The deafening roar of the jet engine, as it violently took off from the TIA, jarring everything in its wake, awoke Sabita. On most days, it was either this international carrier’s thundering clamor that slithered through all of Koteshwore and the nearby neoteric neighborhoods, or the constant clatter of utensils a floor up where a couple from Dolkha had moved in a month or so ago – either one of the two (rarely a combination of both) – that would cause Sabita’s light brown eyes to open in a manner that in no way suggested they had been clamped shut for a little more than 7 hours. Her eyes would open as if she were a neophyte practitioner of meditation counting the uneven rhythm of breaths and upon reaching the targeted count, with the most ostentatious alertness, opening her eyes as if eventuating from a considerably long stint of secluded journey towards seeking The Self.

Once awake, Sabita habitually sent her left hand above her head to fetch the steel glass located atop the counter that was attached to the bed. She always made it a point to put a glass full of water there every night before calling it a night and always chugged it down first thing in the morning. This was a habit she had acquired from watching her father do the very same every morning back in Hoksey, Jhapa where she had grown up. Sabita’s father was a priest who strictly adhered to rules set by his father who was a devout practitioner of conventional Hinduism and a proud and an ardent royalist, not to mention a sincere sexist. Sabita’s tenaciously condescending grandfather had institutionalized his misogynistic principles across all of his progeny, including such pointless rituals as peering at the sun at daybreak by interlocking the index finger and the pinky of one hand to the pinky and the index finger of the other such that the thumbs securely latch the remaining two fingers of the opposite hands so as to create an aperture in the middle of the entire formation of digits; an age-old Hindu tradition, which, to Sabita was as pointless as watching a dog bark at a fly except in this case, her right eye would be antsy for the rest of the morning.

Another tiring protocol Sabita had to endure up until her grandfather died was of receiving blessings from the old man. Living in a joint family with her three uncles, their wives and their children, along with her three elder brothers, it was a procession to the veranda that housed a daybed atop which sat the stocky old man with his feet at the ready for the men to touch with their foreheads and both of his hands, as if he were warming himself at a camp-fire, for the women to come and bow to in supplication. Thanks to more than 12 years of this ridiculous early morning temple-like service, later in her life when she moved to Kathmandu, Sabita realized she was far more disciplined than the rest of Nepal when it came to queuing up in front of the ATM or in the bank or in the government offices flush with inept thus irritating bureaucracy.

Sabita dragged herself out of the bed, put on a pair of pajamas she had bought the other day from The Dharan Fancy Store in Balkumari, creak-opened the door of her one bedroom dera, and peeked out to the end of the hallway crowded with crumpled footwear to check to see if the toilet was occupied. It wasn’t. She quickly grabbed her toothbrush and toothpaste from the corner shelf suspended high in her bedroom, which among her toiletries, also sheltered a glut of kitchen-related accessories. Below this shelf was a single-burner gas-stove and two gas-cylinders. One of the gas-cylinders was empty and another one was halfway there. From the dilapidated Godrej steel cabinet located opposite her bed, she gathered clean underwear, a B-cup (I think), a t-shirt that was gifted to her by her ex-boyfriend in Birtamode, and a pair of faded jeans that she had only recently purchased at the City Center in Kamalpokhari. Clinging to these possessions with one hand and opening her bedroom door again with the other, Sabita stepped out of her room, put on her slippers and hurried towards the bathroom which had a clumsy shower-head and an old-style toilet which sorely needed a good power wash; the chances of this toilet retaining its original color was getting slimmer by the day. Since the shower-head more often than not did not fulfill its purpose, two buckets, one bright red and the other one bright green, and one mug (also bright red) to splash oneself with water, served as backup. Had it not been for the landlord boring water from deep underground, neither of these buckets or the generally non-functioning shower-head would be of any use to anybody on the ground floor; besides Sabita’s room and this bathroom, there were two other rooms on this floor. Both rooms had two tenants each: +2 girls who went to Alpine Academy which was about 5 minutes’ walk from the house. As she squatted down to pee, Sabita could distinctly hear the faraway thunder of the jet, now circling the skies above Kathmandu and flying off to a faraway land.

