A playful commentary on an ineffectual political activist of Nepal's 30year-long Panchayat regime, this story was originally published by Sajha Press as Nango Rookh in the collection Shav, Salik re Sahasra Buddha (A Corpse, A Statue and a Thousand Buddhas) in 1987.
Nobody knows what kind of tree it is, but everyone sees it, and it is always bare. No one has seen it sprout leaves in any season. Early mornings when I stand by my eastern window the first sight my eyes fall on is its bareness, a bareness so complete it makes me feel uneasy.
(For the tree is bare in winter and monsoon alike; it doesn't have the least shade of green even when all the surrounding gardens and forests break out in bloom. It always stands looking exactly the same: exposed and desolate).
When I was a child of four or five I was quarrelsome and unruly. (So I heard my mother say later on). It was hard for my mother to control me, so she always tried to scare me by pointing at that tree. (Look, there's ghost in that tree! It takes away children who cry!) Before crying I always took a sidelong peek at the tree. (Can it be true that there's a ghost in that tree? Will it come and catch me if it hears me cry?) But I never saw any ghost there. Perhaps it had gone to play—or if it was an older ghost it might have gone to the office. I took these chances to trick that ghost and cry. I always had to trick the ghost in the tree when I Cried.
Gradually I grew up hearing many arguments about whether or not ghosts exist. ("In this strange world you shouldn't say that exists, and this doesn't..." "Leave it be .The word for ghost—bhoot—means 'the past,' or in other words, things that occurred in the past. Isn't it true that everything from the past exists only in memories?") I lost whatever fear I had of the ghosts of the past. And in truth I had little to cry abut any more. What need did I have to fear the ghost in that tree?
But now I perceive something or other of importance in that bare tree. ( Its bareness itself creates a frightful feel.) Yes, an odd, frightful feel. Looking at the tree I experience that same frightful feel growing in myself, and my fear gives way to a peculiar quivering—my spine chills and the hair on my body stands straight. (Even as a child my heart didn't quake this hard when my mother pointed at the threat of ghosts). What, is there some unseen secret attached to this tree...? Since when did it become so frightfully naked? Or did it sprout bare, and remain bare? I often ask this question of the tree. (Perhaps I also place this question infront of the bareness I feel within myself). I never find any answer.
But my neighbor San' Dai has the answer to everything—which he expresses in between a never-ending cough. From the middle of this cough he tries to respond to all questions:
-I cant speak this way in front of your Bhauju, and so you don't know.... That tree wasn't always bare. I've seen spring buds burst open from it. But....
When his sharp voice stops suddenly, I know it is because of Bhauju, his wife. I follow his eyes to the courtyard's door. (Our talks always take place in the southern corner of san' Dai's courtyard, which is San' Dai's frotress these days. For almost eighteen hours a day he stays on a dirty mattress beneath a covering keeping the corpse of his pleasant bygone days lying on his lap.) My guess is correct. Bhauju is standing at the door's threshold glaring at San' Dai with hostile, angry eyes. And San' Dai's?
Poor San' Dai! His cough is just an excuse, an aid to assist his independence. Bhauju's fiery eyes make his life force die; in front of her piercing gaze he feels as naked as the tree in front of his house. It isn't easy for him to accept his deficiencies and so, in order to hide them, he produces a cough from nowhere.
And so poor San' Dai! He has a response for every question—after all, he used to be political leader. In fact he carried political flags on his shoulders for most of his working life. But (because he had no talent other than to carry flags) he became redundant, despite his years of devotion, when ministerial cars started to hoist his leaders' flags. San' Dai now considers himself oppressed by politics, but in the eyes of those related to him and Bhauju, he's not oppressed by politics. Nor is he a living being. He's just a parasite—a real parasite.
Yet San' Dai has no doubt as to his political skills. That's why he has a readymade answer for everything. (Perhaps quoting some optimist philosopher) he's even got a readymade answer to question of the bare tree in front:
-That tree! Yes, that bare tree... keep watching. Doctor Boy, one day buds will certainly sprout from it... In the end, our sacrifices, or devotion, the offerings of our martyrs' lives.."
San' Dai's political ardor is always ardent, and his ardent ardency makes him so ardent that without the least discomfort he swallows, along with his morning and evening meals, the rocks and pebbles of Bhauju's caustic utterancs. Then he lies fixedly all day long in the southern corner of the courtyard, decorating himself with his political knowledge, spreading this knowledge to boys who come to seek his advice and lighting a flame of ardency in the dry, fallen leaves of their brains.
(And if at that time Bhauju appears in front of him, he cloaks his ardency in the thick blanket of cough).
Covered in this way with the excuse of his cough San' Dai spends all day in the southern corner of the courtyard, staring at that bare tree. The tree's buds and sprouts probably dropped off as he was looking on; the flowers of his dreams might have fallen with them. (Or does he nurture the illusion that the tree is still green and succulent?) All of San' Dai's dreams have bared, yet he can't stop hoping that buds will emerge again.
-Keep watching, Doctor Boy! Leaves will grow from it one day, he says ardently, trying, it seems, to place his own-colored glasses upon my eyes. He wants me to see buds sprouting from a tree that's been naked for ages.
And so day or night when I enter my own room my eyes fall on that sight beyond my eastern window, upon that naked tree. I don't even know what kind of tree it is.(What is its species/ Bodhi? Banyan? Mohogany?) All I know is that it's bare: its branches are spread like the ribs of a person naked in hunger and poverty. This tree has lost its name, its species, to its nakedness. I think of the ghost my mother told me about, and the person who San' Dai said once died hanging on that tree. (A man apparently hanged himself on a northern branch of that tree. Or it could be that he was hung—what difference does it make either way?) I get anxious—not about the ghost mother told me of, but about the thought that I might die hanging from one of those naked branches! After all, I too am becoming as naked as that tree.
With this feeling of uneasiness I look towards San' Dai's house. He is half-lying, half-sitting in the same spot where his umbilical cord was buried, mentally incapacitated by a long-term illness. He is pulling on an Asha brand cigarette and saying;- you only see it in its ragged, bare condition, you didn't get to see its early days. But me, I...
A group of boys are listening to his words, but these words don't seem to draw any lines of hope on their faces. Rather, their faces are drawn in lines of dissatisfaction and skepticism.
What's the harm in cutting down this wasted tree, san' Dai? What if we plant something else in its place?
San' Dai doesn't like this kind of talk. He's attached to his own love of this bare tree and gets angry at talk of cutting it:
-What are you saying? That tree may be bare, but it carries history. Are you trying to erase history?
This makes me wonder—does that tree carry history? What kind of history? The history of a hangman. I feel the statues of many histories form a procession in front of my eyes—countless, countless statues of histories, statues which are themselves becoming naked by the moment; a heard of animals gathered around some unknown source of inspiration. Are these statues also on their way to being hanged on the bare branches of this tree?
These days I see another naked couple beneath this tree: any old beggar and his youthful daughter. As soon as I come to my place in front of my window I see this pair: dressed in tattered rags, they're mostly naked as they beg. The old man cries out with all his strength in the name of pity and religion (or in the name of trade). A few dried leaves blown in from far away drop into his bowl. In the young daughter's begging bowl, though, sometimes...
Day by day I seem to be becoming increasingly immobilized. I too have started to spend eighteen hours a day at my window staring at the top branch of that tree. San' Dai has planted a seed of illusion in my eyes, I begin to look for sprouts on the tree.
Suddenly San' Dai cries out one day –Doctor Boy! There, look! Do you see.... a sprout's appeared on that tree! Didn't I tell you? A green sprout has come out of its joint!
And I start to see that sprout. What, can I be wrong?
San' Dai's ardent lecture continues to toll in my ears, and when there's a break in his ardency, I know that Bhauju is standing at the door, glaring at him with fiery eyes. Day by day I empty of resistance to this lecture, to this ardency. I become limited—in feeling, language, thought: limited. I feel the boundaries around me narrowing. The feelings that swim through the eyes of San' Dai's wife and children now swim through the eyes of san' Dai's wife and children now swim thorough my own wife's and children's eyes. I need a cough or some other well-known illness to help conceal my own shortcomings.
