दोछाया

One true incident from this life. Today, twenty-five years later, it comes alive and spills across the white chest of paper, word by word.

The volcano of Gorkhaland was smouldering in Darjeeling. Its lava spurted into Bengal and its stench drifted back up to the hills. Many of us had become refugees. I was one of them — I slipped through a gorge and arrived in Ward No. 17, Damak Municipality, Jhapa District, Nepal, at the home of Dhakal Dai, where I took shelter. He proved to be a good man; he gave me respect. Still, I could not bear to simply sit and do nothing. So we set out to look for work. Since I did not know how to ride a bicycle, I perched on the carrier of Dai's twenty-four-inch Avon bicycle and we set off in search of employment. In the middle of the way was an ordinary stream — shallow in water but with a deep channel. We crossed carefully. The date was Tuesday, the 14th of Mangsir 2044 BS.

Far across the sandy riverbed, set up on a ridge, was a newly opened English school. My eyes fell on a wide board at its entrance: "Shri Chamunde Boarding School."

The session had just begun. There were about a dozen children — nursery through grade four — and two male and two female teachers.

I was the new teacher, about to be appointed — young in age, a spirited lad, still somewhat unsteady. Dai introduced me. My name, place and address were all given, and then my studies and age were laid out before the head teacher as plainly as a small broom sweeping the floor. I had studied at a Nepali-medium school, but I had read one English book, spelling it out letter by letter. I could not speak English fluently, though. We poor children of farmers in Darjeeling had never seen the famous English schools. Outside Darjeeling, however, education seemed further along. And so we children of simple, honest parents from remote undeveloped villages studied only at Nepali-medium schools in our own villages. But in any case, that day was the first day I had spoken English with other Nepalis. Though, to be fair, they knew little more than I did — otherwise they would not have hired me. You cannot get by on "yes yes" and "no no" alone, and that was exactly all I knew. The principal handed me an appointment letter — I was to report the next morning and teach classes according to school rules. I opened it: salary three hundred (NC) per month. I was more eager than obligated. That evening I felt a strong desire to go to school the next day with a necktie around my neck.

Just look at it! I was a boy who had come down from the hills to the plains — a man who felt warm just sitting in the sun on a crossroads bench — and now I was bound to go to school in the scorching Morang sun with a tie around my neck. Meanwhile, the other teachers could walk into the classroom in torn jeans and a tilted cap. Why this distinction? In the end, wasn't it the same person, the same language? Examine the vocabulary and grammar carefully, and our own language is far richer. And so when the same Nepali spoke, read, and taught English, he had to have a neat haircut, a crisp crease on his clothes, ideally a three-piece suit and gleaming shoes — and if possible, a spritz of perfume. But why, when a teacher entered the classroom, was "suprabhat" never said? What do we lack?

Regardless, from that day I was Chamunde's "Darjeeling English Master" — yet I felt more despair than joy. Because I simply could not rattle off English. No practice, no habit. I could say "He is a boy and she is a girl" looking at a book. But just as villagers were afraid to go into a forest when word spread that a tiger was there, I was wary whenever someone who seemed to know English came near. I stayed very guarded.

One day I found myself in an awkward spot.

None of the other teachers were in school that day — they had gone to Damak to get materials needed for celebrating the birthday of His Majesty King Vir Bikram Shah. I was alone, making small talk with the students.

Suddenly I glanced outside, and near the school's signboard stood a tall foreign woman — fair-skinned, golden-haired, full-figured, with grey eyes and white even teeth, perhaps seven feet tall, with a camera and binoculars hanging around her neck. The sight startled me.

But when our eyes met, she said "Namaste" to me in English-accented Nepali.

I swallowed hard, terrified I might have to speak English, and said back — "Namaste."

But that was not enough. She called me outside: "Hello sir! Come here please."

With my heart pounding, I went outside. She extended her hand to shake — soft, white, long-fingered palms reaching toward me. I glanced around in all four directions, then placed my rough, wooden-stiff hand in hers.

That handshake with a young woman was a memorable moment in my life. Even now, remembering it, I feel a tingling in my hand. That day I somehow stumbled through broken English — sweat dripping from my forehead, my mouth dry — trying to manage.

But she was not leaving. For whatever reason, she bent close to my cheek and kissed it with a smack — "See you tomorrow, okay!" — and went her way. Now what? She was coming back tomorrow. A kind of enchantment took hold of me — and also shame. In our Eastern tradition, young men do not walk around arm in arm with young women. Yet I could not help being swept up by this girl from across the seven seas.

She came the next day, beautifully dressed as before. Since it was Saturday, my desire to spend time with her grew stronger. Now she and I began walking together — down a fork in the road, through a ravine, along the main path. Women working in the fields would blush red when they saw us; some would put a finger to their lips and tease us. She understood none of it.

I would name in broken English whatever places and objects I knew. And so that golden Saturday passed.

She set off toward Damak: "Bye... see you tomorrow, okay!" — giving me another invitation for the next day as she left.

The next day was Sunday — I, the English Guru-babu, was still obligated to go to school. What should I do? That night, tossing and turning until dawn, I finally wrote a note — "I cannot come to school today, I am unwell" — and sent it to the principal through a local student.

That day, where she went, I did not know. But on Monday I had to go to school, and I did. The day before, she had written to the principal asking him to send me as her guide. I arrived at school, signed the attendance register, then left with her on a night coach toward Kathmandu.

And then — in that journey into the unknown — I found myself on a road I could not even account for!

What courage! How must it have swung — in one clean stroke, severed?

This story begins in the womb of forgetting.

A full twenty springs — that was my journey, my field. I sweated and swam through life, always tending swaying crops that sustained me. I rose before dawn. I cooked rice and curry. I tended the cattle and calves. I warmed the milk and satisfied two seasons of my life — Shishir and Basanta.

My wife Sharada grew very ill. I told no one of my sorrows and pain, and I shared my joys with no one either. I was a poor man. An insignificant employee — then as now. But my aims never wavered.

How many mornings entered my stomach as wind and came out as sweat. This was the climb. Parabong, Suntaley, Bhir Gaun, Naya Basti, Kijom, Aananden — and then Bihivare. Yet why would my self-respect end there? People say life is a curse. But I say life is struggle. Sweat is wealth. Duty is a jewel. School is my field of work; and the children — my students — are my good fortune. I kept going, and I still do.

To have no money is to be myself. At that time, Bihivare was my field of work. The black walls of the blackboard were the lines of my fate. I was my own future. I wrote my own destiny. O my God — you gave me a long and sharp journey. I am grateful.

I was not then greedy for wealth, nor am I now. Every morning's sun struck me full in the back, and pearls of sweat welled up uncounted. My vest soaked through and was wrung dry again and again. Ah, how beautiful life was! Every gentle drizzle bathed me. And I never caught a fever. Why would I? That patch of chiraito herbs, Nima Lepcha's corn field — those were my pharmacy.

They would say — "Sir, this will cure you right away." Poor but dignified people. What a big heart. I taught their children. I taught Pemu. And many more. But the ones who remain lodged in my memory — daughter Anila; respected Chang; dear Didi Renuka, who smiled and arranged my lunch so many times when my stomach was empty; Prasanna; Jojo — always cheerful, the ideal younger brother; Geeta Didi, always in my thoughts; Phurba and the daughter-in-law; Veerman, his grandparents, and the whole family.

In a flash I remembered Virbhadur and Didi Sampurna. That sweet buttermilk — ah, like fresh ghee from the mountain! How much I drank and drank. The roaring fire of dhuppi wood. From February until almost April. Where might that Modi be now?

I remembered so much — how much more I have forgotten over time. So many people live in my very heartbeat. Oh yes — Pritam Gurung has gone to the army, I hear. May he be well.

How sweet the wild plums were. I used to eat them all along the way as I walked home.

Four years we taught together. We ate forest-cooked meals. That day, that moment — she was the head teacher, Guruaa Tika. I was a temporary assistant teacher. For eighteen years we weathered winters and monsoons together. Dear Sir Sargam Loksam. Vinod — who agreed to everything you said; I think of Maila. My condolences to him. And the army gifts he brought — I have never not eaten them.

I will never forget Pemu's mother. I never went home empty-handed. I still remember the stone where the jar was cut.

It was not like today in those days. To take another man's wife meant to give up your own life.

This incident must have been about a hundred years ago.

Rana Jetha told this story one day while cutting grass. He was cutting grass. I came panting up to that very stone where the jar had been cut, and sat near it, warming myself in the cool shade of rhododendrons growing from the rock, wiping my sweat.

He said — "Morning, Sir! You've come, brother?"

I returned the greeting: "Yes, I've come. What are you doing?"

He said — "Cutting a little grass for the goat, just a few bundles."

I said — "That's fine."

Then he looked up toward the overhang and pointed: "Right here, yes? This is where the jar was cut? God, how did he do it — pulled out the kukri in one move and, swoosh, sliced it clean!"

I glanced at my wristwatch: "It's 9:30."

I still had half an hour, so I listened with interest.

