The boy in the shabby shoes

There was nothing wrong with our little Ramu—he was a class-topper, never late to school, never missed a day of class—except for that tattered uniform and those old shoes of his

As always, I rang the bell for assembly. The students, who were scattered all over the playground, suddenly hustled up for the morning prayers. Before the prayer began, though, the school’s principal approached her wards with her usual authoritarian look, the kind that could scare you off from even inhaling and exhaling in her presence.

The sun was at its zenith, and the students on the ground were sweating, yet standing patiently with their heads down. It was pin drop silence as the teachers moved through the lines, looking for signs of scruffiness. From my position, I could see the shiny, well-oiled heads of those who were neatly dressed in perfectly ironed uniforms and polished black shoes.

In the crowd of students, I noticed Ramu, a grade five topper, who was looking a bit nervous as his class teacher was about to come towards him. The closer the teacher got, the more he was sweating. And that wasn’t the only thing that stuck out about him. He was also slightly unkempt, his hair not as well-brushed as that of the others.

Eventually, the teacher got to him, and by this point, his head was hanging. Seeing his appearance, the teacher pulled him out of line and dragged him, by the ear, to the front of the crowd. Everyone was looking at him. The principal pointed her finger at him and said, “Look at that rough donkey!” To him, she said, “Is that a bird’s nest on your head?” The students burst out laughing at this, and poor Ramu looked like he could die of embarrassment.

It was true that Ramu looked different from the others. His white shirt could barely qualify as ‘white’, and his pants were worn at the knees from overuse. It was clear that his clothes hadn’t seen an iron for a while. And then there were his shoes—faded, unpolished. They looked parched and hungry.

The principal continued to mock him, warning him that he’d be chased out of the school if he dared to appear looking the way he did again. “You must iron your clothes, and your shoes need changing…Get a new pair tomorrow.”

Once assembly was over, all the students marched to their respective classes. The needle on my wristwatch moved on, and I went on clanking the bell at intervals—as was my duty—until it was the tiffin break, at which point the children bustled out of their classes, hands filled with colourful lunchboxes.

A while after the others, I saw Ramu slinking out of his class, his eyes darting here and there, taking in his classmates enjoying delicious snacks. His hands were empty. Feeling sorry for him, I waved him over. I offered him half of the loaf of bread that the school provided me on a daily basis. It was all I had.

When he had wolfed down his piece of bread, I asked him why he hadn’t brought anything to eat.

“I didn’t have anything at home I could bring,” he said simply.

Passer-by

His eyes are swollen from the night’s sleep and his face is visibly puffy. He can hear faint strains of hymns emerging through the radio and the ringing of bells in a temple off in the distance. Although barely awake and still in bed, Saroj can feel something different in the air, a change no doubt brought on by the festive season. Well, among other things. As he pushes himself off the bed, he sighs, pulling the curtains to the side so as to get a better view out the window.

In the school compound on the other side of the road, a small group of children is gathered around a ‘ping’, one that was only recently erected, and he can see them quarrelling for their turn on the rope. And as he watches on, enveloped by the stillness of the morning, his thoughts turn to the girl he met yesterday.

Saroj had been, as was usually the case, looking down on the road from his verandah that morning, sipping at a cup of tea, when his eyes had fallen on a girl. She was walking hand in hand with a child, a bag of vegetables in the other. The girl was wearing an eye-catching blue sequined top with black jeans, and whenever her long, wavy hair threatened to overrun her face, she would gently tuck her tresses behind her ears. She was beautiful, Saroj thought.

“Is that boy her son?” he wondered, glancing at the kid next to her, before waving away the assumption because she did not look old enough to have kids of her own. He watched as the child proceeded to pull on the girl’s hand and gesture towards the swing by the road. At first, she seemed reluctant, but when the little boy insisted and started crying, she saw she had no choice. They approached the ping, and she placed him on the seat. Then, after making sure that the child had a good grip of the rope, she pushed him gently to a swing, conversing quietly with him as he rocked back and forth. Her voice, Saroj found, was just as pretty as she looked. It was soft and pleasing.

Coffee made me nervous. Now it won’t.