(I too spend most of my day at the eastern window looking at that naked tree, and in order to hide my anguish I ask San' Dai: San' Dai, can you still see the sprout?)
One day I see San' Dai's faithful old eyes torn wide open, staring singularly at the tree's uppermost branch. His face is pale with doubt and terror. His lifeless body is semi-paralyzed, perfectly still.
-What happened, san' Dai? The infectiousness of San' Dai's terror touches me. My eyes remain partly on San' Dai and partly on the bare branches of that bare tree. -What happened?
-The sprout on the branch! San' Dai looks afraid and his voce is faint. –Is that sprout visible, doctor Boy? I can't see it... has my eyesight clouded?
It's strange: the illusions in eyes suddenly start to clear. The tree is as bare as it was when I was a child –entirely bare! Even with great effort, I can no longer see the phantasm of a sprout. –No, San' Dai! Your eyesight isn't clouded, it's cleared—I can't see the sprout either. (I never saw it, I just nurtured the illusion you gave me). Both of us have perfect eyesight...
-No, no. San' Dai becomes badly agitated. Realizing that there's no new growth on the tree seems to cause him unbearable pain.
I also become afraid. –San' Dai!
-Doctor Boy! San' Dai caries out like a child. –Is that tree really bare, then?
Yes, the tree in front of my house was naked from the start (nobody knows since when). Perhaps the whole species is naked. San' Dai and I once nurtured illusion and tried to see some growth on its branches. And today?
...My window remains. I (ripening slowly with age) remain. The place I sit at by the window remains. The only thing that's changed is the way I look at that tree and its bareness. I no longer look at its top branches hoping to see new buds. Instead I look at its complete nakedness, at my own increasing nakedness. In my heart I nurture a deep wish to learn how bare (how hollow) I can become, to see what that feels like. I also want to see how many people's weight this bare tree's branches can hang.
No matter what, it's certain that nothing will sprout from this bare tree now. –San' Dai! It's better to cut down this bare tree and in its place, plant...
--No, no! San' Dai! still can't bear this thought.—After all, that tree carries history.
Translated by: Manjushree Thapa
It looked like snowfall again in Tokyo. The wintry chill had set in earlier this year than last. Pretty early the leaves began to fall off the trees. A gust of frosty wind vibrated the heart. The cold and snow here is colder than there. Living here has become tougher than there. Something like these thoughts obsessed Palden. While he was watching TV, he felt as if he were being mocked grotesquely by those who succeeded in scaling Mount Everest. He turned off the TV.
'There' implies the remote countryside, Solu, where Palden was born. 'Here' refers to Tokyo, one of the world's costliest cities and a tiny suburb which is linked with the tunneled train-way of Tokyo and a house of the suburb and a room of the house.
A firm unwillingness to stay indoors gripped his mind. He got out of his room and went into the street. There was snow in profusion and thick fog. Calm drizzle accompanied the fog. A sense of futility hung in the air—an evening of somberness and gloom had crushed him as early as two in the afternoon. Lost in the dark sense of futility, Palden asked himself: "Why and for what did you come Tokyo?"
Palden gathered very many explanations in him as answers to the question. He married a Japanese girl and was leading a life of luxury in Tokyo. He lived there doing a job. What a starting amount he sent back home, you know? Palden now would be a Japanese. He was no longer a Nepali. If only one he Palden's life! But alas! What could be done? Luck ever shrinks! He wove all these threads of introspection into a fabric and pondered. "Caught in a trap you set yourself, didn't you, Palden? Amassed a huge fortune?"
Indeed Palden had not craved a huge fortune. Nor had he sought a lucrative job. Like his many other friends, he worked as a guide in a trekking agency. He was born in the Himalayas, so naturally it was his responsibility to look after it. The snow, the complete cold, all of it was part of Palden's share. Willingly or unwillingly, he would go out on treks as a guide every year. Because the whole of north Nepal is mountainous, Palden naively believed all Nepalese were guides like himself and eked out their living through the pleasure and happiness they provided visitors. And it was while doing that damned job, he first met Silivia Sann. First name Silivia and last name Sann are like the tag 'jyuu' in Nepali. How bewitchingly beautiful she was then! Japanese people by nature are short of stature, but she was tall as an American. Others possess flat noses, but she had a pointed nose like Brahmin women. Crimson rose in her cheeks and white in her teeth glittered as the snow.
After getting off an airplane, as soon as Silvia got to the office. Palden was made her guide. He couldn't sleep that night. How many vessels of tongba he guzzled that day! When Silvia paid the entire bill, he half consciously yelled: "What a lucky number Palden has! What a lucky tourist Palden is!"
Palden grew agile and sleek as a Bhote horse. Also, when Silvia, having picked up a smattering of Nepali, blushed before him in uttering "Nameste Paidenjyu", he went into raptures. He scarcely knew where he was, to which heaven he had been lifted. He felt an undiminished, solid happiness, entire pleasure, every festive moment all at once in a single day, when the Japanese beauty gave him life.
Because of Silvia, Palden was there on the streets of Tokyo, streets that looked smooth and greasy as if given an oil message. Palden was out on the street but he knew not where to go. Ever since he had come to Tokyo, Palden had two hassles: Where to go and what to do? Go to a bar or a pub to drink? His pockets were short of money. Go to a departmental store for shopping? He did not know for whom. His parents were long dead, sisters had already eloped, and his brothers had already taken possession of their father's property: the land and house. Friends, too, fell into a similar category. Besides, he needed a sizeable wad of currency notes for the visit.
He knew not how long he could shut himself up in the room, alienated. How any nights or days or years? Be stuck in a room and keep on eating and quaffing. The chicken and wine silvia had stored in the freezer wouldn't last longer than a couple of hours. To go out to see friends was also worthless, as they were busy plucking currency notes off the tree of labor. There was no reason why he should bother them. And Palden couldn't help reminiscing about the small bazaar, Saileri, in his native district, solu. He harked back to the narrow lanes of Thamel in spite of a conscious unwillingness to do so. "When to get back to Nepal?" He drew a deep breath and made for the park close to his apartment, a place of his usual visits. A statue of a valiant Japanese stood there. And a garden replete with freshly bloomed, multi-hued flowers and gorgeous fountains. It was stark cold there save for the lovers who frequented the park. For them there was no cold, no dew nor dampness. They were breathing life into their love. As if united after ages, they were exchanging glances, sucking each other's luscious tongues. It was only this sight Palden could see gratis in Tokyo. Apart from this, money got in the way everywhere.
The stagnant time evaporated, shifted, and Palden was swung back to his past. He was carried to the vast expanse of gleaming snow under the peaks, the chilling heights of the mountain. Palden merged with the rhododendron in the woods of a rocky slope. The tree which was graceful to see but had such delicate branches that snapped at a slight pull. Palden felt his heart was like those delicate branches and shattered at the smallest bout of reminiscence. Silvia grew fond of this vulnerability of Palden. And one day she burst out: "What a wonderful chap Palden is! How industrious he is! If only I could take a youth like him Japan!"
Palden, along same lines, fancied: "If only I were in Japan!" What good fortune that would be! What a number of buildings he could construct in Solu and in Kathmandu! He could also be the master of his own agency and he could make many more Paldens work under him. Life would not then ooze out worthlessly like that of a bullock pulling others' carts.
And all his emotion, his feelings forcefully grew into a dense mass. Silvia would express her feminine feelings partly in Nepali, partly in English, or else in Japanese. In the face of a little difficulty, Silvia would stretch her hand to him for help, and Palden would beam with pride. She would make Palden drink a couple of more glasses of beer with her own hands, simply to add color to the evening and would triumphantly flash a smile. The scarcely noticed when they climbed up and down hill, when they came up to a river and crossed it, when they mounted the slopes. They would be back in their camp and would be finished with their tea and snacks by the time others arrived. Palden, on these treks realized that the world, where existed numberless other worlds of languages, was so immense. Nonetheless, people managed to communicate with one another through the language of the heart. Although Palden was not good at Japanese, his eyes spoke, his fingers communicated, his teeth chatted, his lips and his tongue conversed. He led a bizarre existence: sometimes as an ancient man and sometimes as a modern man. The more days and nights added to his age, the more he felt that Silvia was born for him and that he couldn't lead his existence further without her.
