Song2 rushes to mind with that title. Blur, it is.

But.

I nearly cried last weekend. Despite the eye-doctor over at Teelganga treating me with this gem:

तपाईँको आँखामा त आँशु नै छैन!

Ha! I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the info (other than to follow the good doc’s advice and get the artificial tears to drop into my dried eyes every so often”) but the first thought that had hit me was this:

If I cry, then what? Will it be like maasu without masala, bicycle without a seat, phone without a charge, laugh without a stomach (??) … I mean – yes – what?

Anyways, the good editor at WAVE called me up last month and told me that my cheque was ready and that I could come and pick it up. Yes for writing .. they wanted to pay me (here’s where I’d have cried – like हर्षका आँशु)? Again .. so they wanted to pay me for writing – soonk soonk.

I get paid to do something else by someone else. What I do is challenging, can be fun, and is turning me into a seasoned jaagirey every passing day. When I get my paycheck every month, it’s a gentle reminder of how I should save up (you know, for old age and harsher times) among other things. It’s funny how that thought never ceases to go away .. along with this one – that I think I will go stone broke one day.

I was hoping to call the good editor on one of those rougher days. No, really. But as it came to pass, we made plans to meet last weekend (at Sarah Kay – Jatra). It so happened that I ran late by an hour and that place was packed like Madhya Upatyaka Yatayat at 9:00 am in Gaushala. I wasn’t let in. How awesome is that (actually I was also a tad, just a tiny tad disappointed that I couldn’t get in – but yes, my fault, I was the one who was late)? A venue in KTM packed to the hilt by way of a poetry recitation. No कमी of कवीs and कवियत्रिs in Kathmandu.

So then I did the better thing – live music at Reggae and browsing books over at Pilgrims after which I met the good people of WAVE. And that’s when I GOT PAID! WOOOOOO HOOOOO! (Ok here’s the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SSbBvKaM6sk) Got paid for writing about prostitution, dance bar dancers, women getting gyrated in a packed-like-gundruk-in-a-horlicks-bottle bus (self-plagiarizing there), my dear maid not making it in her entrepreneurial stint, my cousin, etc. TOODOONG TOODOONG TOONG … CHYAS!

Counting hattis lick-of-a-finger by lick-of-a-finger, I was crying inside (हर्षै हर्ष).

The news itself wasn’t shocking but the fact that I’d lose another familiar face was. Taking things for granted has become my new hobby, it seems. There was a time when I didn’t care much about much and I was doing just fine. And then something changed and now this prospect of losing a significant facet of my conversations, more so the challenges she brings forth to my thoughts and ideas about putting a myriad things that pass us by into some kind of a logical perspective, is making me a bit .. jumpy. For some reason I can’t shake off the fact that I’ll soon be losing her calm voice, her warm gaze, her sweet smile, and the utmost concern of matters that would initially seem trivial – that most would plainly ignore; and that moving shine of her eyes; losing all of these subtleties that collectively act as an undercurrent to empower the other person, to another country. How does one compete with another life’s priorities that would otherwise serve one’s own selfish little interests?

A voice of alternative reason, I every so often go to her to ask what her thoughts are in matters spanning most spheres of ambiguity. She has a voice of assurance. Of hope but also of criticism and sometimes, well, flat-out opposition: she will vehemently reject without second thoughts some of my thoughts if she sees even a चम्चा of the ludicrous on them. She has seen me grow up to be the man I am today from a kid years and years ago. She tells me how I’ve changed (and how she doesn’t like that one bit – I’ve apparently changed to be this 9 to 6 jaagirey chasing a dull career) during the course of these times that have passed us by. I used to be a daydreamer and now I’m not anymore she says; I have a feeling deep inside she still believes I’m just the same awkward boy with a shockingly bizarre nose who wanted to grow up to be in a band – only, I stutter a hell of a lot less these days.

She’s still the same and I know will remain so for the rest of time. I know I will change for I cannot stay the same; my thoughts will change with the times; with her, it’s almost the opposite; she’ll make the times change with her thoughts: well, not true of course but at least people who have changed owing to the authority of time may be forced to unchange some of their changed ways; I should know for I have, I think .. or maybe not – see?

I wonder where we’ll be 15 years from now (except for the fact that we’ll most certainly be a boring bag of bones … and probably crazier). How I’ll have changed in her eyes. How she’ll have grown wiser and if she’ll ever see the kid in me again. I told her I’d miss her. I also told her that she’d be the one leaving but between the two of us, I’d be making this about me! Sometimes relationships that matter bring out the worst in us. Relationships that end up being something so precious that you had no idea it’d be so when you chanced upon the other during that year of The Carefree. By chance, by chance.

