Does it have a name?

Let’s see .. so about 4 times I think I flew out of it last year; and not one time was the fly on the scheduled departure time that was mentioned on the ticket; not because of bad weather on either of To and From but because of poor time management on the part of the airline I had traveled with.

Ever-increasing air traffic in the skies above the valley in the last few years may have a lot to do with most flights not making good on time. And it’s not lost on anyone that our airport is no Suvarnabhumi. So instead of making excuses wherein the blame is easy to aim towards all that is not up to operating standards, airlines – why not prepare your departure timings taking into consideration also the sorry infrastructure of our airport?

What I just said, I’d have said it also if my flight had gotten delayed this morning and that after being at the airport all day, I could still have flown out of town. Didn’t happen because my flight got cancelled due to bad weather down in Bhadrapur. While the world out there has endless problems and someone could use always use an extra hand, I’ve got nothing better to do than complain.

But wait, there’s more.

Woke up in the wee hours of the morning on a gully – not for the first time. A dog was barking at my drunk self. What is it with dogs and drunks anyway? I recognized the dog as the stray but friendly neighborhood dog. Well, every weekday morning when I go to work, he is friendly and in good spirits. In the evenings when I get back from work, he is mostly curled up with himself at one specific bend in the gully.

As it gradually dawned on me then, I was on that specific bend – this dog’s favorite spot. I had, in my inebriated state, occupied this dog’s space. Why would I do that when home was only a stone’s throw away from this spot? That, I’ll never know.

I once went out with my friend and his date who had also brought along her friend – a pro psychologist! When we hang out again, this is one work-related (for her) topic I’m bringing up. I’ll find a way to keep you guys posted on the diagnosis.

Anyway, so after this self-realization, I did what every drunk worth his salt would do – I yielded to the dog. As I got up and gathered my mind and my self, the dog immediately quieted down and in a hurry rightfully reclaimed his territory. His home. Too bad I couldn’t find mine. I smiled to him and even patted him as if to say sorry. I’d like to believe he forgave me.

After not sleeping enough, I went to the airport to catch my flight in the morning. The cab-driver went: “Hijo ta beskari peliye jasto cha ni dai? Hehehe ..” despite me feasting on a handful of Happy Dents. “Pudina khanus, ausadhi pasal ma paucha ..”

In the airport, everyone from the cop at the security check to the Buddha Air rep at the counter to the tax-man at the ‘bank’ found out about my alcohol consumption the night before. My head was starting to hurt. Nah .. let me rephrase that – my head wanted its own country .. it was staging a revolt.

After having dal-bhaat-tarkari at the over-priced and under-maintained restaurant inside the airport, I went down to the ‘health station’ and asked for help.

Lady at the ‘health station’: “Key bhayo dai?”

I: “Hijo raksi dherai khaye . sarai tauko dukhyo. Malai kehi dinus na.”

Lady: “Thikka po khana parcha ta! Ajha nakhaye ta jhan nai ramro.”

I: “Ho tyo ta ,, khada ta thikka nai lageko thiyo – - ailey chai teti saro laagirako chaina .. hehe.”

Lady: “Kata jana lagnu bhayo?”

I: “Bhadrapur.”

Lady: “Tapai ko naam?”

I: “Kina naam chahiyo?”

Lady: “Ramro naam chaina ki kya ho dai ko? Khit khit ..”

I: “Hoina .. aba tauko dukheko ausadhi lina ko laagi naam kina chahincha?”

I told her my name.

I: “Mailey dhaateko pani ta huna sakcha ni naam ..”

Lady (smiling): “Hoina hola dhateko. Raksi dherai khaye pani manchey ta thik nai lagnuhuncha Hahah ..”

That cheered me up.

Lady: “Umer ni?”

What?

I: “Kina umer? Kati garo bhanya euta ausadhi lina ta yahan ..”

Lady: “Budheskaal lagyo ki kya ho dai lai? Hahaha ..”

I told her my age.

I: “Mero ghar ko address, pita, mata ko naam, phone number, nagarikta number pani chahincha ki?”

Lady: “Hahahaha .. hoina teti bhaye huncha .. linus ausadhi adhi ghanta ma niko huncha.”

Lady: “Ani arkopaali bata dherai Raksi na khanu ..”

After about an hour, the headache began to subside. I started feeling a bit better. They announced over that annoying loudspeaker that my flight was delayed. They delayed the announcement too. Sometime late in the afternoon, they told us the flight was cancelled due to bad weather in Bhadrapur.

There went the day and with it, a potential lost nap in the sun.

