kiran desai's tragic painting of the hills

THE INHERITANCE OF HATRED


There is so much melancholy in this book that it tries to reverse the basic nature of the place and its people. The Gorkha community of Darjeeling, which is the people of Nepali origin who inhabit this place, has a history of soldiership. The majority of such initial settlers were the ex-soldiers of British Gorkha rifles fighting ashore. Many such people still trace their origin to remote villages in Nepal. But quite contrary to their proficiency and fame as ferocious soldiers, the community is very cheerful and humble. For more than once they have been praised to beat the blue blood in mannerisms. But let us plunge into the green eyed pool of inheritance and this symmetry changes. The ever melodious peace of the hills is acoustically blotched by cries of human soul.

Sai, the lead female character of Desai’s Himalayan saga of tragedy throughout the story remains an epitome of loneliness and depression. Portraying it as just the shade of the recent violent history of the hills also doesn’t separate it from resembling the writer’s alter ego. And exactly this is the most troubled aspect with this book. Sai, a girl who has seen years of confinement as a convent student and has a tragic family history comes to live in the hills. The magical hills have a different shade of colours from the old western architectured house of her grand father, who is a retired judge who has hammered away his compassion and guilt with years of hypocritical life of the service. A person who raped his own wife, beats the servant- cook and who lives in a false dignity at a far away place afraid of his own past. The picturisation is macabre, pronouncing the hidden horrors of being alive in this world. What Desai is able to communicate is that no matter who a person is and no matter where a person lives, any beautifull place it may be, the clutches of humanity devilised are not away. Is life that dreadful? Do you have to be so ruthless in judging time and people?

I have visited Darjeeling many times and the place has a sense of liberality and freedom, almost exhibiting the psychological independence its people enjoy. No doubts the place is one of the most beautiful place in the world. It has a sense of nostalgia attached to itself that gives a feeling that time has frozen there, years before. The ever friendly people are an extension to this scenic beauty. I don’t miss Kashmir’s apples because the glow of the smiling faces is so radiant here. I have to tell one small incident that occurred in front of me to dwell about the nature of the people there.

I was recently on a tour of the villages in Darjeeling. When I was going from Kurseong to Bijenbari, the jeep as always was full and people were hanging out side, it could have been the last vehicle for the day in that route as the sun had already escaped beyond the pine forests. At one of the stops, two girls and a boy got down. After the girls paid their fare the boy patted on to the shoulders of the conductor and said jovially “ I will pay you tomarrow, Daju!” The conductor was silent for some time then smiled and gestured back to him. And we moved on. As it was very suggestive, they must be knowing each other, I thought. As in these small villages in the hills people intimately know each other and even to far flung areas as the population is very less. But to my surprise it wasn’t the case when I casually asked the conductor refused. “But, how could I humiliate him in front of those girls of his own village?”

I had no other option but to salute him. Then I had to question myself, do these people living in such selfless harmony fit anywhere in the gory sketch of the loss?

Why then has Desai gone to such an extreme to taint the hills? The answer lies in the literal compulsion and the ghosts of the violence. Desai herself may have experienced some of it . If not then she must have heard of the cruelty. It is true that violence sets in the society as an atavism which deludes the bondings of harmony. It is also true that the normality doesn’t make that entire attractive prospect for literature. And so Desai decides to paint the reality with a glass her own choice. It is a fiction. And what is more of a concern is that she has belongingness to the place she describes. Because of all these factors Desai has created a picture which looks real and which unfortunately sends a wrong message. Desai inherits a voice that is not her own and this makes her voice louder to the people for whom it really matters.

The Unwritten Story of Love

I had not started writing then. At least not in English. This is about the time when I used to get lot many ideas to write stories about but never materialized them. Ideas came at all odd times. Most of the time reading some good story or article or inspired by some incident that we come across, but to express it into words was something rarely practiced and subsequently the idea vaporized into the future.
One such incident is what I am going to talk about now. The story did not vaporize this time but it lingered long because I shared it because it was born because of that sharing. Let me start before I am entangled into words and the real idea vanishes.

