Roots, a book by Alex Haley

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

The experience of falling into the gutter

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

Direct from Pokhara -2

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

Direct from Pokhara

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

NO TITLE

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

An evening in the alleys of Asan

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