Rubbing her wet hair with her towel, Sabita entered her room and headed straight towards the mirror that took up an almost entire door on the Godrej. Since there was no electricity, she couldn’t blow-dry her hair. Using both her hands, she curled up her hair like a twister to form a convoluted bun and ran a sleek barrette somewhere in the crux of that arrangement. Pouting her lips, she dismissed the idea of wearing any lipstick. She covered her entire face for a split second with both her hands – as if she’d painfully realized that she’d just committed an epic crime, and then ran her palms down her face with only the tips of her middle fingers touching themselves before both hands parted from her face at the chin. Sabita then gathered her purse, checked the charge on her Samsung, gave herself one last look in the mirror, let out a long determined breath, and headed for the door with her Gucci knock-off shades perched safely over her head.

Kathmandu, whether it liked it or not, had no other choice than to be ready to face one Sabita Adhikari: fair, wavy hair falling just below her shoulders (when not twisted up in a bun) with streaks of blonde, dimples that could kill the faint-hearted, slim with an almost perfect figure, lethal on the pole, streets, and crowded buses, 5’5’’, 27, from Hoksey, Jhapa.

“I want to get out of this place .. I will soon”, she says. Her tone is more self-assuring than confident but I think I see some form of modesty in those fabulously lit brown eyes. “So I don’t want you spending any money on me, just buy me one Strawberry drink and I’ll be good for the night, okay? I’m not like the others in this place – they’ll rip you off! I like you – you’re not drunk or touchy-feely. It’s not good to drink anyway.”

What does this remind me of? My mind gets to work and fetches an exchange with that aunty on my last flight in Nepal Airlines.

I: “Didi, malai sano shot ko whiskey dinus na please. Jun bhaye pani huncha.”

Auntie: “Bhai .. kahan ko ho? Dekhe dekhe jasto lagcha ni ..”

Not here please. Not now. I just want to sip some alcohol and imagine things. Can I?

I: “Aba khoi kahan bata suru garum. Ma janmeko Jhapa ma ho .. border najikai – Chandragadhi bhanney thau ma, hurkeko chai Nepal ko charai tira ..”

Auntie, cutting me off: “Hoina bhai ko history sodheko haina .. Kathamandu ma kaha basnuhuncha bhai bhaneko kya?”

I: “Battisputali ..”

Auntie: “Sora khuttey tira pani aunuhuncha .. teta dekhe jasto lagyo ni!”

Auntie, are you going to give me the alcohol if I say yes?

I: “Auchu ni kailey kahi. Balaju pani janchu, Chabahil janchu, Thamel bhai halyo, Lazimpat, Maharajgunj .. sabai tira jana bhyauchu.”

Auntie: “Eh ho ra? Lazimpat ma ko chinnu huncha? Mero dai ko ghar pani tyahi nai ho ..”

Why do people kill themselves again? Sometimes, killing yourself so that you don’t have to talk to an auntie inside a half-empty plane about shit that will not do anyone any good, doesn’t seem that bad of of a deal. After a minute more of balls-hurting torture, she mercifully brought me something strong that I immediately ghyampayed and asked for a double thereafter.

After I’d told her my name, last name, my parents names and their backgrounds, it was established that she didn’t know me at all. Surprised at this discovery, because she’d have sworn she’d seen me in Sora Khuttey, she didn’t seem bothered anymore that I wanted to gulp down 3 more strong shots of whiskey – neeet! India does that to you.

Before I could go any further reminiscing the sorry situation I found myself in that NA flight (a man from somewhere in Eastern Europe on his first trip to our country wanted to know about Phoksundo lake – I still hate him to this day for reminding me about the exotic places in my country I’ve never visited), Nisha declares: “I’ll be back in a jiffy – got to go talk to my regular customer”. Within seconds, another scantily-clad dancer approaches and offers to sit herself right beside me. I nod an okay. She sits, close .. scandalously close, and introduces herself as Aashiqa.

Aashiqa: “Don’t believe a thing Nisha says hai! Did she tell you she’s going abroad?”

Didn’t expect this. Can we talk about me please? Can I get some attention here? What’s this – an all-girls school where everyone hates each other? C’mon now ladies!

I: “Oh yeah? No she didn’t mention anything of the sort to me.”

I: “Where’s she headed to?”

Aashiqa: “Singapore rey!”

I: “What do you mean ‘rey’?”

