Born to be Ordinary; Conduit of Happiness; And the Girl with the Red Pote

1

“Go Like a Pro.”

Strangely I woke up to my own voice sleep talking National Car Rental ad that I had been repeating in jest every time it was on TV.

I gingerly got my phone from the table and checked time.  It was 4:30 am. Unable to sleep again, I played Con te Partiro song on my phone. With the song playing in the backdrop, I drove on a contemplative road of meandering thoughts. It was a time travel to an alternate universe.

I felt a strong urge to write. As always I consulted my consciousness for prompts. I couldn’t muster a single word however. Resigned, I got a paper from the table and scribbled, ‘Go Like a Pro.’

Most of the stories have a narrative. I had a narrative but no story. The narrative needed a plot to legitimize itself to the status of a story. My mind started scanning people, events– imaginary or real–that I encountered, read, heard or somehow felt (perhaps telepathy). Ethereal and previously captured incidents, people, and words which acted as the foundation of my consciousness reacted to form the kernel that resulted in inception of formative ideas. These ideas set off butterfly effects.

I started assigning these actors and events a placeholder lest I forgot them and they disappeared from the annals of my life sequence. Additionally words, the miniscule words, started to form vessels without having any definite structure. They were just not words; they represented an idea. I believe a literary piece should be able to use any idea or word, however complex it is, without any criticism, because I think only textbooks have an obligation to their readers; writers have a selfish agenda to serve themselves just like musicians, sculptors, artists and schizophrenics to be vindicated.  

This is not supposed to be a story or a biography per se– it is just a potpourri of disparate events picked up from the past. The characters are not a figment of my imagination but their cohabitation for sure is. It's a mental construct establishing a cult by picking the characters, I have met in my life, and letting them carry on along the narrative. It may look systematic but the people/events are snapshots picked without any respect to chronology. Figuratively speaking, it's a vicarious experience in living their life without enduring any hardship they faced. It's an attempt of personification of emotions they had in their ordinary life.

Life is not only an inspiration, it is more of desperation. Many people see their dreams washed ashore. They struggle to live an average life. With this theme in my mind I had been thinking of people that I met in my life. Almost all of them exhibited an ordinary life, whatever mighty aspirations they had, and had a resolve to move forward because they acted as a conduit. Needless to say, the readings are my own; interpretations are of my own.

I may sound ego testicle (thanks auto-correct) – I sincerely thought it was due to auto-correct when I wrote on my phone but couldn’t reproduce the mistake again. I meant egotistical. Pardon my non-sequitur.

Just like the school kids from the novel Brave New World take note of everything interesting or uninteresting during  explanation of Bokanovsky's process, I started taking note of anything that I could relate to my theme of ordinary lives. In due process, I got more interested in a biographer’s life than her subject. Nondescript mundane events, that are aplenty, appeared frequently, and magically I felt triviality induced Buddha-esque moment.  The most important realization I had was that a person’s fair shot to prosperity is largely determined by the womb he/she was born to, especially folks from our part of the world.

 

2

The house was currently owned by an old man who moved from there long ago. The property was in a prime location. Due to legal wrangling among his sons, the ownership hadn’t been established and as such it couldn’t be demolished. For a paltry sum the old man had rented that house.

It was built from clay, brick and wood while the roof was covered by clay tiles. Over the time the tiles fell off or were ruined due to weather and were replaced by a patchwork of colorful metal roofing. Every monsoon you could see people mending the roof. The windows were made from wood–a few of them were missing and were just covered with thick opaque plastic to block light and wind. On the backside there was a pig sty that spread foul smell every time there was wind and frequent squealing of pigs. The house may have survived the 1990 earthquake.

I had been inside that house when I was a kid. The first floor had three distinct rooms. A wooden stair connected the floors. The second floor had three rooms with a loose partition created by walls but had no doors. The floor creaked whenever anyone walked. The attic was a big single room. Long ago they used to show videos in that room. Mostly they showed Hindi, Chinese– well, they were Hollywood movies with Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan etc – and occasionally late night ‘English’ movies which kids were not allowed to watch. There was no running water and sanitary facility in the whole house.

Years later, the first floor was rented to a family that opened a small dingy local alehouse. It attracted a select group of people. An outward extension with a makeshift metal roof provided space for carom board revelers and tea drinkers that liked to bask on the sun. Still there was no restroom in that house; people had to use the public restroom from the wada karyalaya which was across the small road that separated them. The second floor was rented to a migrant family. I think the attic was unoccupied.

