Residing in the Chitwan district, where the wild elephants roam as freely as the rivers that carve our land, I am accustomed to the extraordinary. Yet, I could never have foreseen that my most extraordinary journey would begin in the mundane purgatory of the Gautam Buddha International Airport and Tribhuvan International Airport.
Little did I know, these seemingly ordinary gateways would lead me to a world beyond my wildest imagination, a world where the laws of physics and societal norms were beautifully twisted.
Upon my arrival at the more peculiar Gautam Buddha International Airport, I encountered a security guard, his uniform crisp yet his expression sombre. I couldn't help but inquire, "Excuse me, sir, but where are all the travellers?"
He chuckled softly, a hint of irony in his voice. "Travelers? Oh, we've turned this place into something else entirely. You're now standing in the grandest museum of Bhairahawa!"
"A museum?" I echoed, my brow furrowing in confusion.
"Yes," he continued, sweeping his arm across the desolate expanse.
"Here, we exhibit the grand ambition of our leaders, the masterpieces of their promises. Each empty chair is a tribute to the passengers that never came. Each silent gate was a testimony to the flights that never took off.
You see, we don't have international flights; the investment made was quite substantial, but, alas, it served more for commission and loot than for public transport."
The absurdity of the situation was not lost on me, a state-of-the-art facility standing as nothing more than a mausoleum of misused resources. It was a biting commentary on misplaced priorities, a physical manifestation of the chasm between the rulers and the ruled.
The security guard followed, providing unsolicited but insightful commentary on each piece. "And here," he gestured towards the pristine, unused luggage carousels, "we have the rotating wheels of progress, forever stationary."
I nodded, taking note of this peculiar gallery of governmental folly. The absurdity was almost humorous if it wasn't so tragically true—a perfect lever to escape into other planes of existence.
Then, after a few days, I returned to Tribhuvan International Airport for my flight back to our second home. Amidst the chaos of delayed flights and disgruntled passengers, a scene that mirrored the restlessness within me. The air was thick with frustration, a universal language understood by all, regardless of origin.
In the sterile confines of the departure lounge, I first glimpsed the fissure—a shimmering tear in the fabric of reality, a portal to another world, unnoticed by the world-weary eyes around me.
Driven by curiosity and the innate desire for adventure that runs through the veins of every Nepali, I approached the fissure. I reached out, and in a breath, I was transported not to another country but to another place of existence entirely, a realm far beyond the mundane purgatory of the Tribhuvan International Airport.
I found myself on a planet called Zentara, a world of such breathtaking beauty that it surpassed the vibrancy of our Tharu art. Its people moved with a rhythm and grace that mirrored our traditional dancers. I, the intrepid traveller, was utterly captivated by this alien culture, documenting my experiences in the well-worn leather-bound journal I always carried.
"Delayed again!" grumbled a fellow passenger; his frustration echoed in the collective groan that filled the terminal, a universal language of frustration that transcended cultural and linguistic barriers, reflecting on the shared human experience of disappointment and impatience.
"Perhaps the planes are staging a silent protest," I mused aloud, my voice a stray note amidst the cacophony of discontent.
A chuckle from my side drew my attention to a woman with eyes that seemed to have captured the cosmos. "Or maybe they've grown tired of the skies they know," she suggested, her grin as enigmatic as the galaxies.
It was then I noticed a curious glimmer, like a mirage, but sharper, nestled between the dismal seats of the waiting area. Without hesitation, my new acquaintance grabbed my hand. "Shall we?" she asked, gesturing toward the anomaly, a portal to another world that seemed to defy all logic and reason.
We stepped through and found ourselves not on another plane but on another planet. Zentara was a world so ludicrous in its beauty that it made our temples and palaces seem like mere sketches in the dust, a stark contrast to the absurdity of the airport and the societal norms it represented.
As we ventured, the woman—introducing herself as Aastha—became more than just a guide. She became my fellow observer, sharing this celestial escapade's wonder and absurdity.
"Look there," Aastha pointed towards a group of Zentarans engaged in what appeared to be a heated debate.
"Is it politics?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.
"Even better," she replied, her voice tinged with amusement. "They're arguing whether clouds should be classified as public property since everyone uses them to think."
We laughed; our human sensibilities tickled by such an outlandish concept.
Our path led us to a marketplace where a merchant proudly showcased his wares. "This, my friends, is a bottle of genuine Zentaran gravity. A dab behind the ears, and you'll feel lighter than air!"
Aastha raised an eyebrow. "How practical. And here we are, using gravity all willy-nilly with no thought of conservation."
Our journey continued, each encounter more bizarre than the last. We met artists who painted with colours that defied our understanding, their canvases a symphony of impossible hues.
We dined with philosophers who debated not the meaning of life. Still, the absurdity of it all, insisting that laughter was the universe's baseline frequency, a concept that both amused and intrigued us.
Throughout my journey, I couldn't help but draw stark contrasts between Earth and Zentara. I saw the same spark of kindness that I'd found in the smiles of my neighbours back home but also the same shadows of greed and power that had marred much of our history.
Zentara also struggled with resources and opportunities. Yet, they approached these challenges with a collective mindset that humanity often needed to improve. It was a subtle commentary, a mirror held up to my species.
We, who have the vastness of Earth, still find reasons to divide ourselves. In contrast, the people of Zentara, each with their distinct ways of life, found strength in their shared planet, reflecting the societal norms and values that shape our world.
As I documented these experiences, my thoughts often wandered back to Earth. I pondered what my friends back home would make of a society where the absurd was the norm and the impossible merely routine.
Upon our return through the shimmering fissure, the dreary airport had transformed.
It was no longer a place of delay but a threshold between worlds, a reminder that even amidst the tedium, infinite possibilities existed.
"Quite the side trip, wasn't it?" Aastha remarked, her eyes sparkling with shared secrets.
"Indeed," I replied, my mind already weaving the narrative. "I believe our Earth could use a dose of Zentaran absurdity. Perhaps it would teach us not to take our existence so gravely."
"Or at the very least," Aastha chuckled, "to argue about the communal ownership of clouds."
As I reflect on my improbable sojourn from the elephant-inhabited plains of Chitwan to the echoing, empty corridors of Bhairahawa's airport-turned-museum, I realise that the most extraordinary tales often lie on the fringes of the mundane.
My journey became a
voyage of absurd revelations—a testament to the whims of fate and the
hidden fissures that can lead to worlds unimagined. Thus, I returned
armed with tales of cosmic whimsy; if we could embrace a fraction of
that interstellar absurdity, we could discover unity in our diversity
and joy in our shared humanity.
Nepal's leading daily newspaper
https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/06/30/the-museum-of-airborne-dreams
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