Trying again tomorrow. By whatever means, I have to leave town anyhow tomorrow if I’m to catch the train from Siliguri the day after. Which means – to the 9 of you who take the time out of your schedules to come over here and read what I come up with, see you around the second week of next month.

Travelling on a city-bus on a Saturday – and this was नेपाल यातायात, is like going to a club on a Tuesday – the floor is all yours; in the case of the bus, you pretty much get to pick and choose any seat you like. I picked the one somewhere in the middle – as far away from any life as possible so that I could enjoy the comfort of some space while viewing faces and places hissing by.

Not for long, would last that comfort because once the bus entered Baluwatar, the last person you’d expect in Baluwatar – a Sadhu, got on and sat his saffron-robed, Trishul-carrying self on the last seat you’d expect – right next to mine and with a grunt that stank funny; I was appreciative that he didn’t request me for the window seat to timely spit out whatever the hell he was chewing; or if he had had, I don’t know if I would have chosen to sit me on a different non-attached seat altogether because, well, I’d never before shared a seat with a Sadhu.

The Sadhu seemed comfortable in his aisle seat – his Trishul occupying the area where there’d be legs on a non-Bandhed weekday in Kathmandu. He held the Trishul with his right hand and held, not the head-rest of the seat directly in front of him for support, but did so to the seat directly in front of me. One of my claustrophobic friends, by this time, would’ve been gasping for air. Not me. My unflappable self was fascinated by the Trishul.

Where did he get it from anyway? I’d never before looked at a Trishul in its practicality, this close. It was nothing that would’ve made Shiva do another Tandav but it was not your daddy’s Trishul either.

This Trishul the ascetic was parading around town with, ladies and gents, did however complement his denser than char-koshey-jhaadi beard like the Bhadgauley Topi does to BRB’s mustache which, by the way, looks like it was donated to him by a retired professional Marriage player who had only just recently made the life altering decision to change career to becoming a Jyotishi.

I mean, his beard, and I would bet my गुलेली on this one, would induce Ram Dev to go into hiding.

When do you decide you need to get a Trishul? Or is the decision solely dependent upon your peers who Make you? If the case here is the former, do you like get up, brush your teeth, drink your tea, clip your toe-nails while listening to the radio, wash your feet, and head on into town to get yourself a brand new Trishul? Or do they come pre-owned?

“This one’s reached as far as Burma .. when the great Sadhu ‘Chinta Mani’ came back, he’d fetched millions .. he’s now gotten married to the movie star Sefali Humagain … ” said the pre-owned Trishul salesman; I was heading on over to a different world …

As the bus skidded so as not to kill a Traffic cop, I woke up to not find my Sadhu anymore. He was gone – couldn’t ask him about my dreams.

Towards the end of the day, I got to Gaushala. I was hungry but did need to buy suntalas. I normally do so at the phalphool pasaley in Old Baneshwore Chowk. Since I didn’t want to walk 5 more minutes, I decided to give some business to some of my other neighbors.

I: “Dai, yo suntala kasto cha?”

Dai: “Yek dum theek cha.”

I: “Tyo arko label bhako pani suntala nai ho?”

Dai: “Yekdum ley ho!”

I: “Kun mitho cha ta?”

Dai: “Dubai nai Yekdum sita ley Yekdum mitho cha.”

I: “Tapai ma bhaye Yekdum sita ley kun kinnu hunthyo?”

Dai: “Hmmphhh .. aba tyo ta Yedum nai garo cha bhanna. Yo Yekdum sita ley ‘label’ lagayeko India bata ayeko, arko ta Nepali ho.”

Guy-on-a-muda-taaping-the-ghaam-right-by-the-shop: “Bhai .. yo India ko ta gazzzzab kai cha hai!”

I had a feeling this muda-guy would carry his muda and go back to his house once the Sun was gone. I kind of wanted to find out if he would but I had, of course, a life to live.

In a fix, I was. The Nepali orange looked a bit .. ‘beat up’ compared to the Indian one which was as smooth as Bidhya Balan’s hips. And it had a label also. The Nepali one didn’t have any label and it reminded me of Bhuwan K.C’s chest.

Dammit!

I: “Lu na ta tesobhaye .. adhi kilo Nepali dinus, adhi kilo Indian.”

Dai: “Yekdum sita ley dinchu.”

He charged me NRS 80 – NRS 10 more than my guy in Purano Baneshwore would’ve.

Once I got home, I started to peel off the bokra off of the Indian suntala. It didn’t peel like a suntala at all. A real suntala peels like you’re taking off a woman’s kurta that has running zippers in the back (if she lets you that is). This Indian suntala was peeling as if the woman was wearing a kurta with a lock combination of the Nepal Rastra Bank’s dhikuti (if she lets you that is).

