The silent heartbeat

In the quiet spaces between heartbeats, love speaks the loudest truths. Under the expansive cerulean sky, in the heart of Chitwan's jungle, stood an old, sun-kissed hospital—an oasis of healing. Nurse Priya glided through the corridors, symbolising unwavering dedication. Amid the patients seeking solace, she encountered Vincent, a ninety-five-year-old man whose eyes held a lifetime of memories now fading away.

“Priya,” Vincent's voice was always a soft call, a summons that pulled at her heartstrings with unexpected force. "Your hands are a comfort, more healing than any medicine a doctor could prescribe." His words, filled with a depth of admiration that transcended mere gratitude, echoed in the corridors of her mind.

She would smile, dismissing the fluttering in her chest as mere professional admiration for his indomitable spirit. "You flatter me, Vincent. It's merely my job."

His gnarled hand would often find hers, a touch that lingered, speaking of gratitude and perhaps something more. How he looked at her, with a depth of emotion that belied his frail frame, stirred something in Priya, she thought long dormant. But she was a married woman, and such thoughts were a betrayal she could not afford. The conflict between her professional duty and personal feelings raged in her heart, a tempest of emotions she struggled to navigate, each wave threatening to capsise her. The turmoil in her heart was a storm that refused to be calmed.

Priya felt a tenderness for Vincent that was as surprising as it was profound. In the dimly lit hospital room, his presence was a beacon of warmth, his appreciation for her care a balm to her spirit. The way he listened to her, made her feel valued in a way that transcended the professional bounds of nurse and patient. 

His eyes, alive with the embers of a long life, met hers with an intensity that spoke of sincere affection and gratitude. It was a quiet, gentle connection that resonated with her unexpectedly. Each shared smile and moment of laughter wove into her heart, creating a fondness she had never anticipated.

At home, Bikash, her husband, waited in silence. The days of passionate embraces and endless conversations had withered like the petals of a forgotten lotus in the sun. His words were sparse, his gestures of affection even rarer."

"Once again, you're late," Bikash's voice carried a hint of accusation as Priya returned home one evening.

"The patients needed me," Priya responded, her voice carrying the weariness of her shift.

"Do they need you more than your husband?" His words were sharp and venomous, causing her to flinch.

“It's not a matter of need, Bikash. It's my duty," Priya said, her tone defensive.

But Bikash could see how her eyes lost their lustre when she spoke of duty and how they shone when she recounted tales of Vincent's wisdom. The anxiety gnawed at him like a relentless beast in his chest.

Bikash had experienced heartbreak before, and it made him cautious about love. After two painful breakups, he was afraid to show his emotions. He didn't want to get hurt again, so he kept his feelings in check, especially with Priya. He was worried that being too open with his emotions would only lead to more pain. This self-imposed barrier prevented him from fully expressing his love and kept him emotionally distant. Even when he wanted to show Priya how much he cared, his past experiences held him back. His fear of getting hurt again stopped him from being as affectionate as he wanted, creating a deep sense of emotional distance.

"Tell me, Priya, does this old man's admiration please you?" Bikash's question hung in the air, heavy with implications.

Priya's silence was her answer, and the space between them grew, filled with unspoken truths and fears, creating a palpable tension in their relationship that was as heavy as the Chitwan's jungle air. The weight of their unmet expectations hung in the air, a burden they both carried, casting a shadow over their once vibrant love. The tension in their relationship was like a heavy fog that refused to lift.

In contrast, Bikash often seemed like a stranger to her. He was more focused on his work and outward interests, leaving her feeling distant due to his passions and preoccupations. Their growing silence felt like an unbridgeable gap filled with unspoken conversations and missed connections.

With Vincent, she felt understood and seen, while with Bikash, she often felt neglected and like an afterthought in his busy life. This stark difference left her feeling lost and confused, the emotional chasm between them widening with each passing day. The strain in their relationship was becoming more and more palpable.

On one hand, there was her dutiful husband, who was always there but often absent. On the other hand, there was an elderly man whose limited time left seemed to brighten her days. Priya found herself at a crossroads, torn between two very different paths.

Each day Priya spent with Vincent, their connection deepened. His stories of youth in the face of his impending mortality reminded her of the vibrancy of life, and his attentiveness filled a void she hadn't realised was there.

“You have a light in you, Priya," Vincent whispered one day, his hand squeezing hers. It was a dimmed light.

In the honesty of his gaze, Priya saw a reflection of her longing.