He went on: "Well, thirty or forty years ago, a man ran away with another man's wife from Daramdin and took shelter in this very overhang."

"Yes," I said.

"And a small lantern was glowing faintly. The man's unlucky day had come. He had no idea his wife's husband was following him. The lantern's light gave them away — the husband yanked him out of where he was sleeping and, right there, a sirupate grass blade, and swoosh — it was done, brother."

I said "Ah, yes, yes" and looked at my watch. Ten minutes left.

He lit a bidi and said — "The blood didn't dry for a long time after, they say, brother!"

I said goodbye and made my way uphill toward the school through the cemetery.

He kept adding: "Even now, sometimes in the middle of the day, a red snake comes out and sits there."

A chill of doubt ran through me. I decided to come home early one day. And sure enough — a red snake was sitting right there.

Above, there was a place called Badaltaar — quite enchanting. Thick forest all around and a wide pond in the middle. It was called Badaltaar because ground mist almost always blanketed it completely. The plateau itself was not level, but had large, terraced fields. There were eight to ten buffalo sheds on the plateau. The buffaloes were of a medium size. It was a great pleasure to watch them running in a line along the slope. This was in the year 2044 BS. It was the month of Mangsir. That 14th of Mangsir I was appointed as a teacher at an English school in Damak, Jhapa, and on the 17th I boarded a vehicle numbered NE 7836 headed toward Dharan, to register my attendance at Dantakali Boarding School.

I reached Dharan at about eleven. From there I boarded another bus — KO 7779 — going from Dharan via Bhedetaar to Dhankuta. At that time the Gorkhaland movement was at its height in Darjeeling under the leadership of Subash Ghisingh. To suppress the movement, the CRPF under the leadership of Comrade Jyoti Basu (Chief Minister of Bengal), along with local CPM cadres, was conducting raids, arson and rapes against the Gorkhas of Darjeeling. We ordinary villagers — the helpless children of subsistence farmers — were forced to become refugees, driven to India's friendly neighbour Nepal. Some went to Nepal, others to Sikkim.

Amid all this, while looking for work to survive, I met a man named Bhattarai Sir, headmaster of Sinduwa Higher Secondary School, in Damak. During our brief meeting, I learned that along with me, Sushri Sarita Shrestha had also been appointed at his private English school.

That day was the 14th of Mangsir, 2044 BS. When we reached Dhankuta, Nepal police stopped all vehicles for about half an hour. I was seated at the edge of the lower front seat by the door. Beside me was an unfamiliar woman. After the bus moved, she took out food for the journey and offered it to me — "Dai, please have some." In that exchange I got to know her. Her name was Rama. Perhaps my young age drew her to me and her youth drew me closer to her. Just then the vehicle stopped. In an instant, His Majesty King Birendra Bir Bikram Shah Dev, Queen Aishwarya Rajyalakshmi Devi Shah, Crown Prince Dipendra Shah, Mirajan Shah and the Princess passed in a royal motorcade. The sight of the beautiful King Birendra and the royal family — that direct, living experience — still flashes before my eyes.

After watching the royal cavalcade, our vehicle turned onto that winding uphill road. Once again the journey-bond between Rama and me grew deeper. She gradually leaned and settled first onto my shoulder, then comfortably into my lap, and fell asleep. It was quite cold. I had only a single layer of clothing. The cold draft from the window turned my ears to ice. Cold drops dripped from my nose, but a young woman sleeping in my lap filled me with warmth and made me go limp. My feet went numb. Her thick dark hair spread across my entire lap — like a shepherd wrapping himself in a blanket.

Night fell. Far-off village lights flickered here and there, and the sound of dogs barking and jackals wailing came from the distance. There must have been a bus stop nearby. A little farther on, many lights burned brightly and people moved about.

The bus stopped. There was a large board: Siduwa Police Post. After the police checked the vehicle, the bus moved on. That night my journey ended at Siduwa bazaar.

I woke Rama: "Rama, get up. What place have we reached?"

She said — "It's Siduwa." "How far are you going, Dai?" she asked.

I said — "I don't have a fixed destination, really. But for now, I suppose Siduwa is where I stop."

She said — "Look — the two or three lodges here are all shut. It's ten at night now. Where will you go? It's cold too. And this altitude — the air is chilly. Why don't you come with me to our home for tonight."

I hesitated a little. She added — "Don't feel awkward. My parents won't mind. Come, stay with us."

Next day, the 15th of Mangsir. Rama took me to Dantakali English Boarding School. The market was on that day in Siduwa. She bought a korwa of roasted chestnuts, and we ate them on the way to school. Rama went home.

At the school compound I met Sarita Shrestha.

Sarita was from Dharan. She was exceptionally beautiful but also a quiet, refined woman. She came to school in neat, elegant clothes and always greeted me warmly. Her gentle greeting felt like a song-bird singing in a blossoming apple tree in spring. Her appearance was like a sudden ray of light landing in your eyes.

I would look across and say — "Good morning."

A good friendship formed with Sarita. One Saturday, Sarita, Rama and Rama's father — Assistant Sub-Inspector Bhimbahadur Thapa — and I all went up to those buffalo sheds and the pleasant plateau above, to see the yaks grazing there. One of the herders drew out thick yogurt from a large pot and offered it to all of us.

Ah! That past! That travel companion Rama, the memories of the Assistant, and the beautiful Sarita! Stay always in one room of my heart.

The sandal went missing again today.

Losing shoes or sandals in a religious compound is nothing new. But still.

Whoever comes to a temple must arrive wearing shoes — no one walks there barefoot. Yet somehow another person's foot perfectly matches the size of those sandals left behind. How does this keep happening so easily?

More sandals go missing than umbrellas in the monsoon. It's exasperating.

After Sante was struck with diarrhoea, there was no sleep all night. Every kind of herb — plucked, boiled, mashed — gave its juice, but the diarrhoea did not stop even after twenty trips.

Virbhadur had worked in the fields all day and was just dozing off when Usha shook him awake: "Come on, how long are you going to sleep? I too — all day I bent over planting paddy seedlings, one plateful after another, and my back is in such pain I can't move. But what can I do! The child is in such a terrible state with this diarrhoea. Look at him — he's gone limp. If we take him to the hospital, the doctor isn't even there. And if he is, he'll just take one look and refer us. To go to a private clinic — the day labourers haven't been paid yet. Just the other day I ran out of gas and I'm cooking on firewood. Why don't you get up and go call Dhanvire Jhankri from up the hill. Look — the boy's getting worse. We don't have decent clothes to change him into. Oh, listen — if there's half a bottle of that Millenium from the house next door, bring it, and after I sell the ginger seedlings, I'll pay you back."

With that, Virbhadur stood up, stretched, put on his gumboots, took an old umbrella, and set off toward Jhankri Ba's house.

It was around eleven at night.

Lighting his mobile phone, walking through the heavy monsoon rain, not caring about the deep darkness of the night — more than his own children — he climbed uphill. When he heard the dog bark loudly, Jhankri Ba called out: "Oy! What is it? Is that a leopard out there?"

The village leopard had eaten many goats, so the villagers were on alert. But no — it was Virbhadur.

"Ah — it's this wretch. Where are you going in the middle of the night, Sainla? You must be exhausted! What's the trouble?" Jhankri Ba asked.

Vire opened his mouth — "What's to be said, Mitbau! The boy's in a very bad way with diarrhoea. Your daughter-in-law is crying. I'm exhausted too, but I couldn't say no, Mitbau! Come for a bit. Here, make this offering — even an impure mouth first."

Jhankri Ba — "Aye, wretch! No need for that. Take it then. Oi, Mukhe! Add a little water."

A bowl of it — swallowed right down — "Come on, let's go, when I'm around, what trouble can go anywhere!"

Arriving at the house, he felt the boy's pulse. "Ah — it's the jungle fever! Get the ashtray. Yes, ghee incense, one egg, some pure water too. His spirit has also wandered off. No wonder he's in such a state."

After Jhankri Ba worked on him for a while — however fate allowed — the boy vomited once and the diarrhoea calmed down.

Jhankri Ba began talking about the army: "When I was in the 5/6 Gorkha Rifles, one day I was on sentry duty outside when my whole body suddenly went slack. I told the instructor — 'Sir, I need relief. I've fallen ill.' The company commander ordered me to the hospital. But even the hospital treatment didn't cure me, and I took a month's leave and came home. Then the family shaman was called; he said an ancestral spirit had descended. I extended my leave by fifteen days and performed the rituals.

That was 1971. Right after that, the India-Pakistan war broke out. As soon as the war ended, our platoon came back. I too retired and came home. Now I serve this village community, take my pension, eat what I get. My sons and daughters are all employed. I want for nothing. Ah, the boy is asleep too. Dawn is already crowing. I'll go. And listen — I have been making a vow to Mahakaal Baba. If you can manage it, take the boy tomorrow for darshan. You must not forget your own faith, rituals, and cultural traditions."

At that very moment Virbhadur said — "Mitbau! That remaining offering from before — please take it."

