The alley

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 ko bhatti

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.

Time to say good bye

The sky was unambiguously clear and the sun was on its full swing but inside him a thunder storm was cutting its own umbilical cord. A squeaking melody leaked from his rocking chair matching it’s to and fro motion. The back and forth movement resembled his swing between existence and burial. A low priced cigarette hung between his wrinkled lips and the smoke was forming a rainless cloud. He gazed outside the window towards the happy faces and blurted, “Sons of bitches.”

It was his seventy-first birthday but there were neither gifts nor guests. And he certainly had ordered no pineapple cake. He received birthday kisses only from his whiskey and cigarettes. Anyone could interpret his eyes; he was starving for a companion but nobody served him the dish of empathy. He was hiding his anguish from the happy faces but all his fabrication washed away each time he dripped in reality.

“Grandpa why don’t you send your children to buy your groceries?” a young girl at the vegetable shop suggested.

“I know your kind,” his thunder storm erupted, “You think you will always be this happy happy young girl?”

“But grandpa…”

“I ain’t your freaking grandpa. Just pack the rotten potatoes and give me my change.”

 The girl’s face turned sour as the lemons in her basket. But in no time, she was attending to another customer. “Do you want carrots madam? It’s just forty rupees per kilo—totally fresh.”

The word ‘fresh’ bit his ear drums; he moved away from the shop. “Who does she think she is? I have plucked Cinderellas far younger and enhanced than her when I was young.” He tried to dissolve in the thick crowd of Asan market but the happy faces kept scanning him.

He returned home worn out. After a short nap he began slicing the potatoes. He didn’t wash them before slicing and it was intentional. He just dipped them in a bowl of fuzzy water for half of half a second and unleashed them on a greasy frying pan. He slowly chewed them one by one. Some of it got stuck in his fake front teeth but most made it through. His hands were too feeble to wash the dishes in cold water so he just left them unattended. And why did he have no hot water? Because his electricity was cut off last month as he could not pay the pending bills. It did not affect him that much; well, nothing really does. It was not like he owned a television or a radio so... (You know).

The watch

It was lying on the road’s edge with its flashy dial upwards as if it had been waiting to be picked up when Sagar spotted it. “How come I did not see that thing?” said Chandan. “If you want to spend the rest of the day simply staring at it, then I am moving ahead.” said Kaustuv, noticing Sagar and Chandan gazing at the watch with child-like fixation.

Kaustuv ordered dal bhat and chicken for three at a roadside restaurant in Panauti while Sagar and Chandan join him a bit later. “What a fine day! Isn’t it, dai?” asked Sagar, trying to initiate a conversation with the shopkeeper, who was busy removing the feathers from the chicken. “It is indeed. Where are you boys heading?” asked the shopkeeper. “We’ll stay at Namobuddha tonight, and return to Kathmandu tomorrow,” answered Chandan.

As the three friends climb the hill to Namobuddha from Panauti, Sagar whimpers holding his stomach. “Why did you have eat like you hadn’t eaten in ages?” asks Chandan. “May be the shopkeeper cursed you for eating so much,” says Kaustuv with a giggle. Sagar, however, was in real pain and told his friends that he could walk no further. Kaustuv got his mobile and tried to make a call but the area had no coverage. Afraid of not reaching their destination on time and not knowing what to do, Chandan and Kaustuv lift their friend and carry him to the nearest lodge.

“Is there anybody in the house? Can you please come out?” Kaustuv called, standing on the doorway of Shanti Lodge. A dark, heavily built man came out. Kaustuv asks the man if they could get a room. They tell him that their friend is unwell and ask if medical help is available. The man says that he has a room but that it was difficult to get any medical help at this hour.

The beloved Dr Ram

It was still dark outside when he woke up. His head felt like a ten-ton hammer as he struggled to lift it. He had had too much whiskey last night. His eyes were red and bleary. His right hand was lacerated from the fingers to the elbow; the blood seemed to have dried off. He dragged himself out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. When he got out, he realised his stomach was rumbling terribly; he hadn’t eaten anything while gulping down those two full bottles of whiskey.

“This stomach must be made silent,” he thought. With each second, the roar inside his intestines was getting louder. “Think. Think. I need to think here,” he tried to talk himself through the torment. His head was throbbing with a shattering pain. He knew that he had no food in the kitchen. And no water to drink.

•••

Ram was a doctor working at a very reputed hospital. He was building his reputation as a brilliant surgeon. He had worked hard through medical school in Dharan, and after completing his MBBS with exceptional grades, he had started work at a private hospital in Kathmandu. He was passionate and diligent, and everyone loved him. He was charming and wealthy, too. As one would expect, Dr Ram was the most sought after bachelor in the city. Dr Ram was also a little bit strange.

