One day in the village

With the mist rises the village under the warmth of the red sun blended with the chill of the morning. If morning shows the day, then a glorious day is bound to follow.

Cows moo for fodder and also as milk is being sucked out from her body by the lord of the house. He also busies himself tearing a large tree trunk apart for firewood with his sharp axe, swinging up and down which makes a beautiful arc in the air. As the pigeons in the attic of the wooden house or the pigeonholes in the concrete edifice brood with their fluttering voices, time seems to have stopped under the sun vibrant and still. Daughters and wives get their brooms and clean their houses before sitting at a corner of the kitchen covered by smoke to cook food.

Children walk down to their schools in typical blue pants and white shirts, most on foot while some on the cycles. These latter ones are the main means of transportation for the people. Vendors use them to transport their goods. Customers hang their shopping bags on the handle on the way to and from the bazaar or hatia, children learn to cycle by putting one foot through the frame to reach the pedal on the other side, and buddies carry each other on the rod connecting the handle and the cycle.

A group of people are huddled beneath the shade of the pipal tree, some slapping their floppy thighs, some chewing betel leaves and all talking about the village happenings. Dust rises to meet the sky as the result of the local bus rushing over the muddy road with the roof filled with people. Tiffin, well, it is as rare as activity during noontime in the village as meals for most people are limited to two a day.

As the sun dips below the horizon, a cool afternoon envelops the village. It is more heart quenching in the context of the thirst the hot day went away leaving. The greasy smell of grey smoke emerges from firewood burnt around the mud-built houses.

An orange hue is cast across the full length of the sky under which gleam tin roofs, and the lush green leaves and paddy sway to the tunes of the wind. All of their essence can only be captured by the clinking of the Binayo and the rattle of the Jhyali brought to life with the blending of the crisp voice representing people of bygone days that is played by the radio at the tea shop.

While the sweetness of a village lies in its raw aspects, its ultimate glory lies in progress. A village is what a Nepali is, hard-working, persistent, jovial; and yet it is also subtly sad.

- Prajjwal Dangal

The stolen cucumbers

The caste-system is still alive and flourishing in certain regions of the Indian subcontinent. Hindu sects that live by its norms exist in pockets—large and small—all around the region. The Hindus claim that Brahma, God of Creation, created all men unequal. While some sects are believed to have emerged from Brahma’s mouth, others are said to have been expelled from his feet. Those who were created from his mouth are Brahmins, they believe, and those whose creation centred on his hands are Kshyatriyas. Sects that issued forth from his thighs were the Vaisya and those whose origins are believed to have been in his feet were relegated to the caste of Sudra, ‘untouchables’ who face discrimination in all aspects of their lives.

If you are a Brahmin, it is given that you do not let Sudras and Vaisyas enter your home despite the fact that your village life is seamlessly interwoven. The fabric of village society is created by inter-related threads—blacksmiths who make the essential tools for agriculture and play music during marriages and festivities, tailors who wear the very clothes in which you dress. As a Brahmin myself, I sometimes wonder what all those who’re deemed untouchable in my village would do, if they were plucked out of the Hindu society I live in, and then trained in foreign countries. At least one of my fellow villagers would make it as fashion designers I think, but that is only just a dream. The reality lies in poverty and illiteracy, in discrimination and untouchability.

As the dawn flaunted its hues of red over the horizon, the village housewives started waking up. One by one, the women opened their eyes to the crowing of roosters. Their daily chores had begun. At first, they opened the windows, inviting refreshing air into their aged homes. After a while, still sleepy-eyed, they opened their doors. Next, the village women emptied their clay water pots—which still held water from the day before—into a bucket for the cows to drink. They only wanted the freshest water and food for themselves. And their Gods and demigods would never accept stale offerings.

A yogini

I am seeing it all and it is so strange. They are undressing him. They are doing something I haven’t ever seen. What are they doing is the question? I have no idea. Such is life; I should not be emotional, else I will break down right here. I should not have come here to see what has always been prohibited in for my gender.

“Take her away, girls will break down if they see this”, Baba had yelled and Ma had hurriedly covered my eyes with her hand. I hadn’t seen anything expect fumes from the spaces between my mum’s fingers. The smell had been bad; subsequently, I had collapsed.

I should not have come here to see this. What if I collapse again? Who will take care of me?

I am a brave woman now. I should face this. I should be like the sun and the rivers; I should live life without collapsing again.

 A faint smell of vodka, I love vodka now. I have become used to it and don’t feel the shame anymore. When you have nothing, you have nothing to worry about. No, I am not losing. I won’t lose. I will hold on tightly, stop and fight with those on my way. I can’t lose at any cost.

“Om Nama Shivaya”, the yogi in black is chanting. Why has he worn such a dreadful dress? I am disappointed and he is alone. He is taking something out of his bag. No, he is not hitting me. No, he seems to be a good man, and he won’t hurt me.

“You are beautiful, your eyes are lovely. Let me sing a song for them, gajalu ti thula thula akha tira bani basyo yo dilaima…” He had embarrassed me that day, the first day we met at college. Still, I loved the way he had made me feel so beautiful for the first time in my life.

Frozen blackberry juice

The street exhaled a cloud of dust and smoke as the procession of tires crushed the ground and carried away a strong smell of tobacco towards the north. Across the street, attuned with the rhythm of drumbeats, the woman’s khukuri continued slicing the chunk or red meat into equal pieces, and the spatula supported by her left hand was dancing on the frying pan.

This side was the tea stall. It was virtually connected with the radio tower looming over its roof. Nityanand was a regular reporter, and I a part time anchor at the radio station situated just behind the stall.

Nityanand was a pensive man. So, our conversation involved more silence than sound. Sometimes he forgot that he was sitting with his friend and having tea. Sometimes he suddenly woke up and spat, “You know…”

It was at these times that I knew that he’d begun hatching the eggs he’d laid in his mind.

“These FM radios are generating a new generation in Janakpur,” he spat.

“Yes I know,” I said. “It’s become easier to catch a hotty naughty and copulate thereafter.” 

Sometimes he sounded more a preacher than a friend, “Actually girls now catch mikes,” he uttered, trying to adopt a convincing tone.

“It’s cool that they do,” I responded. But my resignation couldn’t stop him from pouring out the seemingly unending stream of his profound truths. “Girls have overcome the fear of being crowded,” he said. “They can venture into crowds, and ask questions to political leaders; ask them sternly enough to puzzle the men.”