“Let’s get some coffee.”

I utter that well-rehearsed line and sit across from you at the table, nervous, excited, overjoyed and totally terrified.

I don’t know why or how people meet for coffee, a drink that has no significance. I wish I could tell you how conceited this drink is, with all its complexities. And those people who fanatically crave for caffeine, who post bogus status updates, are all liars. I hate them. I hate coffee. I hate its taste and I hate its smell. It makes me nervous. Still here I am, with you, because I want to like coffee for you.

But what if I fail to drink my coffee? I think. I think too much sometimes. I overthink too, like ,what if I fail to impress you? I haven’t met a girl for coffee before. I don’t know the rules. Maybe that is the reason my world trembles even at the thought of it. Maybe, for some more inexplicable reasons, I have self-esteem issues, I cannot look into your eyes, I cannot talk without stammering, and I become dyslectic around you. Or maybe it is the coffee itself. Hot, steaming, bittersweet coffee lying on this table, making me nervous.

Even though many have tried explaining it to me, I cannot grasp the idea that is ‘coffee’. How anyone, no matter how deprived of energy the person might be feeling, can willingly fill themselves with copious amounts of an intoxicating substance—that only leaves them a craving for more, a bitter taste in the back of their mouth—is beyond me. And its musty smells hangs so thick in the air. There aren’t any good words I can attribute to coffee.

I guess ‘coffee’ is some kind of unapproved narcotic that spreads maddening, incomprehensible, hopeless feelings. Seriously, I can always feel it in the air when the scent of coffee is around.

Misty's world

You must go Misty. It makes no sense for you to remain here, not when there is nothing that can be done,” Captain Surya said. His voice, pain-ridden, his body perspiring and bleeding out from where the bullet had pierced him, the Captain was breathing his last breath.

“I can’t. I’m not leaving you to die here. We’ll find a way Captain. We must not lose hope,” she replied. ‘Captain’ that’s what she had called him even then. She knew the way he felt about her, for no matter how hard one tries to conceal one’s feelings for another, they always find a way of reaching that other person. She knew his command stemmed from a desire to make a true rebel out of her, it had been the need of the time.

“Today’s the day of the final verdict, mum. I need your blessings today.” Misty’s trance of memories was broken by her son’s voice. He was a lawyer now, advocating for a girl who’d long lost her rights.

“Nothing can defeat truth Babu,” she said. “The girl has lived in darkness for too long, it’s time she have her victory. You’ve given everything to this case. The verdict will be in her favour. My blessings are always with those who need it,” Misty said, caressing her son’s head.

Once her son left for court, she fell into her voluntary trance again, the enchanting memories of her youth. She had fought for her nation’s welfare, and that had made her who she was today.

“Our ideology is more important than anything else, greater than our lives. We’ve come this far, and you cannot hold backnow for my sake. We’re very close to our destination. You cannot afford to lose Misty. Do it for my sake, don’t worry about me. Just go!” Surya urged.

She, who reads and writes

You will see her first at a bookstore, browsing the poetry or literature section. You will notice her because she will be beautiful. She will take her time among the shelves, reading slowly and smiling slightly. You will attempt to think of an excuse to talk to her but before you realise what is happening, she will be the one talking to you. She will ask you your opinion of a book she is holding, maybe Arundhati Roy’s God of Small Things or Samrat Upadhyay’s Arresting God in Kathmandu. If it is the former, you will sing its praises, marvelling at the language, the characters, the nuances and the beauty of tragedy. You will go on and on and surprisingly, she will continue to listen. If it is the latter, your criticism will be measured. This is still his best work, you will say. She will appear convinced.

You will continue to talk and you will discover that you both like Hemingway’s clipped, deliberate prose. She will adore Marquez (who you will hate) and you will love Miller (who she will hate). You will say Marquez is too romantic and she will say Miller is a misogynist. You will agree to disagree.