Only a few out there I’ve known to be like her: straight-up honest, always being who she is .. no pretenses; Oh no! Another year, another near (‘dear’ here I thought would be apt for rhyme’s sake but the cheesiness just outweighed my fancy for poetry – ya, like this post isn’t already?) one leaving. People will leave and they will go off and about their lives – need to relearn to take that phenomenon for granted as well, again. Dammitt!

Yes JD, I will miss you (Read it, and read it again).

I got into the tuk-tuk excitedly looking forward to banging its tin top with my knuckles at Thapathali; I never got to do so because the tuk-tuk came to an abrupt halt when it neared New Baneshwore. 5pm was quickly approaching and I had gotten off work early. After light showers earlier, the roads – even peeeeech, had turned into a hopeless puddle. The tuk-tuk wouldn’t budge; it seemed as if its odd frame would be engulfed by the heavy traffic all around it at any instant. Shortly, someone stepped into our tuk-tuk and declared there was an impromptu chakka jam imposed – from 5:00 to 5:30pm, in New Baneshwore Chowk … only a few meters away. Hence, the traffic jam … therefore I am? I had to see for myself – the intricacies of this new bandhing trend fast impressing bandhkaaris of all seasons across this load-shedded country.

After paying the tuk-tuk lady RS 15, I headed off towards the Chowk to take in the free show brought to us, in all probability, by Thugs, Inc. A man who looked irritated as if fire-ants were wreaking havoc in his underarms, was blaring his loud face into the microphone:

“THANK YOU FRIENDS .. FOR SUPPORTING OUR CAUSE. THIS CORRUPT GOVERNMENT HAS TO GO. THIS CORRUPT PRIME MINISTER MUST STEP DOWN. RIGHT NOW!”

This man was smack in the middle of New Baneshwore Chowk addressing the countless commuters who were jammed in traffic thanks to him and his entourage of about 8. He was addressing the awed pedestrains who were staring at his audacity in disbelief. He was addressing more than a dozen Armed Police Forces personnel all decked out in riot (curbing) gear with a stern look on their faces. Like the tuk-tuk earlier, they too were not budging – something wasn’t right – - it was like a dog ignoring a tempting piece of bone. He was addressing me. I felt as if my heart had stopped pumping blood and had switched to pumping rage instead – a heavy dose of anger started to sweep through my veins. Him and his cohorts then started to chant slogans against the government.

This was a protest. Ok understood. We all have a fundamental right to do so. Ok, got it. But in this manner? By doing all they can (and whenever they please) to disrupt our lives? What about our fundamental rights to defy such bullshit? They were 8; the APF dudes easily outnumbered them. The commuters, of course, numbered in the hundreds. The APF had formed a barrier on the crosswalk ensuring that no motor could pass through and rain on our thugs parade. Which side were the cops on? I felt I had to do .. something.

I to an APF dude: “Key bhairako yo?”

APF dude: “Chakka jam!”

I: “Yeso garna paincha ra bhaneko? Yo ta atti nai bhayo ni. Tyo manchey ta tyaha cha jahaan traffic police hunu parney ho. Ra jahan traffic police cha, tyahan ta gaadi haru hunu parney ho ni .. hoina ra?”

APF dude:

I: “Tiniharu aath jana cha, tapaiharu chaudha jana .. rokna sakidaina? Yo ta sarai nai bhayo bhaneko. Kei garnus na yaar! Kam sey kam tyaha gayera uslai bhanna ta milcha hola ni ki BRB lai hatauna traffic jam nai garney ho bhaney Baluwatar ma BRB ko dera agadi garnu bhanera ..”

APF dude: “Mann ta cha ni .. order po chaina ta hamilai.”

The APF dude then switched his demeanor back to donning a sterner face; he looked as if he was almost about to fake growl. Those cops sort of reminded me of the barking stray dogs in my tole – barking like there will never be a tomorrow but then that’s all they ever do: bark, without hurting a fly.

So then here we were. The police weren’t doing anything. The thugs were doing whatever they want. The commuters were patient enough to let them run their little show. Had the police not set up body barriers on the crosswalk, the motorists easily would’ve had the upper hand assuming they would’ve pressed their accelerators which would’ve made made one, bad-ass, statement; not to mention running out the thugs, if not running them over. Wishful thinking there because the motorists, of course, didn’t do such thing. They just waited. The pedestrians, for their part, seemed to be thankful for some free entertainment.