Aashiqa: “Well, first she was supposed to go to Hongkong, but then they started sounding suspicious so Nisha’s boyfriend got her a gig in Singapore. It’s much safer there rey. She’s lucky. I wish I had a boyfriend like that.”

I can sense Aashiqa trying to have some kind of a go at me. I try not to look at her, without making her realize that I’m deliberately trying not to look at her. I fail. Depending on how many men she’s talked to, she’s probably more than once seen my kinds patronize here before. I feel her shifting her look and her stance towards being a bit .. guarded. When my intuition hears the non-existent metaphysical ‘snap’ after that successful shift of hers, I turn to look at her to ask her something.

Aashiqa: “Can you buy me some wine please?”

I: “Sure.”

Aashiqa: “Thanks .. I’ll go get it myself from the bar. You want anything?”

I: “No I’m good. Thanks. We’re leaving after I’m done with this beer.”

Aashiqa: “Okay .. where’s your friend?”

I: “Oh he went out. His girlfriend probably called.”

Aashiqa: “Next time he should bring her along too.”

I: “Haha ..”

As soon as Aashiqa’s gone, Nisha comes back.

Nisha: “Did Aashiqa tell you I’m going to Singapore?”

To be continued …

And herein is the previous installment:

I liked sports stars, rock stars, Everest summiteers, authors, and movie stars when I was growing up. I also knew what they looked like. My father had idolized people he’d never seen pictures of but heard sing on the radio in distant Ilam – Aruna Lama, Bacchu Kailash, Phatteman, etc; I wonder how that would work – idolizing purely based on your imagination.

I also venerated Bir Balabhadra; his and his troops heroics to defend the fort of Nalapani from the belligerent British still gives me the goosebumps and wells my eyes with pride! Someone should make a movie out of that story – sort of like a Kollywood version of The Alamo.

Kids in Nepal have little choice when it comes to looking up to a particular Nepali role model. I took a survey of sorts for this particular purpose and not one 8 to 10 year old mentioned Rajesh Hamal or Shreya Dhital or Adrian Pradhan or Malina Joshi or Parijat or Devkota or Bhusan Dahal or, er, Rekha Thapa? Look, if Rajesh Dai is not doing it, I don’t know who can; except maybe Hakku Kaley?

Politicians, clearly, are out of the picture. Other singers and actors are aplenty but don’t get much press (print, TV, FB, Twitter, Chiya-pasal ko guff, etc.) – one kid did say he liked Deepak Giri. Social workers are probably doing more good than harm but we don’t ever get to hear from or about them; more of an exception than a rule is Anuradha Koirala – proud of you madame!

Short Nepali men making headlines the world over is nice. We’re happy for them and what little international coverage it brings us, but let’s face it – role models, they’re not – not the way we treat them; for, how in the world do we get to hear their thoughts? Their perspectives about what they’ve experienced? Reporting is only about the numbers and the quantifiable. Can we dig a little deeper and find out who the people really are about whom we get to read about in daily papers?

Sports figures do exist – but they don’t get enough press! Even if they had, would we be giving them enough attention? Would we really care when we can already watch the Messis and the Ronaldos and the Bryants and Lins of the world perform from within our living rooms (when there’s electricity)?

Yes we would.

Easier for me to say therefore I will say it:

Please get into the World Cup – Teams Nepal of football and cricket. We will cheer for you. We will root for you. We will cry with you when you do and laugh with you when you do. We’ll curse at the TV with hatred when they foul you or don’t call a clear LBW against the other team; we will shed tears of joy or scream in ecstasy when you win. And we will appreciate when you exchange jerseys with the better team if the other one wins.

Just like the stunning Sambriddhi Rai did a couple of months or so ago in China. Miss Personality! Take that .. India?

And if you do get enough press after you win something worthwhile or achieve the unthinkable, some kid somewhere may just revere you and dream of becoming you when s/he grows up. And when s/he actually does grow up, with luck and plenty of hard-work coupled with expert advice and direction, there’s a chance s/he just may just outdo you, or at least have the courage to do the unthinkable. Like facing fears. I should know – my chronic stutter decreased considerably after I watched Forrest Gump years and years ago; Forrest still inspires me. The King’s Speech helped put a khukuri on the incorrigible stutter so as to dent it for life. I wish Sher Bahadur Deuba could do the same. No really.