"Ah, right — let me have it then. The mouth that can eat is never blocked by a moustache. Bahu, heat the water just a little."

He emptied the glass in four gulps. Jhankri Ba headed uphill. And just then the rooster crowed. Husband and wife breathed a sigh of relief.

Around seven in the morning, both got ready, took incense, akshata and flowers from their own home, and boarded a vehicle to go for darshan at Mahakaal Baba's shrine.

That day the Mahakaal Dham compound was all open sky. The monkeys were very restless. Some notices were posted in front of Hanuman's idol — saying to be careful of monkeys, to put plastic bags in the garbage bins nearby, and so on.

The couple walked around the Mahakaal temple, received blessings and ritual words from the Pandit and Lama, and returned home very happily.

But where they had left their shoes and sandals — the sandals were gone. Who could they blame now? That day Usha went home barefoot. The sandal was taken neither by a monkey nor by someone acting like one.

The wedding was truly joyful. Most people were painting their lives in the colours of the celebration. The more that flowed, the more fun it was — that place called Bar. A bar with no stopping or starting. Stop yourself and you stay; don't, and you stumble too.

I, the poor wretch, grew up in a village environment — raised on the last milk of a Nepali mother, in the rhythms and melodies of village life. A person who loves the village tunes and cadences, the ancestral customs, culture, language, traditional rites and rituals, and the simplicity of it all. Oh, how one loves it.

I stood there for a while and noted my attendance and contribution in the record. A small joy came from the little pieces of paper written there. English school influence has reached the village now.

Bonds, relationships, customs, food habits and ways of living — and then someone like me who stubbornly talks about language and literature has been uprooted. The language has died.

I shook myself and looked at myself closely. Had I wandered into some English village by mistake? Was everyone else's hair golden, their eyes grey, their face pale — everyone except me?

My father, who hadn't studied English, called the cow's toilet "gobara" — cow dung. My mother used that same gobara to plaster the house. My father called the cow's urine "gahunte," rice "bhaat." Similarly, he called Mummy "Aama" and Daddy "Baau."

A mixture of cow's urine, milk, curd, butter, and cow dung was made into panchagavya, consumed during worship rituals to become pure. How foolish our forebears must have been!

Now slowly we are improving. Forgetting that worthless Nepali and those useless customs. Praise the present!

And I crept home. Like a cripple. Ashamed. Feeling a vague guilt.

Who will read Nepali now?

When someone says "Don't talk Nepali — I will punish you." Why bother writing Nepali literature? Has my language caught cancer? Has a wound appeared in the bone marrow of my culture? Have my instruments gone out of tune?

How quickly the letters — the vowels and consonants — were erased from the black slate by white chalk.

How quickly we learn to paste, onto the wound of our own existence, the deformity that others have rubbed onto us.

I had known her for about six or seven months. But she was very cheerful — a happy-hearted housewife. Her name was Shobha. And her character matched her name. She had grown up in a village setting. Well-cultured, educated. She had two children. Her elder daughter was in fourth grade at the local primary school. Her younger son was about two years old.

She had her own house and a small plot of land.

Shobha considered hard work her everything. She grew various vegetables in her plot and sold them to pay for her children's schooling. From milk products — ghee, chhurpi, yogurt — she also kept the family from financial hardship. Every morning she would wake early, bathe, offer water to the tulsi plant, make her solar offering, drink tea, and then tend to her household. Her husband was in the Indian Army. His platoon was stationed in Dehradun.

Shobha had grown up in Suntale, her own village, studied up to fourth grade at the local primary school there, and completed her secondary education from Vidyasagar Higher Secondary School.

In those days, the late Chirring Dorje Lama was a skilled dancer, an accomplished stage actor, and a fine teacher — a teacher with beautiful handwriting who could speak and write English well too.

Today, his absence is felt deeply in this storyteller's heart.

These days, Shobha has rented a small vegetable stall at Chowk Bazar in Darjeeling. From the village she brings pumpkins, cucumbers, tomatoes, squash, bitter gourds — and from the settlement, basmati rice, katka rice, nuniya rice, birimphool, dudhraj, mansaro, champa-sari, and beaten rice from local paddy. And she sets up her stall.

Crowds gather at her shop.

On Saturdays and Sundays when the army camp is on leave and town residents also have leisure, her fresh, pure, organic produce sells well.

Some days, ghee, chhurpi, and paneer also sell out quickly.

Her husband, meanwhile, has been promoted in his platoon and made a Lance Naik. His platoon has just been moved from Dehradun to Jammu. More Gorkha soldiers were deployed there after Pakistani militant activity increased.

Last night, around ten o'clock, there was a fierce bombardment in Kupwada. After intense exchanges from both sides, the militant commander along with fifty other militants were killed.

But who has ever foreseen the decree of fate! A tragedy fell upon the Indian Army. The meaning of fighting is this — kill, or be killed.

Shobha became a widow.

The warm sun that had risen was suddenly set. A double shadow fell on Suntale.

Harimaya had just returned home from Kuwait. Ask her about the exploitation foreign women face there, and she doesn't mind talking.

Some go abroad out of desire; others out of compulsion.

When Harimaya was still young, her parents had gone with other passengers in a bus accident in the Trishuli river, leaving behind two small brothers and a little sister, Ranjana.

There was one paddy field and about an acre of vegetable garden.

Leaving her two brothers Biren and Rupesh at their maternal uncle's home, trusting her grandmother to raise little sister Ranjana, mortgaging the paddy field for four lakhs — just seventeen, she went searching for work from shop to shop and hotel to hotel, but the wages were never right. So finally she headed for Kuwait.

Poor from childhood, Harimaya was principled and fearless. In that scorching, desert-like country, she found work in the home of an elderly woman, Fatima Sheikh.

She did her mistress's care and household work well.

Seeing her work, Fatima Sheikh treated her like her own daughter. But no matter how comfortable life was abroad, Harimaya was never free from the pull of her small brothers and sister Ranjana back home.

Three full years passed.

Harimaya decided to come home. On the 5th of May she was confirmed to fly back to her homeland. She had to redeem the mortgaged land, build the future of her young brothers and sister — and her own future too. She packed what she could into her bag.

Her employer Fatima Sheikh came with extra money and fine clothes, embraced her warmly, said "Come again," and saw her all the way to the airport.

Today, brave Harimaya has come home. She brought her two small brothers Biren and Rupesh to live with her, and brought little sister Ranjana along too.

She redeemed the mortgaged paddy field with interest, and in memory of her late parents donated money toward building a road to the village — and so saved the village.

Today, that hardworking Harimaya — eating little, dreaming of a great harvest — plants on alone, seeds in hand, pressing them furrow by furrow into the earth: tiny grains of paddy, each one a dream of the future.

One day Harimaya invited me home. I couldn't not go. I didn't have much free time, but I went with a curious heart, wondering why she had called.

She was home. As soon as I arrived, she told her husband I had come, and Harkaman, saying "Namaste, brother," sat on a chair in the living room and called out to his wife.

"Hari! Hey, Hari! You invite brother home and then go wandering off somewhere?"

Hari: "Oh, coming! Just open that cabinet and pour for you and brother! And — listen — that good one, you know? The one brother-in-law brought the other day. I'm bringing the bhutwa. Brother doesn't take chicken. Take out the big bottle for him!"

Before he could say another word — why wouldn't one drink foreign-label liquor with homemade goat bhutwa!

In tall, thin-stemmed glasses, glug-glug-glug, Harkaman poured and urged me to sit close to the table.

And why would I hold back? Free, and with mutton too. I surrendered myself to that day. He drank steadily, and I like a goat. Ahh!

When the first round was finished, Harimaya signaled her husband again.

I sat stunned.

Again, glug glug glug — Harkaman signaled his wife. Without another word, having finished about a bowlful of goat bhutwa, I quietly slipped my wife's five thousand rupees from under her pillow — money she had set aside for a trip to her parents — tucked it in my pocket, and went into the village to play cards.

I lost the first two rounds; in the third round, luck was turning my way. As I was sweeping the winnings into my pocket, my wife came storming in, swept up the cards and the stakes, and sent me packing with a kick.

The earlier drunkenness was wearing off. My belly was gnawing with hunger. In my stupor, I pulled what I thought was my pillow — it turned out to be the sacks left to sleep on by the door outside.

Now I am alone.

Ranamaya never came back. "Didn't a moment's fun leave you alone your whole life?" When sense came, it was too late.

☐

Yesterday, I met Rane, the character in this story. The poor man was shaking and trembling. He was sitting by the alley at Naya Bazar, hand outstretched.

I said: "Hey, Kanchha!" He gave a sheepish grin.

As for me — I became celebrated writing his story. But it was him who was truly wretched.

”Mother, give me ten paise.”

Today I remember my mother's time. When I was in class five at Vidyasagar. Right next door was Halim Bhai's bakery. All my friends came to school with four anas, ten paise, eight anas, a rupee.