Palden had dreams of growing in her proximity. His entire past had betrayed him: all his so-called loved ones had stung him like nettle. Palden after all desired to raise himself above the life of bare bread and butter. And, hence before the trekking ended. Palden and Silvia vowed never to part company in the future. Gazing at the setting sun form the hilltop of Swayambhu, they swore that the sun of their boundless loe would never set. Then together they were on the lan3es of Thamel. Together they puffed away on the pipe of hashisn on the streets of Jhhonchhe. And during these trips. Silvia proposed: "Palden,
Let's get married in accordance with Buddhist custom and move to Japan" These words were of utmost delight to Palden. He felt as if they were pouring out from the clam and composed eyes of Buddha as blessings.The Buddha was not only his custom and culture but also the long embraced philosophy of life.
"Are you a Buddhist?" asked Palden one day.
"I revere the Buddha, Palden. Since a tender age I've had in me an unfathomable reverence and respect for the Buddha. Since you come from the Buddha's land, you seem to me to be an embodiment of Buddha, a little Buddha in yourself, my dear." Silvia then wrapped him in an embrace for a considerable length of time.
These words were ringing, jingling, in his ears when he rose from the park bench. "A little Buddha –a little Buddha –a little Buddha—" Like any other prosaic day, Silvia would turn up at midnight. She wouldn't fall asleep; she would fail to sleep. He would have to wake up and provide her the same service that he had been providing for years. Remembrance of this routine job stifled his spirit and rendered it lifeless. He wished to end his life out there in Tokyo, commit suicide.
The streetlights were already on. Palden hurried back home. During such hasty withdrawal, he was neither carried away by any recollections nor did he possess any plan, any carvings or impulse of mind. Palden retired to his apartment with a vacant mind, as if nothing had happened, nothing would happen. The earth had been rotating on its axis as usual and would continue dong so; many a Palden would be born and pass away; many more would come into being and perish.
He barely knew why such a coarse heaviness like a big boulder crushed his heart. This heaviness began to dwell in his breast from the day they wedded in the presence of Lama priest at Bouddha. However gay he outwardly looked, however much he laughed, in his heart the same did not occur; instead, there descended some unidentifiable heaviness, somberness quite inexplicable to him.
After his passage into Tokyo, once, Palden asked Silvia, "What if I get some job somewhere in Tokyo?" Silvia disapproved outright. Seizing his passport from him, she snapped, "Palden, you're now Silvia Sann's husband. You needn't wash the dishes eaten by others in Tokyo. Nor have you to look after other's children. Stay at home with an air of dignity, watch TV, and make your life full of fun."
Sweet and perfect sounded the words. But he was left vexed and restless by the pain of being a rape victim every night. He felt he had transformed into a self –regulating machine and was crushed under Silvia's command. His own desires had become dry as desert sand. He was unable to articulate or perform anything. In an authoritative tone of voice Silvia would bark a command at him, and he like a school student compliantly acted on it to fulfill her desire. Now Palden would traverse the forest of Solu and Salleri only in his dreams. Only on the TV screen could he catch a glimpse of mountain peaks. The Palden inside Palden went dry and dead everyday. He began to dream of returning to Nepal to resume the old job of trekking.
Eventually palden decided to flee. Having escaped Silvia he could hide a few days he could not reach Nepal. He did not possess his passport. Nor did he have money or anything else. One day he resolved to do away with himself by being crushed under a racing train. Yet, he abandoned that thought, too, thinking there was no sin as big as committing suicide.
By the time he reached home, Silvia –he did not know why –had already arrived. She intently interrogated him on why he was so late. She even drew closer and smelled his breath in case he was drunk. Palden searched Silvia's countenance. The face wore a different look altogether. The pointed nose had grown flat and the eyes cavernous, the skin had blotches all over it.
"How are you, Palden?" asked Silvia gravely.
"I'm all right --," he blurted out laconically but he knew he was telling a lie. "I've brought a beautiful gift for you: a rosary. Buddhists use it to perform japa. Do carry out japa in the name of Buddha in your spare time. You'll be cleansed of your sins." Silvia wished to hand the mala to him.
But Palden swung with indecision: by accepting that mala and performing japa, for which sin would he be penitent? For which crime? He did not have the slightest idea.
Translated by Mukul Dahal
Script Before Mutation
These days I don't feel writing anything. It so happens whether with the pressure of diverse plot or ever decaying of the sensitivity, I don't know. Perhaps, my writing is destined to the final station. It may be so, too. Who knows? Everything can be happened in this time of axiom where the things are so juxtraposed. This is the preface of writing this short –story. Momila is the name of an energetic writer with the strong struggling background of prosaic sensitivity. Because of here unselfish and unbiased behaviour towards me Momila is dear name to me.
– Didi, you've to write a story for the first issue of the Kalashree. Please, don't deny...
Summary of her poetic –order was somewhat like this. Having been failed to deny her completely and engrossed by her delicate dearness/nearness, summary of my counter –response was too enchoed some what like this:
– Bahini, I may not be able to write. I can't Promise you.
This is the pre –conceived periodical –script of the impregnant story lodged inside the womb of PLOT. A request thrown with the delicacy of Momila touched my heart.
IMPERGNANT
A suffocated writer in the absurd atmosphere destroyed by civil –war, terrorism, imperialism plus natural disaster, lie counting the last breath around the lake –side of sentiments. I gave a whisper to my writer who was dead –asleep inside me. He moved a bit and once again turned to soap –opera of immortal TV channel. Such a denial to the writing! Is the writer really dead? Can he still experience me? I can't say. Such a time we spends a lot, in a sense that the writer would have already created lots of creations, in these wasted moments. But the writer didn't feel like writing. But, I kept on inspiring the writer with a loving request of Momila. The other day the writer asked me:
-what's there to write?
Celebrating my victory against the cruelty of absurd atmosphere, I said:
-story, write a story
- I won't write murder, terror, destruction. And the unvoiced story which I write may not be your story et all, in this time of crises. No, I won't write any stuff.
- Write, please write. Write anything that comes from your heart. I won't interfere. It's my promise. After this, I watched the face of the writer shining with the dew –drops of eternal satisfaction. I started waiting for his writing. The script was thus conceived in the womb of story in such a way.
BIRTH OF A STORY : Worth –less –ness First scene: (Grand party. Gentlemen and ladies. Formal talks everywhere. A devoted –couple is seen on the off –stage. They're lover. The gentleman introduced me with his fiancee)
Gentleman: I can't live without her. You see! she's the source of inspiration of my entire literary creations. Well, my existence is nowhere without her.
Narrator: (The couple was nice, indeed. I was fascinated by those devotee of lovers)
Second scene:
Narrator:
An advertisement of the gentleman's father's Sudden death was published in a daily newspaper. We, husband and I went insearch of the gentleman's house to express our sympathy only because there used to be a profound relationship between us. The gentleman's portico, courtyard were majestic. But, he was seen grief –stricken. The universal –grief which shocks the son on the so –called untimely demise of his father was also vividly portrayed on his face.
The gentleman then, introduced us with his house –wife. The grief –which was exhibited on his face earlier was now over –ruled by the presence of his newly bride. He said:
-Meet my wife. She's the one who manages my entire family in this time of great loss. Well, you see, this home is recognized in this respectable way only because of her..
There, my eyes searched that lady whom I'd met in the grand party. But, she was nowhere to be seen.
INTERMISSION: The other self
So, he was a reverend husband of other woman! Husband of such a terrible witch! But, the gentleman had never mentioned about his wife in our informal get –to –gether. I often thought about the lady whom I met with him. wasn't she an inspiring –force of this gentleman? Because of my deep intimacy with the lady I'd once asked her long ago:
- There's such a deep intimacy between you. Is this relationship of yours subjected to the mere present or do you've any plan of the future? Is he also single like you?
This is the incident of long time ago. She then, revealed her secret. She'd told me:
– No, No, No. He's deadly married. He has a wife. But, she doesn't care whether he exist or not. He's a victim of matrimonial institution. Although he's married, he is the man with a bachelor –experience. I've surrendered myself to him only because of his legally disturbed life
I tried to bond their relationship in regard with social phenamenon. I'd my own effort to bring them into the legal formality of social acceptance. I'd asked her:
– Is that so? Is he ready to accept you as his life –long –friend? Is he ready to marry you at any time provided that he divorced his wife?