Isn’t that the point of having a role model? To be inspired enough to do something? To … for a way to put a smile on your face?

Impressed by my ability and track record (more like a good-luck charm?) of making wonders out of kids, a cousin from back East arrived last week to stay with me – with the consent of her parents. She’s a rebel of sorts. Unlike her sisters, she snubbed a ‘lucrative’ arranged-marriage proposal. She doesn’t want to bear children until she’s gained independence of all kinds. She wants to hold a job that she actually enjoys. She wants to fall in love and choose her own man. She wants to do something worthwhile while she’s here, living. She wants to learn something new every day. She wants to build and create. She wants to, at least, give it a good shot at what she wants out of her life. But like all, my little cousin sister is not perfect: she wants to pray everyday; and she doesn’t want to do her own laundry (So, time to look for a maid, again: Geeta got married and quit). I, for my part, will do anything I can to help her get what she wants; for, to me, she just happens to be my newest role model.

To my relatives with children who cause them grief or concern, I’m godsend. Last year, I hosted two kids in the house that I live. The first, my nephew, had gotten in trouble with his parents because he’d flunked his Higher Secondary Exams back East; so his parents, probably thinking it couldn’t get any worse, sent him to live with me in hidden hopes that I would somehow straighten him out.

In stark contrast to my nephew’s fecklessness, the other kid who’d come to live with me around the same time he had, had actually aced her CBSEs in India and was looking forward to going to Sydney for further studies; her actual maternal uncle – my cousin – lives and earns there. So where did I come in?

Her parents so decreed that it would help her improve her English if she came and lived with me: the hoards of books I have in the house probably convinced them that I was the second coming of Shakespeare or something. Well, she writes and talks like a rapper (mah dis mad dat) these days because what her parents didn’t see were megabytes of MP3s from Public Enemy to Drake stored in ever droning disks of my computer.

Presently, niece has comfortably settled in Sydney and has already started ‘Uni’ life there. In three years time, after she completes her Nursing degree, she will easily be the highest grossing bread winner in the history of her family. And that, before she turns 21 (Off the record, when I was 21, I couldn’t tell my left from my right – like the pathetic politicians of present – well most of them anyway.)

And my chuckleheaded nephew – to his, mine, his parents, and his dear girlfriend’s utter disbelief, has actually passed his HSEs! Miracles, it seems do not exist only in fiction. Where other youngsters would’ve immediately rushed to apply to their colleges of choice, nephew rushed to apply for a passport.

My nephew – he’s not much into burying his head into books that act as prerequisites to a Bachelor’s degree. You see, he hopes to head to the Middle East to join his ’12-pass’ buddies, if he first doesn’t hit the DV lottery sweepstakes this year. Until then, he’ll work on his upcoming rap record. I swear didn’t have much to do with this rap zeal of his – he’s as good a rapper as fish are fliers.

These factoids, ladies and gentlemen, make me godsend to my other relatives who have children. To them, I can speak to horses and walk on water. Yes. They are under this marvelous impression that I had, more or less, everything to do with those kids getting where they had wanted to be. Only, such assumptions couldn’t be further from the truth. All I did was provide them with: (a) food and (b) clear directions on how to navigate around this dhuwa-and-dhulo-polis. The rest, they did it all by themselves; I didn’t do, to quote some of my favorite rappers: jackshit!

So last week when I was having a conversation with a colleague of mine about (mis) givings of responsibilities, she pointed out to me this: did it ever occur to me that I might have been, well, a role model to those kids? Perhaps, they looked up to me in a multitude of manners. Perhaps, they wanted to be like me, talk, and act like me, and later in life, emulate what I may have accomplished. Perhaps those parents realized their kids would react to me more than anyone else.

Truth be told, I stutter, I act like an insouciant fool, and by god, I haven’t accomplished – again to quote some of my favorite rappers: jackshit! Why would anyone want me to be their role model?

Introspection beckoned.

I shattered Ganesh into eerie shards of glass. I betrayed someone’s trust; couldn’t keep my promise of taking good care of the Ganesh for which, I am truly very sorry and even more so – and surprisingly at that – d e v a s t a t e d.

I bounce around town talking to random people on a spate of topics; one of those topics happens to be religion. I’m almost proud that I don’t have much dependence on it. The very concept confuses me to the point where it stops making any sense to me.