Aditya, probably the lightest person of our course, got inside the auto rickshaw, straightened the crease on his trouser and made room for me to get inside. It was the Deccan road of Pune. At Khadakwasla, we were allowed to free ourselves from the busy cadet life only once a week. Sunday was much awaited for. We went out to enjoy the freeness of the open air of the street in the mufti with tie. The food at many of the good restaurants was devoured after or before a movie. This generally completed our six to seven hours liberty and we came back. That day too we planned for nothing out of the routine. In the morning I had read a story written by Aditya. A touching story of a pilot who meets death in a romantic manner and his spirit follows his lover, but the tragedy sets in when he is there everywhere but can not tell that to her.
We adjusted well and Aditya instructed the driver to take us to the new multiplex opened at the outskirts.
“I read your story yesterday. It was nice….” I started the topic, and kept him guessing with the punctuation. Aditya looked at me and smiled. His pride buffed through his cheeks.
“…but very tragic.”
He was an Air Force cadet. He did not speak.
“I had also written a story once.” I think I was sure I had already got an idea as to what will be the outline of the story. “It is about a teenager boy and his discovery of adulthood.”
Yes! Certainly I had made the outline and it sounded interesting….. to me at least.
“Hmm... sounds interesting.” But was that what he really meant? I couldn’t make out.
“A teenager of … well… in ninth standard… is very disturbed with the changes taking place in him.” Was I copying some book I had heard about recently, dealing with the same subject for a girl? More important than that, did he know that?
“Oh shit!” He convulsed. I was relieved to know that that was only a reaction to the bumpy speed breaker we crossed. Was it a symbol for me to stop speeding without control? I mean I knew I had never written a story. I had written a few poems and two of them were published in the school magazine when I was in eighth and tenth. After the school I had a dream to become a journalist but that too was canvassed somewhere in the background.
I looked at his face to take the reassurance. He was indifferent! Indifference is one thing a man fears. I feared too but it was already too late.
“I hope you understood. What I am referring to is the various changes that take place as part of the sexual development.” The cadets enter the academy at the age of sixteen to nineteen. Aditya had made it over the opening of the limit by few odd days; probably he was one of the youngest to join.
“Oh yes! I understand.” His sincere reply encouraged me.
“Because of all this….the pubic hair growing and then the first time he accidentally jerks,…. he was really disturbed.” I looked at him and utilized my pause to get stronghold for future moves.
He made me believe I had grabbed his attention, at least it seemed. Was he relating to his own experience?
“Then he had heard the story that masturbation is a sin and those who do really become weak and loose fertility.” I wanted to ask him had he also heard the stories like me when he was in school but I was warmed up and did not want to break the rhythm. “All this was making him loose appetite and interest in studies and in every thing.” Did I strike a cord somewhere, even remotely? I remembered the dark days of sexual ignorance when I could feel it but could not explain it. And those cheap vernacular guide books that showed some Sadhu in a photograph were scariest things I had ever felt. They all said masturbation, hastamaithun, is a disease. That made me feel diseased every time. It was one of those guilt ridden kind of moments when one knew it’s wrong and yet he could not stop himself. I knew he must have gone through the same situation and his memory must be fresher than mine, by two years. But I had to take care I don’t make it sound too personnel. It was just a story I had supposedly written. The line to draw, between fiction and autobiographical exhilaration, often writers face.
“Then his mother could make out that he is not well.” I continued. Though this was a new thing for him because I knew he had studied in a boarding, it was a sentimental issue for him.
“And the teacher in school could make out that there is some problem.” The auto-rickshaw stopped at a red light. I felt stuck. We were in no hurry. There was time for the movie to start, lot of time. The red light did not matter much. But I was not liking the feeling of being stuck. I started hating myself for having started at all. But we were lucky and the traffic started flowing, again, soon.
“Yes! His teacher could make out that he was having some problem. He was considered to be a good student; he scored good marks, at least before then.” The auto had rushed with a new zest, but the fresh smell of the burning patrol made me uncomfortable.
I remembered my economics teacher in my ninth class. A young unmarried woman of... well... I can’t tell the exact age; I had not developed the art to find out the exact age of females by looking at their features, then. But the young fair lady was elder than us, much elder, must be around twenty three or twenty four. May be even more. But she was beautiful. She smiled kindly. She did not complain about the students to their parents in the parents teachers meet. She should have been my class teacher, I had often wished. That way she would take the first class in the morning.
I emerged out of the nostalgia, “His mother tried to counsel him. His class teacher, a beautiful young unmarried woman, also tried to find out from him but he did not tell anybody any thing.”
But when I thought about my own class teacher then, a woman in her late thirties or forties, who was bespectacled and who smelt of sweat under her huge arms, pieces of fat contained in side the sleeves of the blouse, evidently forcefully, I almost chuckled.
He was lucky to have a class teacher like that, I thought, almost smiling at my self for being jealous of my own protagonist. I looked at Aditya’s face in the small round mirror of the auto; it gave me a false feeling of safe distance. And searched for hints of being exposed. But he was deeply engrossed, may be thinking about his own school, I thought.
Did you also have some beautiful teacher in your school? I wanted to ask immorally, but I continued.
“Then when his teacher talked to him in detail about many things, she understood the problems. And she directly asked him, and somehow he told her every thing.”
The auto suddenly jerked and screeched! It was not a zebra crossing and a foot-walker had suddenly appeared in front from nowhere.
“ eh! Marna hai kya? Saala!” the Ricksha-wala had a peculiar kind of high pitched voice which pierced.
The man in his thirties stood still for a moment and walked on, indifferently. I followed.
“Now when you must be thinking that the problem has ended, because the teacher advised him and told him that all those things about masturbation were just a myth,” I touched him at the shoulder, “now the real problem started.”
This time when Aditya looked at my face, not through the mirror and swayed towards me, the auto was taking a right turn.
“Of course this matter was over but the boy, you know, in the process of all that secret talks and all that, started developing a feeling for the teacher.”
I was fumbling for words. It was hard for me to imagine exactly how I would write this if I would really write this some day as a story, in future. Was it immoral? The same doubt I had once when I had really liked my economics teacher but had not talked about it with any one else.
“And again all the bad phase of problems started with our friend.” This turn in the story, was it just for the sake of lengthening it? There was still time before we reached the multiplex. I continued wondering what the next move would be.
“And he was really disturbed and lost his appetite. He remained alone most of the time. Nothing would look or feel charming to him other than the teacher’s face. He loved to watch her endlessly in the class, without speaking a word, dreaming.” Aditya was one of those cadets from the RashtriyaIndianMilitaryCollege, an all boys feeder institute, where boys are prepared for the armed forces. I was aware of his limited experience regarding the other sex. But I could not imagine what this thing about the love for a teacher made him feel like. But he looked interested.
“Then the teacher came to know about this. You know you can make out by seeing the behavior, by observing, the teacher herself could guess.” I tried to explain it.
“She tried to explain but he would not listen. He could not. Every time he thought he will not think about her and then he could not stop dreaming about her when she came in class. She also caught his rough copy on the back of which he had written he initials, and mad ea heart with something that looked like a heart.”
That time I tried to think about one of my friend who really written a love letter with blood. I had some how found that a very silly thing to do. The blood, dried on the letter page with the roses in the background, looked like thin layer of red mud. I could not feel what in that impressed any body if it did so.
“Then finally he flunked the final exams and was pulled out of the school by his father; with an advice from mother, who knew every thing but did not tell him. She did not tell it to any body and he was enrolled into a new school.” After the final turn, through the open space at the side of the auto, beyond Aditya’s face, I saw the large neon lighted blue board. E square, the end of my story.
I did not know where my economics teacher had gone after that one year.
“Meanwhile the teacher too left the school. Though she did it for different purpose.” The auto halted and I came out of the auto relieved of many things, and, paid twenty rupees.

Kashi, Kathmandu and Korea

What an excellent time to get down from a train, 4.30 am. I thought. That too on a chilly winter morning of 31st of Dec. One could just hope the train would get late for ..... well .. may be 2 to 3 hrs, so that one could at least shout for a tea – samosa after talking bath at the waiting room. But, my prayer wasn’t accepted and hence, that was the first audience by the “once a kingdom of Kashi", Varanasi for me. Coming from Nepal, I had boarded the train at 11 pm at Gorakhpur, the night before. Air bag was heavy with lots of remembrances for my friends from my mother, whom she hadn’t seen at all. And ad-hoc lunch, dinner, breakfast and snacks, which I most of the time, could not consume before the unprinted expiry date, was as always tasking my shoulders extra newtons. I slung it across, allowing it to torture me into a grotesque imbalanced figure like a polio-stricken man. a suitcase and another bag containing only the red and grey blanket occupied my hands. I entered the waiting room after few minute’s minute observation of the sign boards. Quite surprisingly at this hour of day, the waiting room was almost full with different types of people. Probably, because the train to Calcutta was late, the room was crowded.

It was my first visit. In Army, we travel a lot but learn very less from the traveling. Most of the time due to security reasons, traveling is restricted to scheduled places and time limit. But arrving at 0430 hrs in this ancient Indian centre of knowledge and awakening, I could not restrict myself, I had heard a lot about Benaras and read about it. At one time, it was Nepal's scholarly destination. All the oldies of Nepal today brag about the reminiscences of Banaras. B P Koirala had built his network in Benaras. And then there’s always religious significance of the ancient city. Till today, there is a different system of Sanskrit education that goes on in Banaras.

I went straight to the movement control office of the station at 5.30, introduced myself to the NCO and instructed not to inform my arrival at the ‘centre’ before I come back after the short visit to the Ghats. I deposited my luggage. Next 30 minutes after paying thirty rupees to an auto-rickshaw, rather suspiciously and walking for five minutes, I was at the Ghat. So, this is Varanasi !