Those who had money would buy bread rolls, cakes, loaves, cream rolls and eat them. But I would drink the sweet, cool water from the Manidara spring across the way — having come with the pure organic finger-millet porridge my mother had made, beaten with buffalo buttermilk. But the long day, the growing age — hunger would come. My mother had no income other than her household work. Father was an ordinary farmer who also did some priestly work.

My grandfather was said to have been wealthy.

Unfortunately, when Father was still a child, someone had tricked the innocent boy, brought out hill-paper ink, and pressed his thumb. So Father made do with life however he could. That is why my mother raised me on wholesome meals — sometimes rice porridge or millet bread, sometimes kheer — always filling.

One day a girl classmate said: “Hey! You never eat snacks! Have you no money?”

When she said that, my child's heart overflowed and a few salty, loving drops fell from my eyes.

She took pity on me and put roasted corn and soybeans from her jacket pocket into my khaki half-pants pocket.

From the next day, I too would wake early, roast corn, share some with that friend, and eat myself.

Then one day my mother gave me four anas and said: “Look, make this money last!”

I nodded.

I heated coal embers in a mug, pressed my khaki pants carefully to keep the crease, and carried them in my bag all the way to the dirt road — then put them on near Halim Bhai's bakery.

After morning prayers and entering the classroom, we boys and girls sat half-and-half in the same room.

My eyes roamed. I looked all around. I didn't see her. My energy drained away.

The teacher came in. Roll call happened.

Everyone said “present.” But she — was absent.

The teacher, with moist eyes, said: “Your classmate Mirina has passed away.”

It is absolute necessity. She rises with the cock's crow to climb the wall of daily life. Today she must complete four rounds of work — and still accept yesterday's orders. So many feelings and duties all trying to spill out at once. That black salted tea, a bottle-worth, and about four rotis, piping hot, folded in a cloth — one green chili and a pinch of salt.

That's breakfast done. Now she pours the ration rice onto the winnowing tray with a splash, fans it two or three times to separate the husks, weed seeds, and black mouse droppings to one side — four measures of rice into the pot, washed with warm water, pushing firewood into one mouth of the mud stove, setting lentil dal on the other flame, fanning — fuu... fuu... — wiping the painful smoke-tears with the edge of her sari. Up on the wall above hangs a clock. She watches it — tick-tock... tick-tock... with a lonely sound, the clock marks time — clang clang clang — five o'clock in the morning.

She dries two or three pieces of sidra fish over the flame, puts them on the grinding stone, crushes them with some chilies and salt into their family chutney, tastes it with her pinky finger, and pours a glass of red tea for Veeraman, her life's companion: "I have to go to ginti. Today I have four rounds of work. Everything's ready. Wake Rane and make him do his homework. He must study hard and become a big saheb..."

Just then Dipa calls from outside: "Hey, Rane's mother! Be quick! Roll call is at half past five. Oh! And bring khaini — mine's run out."

Without another word, the clock strikes half past six with a klang. She puts her ghum hat, basket, hoe, and sickle into the basket, tucks khaini into her lip, and follows Dipa.

Veeraman drinks two or three sips of red tea, lights a bidi, and goes into the forest for grass for the cow, taking a kukuri knife, catis, carrying strap, and rope.

Rane gets up, washes his hands and face, and sits down to study. He is in class two. Today he must recite the two-to-four times tables for his teacher.

He chants: "Two ones are two, two twos are four..."

Veeraman sets down the heavy load of grass, wipes the sweat from his forehead, and comes inside. He fetches a bucket and milks the cow. The bucket fills with foaming milk — he pours it into the dairy can. One, two, three... five liters in all.

He warms about a liter and gives Rane a glass. After eating, Veeraman gets Rane ready and sends him to tuition. Then he carries the can to deliver the milk to town.

Who notices time flowing? Day by day, Rane passes the Secondary Board exam in first division. He passes Class Eleven and Twelve from St. Robert's with good marks, graduates in English from a government college, and becomes a volunteer teacher at a tea estate school.

One day, seeing an advertisement in The Times of India, his mind becomes fixed on one thing. He quickly prepares an application in English and submits it with his bio-data.

Today he leaves by the Darjeeling Mail for Calcutta to attend the interview.

These days Rane himself cooks the rice and dal. He wakes early, sweeps the house. He brings his mother and father tea in bed.

He himself tends the cow — feeding, milking.

Veeraman has crossed nearly seventy winters and now rises slowly with the sun.

Mother has retired from labor.

One day, the postman Sudeep comes around eleven o'clock from the North Point post office: "Namaste, brother! How are you?" Rane takes the red envelope and says, "Thank you, brother" — "Please sit, let's have tea — after all, that's the custom here" — and brings out a cup of tea and some biscuits.

Drinking tea, Rane opens the envelope. His face floods with joy. He shakes Sudeep's hand, then shares the happy news with his father and mother.

Ahh! He had truly become the Bara Saheb of that very estate.

Full of joy, he brought sweets and went to his father's room to share the happy gift. But Veeraman, overcome by this extreme happiness, had quietly closed his eyes.

Between joy and grief, Rane receives his appointment. Now in that house there is only him — and his mother.

That day the Bagmati was weeping in floods. The sky was leaking. The burning ghats were in great turmoil. The earth was holding back its hiccups, shuddering in silence. Nepalis, their eyes brimming with grief, bearing in themselves the tale of the blood-soaked palace, were climbing the peak of unbearable sorrow. What a horrific palace massacre.

We sat in the seat of the rickshaw, and to my right, she — an unfamiliar woman, helpless, strikingly dark-complexioned. And yet, how beautiful! A dark beauty crafted by nature — a magical enchantress. I still cannot forget her.

A red dot on her forehead, a simple locket at her throat. A white spotted blouse, a sari with white patterns against a faint red, and those Hattichhaap sandals on her feet. Her parting was empty — no pote, no thought of it. The sun was quite strong, yet my shared journey with her covered more than four kilometres, and still the need to understand her stayed with me.

But from her two eyes, warm, salty drops fell on her young chest, tapping down one after another.

At the height of curiosity, I asked — "Are your eyes hurting? Or did you have an operation?"

In response she said — "Have we not become orphans now, Dai? That is why I couldn't hold back the tears and wept."

The discomfort of that East-West Highway journey had to be shared with her at that moment. I — light-complexioned and young — yet beside her dark and beautiful form, I felt closer to gathering her grief than keeping apart. We were both bound in a shared feeling.

She was generous of heart. Slowly she leaned her full body toward me and made my lap her pillow. Like a wind-tossed butterfly caught in the thirst of strange sensation, opening the door of a still mind in the thick reflection of warm surroundings, her thick tresses spilled across my eager young lap in careless abandon.

The destination was still far. Changing the subject, I asked — "What is your education?"

With a small smile she said — "Only Plus Two."

"And then?"

To my short question she gave a long sigh: "Then Arabia — and after three years, I'm home again."

"And marriage?" — I asked again.

"Your follow-up question stings a bit," she said, turning toward me with a quiet smile. "No, I haven't thought about it yet — and to say more, I am still in Nepali character, Dai. But I don't believe women abroad become characterless. If one holds oneself together, there is no shame. There are no jobs, industry is limited. That is why the country is disabled. But in character, it is truly rich. Going abroad is only for employment. But it seems today I must make that decision."

In this restless state our journey rolled on in peace. Suddenly at the bridge over the Nindra stream, the rickshaw lurched — and that was when we realised Dhulabari had arrived. A little ahead, the rickshaw stopped and the driver got down to drink water. We also bought some fruit and began to eat.

The rickshaw moved on.

Continuing the conversation, I changed the subject.

"By the way, what is the driver's name?"

He replied with a sigh — "Everyone calls me Bhumikishor Shrestha, sir."

"Oh! What a remarkable name, isn't it, Dai?" — said Dipali. We all laughed.

Shrestha Dai added — "What does a remarkable name do! Just yesterday my wife was feeling regret. Why would she worry about herself? But she wondered — who would build a beautiful future for that daughter?"

Hearing his mournful voice, our fair faces grew moist too, and our lids grew wet then dried.

Silence fell upon us. But the country was dissolving, drifting without direction — one chapter of history ending, another about to be established on the horizon.

The rickshaw stopped sharp. At a crossroads. The police checked our bags. We got down. The driver's fare — she paid it. My money stayed in my pocket.

"Why didn't you take my money?" I asked.

"Atithi Devo Bhava," she said.

Night seemed close. No vehicle ran. Past the four-way crossroads, keeping the jungle to the right, we walked. Beyond the Duwagadhi crossing, through the jungle, past the Bhutanese refugee camp, some faint lights flickered not far ahead. Like a goat led to a butcher, I was being drawn after a completely unknown gracious woman.

In a courtyard of a hut, other women welcomed her and brought her inside. We exchanged greetings. But I stood still as a statue. Water was brought in a bowl, and I was invited to eat. I ate. They watched me. Yes, that night I stayed there. I gave her my heart. She gave me respect.

In the union of night and sun, morning came. But her darkness did not transfer to me.