Bikash kept his feelings for Priya hidden deep inside. He was afraid of losing her due to misunderstandings, bad luck, or someone else, so he never told her how he felt. Even though he cared for her deeply, he felt empty because he never showed affection or expressed his emotions.

Bikash often practised how he would tell her, but he could only manage distant and calm interactions when he was around her. This inner struggle made him feel desperate as he saw his silence push Priya further away every day.

Each day, Bikash’s mind raced with the possibility of losing Priya, not to death, but to a man whose heart was as generous as time was cruel. Each night, he lay awake, listening to the silence.

Bikash, unable to quell the jealous intensity that raced through his heart, watched as his wife blossomed under the attention of another man, albeit a dying one. His mind was a maelstrom of anxiety and stress, and he was unable to understand or accept the depth of Priya's connection with Vincent.

"Why does he look at you with such affection?" One night, Bikash's question was more of an attempt to understand than an accusation.

When Priya's eyes met his, he saw a turmoil that mirrored his own. "Vincent sees me, truly sees me," she said softly.

Priya's confession about Vincent's understanding and appreciation created a gap between unspoken emotions and unmet expectations that neither knew how to bridge. Their growing distance was palpable due to their unspoken truths and fears.

In their tranquil home, Bikash and Priya sat closely together, listening to the melodic pattern of the monsoon rains. The storm offered a welcome break from the sterile hospital rooms and Bikash's demanding business affairs.

A lightning bolt illuminated their faces momentarily, revealing the unspoken truth of their enduring love hidden beneath layers of unexpressed fears and daily distractions. Priya found herself torn between her fondness for a terminally ill elderly man and the profound impact of his acknowledgement of her value.

At the same time, Bikash realised that his self-restraint could put their love at risk. As they sat together, unable to vocalise their emotions, their love story remained an unfinished sonnet lingering in the humid air.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/08/04/the-silent-heartbeat

The museum of airborne dreams

 

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.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/06/30/the-museum-of-airborne-dreams

The day Bhairab danced in Asan

In the bustling city of Kathmandu, which stands in the shadow of the majestic Himalayas, with its narrow lanes and ancient temples, there lives a young woman called Aarohi. Her spirit is as vibrant as the prayer flags fluttering in the wind on top of the hills. Her laughter is a melodious symphony that often cuts across Kathmandu's noisy and busy streets. The only thing she loved was to write stories that captured Nepal's true essence.

The smell of incense, among other elements used in these stories, makes them function like bridges between two worlds, helping people to remember their past lives.

Nevertheless, Aarohi hardly laughed anymore; no stories came from her mouth, and one would say that something had locked up her spirit.

At one time, her apartment was full of the aroma of traditional sarangi music, and some incense burned inside it. Nevertheless, today, nothing is left apart from the darkness and light emitted by her laptop. The friends became invisible pixels, while conversations turned into mere meaningless words.

Her friend Suman had noticed the change in Aarohi's demeanour. Known for his playful banter and unyielding optimism, he decided it was time for an intervention. He concocted a plan requiring all his charm and a touch of the absurdity that Aarohi had always enjoyed. It was a sunny afternoon when he arrived at her doorstep, ready to put his plan into motion.

Suman's intervention was not just a plan but a beacon of hope and a testament to the transformative power of friendship and creativity, inspiring the audience with its potential.

Suman dropped by unannounced. He knocked on her door to the rhythm of a popular Nepali folk song. Aarohi, startled out of her digital trance, answered the door with a sheepish smile.

With his characteristic humour, Suman teased her, “Aarohi, if you were any more plugged in, you'd be a living and breathing power bank!”

Aarohi chuckled, but her laughter didn't quite reach her eyes. “I'm just catching up on some stuff,” she lied as she closed numerous tabs on her screen.

Suman, never one to tread lightly, retorted, “Catching up? The only thing you're catching is digital insomnia. When was the last time you wrote something? Your blog's collecting more dust than the attic at the Hanuman Dhoka.”

The words stung more than Aarohi cared to admit. She plopped down on her bed, surrounded by crumpled pages filled with half-formed ideas and crossed-out lines. “I don't know, Suman. Every time I start, I just... I can't.”

Suman took a seat beside her, his tone softening. “You know, for someone who talks to her screen more than people, your laptop's not giving you much conversation back, is it?”

