One night on the road

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

Happiness or money; a dilemma

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

Human relations

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

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.

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?

@ 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Caste Discrimination

My obedient and ever punctual cell rang the alarm bell at 5:00AM while I wished it wasn't morning yet. I was so reluctant to wake up after being active in dreams throughout the sleep. There were so many of them meaningless and trivial. I saw I was preparing for a hair cut now that is a bad omen. But I can guess how it got into my dream did. Actually I had read an interesting blog on hair cut yesterday, I could visualize what could have happened to the author during the hair cut and so it sneaked into my sub conscious and I had it in my dream. Then I saw monkeys. I had visited to some ancient palace and in the orchard so many mischievous monkeys were playing, some children came and they picked up monkeys by ear and put them in a carton. They showed it to the visitors and asked them if they wanted to buy. I was so amazed with the ease with which they picked the monkeys. Now if I were to tell this to my granny she would say, I should go to Hanuman temple, offer his something to appease. She would interpret it as a lucky omen. Who knows may be mummy will ask to do the same things. I snoozed off the cell for a while but when I opened my eyes it was already 5:15, I was still in no mood to go out but I was soon in the road.
When I was returning the public tap had few people waiting for their turn. Fortunately since the rain has started people do not have many problems to get water and this can be ascertained with the presence of handful people in public tap. A woman had filled her bucket and small jug supposedly for Morning Prayer. She put the bucket aside and then filled her jug. Somebody touched her and with few curses she refilled the jug after cleaning it again. No doubt she didn’t want a tailor woman to touch her water. Caste system though is an offensive act under the constitution, it is in practice and it will take a long time to be socially abolished. Caste gives people a superiority which they inherit by birth. Though they might not have been worthy enough to be superior their caste gives them reason to be proud of their being.
Though not an avid believer in caste system, the discrimination exist in our home too. My parents are always against eating things offered by low caste people, they believe even if they come their access should be restrained to few rooms. However we do not have anyone close to our family who is from lower caste. In all these years hardly five to ten people from the so called low caste have come to our home. They are tailors, janitors etc. never a guest just worker. My parents are kind people and their belief does not depict hatred, it’s just that they have lived with it and they cannot do away with it. Earlier when I was in school and college we used to have lengthy discussion on caste issues and I and Santosh always protested caste issues. I used to go to an extent where I would tell my parents if they believe in caste even after being educated, their education has raised no status and they are still illiterate. Their annoyed responses would be ok we are old people with rotten beliefs and we do not want to be like you people, our ancestors didn’t introduce these customs without reasons. I would reply they were oppressor and feared the people who worked for them, below them will rise above them and they introduced caste system. The arguments were futile as none of us could convince each other. However mummy never discriminate when it comes to offering charities, food or just a helping hand to people and I like it.

When I was in my primary school, in class 1 or 2, I had this friend called Rajan Khadgi. Khadgi means from butcher caste and even his father was a butcher. I knew caste system existed even at that young stage because I had seen the discrimination in mummy’s parents’ home. I also knew if granny knew I had a friend from a butcher caste she would ask me not to get closer with him and just restrict to formal smile. She would have never wanted me to share my lunch with him. Probably fearing all these things I never told her that my friend was Khadgi. Once I brought few friends to my home among whom Rajan was one. There was no one in my home so I took them to my granny’s home as it is just five minutes walk to reach her home. Even she was not there but the kitchen was open. I had my friends comfortably seated in whatever was available in the kitchen and made noodles (probably first time I had cooked anything) and fed them. We talked and played. Finally they left and there was my granny asking me who my friends were. She asked their name. I took name of all my friends except for that of Rajan because I knew what her reactions would be.
Life progressed in its own pace with rare skirmishes with the Caste thing. Then it came back to me in a surprising way in Trishuli. In the small mobile hotel (cannot even call it a hotel) where I used to have lunch I used to see many customers washing the plate and the glass themselves after a tea or lunch. I always took it as a surprise then when I became familiar enough I asked the owner why do these people wash glasses and plates. She said they were cobblers, tailors, janitors etc. I was shell shocked. I asked her in this age do you people believe in caste and she replied after all we got it from our ancestors, this is our culture. She added she never asked them to wash the utensils, they do it themselves. I knew this caste thing was accepted by the so called low cast people as well and they feel they are inferior. While we were talking the mother of the lady joined us, they are low caste people and we are Kshetris(the warrior caste) and how can we wash their plates. There was a full stop to the argument.

