A walk to my office

I looked at the sky with a thankful face for not being very hot. I watched my steps as I walked on the pavement. It is no longer a new path after passing a year in this office, it’s among things I have known still cannot tag it as ‘my’. I have no intimacy with this path and I don’t think it has any towards me. I am just one of the thousands of people who hammer their foot into it. In this one year, this path has been same not even a small change. I have never strolled upon it just to check how it is. I didn’t know how does it look till today though I have walked on it innumerable times. Even today I had no intention of watching it but I did. I couldn’t ignore the stones carved into it as I watched my foot nimble to my office. The stones were cut to create a special pattern. The gaps which couldn’t have been greater than half inch gave impression as if it were the lines cut by a fish as it swam in the water. It had a rhythm though very oblivious. The blue lines about 4 inches thick cut across at places looked like some kind of scars. Had there been some other lines with different colors I would have thought the street looked like the painted face of a football spectator in some kind of tournament. It is possibly one of the cleanest paths in the city as it enjoys to be positioned in front of the palace. It is also one of the least busy paths in the city as it does not host any offices, restaurants, molls etc. But it does have beggars and their family. The beggars are either women with children or elderly people. The women have their toddlers held in their lap or are unleashed to crawl around on their own. When there are children people tend to stop by and offer at least something. I wonder what does the future hold for these children, may be they are destined to be beggars themselves or the rag pickers. When vehicles stop on the signals the older children rushes to knock the windows of the vehicles, get their hands inside the vehicles asking for alms which can be food or money. If you give them some cash they will slip it in their pockets and if you give them coins they will allow them to remain in their bowls. I feel as if the street watches them in silence, it watches them when they take nap under their umbrellas, when they eat from a single plate and when their mothers reproaches them for not being able to get something from the passersby. They come to the road just like I come to my office. I don’t know where they live but I can say for certain they do not spend their night on that road.
I noticed something more, this road, this pavement is always clean, cleaner than any other pavements in the city except for some dogs’ droppings and the excreta of these beggars. On the other side of the road trees droop through the once royal fence. They look like old tall men bent to pick something from the ground. The shades of these trees make the other side cooler but the foul smell of birds’ droppings make the walk on that side really painful. I can see the faces that have been voluntarily wrinkled by the passers by to avoid the smell on the other side. While most of the men use their hand to put over their nose, women and girls have their handkerchiefs. I cannot say by this sight if men use handkerchiefs lesser than women or if few men carry handkerchiefs as compared to their female counterparts.
On my side of the road, there are guards with machine guns on the gate of American Embassy. This is just a wing, the main office is not here. I look at them, there have been no problems in this area, no terror threats, no nothing so they are less alert. However when the door opens they stand firm and rigid. I do not know if these same guards stand their and even now as I write this I do not remember their faces. They are joking with each other. Now I am at the cross-road and I have to move into another street, my office is just a minute walk from here. I won’t be back to this street until tomorrow as I use another route while returning.

The purgatory

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

An incident spiced with fun

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

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.

