the air that was never its possession. A story of an individual comes to an end but the saga of life lives on. Seed grow into saplings, saplings into plants, flowers into fruits but to wither is an undeniable destiny. The plant will die but its seed will be buried in earth again, it will raise its head from hide and it will continue. Suffering is a part of life, moving is its destiny but end is the ultimate truth.
A whiff of air breaks my series of thoughts. It also flatter the worn out leaves again, there are roots trying to ungrip the earth. Their desire to rise does not die yet I see the field owners already uprooting the plants and raising a heap, they will boil the rice, warm the water and the wind ill blow away the ashes.

A wonderful book to read

I do not clearly remember the first story that had my eyes drowned in tears but I guess it was the story of Nicholas and Jacapo, I listened time and again sitting on the lap of my father. The last that had me choked was Mitch Albom’s Five People you meet in heaven just few months back. Then just day before yesterday I sat with lumps in my throat in my bed as the curtains flapped across the wind that was invading my room from the open window. I looked at the night searching for the moon just to see if it has seen lives as portrayed in the book. I knew it has been and will be spectator to so many hardships but the book was really harrowing. The book ‘The kite runner’ by Khaled Hosseini was something I picked by sheer coincidence. The other book I picked next also happened to be his. Both the stories from Afghanistan. I had read and heard about Taliban but just as a news just like any other news. One thing aroused my interest in the country when I saw the statue of Buddha in Bamiyan being destroyed by the Talibans. The issue had raised world wide concern and it had made me desire to know about them. A country I have always felt sorry for, people I have empathized and the cover page of a torn National Geograhic Magazine where a girl with eyes of cat looks into the camera in awe, fear and distress.
The book is a heart rending journey that brought lumps to my throats once again. The book is so simple, yet so penetrating and painful. I wanted the book to lull me sleep yesterday, but it left me awake wandering within my thoughts for a long time. Whenever we read a story we usually bring the characters to life, we form an image of their look and their expression, throughout my struggle to fall asleep the characters refuse to get away from my brain. I felt sorry and I felt betrayed. My heart was completely with one of the character. I have been a kind of escapist lately or should I say overly optimistic I have learnt to live with belief that everything will be fine in the due course and everything that is happening is happening because it has to. When there is something I don’t want to see I just turn away from it, hide my face, and I believe whatever I don’t see is fine and good. Probably this has been my approach with life lately. I might be living in hallucination so when I came across the first bitter experience in the book, I wanted to postpone the whole book. I was not prepared to feel bad not prepared to loose my sleep but I did. The book is so engaging that I can’t postpone it. There is one difference between a story and a novel, in story end comes after an incident but in novel such incidents come and go to be followed by another. A story is a pond while a novel is a river and this book ‘The kite runner’ is a holy one. I have yet to complete a book but I have already slipped it into the list of my best books. I am convinced that the story will unfold more wonderfully but even if it doesn’t whatever I have completed makes it my best book.
Many times good writings go un-noticed because they are so inter-twined but this one has a smooth flow. It is also one of the simplest books I have read, even a school going student in pre-secondary level will understand the book. It has a story of a country ripped by war and imperialist movement. A friendship springs in the backdrop, politics in the country changes the lives of its citizen but more than that its an incident that takes the story forward. It is such a convincing piece a must read.

Pooja

“Is it really her?” I had asked myself. I had watched her in surprise. I know she recognized me and I know this not because she smiled at me but her attempt to act indifferent was forceful. I didn’t smile at her. Pooja the most beautiful girl in my upper primary skill, two years senior than me, someone for whom there used to be regular gang fights. She had picked no one for herself, she was arrogant moreover there were no boys in the entire school whose smartness and look matched her. She dressed well, looked stunning, spoke softly but she was arrogant. She knew the fact that she was the most beautiful girl in the school. She had very few friends may be they were jealous of her or may be she didn’t want to have friends who were not beautiful. Those were not the days where a boy will go in front of a girl and propose to her at least the movies didn’t have such scenes where the hero would propose the heroine that way. It was the time of love-letters. Every next day we used to hear someone giving her a love letter. They said she would tear those letters before those who wrote it. She looked at boys with scorn but she had friends who were boys, the ugliest looking ones, those who seemed to have come to office straight after depositing the rags they have collected wandering around the city in the school. Why she had them, I don’t know. She returned home with them and sat with them in class. It used to be a risky business for boys to have her as a friend because her suitors might catch them anywhere and beat the hell out of them. Her admirers beat other admirers and there used to be frequent fight after school. Mine was not age to evaluate beauty and more than that she was senior, her admirers used to get regular beatings.
When I saw her today she was not what I expected her. Her body had grown out of proportion as if the flesh in her body wanted to burst through her kurta. Her face that would embarrass the full moon in a clear night had patches like the ones women usually get during pregnancy. Her hair which used to be well combed and tied rested on her shoulder like the Medusa’s hair. Her lips drooped; they looked bigger and uglier.
Whenever I used to read stories of fairies, and angels I always thought they must have looked like her. When they told stories about mermaid princess I assumed probably she was one when mermaid princess really existed. One of her classmates had said that she will get the most prosperous man around and he will get luckier to have her around. It didn’t look thus. I would not have been surprised had I seen her in a car and ignored me like I ignore the beggars in the streets of Thamel but no she tried to ignore me because of shame because of guilt. A bus came on, she disappeared inside it and I walked on with pity.
Why is beauty so ephemeral? To expect good, to expect better is no crime. Why would she feel for every guy who fell for her? What had happened to her? I kept pondering. I wondered what had washed away her beauty. How could time be so cruel to that mermaid princess of mine? Was it her arrogance; the ignoble air of self-centered attitude? Does behavior influence one’s physicality?

Students, vice-President and the Madhesh agenda

It’s a story of once upon a time as I cannot remember the precise date or year. So once upon a time, there were lesser buildings in Kathmandu, there were no traffic-jam woes, crisis of fuel were unheard of, there were no many television channels, when children spent less time in TV, video games, cartoons were luxury beyond the access of ordinary children. In short, that was the time when I was a school going child. There used to be routines and one period ended with the start of another period, Mathematics after Science, English after Mathematics, Geography after English and so forth. Even then students hated studies. It used to be a difficult task to keep oneself bound in the subject. When the boredom of all the students used to climb to the peak in unison they used to request the teacher to do some extra activities and postpone the lesson. Antakshri, singing, quiz etc. were our limited choice. So even that time we used to escape studies but then we were at school. Even today students feel bored of studies but they have found a different way out. They feel bored more frequently and their boredom is burnt as effigies, burnt as tires, pelted as stones, vandalized as vehicles and so on. They are adept at creating hill out of mole. Patriotism has been limited to criticizing the self tagged traitors and the blots on the face of the country. Patriotism is only burning effigies and tires disrupting the life. Most of these very youth if got few thousands will sit for TOEFL and IELTS and fly to navigate their different world of karma but they will still burn effigies. Only if we manage to keep ourselves bound to our duties may be our country will be in the right track. I do not claim that aspiring to go outside to garnish one’s future is wrong what I really detest is the chanting of this pseudo-patriotism. Peaceful protest is one thing but bringing the whole movement of country to a halt over an issue cannot be justified as patriotism. We have long lost our faith to rule of law, we do not believe in our judiciary so instead of protesting things by registering a writ in the court we love to take things at hand. Pelting is new national games, we love pelting stones and we equally love watching stones being pelted. Students are gathering unparallel experiences in these things in special.

Not very long ago, I had observed that people divided themselves in terms of their political beliefs. Some were congress loyalists, some were UML loyalists, some RPP loyalist and so on. They argued like stray dogs fighting over a carcass to prove their parties are better. Today the division is more vicious, more eerie. Nepalese have not adopted a regional mindset and the recent development has only cemented it. It can be seen in the letters to editors in the news-paper. The burning issue is over the oath taken by the deputy President. I have been observing these letters to editors soon the issue led to burning of effigies and vandalism. There are letters from people with surnames acharya, rai, shrestha, poudel, karki, khadka etc. and there are letters from people with surnames Shah, Jha, Yadav, Mishra, Das etc. while all the formers lambast the vice-President for taking oath in Hindu most of the later think the issue is politically motivated and needs no such attention. Yes the country is divided in terms of ethnicity roughly between two the Pahades and the Madhesis. While the Pahades claim Hindi is and never was a language in Nepal while the Madhesis claim though Hindi was not legally the regional language they have used it over time to communicate among themselves and they have always felt the language is theirs. A new battle in country which has already been tattered by so many battles. If anyone was to ask for my opinion (though my opinion does not count) I believe the vice-President should not have used Hindi and he should have come out of his regional prejudices because now he is the vice-President of the entire nation not only of Madhes. He has been elected to the post under the interim-constitution which still has it clear that Nepali is the national language. If he didn’t feel so or felt the constitution was wrongly written, he should have never accepted the position. Now after his unexpected action, those who didn’t like it should have filed a petition of writ in the court and let it decide. This whole drama especially at the cost of nation was not so necessary. Here for yet another time the heinous face of politics and politicians has unfolded for yet another time. The other allies of the three party alliance have come out with no opinion of their own while their pawns are protesting in the streets and ironically office-goers and wage-earners are facing a huge problem.

Once upon a time there was mayhem in the country over the so-called interview of an Indian actor who was supposed to say something unacceptable to Nepal (I had watched the interview and I did not notice even the mention of Nepal). There were arson, burning effigies, flags set ablaze, cinema halls vandalized over a trivial issue which finally took an ethnic colors and madhesis were man-handled in Kathmandu while the Madhesis made the lives of Pahades in terai (especially Birgunj, Nepalgunj etc.) terrible. That time I had sensed the country will witness ethnic disturbances sooner or later. Once upon a time a laborer had wailed of injustice before me. He said from the time of his great grandfather had been living in Nepal, he was born in this country and his great-grandfather, grandfather and his father were cremated in this very country still he had no citizenship card. Devoid of citizenship card he could not apply for job and could never get government subsidies. That was also the time when the Kathmanduites spat words of hatred to Madhesis people who brought to our homes the fruits and vegetables. They were(are) humiliated, manhandled, looted and regarded as an outcast. The tone of our language dropped from modest to rude and humiliating when we talked with these Madhesis. Whether someone agrees or denies, the country had (has) always treated them as second-class citizen, like the jews in pre World War-II world. The venom was churning which set the country ablaze almost a year back in the name of Madhes revolution. A party sprouted from the womb of hatred and regional biases, the country plunged into more difficult and deep social pit. Geographic positioning of the country itself has been the constant attention grabber. It still and will always be a battle point that can never be neglected. So, interest of neighbor who deep down still feels Nepal as its own colony might have played role in fouling the atmosphere.