The absurdity of her situation became painfully clear. Aarohi sighed. “Whenever I watch another video or see someone's perfect post, my words seem pointless. Who'd want to read my stories when they can watch the world in HD?”

The irony was thick in the air, a stark reminder of the natural world's richness and the superficiality of the digital realm.

The pair sat silently, the buzz of Aarohi's phone notifications filling the void. Finally, Suman stood up, his eyes brimming with mischief. “Alright, here's what we're going to do.”

Aarohi watched, puzzled, as Suman opened her window, letting the sounds of the city flood in. “We're going to make a deal. You'll write about the first thing you see outside this window, and I'll…”

“You'll what?” Aarohi was curious.

“I'll dance to a full song in the middle of Asan Market wearing a Bhairab mask!” Suman declared, striking a dramatic pose.

Laughter bubbled up from Aarohi's belly, a sound she hadn't heard from herself in a long time. "You're on!"

She peered outside, her gaze landing on a peculiar sight—a monkey perched on a power line, seemingly watching a group of tourists navigate the crowded street below with comical confusion.

Aarohi grabbed her pen and notebook, the image of the monkey on the power line igniting a spark within her. She began to scribble furiously, her words painting a tale of the monkey as the city's unspoken tour guide, offering absurd but insightful commentary on the human condition. The monkey, a symbol of the city's untamed spirit, became the protagonist of her story, guiding her narrative with his mischievous antics.

Suman peeked over her shoulder, reading her lines and nodding in approval. “Yes! That's the Aarohi I remember. Keep going!”

Emboldened, Aarohi wove humour and absurdity into her story. The monkey offered philosophical musings on the tourists' relentless quest for Wi-Fi signals, likening them to sacred pilgrimages of old.

Her pen could barely keep up with the story's rapid unfolding—the monkey's decision to launch his own YouTube channel, his meteoric rise to fame, and his eventual realisation that he yearned for the simplicity of life as a monkey in Kathmandu. Aarohi's creative process had undergone a metamorphosis, her words flowing effortlessly as she painted the monkey's journey.

As Aarohi wrote the final words, she felt a lightness she hadn't felt in months. She looked up with Suman, her face alight with triumph. “Done!” At that moment, she was not just a storyteller but a conqueror of her doubts and fears.

True to his word, Suman groaned but accepted his fate with an exaggerated bow. “I suppose I have a date with destiny... and a mask.”

The next day, amidst the chaos of Asan Market, Suman danced with abandon, his Bhairab mask drawing a curious crowd. Aarohi watched a mix of horror and delight on her face as she recorded the spectacle.

Her video, ‘The Day Bhairab Danced in Asan’, went viral. People couldn't get enough of the humorous and heartwarming sight, and Aarohi's storytelling took on a new form. Her words, once confined to the digital realm, now had the power to bring people together, to make them laugh and think, and to remind them of the beauty and absurdity of life in Kathmandu.

The video of Suman's Bhairab dance became a local legend. It was a tale retold with laughter in the tea shops and shared worldwide through the screens that once held Aarohi captive. She had found a way to marry her love for storytelling with the undeniable reach of the digital world, all thanks to Suman's intervention.

Her blog was revived, and she is now hosting a series of ‘Only in Kathmandu’ stories that celebrate the quirks of her city, receiving comments from every corner of the globe. Suman's playful banter and unyielding optimism have brought Aarohi back to life and sparked a new chapter in her storytelling journey.

Aarohi and Suman became an unlikely creative duo. Their work sparked a movement that reminded everyone to look beyond their screens and appreciate the world around them, to find stories in the streets they walked and the faces they passed.

Aarohi's room now lay open to the world, her window a portal to inspiration rather than an escape. And every now and then, when Suman felt the itch for another bout of absurdity, Aarohi would be there, pen in hand, ready to capture the magic of the unplanned and the beauty of the real.

Together, they showed the world that sometimes, to find what truly connects us, we must disconnect, step out, and dance with the Bhairabs that walk among us. As for Aarohi, she never forgot her lesson—that even in a digitised world, the human story is the most powerful connection.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/06/02/the-day-bhairab-danced-in-asan

A promise of new beginning

The sun dipped below Chitwan’s horizon as Kamana wrapped up another long shift. Her feet ached for rest and her heart longed for the indulgence of a hearty dinner, but familial duty beckoned. With a sigh, she redirected her steps towards her family home. There, amidst the warm embraces and familiar chatter, stood Shankar—a dashingly familiar face from her childhood, the man whose silent admiration had flourished from schoolyard glances.