Few nurses had noticed Dr Ram hanging around the operation room long after surgery was over. After operations, Dr Ram would insist on being left alone with his patients. If an operation went wrong and the patient died, he would shut the doors of the operation theatre and remain inside for hours. Everyone assumed he needed solitude to reflect upon whatever had happened. Dr Ram would then come out, fresh and ready for another operation. No one bothered to ask what he did inside the theatre.

The gunman incident

I locked the door of my car, pocketed the key and started walking towards the Black Swan. It was a pub that was situated at the edge of the town, facing the hills. It was owned by Almecho, also my very good friend. The pub was usually alive on weekends. And today was Friday. Before entering the pub, I glanced at a board hanging beside the door. It was a tradition at the Black Swan to serve a new and special dish every Sunday. As I looked at the special item of that day my jaws dropped and my eyes nearly popped out. For, on the board it read: “Skewered Shark Liver.” Skewered shark livers? Whoever would want to eat that?

A musty smell, a buzz of people and a ringing bell greeted me as I opened the door and stepped inside the pub. I heard someone shout my name as I looked around the crowd. Towards the eastern corner sat five of my buddies: Peter, Adrian, Paul, Charlie and Michael. Peter was waving at me. I made my way to them through a jungle of people and clouds of smoke. Finally reaching them, I sat down on a stool beside Charlie and turned towards the bartender.
“The usual please,” I said to which I added, a little hesitatingly, 
“And the special.”
The bartender looked at me and nodded.
“In a minute,” he said.
I turned my attention towards my friends who were talking busily.
“So, what are you guys talking about?” I asked.
“Nothing much, just joking around,” Peter answered. I noticed that he was eating something I’d never seen before in the pub.
“Hey Peter. That the special?” I asked.
He nodded, unable to speak because of his full mouth. He chewed disgustingly like a child and swallowed it.
“So, how’s it?” I asked once he was finished.
“Don’t worry,” he said putting down his glass of juice, “You won’t die. At least it’s better than those fried rabbit kidneys from last week anyway. And it’s a little oily.”

Confessions of a murderer

Kissing is adventurous. If you are a guy and you have a sweetheart or a so-called girlfriend, you can kiss her any time you like. You can kiss her inside a public bus when you’re both on the last seat. You can kiss her publicly at a park when the light is fading. You can kiss her before departing after a meet-up. You can also kiss her in a busy station where no one pays attention to others. Kissing is a symbol of love, a kind of unvoiced seduction, an expression of attachment and affection and it gives immense pleasure and satisfaction.

My dear friend, I am not telling you the story of Romeo and Juliet or Sumnima and Parohang or Radha and Krishna from ancient times. This is a story of my college life—the time when I was neither a kid nor really all that mature. It took place at roughly the same time as when the nation faced the Royal massacre whose sole credit goes to the relationship between prince Dipendra and Devyani Rana. In this story, two young lovers were found hanging from a single rope in Doti when their parents rejected their plea to get married. Both incidents took place at the same time, and love began to feel like an evil force—a thing that caused death and destruction instead of something more positive. Falling in love with someone was a matter of shame and humiliation, resulting in disgrace in front of society. In such a society, and at such a time, if you were a guy who happened to kiss a girl who was not your wife, and people came to know about it, I can’t begin to think what would happen. One ear, two ears, a thousand ears would hear this. Each would have their own interpretation, plus exaggeration, and by the time it would have reach the last person, they would be confident that you had tried to rape her—thus landing you in police custody.

I don’t know how to begin talking of how we felt while in love with each other, of the things we did, and those we didn’t. One thing I want to confess is how I always carried an intense desire to kiss her, which she duly turned down every time. She wouldn’t even let me touch her. Brought up in a conservative environment, she always considered it a matter of great shame to have fallen in love with anyone at all.

On our first date, she took me up the hill of Budhanilkantha and told me to close my eyes. She wanted to just look at me for five minutes. I was a shy guy, and so I obeyed her order like a sincere kid and closed my eyes. Then after opening my eyes, I ordered her to do the same. I thought that while her eyes were closed, I would kiss her and fulfill my fantasy, but she refused to close her eyes. I was defeated. She was a betrayer.

A Mary Jane story

The 200CC engine revved like an alien monster in the silent forest trail. Its headlights provided a fuzzy visibility of the path ahead. The whole place seemed to be in a beautiful trance induced by some mystical lullaby. But what brought us here was not curiosity; this was where all our secret-dealings of ganja took place with ‘Shiva Baje’.