Once I was wandering alone in the outskirts of Trishuli, the rural part. The strenuous walk in the glazing sun had made me thirsty and there were no human habitats nearby. Only few buses passed the lonely road and the monotonous sound of the Trishuli was the only companion. Luckily after measuring a little height, cutting the fields I landed into a small village. I stopped at the first house I could find and asked for water. The old man who was sitting outside asked where I had come from and then to which caste did I belong. With no clue my brisk reply was ‘Brahmin’ and he smiled in helplessness. He suggested I should find some other house. I asked don’t you have water? He said he had but they were cobblers and they will get into serious trouble if I was given water. He said being a Brahmin I should not drink water at cobbler’s house. Inside two young boys and a girl were busy making ‘madal’ (a traditional musical instrument). I told him we should never believe in caste. This is wrong, we are equal to god and he never discriminates. He said if I had not talked about god he would have thought I was a Maoist. He was still reluctant but one of the boy left his work and came out with a jug of water. I drank the water as if I had been thirsty for years. As I drank the water the old man was watching me as if he had seen something he shouldn’t have seen. I thanked the boy and returned. I was really disturbed and it annoyed me for two more days.
Unless stern actions are taken against the discriminators the society will not easily shed its conservative ideologies that teach man to discriminate his likes. This is a real blot in our society, in our culture of which we are so proud of.

Is title necessary all the time

The rain outside is complemented by the soothing music that is playing on my laptop. I can hear the drops of water playfully making sounds splashing the stream of water they have formed themselves. The fan is rotating monotonously from left to right and vice versa. The squirrel in my desktop is still looking downward without the blink of eyes. I downloaded it from national geographic site. I had downloaded it on the desktop but it looked so good that I had it as wallpaper in my cell and then in my laptop. In the background I am also downloading a song, I know downloading for free is illegal but the urge to listen that song is much more than consideration of legal issues.
Actually I have to do some research one for my own purpose and one for office. I want to learn how to make a site capable of feeding RSS and the other is to do a small work on SMPP. No pain, learning new things is always a great experience. It keeps one young. Learning can be a real pain when you have no interest on the subject you are supposed to learn. I have completed the first, RSS one, in just half an hour or even less and I have downloaded some stuffs for second one. Actually the second one is an SMS related protocol (Short Message Peer to Peer Protocol), which we need to implement when providing SMS services to our customers. We had meeting for the same thing early in the morning. No one has asked me to do any research so its all my thing.

There were Japanese students all over the road in green vests. They had a tagged which said volunteer in bold letters. They were carrying a box of mangos and I have no idea what will they do with it, so let me assume they will eat them, who knows they will play holi with it. When I was a kid I thought all Japanese and Chinese people looked same. They are too fair as if one doesn’t need a bulb when there is no light if you have Japanese people around. They are always smiling and I believed this is their normal look. Most of the time they looked like dolls stocked in toys’ shop and if one moves with key they will bend in courtesy, slowly they’ll rise and smile and back to previous posture. Nepalese people have great likings for Japanese possibly because the Japanese have funded many projects. In fact Nepalese like each and every foreigner unless they are black. When we were kid every foreigner was an American, w never bothered America was just a country among hundreds of others.
Japanese students frequently visit Nepal and sometime they collect funds to build school in Nepal. What a pity, a part of the Tiffin money a Japanese child can save in a year can build a school in our poor country. Most of them come, prepare their project and forget. I do the same thing, I do not remember most of the projects I have been involved in my college forget the school things. Why should we assume they think because they produce robots and because they are rich? Being rich is no crime and because they are rich we can’t hold them responsible for our poverty. Ok communist brought majority in the constituent assembly so what, it does not mean we should hate those who live in prosperity.
While ambling around Thamel, I have come across so many Japanese and other tourists. The street children who can smell foreigner even without seeing them (I think I can do that as well) gather around them appearing weak and begging alms. I have observed Japanese rarely offer alms. The same Japanese who have contributed so much to our country do not throw few rupees to the beggars. I respect them for that, they know the value of money and each of their pennies is hard earned. My cousin who is in Japan says how laborious Japanese are; she says they work more than machine. The secret of prosperity cannot be anything other than hard work.
While I seek fun and entertainment separate from work, probably they find it in what they do. They look so content and that could be the reason of their never fading smile.