Why would it? The heart of dark people is the same as the skin of fair people. Why such arrogance in those who are white? Black ink is happiest on white paper, just as stars shine in the dark night. The longing and love of dark people too blooms like sunakhari. There is nature there too. Those who read black letters became the learned. But has anyone ever said white letters are like mist, like snow, like cotton? Yes, that day I was bound by that dark girl's enchantment.

That day the country had draped itself in black. Every settlement and hovel stood stunned. There was silence. A great historical avalanche had fallen from a great snowy peak. Night was crying out in the labour ward for a new morning to be born. My dark one of the heart, dark one of the soul, dark one chosen by longing!

One colour among colours. A night queen carrying her own distinct talent. An invaluable token of the day. A small girl of the eyes!

The whites had sucked the very veins of India's land. The whites had sucked the marrow of Nepalis at Nalapani. Rather, let the firefly shine in the dark night. One need not be entwined in longing and love here. You are suited to the season beyond the Mechi. I fly humming in your gardens.

In the end — what happened? Even without a King, the country remains. Does it not?

A wicker basket becomes old and is thrown away when its strips slip loose. But a person grows as old — or as worn — as the calendar grows old.

The year completes its cycle of twelve months, and through winter and monsoon grows cold, then wet, and spends itself.

Yet even at the whisper of spring, the tamarind, silk-cotton, and rhododendron bloom. The birds rejoice.

To reach sixty by turning page after page — if one were to call that a pleasant moment in life's second half, what is there to call pleasant? It means losing the friends of one's working days. But if one thinks about it from another side, life is like a great elephant forced to walk at someone else's command.

To be born free and to forever keep yourself in harness under another's command — to keep saying "yes, sir" — that is the exploitation that is life.

Such, more or less, was Mohan's life too. With a small salary, having to claim he is a salaried man, and having only the thin trust that the village folk might sometimes lend two or four rupees when he asked — but not really enough to clear any heavy debt.

Whatever it was — let us call it the play of fate.

How much time is left before retirement now?

Mohan used to think of what Saraswati had assigned to him as a boon. In the early fervour of his teaching years, he was as hopeful as a dream seen in the first watch of the night. The second half of that same life did not seem to work out the same way. That is — life did not follow hope.

Two children and one companion.

These were the wheels that drove their life's chariot.

He imagined that once the children took flight, the burdens would lighten — but no, a journey where the milestones of earlier ambitions kept not being reached.

Even where he wanted to go, the footsteps of desire would slip away on their own.

So Mohan would gently pat some small children, treating them as friends, with affectionate hands.

The school walls, like tree bark, would shed a layer or two each monsoon. The windows and doors had ceased to latch. The blackboard had cracked apart in the middle. The floor planks below were broken. On the walls, chart papers hung in language unsuitable to the surroundings, with introductory names of some vegetables and fruits.

And yet Mohan considered himself a successful teacher.

An old revolving chair and a limping bench. A dwindling job and the hopeful imaginations that followed.

With no money earned by one's own hands in one's pocket, no matter how many desires spring up in the mind, having no choice but to remain silent — with this thought, anxiety over how to end the life-cycle like the sun tilting west.

His steps searched for meaning as he walked.

No, there had been no savings and there remained none. Ah — whatever!

Others in employment must be the same as me. Suddenly stilling the mind, Mohan would draw the letters ka kha ga in the notebooks of young children with large strokes and teach them to pronounce.

As the wall calendar tore away page by page, the dates, days, weeks, and numbers there faded away.

No pigeons on the ridge beam now. They used to coo at each hour.

On the wall, in the blankness, a model goes tick-tick. And there is within him the chamber of the heart. That too beats — dhak dhak — the same way. Tree leaves fall, new ones sprout.

The bark peels and becomes fresh, but life only peels — it doesn't sprout anew. So many people lose their right to live. The calendar remains as it is.

Life too, it turns out, is a dream.

The evening bell rings. Mohan gets up with a start. And within four watches, he falls sound asleep, his face turned toward the ridge of the house.

Spring never returned. Without making tamarind, silk-cotton, and rhododendron bloom.

Spring's seasons never came singing their songs. No new source broke open to sweeten another monsoon.

Violence is a great crime. And more so against a woman. An old grandmother and her granddaughter Nira. The grandmother had no guardians of her own — some of her kin had died, others had been killed.

To need the support of family in old age and yet to remain ignored oneself — this too is unbearable pain, or misfortune. Whatever it may be, she is steadfast in bearing the responsibility for her granddaughter. Like a soldier, and on the walls of the house she now calls her refuge, photographs of the dead hang in a row. Whenever the old woman's gaze reaches them, her eyes water like a dripping tap. The growing eleven-year-old granddaughter has now begun to understand the cause of her grandmother's weeping — but about the stories of grief connected to those photographs, she remains unaware.

Nira one day hid all the photographs. She wanted her grandmother to cry no more.

In the small kitchen garden, whatever grew — selling those vegetables kept those two souls alive. Taking some greens, she went to the weekly market every Saturday.

Nira's father was a policeman. One day, suddenly, a group of attackers fired blindly on the police at the post where he was on duty. Police officer Laxman died on the spot.

At the time of Police Officer Laxman's death, Nira was in the womb. The People's War was running through the country. The village was remote. There was neither a dispensary nor water, road or electricity. Teju had a small grocery shop. Whatever could be bought there — that was the villagers' good fortune. Bandana began to have labour pains. She started writhing.

The old mother-in-law was in a fix. Now what to do?

She tried whatever remedies she knew, but it did not work. Searching for help, she went to seek the aid of a healer. Just then, the sound of gunfire erupted nearby.

The old woman came inside with the healer — but Bandana had given birth to Nira and breathed her last. The villagers came and looked. There was weeping in everyone's eyes, while in the old mother-in-law's eyes there was nothing particular. Having wept every moment, her eyes had become like a desert. She stood stunned, watching like a mute witness.

A woman elder cut the cord, and Niruta gave the baby its first nursing.

Time grows up with its country, era, and circumstances. Today those who fought the People's War sit in power, while the villagers who bore the war suffer.

Many years passed. But the pain did not pass. The wound grew stronger. A bitter character developed in people. Country, village, society felt the void of absence. The inhabitants became neglected. A quiet but invisible humiliation and torment. Call it that same old dark age that the Tsars had imposed in the fifteenth century.

Whatever it was — Nira turned eleven.

The grandmother took on the responsibility of her education. She herself, in her mature years, had been educated by her own husband. In the village, she would write small petitions for people. Rupa, who had acquired knowledge of the Ramayana, Mahabharata and other wisdom, was a respectable woman in the village.

Today, having taken on the responsibility of nurturing and educating her granddaughter, she was devoted to raising a worthy citizen. Incidents that occasionally came to her ears were painful enough — but on that day, while she herself had gone to the village grocery shop for necessities, the horrific sight of Nira having been raped and murdered alone at home was enough to take Rupa's life too.

Prabhakaar had a bad headache and was in considerable discomfort. But a person of social conscience cannot feel at ease without giving some verbal, physical or financial help even while in personal pain. There is no personal gain from it, but there are plenty of counter-questions.

I knocked at the door and called — "Sir! Is anyone there?"

In response — "Yes! Who is it?"

I said — "It's me, Kaka!"

Hearing my voice, he came saying — "Ah — one moment, wait. I'm coming."

He opened the door and looked — "Oh, it's you! Look, I returned from a wedding late yesterday. That's it — there was quite a gathering with friends at the wedding. Ah — one must enjoy oneself too, I thought, so I phoned home and sat at ease. Eight or ten of us were together. Sitting there at the table, we ate and drank a bit. Writing invitations all day and then settling the accounts. One thing and another — it was about twelve-thirty. With two nights of little sleep and a bit of light celebration, it must be that my pressure went high — and now the headache."

Before finishing his account of his troubles, he asked another question — "And what brings you?"

Only then did I put forward my purpose — "Nothing, Kaka! This time I too have the idea of bringing out a poetry collection."

He asked outright — "And where is the manuscript?"

I pulled the manuscript out of my bag and handed it over, saying — "Here it is. Take a look." He flipped through it quickly and stopped at one poem, saying — "Ah, this poem is very fine —

After the moon had set / the fireflies fell asleep / After day came / the eyes fell asleep / But the mind did not sleep at all...

Well, well — I'll read it properly and write something."

He then looked at me and said — "At a time when all the half-aged, reckless young people like you are getting tattoos on their bodies, dyeing their hair bright red and yellow, and going around reeking of cannabis — what has come over you? The idea is a good one. Having an interest in literature means getting good company. It means holding on to ideals. It means keeping company with books. Now tell me — who inspired you in this?"

Taking his advice and counsel with reverence, I answered his question — "From my mother."

He looked up at me and said — "Is your mother a literary person?"

I shook my head — "No."

"Then how?"

To fully satisfy his curiosity, I said — "My mother is an educated housewife and she has an interest in literature; she brings various literary books from the library and reads them..."