My cousin came up to pick me up a while later. Turns out, I was fooled into buying a Junaar. And here I thought I could differentiate in between the two like the sun and the moon. O the subtle differences!

After I get off work, I walk home – takes me about 25 minutes to get there if I don’t make any pit-stops along the way. The pit-stops usually are as follows:

1. Sajilo ‘Departmental’ Store
2. Phalphool pasaley
3. Kabab Chicken Corner/Just Baked (I’ll be posting on both KCC and JB soon)

3.happens on averege 4 times a week but since the kids have gone back to live with their parents, I don’t want to eat alone in the house. So 3. has been 7 for 7 for quite some time now. All of the above mentioned businesses reside in Purano Baneshwore Chowk. I know them and they know me – one of these days I intend to find out if they really love me by asking for credit. Lagyo-ing. Let’s see who loves me the most.

Making my first pit-stop, I greeted Kumar dai at the door before heading towards the aisle that has been a reliable location from which to pick Oat Krunch – Deliciously Fun & Tasty Crackers (Dark Chocolate) since the inauguration of Sajilo. I then noticed a neat stack of new brand of biscuits there that claimed to be ‘sugar free’.

I don’t have diabetes or anything but it’s not a bad idea to cut down on one’s sugar, if one can, I thought. About 3 Oat Krunchs, 1 to 2 chiyas, 3 cups of coffee everyday .. that’s quite a bit of sugar to consume in a day .. right? As I was about to launch into a debate with myself, I heard a guy’s voice from the aisle adjacent to where I was fixing to go cuckoo in my head:

Guy: “लौ! के कुरा गरेको? येस्तो मिठो न मिठो छ ..!”

Girl: “कस्तो बौला केटा होला! यो नक्कली हो क्या? कति भन्नु तिमीलाई त?”

Guy: “ह्या … प्लेबोईको ओरीजिनल सेन्ट हो भन्या यो! दुबईमा पनि पाईँदैन यत्तिको त!”

Girl: “जे पायो त्यै! तिमीले पोहोर मलाई पठाइदिइको त कस्तो रा..म्रो प्याकिङ् थियो – बास्ना त झन् के कुरा गर्नु। यो त प्याकिङ् पनि आचि जस्तो .. बास्ना … खै के बास्ना भन्ने? गन्दपनि आची जस्तो ..!

Guy: “अब त्यो त तिम्रोलागी थियो नि त .. यो त तिम्रो त्यो चरिनङ्ग्रे भाईका लागी पो त – राजेसे नभाको भये हामी कहाँ भेट्थिउँ र!! तर अबको पाली त झन हेर न के के पठाउँछु के के!”

At this point the girl started saying something about she not liking it whenever he makes fun of her brother. By their conversation it appeared that her (younger) brother had a lot to do with them hooking up.

Well, ladies and gentlemen, at this point, I did what every man who doesn’t have much to do after a long day at work would do: I eased my way into their aisle where they were about to launch into a fight and pretended like I couldn’t do without a toothbrush (I ended up buying the damn thing).

The guy was surveying that ‘playboy’ body-spray. His eyes approved of what he was looking at. He shook the canister twice near his ear as if it would belt out Rajesh Payal Rai any second before he sprayed a chsssssssssshhh on his palm. The girl, meanwhile, was frowning like a little girl looking as if her Barbie’s right leg was about to give way.

One of my good friend’s girlfriend is a married woman – yes, not to him – hence, you know, the ‘girlfriend’ title. She’s basically having an extra-marital affair: her husband’s out in the Gulf and hasn’t been home in more than 2 years. So whenever I think of Nepalis working out in the Middle East, I think of my friend and his girlfriend.

They talk every night (I know that because whenever we go out he makes it a point to get to her calls, etc.) – I don’t know if that’s love quite yet but he seems to care about her. So I had for some reason assumed most men working in the Gulf were either married or single. Today, that assumption changed.

These people weren’t married. They didn’t talk like they were married, look like they were married, or act like they were married. My suspicion was confirmed when the girl later had said “हाम्रो बिहेमा मलाई त सिफोनको सारी चाहि्न्छ .. भन्देकि छू अहिलेदेखिनै ..”

I studied the girl – a bit plump with warm eyes, she looked .. understanding and forgiving. She reminded me of Asha – my buddy’s girl who was cheating on her husband – only because they had something in common. This girl here who was trying to get her brother a better perfume didn’t at all look like the cheating type, I thought (and I’m no expert in reading people’s faces and determining whether or not they cheat or are loyal, understanding, etc.).