Early morning tranquility at the river bank was accentuated by few melodies, hymns and prayers. I saw various ‘Math’ made by the pandas, felicitors of punya, praying there. They are the authority to the path to God, I thought sadly, people come from various places to perform rituals for their dead relatives, to ensure their path to heaven is not obstructed. And to ensure their ‘Aatma’ doesn't loiter around in uncertainty.

I sat down on the steps at one corner. The sunrise brought with it a warm golden beauty in the waters. The mighty Goddess Ganga wrapped in an orange sari, I felt, has awakened from sleep, with the boats shadowing against the background of the big orange ball of fire, I cursed myself for forgetting my camera at the station MCO. But my regret could not delude the beauty of the morning melodrama. Sun God had come to meet the Goddess Ganga, just raised from sleep, taking bath in open, to the ecstasy of the whole world. The poet in me was quenched. The adventurer evoked. Immediately, a boat was called thirty rupees for half an hour ride. When I climbed the dangling caricature of one of the oldest means of transportation, I prayed God. Fearing, they might punish me for mischievously intervening into their early morning love making. I looked at the sun, bit brighter now, and warmer (because of the recent interaction? ), he looked indifferent. I was depressed. But .... they are Gods.

Moments like this delude your logic and defy sciences. With thousands of years of heritage combined with the opulence of nature all around me, I was feeling gratified, satiated. The Boatman told about the kashi Vishwanath temple, the mosque that was built next to it, about the ghat and about many other things. But most interesting incident for me was simple incident that mystified my vanity. Pertaining to my fair complexion and gate-up, he presumed me to be a foreigner. He started talking in English, which of course was as good or as bad as his boat. Enough to ride through even the deepest waters, but broken, shabby and quivering at many places. I silently kept nodding, fantasying on the newly found identity of myself, my Vanity sailing high. I ignored his question of nationality by further deep queries on the history of the city, his occupation and type of people he met. His amazement, embarrassment and amusement erupted together at the end of my voyage in his ship. When, at last I talked in Hindi he stared at me for sometime startled by my move. He hugged me. I was convinced that he is convinced.

I was strolling on the Ghat. These Ghats were reminding me of Ghats of Bagmati in Katmandu. It was similar except the size of the river. I saw a group of children playing cricket. I thought there has to be a way to get out to the place where I can get an auto. I had to return to the station. Ah! ......... before that I thought I will have breakfast in a restaurant. I was completely flexible in my planning as it was not a planned tour. Then, I crossed a young girl, bright Mongolian features, moving quietly, perplexedly at the Ghats. That part was not crowded. She was easily noticeable. I thought if I could help, but could not summon up the courage to go and ask. May be she doesn't know English at all or what if she just ignores me? I let the Idea vaporize, and sat at the steps. The joyous children were playing cricket. I watched them against the background of black smoke of the fire of one of the pyres at the end of the Ghat. I remembered only one word to define the situation – uncertainty. But the shlok from Geeta defined it –
uSua fNUnfUr ‘kL=kf.k uSua ngfr ikod%A
u pSua Dys;n;kUR;kiks u ‘kks”;fr ek:r%AA

After more than two minutes the first time I had seen that mangolean girl, I saw her coming up, confusion more pronounced in her gait and expression. let me try; I resolved.
“Do you speak English?” I heard myself in an English accent I had never known myself speak. She turned sharply. I could not guess anything from her flat expression but just another moment I convincingly believed to have seen a feeling of relief in her eyes. Her nod pronounced it.

“I thought you need some help ? Where are you from ? Ah ........ I mean which country ?” I rapid-fired at her, in a way to hide my own lack of confidence, I suppose.

“Korea”, she said after an uncomfortable Pause. I smiled. As if I had discovered a great truth. It contagiouted on her. What possibly could not have been communicated through words, letter, emails or phones – was communicated by smiles. Drawing new lines of friendship on our faces. “I am Dinesh”. I said as a formal informatory introductory gesture.

“Hi!! Jooyean”. She was more confident now. May be she had forgotten about the dreadful stories told to her by many. The precaution to take against meeting any stranger in India, And the horrendous fraud they often trap the foreign tourists into.

“I – am – searching – for – a – way – to – go – to – the – main road.” She pronounced every word deliberately and slowly. I could easily guess she is a new learner But the phrasing was flawless, not an ad-hoc arrangement. So, she has to be the part of the new “English learning generation of Korea. After so much advancement in the electronics. She must be Eighteen or Nineteen, I thought.

“ Don’t worry, I am also going that side. And like you this is first day in Banaras.” I familiarised myself fearing the second part might have lowered her confidence on me.

“Oh! Really?” She exclaimed. I was quite surprised as my psychological presumptions were shattered. She was rather happy at discovering another lost friend in this jungle.

“I am from Nepal. I am in the Army”. I shortened my Origin and way of earning a living, in a slide-show manner. I didn’t want to explain her that I was in the Indian Army, then the complex system of how Nepali citizens are serving in the Indian Gorkha Rifles. The concept of Nepali Citizens like me, commissioned into the Indian Army, often puzzles many of my Indian friends. It would have been devastating for her. The British are thanked by many and cursed by many too, for recruiting Gorkha Troops – India is continuing for its own reason.

“ I know Hindi”. I reassured her, I will be able to get her to the main-road. This was an explanation to talking to an individual in the local Language. I’d asked about the way to the main road as it was not the place from where I had come in the morning. I showed her a way that went into a narrow tunnel like dark street through one ancient building. Her pale face was stricken with fear. I thought may be she has heard cases of tourist getting raped in India. Or the platinum chain she was wearing, thought she, was luring. But after climbing many steps, dark and frightful, bright street surfaced; her fears vanished.

Seeing the narrow streets in between the highly packed four / five story houses, I remembered Katmandu. The two ancient kingdoms could be compared in many ways. And the ‘Kashi Naresh” had good relations with the “Nepal Naresh” I’ve heard, I remembered Rahul Sankrityayan's experienced remark, “We Hindus are careless in community hygiene, though we take great care in personnel cleanness.”

“How old are you?” I forgot the diplomatic protocol on dealing with ladies.

“What do you think ...... guess ?” She was opening up while we walked through the narrow street. Five feet five inches is her share of the atmosphere. Completely fair as she was, wearing a white skirt, T shirt and a hat she was dressed like an English Lady in a race course. Wearing that high heel which quite often slipped or stumbled in the muddy gaps between the stones of the floor of the ancient street built centuries ago. She seized glances all around and often extracted remarks from local folks. Dressed in a quite western outfit including the floaters and goggles, they had mistaken me for some foreigner. (Israeli, French, Russian, American) because they wouldn’t have quipped in Hindi if they would have known about me, I thought.

“You must be 18 or 19 .....” I said praying my guess shouldn’t go too wrong as it is difficult to judge any body’s age from a different feature all together. I didn’t put a full stop or a question mark.

“I look so young .......” She smiled. I could not decide on whether to imagine a question mark or an exclamation to add on to her words partly due to her accent, more so due to the shade of blush shining on her cheek. Her ‘Young’ sounded more like a name in Chinese.

I didn’t have a better answer. I smiled back.