The head of the migrant family was a middle-aged man who was always seen wearing a traditional dhaka topi. He worked as a manual laborer. After a hard day’s work he always used to enter the alehouse before climbing up the floor. I had heard him quarrel with his wife more than once. His wife was a simple woman who you could see spinning yarn in a charkha every day outside the small verandah. I was never sure how many kids were in that family but I frequently saw a couple of them, who were about seven or eight, boisterously play in front of the wada karyalaya. They mostly wore the typical government school sky blue shirt and navy blue pant.  One of the kids dropped from the school and was working as a helper in a mini-bus. He was hardly fifteen years old. Their eldest daughter also lived with them.

Roshani, as I later found out her name from Shirish, was of average height and slender build. She was simple and the simplicity was captivating. Her face was round with high cheek-bones and her hair was long jet black straight. Her grace was manifested in her humility more than her stunning beauty. I mostly saw her wearing a green kurta and a red pote around her neck.  The red on green accentuated the pote and it would be the first thing anyone would notice. I had heard from one of the guys in the pool house– no wonder everyone talked about her beauty although she was married– that her husband was working in a gulf country. She worked in a pashmina factory.

I never met her up-close. I usually saw her going in and out of the house carrying an earthen pot; I often wondered where she got the water from. Every time she got out of the house, the people who were playing carom would stop and stare at her. There was another group of young people from the neighborhood and beyond who occupied the porch of the house that was adjacent to the old house. That house had a small cemented porch and stairs to keep the drainage water at bay but had no door facing the street. You could see these kids drinking tea, smoking cigarettes, playing board games the whole day, and in evening drinking chhyang from the bhatti (Alehouse sounds fancy–let’s call it for what it is) and playing guitar. Some of them were kids I grew up with but had stopped talking after I went to a boarding school. Their company wasn’t taken positively by parents who wanted their children to stay away from them. These kids often teased Roshani and sometimes passed lewd comments. She would just look down and walk straight. I wished her husband came back and the couple moved out to a different location.

3

I started smoking while I was in high school. I thought it would be ‘cool’ and I would easily fit in with other sassy kids. I unreservedly repent picking up the nasty habit. No one in my family knew about my smoking habit. I had always tried to stop smoking when I was at home. It was easier said than done. I had to smoke at least one cigarette a day. Everyone in the neighborhood knew me and somehow I portrayed a ‘nice-guy’ image. There were moments when the rebel inside me wanted to revolt and upset the perception but I simply caved in. Initially after coming home from the boarding school, I walked a mile away from my home just to smoke. Although I enjoyed walking, it had become a nuisance to go that far every time I had a whim to smoke. I started sneaking to a pool house to smoke. Shirish was a regular to the pool house.  At first he was shocked seeing me smoke but afterwards he became my source of cigarettes as I didn’t want to buy from local shops since they knew me and my parents.

Shirish and I grew up together.  We were also related; he was my second cousin. He had a mullet that he colored orange yellow. I now find it funny as I found the name for the style and its typical association which belied his purported mission to make a rebellious statement. It wasn’t a fashion then but again I don’t know how he picked it up. He was the first one from our generation, in our extended family, who openly smoked. Although my parents didn’t like seeing with him, they were seldom vocal about it. You could see him playing carom and smoking with other kids near the wada karyalaya.  It was a big deal. Every time I talked with him, he was doing something new –he was enrolled in computer diploma, Japanese language proficiency class, guitar lessons, new business plan etc. I was not sure whether he was going to a college. At times, I even had doubt he passed the SLC. Nonetheless he had an ambition to succeed in life.

Shirish’s family also had a house in the main street. There was a hardware store which wasn’t doing well and the tenant was always late in making the payment. As he told me once, they collected Fifty-five hundred rupees per month renting that shutter and a back room. His dad was unemployed. One day his dad decided to evict the current tenant and start their own business. That’s the story of their kirana pasal. Suddenly everyone was kind of employed in their house. Each one of them had to work a shift to give another a break. Since his sister was still in school, it was upon him to help his parents even though they were a bit skeptical about him. I never heard him steal money from the shop however.

The class eleven final exams had just been over. It was a point in my life where I was totally disillusioned with life in general­–school was particularly painful for the way it was taught in Nepal. I didn’t know what exactly was I doing or what I wanted to be. Still it’s the same but it is a new normal and I have fully accepted it.  But back then it was supposed to be a period of hope and despair, discipline and chaos, excitement and anxiety, dedication and apathy, war and peace (I literally picked that book among all the books to read during my break).Maybe it was just teenage angst. The phase was characteristically defined by a state of ennui. I simply didn’t enjoy going to school or doing anything. I remember picking up a paper and writing ‘clutters enshroud my mind.’