FYI: It was decided that tomorrow, at Pako, they would find a shop and get her brother a much nicer and a real perfume – राजेश was no fool! He’d know instantly where Pritesh got these .

As I entered the phalphool pasaley‘s joint, he immediately started to vent about how the world was so wrong going gaga over Messi (he’s a Ronaldo fanatic), I turned back to look towards the couple (they were right behind me at the checkout counter in Sajilo) – Sajilo is no more than 30 feet away from the phalphool pasaley. They came out chatting – Pritesh held a plastic bag with one hand and his girl’s the other as they dissapeared into the Purano Baneshwore 7 pm crowd.

Your father is my father, your mother – my mother, your brother – my brother, your teacher – my teacher .. but your wife is not my wife and neither is your girlfriend mine; well, depending on who you are (read: Malvika Subba’s boyfriend), I wouldn’t mind having your girlfriend as mine also but I have this funny feeling you would .. O you very much would.

You see, there’s always a line to be drawn somewhere against what’s yours and what’s mine. Your country, if you are a Nepali, is my country also. Your land, of course, is not my land and neither do I want it to be.

Or do I?

During the past week, I got to meet a few interesting people. A man – Tulsi, claimed that the house I live in along with the always paranoid tenants, was his. Why? Well, it was this guy who’d evidently laid the first brick and plastered the first slap of cement over it. Those acts of Firsts and subsequent Ns had seemingly provided him enough authority to stake some claim over the house and confuse the crap out of the tenants.

I had to literally walk Tulsi to the gate over him voicing protests about how my mother would raise a series of serious fits over my ‘agenda’ – he’d actually said the word ‘agenda’. I’d wanted to comment on his choice of word here and would’ve had, had the tenants not been keeping a close eye over this entire weirdness.

And these encroaching businesses in this city! How about BRB wearing the much-needed hat of The Demolition Man? Makes you wonder if anyone else before him knew and if so, why they didn’t crank up the CAT cranes like he has done. And if they didn’t know, why it is that they didn’t. Just because of this oversight on their part, they shouldn’t ever be allowed to serve us.

As for the flag-pole owners of decades past, they’d apparently assumed that it was just okay for them to use the land that didn’t belong to them to build parking lots and even hoist an entire bar .. as in the case of Jazz Upstairs (a fine, fine joint to spend a Friday evening) – and I heard this today so not totally sure if this is true. But if it is, Jazz Upstairs, I hope you somehow procure your लाल पुर्जाs pretty soon – I’d hate to see you go down like this.

Other ‘owners’? Writers on the walls! Nepal Bandhkaaris! The Nepali Police Force – and here’s one little tidbit on them:

I’d hailed a cab in Old Baneshwore to go to Kamaladi one fine evening. A couple of APF wallahs, near Maitidevi Chowk, had stopped the cab I was in, and had let themselves in. Ignoring me, they’d then proceeded to ask the driver to drop them off in Putali Sadak – yeah, just like that!

Fuming over their unacceptable behaviour, I’d let them have it. I’d even asked them to provide their name tags to me so that I could jot down their names and go report them to their bosses in Naxal. They’d gotten off in Dillibazaar’s ukalo, pronto.

We act like we own elements that don’t belong to us because of a perceived leeway we think we are provided by default; and most probably, due to our relation to those elements addiionally fueled by our respective professions or whatever statures we attain due to the businesses we’re in.

For instance, If you are a pedestrian, it’s like you are entitled to use the sidewalk as your own personal Open Air Urinal. If you police traffic at Tinkune Chowk, it’s like you are automatically entitled to a cup of free tea from the nearest chiya-pasal. If you are a Nepal Bandhkaari, the sights of unburned vehicles that do not belong to you, turn you on more than Rekha Thapa’s half-naked posters do. If you are a politician, all you would then need for a fettle of entitlement is – “Do you know who I am?” etc.

I’m not sure where these erroneous sense of entitlements derive from. Is it our culture? Did we grow up thinking we owned everything that we didn’t really own but now we like to assume that we do anyway?

And it’s not like there’s ever a shortage of justification, by the way. I can always say – ” But but .. I’ve run this cafe for more than 20 years right on this spot! How come no one stopped me from building it back then?” Yeah, how about that? Did you do your due diligence back then or did you perhaps overdo it (by showing up on the doorstep of the concerned haakim‘s house – at 8:00 am on a Saturday with two bhaleys swaddled across your belly)?