“ I am twenty.” She said, with a full stop, definitely this time. Then suddenly holding me by my right arm she pulled me towards herself with a great force and making the most unusual sound I had ever heard from a creature of the same species. I almost stumbled over her. Then I realized, the bull that was coming from the other side of the street was saved. I was ramming into him. My face and my ears have become red, I could feel it. I felt embarrassed for two things. Firstly her clean skin had displayed such saffron tint of blushing, I was captivated. Secondly, for thinking about what came to my mind when she suddenly pulled me to herself. Embarrassed. much to the degree of being ashamed of one’s self, I looked at my left foot. I had stumped on the bull dung due to her jittery movement. It smelt badly. She was laughing much to my displeasure. I requested for water in the adjacent shop. She helped me to clean it off, silently mocking at me. I could not look into her face. I felt guilty to match her gaze.

“How lucky you are, you get to travel different countries at such an early age !” I didn’t have to put much effort to search for a new topic. “How did you manage the tour, financially ...... ?” The narrow streets were turning at almost right angles. The dark and dirty street was more confusing than my question. I feared we will reach where we’d started from.

“You do a job there ......... ?” I reluctantly added a question mark with my eye brows, unknowingly leading her to a wider street. Few two wheelers were completely enjoying the monopoly.

“Yes, I mean, I got it from tuition. I used to teach school students. I study Graduation.”
“OK”
Suddenly the street ended. I saw the vehicles on a wide road. With the noise, smoke, dust and smell of burnt oil, a mixed feeling of sorrow and joy hit me. I felt silent. She reflected it for some time. “Where are you going now?”

I didn’t know but couldn’t confess such uncertainty to her.

She didn't want the answer, I thought.
“I have to go to the Gadoliya Market, I have to buy something.” She answered my silence.

I enquired from a policeman nearby. By then I’d also made up my mind. “I will go to the BHU, after leaving you at Gadoliya.” It was much more respectable than portraying myself as an aimless wanderer.

The roads in Banaras are ............ well there’s nothing royal or incredible about them. Crowded, unplanned. Filthy narrow streets nearly washed off the Gangetic serenity from my mind. My heart ached, stomach revolted.

“Jooyean !” She was perplexed to hear her name. May be my accent! “Aren’t you hungry?” It was ten.

“Oh ! yes. Did you have Breakfast ?” This was her way to reveal her hunger, I assumed.

I quietly thanked God. We will spend some more time in a restaurant together. I found out a "Shahi restaurant". Inquiring about a restaurant was very easy. But the nearest one came after about twenty minutes of walking interrupted by more than ten repetitions of impatient enquiries. She also ventured into bold enquiries, superceding me at times. I was continuously comparing Kashi with Kathmandu. Well the river Bagmati has, remained just a mimicry of something once called a river. The royal-ness of Kathmandu is unmatchable. Kathmandu would have rated higher in holiness too but for Ganga. The city of wooden temples, I thought, at least hasn’t been left on itself to become a jungle full of humans; the streets of Banaras were one.

Rickshaws give employment to so many people. But they give a very grotesque look to the city, if left unorganized.

“It’s there”. Sharp Korean accent shrilled with joy finally we moved in.

We talked in a more relaxed manner over breakfast. She told she has two younger brothers, sixteen and nine years old. Father is a teacher. Mother works in a Bank. She has come to India with two of her country mates. One her friend, classmate and other, their teacher, she told names I could not reiterate, remember ......... out of question ! How does it matter? I wasn’t going to meet them. A nod did all the job for me. Occasionally a smile. She was happy to see so many Korean cars, she told me. Then I thought what I would tell to remind of my country if I go to Korea, ever! Economic Imperialism they used to call it.

I told her about my family. And my job. “Will you come for that movie with me?” She said taking me by surprise. Of course, she was indicating at the PVR multiplex which we came across in the way. She had quiet enthusiastically enquired about show timing. It was 11.30. I paid the bill after much protest from her. My perseverance won.
We headed for the multiplex.
“But you won’t understand Hindi.”
Since when did Korean’s develop penchant for Bollywood movies was what I meant.

“You are there ........ to explain.” She smiled, mischievously. “I like Indian movies”. She added seriousness.
I observed. Silently.

The door keeper gave a heartiest welcome. The multiplex, a recent inauguration, was thankfully good. She would at least have a good Image of the imagery. She bought the tickets, which she took to be her right after me paying the restaurant bills. I did not protest.
Her position of back where T-shirt did not reach and skirt did not origin from, was exposed. She had a good waist covered by a fair skin. She turned back. I was exposed. She caught my stare. She smiled, showing the entrance door by one hand, handing me the tickets by another I took the tickets in one hand and held her by her bare arm to move inside, the sleek touch was nothing less than exciting. The guard snatched the tickets from my hand, glanced at both the ticket and us. I could not guess his inferences. And it did not matter too. We moved into the loud music and dim light. Few people were already sitting on the chairs, unevenly. A man with a loose untucked shirt and torch in one hand showed us the seat in the last row. I’d already located in the dim light – G – 18 – 19.

Seats felt comfortable. I could feel her strong perfume, must be some Korean brand.

Lately I hadn’t been able to see a movie in Kathmandu. I thought wondering what the standard of the new halls there is. Due to the ongoing Crisis there, development is in a stalemate or its negative? What's the solution?

Well ........... It was not the right time to dwell into one of those self piteous moods.

“I will show you my family photographs.” She flashed her digital camera. My sister studying in Kathmandu was twenty years old. Could I imagine her going to a foreign country alone? And sitting in a theatre to watch a movie she won’t understand at all ! And, showing my photographs to a stranger, a boy there!

Her brother looked like a long haired hippy. The T-shirt with an OM on the chest, at the background, the hills seemed friendlier to me. The couple sitting next to us, I thought, was Koreans. I told her. She ignored and continued her exhibition.
When will I globalize?

May be my kids will one day Go exploring the streets in Seoul wearing the yellow sailboat or the symbol of tai-chi, on their T–shirt.

The lights went off when I’d finished seeing her friend, parents, teacher and colleagues and her village house. There was no boyfriend. Two brothers.

I could feel her making some adjustment on the chair. I wanted to look at her once, knowing her face will be distinctly bright even in the darkness. The certificate of censor board on the screen demanded much lesser courage to read through. I decided on the later.

We watched the movie monotonously interrupting my concentration only to explain her in between. In a subtle way to look at her, at times to touch her unknowingly. In the interval I went to buy some refreshments. When I returned she had acquainted herself with her country mates. An early thirties couple, both of them healthy and shorter than her.

“Dee-nay – ssh.....” Then she added something in her strange language what would she have said? Optimistically, I thought, friend or .......
‘an acquaintance ?’
‘a person I know ?’
‘one Indian? /a Nepali ?’
Whatever, I was Intrigued to hear my name from her.

They smiled at me, with a slight move of head which I understood I had to amplify and receive as a bow.

I reflected.
Lights went off. Momentary silence then the fortissimo resumed. My curiosity was almost dead. On the movie as well as on her. For the last one hour of the movie I went off to sleep.