Weekends

I gave the morning walk a miss today. In fact I was very tired after swimming yesterday especially after I thought I could float in water. One deep breath and I crossed the pool to reach the other end. It was tiresome but the fact that I had started learning didn't allow me to stop. At home my left leg ached and so did my shoulder but no regret as today is a weekend. My weekends are no different than any working days as I still spend most of the time before the computer. I more or less do the same things, go to the internet read things and sit idle. Weekend allows me to change my position while I sit idle. No chairs on weekend. I stretch myself in the sofa or in the low bed or sit on the floor with my legs still spread or folded as if it were some kind of 'asan' of a yoga.

I hate going out on weekends but I would love to travel. Unfortunately I haven't travelled in last one year. I with a small group of friends had planned to foray the outskirts of Kathmandu or to another district in the New Year's day which didn't materialize. No travel means no change, no rejuvenation. I like to feel lonely when I travel. I do not like travelling alone a friend is always welcome but once we set out I want him to be just another stranger, no talks, no nothing. I just want to watch and ponder. Nothing gives more energy than being in a new place by choice.

My weekends have small differences with week days. For example I never drink milk tea early morning in weekdays but without a milk tea in a weekend's morning it seems little incomplete. On weekdays I feel content reading the headlines of a newspaper while on weekends I try to read the content below the headlines as well. On weekdays not more than one newspaper but on weekend I usually get three, one Nepali , one English, and other an entertainment magazine. Had it been possible I would always take a nap after the morning meal so at least on weekend I do not want to miss them. I check my mailbox more than often though they always show I have no new mail. Most of my day passes watching TV, reading books etc. Lunch in home, a little time with family, caress Sane more than often and giggle with Sarita and that's my weekend. Sometime if there is a good release I relish on movies. Depending on the nature of my wish I either go to the cinema or get DVDs at home. If the interest is bigger I hit to the cinema halls if its just a normal wish then I get the DVDs. Sometime if I make it to New-Road I get 4-5 DVDs and spend a whole weekend watching those movies. Its not possible to get every Hollywood flick in Kathmandu in fact there are no big names so I bring DVDs reading the brief information on the movie on its cover. Most of the time I end up spending money on bogus DVDs. I have to bath Sane as well on most weekends. I take bath in the day, sip another cup of tea on a regular weekend.

Though I go to theaters alone when there are exception especially my craving for the movie takes over the waiting my friend to get free some other times, most of the time its with Bibek. I have only two friends with whom I share my time Subash and Bibek. When Chapagain sir was here, I enjoyed his company as well but now he is in Norway so only two close friends for me. Our normal movie time is 11 to 2 or 2 to 5 but in summer both these timings are not appropriate. Having no bike is quite a pain. I hope I will have one pretty soon. Then there will be loads of travelling, loads of visit to outskirts of Kathmandu but for the time being I have to keep postponing them.

Most of the people clean their room but being a pig in my earlier birth I have the symptoms till date so no cleaning things for me. Earlier I used to plan though most of the time they didn't materialize but I have got wiser and I don't even plan these days. My room is a complete mess, there are books sparsely spread around, the newspaper lying wide open on the floor, there are clothes on the sofa, the bed is not properly made and has creases. The snakes like wires of laptop, mobile, mosquito repellant, headphone, electric shaver are lying on the floor. The fur of Sane is in the carpet, luckily today there are no layers of dust in my table and book rack. When I am returning home I always see two ragged beggar looking men sitting on the pile of stinky garbage with suspicious comfort. Apart from a dirty thin piece of cloth wrapped around their belly extending to knees most of their body is bare. They sit on that pile of garbage as if they were lord Shiva meditating on the hills of Kailash. Had there been no mummy my room would have been no different than that pile but I am sure they wouldn't have been stinky. Though I am a pig, I am a pig with a class.

Sometime I am also visiting some relatives on weekends but again they are always a NO unless there are important things to do or if I am invited. I do not want guests not even friends on weekends. I would love hearing sounds of my mother, buwa, Santosh, Sarita and whining of Sane on weekends but avoid spending much time with them. Weekends are days when I want to be with myself or with books. The sound of my people is only to make me realize that I exist in this world in physicality not only in thoughts.