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.