Titleless

Among many things I hate to do, one is doing things for others though I am not convinced about doing it. I like coming to office early in the morning rather than in the normal time because the roads are more peaceful and there is hardly any struggle to find a public transport. The air is cool and no horns to blow my head. But then I contradict with myself, I hate coming to office early when I really don’t want to and I never want to come to office early. Now what is that? I am less excited about coming to office early unless I am already on the road to office. There is no disturbance in the cubicle as the whole department will be empty, no phone rings, no shouting, no unexpected calls for meetings, no drifts in work. In fact more engaging than at home where I cannot stay aloof and is supposed to give opinions and show interest on things on which I am least bothered. The maid at my aunt is three months pregnant and she is hardly seventeen, why would I be interested I have no role in her getting pregnant. I don’t even remember her face, yet have to react at least with ‘oh’ , if it can be complemented with a gape than that’s even better. Sarita’s friend got a mobile on road and unless I say something she will keep hammering the news into my already troubled brain. My neighbor’s distant relative recovered from some ill fated disease thanks to yoga, now should I send her a bouquet. Always there are more useless stuffs than useful ones and yet one cannot appear indifferent.
So now I am quietly seated in my cubicle in a sweltering morning. The sun tried its best to squeeze me to my last drops when I was on the road. The servers are down, I have to wake them up and worse of all that’s none of my work. But I can’t ignore the request of a friend who wants to test the connectivity from some another location. Visit to the server room has been more frequent these days because to be in the AC environment. There is a fan in the cubicle, more than coolness it brings headache. I feel too hot and the knob of the fan is moved to its maximum position and in few moments it becomes unbearably cool and the knob is readjusted. Now depending on the weather the knob has to be moved back to its maximum position or brought down. Adjustments need to be made in not more than fifteen minutes. Yuck what a boring life. Why couldn’t we have digital fan if AC wasn’t affordable. Even if it were analog why don’t it has a remote control?
Thanks to the internet that it has alleviated the pain in lying idle in the office throughout the day. There are blogs and I don’t understand how come people can write so beautifully even when there is nothing like content in their posts. Look at the way they describe boredom, how they contemplate on life and how beautifully they choose words. Even their drinking coffee sounds so interesting. Its so fun to read their posts, arousing to read their appeals, and quite thought provoking to read their issues. The world has so many thoughtful people. I don’t know if its always a coincidence that I land into indian’s blogs but coincidence is no coincidence if it occurs frequently. I start sometime with blogs of people in Europe and other parts of the world but ultimately its Indian’s blog that are good read. I can guess the reasons. That’s the similarity in our life style, believe it or not we are always following them, in politics, in society and in other things. The air we breathe has the same origin due to the close proximity. More or less our expectations from life are similar, our work environment is similar and so are our instincts.
Anyways let me enjoy reading.