Itching my brain

Tv is such a time consumer, it’s an addiction. Now there are so many channels that at least one or other has something that can hold you. These days just have few Indian news channel and more than news they will keep you entertained. They will talk about gods, show eerie stunts, gossip on movies and actors, sell things, presents thrillers, bring personal issues of people like a family feud among so many others. I wasted quite some time before tv. I just came to my room after watching a dance program judged by a so-called celebrity who seems to get eczema if she wears clothes below her thigh. Preferring is one thing but its an obsession may be she needs some air for her private parts to breathe as well. Unfortunately she does not even arouse any sensuous desire either and this marketing stunt of her has failed, at least for me.
So, for those hard workers who desperately need some work, I might have invited jealousy. I watched TV munching that ‘Kurkure’ another addiction of mine, read a book and spent the whole day tittering with my parents. Sibling got no holiday, poor brother!!!
Buwa’s desire to strain his eyes over the same news sent me back to my room to itch my brain to get something.
I woke up rather early today. When the alarm rang at 5:00 I had taken bath and had repeatedly chanted the mantras given to me by family pundit to appease the angry stars. As I sat for tea the clouds looked heavy but not black. I cannot remember if I saw a sun yesterday and today I thought I won’t be able to see one. So under the thick heavy cloud appearing like beard of Santa Clause I sat with my laptop for reading. The doomsayers have now screwed their brain and it’s been active like never before. They have stories of idols which cried and cracked when the first president of the country was sworn in yesterday. The president of the recently acclaimed ‘pain-in-the-butt’ party stayed away from the whole program. The vice-president of the country took oath in Hindi. Doomsayers have taken that as a premonition of loss of pride. I wonder what the prides are. These self claimed patriots give me real headache, so do the parties. The headaches are worse when people come blind folded in defense of their parties. Parties with no policies, no honor and no principles. In India the leftist left the ruling UPA government because the nuclear deal with the imperialist (their term) United States was against their party’s policy. They saw it as falling in knees with swords drawn deep into their sheath in curtsy.(Do not frown at the mention of India bringing forth the whole incidents of flashing bundles of bills in the assembly. I have only picked an example.) But here political parties’ policies are changing with days. Though not a management student I know strategies do not change for business be that political, social or the business in its true essence. Here they have no strategy. When the strategy of a party is not for a single term reign in the government but for a long run to have a grip, only then the party can be successful. Stability is the demand of time not a government that will very soon start gasping for breath. I feel like vomiting when choice of hands to be clasped with, changes every fort-night in our country.
The mobs, protests are back in street, the ashes of charred tires will greet me tomorrow if it didn’t rain heavily. I will neglect the ashes as a regular view or may be assume the street has been painted with henna like the kids in my house made different impression of henna on their palm today after somebody told them one must paint their palms in the month of Shrawan.

Krishna

As I sit here the news channels are flashing the breaking news gained from some of their reliable sources that no clear majority has been achieved for presidential nominee while the vice-president has been elected. Politics these days has been shameful battle for power and the interest of the entire nation is being blotted. But I have not sit with this subject of politics, I will deal with it some time later.
Forgetting today is Saturday, I asked the conductor of the micro-bus twice if it really goes to Chabahil after seeing empty seats which I haven’t been able to see for more than a month now. Securing a seat in public vehicle is a feat not lesser than winning some kind of battle. I sat behind a foreigner clad in the dhoti and kurta. A suspicious looking woman sat by his side. He had two other friends one a foreigner himself and a Nepali old man in late sixties. I guessed they are from Krishna consciousness group. When someone mentions the name Krishna consciousness I remember Americans after feeling betrayed by their government over Vietnam wars, who wandered around the world as hippies. I was born in post hippy era but I can still see their black and white images (courtesy from the movie Hare Ram Hare Krishna) singing and relishing in the hashish trying to create mystic heaven inside the clouds of smoke. Without any reasons, these two people appeared to me like the leftover of that hippy culture. I myself cannot find the link with which I associate these people from Krishna consciousness with the hippies. They dress differently; there have been no records of them engaging in drug abuse. Yes they sing and dance as if they are detached from the world, the dance itself has intoxicating effect. Their ‘conscious’ community forgets the world.
These two people looked gentle despite their large bodies. One carried a dholak and a bag containing some other musical instruments. May be they have the holy gig somewhere in the evening. I soon question myself what brought them to Krishna. What in Krishna attracted them? People and religious group who associate themselves with Krishna sing and dance more. The dance is meditative in nature, the dancers seem to be tipsy, they seem to be lost in mystic pleasure. There is a very popular and revered seer who is supposed to be one of the greatest living devotee of lord Krishna. People believe he is the direct ambassador of the lord to help the people experience the real pleasure. They show his preaching every morning in the mythological channel, he has a huge community base here in Kathmandu. I had watched him few times in TV. He between his preaching gets into singing and dancing. I find all this so humorous. Man has problem with the same world in which he lives, he tries to convince himself that the nature is illusion.
The world is really a mess and more one tries to undo the knots the more he dips into the mess. The showcase of so called real pleasure takes them in, they are frustrated in one or another ways and finally they want to be indifferent. I do not write this just for the sake of writing, I have gone through this experience. When I had the first bouts of depression, I was repulsive to everything in the world, slowly I was beginning to think, I should seek energy and blessings from beings beyond my imagination and logic. I sometime felt like running away from home to join these seers in their hermitage, free myself from the shackles of this cruel world.
During my growing years, I had more doubts on the epic Mahabharat than the holy regards. I was always unable to find how truth prevailed in Mahabharat. How come we hold Krishna to be a god when he has taught the Pandavas to lie and betray? Mahabharat to me has always been corrupt than our current politics. Krishna never inspired me. Our religion has only contradiction they claim to teach us non-violence from stories where brothers kill brothers for a piece of earth. Holiness is attributed to woman who sleeps with five brothers.
I had reservations about Gita its most popular term where Krishna tells Arjun to do his Karma and never expect return. To me without expectation of return one can never do Karma. It ask us to do things in this life to make another life easy. There is the mention of 84 lakhs rebirth for an individual which I have never found convincing. May be I had misunderstood the holy Gita, I brought a book called ‘Bhagwat Gita As it is’ written by some Swami Pravupada. It was supposedly the most celebrated book on Gita. I read the thick book line by line, rather than understanding one particular question I was entangled in so many questions. I re-read the book few years later but to no avail. I just cannot blindly believe what somebody tells me.
Seeing these two gentlemen, I thought; I have been raised in Hindu culture, I know Mahabharat, I have read Gita, our family practices all rituals still I have not been convinced by Mahabharat, by Gita and the grandeur of Krishna what could have brought these men total alien to our culture to all these things. Though the most liberal religion the practitioners are the filthy hypocrites. They preach their followers to stay away from sex and they themselves create scandals in their hermitage.
I for a long time kept my questions buried inside me, my reservations about victory of truth in Mahabharat remained locked deep inside my heart. It would be considered utter blasphemy. Then a show started in some Hindi Channel which presented Mahabharat from a different perspective, perspective that matched what I thought. It was directed by Dr. Chandra Prakash Dwivedi of Chanakya fame. I was so happy to find someone of that stature takes the story in the same spirit. Then after I started becoming vocal about what I thought. We indulge into hot debate at our home. I have found most people believe in the story in the face value. Its like children believing their teachers on whatever they say.
May be someday I will understand the Gita or may be many people will come out with questions like mine.

@ Home

Today is public holiday to celebrate the installment of president and vice-president in their respective office. We only need a reason to get holiday because government knows there is no work to be done and anyway the employees will gossip, take nap, wander around, litter places and exhaust the scarce fuel so it legitimized the ‘no-work’ by stamping public holiday. After getting accustomed to frequent bandhs even we office goers feel something is missing from our life when there are no bandhs at interval. More than that there were no other holidays apart from weekends last two months and the ever generous government officers who were themselves dying to stay at home, play cards. Even sleeping stretched in a bed after sleeping in the office chair for a long time is quite a change. They have declared public holiday and with no vehicles in the road due to fuel scarcity and students agitation its not different from the beloved bandhs.

I couldn’t go to office yesterday. After stuffing enough meal to survive till lunch time, I hurried to Chabahil to get into whatever I could find to be at office before 10:15. The drizzle, turned into a shower before I was at Chabahil. Surprisingly the road had few vehicles which came from its end and then took an U turn and returned to the place where they had come. After fifteen minutes desperate wait in the flooded road a tempo came and I hurried into it just to be told by the driver that the students are protesting for something and no vehicles will ply beyond Chabahil. Errrgggg…. I was disgusted. Now I knew why many people were walking. There was no point walking all the way to office amid heavy rain so I waited if the rain will stop but no. So at quarter to ten I backtracked toward my home completely irritated. Before that I had asked a cab if it would take me to Thamel, the driver took a thorough look at me top to bottom as if he were picking a prostitute to sleep with and said I would have to get four hundred. I wanted to yell ‘f’ and ‘k’ with ‘u’ and ‘c’ stuffed between at him but as a chicken I pulled out. I wanted to catapult a gob of spit at his eyes and make him blind but then making one blind for mere four hundred rupees so spared him.

I was irritated like a husband whose wife had just ran away with a filthy tenant with all the money and jewelry. My irritation was not for the fact that I couldn’t go to office (what do you think I am Bill Gates that if I take one day leave my office will turn upside down), but because had I known about the strike I would have stayed at home, wouldn’t have ached my legs to come to Chabahil all through that muddy, yucky road with my pants dotted with mud which I needed to wash after getting to office.

At home there were movies to be seen, books to be completed and started, nap to be taken, tv to be watched, I even hadn’t read the newspaper properly. The experience of staying home lonely when its raining outside has a fun of its own. I already have three movies pending and as I marched toward home I doubted if I will watch the movies. I was however certain that I will finish the book as only nine pages remained. I knew I might even start a new book and I was true this time.