My hero – Laxmi Prasad Devkota, whose poetry – the few that I can interpret – I live by (bit of a hyperbole there), and who as a born-again Believer when he was about to die, jumped ship only to seek comfort due to fear: fear of dying. A thinker of Devkota’s caliber, I’d have thought, would’ve figured it out to do better, much better. He chose the easy route.

O how I’m screwed after I die, provided there’s a God playing flute and chasing women somewhere.

There are scholars who’ve read, analyzed, and completed their PhDs thanks to The Great One. I have had the fortune of meeting at least one such Devkota scholar. He rather disagrees with my 5-essay, 10-or-so-poem, and 1-katha knowledge of the Mahakabi. He tells me I have miles to go before I can come close to analyzing Devkota’s poems. I’ve put down that ungodly-distance-to-cover as my agenda for next life; provided there is one and I find myself in a maze of some kind of a reincarnate, inter-life memento.

For this life however, here’s my point: I had come to believe that I could piss on a statue with the same regard that I piss on the toilet. I’ve written some (sucky) poetry with clear intentions of wanting to shoot Shiva’s fancy exoteric stone and gold effigy in Pashupati; to find out if it would react. I am, once again, willing to bet my गुलेली that it will not. I have pictures and figurines of deities in the house that I live – a lifelong collection of my parents who live out in the East. Parents love their Gods. I only like the mythological stories behind these idols.

Last week, I discovered another angle to my atheism. Sure I can piss on a statue without feeling anything and I may use a statue as a scarecrow – did give it a thought once. Do crows Know by the way – in that – are they Beleivers (Murakami would find a way to make that normal, I’m sure)? Getting back to the topic at hand, I will never do so. I can’t. Not on public property, not on private. I will not take my mother’s figurine of Radha-Krishna up to the terrace and spit on it. No. The question then is: why the thought?

Growing up, I despised Gods. They didn’t see us as equals and vice versa. One would always be greater than the other, and evidently, this custom is not going out the window anytime soon. The statue around the corner has little hope compared to the one enshrouded in Pashupati. Why is one stone considered holier than its more unfortunate counterpart? Does it depend on the length of lines we form behind them? As has already been established in other important parts of our lives, looks like size matters in religion too.

My hatred may have been because, when I was a kid, I had prayed to Bindabasini (in the heart of Pokhara, suckers!) to hook me up with the prettiest girl in my class. Didn’t happen. Then I’d prayed to God to help me get rid of my stutter. Never happened. So then I prayed to God to please please increase my height (fast fast) – I was in grade 5! Needless to say, didn’t meet any deadline.

So then I decided to give God one last chance and prayed to Bindabasini to at least provide me the brute force required to bravely stand up to Amar whenever he bullied me for my speech impediment, my height, my ethnicity, etc. etc. As and when he pleased, he would still manage to furnish a good beating to me like a Youth Force cadre beats up a journalist. We would later become good buddies – especially after I also took up smoking .. in grade 6. And that, ladies and gents, is when I became the coolest baun around.

So when I was handed the Ganesh (because of my smug request, mind you), I didn’t treat it any differently than I treated the duct-tape, the scissors, the sandals, the key, the pack of Surya cigarettes, the CD (yes, CD), the broom, the ladies-hair-clip, the coffee mug, and the coasters that were all inside a shopping bag with the Ganesh. That unintentional indifference on my part eventually led to Ganesh’s fall to the floor after which it just – to my utter dismay – obliterated into tiny, little-bity pieces of glass of which it was manufactured.

I’m not much of a cry-baby but as the Ganesh hit the floor and suffered the unfortunate consequence of that impact, I – an atheist to the bone, was reduced to a sorrow the likes of which I had never experienced before. J didi!

The Ganesh belonged to someone I (brotherly) love – J didi. It was gifted to J by her sister. J is a believer. Among a bevy of subjects, J didi and I oftentimes talk religion over at Indreni Coffee Shop in New Baneshwor and always agree to disagree. People put their loved ones’ framed photographs on their desks while at work – haven’t seen much of that in Nepal though; J put her Ganesh .. until last week.