Eventually, you will find yourself sitting across from her in a leather couch at an expensive café. You will feel out of place. You will sip your coffee, which will remain bitter no matter how many sugarcubes you put in it. She will drop no sugar into hers. You will continue to talk and you will notice that she smiles when she listens and looks you in the eye. You will also notice that the smile doesn’t leave her face completely even when you are not talking. You will marvel at her hair, which will be thick and wild and everywhere. You will want to brush it away from her face. She will tuck her tresses behind her ears and grip her coffee cup with both hands. You will notice that her nails are neatly clipped and painted a deep red.

Your talk of reading will give way to talk of writing. You will tell her that you try to write but that you are no writer. She will respond similarly. You will ask to read her writing and she will refuse at first, suddenly shy. You will press and she will eventually agree. She will take out a notebook, bound in dark leather with a strap holding it closed, from her oversized cloth shoulderbag and hand it to you with a pen. You will flip through the notebook, sneaking glimpses at its content. You will see sketches in ink, flowing, cursive handwriting and neat, orderly poem stanzas. You will reach the last page and write down your email address in your awkward boyish handwriting. She will tear off a piece and write down hers, expecting you to reciprocate with your writing. You will think mentally to never send her anything if her writing is better than yours.

On love and other things

He was restless; his spirits, sunk. His attempts at taking a nap went in vain, sleep wouldn’t come to him. He tossed and turned for a long time before sitting up and opening a book. But that didn’t help him either. The disgusting realisation that the world represented in books was a mere illusion did not let him derive pleasure from them.

Finally, Anil got up and dragged himself from his bed to the window overlooking the dusty road outside. The weather was blisteringly sunny, of the kind he hated the most. A couple of sparrows were playing their usual mating game, perched atop a branch on the apple tree. There were a few guys pooled around a carom board at the shop nearby. They were simply killing time, what else could they do? They were all men without jobs although most of them had completed their Masters. Anil was looking at these guys—all dressed uniformly in shorts and vests, with prickly stubbles on their cheeks and chins—when a little girl toddled past his window. Dressed in a white frock bedecked in blue and red flowers, the girl held a tiny little purse dangling from her right hand. Accompanying her was her mother, in tightly-fitted jeans and a t-shirt that rendered visible every outline of her body, luscious from every angle. Anil tried averting his prying eyes from the woman but couldn’t. She brought to him reminiscences of his loving wife.

How beautiful and innocent his wife was...her tall and slender figure, her beautiful eyes that sparkled so mysteriously! She was the epitome of beauty. Anil was proud to have such a beauty for his wife, a beauty who loved him tremendously. He remembered the first night of his married life, the first time he’d shared his bed with a woman. He recalled the love she had bestowed upon his them, the sort of love that transported him to a transcendent world more majestic and marvellous that everyday reality. How pleasant the night had been. He often wished that night had lasted for good, but time needed to move on its own pace, and nobody could alter or halt its usual course. However, despite all her charm and beauty, Anil held a grudge against Anuradha. Deep down, he was haunted by the fact that his wife was from a village and was uneducated. Her origins proved a serious blot on her personality for him.

The last telegram

Under a ‘no smoking’ sign, Radhakrishan struck and match and lit a cigarette. Drawing deep puffs and blowing out the resultant smoke in billowing circles, he sat ponderingly. On a scratch pad he wrote, “From Nepal, with Love. The Last Telegram ever sent”. He reread the line several times before scratching it out. Somehow, the title didn’t capture the essence of the moment as poignantly as he felt it. Perhaps he should question a few more people and wait for Dhane to arrive. He threw away the cigarette stub and trampled it underneath his foot.

Just this morning he was feeling down and didn’t want to go to the office. It had been raining since last night and he would have spent the entire day under the blanket if only he hadn’t run out of his annual leave days. After reaching the office grudgingly, he had contrived to take a half-day leave. Filling up the leave form, he entered the chief editor’s room for approval. Mr Mukherjee, chief editor of The Bhojpura Times, was a difficult man with a short temper. His habitual traits were further accentuated by his short stature, his thick moustache and a frown that he invariably wore on his forehead. It being a slow news day, Editor Sahib was in foul mood, and seeing Radhakris-han’s leave request form made him extremely agitated.

“Damn it! Do you have any idea what day today is?” Mr Mukherjee yelled on top of his voice.