Now since it is again a holiday today same plans have prevailed. I have after quite some time have found a book which I want to finish in one sit, only three hundred and sixty seven pages of which fifty is already completed. So, today just a book day for me, an e-book day to be more precise. May be I will write something but there are already more than five cribbles queued to be posted but this one will exceed the priority due to its dependency with date. It will serve no purpose if posted later. Lucky post!!!

I am dead

I lay there stretched and calm as the cockroaches nimble around my body. I didn’t know if my mirror had lied me all these years or I have had a chronic problem with my eye-sight. I have hated cockroaches, they arouse filth in me, I want to drown them in my stinky vomit, squeeze them out of their juices. But there I like calm, my eyes closed. Even then I wanted to kill those scurrying filths but I hate it more when the juices spill out of them. My doors were open and I could see people staring at me solemnly, this was pity not scorn and the pity was not for me but for themselves. Two kids talked with each other in whispers and they looked confused and scared. My dog sat before me. I wondered what it was all about, what was going on. I was thinking and there I was lying on the ground against nothing but the cold floor. I felt as if I had come out of myself. My land-lady came in panicked. She moaned and sobbed but again that was for herself. I had died and that was my body. I was shocked, I was in agony, I was aghast. What had happened to me? I remember going to bed after reading a book, the day had gone really well and I had a good meal after a long time even had a wine. I had a painting exhibition next month. I had almost completed all work and had a meeting with the sponsor. Two of my paintings were to be exhibited among others and they had promised to pay me Rs.10000 just for putting it there and had said if my paintings were sold they will give me more than 90%.
There were two friends of mine squatting on my left side. One of them had his eyes dipped in tears while other held his head in his hands as if his head will fall to ground if he didn’t hold them. Amid so many people there was an unusual silence. I do not know least number of people who had come to see how I had died, how did my dead body look, if I drooped my tongue or not, how would be the posture of my body? ‘Sunny’ was the name I had given to the dog. It was just another stray dog in the street but what did it feel about me that whenever I came he came wagging his tail. I had chased him away, kicked him and stoned him but still he ran toward me as soon as he saw me coming. I myself struggled to make my ends meet; there were so many times I had wandered in the city for work with empty stomach so there was no way I could invite the dog. After a struggle for almost six month I managed to get a job of a salesman in a store. I had celebrated with the dog on the day I got job. After offering him a loaf of bread I had asked the dog to leave and he left as if he understood what I had said. The next day I found him sleeping by the side of the door of my room. Everyday I fed him and people said that was my dog so I also thought he was my dog.
The dog looked in the air but he pierced my soul, the only living being in the room I felt sorry was for Sunny. His eyes had the real picture of grief. When I was young I used to think tear was the proof of the devastating grief but no after seeing Sunny I felt I was wrong. I do not know the number but there were not less than fifty heads with their eyes directed toward me and only one of the head that was completely different from other heads was sad and grieved.
I had known these two boys who I mentioned as friends in the same store where I work and they lived in condition not less pitiful than mine. One of them also liked painting so we usually talked about painting and had visited few galleries together. He had also applied to the sponsors to allow him to put his paintings in the exhibition but they had rejected. One of the sponsors had watched one of my paintings for a long time as if he were the only one in my small room. When others left he had told me if no-body bought that painting he will buy it himself. So, this friend of mine had assumed that I could recommend him to the sponsors. I had told him I will talk about him. The tears in his eyes were for the recommendation that he will not get now. The other friend said softly if they are going to office today or not? I didn’t feel bad about it because I knew they couldn’t take a chance of loosing the job.
Why had they come I wondered? They were not different than the other gazers except that they sat closer and inside the room.
My land-lady after seeing Sunny around me said, “Chase this dog out of here. If he touches the body, the soul will be impious and it won’t get the salvation.” When nobody volunteered she looked for something in my rather empty room and got a broom behind the door. She hit the dog in back; the dog moved to another place but she would not let him stay in she hit him hard this time. Sunny gave a mourning look at me and walked out. My heart wrenched; I had never inflicted such pain upon myself when the victim was somebody else. It seemed only Sunny attached me to this world.
When I was alive, I had read Bhagwat Gita where lord Krishna said to Arjuna that body takes pain, it moans, it feels sorry, it blazes in grievances, it suffers in love. He had said when somebody dies only he changes the body and his soul never undergo any change, it is uninfected by pain and joy attributed to life. But there I was feeling sad for Sunny, I scorned the people and I laughed at myself.
There were few paintings lying in my bed which I had kept as invaluable treasures but they looked so useless. I had no concern for them, I didn’t care if they burnt it, throw it away or did whatever that they feel like doing.
Someone informed the police and there they were taking pictures of the lump of flesh that had once been my body, inquiring my friends and my landlady. They asked if I had any relative; none of them knew if I had one; no one knew me in the city. My landlady had chased away my real soul-mate, the only relative I had in this whole earth. They took my body for post-mortem; I was already filled with filth. I didn’t care what happens to my body now.

Story from an evening

I sat in the chair in my ugly room which is not better than any barn. The summer is in its peak and my cave like room is hotter than any other place in the city. I had been working on the same report for many days and now I have stopped counting the days. There are files and the computer. The fan of the computer used to make irritating sound but these days I don’t know if the fan has stopped making noise or I am completely engulfed in my work to notice the noise. The fan keeps moving. I do not like the air from the fan but I hate the heat more, the fan is busier than me, it turns on at 9:00 in the morning to 6:00 in the evening. My room is poorly lit and I work like a secret agent as if my work should not be seen by anyone.
Aroma that I have known for years breaks my meditation. She was standing there, her hands pressed against the pillar in the door as if she had come to seduce me right there in my chair. My look lights her face. She has the most radiant smile in the world, at least for me. I thought I was dreaming as I had been remembering her too often these days but in dream one does not sense smell, yes there she was. It had been almost a year since I last saw her but just few moments had passed since I last remembered her. My room which width vanishes in its length had all of a sudden blessed with glory. The distance between the chair and the door must be more than three meters and the poor light would make it difficult for one to see someone at the door. But it was not any other being, it was her. I can recognize her in crowd, blind fold me and I can reach her chasing her smell, I can feel her touch, I know the touch of her hand, the delicacy of her lips as if their taste has been permanently transferred to my lips, I know the feel of her hair. She looked like a warrior princess who had just came to see a friend. In these eight years her hair were same, her lips same but her aura brighter, her face more glorious, her breasts little bigger, her body a little larger. She had been nearby the whole day engaged in a meeting with a client. She had dropped in to see me. I just came to see you, she said. As if she wanted to know I exist or not. After that evening I had never thought we will meet again but the next day she had called me as if nothing had happened. I had played with her womanhood, I had owned her body played with it, I had held her naked body with a brute force of an animal, like a beast who had caught a prey after so many hungry days. I had triumphed time that day, I had been someone I had never known. She did not resist, she submitted herself to me as if she were my slave. Had it been possible I would have soaked all her body with my saliva but no I couldn’t still I know the taste of her flesh, taste of her tongue, taste of her saliva. Many times I smell the fragrance of her breath in mine. I had embraced her body like a drowning man embraces the floating trunk. I had powered all my energy into her, every bit of it. As I laid there exhausted she had kissed me as if it were an honor for my feat. I looked at her naked body from top to bottom as if I were seeing the most revered statue in the whole universe; she did look like a statue. When I woke up she had already left, it was an early morning and my body felt like a flower but I felt guilty. I wanted to kill myself for crushing her virtue for making her impious. She had called me as if nothing had happened, she was her usual self. It had surprised me. May be it was a dream in which my unconscious injected itself no but the cut in my lips told something else. The whole room was a mess, my bed looked mess, it had her smell, there was her handkerchief in the table.
Even after that incident we met, there was no change in her but I still had that guilt I had spoilt my goddess. I forgot to call her in and she had to remind me that I had not invited her inside. I invited her in hurry and she sat there in the sofa facing me. My heart races, my blood becomes colder whenever she is around, my words betray me, my eyes become nervous and I feel embarrassed for no reasons. She always smiles as if she were mocking me, as if that night she had framed me, as if she wanted to humiliate me before myself, as if she wanted to crush my self respect but no she has never been like that. She was the most innocent girl in our entire class, may be in our entire school. Unless anyone put it straight she would not understand anything but she was not dumb. She always remained a child at least I felt so until that night. If I was the beast that evening she was a brutal lioness.
Its been years since I have known her but I still feel the same nervousness in her presence as if it were the first time I was meeting her. Only few SMSes had kept oiling our relationship even they had dropped in numbers and it was again for no reason. I still smiled at her remembrances, she still lit my memories. My eyes used to seek her in the crowd as I looked through the window of the bus. In all these months I never saw her in the road. Her face, her laughter, her smiles, her lips, her nakedness everything were still fresh in me as if they were halo that accompanied me everywhere.
I cannot say if its love, because when sometime I think about marriage she never comes to my thoughts. Possibly it’s the sheer pleasure of her body that I enjoy, bare lust. I try to see in her eyes what she thinks about me when we look into each others eyes for a long time without the need of words. I do not know if she hypnotizes me or its me who hypnotizes me. Our meetings are always brief and we speak too less. If someone were to jot down our conversation for an hour he/she would hardly fill five lines. I loose words and I don’t know what happens to her. We have never brought that evening in our talks as if there was no such evening.
She said she was hungry and wanted to go out for lunch. But she was too precious for me, I couldn’t even share her sight with even a stranger. I thought I had right to feel so but by what source I didn’t know. I said the restaurant will be pack so it will be better if I place them the order over the phone. She agreed. Now I went through the piles of papers looking for a small cheat where I had taken the number of the restaurant. I dropped so many papers in desperation. Fortunately I found the paper and ordered for a pizza and coffee. I didn’t have any topic for discussion. She was looking at my room. She looked at the walls, went to the nearby rack picked a book and placed it back upside down, she picked the small Ganesha piece looked at it carefully turning it in her hand before asking if that was a gift. I said yes and with unusual curiosity she asked who gave that to me. I said some students on which a long ‘oh!!’ was her reaction. She was behaving like a child who had come to her fathers office. I pretended to work but I was keenly observing her. There was a knock on the door and the lunch was there in the table. She sliced the pizza and we sat facing each other with just a small tea-table between us. The fan flew the strands of her hair which tickled my face. I couldn’t have slice more than one, she must have been really hungry she finished the whole pizza. I felt a brute pleasure as I watched her chew the pizza, she didn’t look at me she was really hungry. We were finished. She asked if it was time to leave, yes it was. She said let’s go as if we had already planned to leave together. I went to the nearby room partitioned from mine with a plastic sheet. It was already dark. I took a pleasure watching her silhouette against the partition as she wandered spying around my room. Soon we were in the roads. The sky had begun sprinkling water to the thirsty earth, I wanted to open the umbrella but she said lets feel the rain. As we walked our hands touched as they swing with our walk. The shop had already switched on their lights, it was like a deewali. I wanted to hold her hand but before that we were at the station and already inside the bus. It was almost empty and as always she went to the last seat and sat by the window. I sat next to her. The hair flew her hair to my face. Her hands were over my hands and I cannot say if she knew it or not. We got off and we walked together to her home. I clasped her and she raised her face but it had no fear I kissed it once, she didn’t say anything, I pasted a second kiss that was more passionate. The headlight of a car fell to her face and she ran into the dark. I stood there as if her kiss had turned me into a stone.