It was 2.45pm when we came out of the theatre. “Let’s go to the university,” I was quite surprised to see the flexibility shown by her in her plans. It could not have been possible if they had not decided on exploring the city Individually. She had told me, every morning, all three of them will part to roam around. They would meet for dinner in the evening.

I knew there will be auto-rikshaws available for that four kilometer journey. But rickshaw was a better option, I thought. I, personally, feel very uncomfortable in the auto-rickshaw. It’s sound and strong smell of petrol is repulsive for my senses. The cycle Rickshaw, whereas burnt and smelt of only one thing – human sweat.

The rickshaw was pulled laboriously by a man in his late forties ....... or the hard work had made him look so old, I kept my options open.

We moved slowly, rather he moved slowly. The lively, colourfull and Bazarrous ride was made adventurous by two things. Firstly, the seat was slanting downwards at a certain gradient wherein we continuously slid down. This tactically designed seat kept us on our toes ...... quite literally. Secondly, as the cliché goes, ‘Our feet weren’t on ground’ due to the happiness of bumpiness.

Well the history of University and mystery of fourty rupees cooled down my hysteria.

So, this is the Banaras Hindu University. I thought looking at Jooyean, who had already started feeling better in the serene and clean environment. The university, I found, was the only place where some order prevailed. Or at least on the streets it was apparent. It was evident from the first appearance, we will regret the decision to walk. It was a vast area to explore on foot. We saw the agricultural department. Then the medical boy’s hostel. Both of us were unknown to this place except, I had the advantage of knowing Hindi. But often the students themselves broke out in English, whenever we wanted to make some enquiry. We passed about the agriculture faculty. Inside the university, it was like a completely different town, she told me. There were colonies for the employees of the university. Quarters, for professors, readers, teachers, assistants. It was huge, colonial.

‘These people, so old, what are they doing in the University?’ She said, ignoring a gaze from a man. “Don’t look like students.” A pun or grammatical error? I thought.

He was wearing grey pullover and fourty plus years on himself. I looked at him like a tiger or a dog on a stranger dog trying to venture into my territory. Instincts are so strange ........ so basic and so powerful. I suddenly wanted to revolt, whoever said you can win over instincts by knowledge. That man, may be a professor. I looked at him as he overtook us in a determined walk to turn and get into a Bungalow just ahead. I went nearer to Jooyean. So near to be careful only not to brush with her bare arms. She took off her goggles and looked at me, straight into the eye.

I was busted and melted my guilt out to blame at unknown person,” Because of your skirt and .......... I mean they are noticing you.”

“I’ve started enjoying it” She spoke like repeating a dialogue from a hit movie. I had no answer.
“We can go and see the library ......... It must be real big.” I was happy I got something to make our loitering purposeful. Once again, we came to our enquiring mode. Sometimes me asking for a way, sometimes she taking Initiative. The library, which was just in front of the big temple was indicated easily by them.

After about 15 minutes of walk, two grounds of hot cricket matches, teasingly smiling children, more than a dozen strong piercing stares (mainly at her) and a few wordless but beautiful smiles, we stood at the crossroad. It’s under pressure great decisions are taken. As we were lacking in time, I had to decide quickly – temple or library? More over, I did not want to give her any idea of my dilemma as I had some how taken control taking due advantage.
Temple – heritage, faith, belief, ritual.
Library – Knowledge, interpretation, ideas, awakening.

We had to keep our bags and books outside before entering the Library. Library, in itself was a huge building. The Bookshelves arranged in Ground floor in a circular fashion with a large space in the centre, utilized for Desks and Chairs, where few students were sitting, pre occupied in studies.

“Jooyean helped herself with a book on Yoga, which gave us some time to relax our legs, we had walked a lot since morning, together. I fluttered between Literature, Art and Philosophy. At five, when we came out, the day had started to end its adventures. The sun, which had emerged from the banks of Ganga, was planning to take leave behind the huge temple we had not visited.

The Rickshawala or some shopkeeper will be able to tell me the shorter route to the Railway station. I started building up a plan. I had to patch up the damage by being a ‘little late’ instead of ‘very late’ at my centre.

“Its getting Dark, can’t you come till my hotel?” Her innocent face displayed a terrorized request. The first casualty in an operation is your plan, I remembered. May be now you will take back your words about enjoying the audacious ogles of people, I searched for joy in panic. I was trapped.

When I reached the centre after leaving her in her hotel, it was very late. Every body was ready in their suits for the new year party. I dumped my luggage, requested one of my companion to kindly straighten the suit. I rushed to the bathroom discovering and humming a fresh tune.

The party couldn’t have been made more enjoyable than that. In a hotel outside, it was nicely organized. But one thing that kept me pondering over was ‘Only if I could get her here’. Well, late in the night, drunk of the drink and the dance, I dreamt into the heavens.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx-----------------------------------------------xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

What an excellent time to board a train, 11o'clock, At night. She had no choice. She was being maneuvered by their plans. I freed myself in the evening and headed to the crowded pathway which leads to the Ghat. Crowd, colourful people, passed aside. Rickshaws, shops, occasionally vehicles, all passed through. I tried not to think of the train. It was getting dark already. I can not go to the station to see her off and then, I stopped suddenly, at a shop where a teenager boy was picking up the stone and wooden sculptors-Gods, birds, mystic shapes, structures and stacking them inside. I was mystified by the wide variety of the shapes which shone of human devotion. Passion had fueled life into the dead pieces, ....... or to say correctly, had revived and surfaced the cosmic energy hidden within the objects to make it alive.

A simple piece of stone, an elephant inside beautiful outer netted shell was one I tasked to remind my Korean friend of myself.
I was disappointed at the type of hasty packing the boy did, but he had his own excuse. His master was not there at the shop and more over, he also had plans for celebrations with friends. He was in great hurry. His continuous splatter in strong Bihari accent, made me feel the same. Navigating through the ocean of ancient buildings, I had a feeling of self satisfaction on arriving at the hotel she was staying at. As I climbed the steps, my heart paced up. I saw her friend and her teacher at the lobby of the hotel. They were reading magazine. She must be in the room, still getting ready, I thought. Both of them smiled a sorry smile at me and appraised me that she hadn’t come back form her visit. She wanted to make the best of her last day in Banaras, I thought. But it was too late. I seated myself on the sofa with them and they tried to entertain me. Their English was as good or as bad as Jooyean's, but certainly we lacked understanding of some other language, a communication gap could be felt.
Only knowing or not knowing a language doesn’t effect the communication between two persons. Well, at last she arrived.

We did not greet each other in any exceptional way, just as if she had expected me to be there because she was leaving that night. Though I had not told her I will be coming. Neither was it any great event for me to see her; as if I hadn’t parted from her at all. But some excitement did flash in her dark black eyes when I opened the package and presented her my ‘ambassador’ elephant. She expressed her gratitude with a hug. I too did not have words.