Shiva Baje was a friendly old man with salt and pepper hair peeking out of his ‘bhadgaule’ cap. He cultivated the weed himself and was always eager to introduce his harvesting methods to us, which we no doubt, appreciated. Whenever we went on these forest excursions, we never missed climbing the top of the hill that cradled Shiva Baje’s solitary abode. We had to make the ascent on foot because there was no bike-trail leading to the top. It took about half an hour to reach the crest. From this vantage point one could see the city merge into the beautiful paddy fields and forests. Here, the clouds were level and the wind blew strongly. The weed blended perfectly with soft music providing the divine experience of flying. We talked about our aspirations and desires. We made paper planes that took different trajectories each time circling, spiraling, swooping and diving.
 
On the top there was an abandoned house. The upper storey had fallen in exposing the sky. It was a magnificent place for us to take shelter whenever the day turned too hot or it rained. Shiva Baje told us that the place was haunted. The strange gaze on his eyes made the whole story creepier.

When our black Pulsar reached Shiva Baje’s lonely abode, he was already up and smoking his pipe at the entrance of the hut. He called out to us, “Oho bhai haru saberai aunu bhayo ni.” (You are early today). He stooped through the low entrance of his hut and came out with a plastic-full of withered weed. We made our purchase.

The time traveller

Time started and it continued, never to stop or wait for anyone. People enter at a point and exit from another, never seeing what lies before or beyond. Someone has said, “There is the known and the unknown, and in between are the doors.” These are doors that one can neither enter nor exit from at will. These are doors that shut out all answers.

But what if someone travelled across these cosmic gateways?

Shivering, I stood atop the top of the world. The snowy mountains and the cold wind always help me clear my thoughts. But today the lonely mountains provide me little consolation. A kaleidoscope of thoughts haunt me, and the stars gaze at me pitifully. Desperation clutches me in its hard grasp. I wish tomorrow would never come. I wish I had the power to freeze time. Then I could be with Jane forever!

Tears filled my eyes and my heart ached, unable to restrain the pain inside. I stood up brushing away the snow from my hair. The wind was rushing all around. As I walked, I left small footprints behind me on the snow like tiny echoes. I must save Jane. I will have to find a way.

•••

With hair white as snow and wrinkles which seemed like endless streams, I recognised him immediately. He was so engrossed in scribbling something on a few sheets of paper that he did not look up even when I crashed right in front of him. This was the person I had known to be a creator of ideas since I’d been in the first grade. The paper lying before him on the table was scrawled with signs and algebraic expressions. They seemed familiar. He was rubbing his temple with his fingers; it seemed he was stuck on something.

Into the wild

This is an excerpt from the diary a Sherpa found in a cave high in the mountains. It was lying abandoned on the cave floor; there was a skeleton nearby. The Sherpa brought the diary back to the village with him so that its people might believe his story of the dead man in the cave…

I am squeezed under stones and engulfed by complete darkness. When I reach out, I can only feel the ragged walls. I am cold and hungry and lost. My tongue is dry and my feet ache. I have lost track of time and space. Sharp stones cut my feet through the torn shoes. I can feel the weak weight of the backpack on my shoulders. I have run out of food and water. There are but only silence and darkness to keep me company here. I feel through my jeans pocket. I have a matchbox and one matchstick left.

Life is like that; you shake the matchbox, and every time you do so, you hear the faint sound of the matchsticks moving inside. You become so used to the sound that you begin to believe that it will never leave you. Then you shake the box, and that faint sound comes no more. Here I was with the last matchstick; perhaps the last I would ever light.

I took out a cigarette stick I had filled with marijuana as I sat then in the warm sunshine. An ironic coincidence that I was about to smoke it here; in the dark. I rubbed the matchstick against its box. The flickering light fell faintly on the rocky walls of the cave. I gazed at my shadow; my long hair fell against my shoulder (like that of knights in all those books and movies). I had always wanted to keep my hair that long while I was in school. I lit the cigarette and pulled the smoke into my lungs. It crawled unpleasantly through my dry throat. As I smoked, I held the burning matchstick between my fingers. The heat hurt me more as the stick burned itself out. I threw it away when I could not bear the heat any longer. I was back in darkness; except for the silent glow of the cigarette end.

I puffed the smoke rhythmically. I could already feel myself swirling into the wilderness of my mind. As the cigarette burnt shorter, I felt myself climbing higher until finally, only the stub remained.