I wish my cheeks were bald

Many children have different and wide range of reasons for getting older quickly. I had my own. One of my friends said, he wants to get older because he wanted to shave. In eighth grade I had this friend of mine called Ar. who once surprised me by saying, that morning she smeared the shaving cream all over her face and used her brother’s razor to experience what it feels like when one is shaving? She said among many reasons she hate for being born as girl, one was not getting chances for shave. I didn’t have beard that time and I also had no cravings for beard. I was never excited and prayed god to make me old faster so I can have my chance with shaving. There were few boys in our class who had beard moustache. I never thought they looked better with hair in their face. I always thought they are just the residual relationship between man and his ape counterparts.

Soon the unwelcome guests were growing in my face. I had blisters, irritation and itchy feeling when they started to grow, eventually I learned to adapt with it. Till date they call for irritation if I do not shave them after more than two days. I wonder if instead of beard, paddies or wheat (in smaller version) grew in one’s face that would have alleviated the food crisis in the world. They are the real trouble in bed. I have this habit of sleeping with bare chest in summer. I also move a lot in my sleep and these filthy beard prick me. I get so irritated that I want to wipe away my whole face. Even now as I write this I am feeling like itching my cheeks as I had a shave last Monday. I myself find my face uglier and boring when these unwanted hair sprouts in my face so I take pity on those who have to actually see me frequently.

My friend used to regret being girl for not getting chance to shave and I regret just the opposite way. I wish I could exchange my beard with her smooth cheek. But I don’t think even if it was possible she would now want it because I believe she now knows how irritating it is to shave one’s skin religiously. Actually in metropolis girls shave more frequently than boys, while we shave our cheeks they are more aware of the shrub in their armpit. When I started to have hair in my armpit, I thought it was something I should be shy for. So I used to pluck those hairs one by one with my hand. Gosh!!! It used to be so painful. But I couldn’t do that with beard because beard hairs are much shorter than the hair in armpit. I didn’t even shave them initially so literally I was devolving (read this term ‘devolve’ as opposite to evolve) into a money. Why did they have to grow in my face? One of my brother’s friends felt the same and somebody advised him to scrub his face with one particular kind of stone, few days later he came to school with scratches and abrasions all over his face. Surprisingly I didn’t see beard in his face till I was at school. Last time which is many years back I had seen him and he had beard. I don’t know if he stopped scrubbing his face or his beard had developed the resistance.

With time my body became more fertile for these hair, I had them all over. Many people have them so what’s the big deal, but it was a big deal for me. I hated them; I regarded them as something I should be ashamed of. When they started flourishing in my chest I felt so betrayed by the mother nature, by my genes. I bade goodbye to low neck vests, Bermudas or clothes that exposed my body. I always felt ashamed of them. I used to feel so jealous of people of Oriental origin that if there were sprays available that would sprout hair in human skin, I would have hunted every one of them and sprayed it to them. Nothing of that sort was available. My body resisted to grow up but not my unwanted hair.

Among these species of hair beard was the most detested. Unfortunately in my life I couldn’t learn two things even after trying it for so many time. One is making a knot in the tie and the other is having a clean shave. My cheek is rougher than the upper part of cat’s tongue. Even if I pour an entire tube of shaving cream in my face and have shave I will have no better cheek. As far as tying tie is concerned, if Taare Zamen Par had released during my school days I would have considered myself a case of dyslexia.

Now, I am getting bald. See the tragedy, I have hair in the most unwanted areas and they are falling where I need them the most. In days to come when I stand at the edge of the swimming pool, the other people will think I shaved all my head to stitch the hair all over my body. I already feel nauseated at my image with bald head and creepers like beard and moustache. God why don’t you make me bald in cheek!!!

'Sorry' the magic word

To live with guilt however inconspicuous, is difficult to live with. The war that wages between man and himself can be devastating at times. At times when to conclude in a decision is not what the war is for but who wins is just the main thing. Man lives between contradictions. Contradictions between him and the world but when the contradiction is between him and himself its not easy. Its not calm its utter restless.
Intentions may not be intended, meanings may not have been meant, effects may not considered and counter-effects may not have been reciprocated but they leave one in vibrations of unwanted monologues. Then there is time, its intention is not to heal one’s wound but then as it passes wounds get nursed. This is just like profiting the producers when I pay for the meal after satiating my hunger. My intentions are never to profit the producers, restaurateurs, hoteliers etc.
Then there are some wounds that are chronic. The effects of events are chronic. Apart from head nagging introspects they spoil sleep, they spoil interest, ‘I should not have done that’ kind of thoughts reverberates for a long time. This is guilt. Many times even after realizing we did a mistake may be without intention or may be without expecting the effect it left we fail to acknowledge the mistake before the victim. We all have them in our memories. Usually the fight is between the ego and rationality, ego and reasons, arrogance and humility. Realization of the mistake, of the pain we have inflicted upon others leaves many of us with a feel of guilt for a long time, in times like these one who inflicts these pain are the one who suffer more than the assumed victims. Also there are many of us who let it go because we hunt down the reasons for why we should not worry and why this is just a trivial thing. Or may be we reason ‘even he/she had done something similar last time’. May be its just the level of conscience that lead us to be burdened with self-imposed guilt or with just letting it pass by even after acknowledging that it had the other party unintentionally effected, battered etc.
Is it alright to reason oneself by saying ‘I didn’t mean that, so why should I feel sorry’ and forget the matter? Or is it better to share that pain and eventually say sorry though what we did or said had effects we didn’t anticipated. I would go for the latter though it may not always be what I practice.
‘Sorry’ is such a simple word, simple syllable and simple phonetics yet saying sorry is one of the most difficult things. Feeling sorry for someone and acknowledging the feel before that person in words is really tough. In human behavior and his instincts two things are in contradictory terms most of the time, its ego and compassion. Ego and self-respect are two different things. Ego leads one to take things for granted for example his/her importance, level and greatness. Self-respect encourages one to expect genuine consideration for oneself. It makes him conscious about his rights and what he deserves. It makes him believe in his integrity.
Ego bars one from seeking help in the most needful of situation, restricts one from acknowledging ones mistake and leads to assumption of unreasonable superiority. We often follow our ego which leads us with questions like ‘why should I’, ‘he works under me and he is inferior’. The toll of our ego is usually the loss of self-respect and humiliation of the other party. We accept to live in agony with guilt, we are ready to waste our sleep but we do not want to utter a simple word ‘sorry’.
Most of the times sorry is just a sheer formality with no feeling. It leaves one with more anguish than peace. Many times we have reasons to abscond from saying sorry. These reasons are not from the womb of ego but from rationality. The world is not always just. We surrender before the influence of power and money but these are not the cases I am considering.
Because we are more under the control of ego, we tend to believe saying sorry diminishes our superiority, it insults us. But when the anguish of guilt is high, sorry is the magic word. It flushes out all the regrets and surprisingly heightens ones self respect. It benefits both the parties the one who offers the word and one to whom the word is offered. It makes the world lot brighter, brings a peaceful sleep, calm mind and elated self-respect. Sorry is simply the magic word.

Plan Spoilt

The unrelenting rain shed water to all our plans today. Me and one of my friends had planned to sneak to the club while others will be busy playing cards and feasting on the eve of the last day of the fiscal year. Today being the last day of the fiscal year, there is party in the office. Every department is soaked in the mood of celebration. Before 1 in the day I met many staffs already tipsy. They had no idea if it’s the earth that was moving or the booze that was taking its toll on them.
Through out the day the game of hide and seek continued between the sun and the earth. Since I didn’t need to switch on the fan in the cubicle I can assume the day was cooler. Had it been any other working days it would have been a relief but since our whole excitement was dependent on the sun i.e. more scorching the heat better it would have been, it was a kind of waste. I could see the water shed into our plans. Painfully I cancelled the plan while my colleague accused me of betrayal. It is not a good weather for swimming I wanted to sound reasonable but he was so headstrong he wanted to have a swim in spite of the rain. I denied and he left office fumed in anger. Unfortunately soon after he left the glaring Sun appeared in the sky and few moments later my hands reached for the fan. May be I should have gone with him? I asked myself. Just fifteen minutes later the sun was back behind the clouds, the fans were switched off, teas were ordered and shirts were buttoned. So, it was a good decision.
The loud music and musical debate (‘dohari’ in Nepali) rocked the fourth floor which hosted the Civil Section of our office. Dances always excite me and in just few minutes I was on the fourth floor. Had they pulled me, I would have danced but even after more than a year in the office I am a stranger to department other than mine. Had it been home, no one would have dared to dance without me if I was around.
Our department was boring as always. So at 3:00 I left the office. Surprisingly after just few minutes of walk in the road I was sweating, I could actually smell the sweat. It was so hot and I had already planned to take a shower as soon as I reached home. The clouds had still the sun in the veil; it was not difficult to guess that it will rain anytime.
Kathmandu is getting hotter every year. It is a global trend, glaciers are melting and the sea levels are rising. The absence of Sun in the sky cannot be taken into account for a cool day; it was just like any other sunny day. A frequent old man who’s cheeks sank inside his mouth to touch each other was begging for some alms. I never miss to give him something if he is around. Possibly he is the only beggar who I give alms not less than five every time I find him. His is an age to sit with his family among his grand and great grand children, but there he is begging in the scorching heat. His eyes do not open properly; he seems to gather very less sight or may be only judges the movement of images in his surrounding. The edges of his eyes have sticky mucus. His body is stooped and falters as he walks. I handed a five rupee note on his hand which he slipped into his trousers’ pocket. People usually do not offer alms to beggars when they see notes or many coins in their hand so it is a clever act to have very few coins in hand to show.
The heat was terrible. I was banking on the idea of getting home as fast as possible and getting shower. I regretted on missing to visit the club and dipping in cool water of the pool. As the bus geared up, it had already started raining, the weather was soothing now. After getting off the bus, the rain had slowed and now there were only sprinkles. I did have an umbrella but I preferred not to open it. The rain gained a life again and the natural shower had washed away the sweat and dust from my body. It no longer smelled of a salty sweat, it was the fragrance of the monsoon; the rain had lent me the smell of the soil from the hills. Rain water trickled down my cheek after soaking my hair. I returned home rejuvenated and I watched the rain till it stopped from my small balcony.

