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!