Asmit

I cannot say for certain what made him attached to me but one incident is still fresh in my mind. It was a Saturday and I was at home with kids. I being fond of them and many times part of their play, they don’t fear me and play mischief on me. I think its their time for mischief as a part of healthy childhood. I was trying to concentrate on my work but their mischief was getting more and more disturbing. I came up to my room but they won’t lower the volume of the TV. I got into the room fired, snatched the remote from their hand and hid it somewhere in the drawer. I came up for my work but he came up giggling and dancing around me with remote in his hand. I lost my temper and slapped him hard twice and asked him to leave my room. He left. May be before he could get into his room, I realized my mistake. I felt terrible, I had never raised hand on him and I should not have raised hand. I immediately went to his room. He had locked himself inside the room. I knocked and he deliberately let me come in. I knew he was angry but he was not crying. I moved my hand in his hair and asked if it pained. Then came the streams of tears. My heart split apart. I tried to soothe him, saying one is not expected to tease elder people, and there should always be boundary and sometime even the elder people make mistakes. He won’t move just look at the floor and the streams had dried into drops. I knew I had done a terrible mistake but I was more worried how would he interpret my hitting him. I didn’t want him to interpret it as hatred and I hit him because his parents are cannot afford to keep him at home and he is staying with his uncle and cousins. I told him I lost my temper and that was very bad of me. I told him I had not slapped him because I disliked or abhorred him. I begged sorry. I caught my ears and asked him sometime even elders do mistakes and it’s a good chance for youngers to act elder and forgive them. He listened to every thing. He was sobbing, I cursed myself, hated myself. I asked him to join me while I watch TV, he didn’t. He however laid in the bed with his face buried in the pillow, the pillow was getting wet. He would not give in, he has always been stubborn. I gave up and left the room with a knot in my heart. I knew I had choked while I was talking to him.
No one could sooth him, mummy tried, buwa tried, my grandmother tired but to no avail. I tried almost four times and so did my mother. They yelled at him, tried to drag him to kitchen for food but everyone of us failed. It was already 4 P.M. and he would not give in. Though I was feeling bad for the whole thing in the morning, I was also getting pissed off now. How can be a child be so stubborn? If nothing could persuade him at least hunger should have but no. It was more than 5 P.M. and I went in to his room. I asked him ‘don’t you feel hungry?’ and what the hatred for food is for? I have asked sorry and will never do that mistake and can’t you once forgive your brother. He looked at me. I knew he had submitted, I pulled his arm and he easily got up and followed me to room. I warmed the food and served him. I saw a child who could eat almost four times than myself.
Probably my begging him sorry and catching ears, gave some impression about me to him. I have realized from then he has been lot fond of me than he has ever been and even I learned something more about him. In the days that followed, he would obey whatever I tell him as him he has believed from heart that I don’t mean bad for him and whatever I say will always do him good. There are tiny things that other failed him to do which I made him do easily. For e.g. his brushing style everyone commented the way he brush would not clean his teeth properly but he would not listen. One morning I told him how should he brush and the other morning I saw his teeth brighter. When I asked him, he told me he brushed his teeth the way I told him. He eats food differently, the style would be rather difficult for us. Due to his way of eating he ate very slowly. My father always poked him for eating properly but he would not. Once while dining together, I told him how should he eat and what is wrong in his way of eating. Next morning he finished the meal earlier than all of us. He is reluctant to take bath whenever anybody asks him to do but when I ask him he is clean in next half an hour.
Well I think I have forgotten to introduce him, he is my twelve years old cousin Asmit. I doubt he is dyslexic (after watching the movie ‘Taare Zameen Par’ I read few articles on dyslexia in web and his traits are similar to those described in the articles). He fears to tell the truth even when he is not the culprit but a victim. He has set it in his mind that he will never be heard. I started taking his side sometimes even knowing he has done the mistake. I bought him clothes and bags without his asking me. While going out for bag, I realized he believes that he can make no choice so he is not supposed to make any choice. I asked him to pick the bag he likes. He just looked at me and I asked him that its his books, his bag and he should choose them. He choose a army colored bag. I bought him a half-pant. Till date I had never seen him showing his new things whenever someone brings them to him but that day he brought those things before my father and showed them to him. I knew this month will be tough on me as I have spent lot of money.
Unfortunately his parents are lazy and though they have enough land to earn well they don’t work much and are thus poor. My other uncle had brought him from Jhapa to educate here in Kathmandu but my auntie never liked him. He managed to stay with them for a year but now my auntie would send him back. My father and uncle talked on the issue and my father asked a ‘baba’ from an ashram if he could adjust him there. Since we have been giving him some money every month and sometime even organizing feast for the children he easily agreed.
The ashram is fifteen minutes away from our home and it houses orphans, children whose parents cannot afford education etc. These days even the parents in the neighborhood has started admitting their children in the day shift as the education is good. I took him to show the school and he was convinced to stay there. I wanted to have him at home once in fifteen days or once in a month but the ‘baba’ told it is not possible to have him so frequently. He said we can have him once in two month but can meet him once in fifteen days. I wish we could keep it at home but we could not afford and more than that he might get spoiled at home.
I was at office when he called me ‘dada ma ta jana lageko’ (Brother I am going to hostel). I didn’t know what that sentence did to me but I was heart wrenched. I was so helpless. I felt so bad after all its school and there won’t be any special treatment. More than that he is introvert and takes time to open up. I asked him not to do mischief and never to admit the mistakes that he has not done and make good friends. He has assured me he would remember everything I have told him. I hope a bright future awaits him. God bless him.
One song kept playing in my ears from the film ‘Taare Jameen Par’.
“Bhej na itna durr mujhko tuGhar laut ke bhi aa na paun maaaKya itna bura hoon mein maa”
i.e.
don’t send me so far away
that I can’t even return home my mother
am I so bad mummy