Mother

Disclaimer: the following poem (if I can call it a poem) was written in 2001. I was in the English class and I was bored. I wrote these lines. This is one of many poems I had written in those years. My endeavors were never deliberate and it was no religious duty for missing which I would accuse myself of blasphemy. In the years that followed I have stopped writing poems. I just can’t do that and again I have not stopped taking an oath before a deity with holy water in hand. Who knows I might someday foray into poetry? For that day, God save poetry!!!

I watch the movement of hands
and the sweater that is been knitted
The humming sound escapes slowly
from the segregated world
The needles working through the wool
creating hole and again undoing the whole
The work on the lap of a departing summer
or a welcome to winter
The simple dream in the eyes
and the color of wools reflecting in them
In her heart lies the desire
to please her darling
Her son, her husband
with image of completed work
and she stops, to imagine
A smile springs on her face
the comfort shines in her eyes
and the hum continues
escaping like smoke
Human wishes are not dead
there are dreams everywhere

Vegetarianism

I was not a vegetarian by birth. Its only been seven years since I turned into one. It was not a very planned decision though. I decided to shun meat products during Dashain. You will say had I gone mad. If decisions like these, in times like these make one abnormal then I think I have never been normal. But yes I turned a vegetarian in the evening after feasting with varieties of meat items in the morning with friends and family. I have no intention to describe you the story that inspired me to be a vegetarian.
Veggies are always a pain among people who love nonveg. In parties or any get together people have to take special care to ascertain that no nonveg stuffs are mixed with food meant for vegetarian. In my department of fifteen, I am the only veggie and a real pain in the butt for the entire staffs when it comes to arranging a feast or just a lunch. I am the one that do not fit with them. People here do not prefer fruits or milk products; be that sweets, yoghurts or the likes but because I am the odd one and also an executive they have to consider me though reluctantly. Again all my friends are non vegetarian, so even when we go out together we can’t share what we order. Sometime I cannot pick the vegetarian stuffs just because they use the spoon which they have used with their non-veg items. Whenever we go out for food, rather than the location and appeal of the restaurant we have to check if they serve veggie food or not. If we go to picnic I need to be taken care of. Usually they cook the veg stuffs first and the nonveg. I am always a spoil spot. When I am in restaurant with colleagues and we decide to share a pizza, even if they like chicken pizza they have to content themselves with mushroom, capsicum or any other veg pizza because I don’t take the one with chicken.
In our society a party is no party unless there are non-veg stuffs. In every get together and family gatherings there are roasted chicken, grilled mutton, fish curry, drum stick, chicken chilies etc. Now you can guess who the odd man out is. My aunts have to add one or other things which would have been completely mismatch with the menu had there been no eccentric me. They have to cook paneer or mushroom because in gatherings no one eats plain food or the routine rice, pulse, curry and pickles, it needs to be different. This is not my belief it is the belief of our society. If you had to eat plain and regular meal, you could have done that at home why should there be parties, this is the common belief about parties.
I am the real impediment at home. Unfortunately even in my home I am the only veggie. Mummy thinks whenever she cooks non-veg which is a special item in the regular menu, I also deserve to have something special and just because to be impartial to me she has to make an additional item. Many times my brother and father want to have the ‘bhat’ with only chicken soup or fish curry. If I had been a non vegetarian mummy would only cook ‘bhat’ and the soup but I am there.
Now, I am not proud of giving other troubles to take special consideration of me. Just to avoid troubling them I have missed so many get together citing work loads. Many times when I am with friends and we plan for dining out I complain about stomach ache or no appetite so that they can choose restaurant of choice without considering if they serve veggie stuffs or not. Just because of that I have to ask mummy to cook food for me even if I am out with friends.
I had not turned into vegetarian by taking some kind of unbreakable oath. When I left I had said I will stay away from non-veg until I do not feel like having them. I don’t know how long will I be able to remain vegetarian. Many of my friends and relatives who have been hard core vegetarian, who would puke even if there is aroma of non-veg food, have turned into non vegetarian especially after going abroad. Let’s see how long can I go.

The purgatory

I returned home with a little guilt. It is always easy to blame others for irresponsibility, for carelessness, for mistakes and for blunders. An elderly woman sat beside me. A long bamboo stick supported her body from falling on her chin. There were two seats empty, the one was next to door and the other was beside me. I asked her to sit beside me because it was dangerous for woman of her age to sit in front of the door. She sat by me pressing my knees to support her. Her wrinkles did not match with her black hair. May be she was much younger than the way she appeared. She was a talkative woman who smelt like ammonia, like urine. I was nauseated but she was so unaware of this and was chatting with other passengers fondly. She laughed at them, talked carelessly with the conductor, flirted with the boys and chatted with the girls on how should they take care of themselves and how our tradition are important. She smelled terrible but I was enjoying her talks. I did not talk with her neither did I look at her face. I don’t know why even she didn’t talk to me when she was talking with almost everyone. One of her hands was still seeking support in my knees. I was still wondering how come her hair was black when her body stooped and her eyes sunk in the waves of wrinkles. Once she ran a curt look on my face, I tried to smile but may be I had failed. She again regained her talks with the passengers complaining the inflation, shortening length of girls’ clothes, she didn’t even spare politics. She said dethroning the king was a wrong move; she expected some irreparable damage in the country.
In spite of flamboyant and on the face comments, she was killing me with her smell. Yes I was in guilt. I got some money as a perk but then I thought that was the part of my job. I was involved in three new projects for which I was in some committee for which I got perks. I got perks for things that got my least involvement, in fact least involvement of everyone. We are three in our group, while one works on the system already in operation the other and I work on new projects. If one were to compare the volume of work undoubtedly the one who works on the system in operation works more than any of us. But since he is not involved in new projects, he is spared from perks that we get. If work was the primary parameter for one’s sincerity then he should have gotten more perks than we do but it’s a biased world. I had this guilt, felt sorry for everything.
I was fighting remorsefully with myself. I had this restlessness. The feeling was similar to the suffocation I undergo inside the water when I am swimming. Whenever I resent something in office my colleagues say you’ll adapt to this with time. I knew after one year I had still not adapted to the place. I have my own prejudices, selfishness and other flaw that are genuine to a common man but I have the conscience which has resisted the change, it still resists my gain that has no sweat associated with it.
When contemplating with all these things, the old lady had come and sat by my side. I was drifted by her words and more than that by the intolerable smell. I know an elderly woman crippled by Alzheimer who does not even notice she has urinated or excreted on her clothes. May be this woman was one of them, I thought but her talks were enough to prove me wrong. I turned toward the window but the air was blowing from her side towards me, it was the feel of hell. In the struggle I had forgotten the guilt, when she briskly scanned my face her eyes seemed to look deep into my soul but I could not smile. When I got down I was in great relief, it was a wonderful comfort. Was she the representative of god or god himself who had come to punish me. God has different ways of punishing us. She alleviated my self imposed sin and I felt relieved.

An incident spiced with fun

Brushing his teeth, S asked what might be U doing now, where might he have reached. U is one of my cousins among many cousins. Yesterday he left the country to seek his future in Australia. I didn’t go to see him off, I don’t like doing those things. We used to go hysteric with laughter on smallest of the matters, however serious the matter could have been we were highly skilled to make it look funny. That is the fun when you have relatives of your age. One thing we loved to do was framing each other, pulling legs and pushing one another to weirdest of circumstances. Me, my brother and two cousins made a great team. After being hooked in the job and due to paucity of time the fun remained only in the memories. Some of the incidents are so funny and freaky that I want to possess them for myself.
So, when S asked the question I remembered one of the funniest incidents. Not very long ago, I used to go to Pashupati at evenings. I enjoyed the chants, evening prayers or ‘aarti’ and the whole ambience. It surprisingly gave me a peace of mind. The atmosphere helped to heal the dizziness of the day, forget the rushes, meetings and the likes. I would sit on the floor of a temple in the courtyard of Pashupati facing the western gate of the main temple watching the gentle clapping of hands, eyes closed in concentration and the attempts to become selfless.
One such evening I found U wandering in the courtyard with his friend K. K is of our age but a little dull and we mock him big time. He has unusual accent and tender hands. I called them and we sat together at first chatting on how good it feels to be in the holy premises at that point of day and other similar stuffs. Then K brought the topics of girls. Beautiful girls also flocked the temple in evenings and it was a bonus deal. They agreed to come in evenings every day.
One evening there it was some kind of auspicious day according to Hindus’ calendar and the temple was more crowded than in any other normal day. I was sitting in my regular place when U and K joined me. After talking for a while, they said they wanted to bow before one special deity in the courtyard and left me to join later. U came back elated. Today is my day he told with delight. I was used to his behavior of elevating things. I was also certain it had to do with girls. So I asked him who he met. He said while offering the prayer there was a beautiful girl by his side and there was a mob around the deity. While offering the flowers and doing the ‘parikrama’ his had touched hers. He looked into her eyes and she looked at him in surprise. He touched her hand again which slowly opened which added to his excitement. He slowly moved his hand into hers and she instead of moving away her hands clutched his hands. They were tender. She was very fast as she did not hesitate to tighten their lock. But due to the crowd they got separated. Now he was looking for the girl.
How did she look? I asked in excitement. She had dark complexion, big eyes and little shorter than him. Believe me I can win that girl if I find her again. K joined us smiling but he is quite an introvert. We had to put enough pressure on him to reveal why he was so much glistening with smile. He said he fell for a girl who was little taller than himself. She was really beautiful, he was thrilled. Now U and I were after him bully him. He responded with his trademark shyness and embarrassment. But yes he was in the seventh heaven. After some time he said the girl had the ring quite similar to that of U. Now I smelled something fishy. I asked where did he find the girl and what happened between them. He said he met her at the same spot where U had met his girl when he was standing little behind U. upon nagging he told the similar thing U had told. They had actually caught each other hands but fell for the same girl. It was so hilarious. There was no way I could stop laughing. U was dropped bang into the ground from the sky and he had gloomy aura. K was embarrassed but I had the fun. I laughed all the way to home. Bound by my nature and my relationship with U, I told all others what had happened. I couldn’t stop laughing even today when S mentioned him and that incident came out of nowhere. It was a classic comedy scene.