Perhaps my life was full of oxymoron, or not!

I used to sleep late and wake up late. It was already one o’clock when I met Shirish on my way back home after buying a newspaper. He was on his way to their shop.

“Did you come out of your cave to buy cigarette?” He asked me with a wink.

“Only the newspaper,” I replied. ”Are you on going to Duty?”

“Yes. My dad is waiting for me to get there so that he could go home for lunch. I’ll be there until five. Come over to our shop, I’ll get cigarettes and we can go out for a smoke.”

“I’ll be at the stationery near your shop. Find me there when you are off,” I told him as he walked away from me.

 Being a poor student and an avid reader, I couldn’t afford buying magazines. So I’d go to the stationery store that was near Shirish’s shop and spend hours reading magazines, books and weeklies. The owner didn’t mind my presence as he was my dad’s friend and he did enjoy my company as well. Every evening a bunch of people would gather there and discuss politics, literature, and myriad social issues which helped me in expanding my knowledge base even though I had hardly anything to contribute. 

 

4

Around six o’clock Shirish came to the stationery. From there we took a narrow alley and walked towards a Buddhist monastery. Five minutes into the walk we stopped in an open space. Near that ground there used to be a big swamp which was later filled with earth and now there stood a number of newly built houses that were surrounded by high walls and ubiquitous prayer flags. Four years ago, someone had started to build a house in that open space too. Half of the foundation was laid and for some reason, not known to me, the work was halted thereafter. It had been like that except the grass had grown back and covered the small concrete foundation. I chose that place as my smoking area as it was not far from my home and yet no one I knew would go there. Shirish had been smoking wherever he pleased except for his own home. But he accompanied me as he liked to share his personal stories and wanted someone to give him advices. Many of the times his ideas were downright juvenile. More recently I had seen changes in his disposition, perhaps because he had been talking to people who came to his shop. For instance that particular moment he wanted to start a small sand depot.

He opened a pack of cigarettes and offered me one. He smoked Shikhar brand.

I lighted the cigarette and asked him, “Where are you going to get money from?”

“Our land near the Bagmati river is actually owned by Ghyang Guthi. My dad has been trying to make that land ‘Raikar’ and sell it. He has already spent forty thousand rupees on it. Although it hit a snag for a year, it seems like it will materialize within this month. It is a ropani and 4 paisa big and we already have a buyer. “

There was still a small vestige of swamp remaining near where we were sitting. As we were smoking a swarm of black flies came and formed halos around our head.  They didn’t really bite but the buzzing noise was bothering me.

 “Insect King! Look how I can summon them and can build my own army,” I muttered. They may have been attracted due to smoke or might as well have been due to human pheromones. I quickly realized he had been talking about different thing.

“What happened to your plans about going Japan…and how is your language course coming along?” I punctured my thought.

“I need to complete this course and pass the language proficiency test. In the meantime, the consultancy has been applying to some universities.  I am not sure how it goes but I don’t want it to stop me from starting this business.”

He started talking about a girl he had met in the language class. He said his only problem was that she was from a different caste. After a brief pause, he started making fun of me for not having a girlfriend or not having courage to speak to girls. As he was going on with his mockery, we saw Roshani walking in the road towards a cluster of small building that was some kind of factory.

 “She is the prettiest girl I have ever seen. Do you want her?” Shirish said with an authoritative tone.

“I am not interested,” I feigned.

“Who is asking you to get married?” he paused to throw a smoke bubble, “I can arrange her for you. Don’t you have any desire?”

The bubbles started bursting.

“I do. What did you mean by ‘arranging’?”

 I knew what it was generally used for but I wasn’t certain what he was talking about. I was shocked to hear from him and hoped he didn’t mean what I had thought.

“You are very dumb. You need to hang out with us more. Just bring 500 rupees and I can arrange that girl for you.”

“Whaa…aaat?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was like someone putting a dagger through my heart. 

Gathering myself I inquired him, “Have you ever been with her?”

“No. But I can whenever I want to. I’m not a loser like you. I have a girlfriend and I am loyal. You know Pasang dai…yeah he said he can help me. And that pashmina factory”, he said pointing to the gate Roshani just went in, “is owned by Pasang dai and she works there.”

I knew Pasang dai had a pashmina factory. I also knew Roshani worked in a pashmina factory and she was from the same village as he did, but didn’t know that she worked in his factory. In fact I had seen her many times in Pasang dai’s home but never established a connection.

