Defeat

Abdul Bhai had been around 11 when Thapa Dai first saw him. That was the year when an exodus of Bangladeshis had arrived in Kathmandu, fleeing the atrocities of the Liberation War

Abdul Bhai had never had a drink his entire life. ‘It is Haraam to do so,’ his father had told him many years before. And although considerable time had passed, and the colour in his memory had gradually faded, Abdul Bhai still clearly remembered the mangrove tree under which his father had spoken those words to him.

Oh, how he sometimes wished he could be perched up on that branch once again, and relive his days of innocence. He recalls all those times he and his friends got together to swim in the Buriganga River and fish silver carp by its banks. But things have changed drastically now. As he watches outside from his warren-like eatery, millions of people walk mundanely by every day; the sounds of their footsteps drowned invariably by the honking horns and the usual traffic in Putalisadak. And though he has kept his promise of not taking a sip, it is not unusual to see him with a bottle. He often pours drinks for his customers.

“Bengali!  Help me out here. Bring me something to eat. Haven’t had anything but WaiWai for the past three days. “

The reflective animation in Abdul Bhai’s face broke off the instant Thapa Dai, one of his regular customers, stormed inside. He was a middle-aged man of around fifty-five, with thick whiskers and a receding hairline. He wore an old flannel shirt and had on a pair of dark sunglasses that completely hid his eyes. Taking his muffler off, he collapsed into his favourite chair, at table number three, and yelled, “Fucche! Bring me a quarter of Royal Stag and a plate of Sekwua. Also a glass of mutton Haddi soup”.

“What’s the matter Kaji? Where is Bhauju?” Abdul Bhai asked.

“Oh you know how women are. Suspicious and unreasonable. She is gone to her parents’ house.”

Speaking from a dingy table surrounded by soot and smoke on all sides, Thapa Dai appeared almost Dickensian in character. He had been coming to Bengali’s Sekuwa corner for the past twenty years, ever since Abdul Bahi had opened up the place. He was one of Abdul Bhai’s most regular customers, and there was never a dull moment in the shop when he was around.

After gulping down the first peg, which a little kid served to him, he continued speaking unabashedly.

“Somehow, the cell phone showed Nepal’s number. I mean, I was in India. Damn It! And you know how jealous your Bhauju is. Now she thinks I was two-timing. Come on who is going to flirt with me at this age?”

“What are you talking about Kaji? Is this another excuse to keep you from having to pay? You already owe me lot.” Abdul Bhai exclaimed.

“Of course not. You are a miser, you know that. Thinking about money when your old pal is in such misery. By the way, what are you ever going to do with all the money? You’ve been hoarding it for, God knows since when. You don’t drink, you don’t enjoy,” Thapa Dai quipped.

Thapa Dai was always bantering Abdul Bhai for being too fastidious. For him, the latter’s teetotaling lifestyle was simply beyond comprehension. Abdul Bhai had been around 11 when he first saw him. A refugee boy of about his own age, dressed in rags beside his mother, begging at his front door. That was the year when an exodus of Bangladeshis had arrived in Kathmandu, fleeing the atrocities of the Liberation War.

Abdul Bhai and his family had travelled for three months to reach Kathmandu. Their home is Mirpur had been torched by Razakars who accused them of sheltering members of the Mukti Bahini. On the way, he had lost his father to cholera, and all their belongings had been washed away by the flood-waters of the Bramhaputra. Upon arriving in this alien land, his family had been forced to beggary. And to make matters worse, Thapa Dai, in an unwise act of mischief, had unleashed Tiger upon Abdul Bhai the first time they came across each other. Tiger’s ferocious bark had made Abdul Bhai scream at the top of his voice. But the passage of time had made him and Thapa Dai friends. Thapa Dai’s father owned a saree embroidery factory where both Abdul Bhai and his mother worked for some time. Later, heeding Thapa Dai’s advice, Abdul Bhai had opened a sekuwa corner right next to the letterbox in Putalisadak.

“Kaji, were you really in India?”  Abdul Bhai inquired, quizzically.

“Search me. Of Course I was. In Lucknow, as a matter of fact.  What do you think, I am lying? But somehow Nepal Telecom screwed up. I don’t know how the call came up with a Nepali number. Perhaps I should ask your son where he is?”

“Firoz is outside. I am worried about that kid. Hanging around with a bunch of ruffians... But I don’t blame him. Just can’t get a proper job without a citizenship,” Abdul Bhai sighed. Despite having been in the country for more than forty years, Abdul Bhai’s family had never gotten citizenship certificates.  Nepali law does not allow for naturalisation of refugees.

There was a time when Abdul Bhai had thought of returning, home, to his roots. But the path that had first led him to Nepal had worn out. With the passage of time, his motherland had become foreign to him. Besides, going back home now was akin to stepping into a river that has already flown. At present, his main concern was getting a citizenship, without which he couldn’t buy land or own a house. Furthermore, his son didn’t even have a passport to go abroad. The future simply looked bleak.

“Why doesn’t he work here and assist you with the business?” Thapa Dai quipped “Of course I don’t want him to spend the rest of his life fanning Sekuwa all day,” retorted Abdul Bhai “If only he could get his citizenship. I could send him to Qatar then. Safi Miya was saying that there are some decent job openings for high school graduates the other day. All I have to do is make a down payment of four lakh rupees.”

“I still think it’s a bad idea. Four lakhs don’t grow in trees. You can expand your business with that sum. And let me tell you something. That Safi Miya is a crook. I don’t trust him a bit,” Thapa Dai remarked

“Well Kaji, say whatever you like. I don’t see any other way out. Besides, I am afraid Firoz might be in bad company. Yesterday I could smell booze in his breath. And there are also rumours that they might expand the road. If that’s true, then shop is gone. If only he would settle down somehow, I could go to Mecca and then retire peacefully.” Abdul bhai spoke stoically.

“God damn it Bengali! I never understand you guys. Everything needs to be Halal. Can’t you lighten up sometimes? He is just nineteen. Let him enjoy life. Anyway, no more depressing talk. Pour me some more.”

Bengali took out another bottle of Royal Stag from the cabinet, prayed to Allah for forgiveness and carefully opened the seal.

As he was pouring it into a glass Fuchhe ran in yelling, “Abdul Chacha! The police have arrested Firoz Dai! They have taken him to Hanumandhoka!”

“What the hell are you talking about? Why did they arrest him?” Thapa Dai uttered in dismay.

“I don’t really know. Ramu Dai was saying they arrested Dai for being involved in something called VoIP. They have taken away his computer too,” Fuchhe replied.

As Fucche was speaking, Abdul Bhai turned pale. His entire world had crumbled. He was unable to speak or hear anything. Everything was dark. And without any thought, in a single instant, he gulped down the liquid he held in his hand.

- Dipesh Karki