The art of story telling

Sitting in the small café over a cup of coffee, I was observing the drops of rain that happily lost their identity to associate with the stream whose existence is as volatile as the rain itself. In this hot summer, the feel of the coffee mug in the hand still gave soothing warmth. I wanted to write something albeit I didn’t want to write on the subjects I had from a long time. I haven’t assigned myself a must do duty for jotting down one or other thing every day. It is just like a whiff of air that will eventually pass and will revisit me in the days to come. I want to weave beautiful thoughts that would soothe the readers but I end up entangled in the mess. In times of leisure, I have the privilege of running wild into the internet, bumping over different blogs, news and articles. Most of the blogs that I have ended falling for are not different than what I have read, heard or experienced but it is the story telling that took me by spell. Whether it’s the account of an argument between the author and his/her friends, or it’s just an account of a casual outing the style the interpretation and the tiniest observation has made me feel content. They prove my belief that it’s the tiniest things that we miss to notice, have the most prolific of effect. I believe the proper word for this is the art of story telling. Whether they are movies, novels, articles, journals or poems that I have loved, I have loved the way the story has been told. The first book I fell in love with was Ernest Hemingway’s ‘The old man and the sea’, which is just a struggle of a man in the tumultuous sea. There is no big story but the way the ambience has been created, they come flashing before the eyes. When I read that I could see the movement of the fish in the book itself, I could see the expression of the old man, of the boy and I loved it. Whenever one gets to read a good thing in the beginning he will develop the likings to read more and I consider myself lucky in this aspect. I liked Arundhati Roy’s ‘God of small things’ just because of the portrayal of life, of the kids, smallest incidents in the cinema hall, smallest of the observations that left lasting impact into me. They drenched my soul. A good book does not satiate your hunger to read; in fact it elevates the hunger. I have loved description and the way the author creates a relationship between the event the environment, the way he/she blends the weather, trees, and the sky with the emotions of the character. The Russian novelists do it adeptly and their description of nature is beyond the capacity of the word.
When it comes to movies same thing applies, just few days back I bought home a movie called ‘Bella’, that had the protagonist who was charred in the fire of agony after he mistakenly kills a girl in an accident. His life goes upside down and as the story unfolds he meets the actress and the story journeys through hearty and moving minutes touching the soul. ‘Taare Zameen Par’ a movie on a dyslexic child though was a unique item in the menu, it’s the story telling that did the magic. The title track and the ‘Maa’ songs which had all eyes moist. The art book, the close up angle of the mixing colors, the playing with the dogs everything was well observed and well told. Somewhere I remember reading one needs to be a good observer to be a good writer, a good teller.
Stories can be good if one knows how to tell it. A story is mediocre because there was a flaw in the way it was told. While reading blogs I usually stumble upon the posts of Indian bloggers. I don’t know if it’s the proximity of our culture, of our land or of our bringing up I prefer reading Indian blogger’s post more than that of any others. There in their blogs I can see the transition between a developing country into a developed one. I see the transition of a group of people who had always been looked down by their peers who are now rising higher to reach the level of their on lookers.
Rarely I feel contended on what I write, I never find them soothing but do not regret either. Its my way of doing things or probably I am in the process of learning and I miss a large part of tiny moments which would have made me write better. I doubt my observations have been superficial, in spite of billions of written pages there is a myriad of things that can be written and re-written, told and re-told.

Pappu Can't Dance Sala!!!

What is eighteen years for earth but in a man’s life it’s a big span of time. Many times when I remember my childhood it seems perhaps I am thinking about somebody else’s life. How can I do that? Gauss, was I like that? These questions just never stop. In the process of growing up a man go up through so many alterations many times his life changes upside down. When I sit with a mug of tea watching the rain knocking slowly in the pane of my window, I sometime like to watch those memoirs dancing in the pain. Slowly the stream of water wipes them away; the vapor of the hot coffee makes everything so surrealist. I wish I was always like that.
While turning the photo album I encounter so many immortalized moments and one of them is from eighteen years back. The photo was taken when I was receiving an award from then Education Minister. Clad in a white uniform, the photo is taken just when I step to the podium with one leg raised little above the ground. I remember I got two prizes that day one for being the highest scorer in the class and other for being a participant in a dance show. I think there were two dances in which I participated perhaps in one it was me and some girl and the other was a group dance. That was the first time I was receiving an award, in fact that was the first time any event had been organized in our school. I do not remember the song in which I danced nor do I have bleakest images of other members of my group. I even do not remember getting any compliments for dancing but there were many compliments for scoring highest mark. I cannot imagine how a grade one child would feel while shaking hand with a minister. Probably my small hands must have disappeared inside his hand. I came home elated to show it to mummy as she had missed the program because she worked in an office which didn’t give her leave.
I never danced for many years, even if I did I do not remember. Mummy says she used to be a good dancer in school but I never saw her dance either until I was a full grown teen ager. Then I danced in the wedding of one of my cousins’ wedding. Its must have been fourteen years back. I tapped to the most popular hindi songs of that time. Everyone appreciated it and I danced for more than an hour remembering almost all the moves performed by the actors. I had jumped, shook my hip, did some trick in the floor etc. When I was doing a move which required me to raise myself on one hand moving the other pointed in the air, my uncle came running to me because he thought I had fallen down due to exhaustion. That was a great fun, and my relatives kept mentioning that dance for a pretty long time. No events followed in which I could show my dancing talent as I had now assumed I can dance well. Then again there was another wedding in the neighborhood where again I had chance to shake my body. To my own surprise I couldn’t perform any moves, I knew the moves yet I couldn’t bring it to life. To forget anything is never a relief, it usually ends up with frustrations. There were no events and I never danced at home because I had carved one thing in mind ‘Study is the first priority’ and always took other activities as waste of time. The sick competition never allowed me to pick a hobby; it was such a boring bookish childhood.
In college again I was the most boring student. If there was a decree of executing the boring people, I would have been the first pick. The people they try to depict as the boring and lousy character is no exaggeration I was more or less similar. I still look the same but not got a spring. In the undergrad I had the same image of an owl with a glass, icy bookworm. But by then I was a changed man in my real personal life, I loved to dance. Dance to me was just shaking, jumping being funny. I could remember all the steps, the movement of leg, the body posture, the expression and could actually visualize it but could never execute it. But dancing is all about enjoying oneself unless you dance to earn your living. I to date carefully watch the steps they do while dancing and can still visualize it but still cannot execute it. I have been a shy idiot though no longer any more. To kill one’s interest is a crime one commits upon oneself and I am my own criminal. Many times even when I had chance I shrouded myself and today I hate myself for doing that.
The dancing bug is still inside me in same spirit and vigor. I feel if I can completely ignore others presence and really dance for myself I can dance but no I just can’t do it. The bug had me completely in spell when I was in Trishuli, I was also gaining weight so somebody advised me dancing can help me loose weight. I got a good reason. In Trishuli I would wake up early put the head phones, pull the curtain, raised the volume of the song to its maximum and danced the same monkey dance. Whenever I listened the same song I knew what the perfect move should have been in a particular line and when I was actually dancing I danced like milk shake in the mixy. I loved to have that bug inside me, one morning I danced so much that when I completed and sat down to take some rest I could not stand up. I thought I had fainted. My whole body was aching. I was feeling terrible in my neck, my back was killing me and lets not talk about my legs. I had to take the day off because I just couldn’t move. It was so embarrassing. From the next day there was no morning dance yet I relished on my monkey’s game time and again.
During my parents’ anniversary though the most pathetic dancer I was the one who was always dancing never tired. Now everyone in our family knows about the dancing bug inside me. Then came one dashain when we had so many enthusiastic young people at our home, I danced with the kids, with the ladies with everyone like a maniac. That has gone in silver color in the history of my family. Now whenever there is any program one person is remembered when it comes to dancing. I can dance in the wedding in the streets along with the paid pipers. I am no ashamed of my interest though I wish I could actually dance. I sent one video of my dance to my cousin sister because I had never seen anything silliest in the name of dancing in my entire life. Though I should have been embarrassed for sending that video, Santosh was embarrassed.
Its been a while that I haven’t danced. I know I cannot dance but what’s wrong in enjoying the silly jumpings. When there are opportunities to enjoy life one should keep skills aside and just enjoy.