With intentions as clear as the sky, Shankar sought her hand in marriage. Agreeing to a courtship, Kamana stepped into a dance of destiny with the man who once lived in her daydreams.

The days unfurled like the petals of a lotus, revealing a profound love that Kamana found herself enveloped in its bloom, wedded to the man of her reveries. But fate, ever the trickster, had surprises tucked up its sleeve. Shankar revealed plans for a new life in America, a land of dreams where opportunity beckoned like the stars. Yet, just as their American journey began, life stirred within Kamana—a child, a promise of new beginnings.

With a baby on the horizon and a foreign land as her new reality, Kamana faced the daunting question of her place in this brave new world, where a pregnant foreigner's prospects seemed as uncertain as the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings.

“Shankar, I don't know how to find work here while pregnant.”

“You are my wife now, so you don’t need to worry about these things. I will provide for you and the children. You will stay home and care for the children and the house.”

Kamana honestly didn’t like the idea of staying at home, but for now, it seemed like the best decision for her. Soon, their son was born, and a little girl was born a couple of years later. Kamana seemed lost in the daily routine of caring for the children, cooking and cleaning. She had lost her identity as a person and was now just Shankar’s wife. Before she knew it, ten years had passed, and she couldn’t remember having an identity of her own anymore. 

 

The days she worked and lived off her own money were gone, but she still missed those days. Having something to do that made her feel important and like she belonged.

Trapped in the existential void of being known merely as Shankar's wife, Kamana grappled with the erasure of her essence.

For a decade, she had slipped through Kamana's fingers like grains of sand, each year amplifying her sense of isolation in a land that was home yet not entirely. She moved through her American life as though wrapped in a translucent veil, visible yet separated from those around her.

Her life in Nepal, vibrant with friendships and familiarity, now played out in distant echoes carried on the wind. As she tended to her children, a creeping realisation hollowed her spirit—she had become a mere shadow of her former self, an empty vessel where once a fierce soul blazed.

On an unremarkable day, amidst the mundane lull, a spark ignited within her. Kamana could no longer wither in the confines of her bubble; the time had come to reclaim her essence, to seek her rightful place in this sprawling tapestry. She yearned to rediscover the fire that once defined her, the unique essence of being that whispered, insistently—Kamana.

“Shankar. I can’t live this way anymore. The kids are growing up, and I need something more in my life than just caring for them. I want to find who I am, get a job and feel like I am doing something,” Kamana tried to explain to her husband.

“How would I look? I can't support my family, so I have my wife go off and try to find her work. Your place is at home taking care of the children, and mine is going out and making money. You already have an identity; you are Kamana; you already have a belonging; it is here with the children,” he replied.

He tried to argue with her, not wanting her to go out into the world and leave being a housewife.

“I feel empty compared to how I used to feel. When we first started seeing each other and I was working and helping people, you could see how happy I was. Look at me and tell me that you see the same joy in me having to stay at home all the time. The children are now old enough to let themselves in after school.”

Weeks of tension strained Kamana and Shankar’s marriage as they grappled with her need for self-fulfilment. Eventually, Shankar recognised that her happiness was paramount and blessed her to seek what would give her a sense of belonging.

Lost at first, Kamana wandered the city, considering various roles that might reignite her sense of identity. It wasn’t until her eyes met a billboard for nursing school that her path became apparent—an opportunity to nurture her true self.

“I want to attend school and become a nurse,” She told her husband.

“You're not the cheery woman I married,” Shankar replied.

He was unhappy and told her he didn't want her doing something that would take so long to learn. So that she could find something else that gave her a less time-consuming purpose, she was determined, though she knew that helping people medically would be the thing that made her feel whole again.

So, she started to attend school and learn how to become a nurse. By the time she had finished everything and passed all the exams, her children had grown into young teenagers. They were proud of their mother, and her daughter said she aspired to be just like her and find the thing that gave her identity.

As the Nepalese New Year dawned, it ushered in a tide of fortune for Kamana. She secured a position at a local hospital, and even in the face of long hours and challenging patients, an unwavering sense of belonging enveloped her—a sign that luck was indeed on her side as the new year began.

She wasn’t just Shankar’s wife anymore; she was her person. She had an identity as a nurse, which gave her a community where she could make friends and become more part of society than she had been since she arrived in Nepal. Her husband had finally realised that she was much happier now that she had found a place in this country where she belonged.

