Changing the world

This is what the alarm clock tells me every morning, “Ting, ting, ting”. It’s strange that I understand the languages of things that do not speak. This translates to, “Wake up, another day, today is the day.”

I remember how my elders used to shower me with all those blessing during Dashain. Words are clear “Babu, Thulo manche Bhae” (May you be a big mans, my son). May be I was too small back then. If it were now I surely would have asked ‘How big?’ But that small boy picked up a new notion or an obsession if you’d prefer to call it that. If you got to be big, you got to make changes. This was imprinted on my delicate brain and at times it leaves me miserable. It is as if the great statues had handed the task over to me, “You’ve got to change the world.”

This enclosed cell is my laboratory. No one dares disturb me here. Not even a cell phone. No texts; no missed calls, nothing. I have been liberated, since that last text message that came a few months ago. The text read, “I am sorry. I am in love with someone else. Take care”. This is what happens when you don’t take a girl to bed with you and insist on building a so-called ‘future’ with her. Frivolities don’t entertain me. If something compromises on consistency, it deserves to be eliminated. But who cares about her or those occasional shows she often sets up. It’s ‘the world’ that needs prioritizing.

I have grown fond of bitterness. No sugar in my coffee. I am habituating myself to the taste. I sip the bitter coffee but still enjoy its aroma. I have learned that it is how the entire process works. With every gulp I prepare myself for my mission—Change the world. My clock has already said, “Today is the day.” I need to do this. The challenge is right outside the door. Just a step and my duty will begin. This has to be me. I am. The world will change.

In love, again

It felt good this time, like it had at times that came before this. In fact, it always feels good to be in love. This time, not unlike on earlier occasions, it felt as if it were different. All my previously experiences had made me feel the same way. ‘This time,’ I had always said to myself, ‘it is different’.

Different. This was how it really was this time around though. The feeling, though fleeting, was refreshing, something very unlike anything that I had experienced before. The person I fell for this time was ideal for me, or at least that was how I felt when it first began.

I met her at a book launch, which she was coordinating. It was serendipitous, the way I simply happened to cross her path. I had decided to attend the event, I could as easily have chosen to skip the event altogether. But I did, eventually, and when I got there she was talking to groups of people who had gotten there before me, engaging in chit chat, politely socialising before the official launch began.

She had looked nice in that black dress of hers. She had duly caught my attention. Our eyes had met in due time, and for a moment, I had been unable to take mine off of hers.

But I am an introvert, and for all my effort, I couldn’t approach her, even for a short conversation, a casual sharing of pleasantries. She had been a stranger to me then.

Uncertainties

When her father smiled and said, “You are a lucky girl” Laxmi was surprised. She did not know he had arranged her marriage with Ram, a man in his early 40s with a tailoring business in the village market in Kavre and with some land in the village. Laxmi had just turned 14 then, and had gone up to the fourth grade in the village school. She was tall and beautiful; people in the village thought that given her beauty, it was her bad luck to have been born into a poor Dalit family.

Laxmi did not resist the marriage. She thought “one has to simply marry”. After two years, she gave birth to a son, Sunil. She started spending more time in the shop as Ram had to go to Kathmandu to buy cloth and fabric. Sometimes, she too wanted to go to Kathmandu, but her husband never took her. She did not complain. ‘I am spared the hard work other women in the village have to do,’ she would think. Nevertheless, she felt deprived when she saw youngsters going to school. She desired to be a school-teacher in the village.

Ram’s frequent visits to Kathmandu got him used to urban amenities—expensive alcohol and nice dresses, among other things, and he began despising life in the village market. He sold his shop and a part of his land to buy a small tailoring shop in Kathmandu’s tourist centre, Thamel. The family lived in the backroom. Laxmi had initially not wanted to come to Kathmandu, but the thought of sending Sunil to a school in the city had lured here to the capital. She had transferred her own desire to study onto Sunil, who was soon admitted to a government school.

