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)?

I’ve taken to walking as my leading choice of transportation within the Valley (35 mins: Battisputali to Durbar Marg – beat that suckers!) – and that includes work also which means, I’ve been missing out on मध्य उपत्यका यातायात’s rattle and hum these days; wondering if anything had changed in the last 3 weeks, I decided to hop on the bus this morning on my way to work and witnessed what can almost only be described as a ‘Only in Nepal’ event except I well knew these deals occur all the time in China and India also.

Of note: not many elements are that common between the triumvirate states except perhaps the Tibetans, among other very few entities, which does include noodles.

On my ride were a bunch of people who looked like they’d entered Kathmandu earlier in the morning – traveling in a night bus from somewhere in the Terai (stereotyping/profiling here). मध्य उपत्यका यातायात, you should know, makes an incomplete sel-roti by negotiating the insanity of Kathmandu streets all the way from that thankless surrounding of Gongabu Bus Park (The ‘old’ New Bus Park) to that overachieving disorganization of Ratna Park.

In the bus, 3 children tugged to their elders by holding on to whatever was available to be held – inclusive of a wisp of an untrimmed goatee on the man and the ओड्ने (Nepali poncho?) of the woman.

The elders didn’t seem to mind the children’s collective grips one bit amidst all the hustle and the bustle of an early Kathmandu Wednesday morning. They were occupied with gazing at the faces of their fellow travelers who in turn were wearing a swarm of early morning emotions which did nothing but entertain the unversed from out of town, to the utmost degree.

Where were they going? The Khalasi wanted to know.

Ratna Park – came back as an unmistakable answer.

The Khalasi would like to be paid the fare please.

They understood what the Khalasi would like because of his outstretched hands – not because of his fluent city-Nepali. We would soon come to know this fact after they would momentarily fish out a 50 rupee bank note.

Without skipping a beat, the Khalasi told them that 50 wouldn’t cut it. So would they be so kind as to pay the full fare and provide him with NRS 75 more (I think) please?

They spoke either in Bhojpuri, Maithili, or Native Nepali (Tharu bhasa) – not one freezing soul in my proximity knew what they were saying. Busta Rhymes-like word flow didn’t help any parties involved. After 2 minutes of sign language mixed with some Nepali accented Hindi, an agreement was reached and what should otherwise have been a simple little transaction, was finally made.

What if – the Terai peeps and the Khalasi were to be taught a second (regional) language besides their mother tongue? After all, we have regional languages by the dokos in this country. How about more people acquire a tongue for at least one of those regional languages?

Perhaps it is too late for our friends from the Terai (but is it ever too late for anything?) but it most definitely is anything but for their kids to learn how to speak in Tamang, or Gurung, or even the dying Sanskrit for that matter. How freakking cool would that be huh? Or or, a kid up in Jomsom were to be taught in her school to communicate in Maithili or Tharu?

You’d assume our kids, as they’re growing up, will speak Nepali, learn English, speak or at least understand Hindi (thank you Bollywood), and converse in their ethnic tongue. One more regional language would not hurt – imagine the imagination our kids would be capable of – the sheer volume of perspectives they will have bouncing around in their heads waiting to jump out to create and impress – also because of the nuances of various languages they will eventually have mastered if begun in the proper manner.

Additionally, deals like these, if implemented, would so dot those ‘i’s and cross that ‘t’ in diversity – would it not?

Time Magazine – the Coca-Cola of magazines (?), crowned The Protestor, as the once-a-yearly celebrated Time Person of the Year. I only want to make sure that we don’t get too much caught up with that title here in our neck of the woods Nepal, because we were never eligible. Why? Because we don’t protest – we terrorize via Nepal Bandhs.

Time, it’s fair to say, didn’t take into account the myriad terrorizing Nepal Bandhs in the past year that was called upon by various political parties citing a litany of lame logic which would make the pre-enlightenment Kalidas look like Anna Hazare. These parties and their sheep deemed it A-OK to shut down our day-to-day state of affairs to ‘protest’ against everything from a chicken being run over by an 8-year old’s bicycle to a criminal serving sentence for homicide dying in the clink – with a little intitiation from his fellow inmates.

Protests in lands far and wide were against the status quo – an unjust tyranny of a System wherein a wide majority of the populace wanted an overhaul, thus became a part of the force that would eventually see to it that the System wouldn’t ever dare resurface. They’re still at it. By the looks of things in Egypt and Tunisia, the process of a complete makeover will be anything but easy.

In Nepal, where a complete reformat of the System would even remotely qualify as being a hypothetical, is when we do away with the delusion that what is trending here with the idiots that dance to the tunes of uber-idiots, that Nepal Bandh is totally okay with the rest of us.

In the past, they’d at least be courteous enough to forewarn us that they’d be pissing all over our daily schedules. Something like the weather people forecasting about a bone-chilling foggy next day so that we can get ourselves in those faded (and sometimes torn) long johns before sampling anything else. That sort of politeness is so old these days that Nepal Bandhs have seemingly become preemptive. Preemptive enough that we have now been relegated to the state of a civilian in Libya who doesn’t know when the next NATO bomb is going to fall.

Thence, I felt the need that I had to come with up another top 10 list – one that chronicles in descending order why a Nepal Bandhkaari is anything but the Time Person of the Year:

10. The ones in the streets are generally hired guns. They work for all the parties in a contract basis and are ordered by the parties to terrorize and disrupt – a daily civilian’s life, no bar.

9. They think vandalizing property that doesn’t belong to them is what Nepal Bandh 101 is.

8. Unless they set a motorbike and a micro on fire, they will not have achieved what they set out to do – bring back the dead who killed other people.

