The line, as always, was serpentine. The evening rush hour traffic made things worse. Luckily, a seat next to the spot where I’d been standing on the crowded bus got empty. Perhaps the occupant decided it would be better to walk. Perhaps the thought was in the mind of every other person inside the smelly, overcrowded, claustrophobic bus.
No sooner had I sat down that I dozed off. I woke up as the bus came to a screeching halt knocking my glasses off the bridge of m nose. Luckily, they didn’t break. That would have been equal to a curse for someone like me; I’m blind as a bat without my spectacles.
I looked at my watch and realised I had slept for a full 15 minutes. I then looked outside and, to my horror, realised that the bus had moved just a few metres. The traffic seemed never ending. Perhaps one of our so-called leaders was out on an evening drive and had brought along with entourage of police escorts. Why do they need the police? What are they afraid of? I mean they have criminals for bodyguards, why do they need extra protection?
“Bloody freeloaders,” I murmured and got off the bus.
I was walking down the road, my mind full of endless thoughts, when it suddenly appeared out of nowhere. The alley.
I had seen the path countless times while commuting but had never actually taken it. It was about 200 or so metres long and paved with bricks. There were tall builds standing on both sides and there was barely enough space for two people to walk side by side on it. Even during the day, it looked pitch dark from the distance. I could just make out the outlines of a few trees at the end of it; it was a sight familiar to me. My home was a few minutes’ walk from the park. The alley but the walking distance to my home by more than half and yet I had never taken it.
Motti didi’s soup was to die for, and so was her 15-year-old daughter. Drivers and khalasis would slurp the soup while drooling over the daughter. She was ripening and she was glowing
Motti didi’s bhatti, which was in the north corner of Lagankhel buspark, had quite a reputation. After around 1 pm everyday, microbus drivers and khalasis would crowd into her bhatti to gobble down momo, choyala, thukpa, chowmein and a very special soup. Usually, her customers would hang around till 11 at night drinking tongba, eating momo and gulping down her soup.
Motti didi’s soup was to die for, and so was her 15-year-old daughter. Drivers and khalasis would slurp the soup while drooling over the daughter. She was ripening and she was glowing. The drivers would try to flirt with her, cautiously though, because they were a bit afraid of Motti didi.
Man Bahadur had been driving a microbus for around three years now. Full of hopes and dreams, he and his wife had come to Kathmandu five years ago. He’d worked in a garage for some time, then worked as a khalasi in a bus, until a lucky break had given him a chance to work as a microbus driver. He loved the work. He loved driving his microbus from Lagankhel to Ratnapark and back to Lagankhel. He also loved Motti didi’s daughter.
He would dream about her while driving, humming along with the dohori songs that blared out from the Chinese speakers on his dashboard. Every second, he fantasised about her. A feeble guilt would pinch his heart, but she was so ripe, and he had to be the first to taste her. He would enter the bhatti after each round, just to see her, just to smell her. She would serve him the soup, a bit shyly, a bit flirtingly. Man Bahadur was sure that she was giving him ‘the lift’. Motti didi too didn’t mind Man Bahadur’s frequent visits to her place.