Before my answer was complete, he added — "Oh! What a fine and ideal thought. Your mother, though of ordinary schooling, has elevated thinking. All women seem educated to me. Having the knowledge of letters alone is not education. Mothers are always responsible toward their children. Which mother would ever wish her child to be good-for-nothing."

He continued — "Listen, Alok — I too received my inspiration from my mother. My father, when I was very small, went abroad to earn some money — it seems — but no!" He said this, letting drops fall from the corners of both eyes.

"Look there, Alok! That photograph is of my father. After that, I remained with my mother. Even now my aged mother — she is resting in that back room. My benefactor! My god! She is the divine image."

With great curiosity I went to meet the old mother and touched her feet. She placed a hand on my head and gave her blessing — "Long may you live and thrive." Then Kaka said — "How remarkable — your name and mine both happen to match today? I was astonished. My name too was not given by any pandit — they called me Alok. But later when I was grown and was thinking of joining the army, my mother had a pandit called home to check the auspicious time. When I was told my exact date of birth, the letter 'A' was fixed and so Alok was arrived at. Now tell me, Alok! How did my mother come to give me this name? This name that means light — yours and mine together — I find it even more delightful. Alright, Alok! Now sit at ease. I'll look through your collection and I'll certainly write a few words from what I know and understand. And listen, Alok! Literature is an ocean of water. No matter how much you draw, it is never exhausted. But readers are scarce. Our people don't read literature. To trample on language, literature and culture means the downfall — or the erasure — of our people. Still — let us keep writing, shall we. And not only that, Alok — I'll also take on the responsibility of being publisher."

Then I came home thrilled and, clutching my mother, said — "Mother! Kaka has agreed to be the publisher too."

Tears of joy fell one after another from my mother's eyes in just the same way.

Alok sat on the sofa that evening to read through the manuscript. His wife Pratima had also finished cleaning the kitchen and come to sit beside him. Pratima had done her LLB degree and yet had stayed home. She looked after the aged mother-in-law and attended to her husband.

Meanwhile in Darjeeling, the Gorkhaland movement was in full force. In Bengal, the communist government and its supporters were making great efforts to suppress the movement. Pratima had thought of finding her own livelihood only after the movement ended. But Pratima, who had a great interest in literature, sat down with a novel by the writer Kovid. By chance, Alok and Pratima's eyes both fell on one poem in the manuscript.

The poem was —

Title: That Sky.

Afraid the sky might fall, the hen spoke a hollow word / But the day was bright and open / The suffering of the rooster's tied foot on one side / On the other, the suffering of the sky about to fall. // Just then, without warning, from the corn cob / The husks and grains fell scattering all at once // The hen was startled / The rooster was hungry / The mouse was gnawing at husks / The snake was stalking the mouse / The sky was silent.

Alok and Pratima looked at each other. Both incomplete life-stories — the story remaining unfinished — the curious tale stayed as it was.

She was strikingly beautiful. Both cheeks had small dimples. Slim, dark-complexioned, a smiling face. Curly hair. A firm and full bosom, a robust body.

These eyes wouldn't let her go without taking her in fully. The echo of her voice, springing from her own throat and traveling through the trembling of her lips to the ears — even something moving at great speed would perhaps stop still for a moment.

One cannot look away — how beautiful! Her smile like the moon. Like the petals of a freshly bloomed rose. Unseasonably, it seemed like spring; even in drought, like rain. Always like sunakhari or rhododendron in full bloom in the sweet spring of Chait — what can one say! That young bloom, and beside it, one's own appearance with whitening strands at the temples and wrinkles beginning to form in the corners of the eyes.

From the box of the heart I want to pour out so many gifts of love and cover her completely.

With difficulty, closing my eyes, the mind went uphill. The heart pounded as much as it could. The eyes wandered, the feet trembled. Who might she be? The curiosity remained.

Just about composing the mind and burning with eagerness to find the answer to the curiosity, Lalita came colliding in among the tea bushes. The words that had wanted to be asked got stuck inside the throat. Whom to ask? Was that image ahead, or a reflection — a beam of human light. Like sunlight scattered through tingling cold, her beautiful form.

How to draw her portrait? Lifting from the very pit of the mind — shall I make a statue of clay! What name to give this imaginary beauty? Now she'll never part from the chamber of my heart. She'll surely swing forever within the beats inside the chest.

The tea of memory, moistening the lips, the mind rested one moment with her leaning youth — blooming branch by branch, red as the tamarind tree in spring.

The mind is here now. Joining letter by letter of memory. It flew again from the cage of the heart. Carried off by the wind to seek the answer from before, toward the lane of the tea garden. The desires of the heart, it turns out, refuse to be bounded. Someone said — "Krishna" — that is her name. I was about to say Revati.

But she disappeared like a rainbow — swiftly vanishing. As the moon disappears into clouds on a full moon night.

"She's like a fairy but of low birth — what else!" — someone's words slipped inside the membrane of the ear. The mountain of curiosity rose higher still. Oh — is there caste even in beauty? Does God not rejoice in their beauty? Does God not accept the offering they present?

Here, people make fools of other people. Her beauty is her austerity. Her devotion. The pen was spending time waiting for an answer. Yes, Lalita came from that very path.

Exhaling a long breath of eagerness, the question — "Hey, did you hear? Who is that beautiful girl?"

Hearing the question, Lalita said — "Her name is Rashmi. She's in class nine. She's very friendly. How many people are drawn to her. Her character is also good. Two sisters and a mother are in the family. She speaks sweetly. She lives neatly. She studies with our Pranesh. She's always first in exams."

In reply, practical knowledge about her entered the ears like bees emerging from a hive.

Time — nearly a week passed. The phone rang. As I reached for it, it cut off.

Today I need a new backdrop — for the caste imposed on her, the anarchy of society, the life-style free of hesitation that she deserved to live, and the mixed educated-uneducated village that belittled her, along with the barricade of religions.

Keeping the desires to meet again alive in the heart, I flew into my own world. At last, a few days not yet passed, the telephone rang again. I picked up.

"Hello!" — a familiar voice came in a series. I was stunned. It couldn't be believed. I asked again. She had suddenly passed away.

What a fate! That creation that existed — it should have bloomed. Why let it sprout, if it was to be crushed. Why in the courtyard of caste did it introduce itself as casteless? Why did someone snatch that form? Why did the storm blow away her beautiful and fragrant worldly life?

Even now she lives inside this temple of the heart. Sometimes she stands before me and I look through the curtain within my eyes.

Come, take full birth again. Singing sweet songs in a whisper. Here, in the two winter months of Magh-Phagun, come down from the ridge to the hillside as a queen-bird come to rejoice. Fly in whatever colour you choose — I will watch that human form of yours.

There is no caste there, nor untouchability / Let love bloom between you and me / But not the rose that blooms on thorns.

The plaster had long since peeled from every wall. The cow-dung coating on the central floor had also crumbled away, leaving it pitted and uneven. The window frames had been stained by rain-splatter, looking grey and weathered. The moss in the courtyard had cracked and dried under the harsh sun. Yet a thin wisp of evening smoke and the faint flicker of a kerosene lamp were proof that someone still lived in that dilapidated house. What a house it had once been — a proud three-storied structure! Even now one could see twenty-five or thirty bundles of maize hanging in rows along the eaves. The granary would hold enough maize for three years, and the rice bins and millet between them served the whole village — lending grain on interest and collecting what was owed.

Randhoj, known to everyone as Mandal Ba, could not interest anyone today. The village farmers had all gone abroad for work — Australia, Borneo, Dubai, Malaysia, Hong Kong — and were bringing back American dollars. Why would such people bother to visit Mandal Ba?

The very lads and lasses who had once grown up under his shelter had, now that they had climbed to their own heights, begun to see yesterday's god as today's ghost.

Mandal's two sons and his daughter had also gone away. A mother sits hungry until her chicks grow, feeding them — after that, once they have wings and fly from the old nest, why would they ever come back?

Ramesh and Prahar were brothers. Of Ramesh there was no trace — no contact with anyone, no thought of those aging parents. The father and mother who had once longed deeply for children now lived out their final breaths waiting for those same children to return; rise and set of the sun was the measure of time. Without appetite for food, yet tormented by hunger after hunger, within the four walls of that house, wrapping themselves in whatever they counted as everything — old soiled quilts and mattresses — nibbling at what little remained of the savings of their past days' earnings, there was nothing left to do but wait for death.

The winter that had taken these two well past their eighties showed little sign of yielding to the new green shoots of Baisakh.

But Prahar — even from his prison life abroad — carried in his heart the feeling that he might yet see those aging parents before they became mere skeletons. He would beg the jailer sahib to let him use the phone, and would call his sister Ranjana: "Ranjana sister, somehow come back home. Find out how our mother and father are. Are they still there? Come back to our country. When I get out of prison, I'll work a couple of months to cover expenses and then return home. After all, the warm sun of one's own country is cooler than any foreign land. I'll open up the mortgaged land and roam our own slopes and hillsides. Whatever I grow, I'll count as my fortune."

He had barely spoken those few words when the guards seized him by the collar and shoved him back into the prison cell.