– He's already ready to marry me.
How could I explain the sketches of joys and happiness which were pencilled in her eyes, lips, faced and entire body! Her beautiful face was paraded by colourful poetry; images and metaphors of living existence.
But, unfoutunately: this was the story of PAST told by an unauthorized PRESENT.
Because of the metropolitan hustling and bustling we didnot meet them again for a long time: A lady with a gentalman.
Third Scene:
This was a literary programme organized by a wealthy person. He was a doctor by profession. He loved to spend his money organizing literary programmes at five –star –hotel. Accidently, I met the gentleman there. I looked around him to see the lady but failed. After the formal ending of the programme there started an informal celebration. Hoping that I would find the lady somewhere I approached him. His hair was complete brown and I found his face furrowed where dark ages had written unromantic verse of an ugly existence. But, still, his pride had no limitations. I found my voice utter:
-Excuse me, gentleman. Is this an illusion? Where's the lady you once used to be with? I didn't see her here.
Feeling ashamed of my sudden interrogation, he somehow maintained his red –spotted –nose and said unceremonously:
-what a man er... woman you're! Interesting ...er... exciting, You see! Forget those damn bloody things. Well, let's talk about TIME. How could I know about her: that lady? why should I gather information about her? well, she must have been wandering somewhere in the hell...
With a desire to introduce his PAST, I asked:
- can you still remember your past life? Once, long ago, you'd told me that you couldn't live without her. She used to be the source of your inspirations...
- Ofcourse, yes. That was my prefect answer that time. Inspirations are useless ... er... worthless. Who deserves them nowadays? I gave her importance because she dserved it those days. But, the time we're living now is far different form the days we used to live. Well she was good –for –nothing. See my status, my identity. Where's she, now? And where I'm now, just see. She may be still wandering around her bloody poetic jungle of hell: Unpractical, unsocial and informal. Well, I'm a family –man now, you see? How could I spend time with a woman( whom you call: lady) who was my past? Please, don't talk about these stuffs with me any more.
Then, the gentleman drank his third –glass –of whisky. I remained there frozen. This is how my little curiosity related with him ended forever.
CLOSE –UP
-The story is finished.- said the writer
- But why didn't you write anything about the lady? –I asked him
- I don't want to write anything about the lady. I don't want to enclose her into the boundary of my writing. I've a desire to see her attaining a complete freedom: Free from all the bloody bondages, associations and attachments.
- And what is she doing these days? Atleast, please give some information about her.
- Look, don't create any mess now. Whatever I'd to write I wrote. The lady was useless to the gentleman. That's all. Finished. The little of this story too, is useless. That's all. – the writer said angrily.
I, too asked him angrily
- No. I find your story incomplete. You must tell me something about the lady. Add some new scene to the story: What harm is there?
- My God! You're impossible ...er... I won't add any scene any more. But I’ll provide you some secret affairs of the lady. You can choose her among them:
Secret affairs The lady committed suicide
· The lady is a housewife of someone else
· She is spending her life in this city. Now she is the source of inspiration of other man
· Indeed, she was mistakenly trapped into the ocean of betray, remorse and hatred. Now, she has joined some criminal gangster.
· She is not here anymore. Getting the lottery of e –DV she's already flown to the USA.
· To hell with the American Green –card! she got married with an old American swine
· The lady has been emancipated: Free from the bondage of this materialistic world. She's far from the carnal –venture of the mortal earth. She's free from the lust and desire.
· Etc...
In this way the writer provided me afore –mentioned –affairs of the lady. The writer now disappeared. Vanished somewhere into the world of materialistic desires, perhaps. Disappeared, perhaps into the sensory –world of metaphysics-
EPILOGUE
Momila,How's the story? I don't know whether the story is pencilled according to your wish or not. But, let me speak from my heart Momila. I wrote this story just for you. That's why you've a complete right over this text. If you like publish this in the Kalashree. Perhaps, my unauthorized writer of my being would feel joy. If you find raw which you sensitivity may dislike, please tear this manuscript and throw it into the dust –bin.
It's upto you Momila, whether you deny or accept. It's your choice, Momila!
This short story is very subtle and of abstract type. Because of its abstract nature this is bordering anti-story. In this story, compared to the external events, internal conflict has gained greater importance.
This story is created as a monologue mostly of the character 'I' Here 'I' is pushed into the whirlwind of mental conflict and tension. Before him lies a problem created by a wide rift between the love for the girl and his own distinguished personality. He is caught between two dilemmas of which to adopt –love and personality.
In social life the clash between the rich and the poor, big and small, ego and complex etc. always takes place and the individual has to take his own decision. This very conflict looms large between the 'I' like the sky and the girl like the earth, and it is the character 'I' who has to take the decision.
In spite of great indecision, the character 'I' approached the girl to see her. The girl mentions that she is devoted to him, but the character 'I' on the other hand, recoils from saying that he is dedicated to himself. This has given the story a tragic mode. Eventually the road between the big personality and love has bifurcated.
Although the plot or character has not much importance in this story it has gained a remarkable psychological depth. In this story, from the context of the bifurcation of the road, there is a deep internal analysis of the character 'I'.
The 'girl' character appears towards the end of the story. She interacts with the character 'I' through some dialogues and it is through these dialogues that she appears as an attractive personality. As a character that is devoted to love, she attracts all. This short story, despite being abstract, does not lack in clarity and it establishes the justification of its title.
I think the whole day. I think the whole night. I cannot reach any conclusion. The whole morning I keep on thinking. I cannot reach any conclusion. I think with mouthfuls of food, and I think with a sip of water. The clock strikes eleven. I devote a whole day to thinking. No minutes or hours of the clock join me. No moment can be my own. It is about twelve. I try to be conscious of the fact that the clock will eventually strike five. I try to do some serious pondering. Again I set aside one hour and decide to come to a decision within it. The decision slips away from a small second hand of the watch, because of a slight opposition to thinking. The clock strikes twelve. Five hours are still left up to five. I remain reveled up in the hope of being able to consume one hour more. My heart winds up the watch to a tick-tock. I become slightly impatient. I try to be somewhat more controlled. It is about to strike one. I become more confused.