I, for one, wanted to confront the yelling chakajamkaari. With such intent I took a step towards him. And immediately took two back as I thought about .. things. Maybe the motorists and the rest of pedestrians alike were also thinking about the same .. things. Maybe the police were also thinking about the same ..things. Wondering how much longer will we be thinking about these .. things, I succumbed to the thuggery and hurried west towards Thapathali – on my own two protesting feet.

A friend, when I’d told her that I’d written on Dance Bar dancers and prostitutes for WAVE had quipped: “You do have a theme, don’t you?” That was a few months ago. Last month WAVE asked me to contribute again; why they keep doing this to themselves, I will not understand. But since requests like these make me want to head out to Sajilo Printers in Purano Baneshwore Chowk and have the little kid who runs the place print business cards that designates me .. a ‘Writer’, I obliged.

The outcome was an apology .. long overdue (outcome also has mentions of a few songs of Nirvana – this post’s title not included). Something I had bundled up inside me for a long time which needed to come out; and thanks to the good editor at WAVE, it did for all the world to read and it also did .. complemented by a brilliant sketch by D. This month’s issue’s been out on the shutters for a few days already so go grab one before the next Nepal Bandh. If you can’t find a copy – and I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t (it’s already mid-August people) – I’ll sell you one in black. Yes. Do leave a comment below if you are interested.

If that doesn’t convince you that you ought to go get a copy of WAVE this very instant, well, this will – one word: GUFFADI. Yes sirs and yes madames .. The GUFFADI is featured along with the ubiquitous Aakar in this month’s issue of WAVE. There’s also another blogger Surath Giri getting some wave .. from WAVE (?). How about bloggers getting some print love from the mainstream? (And WAVE – can we hear from some female bloggers in the next one please? There are quite a few out there, if you take a look around. Thanks.)

Bottom line – get a copy peeps! This issue will make it easier on you to ride out the Dec 21st, 2012 apocalypse. Trust me and you ought to be okay.

So anyway, at Tandoori Chicken Corner in Purano Baneshwore last evening, when I entered to order chana-ko-tarkari to go, the following conversation was taking place:

Guy with what looked like a 30ml shot of whiskey: “…no no, after Belgium, I went to Norway; I had to complete it, you know? Didn’t take me long though .. 3 years and I was done with my PhD.”

Guy without any whiskey but staring at his friend’s whiskey as if he could do with a sip: “Oh .. oh.”

Guy with what looked like a 30ml shot of whiskey: “Yeah .. and after that I went to Spain and lived there for a year. That’s where I met my wife – she’s awesome.”

Guy without any whiskey but staring at his friend’s whiskey as if he could do with a sip: “Oh .. oh.”

Guy with what looked like a 30ml shot of whiskey: “Then I thought .. I’m married now, what’s there to do anymore, you know? And then I did something that I never thought I would. Well .. what do you know? A little *whistles* .. and here we are with not 1, not 2, but 3 .. yeah buddy! 3 kids! Can you believe that? I mean .. WOW!!”

Guy without any whiskey but staring at his friend’s whiskey as if he could do with a sip: “Woot .. woot.”

Guy with what looked like a 30ml shot of whiskey: “3 kids, foreign land – who knows how they’ll turn out to be, you know? I mean look at me – turned out okay, right? I mean .. and then, I convinced my wifey that where I’m from used to be a Shangrila and to re-Shangrilafy it, my former-Shagrila needed me and her and the kids. Here I am!”

Guy without any whiskey but staring at his friend’s whiskey as if he could do with a sip: “Oh .. oh.”

Guy with what looked like a 30ml shot of whiskey: “Talking to the wifey turned out to be easy enough. Now that she’s here, she looks at me as if she wants to strangle me right away and looks at the kids as if she wants to protect them from … me. I’m in a tough spot now, buddy. Parents are getting old and they don’t want to be anywhere else. Wifey, of course, doesn’t care.”

Guy without any whiskey but staring at his friend’s whiskey as if he could do with a sip: “Oh .. oh.”