Laxmi started to worry about Ram’s increased consumption of alcohol while Ram kept her locked up, jealously guarding his beautiful wife. He started beating her, and forced her to work as a dishwasher at a local hotel. The only solace Laxmi found was in her son; the two shared a bond that grew stronger each day.

Autumn leaves

Have you ever seen a leaf fall off a tree? You probably have. But have you seen a bud on a branch curling out, gradually, into a green leaf? 'Green' is an understatement here. The variations in the hues of green a single leaf is composed of are mind-boggling. First, it's this very light green, sprouting out of nowhere. The green is sometimes pigmented with white. Then it changes its colour to a dark, clear green with distinct veins and nodules, the kind you draw when you are in kindergarten. And just when you think the green is there to stay and calm your nerves, it changes into another shade of green--the shade which I find less calm. The full, swollen leaf then slowly curls back until the green turns into a sadder brown. And then, just like a hard-to-mend cassette player that quietly leaves its favourite spot in your room, the leaf too bids adieu as the soft wind tickles its over-grown veins and nodules. It finally falls down gracefully with a gentle prod by the same whooshing wind and joins the multitude of dark-brown, decaying leaves on the ground.

Quite a botanical description it was, I must say. Now, I ask you again. Have you seen a leaf sprout off a branch? Have you seen it flaunt all shades of green and brown, and fall off the branch without ever making a thumping sound? I guess not. I have. I have witnessed the whole orchestrated fall of leaves--these autumn leaves which, like a well-harmonised orchestra, spring out of the curtains at one point and hide behind those thick curtains at another. The only difference is that the drawing off of the curtains in an orchestra is followed by thunderous applause, while the fall of the autumn leaves is pierced by a silence, deep and cold silence.

So much for sharing experiences

Krish sighed as he ran through a narrow alley. He was getting late for his appointment and to make matters worse, his new shoes were covered in mud; it had rained the previous night and the alley was full of little puddles that his feet kept getting stuck in. The kids would be really angry at him. Why wouldn’t they? They had paid to hear his stories and he kept getting late. They were impressionable pre-adolescents and he knew he had made a bad impression. All the he could hope for now was that the kids would forgive him; the last time he was late, he had gotten ice cream for all of them. His pockets had become empty and even now he cringed at how light his pockets felt.

So lost in his thoughts was Krish that he almost passed by his office. Cursing his wayward mind, he scrambled up the stairs and burst into his room. “You’re late!” was the first word he heard as he was pelted with empty Tiffin boxes and water bottles by twenty angry twelve year olds. “Calm down kids, I’m not that late! It’s just five minutes past the appointed time!” pleaded Krish as he took cover behind his office desk. After twenty seconds, he nervously stepped out of the protection his desk offered and made a calming gesture at the kids. Twenty pointed glares were the reply. If looks could kill, Krish would have been a dead man. ‘Why did I even start this thing?’ he lamented in his mind as he searched for a way to reduce the kids’ ire. An idea made its way into his mind and smiled at his own brilliance. Yes, this idea would work.

“Kids, all I do here is tell you some of my stories to get you interested in literature. Let’s do something different today. How about I share one of my experiences from my school days?” offered Krish as he observed the kids’ reaction. He almost performed a mini-jig as he saw the kids react positively to his proposal. “Well, what are you waiting for? Do we have to tell you when to start?” questioned Akash, a particularly sarcastic boy whose face was covered with pimples. Krish frowned at the question. Sometimes he really hated his job. It wasn’t something he had to do either; he could live a comfortable life off of the royalties he got from his books. It was his desire to contribute to the society that had led him to come up with a most peculiar method of contributing to society; he would tell stories to young kids in the hopes of getting them interested in literature. He had kept the fees to a minimum in order to get maximum participation from the people in the society. His decision had become the cause of many sleepless nights. A loud cough from Akash interrupted his chain of thought. A blush appeared on his face as he saw 20 pairs of eyes staring at him. Krish cleared his throat and began narrating a particularly interesting experience from school.