“Your girlfriend?! You have met her just for a month and you just said you really didn’t want anything with her.” I wasn’t really concerned about his girlfriend. I was totally devastated hearing about Roshani.  

“Forget it. I am just trying to help you. Keep doing what you have been doing. Good for you it costs nothing,” he continued to mock me. “Bro ko chhaina hola.”

“Tero bau ko chhaina hola.”

He gave out a big laughter. A group of people who were walking on the road turned their head towards us and kept walking.

“Anyway, give me another cigarette,” I said with a trembling voice.

 “You need to get that stress relieved if you know what I mean.” He laughed again.

I didn’t say anything but quickly finished the cigarette.  It started to rain a little. The black flies started scattering away. 

“I need to go to my language class in an hour. Meet me tomorrow around same time in front of that wada karyalaya. We can go on a walk towards the Bagmati river,” Shirish said as we approached a fork on the road.

He went towards his shop. I walked towards my home.

5

I felt betrayed. I didn’t know who to blame, if any, for having such an infallible image and not thinking of the possibility of the world beyond my imagination.

Pasang dai had built a three storied house in our backyard after buying the land from my uncle. The house had an ornate wooden door that had Buddha sculpted on it. The floors were covered by imported marbles. On top of the house they had a big dish antenna.  We had rented cable line from him. He declined to take any money however and said he was only doing a part of a good neighbor.

His kids went to an expensive private boarding school. He never went to a college himself but had started a right business at right time and made a lot of money. He came from a remote village in Khotang. He proudly liked to tell his story–how he fled his home at the tender age of fourteen, struggled working in carpet factories before starting and selling his own carpets made in his rented room with his wife. Besides his business, he was involved with various social organizations. Anytime the local kids wanted to organize a program, he would be one of the biggest donors. He used to hang out with both older folks and younger ones alike. 

He frequented the pool house. I never played with him as he’d play with other folks who liked to flaunt their money. Sometimes the bets were as simple as buying tea/coke for the players and the spectators, and other times, occasionally, a big bet of five hundred rupees or more per frame. I had admired him despite his show offs until I heard from Shirish. I had once heard from a guy, who came from the same village as Pasang dai did, that he initially made money from trafficking women. I didn’t believe then but slowly it was gaining prominence to serve my narrative, regardless of the truth, and my assessment of him instantly became negative.

Coincidentally I saw Pasang dai and his youngest son coming out of our home. A feeling of disgust engulfed me but I tried hard to cap my emotions.

“Bhai, are you coming from the poolhouse?” Pasang dai asked.

“No,” I tersely replied.

“Okay. Isn’t your school off? Why don’t you come to our place when you are free? We can play marriage and drink beer. I won’t tell your dad,” he said with a chuckle.

I was getting irritated. I had been in his home a few times. They played ten rupees a point which was too much for me.

F^king lecher.  “I don’t have money. I won’t have that much money to play ten rupees a point without doing something illegal and immoral,” I rudely snapped.

“Just come by. It’s Losar.  You don’t have to play cards.” He kindly said. “Bhai, we will just drink beer and celebrate.”

I felt bad talking to him like that, especially in front of his kid.

 

6

The electricity was out. It was still twilight and as such there was no need of candles yet. Since it was a regular phenomenon, most Nepalese can attest to it, my family had all gathered round the kitchen table as if a drill master in an electricity disaster planning class had instructed them to do so every time the light was out.

My mom was cooking. Everyone else was firmly seated. In the middle of the table there was a basket of fruits, sweets, and a case of beer. As I had assumed, it was Losar sagun Pasang dai had just dropped. We would return the favor during Dashain and on other occasions if we had special puja at home.  Since he knew that my dad drank, he got beer for him. My mom was not pleased.

“Loken, can you get a glass and pour me a beer?” my dad said to me with a grin.

“I hope you don’t drink that dog’s piss in your life,” mom said looking at me as the lettuce she just put on the pan made a spluttering sound and drowned her voice but it was still audible. I looked at dad. He was looking at mom. It was a Mexican standoff but without guns.

Dad winked at me and it was a tacit command to keep quite. Maybe my youngest brother didn’t see it and was alerted by the spluttering sound. 

“Is this a lettuce week? I am tired of eating it day in and day out.” Sabin gasped. He didn’t like lettuce. Neither did I but I never complained.

“Don’t say so. It’s from our own field.” Mom tried to assuage him.

“I don’t think any lettuce comes out of a thin air. It has to be from someone’s field,” he said with a sardonic reply before dad gave him a look.