I killed the Ganesh. It is, for all practical purposes, gone. And unfortunately, it is irreplaceable. How do you replace an object that has been a constant symbol of someone’s well-grounded faith for quite some time? Had it been an iPod that I’d shattered, I’d buy J the latest one. If it were a transistor radio (remember those things) that I’d broken, I’d give J a Non-Chinese one. You get the drift. How do I replace someone’s God?

I felt like a murderer .. as if I’d murdered someone’s children! As much of an atheist as I am, I respect other people’s beliefs. I’d .. fight to protect their freedom of expression (in this case religion I suppose), as much as I may disagree with that expression or idea. Seeing that I couldn’t put back the Ganesh together, made me hate myself. Hanging my head, I faced J didi who claims to ‘know’ me inside out. I believe she does do, what with thoughts I venture into after many a conversation with her.

Didi and I have a relationship that transcends beyond the anger I managed to invoke in her. People I like, I like (more .. sometimes) when they’re angry .. with me. The anger shows another real and beautiful side of them – a side that I don’t get to see often. In didi’s case, it’d been forever. She was furious but something told me that our relationship has grown to another ‘maturity level’ because of this incident.

J didi’s desk is incomplete – thanks to me.

Happy Shivaratri everyone!

My number is 582. Which means, my turn comes after the first 581 are served by Saral Gas. The dude who part-times there tells me so. I briefly think about how he would react if I’m to offer him a little under-the-table cash. Don’t blame me for having such anti-brastachari lai kira paros thoughts, for I just arrived from India.

The buzz around Anna Hazare in that country will have you believe that people wake up with grafts and go to bed with bribery. No but truly, millions who swear by his name possibly cannot be wrong. Good luck, India!

Considering I have a backup of 1.5 cylinders, I think I fare much better than most people. And I live alone so I can probably go on and on like the Energizer bunny until at least the next change in government in Nepal.

To stash another cylinder in my kitchen is not why I’ve come to Saral Gas in Purano Baneshwore this evening.

My gas-stove is refusing to ignite and I need help hence I make the 10 minutes walk to Saral Gas’s shutters. The part-timer tells me he will show up at my door one of these days and take a look at it.

I don’t carry the stove to Saral’s shutters because I can’t separate the stove from the ‘gas-pipe’ that runs from the stove to the cylinder. He tells me it’s a tricky little snap. I try again, after I get home, and fail again to snap the thing off.

No electricity means that I can’t make any coffee either after I get home. There’s no gasoline in the motorbike also – not that I would’ve ridden it anywhere had it had a tank-full but you know, just saying.

I’m getting a bit tired of Just Baked’s as well as Tandoori Chicken Corner’s menu. Another option is Momos & More – they make good soups. Yet another option is Baje Ko Sekuwa in that well-done-from-an-architectural-standpoint edifice in Battisputali. BKS’s daal-bhaat-tarkaari on a plate combo isn’t too bad either.

I go with Momos & More.

The guy who’s always there greets me. He’s like the manager-slash-head-waiter. He asks me how my wedding went. I ask him how he got the idea that I had (recently – as per his understanding) attended my wedding.

He says he overheard me and my friends making jokes about life after marriage last time I was here and had assumed that I was the one who was getting married. I tell him that it was the other stammering guy – the doctor – and not me, that had gotten hitched. I add I will come to M&M to personally invite him if that day is to come.

I ask him which soups are available today. He says none and for that matter, he continues, he has no more food items to serve me or anyone else today. Pointing towards a loud table inside, he tells me they consumed every last whiff off the last gas cylinder they had. I stare towards them with fury.

Bu what’s he going to do now?

His eyes widen, his brows furrow, his lower lips stretch out but his upper lips retain their natural position, his shoulders rise up near the ears, his hands for the shortest second take upon a Bharat Natyam-like Mudra but proceed towards a more captivating ‘key ho?’-like gesture symmetrically – and thus, ladies and gents, he orchestrates a shrug. Khoi khoi! He says they’ll have to close tomorrow if they cannot appropriate gas-cylinders.

I’m demoralized. I’m angrier .. at The Man. Say what you will, the scarcity of basic needs is just inexcusable! Is it that difficult in this day and age to get some gas and some gasoline and some electricity and some water and some sanity? I kind of want to burn off some pent-up vent.

I walk across the street towards Daju-Bhai and get myself Snickers and Lays for dinner.