“No,” Radhakrishan replied searchingly.

“Idiots. I can’t believe I am surrounded by an ocean of incompetence. You guys should be ashamed of calling yourselves journalists. When I was your age I could sniff out breaking news from the depth of the Ganges,” Mukherjee scolded Radhakrishan as he stood silently.

“Today is July 14. Doesn’t ring a bell, does it?” he asked condescendingly.

Counting Boots

As the door opened, a stream of colours flooded in: red, brown, white, yellow and black. A brief moment of fanciful colours flowing out and moving in separate directions, enlivening the grey street in a pool of colours.... 

As the heavy door slid shut, the flow stopped. “Did you like any colour?”

“Yellow. You?” 

“Nah… I didn’t like anything. Okay, here comes another flow. Let’s watch.”

As the glass doors slid open, Amar and Surya fixed their eyes on the street that seemed ready to absorb the colourful streaks. The colours are always the same, one might say; but for Amar and Surya, they were always different, splendid in hues that amazed and befuddled them. So every day, at 4:30 pm, they would sit together on a metal seat at the bus station, waiting for buses to stop by, watching the rhythm of the flock of people getting on and off the vehicles, counting their colourful boots, and revelling in their own bewilderment at the change and variety of hues.

 “Three boots, and the colours weren’t even good,” Amar said, with distaste in his voice. His shoulders slumped as he sat lower in the seat, evidencing his growing frustration.

“Three isn’t bad. But why don’t you like any colour today?” Surya asked in astonishment. It wasn’t like Amar to get disappointed by the flow of the colourful boots. Any other day, he would have counted the boots, made a list of his favourite colours and drawn some random sketches in his notebook—some with fur, with stiletto heels or with maze-like threads that wound around someone’s leg.  But all he did that day was scribble on two pages of his notebook.

The Bookseller

I kept looking at her until she disappeared from the scene and trailed off like a little train in the hills of Darjeeling. She had come to the store searching for a book written by an Indian writer. Though I did not boast of a big place with multiple helpers and a separate section for a café and restaurant at the back, I did not lack international best-sellers, national record-holding grossers and all-time classics. The Old Man And The Sea still lay

there on one of the selves. And my categorisation of genres, into fiction, non-fiction and geography, travel, sports and politics, among others, helped visitors locate any book they wanted to find, simply by navigating through the store.

I stole glances at her and saw her rummaging through the selves, picking up books by writers she liked. And every time she picked up a new book, there was this one ritual she did not fail to perform. She would read the cover page and turn it over, and then read the blurbs at the back of the book. She did all this, perhaps, to get the feel of any given book. She also went through a few pages inside; just to glance at the appreciatory comments the book in hand had received. It was still quite early for the bookstore to be full with visitors. It was only nine in the morning. A few foreigners could be seen ambling along the alleys in Thamel—camera in one hand and a travel map in the other. Most of them were probably sleeping at the local hotels that are scattered—in large numbers—in and around the tourist hub in the Capital. Almost all of them were possibly still struggling to get out of their alcoholic slumber from last night. And it was only in the afternoon, after the alcoholic stupor ended, that the foreigners teemed into my bookstore.

Beyond Serenity

Jamuna, it’s time to wake up. Can’t you get me some hot water?” I prodded Jamuna. She woke up at once while my four-year-old son, who was sleeping beside her, fidgeted, opened his eyes, and again slumbered back to that peaceful repose so typical of his age.

As I looked at my sleeping son, his clothes ragged and threadbare, his hair scraggly, untidy, my destitution became ever apparent to me. For a moment, this vivid consciousness goaded me. However, since I had no time to spare for

such meaningless thoughts, I picked up my namlo from a corner of the room, ready for my job, for the day.

“Your tato paani is almost done,” shouted Jamuna from behind me.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “I will have tea at Sanumaya’s shop.”

It took almost ten minutes for me to reach Balaju bus park, my workplace, from my room. Anyone might find me strolling around Baalaju bridge, on any given day, looking for someone who might need me to carry a huge bundle of clothes, transport furniture, or anything else that can be loaded on my back for them.