Guy with what looked like a 30ml shot of whiskey: “So we had a bit of a tussle a while ago, you know? And I wasn’t even drinking! I believe I’ve been kicked out of my apartment … now that Baba and Ama have gone back to the village, my team, my back-up is gone. Even the kids have sided with wifey, I think. They were not so keen about going to ST.XAVIERS from next year. I was thinking of taking them to Budhanilkantha but I think that train has already left the station … not the TIA though … hahahaha … sorry man – just a little buzzed. This whiskey’s a strong one!”

Guy without any whiskey but staring at his friend’s whiskey as if he could do with a sip: “Oh .. oh.”

Guy with what looked like a 30ml shot of whiskey: “So what’s going on with you man? Long time … wow! I remember your father used to run a momo place right across the street. I didn’t see it there anymore .. old man must own a 5-star by now eh? Hahaha .. I liked him and aunty. Ani .. you must also be married by now? C’mon fill me in! Wait but not before dai here fills this glass right up to the brim. What say man?
Dai .. ma ra mero saathi lai duita Red label double shot dinu na hai.”

Dai: “Chaina! Tapai ko yo saathi ley sabai sakidiyo agi nai .. pheri budi sita jhagada parecha. Dui bottle ladaisakyo. Aja delivery pani ayena .. k garney hola khoi yo des ma ta!”

not the one to hold herself back
she puts on something dark and paints her lashes black
a flat fake mole is carefully, skillfully positioned
below the symmetric groove of her lips

a black jacket with a बाकस smell
she gives it a thought
she loves the rains
but hates how it makes her work-clothes stick to her skin
thus
over that something dark
she hesitantly puts on her black jacket
yes the one with the बाकस smell
and instantly feels the dull heat grappling and smothering her from within
she’s got no choice – umbrella would be bad for business

hair straight, pants gripping tight everywhere
heeled up at the feet and a luscious red freshly applied on her lips
she slings a black purse laced with shiny metal over her shoulders
with both hands in her jacket’s pockets
she walks out into the galli and almost manages to fool the rain
just like she’s fooled hundreds

her hair is a bit wet yet sustaining
her heels boast of inches versus the barely-over-zero millimeters of light showers
as she reaches the end of Asan
she looks towards the right at the oncoming one-way traffic
and plots to make a clean cross

soaked with rain and enjoying every bit of it
i’m standing on the opposite side
i’m amongst The Others: rain-scared, umbrella gripping masses
looking towards the left i willfully try hard to scam the same one-way traffic
and fail miserably
that’s when our eyes meet –
just as she steps over the curb that borders Rani Pokhari
after effortlessly crossing over
over the deafening honks
over the maddening automobiles
over the blinding headlights
over the suffocating rest: the dog-eat-dog city crowd

she quickly looks away as if she’s never seen me before
i honor the disregard
she hurries towards Bagbazaar – blending into the fast falling dusk
dusk which is slithered from every which way by falling drops of rain
courtesy of a striking July sky

another turn, another untimed take-out
another burn, another unblurred bailout

about this poem now
see it isn’t all that neat
but please
do take a seat .. because:
i’ll scrawl across the sky with your name on it
i’ll drain out the ocean and put you to blame for it
i’ll reshuffle the craters
and i’ll reengineer the equator
o for some more love of the metaphor
i’ll burn a hole to put a mole
a sole solely for the ground
that ought to shut down all the haters
and cause them to make a sound
and get them to come, to come finally around

surround yourself with all the love that you can hoard
trust me – only do so on your own accord
else you may find there’s some that
you just may not be able to afford

keyboard says this is just another play
a pathetic play at words
conscience says this is just another day
a doomsday already spelled
to mark the end of another world
a world in which we belong
which is just as beautiful as is Shillong
we – you and i
interconnected via jarred visions and jaded ideals
all of which will very soon die
only makes me wonder who’ll be the first one to say bye bye

try as i might to take my likes in jest
friends say i really need to take a rest
they say it’s only for my best
test – they tell me
is what i need to put at stake
to not another sad little mistake to make
out of this life
that’s starting to look more and more like
it’s nothing short of a chinese made fake

take what you can from all that is past
see what you believe to be all that doesn’t last
“The Eyes Have It”
titled mr bond
of what was to become
that did never come to be
left you clinging to a path
a path that you could very well see
swirling like a sinner who sinned to be free
prancing like a provider who provided to no degree

agree is a ment that will not cease to dement
hungry is a dent that’s as cruel as cement
i hear my stomach running and rowdy rumble
and it’s causing me to get out and groan and grumble
mumble i do as i listen to the Fighters who fight The Foo
stumble i stumble as i head on over to the loo
(zoo’s the one place i would really hate to make poo poo?)