The hand of the watch moves past the one. I am defeated. Every minute and hour of the watch overpower me and sweep me onwards. I cannot make my thinking stop on any numeral. I cannot fix on a decision. Every moment I go on weakening myself. I can't say that I'll go there. I can't tell myself that I won't go. Now only four hours are left to call my own. It takes me three hours to reach there; I should be able to make the remaining hour mine. I reach a decisive moment. I put myself on alert to reach a decision in a short span of time, by a particular minute. Maybe she will try to show me by herself there. Maybe she herself will try to show me something like this. This is the kind to go there that has gripped me. I am compelled by such curiosity. If my personality were more flexible, perhaps I would have reached there by now. If I was not tied down by my ego, maybe I would have already accept her. How can someone with a serious personality face an ordinary girl? My mode of thought is one of questioning. I would say that in her presence my personality is unnatural. I would call it unsuitable. I have become especially conscious of the dignity of personality. I'll go to whatever length to protect my personality; I don't want to take an axe to her desire and urge. I wouldn't even have the courage to. I realize, too, that an unexplained desire to meet her is also at play within us. The clock strikes two. I cannot reach any firm decision. I cannot come to grip with it. I look for a way out that passes along the border between going and not going. I can think on the way, too. I dress and set out. I look at my watch. Only five minutes have been counted against the three hours. I let a few minutes pass. I want to reflect on some other topic –change the subject –for a time. I latch on to the horizon far away. I latch on to the hills and mountains. I latch on to family and society. My personality is latching on to me. The whole of my personality comes alive. A decision tries to force itself upon me. Shall I return home from here? I stop for sometime. Shall I really return? I reflect on the question with my whole mind. It's a question of personality! Wherefore a girl cannot be the most important object in life! I feel that I am approaching the solution; I suddenly turn my steps towards home. I walk a few steps. I stop after a few steps. Her image appears in front of me. As if to break off a stick, I begin to stroke a nearby tree. This helps me to stall for time. There is still time to calculate. If I don't want to I can avoid meeting her. I reason and move towards her. The clock strikes three. Still two more hours are left. I walk for some time and try to recover the time lost by a faster pace. What rule is there that a big –size personality should not meet her? That is the question. What is the meaning of the efforts made by such a personality to meet her? Such is the question. No commonality can be established between her personality and mine. I try to stabilize my thinking. I fail. That a person with such a strong personality as mine cannot take a decision on such a matter makes me depressed. I have fallen into talking about something that does not suit my personality and begin to view my own self doubtfully. What do I lose from my life if I miss seeing her? I scrape up a question as if striking a match, and consider my doubt. The clock strikes four. Only a single hour is left. I stop and begin to think. There is no time to stop. Even so, I try to stop. I think of returning home. Having come so far, I feel that it is not good to return home. I feel like stopping, and also like going on. She fills my eyes; I feel that my whole heart has been gripped by something. It is as if something inside has been taken away. One hour at least is left. It can be utilized. I cannot be freed from my greed for that hour. The total burden of my thought I'll unload with its approach. That I can make a decision once I reach the fork on the way to her is the one and the only truth I accept, and I allow my fee to gain speed. The feeling that she is coming closer and closer is sweet. But the sense of my personality moving further away burns. If I feel that it is better not to meet her, I'll decide to turn back home at the divide in the road. The touch of "she" and "personality" rise up in parallel lines. The clock strikes half past four; I will reach the fork in twenty or twenty –five minutes. The decision is covering over me. It disappears. It tries to come back. It disappears. It seems she has some such power in her. Something like this, it seems, is attracting me, guiding me. It seems I am fettered by some such enchantment. What boundary is overstepped if one person does not meet another? What current does it go against? I'll try to come up with an answer. I tilt in favor of meeting her. I come to an abrupt stop at the divide. My personality raises its head. Is personality so bold as to unfurl its own shape at every fork in the road? Is it such a power as to seek its prerogative against every thought? I stand still. I have no time to stop at the bifurcation. Only five minutes are left till five. I have no time to raise questions or doubts. It will take me five minutes to reach the place. I have the feeling that I am standing at a very critical juncture in life. I try to be controlled. I order all my organs to function unitedly. I know my personality has made me what I am. I feel there is nothing above my personality before which I must bow. There is noting at the sight of which I must stop. I look at the road that branches off to the other direction at the fork. She is etched in my eyes. I find her existence in the map of the world as well. She has invited me. I have traveled so far. She may be peeping at me somewhere, from some unknown direction. Suddenly I am no longer prepared to take the road home. I don't regard it as proper. I spend a minute trying to see if I can. But I am unable to. I wonder why I should have left home. To return now, though, without meeting her, I regard as a weakness. I'd call it shameful, call it cowardly. My thinking slackens. I begin turning red, blue and black. Three minutes are left till five. I am confused how far my thought will take me. I begin to perspire. I feel blood pulsing violently throughout my whole body. My heart beats faster. The road branches in two directions at the fork. I, too, am bifurcated. My journey apparently has to do with one thing. The girl does not seem to be the imperative condition of my life's journey. I don't think I can present myself to the girl stripped of my personality. Time is trying to knock me down and go its own way. I see not perspiration but raindrops falling from my forehead. Not blood, but a river flows through my veins. Landslides slip through my heart. On the whole I am unbalanced. My watch shows that only two minutes are left to me. My thought dissipates. I raise my head and glance all around me. A shape far away impinges on my eyes. I see two eyes waiting for me. She is watching me from under a tree. Now I cannot run away from her. Nor do I have it in me to run away. In a state of indecision I advance towards her. Only a single minute is left. I cannot tell whose or what sort of minute it is.
"I have been waiting for you for an hour."
"I have been walking for thirty hours to meet you."
"Did you meet me?"
"Not yet."
"You must have seen me at least."
"Yes"
"I have started loving you."
"I have started picking up your love now –a –days."
The sky is quietly seated above our heads, as if he is the only thing listening to us. When I look towards the sky, she looks at me. When I look at her, she looks at the earth.
"Do you like me or not?"
"You're not the only one who asks this."
"Whose are you?"
"Not only women's."
A picture that was being drawn and rubbed out on canvas during the past hours arises. I'm standing with all my limbs bursting with eagerness. Her look abandons the earth and turns towards me. Mine abandons the sky and turns towards her. As she continues looking, a hint of shyness burst out from the corner of her lips.
"I am devoted to you."
I can keep on reading her. I can keep on listening to her. I cannot say "yes", I cannot say "no". I have this thing with personality.
"I am devoted to myself. " I say and look in the direction of the fork in the road.
It was difficult to recognize him even from such a short distance now. I had seen him while coming out of the barber's shop. Instead of asking the barber to come to his place, he himself had gone to the shop –this was the first sign of his dethronement. When he was in the government he had natured the whim of growing his hair long. His moustaches did not grow; otherwise he would have grown a drooping one, a symbol of power. Despite the fact that he had grown long hair, his personality was not winning or in step with the times. His habit was to do everything forcefully –in proof whereof he had extended his pot –belly in such a way that it counterbalanced his short height.
So when he came out of the barber's shop his hair, which he had maintained with much expenditure and care while in power, was now cut short. In addition, he had also his beard and thin moustache trimmed. But he had left half his face covered with shades, the symbol of post and power. In keeping with his personality, his black specks seemed to be a close cruel friend of his. One reason he looked the way he did may have been the fierceness of the sun owing to the lack of rain. Another reason for his being criticized so pitilessly and bitterly may have been because of his defeat in the election. His being without a post was equivalent to being without cover. At least we have the luxury of being able to criticize a person without a post freely. It was obvious that the thin and secure layer of honesty he had wrapped himself in during the election was thrown away in the same way he had had his beard shaved off by the barber's sharp blade.
He looked like the frog that made the mistake of leaving his pond during the drought. Like some that the season has dropped or forgotten. There was no lack of enemies that were waiting to take revenge on him in the whole city. But they were not satisfied with the newly elected pradhan either. Nor was there a lack of newcomers. The only difference was that since the city people had dethroned him, he had become an ex. In addition, the facilities that his post would have earned him could now not be used by his family members and relatives. Caught under such a scorching sun of the plains, he thus looked naked and very dry. His programme of going on tours by jeep and of poor people rambling around barefoot in search of him until yesterday was shifted elsewhere. The newcomer had proclaimed that his only aim was service to the people, so he could not think of any other alternative, however, he was secretly distributing large sums of money separately among the people of his class and the dalits during the election. This was an open secret.
Walking under the debilitating heat of the sun, he remembered the events of the immediate past. Ever day early in the morning the barber would appear at his door. He removed the exhaustion, pain and laziness of his drunken body by massaging his body, and in order to prevent his youthful life from slipping out of his hands, he coloured his hair. The barber was not selfless. Although his servitude and service were free, he had decided in his mind to get a plot of land that lay near the market registered in his name. He would do this much for the barber because he had been an ex–officio secretary of the Town Development Committee, but since he had lost his post, the term ex –officio had no meaning. There were many more hangers –on like him. Because of such people as millers, smugglers, or petrol pump owners who begged to have the price of petroleum raised, he was swollen like a leech that had taken advantage of the opportunity to stick to the neck of a buffalo. With such things in mind, it was not good for him in his shaved state to be walking alone in the city visible to one and all. Shame counted for something.
But when he came out into the open glare of the sun, he looked slightly pitiable. All the defeated ones are pitiable. Because of his pitiable situation, people were suddenly compelled to be his will –wishers. To think about him meant that one had to pay attention to the illusionism of the whole system. The system was such that if it wanted to advance someone, government votes would ensure victory, while votes cast were overlooked for one tapped for defeat. That's how he lost the election. But not exactly. During his tenure he had done various things to make the townsmen look in a spirit of revenge for an alternative. Although he was defeated, he said his faith in the system of no parties and no choices was strong and unshaken. He had plunged so deeply into the waters of politics in his food, behaviour, thought and nature –that he could not come out of them to breathe. He was so immersed in politics that so long as he had a position he became sottish, and would shout at parties that ran till the small hours of the morning. He was confident that there was nothing to fear from insiders or outsiders, and so he did not separate post and alcohol. But that's how the insiders defeated him. The victorious person was his close friend Mr. Joshi.
