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!

If I’m not at work, I’m at Dance Bars (for research .. ‘course). If I’m not at Dance Bars, I’m reading a book. If I’m not reading a book, I’m eating something. If I’m not eating anything, ladies and gents, I’m serving you in the manner by which you can improve your Nepali vocabulary exponentially – I may also be watching what’s on TV or listening to some music or browsing the web at the same time I’m serving you.

That was my life in a nutshell right there!

I’ve got miles to go before I get anywhere close to implementing what I want from abui.com. There are literally more than 50 features that I need to add. And there are at least 17 known issues (known as bugs in my world) that I need to fix. Etc. Etc.

On that token, today, I was able to add a feature akin to Word of the day in abui, except the word could be an उखान, or a गाँउ खाने कथा, or just a good old नेपाली शब्द। The first ever Word of the day happens to be कृशानुरेता।

What does it mean? Head on over to abui.com to find out, will you?

Sometimes they may act against you after the hearing. But that’s fine if you are convinced that what they did was right – by not acting for you. If you aren’t convinced, you expostulate, you reason. If they turn a deaf ear, you resort to a form of protest but not before pushing it to the edge with dialogue fueled with reason.

Ideally, I think this is how a normal course should meander amongst the policy-practitioners and policy-makers. They make their decisions regarding policy and we have to live it which is fine because that is how the modern world sees normalcy stamp its almost indelible mark on all things concerning the citizenry. I have no problem with this practice because when you do get to the bottom of it, it is us who lay the foundation by proposing who gets to have a say in making those policies because they are supposed to be representing us.

One would then expect to have at least a regular briefing of exactly what they talk about, in the least. In Nepal, having such expectations only makes us more of non-believers because when you look towards a-day-in-the-life-of us, you wish they would, if nothing else, at least be capable of steadily providing us with the most rudimentary necessities that would help us keep afloat in the ever raging rivers of sanity.

We deserve an explanation for this gross incapability in their part. Forget explanation, can we set deadlines? At least, give us a damn date! If it’s five years down the line that there will finally be 24 hour uninterrupted supply of electricity, tell us clearly and we will plan with due regard. Also, we will monitor progress against this deadline after we determine that five years indeed is a fair estimate.

Some of us will make decisions accordingly. Unlike them, we need reliable information and data supporting it to make decisions. Our decisions and consequences based on those decisions will measure us; these measurements will clearly tell how credible and accountable we are.

They don’t ever stop battling over the linearity of command in governance once the current one crumbles. The presently embarrassing share-war over rehabilitation packages illustrates how much of visionaries they are!

Here’s the thing though. Since they are not equipped with accountability, in fact, they are waxing overflowing complacence all over the map, it is easy to not have much room for an honest hearing. They are so full of apathy that they value our most underscored problems — namely, shortages of you-name-its — like a whale values a TV. Their indifference unfortunately is leaving barely any wiggle room for their cognizance. When there’s a glaring shortage of cognizance on them, they will not be able to digest dialogues fueled with reason. And that’s when we resort to a form of protest – a protest for us to be able to just live, with sanity – for we deserve not a stitch less.

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.

it’s not just work for me baby
but also no play at the end of the day
and that’s been getting the better of me lately
hence
had it not been for your sight
10 pm would’ve always been the end of my night

time waits for no one
or so they say
i don’t really know about that
because
even though i can’t pull a rabbit out of my hat
i know for a fact
that
come whatever may
they can never ever say
that 10 pm for the bohta
isn’t here to stay

i’ve never been on a bullet train
but
i must confess
that
my life would definitely not have been in vain
were i only to see you
everyday
wrap my order of dosa, ever so carefully
with a smile
that will be forever missed
in Kathmandu’s narrowest, but nicest, little galli

so
until (if ever) we meet again
here’s a goodbye from
well, just another ..
i could tell by the eyes that follow you
so as to cause you to bother
i will take the food, however
and not cause too much chatter
in a language that’s kinda diffcult for me
to decipher

thanks
for i really have to eat tonight (s t a r v i n g)
just so that i can query my mind efficiently tomorrow
for the invaluable content it has captured today
in the beauty of your smile
..
among maybe other details.

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.

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!