Being his wife wasn’t an identity of her own, just an extension of his. Kamana wanted to do one more thing: share her story with others so that nobody would feel like they had no identity or belonging in the world.

Kamana’s journey of self-discovery resonated far and wide as her blog became a beacon of inspiration. Her words encouraged others to seek out their passions and to find their voices and places in the world. Her story, a ripple that turned into a wave, even reached her homeland of Nepal, where pride swelled in the hearts of her family and friends.

In her quest for identity, Kamana had transformed from a woman adrift to a purposeful nurse. It was a stark reminder of the existentialist truth that one must forge one’s path to avoid the abyss of losing oneself to the definitions of others.

Her newfound wholeness became a rallying cry for her fellow nurses, a call to share their tales. Kamana’s dream was to foster a community, a sanctuary for all who felt lost, to help them uncover their spark—their reason to be. She proved that within everyone lies the power to be their person, to carve out their destiny.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/04/28/a-promise-of-new-beginning

Echoes of buwa’s motorcycle

I’ll never forget the smell of his Hero Honda bike, reminiscent of stale Yak cigarette. It evoked ancient memories of weekend visits filled with ice creams and butter chicken for dinner. I was fond of munching on traditional Nepali baara (Black Gram lentil Pancake), especially when baked with peanut butter—a treat buwa's girlfriend would cook on Saturday mornings.

It was an old model of Honda, two-toned with the colours of the lake and an overly saturated sky. The Hero Honda was quickly made rideable again; its forks were replaced, brakes repaired and the dry tyres filled with air. As a child, too young to be there legally, I would sit on the bike’s back seat, playing alone. Buwa would reach over to tuck me in, and I would catch the scent of cigarettes on his black leather jacket.

The Hero Honda bike was a recurrent topic in our sporadic conversations, particularly when I was permitted to visit buwa and during our occasional phone calls over the past few years. Buwa would update me on his progress toward our shared goal of riding bikes together.

On a motorcycle, travelling was an act of freedom. Buwa was free to match the pace of the slowest common denominator. Sometimes, I felt he enjoyed the solitude.

He’d smoke while we rode, whether a brief five-minute ride to the Bhatbhateni market or a four to five-hour journey to my grandparents’ house in Ranighat, Birgunj. With his cigarette hand hanging out, the wind whisked the ash into the crisp summer air.

He’d play old Bob Dylan songs on the Sony portable cassette player. As traffic congested the downtown region, buwa would sharpen his focus, adeptly navigating through the throng of vehicles with a calculated anticipation of other drivers’ actions. He’d sing along to each scratchy tune, elongating each word, and always turn to smile at me in the back seat.

“Sing it again, buwa!” I’d squeal, almost on cue. And he’d happily oblige, rewinding the track to start over.

In Birgunj, the chaos of urgent life caused rules to dissolve. Pedestrians weaved between gridlocked bullock carts, cyclists ignored traffic lights and drivers struggled to manoeuvre their oversized vehicles. Amid it all, buwa manoeuvred like a maverick on two wheels, expertly slipping through the urban labyrinth, balancing speed and safety.

I’d trace patterns in the fog on his black leather Hero Honda jacket, pressing my fingers against it to see how long the imprint would last before it faded from the cold or my boredom. The leather was worn, cracked and peeling. Unnoticed, I’d peel off tiny slivers and hide them, along with lollipop stems from the bank teller and candy wrappers, in the secret space between the seat and the console.

During those court-mandated visits, I could only see the best in him as a child.

Sometimes, we’d set out before noon, when the temperature was still bearable and buwa would coax me to join him for a joyride on the Hero Honda. His reserved demeanour concealed a smiling heart that was always ready for adventure.

He would pull back a tarp covering the bike and use a crusty rag to wipe off the layer of mud that had settled on everything in his driveway—his idea of tidying up.

“Do you have a real helmet?” I asked, hoping for something more protective than the rickety bucket I knew he wore. Instead, he pulled out a motocross helmet two sizes too big for my head and a pair of tinted safety glasses.

“Gloves?”

Buwa did a lap around the garage, producing various work gloves, none suitable for operating a motorcycle clutch. I didn’t bother asking for leathers. Even if he had a jacket, it would have been comically oversized on me and the summer temperature was climbing. So, ignoring my reservations, I sat on the Hero Honda dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and Hathi Chhap chappal (slippers).