In those days he was introxicated by position and power. Suitably for a loser, he had grown fat and turned into a ball (people said he would roll like a soccer ball). But when after his defeat he came out of the barber's shop shaved the way he was, he looked like a guru that had forgotten his mantra. By now people were talking to him without reserve. For a long time people had been continuously welcoming him with the words "pradhanji, namaskar."1 But he no longer possessed the bravado that made people frightened and kept them on tenterhooks. If the election had not turned him into a person whose land and house had been swept away by a landside, he was at least washed up. He had faded, but since his forefathers had also lived in this city, he was regarded in it as a thuldai.2 When he held his post he used to walk down the centre of the street with people in town, whereas now he was compelled to walk along the footpath because another pradhan walked on the way he used to go and those people that used to follow him had now deserted him and were following the new leader. Even the priests worship only a powerful idol.
Over and above these description a more important matter remains to be mentioned. To talk about it will only be to add to the drama as it were. But it must be told. This event has played an important role in his life. It took place after his defeat in the election –it is his suffering –a heart attack. They had never expected that a person like him would be the victim of such a disease. It's true that he did not die, but he did stay in a hospital for about a month. Maybe because under attack by the disease, he looked slightly wilted. The illness had robbed him of his superb natural colour. It was particularly common among people who go in for politics and are involved in smuggling.
After he was defeated in the election, he seemed to put it behind him. He could not come out onto the street and congratulate the victor in the election, but he did not weep behind closed doors either. Maybe the effect of defeat would have been reduced had he lightened his heart by shedding tears. His family members consoled him and themselves by insisting that 'victory and defeat are everyday event', but still, after the election, all of them felt themselves to be helpless orphans. If power was a game not won by deficient cleverness or acquired by simple arithmetic the job of maintaining it was even more difficult (his wife had declared this in public, thinking that he had forgotten the fact).
After the onset of his disease the doctor has suggested that he strictly abstain from certain things: that he not eat anything fried or oily –no heavy food; everything should be boiled. He should completely stop drinking and smoking. But he protested. "You can't play politics and lead an upright life. Politics doesn't work without fried and sauced meat, wine and cigarettes". (He didn't mention the word 'prostitute'.) "Without these things, politics can't survive, and politics is my life. I can't leave either –politics is my life."
He had protested in front of the doctor in this way, and the doctor had replied, "It may be your wish, but politics and life cannot both be enjoyed at the same time." Afterwards, thinking of his future he had been slightly mollified.
He thought about things and came to the conclusion that much of his life was already over. To lose people's faith in him to such an extent as to lose the election, and consequently the post over which he had had a monopoly had now become a problem beyond analysis. He would sit in his room wrapped in thought until the late hours. He had heard that people called him very corrupt. Would people perhaps tolerate a state of less corruption? He earned his lots a little at a time. He knew that that's how the new pradhan would earn his money, seeing as how the new pradhan was a Brahmin –not a Chhetri like himself –and his political disciple to boot.
There were very few people who would praise him, say good things about him. People said that he had made a man of himself only after he joined politics. When drunk, he himself would claim, "Who did what, Joshiji? Tell me who did what? Who didn't construct a building for himself while in office? Who didn't purchase land? Who didn't send his son to some foreign country for higher studies? Who didn't embezzle sums?" Joshi was cowed by the series of his question. He knew that the corruption was all pervasive in politics, but he had not counted so many corrupt acts at a time.
"What is this country? This country is the system's begging bowl." Joshi used to wheedle him back home whenever he saw that he had drunk too much and would soon be shouting such things aloud. All along the road he laughingly repeated 'Service to the people', 'Service to the nation.' He remembered the cruelty in the village: his father used to make his ploughmen wash his penis and anus in those days (he smirked at such people).
After the defeat, when he had recovered slightly from the illness, he was limited to light activities and programmes –strolling early in the morning, taking sugarless lemon tea, talking less (or not having an opportunity to talk more), taking his medicine on time and according to prescription, and observing the plants and vegetables that grew in his garden. The last suggestion that his doctor had provided him was that his strolling in the garden was not enough; he had not controlled his diet as required, so he should walk a longer distance and improve his food habits; if not ... He and his family would have understood the implied sense of the unfinished sentence. However, he was not kept in suspense; the doctor told him, "... if not, there is fear of another attack soon." He could imply from this that sooner or later there would be an attack, and ever since he had been deprived of power, life was hanging from very uncertain and fragile possibilities. But the doctor gave the assurance that life expectancy could be lengthened by proper food and light exercise. Thus, he was following some rules in an effort to make his life, which could stop anytime, longer. Under this regime, he could be seen out for a long stroll even on rainy days, with his umbrella over him. Despite this, he had not stopped drinking. Like his greed for power, his helplessness in the face of drink was deep and seductive. Once one is accustomed to living in intoxication –whether it is the intoxication of power or that of liquor, things are pleasant. So he said he would contest another election at all cost.
And whenever he had free time he would regret that he could not utilize his post properly: to buy more plots and tracts of land, to earn money enough to open bank accounts abroad. No, it seemed to him that he was enjoying life in a more restrained way. He used to wear sunglass from early morning, whether intoxicated by liquor or by power. His wife had either put those glasses in her box or had hidden them in some corner where nobody could see them. He remembered those glasses and had the illusion that once he put them on people called him sattadhari yugpurus3 while he regarded them as incompetent fools. He knew that wearing such sunglasses was a fashion, a tradition established by high society, and that it was justifiable for him to sport them as part of that custom.
One more point to be included in the description of him would be that he twiddled the bristles of hair growing at the corners of his lips whenever he was deep in contemplation. This was not his own personal habit. More or less everybody has the habit of fondling some part of the body in order to control anxiety, grief, happiness or the like. For example, some people pick their nose, others rasp to clear a year –old cough from their throat before they start talking, while others merely scratch their loins. In any case, by twiddling his bristles, it was easy for him to contemplate such questions as how more taxes could be collected from the businessmen of the city, what his political allies and foes were up to, or how he could maintain discipline in his family.
He was not terribly free from anxiety regarding his family. A different wind was blowing in the kingdom. He was sure of the fact that in his absence nobody would be around to keep things going. No one but he could handle personal or urban development the way he did. He had two sons –one espoused leftist and the other democratic politics. But he had a clear picture in his mind that victory would go to himself. He could dominate his sons. He had much wealth, and one important point was that the system that he believed in could resist the different wind blowing in the country. But he used the term "resist" the wrong way around, because the oppressors were supposed to be resisted oppressed. In the long run he was unable to read the signs of the times. His sons were capitalizing on the commotion that the wind stirred up. Both of his sons would debate with him on question of changing the system. But they stopped short of pressing this point home, fearing that the heart patient, if stirred to emotion, might suddenly die. His wife listened to their debates and countered silently. He harboured the notion that his wife would speak in his favour.
He felt a sort of happiness at the start of the new political movement in the country. He was greatly content to imagine that the posts he could not enjoy would be done away with (the new pradhan had stopped inviting him as a former official to special occasions). It did not bother him that he was not awarded any medal. He considered medals to be powerful symbols of patriotism. But since the newcomers received similar medals, he was no longer as respectful towards medals as before. He wondered what the use was of wearing such an indiscriminately conferred decoration. But he was waiting as well; he thought his turn would come again, and those who were in power would be overthrown by the revolution, like those who lose a well –staked card game.
Such curiosities brought on a sort of excitement. Excitement was harmful for him. He was like an aging, rotten tree, and incapable of facing any excitement of stormy proportions. Somebody had suggested to him that he do yoga. He had no idea about yoga, but he practised it according to morning TV. In the beginning he did the exercise wearing underwear and a vest in the same room where he used to be put when drunk. (The reason for this had been that he would piss in his trousers, and sometimes also vomit). Thus this room was set aside for such special purposes. He was not faithful to his single wife. Whenever he went to Kathmandu leading a group of representatives, he visited prostitutes at the expense of the municipality office. One thing he had to be careful about while sleeping with prostitutes in the city was the negative effects on his voters, and if his wife should come to know of it, she might leave home or commit suicide. Whereupon, he feared, his political reputation would be destroyed.