too, too damn bad it is for i know i will not be no more cooking
regardless of whether or not anyone is anymore looking
hence the take-out and another wordplay done
thus the bailout and another night to be withdrawn

“Come sit .. sit. Sit, right here.” As she pats her hand against the straw mat motioning me to sit beside her, she labors through the sentence; you can tell. She seems to be speaking a whole heap louder than usual. I’m at most 5 feet away from her. Her grandson – my friend, is standing beside me and we’re sipping black tea on the terrace of the 3 story house in which he lives whenever’s he’s in Kathmandu. He lives and works in phoren. “How old is your grandma?” I ask him. “90 years old”, comes the quick reply before he takes another insignificant sip.

I walk a couple of paces towards grandma and offer her a namaste. She puts her hand on my knee as I sit down beside her. She then feels my face and my head with her right hand while she supports her frail frame with her left. Not that I need any healing, but I’m thinking she has the touch of a healer. This feeling is kiiind of similar to drinking a full glass of strong glucose-water after a solid 30 minute run. Behind the horn rimmed specs, she has beautiful gray eyes that look as if God worked extra hours to layer them with a perpetual glisten that you can never forget.

Her eyes are deep and vibrant; they are hovering in the present. If I have to think about love, I’d be reminded of the shine in those eyes. Whoever those eyes were made for, must have been a lucky man. Her hands aren’t soft as you’d imagine. They are assertive and seem to possess a meaning. She seems to know what it is but she won’t tell you. Her weathered face is barely noticeable after you glance into those eyes and they overwhelm you with … an energy that exudes nothing short of … love.

She holds my hands. And then she looks at them. I glance at my friend who’s calmly sipping his tea. I want to ask her something:

I: “Grandma, when did you come to Kathmandu?”

Though she doesn’t show it, I know she was not expecting a query of this nature. She still continues to probe my hand. A second or two later, she looks up at me:

“Babu, those days were very difficult. We walked and walked and walked. We had so much stuff to bring. So much stuff. Days and days of walking. We shouldn’t have carried all those things. Crossing the rivers was especially difficult. Everything we brought could be found in Kathmandu.”

When she looks at me, I feel I’m shortchanging my life by not doing what I’m supposed to. Of course, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing but for some reason, I feel like she’s alerting me in the form of ‘Act now. Who knows where you’ll be tomorrow?’ kind of a deal. She sees something that I can’t. When she pores over my hand again, I’m taken back to black and white. I hear mules grunting and people puffing as they make their way down to the flatter lands. I see dokos and gunyu cholos. I see a few ragged daura suruwals also. I’m looking for kids .. I can’t picture them here. Where in the world are they coming from?

“Sankhuwasabha babu.” She then lets go of my hand and turns towards my friend – her grandson. He gives her the warmest smile. She says:

“Hows the tea?”

“It’s good grandma. Prabha made it.”

She then quizzes me: “Do you also like the tea?”

“Yes grandma I do. It’s pretty good – mitho cha!”

“Where are your parents from?”

“Oh they’re from Ilam grandma. My father’s from Phikkal and mother’s about 10 hours of walk from Ilam Bazaar.”

“I’ve been to Phikkal! Such a beautiful place. We stopped to pray at Panchakanya on our way to Aitabaarey.”

This the the first time I’m having a conversation with a 90 year old. 90 freakking years! If she doesn’t try to be loud, she speaks in clear sentences. She hears well. She sees well. Her conscience hasn’t gone anywhere.

“I have to go. You should come here more often.” She suggests.

“I will grandma.” I add.

And then she does what one of my 75 year old grandpas up in Ilam would envy. She gets up from where we’re sitting on the floor. My friend comes rushing to aid her in the process. He gently holds her hands. She stands .. almost upright. And she takes a careful step. And another one. I stare at her in wonder. After another calculated step, she’s at the door that leads to the staircase which will take her down to her room.

Her hands, infirm they may be, are firmly secured against the railing, and she starts descending – on her own! She carefully slides her hands over the railing, in tandem with her descent. Friend is a couple of steps ahead of her. He’s careful not to support her. She seems determined to get down on her own. I’m a bit nervous. Friend realizes my confusion and gives a ‘it’s alright – this is how she gets down the stairs every day’ nod to me. Sure enough, in a matter of seconds she’s safely down and heading towards her room.