The Great Transformation

Both of them pass the Nandini mill and continue their walk along the Khajura road. It is a pleasant summer morning. The harsh day is yet to unfurl. They walk slowly, one after another, along the dusty narrow footpath. Uttam is stout with a protruding belly and an innocent face. The one following him, Gyan, is tall and lean. He has a dark complexion.

Quite unexpectedly, Gyan quickens his steps and begins a conversation with his friend.

“There’s been a drastic change in this area.”

“Yes...when I built this house six years ago, it was the only one standing. All around, there were only paddy fields,” Uttam says. “One could

easily locate it from the road. But now, hundreds of houses are mushrooming. Their numbers grow with each passing year.” Uttam points at the crowded settlement on both sides of the road as he talks to Gyan.

“There’s been a big transformation in the country as well. The monarchy has been toppled for one thing, and the nation is headed towards a federal system.”

“But was this the only thing you people risked your lives for, and struggled a decade for?” asks Uttam.

“There are many reasons which brought the situation about. The movement was a must. You know the expansionist and imperialist powers wanted to turn Nepal into another Sri Lanka, or maybe even anther Iraq.”

Down with red ink

A decade has gone by since I started teaching English to children. Whether those kids have become better people now and whether their positions in life have improved is something I cannot tell for sure. But I have definitely moved up the ladder, working at a university now.

I have deliberately mentioned my association with a university—a bombastic thing, at least for those kids. My upward mobility is significant no doubt, but the irony it embodies is paradoxical and embarrassing too. I have moved upwards, and forgotten the kids. The children I have introduced here with love are perhaps languishing in the corridor of a dream-seller, somewhere in Bagh Bazar or Putali Sadak—or any other dream-selling mall for that matter—simply because their English does not work. Subject-verb agreement is a bizarre thing, and prepositions are frustrating.

I am aware that among those who ‘incidentally’ became my students in the past, there are now some successful scholars proficient in English. I honestly confess the English they have acquired is not an outcome of my teaching. It is a fruit of their individual endeavours. I have no doubt about my failures because, looking back at my ‘teaching’ from the position I hold now and the experiences I have gathered so far, I have more embarrassment and guilt to collect rather than narcissistic claims that I taught them English.

This confession is informed by the fact that the methods we teachers employ are completely wrong, and deter children, rather than invite, from learning a language. The red ink many ‘teachers’ like me use with pride and dignity to foreground students’ errors makes all the difference!

Winner winner, chicken dinner

Prologue

People often ask me, “What’s a chicken day?”

I don’t know, really. It depends. It is a multifaceted term, something best experienced rather than explained using adjectives. In the school I grew up in, it was a highly-revered thrice-occurring weekly phenomenon. In the realm outside, it would seem little more than a made-up word. What I do know, however, is that it meant the world to our table captain.

——————

So big was he, the table captain, perhaps the biggest in our house. From where I stood, I believed it would take even an adult five karate kicks to put so much as a scratch on him. That size gave him an edge over all of us. It gave him authority. He entered the school’s dining hall like a lion ready to nab little creatures who broke the rules of his forest. Oh, and nobody dared to touch the edibles in his absence. The fragrant fresh finger chips, yellow paneer curry, gravy, boiling hot soup, delicious juicy brown chicken pieces floating on the surface of steel bowl. Until the captain was seated comfortably, though, nobody dared touched any of it.

For students on other tables, chicken days must have felt like national holidays. I know. We heard their cock-a-hoop stories all the time.

Yesterday, our table captain did not want to eat Rushvari. So he gave it to me. How generous of him!

Four guys at our table have not returned since the leave weekend. Our table captain has planned something special for tonight!

Even though tomorrow is a non-chicken day, our table captain is going to treat us. It is his birthday.

Well for us, our table captain was unpredictable; our table itself no less than Hitler’s bunker.

Unexpected encounters

If you’re planning on going to Illam, don’t go there. Go to Kanyam instead.” He spoke sagaciously, all the while munching his roti, dipped in delicious fish curry. “And also the Pathivara temple nearby and the fog harvesting centre...not to mention, there’s a sprawling tea plantation there. Great place to spend a vacation,” he continued.

He had put on a lot of weight; his jowl looked more prominent than it used to, but he still made as many wisecracks as before. It had been almost seven years since college, the last time Manoj had met Bhojraj. And to run into him so many years later when the least expected was quite a pleasant surprise.

Manoj and his wife Bina were travelling to Ilam from Hetauda. After making a brief stop at Barmajiya where they’d bought the famous budhako pedas, the couple was looking forward to seeing the Koshi Barrage. Their mood—and that of all the other passengers—had been dampened however, by the bus driver’s announcement that they wouldn’t be making a stop at Koshi. They were already running late, the driver had told them, and the passengers’ best option was to look outside their windows trying to soak in as much of the Saptakoshi as they could.

It was around this time that the bus gave a sudden jolt. The tyres screeched as the driver applied the brakes, and the bus soon came to a lumbering halt. The engine stopped, squealed and vented off steam. “Damn it!” the driver yelled at the top of his voice.  After inspecting the tyres, the driver climbed back on to the bus and spoke to all the passengers. “The left tyre tube is punctured. It will take us about half an hour to fix. Don’t go too far”. 

Despite the delay, all of the passengers were delighted they got to stop at Koshi. While some took out their cameras and started posing along the embankments, others ran towards the buoy. Upon seeing a bus full of passengers stop, a few local ferrymen had gathered around them, trying to cajole them into taking a ferryboat across the river, to an island made of sand dunes.

Togetherness

She looked around pensively, her eyes wandering almost unintentionally, as if she were a blinded angel sent to demonstrate the nothingness of beauty

She stood there idle; the passiveness on her face was beautiful, yet without a semblance of liveliness. Her freshly shampooed hair smelled like lavender, or jasmine, maybe. Deep black kohl, blood-red lipstick, she looked the perfect picture in her figure-hugging dress. She looked around pensively, her eyes wandering almost unintentionally, as if she were a blinded angel sent to demonstrate the nothingness of beauty.

“Excuse me, can I buy you a drink?” a guy approached her. He was tall and lanky with a face fit for the cover of GQ. For a moment, she thought she would give him the royal flush, but something was different about this guy. ‘No, it wasn’t the way he looked. It was his confidence that reflected in his sharp smile.’

“I am waiting for someone,” she answered.

“It will be a long wait,” he countered. “There’s only one flight due to land today, and it’s been delayed.”

She smiled, amused. “And what are you doing at the airport? I hope you’re not playing a game of honey trap who.”

“Ah! Humour,” he smiled. “I am waiting for someone as well.”

“Someone as in?” she inquired, before she realised how curious she sounded.

“Someone as in someone I have never met before. And surprisingly, someone who I never thought would be so beautiful.”