She was excited to show me a payal she had bought in a thousand Rupees. She was excited to find out the outcome of her adventure. She was told it is silver, and it was sold as a silver, I looked at it, I could not decide whether she deserves to be praised for her bargain or condemned. I hadn’t wanted to know about the originality. I did not want to make her feel she was fooled, if she was. So, most probably, I fooled her. The same joy she had exposed the previous day when she had bought a green goggle in two hundred rupees. It lasted only till I told her this type of goggles can be bought in less than a hundred, and there’s no question of it being original Gucci's. But, well now I thought it doesn't matter whether she buys original silver or not, till the time she buys the confidence and the joy. I didn’t want to shatter either of them, mostly because, she was leaving Banaras after about three hours.

When we moved into the Restaurant I was assured we will get original Korean food there. At least, I will not be fooled, even if I am, I will not know the difference till the time I visit Korea myself. The ambience was completely foreign to me – Korean. It was on the first floor, a big room with no windows. She exchanged words with few Mangolean features seated on the floor on both sides of the one feet high table. I wanted to tell them all, this table looked like a low bed I had back in Kathmandu when staying in rented rooms. They are the moderates. Thought our tradition keeps the food down on the floor. The westerners eat on a high table, sitting on a chair.

Only medium to convey whatever I felt was a smile and a bow, when she went on like a chatterbox. They had something written on the wall too, in Korean. Sincerely speaking, Japanese, Chinese and Korean look no different to me. Such was the nervousness created by the unfamiliar, I was embarrassed when I was told the meaning of the name of the restaurant, after I asked. “Raga’ means melody”, another Korean girl said briefly, without looking into me. Then I realised it was the Sanskrit word ‘Raga’. I felt anguish over the person who chose to name the restaurant, couldn’t he decide on a Korean name?

They eat very hot food. that was the only thing I could make out from looking at the menu table. No dish was complete without some strong chilly supplement. I enjoyed the food. The delicacy of the unfamiliar and the strangeness amidst all those Korean faces, kept me low on talking. Finally, I came out of the restaurant with a new experience richer. The manager, Ajay who had asked something to her when I entered with her, shook my hand firmly. I thought, more firmly than his usual habit, as he knew I was an Army Officer. I promised him to come some day with my friends, though I doubted it convinced him.

Then the time for us to part. Our parting was nothing romantic. I do not want to end in a highly romantic manner. I want to be global. I want to be modern. I want to be optimistic. The only dramatic scene at the end was about her yellow sail boat post card. She gave me a post card in which her address, phone number and email id was written. But, when she started writing something for me she got stuck after writing “Annyong ” (an informal namaste or a Hii! in her language) “I was lucky to meet you.”

She was in a dead lock for quite some time not able to decide anything else to write. My optimism projected – write whatever you want to in your own language. I will read it when I will learn the language.

After few strange characters, Jooyean surfaced.

Adversarial Humor

It is very difficult to survive any military training without learning to laugh at one self, secretly or openly. This ability to laugh at one self in the adverse situation like the battle is developing a sense of adversarial humor. What it takes to laugh at oneself? Important is to note what it takes not to laugh at oneself. We have seen that the warrior communities of the past have a peculiar kind of sense of humor; they can laugh at the face of any thing, even death. That doesn’t really mean they have the best sense of humor but what it really means is that this is one way to keep them disengaged from many hardships.
This sense of humor that is born from battlefield is far from sarcasm. They do not laugh at semantics, neither the play of words impresses them but they laugh at dying and being alive. They may seem cruel to some people but their real sense of humor takes root in professionalism. It has to do something with learning lessons from every mistake that he does and luck gives him another chance to live. Sometimes this way he laughs at the naivety of destiny.
When we talk about humor in uniform one immediately relates to the namesake column in the magazine readers digest. But what is represented there is a small section of the vast subject. That is the humor in uniform. Any military organization banks on discipline and uniformity for efficient and smooth function. That makes it pertinent that all the military men are expected to behave in a certain manner, but when different personalities emerge in the scene as key players, it causes a difference in behavior. When somebody behaves in a completely different manner then it becomes a matter to laugh at.
Humor in uniform is not only related to laughing or joking around. More often than not the solution of a particular problem lies in humor. I have heard about a commander who had his life size picture in a closed room. Where the men could go and abuse him and thrash him and kick him. This man really had a courageous humor. But this solved many problems and the men could dissolve away their resentment without any harm to any body.
Then there is a story about retired Gorkha soldiers. The young boys of the villages were continuously engaged in fights. Sort of quarrels related to small things and quite a few times it climaxed to beatings and laathi and stones. There were a lot many older Gorkha soldiers retired from the army (Indian, British), veterans who had seen what it was like to fight and men who knew what death was. They tried to emerge to a solution for the frequent gang fights of the villages. One day they summoned up the handsome teenagers to a chautara and gave them one khukuri each and then told them to fight. Boys never fought after that day. This, sounding like an anecdote based on fiction, is the best example I have found of the sense of humor a soldier has. A soldier sees much of life and its opposite, to be amused by the play of words. But in general the adaptability that is a must cannot come without having a sense of humor.

the cabbage

Thakuri Thulbau was a reputed name in the town. The Thakuri­­ like his grey moustaches, proud black bhadgaule topi and small smiling eyes, had earned the reputation over long years of dignity and social responsibility. The kingly caste had nothing left to rule over and had seen many of his brethren fall down… in reputation. But this bausaab, as they were called with respect, enjoyed a reign of respect over the people’s hearts. So what if he had lost the old money and land?

When ever he gets down to the bazaar, one mile walk down from his house on the hill near the jungle , he never forgets to carry one or two things for some house in the along with his highly rejoiced dignity.

Times have changed a lot in the 65 years he has lived. The road from Pokhra to Butwal was built in front of his eyes, through the bank of this small river aandhikhola. Today the sandy bank of the aandhi is booming with six to seven story buildings. His own life had taken many turns like the town itself.

He went to India for few years, came back to relive the dignity he had washed away with dishes with dirty water in Dilli. An unwelcome experience, equally unwelcome memory.

Youth passed in a flash and life started burning day by day after that. Year by year he emptied himself on the bhatti of Gursini Kanchhi.
Its now many years he has been a regular customer to her. Regular, loyal, dignified customer. Compared to all the other people gathered at the bhatti – kale tamang, damai sahinla, or akkami, prem bahun – he was a gentleman.
A gentleman jadyanha.
He never shouted on the way back to his home every evening like others.
He never tried to comment at Gurusini Kaanchhi even after her husband’s death.
He never picked up a fight.
He never drank in debit. A peculiarity so rare.
After gurusini kaanchhi's husband died things did not change much.
Few of the customers also died in the way. Few went away.
But those who remained or those who joined new were similar.
Nothing changed.
Yes... the curfew in the town had changed the routine. They could no longer drink till late at night and shout on the way home at night.
And the police also had shifted to the small hillock leaving the town. As the danger grew.
But the emptiness kept growing. Faces emerged – faces evaporated.
Few faces drowned in glasses- few grotesquely smiling outside on the round mirror of the steel glasses.