Sarcasm was the lingua franca of our home. It may sound rude to an outsider but the mutual respect was seldom breached in spite of an apparent veneer of sarcasm in every reply. Being the weakest link and the locus of the verbal trade, my mom, ironically, had the least endurance. The last sentence was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

“I’m tired of looking after you all. I am going to my mom’s house and see who would cook food for you.” She was overwhelmed. Suddenly the whole mood changed and everyone was silent. She went on, “Probably your dad will marry Kanchi aama and then you’ll eat ghiu ra bhat every day. “

I t was now imperative upon dad to defuse the situation. With a fake loud voice he looked at my brother and said, ‘Don’t you have to study?’

“The light is out,” Sabin answered.

“Nani, can you come here and make tamatar’s pickle. You are the only one in this house who still obeys me,” mom said to my younger sister Archana, “she is the one who will look after me when I get old. I’ll write you the gairi khet in your wedding.”

Archana was a very quiet girl. If dad was around she hardly spoke. In fact, I was the only one who was least afraid and was quite friendly with dad. But this time she wasn’t taking in kindly mom’s words and jumped in the same bandwagon that was irking mom.

“Where is it written that only womenfolk have to cook at home? Because you are lax on them, they are on top of you. Wouldn’t it be nice if menfolk too cooked sometimes?” she said with a low voice directed to mom and secretly hoped dad didn’t hear; but he did.

“It would be absolutely wonderful. I heard dad makes really good pickles. Maybe we can start an auspicious act with the head of the family,” I couldn’t resist and interjected in between.

No one laughed. My sister wasn’t finished.

“What gairi khet? It’s been three years you said you would buy me a half tola gold chain. Nothing has happened. I have been working hard every day in hope of getting one but it seems like you are lying to me,” she said as tears were welling up in her eyes but she quickly regained her composure.

“Gold chain?!” Sabin exclaimed, “I have been wearing the same shoes for two months now. They are torn beyond repair. I am ashamed of going to the repair shop. I don’t know what people think– maybe they think the repair shop is jointly owned by the cobbler and me. “

  Even when he was sobbing he didn’t forsake sarcasm.

“Why do you have to play football with your school shoes? Your mom and I have been working hard to put you all through school and you go there and play football?” dad said to Sabin.

It was extremely painful to hear my dad saying that to my brother. I know for sure he didn’t mean it. He had been a physical education teacher for the last fifteen years and had always encouraged us to take part in extracurricular activities.

It was difficult for my mom to see her special snowflake, her much-loved Kancho chhora, crying even though he was the one who tormented her often.

“I will collect the rent from the first floor early tomorrow morning. If you go and pay the electricity and the phone bill within three days, you get 3% discount. Loken, can you go and pay the bills day after tomorrow and on your way back home buy your brother a pair of Chinese shoes?”

“Huss.”

We were by no means poor but there was always something lacking in our house. I knew there were many families that had the shorter end of the stick. We had land, that too in Kathmandu city, but not enough active income. My parents could have sold a piece of land and have lived a comfortable life. I am glad they didn’t–as it taught us all what it was like to struggle in life. My mom worked in the fields herself and believed no land should be left uncultivated. Many times the produce was stolen from the field but that never deterred her. She always had a rhetorical question whenever we raised an issue about it: ‘what if everyone stopped cultivating their land?’

As with any family with children going to school, our family also had to cut corners. I had my own list but didn’t want to bring it up. It was frustrating to not have a sound financial situation at home and witness a rough patch in life. My mom had to sell her jewelry to pay for my admission fees although she said she borrowed money from my maternal uncle. I didn’t see her wearing that necklace ever again and the other time we all went out to a relative’s wedding, she was wearing my aunt’s necklace. I once polished my dad’s brown shoes black after my pair was torn playing basketball and we swapped our jackets during winter. To this date I haven’t asked them how they managed to get fifteen hundred rupees to buy me a new pair of sneakers after I was selected for inter-college competition. At times I conveniently forgot the only source of income in our house was my dad’s measly salary as a government school teacher and the first floor rent, and had tricked them in getting some extra money.

7

I stood up and as I was about to leave to my room, mom said, “The food is ready. Don’t go anywhere now. Because of you, we always miss Samachar. Either you clean up yourself or eat with everyone.”

“Huss.” I said sitting back to the chair. I was preoccupied with other thoughts and it may have been noticeable. 

“Why do you lock yourself and read upanyash all day?”

“Mom, I don’t read upanyash. I read ‘Sahityik Kitabs’.” I blurted out.

Although the word ‘upanyash’ means novel in English, due to prevalent negative connotation of the word, possibly coming from cheap Hindi upanyashes from a generation ago, my mom thought I was reading undesirable things.