But the nearer the revolution approached, the more enthusiasm he showed for suppression. He used to say' "Revolution is impossible in the interests of a handful of people." Indeed, he felt hesitant even to utter the word 'revolution'. He was sure that mere suppression would keep the situation calm. But this did not happen. Later events proved otherwise as one of his sons was involved in the revolution and went to jail, and the other was living underground the very day that another heart attack was determined to kill him. But this did not happen. His sons informed him of the power of the revolution, passed him signals and kept him abreast of things. He would listen to them without retort, and invigorate his heart. They used to say that they would go to jail or be martyrs with bullets in them. He did not believe such things, but was nevertheless slightly startled when everything suddenly fell apart.
Later on his sons returned home. But he was not happy. He was happy at only one thing ever since everything had fallen apart, his opponents had also lost their post and power. The other thing he felt sure of was that someday the people would again hand over rule to them for the sake of order and peace.
1. Pradhanji, Namaskar: Head of the village, good morning.
2. Thuldai: term of address commonly used ad “elder brother.”
3. A man of destiny.
That day, too, Bam Bahadur left home early in the morning. With Bhagate by his side, he was looking for a goat to purchase.
The price of goats was increasing day by day, but Bam Bahadur didn't care; no matter what price he had to pay, it was always Vijay Bahadur who footed the bill. Bam Bahadur was content in knowing that, in the eyes of his neighbors, his wealth appeared to increase with the price of goats.
This Vijay Bahadur was an astonishing man. He'd come to the village four or five times already this year, and each time he'd slaughtered a goat and feasted all of Bam Bahadur's companions on large quantities of meat and liquor. The drinking and gambling went on all night during these feasts, held at Bam Bahadhur's house. Naturally, the villagers praised Vijay Bahadhur, saying "No matter how hard you look, you can't find a man as generous as Bam Bahadhur's nephew. Vijay Bahadhur has so much money! He spends as he pleases, but never runs out.'
Before meeting Vijay Bahadur, Bam Bahadur had had an utterly shabby life. His house had needed a new roof, but he could hardly even afford the morning and evening meals for his wife and three children. To pay off his gambling debts, he had sold his wife's nose ring and her earrings. He'd fallen so low that he'd even sold off the family's few pots and pans to support his vices.
Bam Bahadur had worked nearly nineteen years for the Indian army. By the time he'd retired and returned to his village, he appeared to have left all his youthfulness and vigor in that foreign land. He blindly threw himself into drinking and gambling. It was only thanks to the industriousness of Bam Bahadhur's wife, Him Maya that they made ends meet.
Once a year, Bam Bahadur traveled to the town of Gorakhpur, India, to collect his pension. But by the time he had returned, his pockets would already be empty. With tears streaming from her eyes, Him Maya would plead with her husband. "Drinking and gambling have never helped anyone improve his lot. Stop these vile habits." Bam Bahadur paid no attention. Before long, he had even managed to gamble away the fields that he'd taken from his brother.
Everyone knew about Bam Bahadur's older brother, Hum Bahadur. When he was a young man, Hum Bahadur had run off with the wife of another villager, Santa Bir. Years passed, but Hum Bahadur never came back; nor did anyone hear again of Santa Bir's wife, who had taken with her all her jewelry and gold coins. Apparently, Santa Bir wandered for quite some time with a khukuri knife tucked into his waistband, saying, "If I find them, I won't let them get away; I'll slit their throats." But even though he hungered mightily for revenge, Santa Bir entered death's mouth before he could satisfy his hunger.
A year ago, Bam Bahadur went to Gorakpur to collect his pension. Two or three other villagers who were also pensioners went with him. Those villagers returned before the winter month of Magh was over, but there was no sign of Bam Bahadur. When Him Maya asked the other villagers about her husband, they said, "We didn't see him after he got his pension. We don't know where he went."
A few days later, Him Maya was working in the fields. All manner of worries were playing with her heart when her eleven –years –old daughter, Kamali, came running to her, shouting, " Aamai, aamai, ba's come home! There's someone with ba. There's also a porter."
"Eh, is that so?" Him Maya followed her daughter home.
As soon as he saw his wife, Bam Bahadur said," here, look I've returned with our nephew. Poor thing "He was living abroad like an orphan, thinking he had no living relatives." Bam Bahadur turned to the young man. Pointing to Him Maya, he said, "This is your aunt, Then, pointing at the three wide –eyed children, he said, "And these are your cousin –brother and your cousin –sisters. Gesturing once again toward the young man, he said "This is Vijay Bahadur, the son of my older brother, Hum Bahadur.'
Vijay Bahadur bowed to Him Maya.
Then Bam Bahadur opened his bags and placed in Him Maya's hands all the clothes he'd brought for her and the children. "Our nephew brought all of this, he said." He wouldn't listen When I told him it wasn't needed.
When the other villagers heard that the son of Hum Bahadur had come, they crowded into Bam Bahadur's front yard. Offering everyone cigarettes, Bam Bahadur said, "What can one do? It seems my brother earned a lot of money after leaving this village. At the end of his life, he talked of returning home, but what can people do when faced with death? My brother and his wife passed away within a year of each other. Afterwards, Hum Bahadur's only son lived a lonely existence, despite his wealth. My brother had told him the names of his father and grandfathers and the name of his village, but my nephew gave up hope, thinking that the village and his relatives were too far away. After all, he'd never been to this village in the hills. Thankfully, we were fated to meet. Otherwise ...!"
Taking a drag from his cigarette, Chandre Bir asked, "So, how did uncle and nephew come together? Where did you meet the boy?
"After getting my pension," Bam Bahadur said, "I was wandering through the bazaar to buy the children some clothes. Because it was so hot, I went into a hotel and bought a glass of curd to drink. This young man was also there, sipping curd. For some reason, as soon as our eyes met, I immediately recalled my brother Hum Bahadur. I couldn't stop myself; I went right up the young man and asked him his father's name and surname. He said, 'My father's name was Hum Bahadur. I'm the grandson of so –and –so, and this is the name of my father's home in the hills. And then I respond, with great pride, I am your father's younger brother, Bam Bahadur!
Vijay Bahadur was an attractive youth of about twenty -five or twenty-six, quite plump and healthy. Within a few days of arriving in the village, he had established warm relations with the villagers, who said among themselves, Bam Bahadhur's nephew seems quite nice. He doesn't act big no matter how many rupees he's got. Now that's what people should be like!
One day Bam Bahadur extended an invitation to his neighbors Chandra Bir, Bhagate, Lal Bahadur, and Ritte, saying, "Tomorrow my nephew's offering a goat in the shrine. All of you must attend the feast."
The next day, Chandra Bir chewed heartily on goat's meat, swallowed, and asked, "So, I hear that your nephew hasn't married yet. Is he really single?
Bam Bahadur refilled Chandra Bir's glass. "What can one do? Once the father and mother had passed away, who was there to look for a girl for the son? Now that he's with us, I'm thinking of looking around here for a girl for him to marry the kind of girl who'd serve her husband's home well. All of you must also give the matter some thought."
Chandra Bir emptied his glass. "So, would your nephew agree to marry a girl born and bred in a village like this?
Bam Bahadur placed a stitched –leaf plate filled with fried meat in front of Chandra Bir and replied, "Well, now what can I say? The day before yesterday my nephew went to the spring to bathe. There he saw your daughter Jamuni. Since then, he's been after me, saying, 'Uncle, I'm going to marry that girl.' 'Now you've seen the boy for yourself. Since he's my nephew, my home is his home. If it's the case that one day or another you'll send your daughter away in marriage, you might as well marry her to my nephew."
Chandra Bir reached for the fried meat. "You've spoken well, but I just married off my eldest daughter last year. Right now I don't even have a broken coin for another daughter's wedding. So how could I dare"
Bam Bahadur laughed. "No, you needn't worry about that. We're neighbors after all. I'll get my nephew to pay the bride's expenses as well as his own. All you have to do is say 'yes.'"