By now you must have made a judgment that Thakuri Thulbau was a heavy drunkard. But who are you to make any judgment on him?
Who are we to decide on any thing about him?

One house near the bhatti was of Sita.
Sita had a small piece of land where she grew few vegetables. Her husband had a small shop in the town, a small buffalo and two children.

The day was just similar to all the other days except for the turmoil in side him. Thakuri thulbau had already taken three glasses of the kodo-raksi from the Gursini Kanchhi’s bhatti. After he felt that he had finished the last ten rupees note in his pocket, he was trapped.
What could he do? He could have asked for money to the men in the bhatti- men who had taken from him so many times. And he had refused to take it back.
Can I cry in front of all these men- men without dignity and honor- ?
Can I beg in front of Gurusini Kanchhi?
-No. I will never drink in debt.
But he knew he had already drunken those glasses of raksi for which he had no money.
He came out from the bhatti.
Kanchhi did not worry because there had been many occasions when thulbau had many times forgotten to pay for the drink but had come back within minutes.
She knew him he will not forget. He was not like many of the other customers whom she had to remind with harsh words or to deny further trade before they apologized financially.
He looked at the house of Sita. She was the daughter in law of his friend – Tallare Thula.
Though a bahun he was not like other bahuns. They had spent quite a lot of time together in dilli where he had gone after running away from his home. Tallare Thula had helped him get a job in a house. He had stayed with him for three months in that small room behind the garage.
He remembered the days when both of them used to go to the mela. He smiled.
And so much time had passed. They were married. Children were grown. Married. And have children. He felt like a moving history of the town in himself. And then one day he was dead. He heard the news early in the morning when he heard the shankha blown he asked who was it?
THULA.
Life went on.
He did not remember it was the same day or the next day when he was going to the bhatti he had seen the daughters and sons of Thula.
They were going to the pandhero in their white clothes... to eat their meal of grief – meal without salt.
Rice cooked in lot of ghee and fruit and honey.
He did not know why he remembered him now… suddenly!
Then also he used to go to the house though the children did not receive him with the hospitality what he used to get from Thula.
But they are just like his own children – he thought.
And why – he had helped them so many times.
He looked at the house with the affection which he had not felt for years.
No body was there in the house.
Then he saw the healthy cabbage that was growing in the garden.
He stood for some time staring at the house.
Sita was like his own daughter in law. With such a love and care she offers him tea when ever he passes by. After all he was friend of their father. And he used to help them.
He remembered when he had given them the tree branch for only ten rupees when he could have sold it for fifty to any body else.
Now why will not they help me when I am in need?
He held the cabbage in both his hands; broke it free from the shrub and walked to the market.

The news spread like fire.

Thakuri Sanhila was the first one to know. Well may be Gursini Kanchhi was the first one to know but she preferred to keep quite. She was indifferent to such surrenders. It was a matter of now or later… but she knew every one surrendered. So she took the money from him and slid it under her blouse, in her breast. Indifferently.
Then she said – doesn’t matter bausaab! Who can have the courage not to trust you? - When he said he had the money in his pocket but had forgotten to give it that time. You know with time memory also is lost and see my hair is so grey now…. - he had smiled. She smiled back from out side – laughed inside. But she had seen many. And learnt to be indifferent. Her bent of lips straitened with another demand from Prem bahun.
But for Thakuri Sanhila it was a new experience. Rather it was a new opportunity.
When Thulbau had in front of the whole village slapped him for beating his wife when she was pregnant, ha wasn’t able to cry. It was his daughter who had died only one month old twenty years before.

When Sita came back to the house from the fields with some grass for her buffalo…her son told him about the cabbage.
She shouted at the highest of her voice-abused at the thief without knowing who had done that, thrashed her two children for leaving the house un-attended and kept ranting for almost half an hour. Gursini Kanchhi came out from her house; taking out time from her busy schedule- looked indifferently, judged something, shrugged her head and went inside.
Sita continued while milking the buffalo how all rascals lived around , could not see any body doing good, how she had to live among all enemies and survive and how nobody could see her happy.
Her children looked at the plant without the cabbage- the symbol of their lost happiness wiping the tears from their eyes and waiting for their mother to finish the milking so that they could get some happiness back. In some other symbol.
In the evening Thakuri Sanhila came to her house.
- So how are you Sita?
- Oh! I am fine.
It was normal for Sita to be intruded occasionally by the customers of the bhatti.
But suppose he means some business today. He stopped longer than usual.
- Where is that cabbage you were growing so well?
That was enough for Sita to start the crusade at the unknown enemy of her happiness and prosperity.
- Well… I had seen our Thulbau going to the market with a cabbage today. I wonder where he must have got that from.
She did not speak for quite some time.
- Well …I don’t want to say he picked up from your garden but just wondering … and now I see that your cabbage is stolen.
She remembered how Thakuri thulbau had refused to take that money for the bamboo he had given to her for the shed. She did not speak, just hoped Sanhila would leave. He left.
- Sita remembered just a few days before she had requested Thakuri Thulbau to bring her a branch which she will put as support for her simi after the cabbages are finished.
Thakuri Sanhila was speaking to the gathering in the bhatti moments later-
- I heard that somebody has stolen Sita’s cabbage.
Few heard him. Few understood and nodded and others were just too busy with the glasses and thinking how they will sneak for tomorrow’s drink.
- And somebody told me Thulbau had gone to the market with a big cabbage that he sold for fifteen rupees today?
He continued. Gursini Kanchhi was worried in the beginning but looking at the indifferent crowd drowning in the steel glasses she stopped worrying.
But the news spread like fire.
Next morning when Sita got up at five she saw a huge tree branch placed in front of her door.
After a few minutes a shankh blew from the hillside.
Somebody shouted –
THAKURI THULBAU!!!