Just about that time, a big ‘Aayo’ boomed the neighborhood. It was in reference to the electricity coming back. Mom served food. My dad and my brother quickly ate their respective food to catch the last thirty minutes of the FA cup final. Now it was just my mom, Archana and I were the remaining ones in the table.

“Did you hear that Lok Bahadur got married?” Archana asked.

“Again?”

“Yes. He brought a girl home yesterday from what I heard. Do you remember the lady who owned the momo stall near Pipalbot?”

“Nima didi?” I exclaimed.

“Yes.”

“Lok Bahadur is already married twice. What about you meetjyu?” my mom teased me.

Lok Bahadur was just twenty years old and was already married with a kid and now married for the second time. His first marriage was an arranged marriage.

We went to the same school when we were kids. He was three years older than me but when he transferred from the government school after class four, they put him in class two with us based upon the assessment according to private school standard. He was a very interesting kid. He was very smart and brave. There were countless memorable incidents that I shared with him. One time a bird was sitting on an electric pole, which was right in front of a building with glass windows. He made the judgment call and hit the bird with a slingshot, and he missed. I used to be his sidekick collecting round stones for him. With the sound of shattering glass we vanished in no time. Although no one saw him doing that, the blame was on him. He was the only kid who’d ever do such things.  

His dad worked as a peon in a government office. His mom collected woods and sold it to local bhattis. He would go home during lunch and eat whatever his mom had made for him. I started accompanying him to his home. One fine day he took me to his parents’ room. From the corner of their bed, he pulled out a clay piggybank in which his mom kept her savings. He broke the piggybank and stole one hundred rupees.

We went to a local bicycle store and rented a bicycle for forty-five minutes. I learned to ride bicycle from him. We stopped by a pottery shop and bought a new piggybank that was in equal size as the one his mom had. After we got his home, he put all the remaining money from the old piggyback to the new piggybank.

The saga continued. Every day during lunch recess he would rent a bicycle and we would go to a Momo shop that was a mile away from our school. It was there we first met Nima didi. Her dad, a Tibetan, owned that shop. She worked alongside him. To say she was just pretty would be an understatement.  Even as kids, we walked a mile to be there–there were other momo shops near our home too–more to see her than eat momo. Also the soup they provided was a novelty in the whole area.

 One day Lok Bahadur’s mom came crying to our classroom and started beating Lok Bahadur. She had found out that he had stolen about four hundred rupees in total from her piggybank. The funny thing: that day the teacher had asked what we all wanted to be in future and Lok bahadur had said ‘Police’. His nick-name became Police thereon.

As for me, being the greatest sidekick, I got his name as my nickname. My name isn’t Loken. After transferring from the government school to the private school, Lok Bahadur had unsuccessfully tried to change his name to ‘Loken’ as his original name was very old-fashioned. After that incident, everyone including my family, called me either Loken or Meetjyu (of Lok bahadur).

After a few times I was caught with Lok Bahadur collecting matchstick-cover and scrap metals in a trash container, swimming in the Bagmati river, selling stickers in the footpath, smoking a thrown cigarette, and so on…my parents sent me to a boarding school. I was incorrigible and was a hopeless case.

“Are you counting the number of grains in your plate?” as I was eating slowly my sister asked.

“Oh yes. It seems like there are fifteen grains fewer than yesterday but ten more than the average of last month?” I frowned.

I increased my tempo and finished eating. Other days I’d watch TV for a while after dinner but that day I just wanted to be in my room.

 

8

There was nothing better to do than pick the upanyash and read more pages. As I started reading, I was getting distracted time and again. I had to re-read lines. Still I wasn’t following the events in the novel.

Marilyn French said men stumble on pebbles, never over mountains. I haven't taken any classes on analogy or stumbling, but using an analogy every time is like taking a self-administered sobriety test when you haven't drank a single bottle. I tend to stumble on pebbles, both literal and figurative, drunk or not. The problem: after stumbling, I throw the pebbles to a pond and the waves traverse my consciousness.

I am not a paragon of virtue; far from it. I have my own moral failings but I have always strived not to harm anyone knowingly. Still conflicting ideas dwelt inside me that tried to form an informed opinion. I tried to put myself in her shoes and think about the circumstances. There was a strong possibility Roshani did what she had to do for her family. I wondered if her husband knew about it. Although I no longer had a pristine image of her, I didn’t think any lowly of her; quite the contrary. I started defending her.