Eyes full of tears, Prahar began to weep. His fellow inmates, sharing in his sorrow, wept with him too.

Time raced on. Day followed night. With a heart wearing thin down to its very beat, Mandal Ba called out to God. The old woman would wipe her tears on the hem of her old gunyu and say — "Surely one of them will come before we die!"

The village had emptied, turned to jungle. Wild animals started coming freely into the courtyard and the kitchen gardens. Tigers, leopards, jackals, civets — in broad daylight they would carry off goats, dogs, geese, chickens. Killing wild animals was forbidden by law; whoever did it was imprisoned and made to pay heavy fines. Under that blind law, citizens of the republic who had the right to vote were silent. Most simple villagers thought it best to stay quiet and bear it — "Better to keep silent."

One day, suddenly, a fire broke out in the forest. Villagers scattered here and there tried hard to put it out, but they failed. No fire truck came. Most of the men were not in the village, so the women could only scream — what more could they do? Mandal Ba's house and storehouse were on the verge of being swallowed by the flames. A middle-aged man who looked unfamiliar was frantically trying to put the fire out. A few elderly men and women from the village called out — "Oh no! A great disaster! Save it!" — while small children and the feeble wept and wept. But in a few moments the fire was somewhat controlled by the villagers' relentless effort. Smoke continued to rise from the subdued flames into the sky.

Bindu let out a great cry and screamed even louder — "Oh no... a terrible thing has happened!"

Everyone came running to where Bindu was. Mandal Ba's son Ramesh had burned to death in the fire. His clothes were fused to his body. Bindu broke into loud sobbing. Ramesh had been her beloved — they had vowed to marry when he returned from abroad. How now to break this news of Ramesh's untimely death to Mandal Ba? The body was taken to post-mortem. How to tell those aged parents — who had waited so many days for their child — this story of a son's loss?

By the counsel of the villagers, as they were preparing to cremate Ramesh's body and someone was about to light the pyre, Prahar arrived. Ranjana had come straight from the airport and managed to give those two elders one last sip of water in the central room of that crumbling house. Prahar had come in the evening, crestfallen, to see the old house and his parents one last time — and then Ba drew his long final breath.

Ranjana and Prahar looked at each other. Evening had fallen. Two or three lamps began to flicker dimly across the village. Fireflies blinked on and off in the bamboo grove. Jackals and civets began to howl.

What a terrible omen! Prahar shuddered. Mother breathed her last, gone forever.

Bindu, Prahar, and Ranjana began to beat their chests and weep. The funeral pyre was burning. The moneylender stood nearby, ready with the mortgage receipt on which the deadline had already passed, waiting to get signatures.

Bindu removed her headband, bangles, and nose ring. Ranjana took off her necklace and mangalsutra. Prahar placed ten lakh rupees in cash and cleared the mortgage.

The night passed just so. In the light of the next morning, a silence descended. The bewildered life of a once-distinguished family ended before the sun had even set.

In Ba's vest, there was an old diary. Written in it was — "Inside the kitchen, in a copper pot, there are twelve tolas of gold and four thousand silver coins. Use those for our last rites."

Then Prahar jerked awake in the prison cell, crying "Baba!" loudly. The guards gathered at the prison cell.

Prahar was gasping. An order came — Prahar was to be released from the prison cell.

Saluting everyone, Prahar walked out. Oh! What a horrifying dream!

The village is nearly empty. In the desire to embrace urban civilization, villagers — one by one — have been leaving their long-settled ancestral lands to move to the city, and so it lies quiet, though a pleasant peace reigns. There is no clamorous noise pollution to contend with. One must walk a little, live in the village way. But the warm, simple, honest village people treat others the same as themselves.

Villagers who have witnessed the slow pace of development are now, by their own effort, beginning to provide the most urgent necessities for themselves — water, electricity, and roads.

The elders used to say — once a road comes to the village, thieves, swindlers, and troublemakers will come, and the village will be ruined. But how human and modern is that thinking, really?

Man is a social creature who depends on character. A village that grew up in peace now speaks a questioning riddle in confusion. There is no employment; how to move life forward is the worry. The system of governance is untrustworthy. In this competitive age, everyone strives to place themselves in the distinguished class — but one needs connections too!

There is no precious metal in the house from which to sell and raise money for going abroad. What there is — that piece of land — serves as collateral. But is abroad the same as home? There, the people are lazy and they make us wage laborers.

Vasanti had been thinking about all this since the first watch of the night. Having sold off everything, including the kitchen utensils, after the death of her beloved, Vasanti — mother of four children — was always searching for the option of a prosperous life. So many dreams had not been able to become reality. Still, she left her helpless children in the care of her parents' home and chased after visas and manpower agents for going abroad. Her flight was scheduled to depart on the tenth of Magh at 1:45.

Arranging every detail of the household, ensuring the school fees for the children were settled before leaving — that was one weighty responsibility. And then on top of that, having to answer the negative looks from village society — that too was a duty very hard to fulfill.

Vasanti, who had studied up to B.A., seemed quite serious. But she wanted to prove that she could win the same victory that thousands of sisters like herself from the village had won.

Waiting and waiting, the tenth of Magh arrived too. But suddenly, due to a change in weather, the plane could not take off. How absorbed a mother is in meeting her children's needs — that is something one can understand from what can be observed. But society's thinking about women — in the Vedic age, women were supposed to be educated, healthy, capable citizens who could play a leading role; now, in modern times, the new civilizations across the land want to see women as beautiful, fashionable, and uninhibited.

Vasanti had none of that thinking — instead she carried only the urge to live and to let her children live, and to take on a difficult task by committing fully to it. But due to the people's movement that had come to the country, her golden dream of foreign employment was halted for the time being.

When the long people's movement ended, and air travel was rescheduled for Baisakh 27 at 3:10, Vasanti — surrendering herself to the foreign country's employment which her own country could not provide — clutching the heartbeats of love for her young children tightly to her chest, boarded the flight.

After a few hours in the air, she landed in Qatar, a country with the warm climate of the Gulf. With her were seven women in total, all of whom had gone abroad to earn their salt at home.

Her husband had been a capable teacher in a private school. One day he suddenly disappeared — and to this day there is no news of him. That is why the fire in Vasanti's heart burns on. Not from the pain of separation, but from a helplessness she cannot bear — she was driven to fly out this way.

Fortunately, luck was on her side. Vasanti got a job at a bank. Most of the employees there were women. So she was safe.

Through hard labor and the wages it earned — content with that — Vasanti returned home safe and sound today after three years of hardship as confining as a prison.

Here at home, son Dipesh had passed Class 12 with excellent marks, and the daughter was happily at home. When the villagers saw Vasanti and her family return to their own village, they were delighted. The atmosphere of the village changed. Everyone came to meet them. Marigolds were planted. The madal drum was played. Festivals were as merry as before.

Tihar was just around the corner. A memory came — whenever Nimesh used to be home, older sister Monika would come with an invitation for Bhai Tika, bringing two bunches of marigolds and some gifts. This time, what would happen? Folding away those unanswerable, speechless questions, Vasanti lit the evening lamp. Outside, the doorbell rang — kling kling...

Oh! Nimesh had arrived from Brunei.

Only later did Vasanti understand — Nimesh had left his job and gone abroad because a teacher's meagre salary wasn't enough to run the household.

Everywhere across the village the orange trees hung heavy with ripe fruit, bending right to the ground — bright orange-gold as far as the eye could see. The dhakre brothers — seasonal workers who came from Nepal to work — would stand in a row, wearing a khakan in front and a tokmang behind their large carrying baskets, bearing tremendous loads. They said they had come to Muglan — foreign land — from their own country, which had fallen on hard times, just to earn a little money. Whether to experience happiness through hardship, or to share a meal from the same kitchen as family — every year, right after Tihar ended, those brothers would come to various villages to cut wood, to carry oranges, to saw timber. It is to change the way of living that people go abroad.

The Jogi wanderers, especially in the months of Kartik and Chaitra, when the cranes would start calling in the sky above and the kasiangkurung birds would turn south in thick flocks — would come playing the horn-of-a-baranthak, sometimes in the evening, sometimes at night reciting mantras, waving their fedi staffs; keeping the history of their tribe alive, or trading in dried fish as one would go to Pashupati for darshan — so they would roam the village by night keeping watch, playing their fedi. All night the dogs would bark, and sometimes one could not sleep. In the same way, the Purohit priests would come from the high country to conduct their rituals.

Our Darji tailor brothers — rich in their art — playing their own folk tunes on the sahanai flute, dancing and singing — how long has it been since they last came to our very doorstep? The serenity of that time, and how easy it was to cross borders back then — look at it now.

Wedding parties would come and go, crossing ridges and borders in both directions — for a bride here, for a bride there. There was no barrier whatsoever in matrimonial exchange.

Tales and lore of the hill villages and the royal courts, and when the sarangi was bowed in folk songs — from its hollow belly, the sound it drew out in total absorption — perhaps one could feel that through that hollow, those problems were weeping inside those folk tunes!