NEPAL: Save our Global face

The world is changing at an unconceivable pace. Balance of power shifting it’s centres, cultures and traditions are being revived throughout the world, more so in the real vicinity, south Asia. In this fast paced world, how do we define, defend and develop our identity?
Merely befooling ourselves with an unconquered history is not only puerile, it’s suicidal. This might help to cultivate a superficially imposed idealistic instinct. But it has no significance in the present situation of the country when people inside are destroying it piece by piece. Often the optimistic youth consoles himself everything gets ok once the problem of Maoist is solved. I’ve heard many learned people often surrender to the crisis, they say, just because of this problem. What we the citizens of Nepal can not afford to forget is; Maoists or no Maoists, monarchy or no monarchy, civil war or no civil war, the country has to survive. Just surviving isn’t enough; we have to prepare ourselves for the new world.
Before we dwell into the future, let’s drill deep into the present. Drooling on the past is often the biggest mistake done by mankind. The same malaise seems to de-capacitate the state today. Current situation is nothing but our power-crisis; it’s a collision between forces. History and science both prove that every collision leads to two things; destruction of some particles and creation of a few. Similarly it’s certain that some force (I can not call them particles) will certainly be destroyed after the collision. But to look forward, for the citizens of Nepal is the forces that will emerge after the collision. What ever comes out as the result of the emission, the base line or the ground reality remains the same-Nepal, the nation has to survive, live and lead itself into the new world. Hence, the excuse of crisis for switching off the penchant to search for the creative path for the country is not only immature, it’s fatal. Let it be anybody, destructions or even negligence of the resources, natural, physical or human, can be like digging his own grave. Often, mistake done by power hungry forces is prioritizing a short term tactical gain over a long term strategic strengthening.
Let us now look into the present scenario in some detail. What is happening around us is clear to all. End of cold war era has brought a remarkable shift in the power centers of the world. The huge power vacuum created due to the disintegration of USSR, is negated by a bipolar Asian Equilibrium-China and India. Both these countries are growing with a high rate. Their global stand is improving manifolds day by day. And, what’s more important is both of them are two giant neighbours of Nepal.
The recent uni-polar world with only US as one superpower has regional power equations replace the old bipolar power balance. Hence, whenever the giant superpower tilts, the parameters of balance experience a remarkable change. Recent co-operation between US and India is not only a short term effect of 9/11. It’s a symbol of unleashing of locked powers of the region. South Asian region is a highly productive area in terms of intellect and human resources. China’s emerging power has forced the American skeptics to boost the Indian Aroma to a heightening effect.
What we should learn from India, however, is clear. Anybody who has observed India for last few years has no problem in judging the heightened sense of development, amongst the common man. The confidence reflected by the populace is visible everywhere. The media shouts it loud. Increasing influence of Indian media, movies, literature and culture not only in neighbouring countries like Pakistan or Nepal but also in the US of A, puts a stamp on this. Tourism has pronounced it. But for a country which has fought three major wars in 50 years and has a continuous history of insurgency, the type if optimism, it’s polity, economy and common man promise, is great. This is more important than the materialistic growth.
We the people of Nepal, are reaching into the changing world with our old clothes still on. More embarrassing is, our cloths are bloody.
Tourism is the back bone of our (one of the poorest) economy. We can not escape from the fact that until and unless we device a dramatic method to support the economy, we are on the verge of extinction. But more importantly we have to regenerate the faith in ourselves. No nation can develop over night from trash. Those countries have survived the taste of time, history proves, which are unified with a cause. When the cause is identified, motivation can be fuelled in to generate co-operation which in turn leads to the excellence of the nation as a whole.
The recent shift of world attention to south Asia has not helped countries like Nepal. But it has darkened the shadow we fall under. It is nobody’s job but ourselves to lighten the path we have to traverse into the future. Few of the common set backs on us in this era of increasing Asian boom are:
· We are loosing our tourist (due to various obvious reasons) to India and other Asian countries.
· The boom in outsourcing (BPO) jobs from European countries and the US of A to this region has left Nepal untouched till now.
· Although the IT revolution has made the world a global village, our contribution to the InfoTech can be paralleled to an outcaste community of the village.
As a result on going conflict is affecting the socio-economic globalization of the nation.
These maladies are not only bank-corrupting the country, it is corrupting our path to the future. Where is the future of this country? Often one hears the poets shouting save the country first if you want to rule. Certainly, with a history of rulers not at all interested in a long term strengthening of the country, we are projecting a weak picture in the global forum. Our leaders not only were interested in personal privileges more than national interest, they lacked vision for the future. The advice from renowned Indian historian, Rahul Sankrityayan, is what I would like to quote here. He says
“Nepal and Japan are similar in many ways. Both the countries and the people. Both are mountainous places, grow similar crops (almost), both are an intermingling of Kiranti and Mongolian culture and what’s more, their temples too have similar roofs. Japanese prowess in agricultural, electricity and industry can be easily imitated by Nepal. Today’s Nepal can learn a lot from the technique of Japan. Thus the poverty and illiteracy can be eradicated. Nepal has to live its theoretical talks and go in to real reforming and re-building. Otherwise the present rulers will also have to follow the footsteps of the Rana rulers.”
What Rahul Sankrityayan said more than half a century ago proved itself during the Panchayati Raj, it comes true even today. Though the priorities for economic development have changed today due to development in the information technology, we still fight a similar problem.
When the snowy mountains in Kasmir shine on the Dal lake with tourist, Pokhara is clouded over Fewa. When Buddha advertises the tourism for the Indian economy, Lumbini sleeps. When Bangalore awakens at midnight to attend calls from US of A, Biratnagar snores away to a false glory. But the barracks, palaces and bunkers are rocking 24x7. Where is my global face? What do I say to introduce myself and my country? And more important is when I will start saying this.
As a nation, all small countries in the world can look up to Israel or Japan for inspiration. Japan has excelled after World War II, which reminds literally of phoenix. Israel has not only survived extreme hostilities and emerged victorious through many wars but has also excelled. “Survival is the mother of self dependence” for Israel. The type of national psyche which is required for a nation undergoing a crisis is clear from this statement of Moshe Dayan- one of the greatest military and administrative leader of Israel. He had said-
“It is the fate of our generation that our life requires that we be always prepared and armed, strong and determined, for if the sword be struck from our grasp, we shall die.”
Dinesh Tiwari

CONFESSION STORY

Here’s where you can really shed the burden of your poor soul
I will start with my own story.
When I was studying in Darjeeling way back in1998-99 I think I was in eleventh standard.
I used to stay as a paying guest in one of the houses owned by a retired army man. His daughter with children used to live with him where as the son in law stayed in a village – lebong.
The story started like this. Since her husband was staying alone she said she needed somebody to help him at home. He had field to look after as well as few cattle. She wanted me to get somebody from Nepal… (I forgot to mention I am from Nepal) ..a boy of may be ten or twelve to help him.
The next time when I went home I gave this a serious thought. Darjeeling is good as far as education is concerned. That time in my juvenile idiocy, I was mesmerized by the westernized outlook of the people in Darjeeling. Good accent in English. Western clothes... and music...
I really thought if I can get somebody there! May be a poor boy barred from education will be enlightened.
When I told this to my mother she was happy with the noble cause and hence I brought along a ten year old boy to Darjeeling.
Things went well for some time. In between I visited the place once…found he had made a few friends in the school. I talked a few times on phone too. Away from his home… I was happy to see him happy and getting some study also.
But then I had to leave that house and later that place. My biggest mistake was I did not take him home even once in those five months I was there. Because of my boards I hadn’t gone my self...
When I left that place I asked if he wanted to go back or want to continue... He said he will stay there.
Ok.
For some time I had thought I really did a noble thing.
But his father in village was ill for years. He had three brothers. After some time I got the news that the boy had run away from that place. He did not return home... may be he had forgotten the way back or may be he simply did not want to...
But then after few years his father died … when ever I used to meet him he used to tell me to get him his son back. He died before he met his son.
Today it’s been seven years... he must be eighteen or nineteen now...
But the guilt in soul is much more aged.
And every time I visit my village – the silent eyes of the mother of that boy question me and I stand –broken, naked in front of her.gone