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.