An opinion on recent strike in medical sector

There was a breaking news yesterday evening reconciliation between the Government and the medical council. So after two days of closure of all services except the emergency one the hospitals and other medical outfits will start full operation from today. Families who were suffering because of unavailability of medical services must have taken a sigh of relief. Newspapers showed ailing people lying helpless before hospitals and nursing homes while doctors turned deaf ears to their plea and to their pain. Yet again the choice of a fatal strike won. If you have a backing of a group and are ready for a crippling strike you can get anything. In days to come we might get chance to hear and see strike by some prisoners union to excuse all their guilt and set them free. Government assured the doctors and medical workers of security and right which it will obviously forget in the time to come and the union of medical workers whose income suffered in two days of strike called it off. Everyone is so resolute to prove their power, their importance by warning others by showing how can they cripple others life with their power.
Government always works in haste and without any proper investigation it keeps distributing assurances and compensation whoever demands it for whatever reasons. Tomorrow a union of dacoits will demonstrate to secure their rights to raid the houses of people for money because it’s the profession they have chosen for themselves. They will be unyielding in their demands and will call for ‘bandh’ warning the public that whoever chooses not to abide by their diktat will be shot dead. Government will call the agitating dacoits in a talking table and come out with a proud press release saying ‘they have been able to convince the group of dacoits to drop down their demand to loot hundred homes to ninety five homes. To their other demands one of their representatives will be sworn in into the constituent assembly and amendment will be brought in the interim constitution to secure their rights.’
This week one marquee refused to be pulled off from international news agencies. A Jamaican immigrant Esmin Green died after hospital employees at New York’s Kings County Hospital ignored her when she slumped out of the chair and began convulsing on the floor. Immediate action was taken against the employees by the hospital and against the hospital by the state. Had it been here the hospital will come out in defense of its employees ignoring the price of a lost life. The state would have completely ignored the incident to provide enough room to repeat same mistake again and again in the future.
The whole series of events transpired when a patient died while being operated. If I heard it right it was an operation of a stone in gall bladder which is presumably one of the minor cases and this is the first time I have heard where a patient has died during the removal of gall bladder stone. Obviously this irked the relatives who blamed the doctors for irresponsibility and carelessness. They resorted to vandalism of the nursing home’s properties. And as always it called for another bandh. The group of medical practitioners without promising to probe into the incident called for strike and brought all medical services to halt.
Without a probe one cannot confirm whose fault is this. Many times families create scene in expectation of compensation. Its not for the concern for the deceased but the greed for money people take things into their hand. There are many complications in a disease and who knows the patient had complicated issue which caused his death. Otherwise no medical personal will kill their patient, but there have been reports of their carelessness. Time and again we read cases of scissors, towels and other equipments being left inside the body of the patient during the process of operation but I have never heard a punishment being given to the perpetrators. Medical personals are from affluent group and in country where everything can be settled under table I can only smell fishy things.
An active monitoring committee should be formed protecting the rights of the concerned parties. The government which agreed to the medical union in haste should have also assured the public that there will be a probe and the culprit will be brought to justice. In the mean time there should be a legal barring against the calling off of services to which the interest of general public is closely linked. Of course the protection of medical practitioners should also be ensured.

Yet another Friday

Yet another Friday, a long awaited one though. One obviously misses being in water in the summer that is so adamant to waste some life out of the earth. The day was so desperately missed from last Saturday. On Fridays we these days sneak out of our office little early and head straight to the club to have a good swim. I don’t know swimming though but it seems I am in the right track. Subash sir was equally heated for this day. I went office in informal dress as if I were on a trekking. The worn out trousers with big pockets and a vest with huge collar looked a good choice. Who cares for formality in government offices. I can even go in a Bermuda with a noisy ‘chappal’. I usually stay away from formal outfit but my father says I have to be formal being an officer. I am in jeans, vests with a North-Face bag hanging in my bag. Because I am short and chubby, my colleagues say I look like a school boy.
I was all kicked when I left for office but for unknown reasons my enthusiasm died out like the air gushes out of a balloon when its end opens. I know I am moody. I try to think why these sorts of things do happen to me but that must be some kind of ‘chemical locha’ in the brain and unfortunately I am already twisted. The day turned out to be the major let down. When I went to Subash sir’s cubicle he yelled you unlucky monkey every time since we started to go for swimming Fridays are gloomier. It was so hot yesterday and see what your ugly luck has done, it will rain anytime.
I retaliated with a punch in his belly cursing him for being the real misfortune. You were born when the god mistakenly dropped a whole packet of chilly powder in his dick and he poured all his frustrations in you. You are a bane in my life, why didn’t you drown last Friday. That goes on between us.
I really wished we didn’t have to go but he was already exhilarated especially after seeing the fuming hot girls last time. I couldn’t ask him to cancel the plan as I knew how much he wanted to be at the pool so we left office an hour earlier. Before we could reach the pool the sky started sprinkling the holy water to the earth. We again cursed each other luckily I gathered some energy and the thought of getting into the water thrilled me once again. Before it could die, I changed fast and soon ran into the pool. i do not dive because I can’t. Last Subash sir and other friends instigated me to dive and I as a fool dived into the water and almost burst my chest. I had spasms for more than five minutes. So no diving for me until I know how to swim. Thrilled by the feel of water I at once started to swim (splashing water with foot) but retarded citing twists in the intestine. It was painful and I knew I was hungry. I stayed there in water for a while and then fought back. It was worst, last time I could at least cross the pool in one breath and could float on the water but this week I had forgotten everything. Hell, swimming is not remembering the multiplication table, how can I forget it. It pissed me off more. The nature plotted against me and the sun went into hiding. After wasting some energy I tried to spit out the negativity and started fresh. Soon it brought results, I was doing like last week and this time I was also moving hand. I realized moving hand squeezes more energy. Despite many attempts to get my head out of the water to gasp, I couldn’t and could not cross the pool.
Tired, exhausted and pissed off we retired soon. I have not given up there is a long way to go.

एउटा कविताको सम्झनामा

आज अलि हतारमा घर आँए। कुराहरु मनमा खेलिरहेका थिए, पोखिने आतुरीका साथ त्यो भन्दा हतार सायद मलाई थियो, ति कुराहरु बिलाएर जानु भन्दा अघि तिनलाई कतै खन्याउने। एउटा केटौले चञ्चलपन हावी भएको थियो सायद वा २६ वर्षको उमेर केटौले उमेरनै हो। सदा झैं म आएको थाहा पाउने बित्तिकै साने (मेरो कुकुर) दौडिएर तल मुल ढोकैमा पुच्छर हल्लाउँदै आइपुग्यो अनि फेरी म जुत्ता फुकाल्ने बेला मौका पाएर गालामा चाटिदियो। त्यो उसको दिनचर्याको एउटा हिस्सै भइसकेको छ अनि कम्मर मर्काउँदै म संग संगै माथि उक्लियो, उसको रुटिनको हिस्सा हो यो र यो सकिए पछि उ फेरी बरण्डा तिरै हानियो रमिता हेर्न। मैले कोठामा छिर्ने बित्तिकै मेरो ल्यापटप अन् गरें र लुगा फेर्न तर्फ लागें। लग अन गरें र हात खुट्टा धुन बाथरुम तिर लागें।
विशेष कुरा त केहि भएको होइन, लेख्नलाई विशेष कुरा भनेको मुड हो, विचार हो। विचारहरु त मानौं लेखिन पाउनु पर्ने अधिकारका लागि आन्दिलित थिए मानौं राजनितिको हावाले तिनीहरुलाई पनि छोएको होस्।विहान अफिसमा कविताका कुराहरु भईरहेका थिए। म आफैं पनि अफिसका दुई जना कविहरुलाई चिन्छु। दुवैले आ-आफ्नो कविता संग्रह निकालिसकेका छन्। आजको अनौपचारिक गोष्ठीमा ती दुई मध्य पनि एक मात्र थिए। कविताकै कुरा हुदैं थिए, कविताका साना साना टुक्राहरु सुन्ने सुनाउने क्रम चलिरहेको थियो र म आफ्नै क्याबिनबाट त्यसको मज्जा लिइरहेको थिएँ। कविता धेरै लेखियो स्कुलमा हुँदा ‘आजका हामी केटाकेटी’ भन्ने जस्ता, आजका केटाकेटी शान्तिका विषयमा, युद्धका विषयमा कविता लेख्छन। हामिले वाल्यकालमा अशान्ति अनुभवनै गर्नु परेन अनि अनुभवनै नगरेको कुरामा कविता पनि लेखिएन। स्कुलका कार्यक्रमहरुमा पढेर पनि सुनाइयो, उपहार पनि पाइयो। कति चोटि त साथीहरुले पनि मेरै कविता मञ्चमा सुनाए। कस्ता दिनहरु थिए ती देश, आमा, विध्यार्थी जीवन, कलम, किताब वाहेक कुनै विषय नै नआउने। नबुझ्ने हुँदै कति रमाइलो थियो संसार!
अन्तिम चोटि कविता लेखे पछि एक युगनै समाप्त भएछ क्यार, कहिले लेखियो यादनै छैन। कविता लेख्न गारो छ, म जस्ता कुनै विषयवस्तुमा बाँधिन नसक्नेले कविता लेख्नै सक्दैन।पागलको डायरी जस्ता हुन्छ मैले लेखेका कुराहरु, केहि नमिलेको, वीचबाट शुरु भई वीचमै अल्मलिएको अनि टुङ्गोमै नपुगी सकिएको। कविता कसरी लेख्ने मैले। तर एउटा कविताको खुब याद आउँछ, साथीलाई सम्झिएर डन बस्को कलेजमा कुनै टिफिन ब्रेकमा लेखिएको। स्कुललाई सम्झिएको, डेस्क अनि बेन्चहरुको नियास्रो लागेर लेखेको, डेस्कमा लेखिएका गीतहरु सम्झिएको। राम्रो भएर याद आएको होइन, चोखो भएर माया लागेको मात्र हो। कता पुग्यो होला त्यो कविता? भावना थाम्न नसकेर निस्किएका आँसु जस्ता ती कविताहरु। लय मिलाउन जथाभावी पोतिएका नभई, भावनालाई बाँध्न नियमहरु मिचिएको कविता। जसको लागि लेखें उसलाई पनि पठाएँ तिम्रै लागि भनेर लेखि पठाएँ। न खुशी लाग्यो भन्ने उत्तर आयो न घिन लाग्यो भन्ने नै आयो। आज पनि उ संग राम्रो सम्बन्ध छ, आज पनि उ नै सबैभन्दा मिल्ने साथी पनि तर कविताको सम्झना कहिले पनि भएन, बस् ठिटाहरुका कुरा आज पनि हाम्रो मुख्य विषयवस्तु। केटी अनि जागिरका कुराहरु, फुर्सदमा फिल्म हेर्न जाने योजनाहरु, पैसा नभएर गार्हो भएका कुराहरु त्यति मै हाम्रा भेटहरु टुङ्गिन्छन्। नराम्रा अनि फोहरी उपनामहरु बीच जिस्कनुको मज्जै बेग्लै छ, बाटोमा चल्दै हिंड्नुको मज्जै बेग्लै छ,कुनै काम बिना असनका गल्लीहरु अनि न्यु रोडमा केटीहरु हेर्दै राल काड्दै हिड्नुको मज्जै बेग्लै, फिल्म हल भित्र बसेर एक अर्कालाई किच-किच गर्नुको मज्जै बेग्लै छ। आजपनि हामी उस्तै, न्यु रोड परिवर्तन भयो, असनका गल्लीहरु झन् साँघुरिए होलान्, काठमाण्डुका छातीमा अझ सिनेमा हलहरु थपिए होलान् तर हामी त्यस्तै।
फेरी त्यहि कवितामा लागौं। जागिर खानु भन्दा अगाडि म एकदम नबोल्ने, घुलमिल हुन नरुचाउने, आफ्ना कुराहरु मनमै दबाएर राख्ने मान्छे। त्यो कविता मेरो डायरीभित्रै चुपचाप बसिरह्यो। एक दिन फेरी स्कुलको अर्की साथी मेरो घरमा आइन र मेरो टेबुलमा छरपस्ट भएर किताब, कापी र पान्नाहरु हेर्ने क्रममा सो डायरी उनको हातमा पर्यो। मेरो मिल्ने साथी भएकोले पनि र उनको हातमा परिसकेको डायरी खोस्ने आँट पनि नभएको हुँदा पनि मैले उनलाई त्यो कविता पढ्नबाट रोक्न सकिन। उनको अनौठो प्रतिक्रिया आयो- “तिमी त ठुला कविहरुले जस्तो लेख्दो रहेछौ” कस्तो ठुलो प्रतिक्रिया मेरा लागि, कुनै कविले नदिएको भए पनि त्यो वाक्य आज पनि म संग सुरक्षित छ। बच्चा जस्ति मेरी साथी तर पनि मेरो लागि ठुलो हौसला त्यस पछि त्यो कविता धेरैलाई देखाँए, खासै राम्रो कसैलाई लागेन तर मैले पुरस्कार पाई सकेको थिए। त्यो वाक्यको मर्यादा राख्ने आँट मलाई सायद फेरि आएन र कविता पनि सायद त्यो नै अन्तिम रह्यो।
अब लेख्दिन भन्ने कसम पनि खाएको छैन तर आँट गरेको पनि छैन। त्यो कविता खोज्ने विचार छ, गुगलले मेरो घरका पुराना बाक्साहरुबाट पनि फाइलहरु खोजिदिने भए क्या मज्जा हुन्थ्यो होला तर अपशोच…… भोलि खोज्नु पर्ला।