On one side the sarangi was bowed, touching the depths of heart and mind, while on the other side his suffering family too was perhaps being bowed in the same way. But whatever it was, we were fond of kings.

They say the Queen on Asadh 15 would not accept rice grains ploughed after the bullock-ploughing had begun — and on a few anas of land, the Queen herself would plant rice on Asadh 15, they say. The mid-day snack distributed by her own hands on that day — dahi-chiura — oh Asadh 15 and its dahi-chiura! But now why eat that dahi-chiura? In its place have come Wai Wai, Mimi, and Mama instant noodles.

Dahi gives a chill. Chiura makes the throat dry. If there is no more king and queen, why dahi-chiura either? Still, the Danphe pheasant from one side and the Mujur from the other keep flying back and forth in season, watching the weather, checking on the chick of peace. Perhaps because of the harsh sun of these times, no sarangi is now bowed in the kitchen garden, nor does the shehnai cry in the courtyard.

A wish for a forest picnic — that is, a dry outing. A group of eight or ten young men with a plan. Spreading the wings of desire, they set off toward Mai.

There were some bodies like smoke on funeral pyres. Some had their heads shaved — white. Some had lost a husband, some a wife. With the wedding vermilion washed off, the green glass beads pulled, the bangles shattered — sin and black smoke rose there into the sky. Dharma flowed away with the water.

In the gathering of joy and sorrow alike, picnic on one side, ancestral rites on the other. From Mai's temple, a young woman — married again — entered Muglan once more.

The krishnachura trees had blossomed and the terai was as merry as ever. On the chest of the black road, petals rained down to welcome a new couple — or was it the final farewell of a body, tears of grief, or emptying in sorrow?

On this side, the red rhododendron were right across the path, showering flowers. That day there was an ineffable inner trembling of crossroads.

But whatever it was, here in the village, it was merry.

Just as desires bloom and sway in the harvest of youth, so does love sprout in disguise — invisible and unripe. The silk-cotton tree opens its fluff, the wind catches and carries it away. Still, the silk-cotton tree sprouts again, bearing its own existence, to see nature once more.

What can I say about today's youngsters! They're quite mischievous. Is school for learning to drink, chew tobacco, smoke bidis and cigarettes — such misconduct, bad habits, and vices? School is a place of learning — the foundation for one's future workplace.

Kumar was today admonishing his own grandson Shani in front of the whole family. Shani, however, was leaning out of the window, staring down absently. Rama was deeply worried about her son's bad company in these times. Rama's husband was an educated unemployed man. Still, since the responsibility of supporting the family had fallen on his shoulders, he kept himself busy day after day with various village jobs to earn daily wages.

Glancing at a missed call on the mobile, Rama said to her husband Uday — "Who is this? Look, someone keeps leaving missed calls. The name isn't even saved."

Uday said — "Give me the phone" — took it from his wife's hand and called back. "Hello! Who is this? Where are you calling from?" After hearing the reply, he said "All right."

In a hurry he ate his meal, started his bike, and drove off at speed. His friend Prabhakaar had been taken into custody by the police on charges of trafficking narcotics. But after Uday managed to talk to Inspector Rasaili and got four accused — including others involved in that matter — released from police custody, he set off to the city in search of work to ease his own financial strain.

In the city too there was not much work at present. At the time, after India's Supreme Court had delivered a verdict accusing the Sikkimese Nepalis of being outsiders — a grave and historic charge — the various ethnic Nepali communities who had come as sons of the soil since the sixteenth century were struggling for breath in their own homeland, and were also enraged.

From the first week of 2023, various political party workers, as well as numerous organizations, writers, intellectuals, and ordinary civil society members — both Nepali and Bhote-Lepcha communities — had taken to the streets demanding that the government withdraw its statement. People from various provinces of India were also raising banners to pressure the government.

Meanwhile, common people unable to find employment were looking for ways to sustain themselves and their families. In this three-cornered problem, Uday's home was blessed with the birth of his son Dushyanta. The joy of a child's arrival — of a future guardian of history, religion, tradition, and culture — made even the current financial strain feel lighter. But before the ninth day of the second month of 2023 had passed, the Supreme Court retracted its statement — and not only the Sikkimese Nepali, but all the Nepalis scattered across India, and the Gorkhas of Darjeeling and Kalimpong who had considered India their motherland for generations — the Veer Gorkhas who had offered their blood in various wars for India's defence — their joy knew no bounds.

Bidding the government farewell with thanks and gratitude, Uday and his wife Rama named their son Shani. Shani had manifested as a solution in the form of a document.

Time changed pace. Uday got a job in the Forest Department. Rama was appointed as a teacher. From the sky of time, a sudden rain made the barley of the heart bloom and bear fruit, and the field of desires hung heavy and swaying.

A cassette blared naumati baja — jhyai jhyai. The neighbor's son's wedding. One must go. Because there's an invitation. The card names a time — by five in the evening. After the school's evening bell rang tang-tang and the students streamed out and sang the national anthem, I stood in silence. Jai he jai he jai jai jai jai he... Brushing the dust of the ground off myself, I felt in my pocket. There was fifty rupees — the money my wife had sent me to buy a copy (notebook). Satisfied, I went to the wedding.

Standing at the gate near the courtyard, an old student of mine who had gone a little off-key said "Sir! Namaste" and set a stool for me beside the gift-register table. One person offered me the bar; another, the buffet. Should I drink at the bar or eat at the buffet! At the bar it would cost fifty rupees. At the buffet it would cost fifty rupees too. Those who drank at the bar and vomited would recall every sorrow of their life and retch it out. Some would weep torrentially, washing away all their griefs. Some, like a half-empty pot splashing over, would lose themselves inside a song, dancing in every direction in a state where they could not contain themselves. Some would embrace young women. These intoxicated ones, on the pegs from that bar, roamed a new world. There, beer, whisky, Old Mac, Millennium, Three Star, Gold Star, Kasturi — all became human beings, dancing, weeping, laughing. There was neither cold nor heat. Neither shame nor disgust.

In a state of unconsciousness he was behind the curtain of the world, or wandering somewhere in the clouds. In semi-consciousness he was very angry at someone for no apparent reason, and those who had sobered up would calm him. But I sat at a stool beside the bar and watched all these scenes closely — and it seemed to me: here, a wedding is happening. Two streams of different blood have met at a turning point. Now they will turn. Their names have now entered the red ledger of the world. From love they want romance; from romance they want a reward. From tomorrow, they will know the price of the market. A vote is being cast. Standing as one's own independent candidate over the whole world. There too is defeat, in the desire for victory. But today a wedding is happening there. Their golden morning has not yet sprouted. Spring must still bloom. In this universe that spins alone, now my universe has also begun to spin.

Quietly, inside the sitting room, placing about two pegs of red Sikkimese alongside a few pieces of meat, the groom himself made a request. I felt in my pocket again. Still that same fifty rupees. Steeling my heart, just as I was reaching to take the wine glass, a good friend of mine — who did not drink, who was idealistic, literary, and religious — walked in, and seeing him I froze, quietly placed the glass under the leg of the chair, and showed off my virtue. Drinking in fear, having to drink, enjoying the drinking, someone getting angry if you don't drink — what a remarkable intoxicant this is! They say Parvati made it. Sweeter than a mother's milk. More flavourful than a lover's kiss — the nectar of wine. When you drink it you're full of spirit; but once you've drunk, you go off-key. All the griefs of the heart, all truth and untruth — must be vomited out.

Not eating would mean a full day's quarry wasted; eating would mean facing the kanche baa. Thank heaven, fate helped. His mobile rang with a call. He walked out saying "Hello." I gulped the drink in one go and quickly swallowed two chunks of meat. Then, chewing a Centrefruit mint, I focused my attention on yesterday's newspaper. There was a headline — "Police seize illegal rum." However many times they seize it, if there's still a need to get drunk, what does it matter to whom! Just as I had hidden my dignity and hidden my peg — neither did the Centrefruit undo that connection, nor could my honesty be hidden.

Now I had become the tenth planet beyond the ninth planet of the solar system. Who could measure the speed of my universe! Planets orbit the sun. I was orbiting on the sofa of a rest room in someone's house. Where had my friend gone? I don't care. Two more pegs were added by someone, and a chi-chi too was thrown in. After drinking that too and licking the meat clean, I slowly went out to sign the gift register — but by then the counter had already closed. I walked home in the dark. I needed neither to pay the fifty rupees nor to eat the cauliflower curry at home. By the time I had fully come to my senses, I was in Lucky Number Seven of the Male Ward of the District Hospital.

People were talking — "If something had happened to him, we would have arranged the ICU for his son too. What is such an organization for otherwise? But he turned out to be a decent man. It's done! Isn't it!"

The wife was seething with anger. She was saying — "Hmm... could've dragged you a little more."

The doctor was giving the discharge certificate and telling them to take him home. But thank God, that day I did not have to take my discharge from this earth itself.

Four pegs — and a notebook would have been better!