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.
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.
2 comments:
I wish I am there. You gave a vivid and spectacular description of Asan. Thank you.
thanks for appreciating
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