After that summer, he stopped coming for his weekends with me. Aama said he had started truck driving again, his route spanning east to west, making it seem like I was out of the way. I forgave him and hoped he would show up again unannounced.

But as more summers passed, my hope dwindled and I stopped expecting anything from him. All I knew of him were the rumours between the neighbours, the insults aama would hurl when she drank too much and the fading memories of our bike rides.

A decade had passed, each year weaving its thread through the tapestry of his existence until the fabric of his lifestyle frayed and unravelled. Then, amidst the remnants of his once-vibrant days, a weathered will emerged, a testament to his legacy, quietly nestled between the yellowed leaves of a forgotten phone book in the dim corner of his apartment.

I received a phone call from a lawyer in a town I had never heard of.

A few weeks later, I found myself standing in a parking lot, handed the keys to the bike I had assumed he had gotten rid of decades ago.

I realised how the scent had remained unchanged after so long and at that moment, my mind drifted back to those days. Weekend road trips. Sony’s portal cassette player serves as a music player in the wild. My fingers peeled back the leather. Buwa by my side. Those memories were the ones I cherished and kept to myself, hidden in a place no one could reach—a lonely alley in the memory lane only I could access.

The upholstery was unkempt, tickets from years past strewn across the dashboard, frozen in time. The motorcycle’s odometer was stuck on a number I no longer remembered.

The woman at the Everest hotel where I stayed said it was acceptable to sell the bike from the premises—she had known my buwa, but I never inquired how. So, I placed a sign on the windshield that read ‘For Sale—NPR 25,900’. The familiar scent hit me as I positioned the sign between the window and the windscreen. I had barely returned to my front door when I heard a voice.

“Will you take twenty-five grand?” a man asked. He had approached from somewhere along the busy road, but I didn't stop to question it. He smoked Yak cigarettes; I could see them poking out of his shirt pocket. They were unfamiliar yet comforting.

“I will,” I replied.

He counted out twenty-five hundred-rupee notes and handed them to me with hands that trembled, aged and worn. They were what I imagined my buwa’s hands would have looked like had he still been around.

As the hum of the Hero Honda faded into the cacophony of life’s relentless march, I felt a chapter of my existence turning with the crunch of gravel under its tyres.

The currency now in my palm felt foreign, a meagre exchange for the treasure trove of recollections that I had just relinquished. In that fleeting exchange, each rupee was imbued with the taste of baara and the scent of smoky Yak cigarettes, a currency rich with the essence of buwa’s legacy.

I handed him the keys to the Hero Honda and watched as he left as silently and swiftly as he had arrived. He gave a nod, and I nodded in return.

Then, I stood there, eyes tracing his departure as he navigated the bustling city, a mirror to the lively streets of my youth aboard a motorcycle that cradled beneath its seat the woven shades of my cherished memories.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/03/17/echoes-of-buwa-s-motorcycle

The lottery ticket

A man named Amir lived in the bustling town of Bharatpur, near Santichowk. He was known for his resilience despite his chronic poverty. Amir had grown up on a farm in Chitwan with his father, where they always had little money and sometimes not enough food to eat. Despite this hardship, his father loved him and harboured dreams of a better future for him. Amir aspired for more than a life as a farmer and dreamed of working hard, going to Dubai, and making some real money. However, the problem was that getting there and settling down would cost the money that he needed. Seeing his son’s ambition, his father took a drastic step to gather the required money.

His father approached a loan shark to borrow the money to send Amir to Dubai. The loan shark was intimidating and demanded that all the money be returned with interest within six months, or there would be severe consequences. The poor farmer agreed, believing Amir could earn money once he started working in Dubai. However, the borrowed money was only enough to send Amir alone, leaving his wife behind until he made enough to bring her to him.

Amir was thrilled at the opportunity to leave Nepal and go somewhere other than his poor family farm. The city shocked him, but he was determined to earn money to send to his wife and repay the loan shark to make his father proud and live his dream. It only took a few weeks to find a job, and while the pay was small, he believed it would be enough if he spent it wisely.

 

In the desert city, Amir took up a menial job, barely earning enough to make ends meet, let alone send money back home or pay off the loan shark. He was disheartened when he got his first paycheck and realised how little he would have been left with after paying his bills and sending money back. He yearned for a good life and understood that he would never attain it at this rate. In his mind, he remembered the arguments with his father about wanting to earn more money and lead a comfortable life, only to be reminded that there was no shortcut to success and that hard work was necessary.