7. They go back to their respective ideological bases waiting for the next time they can disrupt all that is congested, in a hurry, yet somehow functioning – we like our city congested with traffic, pedestrians, and businesses alike, thank you very much!

6. How can the wannabe protester who actually is disguised as a Nepal Bandhkaari embrace someone else’s ideologies that do not do squat to change things around here?

5. NEW, HELP, PEACE – not in the dictionary of a Nepal Bandhkaari.

4. Trying to call a Nepal Bandhkaari a protester is to insult the late Mohamed Bouazizi whose ultimate protest kickstarted the chain-reaction of mass protests against dictatorships.

3. For as long as these politicians and their goons are free to do as they please, I doubt a real protest will ever ensue in this country – unless those not related to either of above act for to cultivate one akin to the Arab spring.

2. Protest usually leads to an uprising – what does a Nepal Bandh lead to? Impunity?

1. Evermore occurrences such as these.

And herein is the previous installment.

I address my father’s tenant as ‘Bhabi’ (she’s of Indian origin) and her beau, Dai – he’s Nepali. ‘Bhabi’s’ direct translation from Hindi to Nepali is ‘sister-in-law’. With Bhabi, I converse in Hindi and with Dai, in Nepali. Bhabi’s Nepali is poor. My mother, when she visits Kathmandu, speaks to Bhabi in Nepali and Bhabi speaks to her in Hindi. Their exchange is the highlight of my life.

Mother (singing on a note which traverses a Sine Wave): “Ahaaaa! Apkaa saree ta kasto hariiiyo or fal-fal huwa hey huwa hey .. hehe!”

Bhabi (on a Lata Mangeshkar high note): “Apka kurta to kitna cute hey ji .. khit khit!”

Last time my mother was here, she took pity to what she thought was my and my cousin’s plight because of us conducting all of the house chores by ourselves. Apparently, one afternoon, when I was away at work, my mother’d SOSed Bhabi – to find me a maid, or a, well, manmaid.

The following exchange occured in Kathmandu, Nepal around 07:00 hrs on a Sunday morning – two weeks ago.

Bhabi (from downstairs): “BHAAAIYAAAAAA!” (“B R O T H E R!”)

I (from upstairs over early morning dose of Breaking Benjamin): “JI BHAAAAAABIIIIIII!” (“YES BHABI!”)

Bhabi: “SUNIYE TO JARAAAAA!” (“L I S T E N ..”)

I: “THEEEK HAI BHAAAABIIIIII, ATAAAAA HOOOOON!” (OKAY BHABI .. I’M COMING!”)

Bhabi, excitedly: “Since I know you guys need a maid, I’ve found one for you. Meet Geeta here.”

Geeta, hands clasped into a nice Namaste: “Namaste.”

I: “Namaste Geeta. I’m Nepali.”

Geeta smiles. She looks like she’s in her early twenties. Dimples to go along with her smile reminds me of how long it has been since I last noticed one. She has on a thin, blue jacket and whenever has the slightest opportunity, slides both of her hands into the pockets. Hands clenched into fists inside each side of her jacket’s pockets tell me she’s either cold or pissed off. I go with the former speculation.

Bhabi: “Okay I’ve done my part. Bhaiya, please tell Geeta what her responsibilities will be.”

I: “Sure Bhabi. Geeta, come up?”

Geeta: “After you please.”

Once upstairs, I tell her what her responsibilities will be. Mostly it is cleaning as I’m addicted to doing my own laundry and my cousin pretty much hates anything to do with water. After we settle her working hours and money matters, I ask her if she can make a heart-warming tea with some aduwa and sukmel tossed in.

Geeta: “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to make tea.”

I: “I don’t believe that! You’ve never made tea?”

I was a bit suspicious.

I: “Please tell me how old you are, if you don’t mind.”

Geeta: “No I’ve never made tea. I’m 24.”

I: “Where do you live?”

Geeta: “Chabahil.”

I: “Who do you live with?”

Geeta: “My brother and my little sister.”

Geeta has an accent when she speaks – sounds like she’s from a remote gaun in Kavre or further East.

I: “Where’re you from?”

Geeta: “Sindhupalchowk, some-gaun.”

I: “When did you come to Kathmandu?”

Geeta: “It’s been about 4 months.”

I: “How did you get here?”

Geeta: “I walked for 10 hrs and then I took the bus .. I, umm, ran away from home.”

I: “What?!? Why?”

Geeta: “I didn’t it like there one bit – my parents knew that. I’d told my brother of my intentions of coming to Kathmandu to work in last year’s Dashain. My parents didn’t like the idea as there’d be no one but my little brother and sister to tend to livestock.”

I: “Hmmm .. so you ran away? And never did you have to make tea?”

Geeta: “Yes. Yes – and we didn’t have much sugar.”

No Sugar? Where’s her gaun again? I refuse to believe this shit.

I: ” Ok – so did you run off alone, or with a dude?”

Geeta, turning a bit red: “Chyaaaa! No!! Not with no man!?”

I: “Just asking. I have a feeling then you ran away because they’d have gotten you married if you hadn’t ..”

Silence.

I: “So what’ve you been doing since the last 4 months?”

Geeta: “My brother found me a job cleaning another house in Jorpaati – I go there early that’s why I cannot come here before 10 am.”

I: “Ok – did you go to school in your-gaun?”

Geeta: “No.”

I: “Whaaat?!? You haven’t been to school at all?”

Silence.

I was shocked! Just didn’t feel like asking her anything else (about the sister – was she the same little one from the gaun or another sister, whether or not her parents knew by now if she was here, etc.) – still didn’t from the bottom of my heart believe she couldn’t make tea.

I: “Come I’ll show you how to make some heart-warming tea with some aduwa and sukmel tossed in.”

Geeta: “Okay.”

To be continued ..