After a while, I thought about myself.  It was foolish to dissect everything with a moral scalpel. I had been catering my monolithic internal image, paradoxically, to everyone as they wanted to see, albeit the cognizance in me that the imagery perpetuated the existing myth. The very next moment I realized the cusp wasn’t as strong as I had thought it to be- I just had to change my mind and act on it. Now to act, I needed a resolve. Aargh! It was coming back to a full circle.

Five hundred was a lot of money. I knew I had some stashed in one of the books. Certainly it wasn’t more than two hundred rupees. I have tricked money from my parents before. The surefire way to do so was to ask money for a textbook. I had a friend who had a book shop in Dillibazaar. He had helped me with fake receipts before. That time I had used the money to buy used novels from the footpath of the RNAC building. This time I couldn’t wrap my head to justify an unethical position. Above all, I was afraid what my family and others would say if they found out the act.

Maybe I could take a chance. After all, I was a mortal being. Or maybe I could just offer her the money as help.

From the bookshelf I took out a small book that was wedged in between two big books and was invisible from outside. Inside the book I had stashed some of my savings and an emergency cigarette. I always had at least one cigarette at home just in case I couldn’t live without smoking. That moment it gradually progressed to that case. After seeing the cigarette, I had double urge to smoke.

It was about ten o’clock. My room was in the third floor adjacent to the kitchen. Everyone else had their bedroom in the second floor. Usually they would all be asleep by that time and even if they were not, they rarely came to the kitchen. Also, I had smoked in my room before.

I stealthily went to the kitchen. Coughed out loud to suppress the click of the stove, lighted the cigarette, and was back in my room within a minute. Wary that someone may see me from outside, I turned off the light. Next I opened the windows and smoked ensuring all smoke went out of the room. And in the end I sprayed room freshener. When I turned on the lights back, money was strewn over my bed. I counted and it was one hundred and eighty seven rupees.

After an hour of deliberation, I decided not to take any proposition from Shirish despite the fact my physical desires suggested me otherwise. I read one more chapter from the novel and slept.

 

9

I woke up around ten o’clock. Around twelve, after having lunch, I went to the newspaper stand and returned quickly with that day’s Kantipur. I read everything–even the classifieds followed by a chapter of the novel and boredom nap.

I heard a knock on the door. Sabin and Archana both were outside. They had planned to eat momo but were short on money. I used to get the highest allowance of all three and always had money; so they were out for little help from me. As mom was out in the field, it was upon my sister to cook khaja for us. Somehow she felt accountable for making khaja for everyone. But that day they were watching a Hindi movie and she didn’t want to miss it. Initially she tried to convince Sabin to do without khaja and I wasn’t in the equation as I was indifferent to khaja. He counter proposed momo and blackmailed her to put ten rupees by saying he would demand something to eat at home if she didn’t. As it happened they had settled to get momo from outside.

My sister always saved money. Everyone knew she had money. She would save money, even her tiffin money, and buy something big. Remember the gold sikri I mentioned earlier that mom had promised to buy her, which unfortunately she couldn’t due to lack of money, Archana bought it herself after a year–all of it her own saving. You’d think she was miserly. I’d say she was frugal–to the point it may seem stingy. Years later she turned out to be very pragmatic and is very good with money management.

A plate of momo was ten rupees then. They had decided to get two and half plates: a plate for me and the rest for them. Archana was contributing ten rupees. Sabin, being the smartest and officially broke of the house, was contributing nada.  He never had money. If he ever did, it wouldn’t last an hour. His only contribution was to go and get momo from the shop.

Other times he would get momo himself and sell us!!! That way he would recoup all his money. If Archana ever wanted to eat momo–she never went out to buy momo, as eating buffalo momo was frowned upon by mom– she would give Sabin five rupees and they would eat three and two pieces respectively, hiding in a room.

 Without any resistance I agreed to cover the rest of the money. At an opportune moment, Sabin asked if I, by I he meant we, wanted to eat half plate of chowmein as well. I paid for that too.

About five thirty I went out and saw Shirish watching a carom match in front of the wada karyalaya. When he saw me coming from the other direction, he shook hands with other people and walked towards me. We took a small alley to skirt our way out of our homes and passed Lok Bahadur’s house.

Lok Bahadur’s house separated two distinct regions. His family belonged to the same caste as we did. His dad had migrated before he was born. They were often included in functions our extended family organized. Beyond his house there were a bunch of shanty houses that were occupied by recent migrants, so-called lower caste people, and a group of Muslims who had migrated generations ago and were tolerated but not socially accepted but it was gradually changing. These groups were rarely invited; however, the opposite wasn’t true. The marginalized people were constantly fighting within for a small piece of unclaimed government land and were wary of newer migrants.