From the window in the fourth floor

Relishing on the cool breeze that seemed like a well wisher, a soul mate who had escaped the firewall to bring in some news from well wisher, I watched the expanse field where the maize leaves were dancing as the day slowly disappeared under the curtain of evening. After three meetings and rushes to prepare report, I could manage to steal a time to retrospect events that transpired. When lazy gets lazy of laziness he starts enjoying work, may be that could be the reason behind my contented mood. I have got to do some studies for another meeting early in the morning tomorrow but have no internet connection as I sat here, so gave me a good reason to sit for jotting whatever that comes to me.
Upon a friend request I posted a write-up in a site, for someone who is not accustomed to getting comments the two comments were quite a change. Just before I read the comments I had received an email from a school mate who thought I wrote well. I had given her the link of my blogs and there she assuring me to visit my blog. Writing has always been a good friend the only change is I can post it thanks to the technology. On my email I wrote to my friend, responses are unbiased if they come from some stranger when it comes from someone who has known you personally, the responses are destined to be biased.
I am not being modest who should I be modest to? I always considered whatever I wrote without head and tail and the comments I received today confirmed my assumptions. I do not regret what I like, I write what it comes, and there have never been attempts to guide my writings in one particular direction. When a subject is given I can never write, in fact I never write articles, I write journals. I wander in the premises of my thoughts, perceptions and convictions. Try to evaluate like a child why something is happening the way it is happening. Unlike a child I do not have someone to ask because I have reached an age where I should seek my own answers. My writings are my confusions.
I try to locate from where a sound is coming. They call this hullabaloo musical event, a singer whose name ends in ‘Singh’ is screeching and the frenzied people are shouting. It is more a chaos than music. Pop concerts are usually similar to what I was hearing but the singer has one of the most shrilled voices. They have become singer on their own money killing the soul of music.
My eyes revisit the expanse green field. A stooped woman is seen among the maize plants. I would have taken her as a scarecrow had her body been straight. I have never seen stooping scarecrow anywhere. She was slowly breaking the corn from its plant. She was in no hurry as if she had borrowed an entire age just to pluck the corn. But her slow actions were result of her age. It was not any attempt to do things comfortably it was just effort to hurt herself less. I thought how fast and energetic she must have been during her youth. From the fourth floor I couldn’t see her face but her grey hair was trying to give hint of her age. Even the hair of the corn seemed to be teasing her grey hair with arrogance. She had nothing to prove at this age, her life has the same fate as the fate of the aging day. I was watching her and she was busy plucking the corn. I was lost within myself until a stronger whiff of air blew a page in a table and with it fell pen which woke me up to the real earth. Just then there was uproar in the concert. The same singer was bleating and the crowd had gone berserk. I was only irritated.
I was standing among papers when I woke up from my reveries. The air had brought many papers on the floor. This was not my cabin, I had only come here to visit a colleague who was not in his chair. A greed for a cool breeze had made me open the window. The properly stocked papers were in mess and I knew I was in a serious trouble if my colleague saw this. I gathered all the papers, tried to give their stocking the order. I could only manage to collect all the papers and placed them on the table and punished them by placing the paper weight over them for flying in mesh. My colleague came and displaying a presence of mind, I reproached him for leaving the windows open. He must had left lot earlier, he only said the air was not strong when he opened the window. I smiled at myself and thanked his forgetfulness. It was actually me who had opened the window. I felt quite proud for how I protected myself. When I left the cabin my colleague was busy sorting the papers.

A song and a friend

When I gained my consciousness she was smiling at me through the mirror. I could only guess I must have been watching at the mirror for a length of time and she was standing by the mirror. Though my eyes were directed in the mirror, I was not grasping the view my eyes had covered for me. We do not see anything even if we are looking at it unless our brain chooses to perceive what our eyes saw. The mortar and crushers were running in the building site while my executives were busy reading the newspaper. Why did she smile I don’t know and from when was she smiling I don’t know either. Was she thinking I was hitting on her, why would I? I had no interest in her, many times when we are deep in our thoughts our eyes are stuck somewhere without blinking. I was thinking about a friend who stayed in the next room when I was at Trishuli.
After returning home from morning walk, as always I sat before the TV and as always I began with entertainment news. I seek more entertainment than I did earlier possibly it’s the symptom of my life getting boring. Then I switched to the news channel. While two were showing Indian Prime Minister’s meeting with George Bush, the other was reporting from a crime scene where a gang war had taken place in Delhi. People buy negative news easily. They look for sensation and scoops. I switched to Nepali channel with few minutes remaining for news. A revolutionary song was playing. I like that song, I have always liked it from the time I first heard it. I didn’t hear it from its singer but from another revolutionary of his time. The song asks the women, mothers, sisters etc. to rise against oppression and speak for their rights.
In Trishuli my sleep always broke up with the songs of Mr. Abhi. He also used to write revolutionary poems. Poems of days for the poor, oppressed and outcasted, poems of days when equality will prevail and the tears will irrigate the expanse fields. So I used to call him ‘Kabi jyu’ i.e. Mr. Poet which became his nickname among many of his colleagues. His songs were too always described the sunny day when the poor and oppressed will get their right, when the laborers will get the cost of their sweat, when the oppressor will fall to their knees and the dawn that will herald new age of destitute who in spite of hard labor succumbed to poverty, hunger and oppression. His songs were roars of youth who had come out of their hide to fight for their country. It was a voice that seemed like assertions in unison of rebels who had broken the shackles of discrimination and denials. Not only the songs it was his powerful voice. His voice trembled in between the song but the trembling were the toppings on the ice. His was a powerful voice that seemed to fight the roars of the mighty Trishuli River few hundred meters away. My brain, my thoughts used to get arrested in his word and his voice.

His struggle with life always began early in the dawn. He had a fixed routine and there was never a change. he had his small kitchen in the verandah. There were a kerosene stove, few utensils, two plates, two-three spoons, a bamboo rack for holding bottles of spices and a table to host the stove and to be used as a dining table. He has been the simplest man I have every seen till date. For more than a month I didn’t speak to him because we two had one common nature, we never talked with anyone unless we need to do so. His roommate never had smallest hint of hesitation when it came to talking. He would talk with any stranger as if he were his soul mate. Kabi Jyu on the other hand was an introvert but I loved to listen him from the time I had no exchanges of word with him. When I didn’t talk to him, I didn’t know anything about him except that he liked to sing. He sang as if he were in a recording studio and no mistakes were allowed. He sang the whole song.
When I began talking to him the very first evening we had a soulful talk. I think that was on the education related thing. I always thought he must have been a rebel at some point of time but he never told anything. We really grew close and we proved that friendship has no age restriction. Its just a bond, a selfless bond. He told me about his family, his struggles during his days in Kathmandu. But he never talked about his youth even upon inquiry. He never talked about his parents, brothers or any other relatives which made me certain that he’s hurt.
The other people knew few things about his youthful days. I had thought right, he was a political activist in his student life. He fought for democracy and probably it was when he learnt those songs. He sang songs I had never heard. I wondered how TV and radios missed those beautiful songs.
Today I was thrilled to hear that song. The song had already reached its end but it had brought the dyed but finely combed hair, brush like moustache of a large man with the nature of a child, someone still a rebel rebelling against life. I thought I would give him a call today. I love his accent, I love his zeal, I love the way he calls me Sandip Ji. Salute to you.