One day, Amir saw a lottery ticket on sale in a store window. The grand prize was advertised in a huge flashing sign. It was an amount that would allow him to live a comfortable life without having to work ever again. He could pay back the loan shark and send all the money his wife would need. The solution he had been looking for was staring him right in the face.

He knew that just one ticket wouldn't be enough, so he took all the money aside for his family and spent it on lottery tickets. He only sent back a small amount to his wife with a letter explaining that they would never need to worry about money again soon. His wife lived a lonely life. Despite their dire circumstances, she cherished the small amount of money her husband managed to send back home every month. He sent a letter to his father explaining where the money went and assuring him that if the loan sharks could be a little more patient, they would get double the money they lent. He wrote in the letter, “If only I could win the lottery, Buwa. Just once. Life wouldn't be so hard.”

The lottery came and went, with Amir not winning a single penny but losing all his money. When he got paid again and saw an even bigger jackpot, he couldn't help himself. He believed he would be lucky and blessed enough to win that week. He sent similar letters and even less money back to his family, assuring them that this time he would win, and they would be rich and never need to worry again.

He received a reply from his father, a wise and pragmatic man. Instead of excitement, as he had anticipated, he was met with anger. His father scolded him for thinking he could win the lottery and not sending back the promised money. His father wrote, “Babu, Amir, lotteries are illusions for people like us. We become even poorer, spending what little we have, hoping for a miracle. Remember, change isn't brought by luck but by sweat and effort.” He reminded Amir to work hard and stop finding an easy way out. Ignoring his father’s warnings, Amir dreamt of a big house, a new car, and a comfortable life. Amir crumpled up the letter, threw it in the trash, and decided that his father was wrong and didn't understand.

That week, the lottery came and went, and Amir won nothing. He couldn't stop himself and kept spending money on the lottery, convinced that it would all be worth it as soon as he won. He hoped a ticket would bring him a fortune, but he only won a few dollars. Six months passed when he finally received word that his father had passed away and that he needed to return to Nepal.

When Amir arrived, he found that his family farm was gone, and he didn't understand what had happened. He went to his wife for an explanation, only to discover that she had left him for another man. He was furious, but she explained that he had never fulfilled his role by sending her enough money to survive or coming to get her after a few months as he had promised. He asked what had happened to his father, and she told him the story.

After months of not receiving any money, the loan shark destroyed the farm and took it over. He sold the land to get his money back, and Amir's father was left with nothing, not even a place to live. He stayed with Amir's wife, but he became very depressed and soon fell sick and died. Clearly, she blamed Amir for this, and he realised he had made a terrible mistake.

He was so focused on thinking he would win the lottery that he didn’t consider the money being squandered. Money that could have saved his farm or brought his wife back to him. Now, he was left with nothing. The family farm was gone, his father had passed away, and his wife had left him for another man. He was poor, and the only thing the lottery had done was make him even poorer instead of rich as he had imagined.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper


https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2024/01/07/the-lottery-ticket

The corrupt king

The tale unfurls itself in the mystical valleys and rugged terrains of Nepal, where there existed a kingdom under a wise and amiable King Rajendra. Rajendra was only 30 years old when he ascended the throne of Nepal. Even at such a young age, he proved to be an extraordinary ruler, doing whatever he could to improve his country. This Himalayan monarch was known for noble deeds, respectful governance, and heart-warming charisma. However, there was significant pressure in Nepal as the idea of modernisation and moving away from monarchy was gaining momentum each day. Consequently, Rajendra decided to meet with Pushpa Koirala, the leader of the main political party, advocating for new leadership.

“It is nice to see you, sir. I am eager to hear your thoughts on this matter,” Rajendra greeted the man.

“Thank you, Your Highness. You may call me Pushpa Koirala. As you know, your efforts to improve this country are commendable, and I wish to assist. I represent the seven largest parties and the Maoist guerrillas, and I pledge to ensure peace and the safeguarding of multiparty democracy,” replied Koirala.

“Do you believe that abdicating the throne will elevate Nepal to greatness?” Rajendra inquired.

“Not just for the country, but for all its inhabitants. The era of monarchy is over, and countries now rely on political systems like ours to succeed,” Koirala explained. Rajendra listened and grasped his perspective.

“I would do anything to serve my country as its King. Even if that means stepping down and letting the country thrive under a different rule,” Rajendra conceded before walking away.

