Kissing is adventurous. If you are a guy and you have a sweetheart or a so-called girlfriend, you can kiss her any time you like. You can kiss her inside a public bus when you’re both on the last seat. You can kiss her publicly at a park when the light is fading. You can kiss her before departing after a meet-up. You can also kiss her in a busy station where no one pays attention to others. Kissing is a symbol of love, a kind of unvoiced seduction, an expression of attachment and affection and it gives immense pleasure and satisfaction.
My dear friend, I am not telling you the story of Romeo and Juliet or Sumnima and Parohang or Radha and Krishna from ancient times. This is a story of my college life—the time when I was neither a kid nor really all that mature. It took place at roughly the same time as when the nation faced the Royal massacre whose sole credit goes to the relationship between prince Dipendra and Devyani Rana. In this story, two young lovers were found hanging from a single rope in Doti when their parents rejected their plea to get married. Both incidents took place at the same time, and love began to feel like an evil force—a thing that caused death and destruction instead of something more positive. Falling in love with someone was a matter of shame and humiliation, resulting in disgrace in front of society. In such a society, and at such a time, if you were a guy who happened to kiss a girl who was not your wife, and people came to know about it, I can’t begin to think what would happen. One ear, two ears, a thousand ears would hear this. Each would have their own interpretation, plus exaggeration, and by the time it would have reach the last person, they would be confident that you had tried to rape her—thus landing you in police custody.
I don’t know how to begin talking of how we felt while in love with each other, of the things we did, and those we didn’t. One thing I want to confess is how I always carried an intense desire to kiss her, which she duly turned down every time. She wouldn’t even let me touch her. Brought up in a conservative environment, she always considered it a matter of great shame to have fallen in love with anyone at all.
On our first date, she took me up the hill of Budhanilkantha and told me to close my eyes. She wanted to just look at me for five minutes. I was a shy guy, and so I obeyed her order like a sincere kid and closed my eyes. Then after opening my eyes, I ordered her to do the same. I thought that while her eyes were closed, I would kiss her and fulfill my fantasy, but she refused to close her eyes. I was defeated. She was a betrayer.
The second time, we were on the last seat of a Lalitpur Yatayat bus—and we were alone. I tried to approach her. This time I thought I would get closer and closer to her and suddenly plant a forceful kiss on her—after which I’d immediately say sorry. But the closer I moved towards her, the farther she went, until she reached the very end from where she said, “Please don’t move closer to me! Keep your distance!”
Aside from not being able to kiss, our relationship was pretty normal. We had a good time and my friends at college always praised what we had. We would meet every week or so and I hadn’t done anything naughty. Hadn’t even touched her.
The days were going pretty well. But after a year or so, she went to Bangladesh for her nursing internship and I continued my BBA in Kathmandu. I used to call her twice a week since I was busy with my project work and assignments.
I was alone in the city while my family—a typical rural family comprised of mom, dad and two little sisters—lived back in the village. They could only spend about 6,000 rupees a month while my expenditure was over 10,000. I relied on a part-time job and my writings for my survival.
She was from a wealthy family. Sometimes I wondered how I’d fallen in love with her. Once she didn’t speak to me for ten days. When she finally did, she was angry, not willing to listen to anything. All she did was scold me. But I knew she was hot-tempered so I just listened to her and remained patient. She kept mumbling and I had little idea what she meant to say. She kept crying until she cut the call.
After an hour a message came on my cell phone. It said—
Naman! My dad is planning my wedding. To Sushil. You know him well. He’s Anupam Joshi’s son. He has just passed his MBBS and works at Kist Hospital. He isn’t a bad guy but I can’t live with him, I would rather die. If you truly love me, Naman, please save me! Please marry me, please save me, will you? Please reply soon. I am dying.
This message really troubled me. I was just a twenty-two-year-old kid still building my career. She was a year older than me and had almost completed her studies. She was beautiful and I fell in love with her. I just wanted the days to pass by. I had never thought about marriage. Actually, it was not the right age for me to marry her. Thus the equation of our relationship didn’t look that great. I couldn’t reply. I was sure that I wouldn’t marry her at that moment.
After lengthy tussles on the Facebook message inbox, I finally messaged her and said that I loved her but I couldn’t marry her. Sure, I would miss her for the rest of my life. But I was quite rude to her. I hadn’t been so rude my whole life.
After reading my message, she went offline. Her mobile was also switched off and for the next three days, she was out of contact. After a week I heard the most shocking news of my life. After this message, I felt like I was falling down from a star. I felt like I needed to wake up from a nightmare. I felt like burying myself into eternal darkness for a moment.
She was found hanging from the fan of the ceiling of her own room. I was shocked, disappointed, disgusted with myself. I felt like I’d committed a crime. Really, I was the guilty guy. I was the murderer. My one cruel message had killed her.
I couldn’t kiss her. She couldn’t kiss me. Death kissed her instead. God took her away.
Today, the only reminiscence of her life remains in my cupboard, lifeless and unconscious like her—the white handkerchief with the red printed image of her beautiful lips. The last time I met her was at the Rosebud Café and before departing she had taken that handkerchief, kissed it and given it to me. That was to be our last meeting.
Six years ago, I got married and I have a four-year-old son now. He always asks me—
“Daddy! Why do you hold that old grimy handkerchief and cry at midnight?”
I become speechless.
- Shiva Bhusal
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