The local government office had built a public water tap and restroom near the big bamboo grove as that part lacked a sanitary facility. I saw Roshani taking a bath in that tap. I figured then she carried water every day walking five minutes both ways from where she lived. When she saw us, she stopped and looked other way.  My heart started beating fast. I looked on the ground and increased my stride.

“Give me a moment,” Shrish said as he walked towards the tap.

I guessed what he wanted to do. It was embarrassing.

Around the bend of the road, there was a small shop. I went in there with a thought of buying Surya cigarettes as I knew Shirish would only have Shikhar brand cigarettes. I preferred Surya.

The shop was created by putting a medium bamboo rack in front of the room which divided the bedroom and the shop. You could see a bed behind it. There weren’t many items. On one side, I saw different brand of cigarettes packs partially opened in order to sell loose cigarettes, a bunch of Balwan Chap chewing tobaccos and Pan Parags hanging down a rope. In addition, there were several varieties of titauras, a few jars of cheap candies. On the other side, there were ready to sell Chura, Dhago and Pote.

No one was in the shop.  Possibly after hearing my footsteps, a young lady who had a baby strapped in her back came out of the bedroom. I knew her. Her name was Sakina. Actually we went to the same school when we were kids. She and her younger brother Abdul were a grade senior to me. The school had waived their tuition so as to give chance to disadvantaged children.  I knew Abdul well as we played marbles together. She was several years older than us. She flunked a year and was in our class. Next year I left that school for a boarding school. She failed again and dropped out of the school.  After a few years she got married.

Most probably she recognized me but didn’t say anything. I changed my mind buying cigarettes and asked for two Solo candies instead. Normally I’d take Solo after smoking and it had been an integral part of the ritual. I called them Pavlov’s Solo.  She gave me two knockoff Solos that were very similar to the original one but with ‘Sola’ label. I had had them before. They were horrible. I knew I wouldn’t eat but still bought them.

Shirish was waiting for me on the road. After we passed the bend we were out in the fields. We walked towards the Bagmati river. He took out the cigarette pack and offered me one. The fields were tilled and ready for next plantation.

“Remember about the land I told you yesterday? The land is passing in our name next week for sure. All documents have been readied. I can’t wait to start my own business that way I don’t have to work in the shop again. I don’t even know why my dad wanted to operate the shop. We are making just over five thousands and making less than what we were getting from the rent. If we sell the land, my world will change soon,” he said with exuberance.

“‘Nice.”

 I was curious what he said to Roshani earlier. I asked with little impatience, “Why don’t you leave that poor girl alone? What did you say to her?”

“Nothing. I went to use the restroom. I am not uncivilized like you who goes on searching electric poles.”

“That I know,” I said dismissingly. “Hey, regarding the thing you said yesterday, I am not interested.”

 “Dream on. Even if you wanted you wouldn’t have gotten anything. I was just making fool of you. I thought you caught my joke. She is a Sati Sabitri. Did you even suspect Pasang dai to be a part of it? He is your neighbor and you know what a nice person he is,” he continued, “shame on you for what you were thinking.”  He paused and with a fake smile he said, “You are not only dumb but also gullible and evil. “

“What the f^k? It was f^king you who made me think like that. I know they are all nice.  I knew she is married and wouldn’t do anything.”

Spontaneously I got angry at Shrish. At the same time a big remorse was propping inside me for letting my wrong side out but I still blamed it on him for sowing an evil seed. And somewhere deep inside I was glad that Roshani was still a woman with solid integrity.

“Don’t get riled up bro. I am sorry. I should have told you yesterday. I second-guessed your intelligence,” he went on sniggering, “don’t blame me. Would you have eaten shit if I had asked you?”

“Tero bau le khancha.” I was still fuming but hearing my own silly rejoinder I started laughing. He too laughed and soon both of us were laughing loud. 

 “By the way, for your kind information, she is not married yet. She made it up. Because people were teasing her with nasty calls, she lied saying she was married and told everyone her husband was working in Dubai. That’s the reason she wears the big red pote. I feel sorry for her that the hounds haven’t stopped tormenting her in spite of her attempt to show herself as a married woman,” he quipped with a genuine concern.

I was bewildered hearing him.

 “Really? Don’t be lying to me.  I am not falling for your lies again. You are such a goofball,” I said.

 “I swear on my mom.” He looked directly at me and with a nudge asked, ”Did that change your mind? Changu love du pasa?”

Despite his puerile acts, I knew he had a heart of gold.

“Tero bau sanga paryo love,” I replied with a wink and started laughing heartily. “Give me another cigarette.”