 

 

A few days later, he officially abdicated the throne, declaring that the country would be under new political leadership. The head of the party, Koirala, would become the new president of Nepal, and elections would follow. Rajendra, the former king, would now live a modest life as a commoner.

At first, the new government appeared to be effective. Internationally, Nepal became a focal point due to the unique case of a king willingly giving up his crown. However, internally, the situation was far from ideal. Jobs were becoming scarce, unemployment was on the rise, and the government was unable to provide aid. Job security was non-existent, and the economy was on the brink of collapse. Koirala and his political allies seemed to be using their positions for personal gain rather than serving the country.

The wheel of fate turned sour when his own political party betrayed him, igniting a series of events that thrust the kingdom into a tempest of disarray and gloom. The situation deeply upset Rajendra. He thought his abdication would benefit the nation, but instead, it was in chaos. Feeling guilty and blamed for the country’s misfortunes, he chose to live a life of obscurity.

The only thing that prevented anyone else in the world from intercepting and helping was the fact that the new government was manipulating the news and media, releasing only the stories they wanted to, regardless of their veracity.

Pushpa Koirala, therefore, abandoned his efforts to be a force for good and instead involved himself in an underground crime ring. This enabled him to maintain control over the situation and loot the remaining resources for himself and those he favoured. The majority of the populace was suffering, seemingly without any solution in sight. The government had even halted travel in and out of the country, preventing people from leaving to inform others about the situation in the country.

Although most people had resigned themselves to their fate, a small group was endeavouring to rally against the government, demanding the restoration of the crown to Rajendra. The main problem was that Rajendra was in hiding due to a grievous mistake he had made. Furthermore, the government was not fond of this group’s activities, forcing them to meet in secret or risk arrest for treason. At one of these clandestine meetings, a man with a grown-out hair and an unshaven beard entered, initially unrecognised until his eyes revealed his identity—it was Rajendra, returned to reclaim his throne and his country from Pushpa Koirala.

The bells of peace turned silent and the Kingdom, formerly bubbling with happiness and tranquillity, was thrown into chaos. Yet amidst the betrayal and pain, King Rajendra stood strong, unbending against the blasting winds of adversity, a true testament to his unshakeable spirit.

Over the following weeks, more people joined the group, drawn by Rajendra's leadership. However, it soon became clear that his presence was causing more harm than good, as the government saw him as a significant threat. They manipulated the news media to portray Rajendra as an unstable former king attempting to destroy the country. They painted him as insane and corrupt, forcing him to step back from the group and let them operate without him. Despite this setback, Rajendra still wanted to help and managed to help them find ways to escape Nepal as ordinary citizens. He was saddened to see the people he wished to protect having to leave to survive.

The exodus began slowly, but as more people managed to leave, it was akin to a dam bursting. The neighbouring countries welcomed the Nepalese, allowing them to live and prosper. However, not everyone could leave; the sick and the elderly were unable to handle the journey and were forced to stay under the rule of Pushpa Koirala and his burgeoning empire. Koirala enacted new laws that made him president for life, preventing anyone from voting against him and reclaiming power. Rajendra deeply regretted his inability to intervene when he was still ruling Nepal, as he had wanted to improve the lives of his people.

The Shangri-la of Nepal went awry when a political hurricane fanned by deceit and dishonesty uprooted the reigns of the beloved King. King Rajendra, who always treated his political party as his second family, was mesmerised by their surging treachery. The feisty leadership, blinded by power and greed, conspired against the King, which led to his unfortunate dethronement. His unconditional trust and faith were shattered, leaving him heartbroken. But more than his evasion, it was the deception that dejected the loyal subjects, who viewed this entire political trickery with disbelief.

Regrettably, he was trapped in the country due to the severe backlash from the manipulated news and media. If he tried to escape and go anywhere, he would likely be sent back or imprisoned. The few who knew the truth—that he was not involved in the current state of affairs—were not believed. Many of those who had left blamed him for allowing the government to deteriorate to its current state. Meanwhile, the news continued to spin stories that painted Pushpa Koirala as the saviour of the country, fixing the damage caused by the ‘corrupt’ ex-king.

The old and sick were trapped in a country where the government was stripping them of everything, and it was only a matter of time before they succumbed to an early death due to the ruling party’s greed and indifference. Their pleas for help fell on deaf ears as the rest of the world believed they were faring well.

Published: The Kathmandu Post
Nepal's leading daily newspaper

https://kathmandupost.com/fiction-park/2023/12/10/the-corrupt-king