Jamuni and Vijay Bahadur were married a week later. Shortly afterward, Vijay Bahadur left the village with Jamuni by his side. Jamuni's friends said, "Jamuni's the luckiest girl. She got herself a good, rich husband." Chandra Bir and his wife were griddy with joy at having gotten a son –in –law like Vijay Bahadur.
Not even two months had passed when news of their daughter's untimely death came, shaking the hearts of Chandra Bir and his wife. The villagers said, "What a pity! They say Jamuni had a high fever for over a week. Poor thing! How ruthlessly death snatches away even those who enjoy the luxury of dressing well and dining lavishly.'
It wasn't long before Vijay Bahadur came to the village. In a melancholy voice he said to Chandra Bir, "What can be done, Father –in –law? My fortunes seem to be cursed. I spent money like water, but in the end couldn't save your daughter.'
Wiping tears from his own eyes, Chandra Bir consoled Vijay Bahadur. "Nothing can be done now, Son –in –law. She was fated to have only so many days in her life. No matter how much we cry and shout, she's not coming back.'
One evening, Bam Bahadur placed liquor and chicken meat in front of Bhagate and Lal Bahadur. "My heart is torn apart when I see my nephew's face. He seems to have forgotten how to sleep, how to eat. He'll go mad if he keeps this up. I've told him so many times that living and dying are in the hands of the gods, that he mustn't neglect his health by grieving day and night. If only he'd listen to my words! You must advise me what to do."
Bhagate gulped his drink. "In my opinion, it would be right to get the boy married again, because the first wife's memory will fade away only after another marriage. Isn't that so, brother Lal Bahadur?"
Bam Bahadur added meat to Lal Bahadur's plate. " I too have had this thought. But who'd offer a girl so soon? The villagers might talk, saying it hasn't been two months since his wife's death and yet he's already marring a second time."
Lal Bahadur put on a grave expression. "Eh, given a chance to talk, people will say anything. Should one heed such talk? One should heed one's own mind." Bhagate spoke well: "you should arrange a second marriage for your nephew."
Bam Bahadur refilled Lal Bahadur's glass. "Then why go elsewhere to find a girl? You must marry your older daughter, Laxmi,to my nephew. He added, "My nephew probably wouldn't agree to a showy wedding since his wife just died, but it will still be necessary to slaughter a goat for a feast."
After Vijay Bahadur quietly married Laxmi and took her away with him, Bam Bahadur said to Chandra Bir and the other villagers, "My nephew refused to agree to a second marriage, but I insisted. I said, 'If you don't marry again, you will have to sever your relations with me.' So, he finally agreed."
About three months after marrying Laxmi, Vijay Bahadur returned to the village and, bearing gifts, went to see his wife's parents. Lal Bahadur said to him, "You might have also brought our daughter with you, Son –in –Law."
I'd wanted to bring Laxmi alone, but the doctor said it wouldn't be good for her to walk uphill and down while her body's heavy with child." Vijay Bahadur replied. "I'll bring her when her body's light again."
Laxmi's mother asked, "When will you go back to wife, Son –in Law?"
"I just came to fulfill a promise I'd made to the deity in gratitude for answering my prayers" Vijay Bahadur said. "I'll offer a goat at the shrine tomorrow, we'll feast, and I'll leave the day after." Looking at Laxmi's younger sister, Saraswati, he added, "Oh, yes. Your daughter asked me to inquire whether her younger sister would agree to come alone. If you send Sarswati with me, she can return with her sister the next time Laxmi visits."
Saraswati and her aunt's daughter, Maina, both departed with Vijay Bahadur.
It was soon after this that Vijay Bahdur unexpectedly arrived late one evening Bam Bahadur's house. Surprised, Bam Bahadur said, "Oho, not even fifteen days have passed and you've come back?"
Vijay Bahadur took several hundred rupees from his pocket and placed them in Bam Bahadur's hands. "I had to come, Uncle. Do go and find a good goat for me early tomorrow morning."
Bam Bahadur laughed. "It looks like you're in quite a hurry to leave."
It was the next morning that Bam Bahadur and Bhagate went to the neighboring village to look for a goat. After they'd spent the whole day looking for just the right one and were leading it back, Bhagate said, "You must ask your nephew if it's possible to find any kind of small job out there where he lives. I'm suffering greatly staying here. With three children and a wife to support, how can I live off my meager fields?"
Bam Bahadur muttered something to himself, then replied, "I was just thinking the same thing: You should go back with my nephew and take your entire family. Your wife can open a shop and earn a little money. Even if It's just a little, it will be better than what you would earn here. Your children will be able to go to school. You'll also find work. You could ask one of your neighbors to look after your house and fields while you're gone, then come back home after earning as much as you need." He paused a moment and then added, "If you like, I'll talk to my nephew today. If everything is agreeable, you could go with him right away, along with your wife and children."
Bhagate was thrilled. "If you can arrange that, I'll sing your praises till the day I die!"
To himself, Bam Bahadur thought, What fools I've made of these villagers! I've introduced as my nephew a man I don't even know. Who knows who he might be? And that greedy con artist acts as if he really were my nephew. Is Vijay Bahadur even his name? He's managed to gobble up the tastiest fruits of this village and now he's after the leftovers. Sometimes I worry that someone might find out but he acts as cool as ever. He does everything slowly and methodically, keeping his wits about him. The greedy bastard says, "You mustn't eat quickly when the food is hot or you'll die of indigestion; you must proceed calmly and use your brain." If he hadn't used that cunning brain of his, where would he be getting all his money? My fortunes have turned around since he's entered my life. Money is the important thing in this world, it seems. What can't be done provided you have enough money? Yes, and now if I can send Bhagate and his wife and two daughters away with him..."
As he walked along the trail, Bam Bahadur recalled the first day he'd met Vijay Bahadur, about a year ago in Goprakhpur. After picking up his pension and heading home, Bam Bahadur had spent three days in a hotel in the border town of Butwal. By the forth day, he had spent all his money. With empty pockets, he'd slumped against the big bridge of Butwal when a young man in his twenties approached and started talking to him.
Bam Bahadur was impressed by the youth's speech and manners. After introducing himself as Vijay Bahadur, he invited Bam Bahadur to a tavern and brought him meat and liquor. After chatting for a long time, Vijay Bahadur proposed his scheme to Bam Bahadur. "If you agree to what I say, we can rake in the money. Understand?"
Five days later, Bam Bahadur returned to his village with his "long lost nephew."
Bhagate, walking silently all this while with the goat in tow, suddenly turned to Bam Bahadur. "Your nephew will stay two or three days longer, won't he?"
Startled from his thoughts, Bam Bahadur asked, "Hunh? What did you say?"
"Won't your nephew stay here a few days more?"
"If all of you are going with him, he'll have to stay longer"
When Bam Bahadur and Bhagate reached Bam Bahadur's house,dusk had fallen. As soon as he saw his father, Bam Bahadur's seven –years –old son cried gleefully, "Ba's come!, Ba's come, and he's brought a goat!"
Bam Bahadur's youngest daughter rushed to him. Eyeing the goat greedily, she said, "Ba, I'll eat a lot of seared meat tomorrow" all right, ba?"
Bam Bahadur turned to Bhagate and said. "Take this goat and lock it up in the shed." Then, spreading a straw mat on the front porch, he told his daughter, "Go and ask for three small jugs from your mother. Ask her, too, if there are any relishes." Bam Bahadur sat down and took four bottles of liquor from his bag. When Bhagate returned from locking up the goat, Bam Bahadur said to her, 'Well, now, what's my nephew doing? Send him out here."
"But they left this morning, after their meal," Him Maya said. At first Bam Bahadur looked confused. "What's this you're saying?" Him Maya continued, "He took Kamali with him, saying that you and he had talked it over. He said he'd bring our daughter back in ten to fifteen days, when he returns with his wife"
She had barely finished speaking when Bam Bahadur jumped to his feet and began kicking her. "Eh, whore!" he bellowed." What reason did you have to send my daughter with that stranger?!"
Hurt and confused, Him Maya said, "What do you mean by stranger? He's your own nephew. Why vent such anger on me?"
"That's not my nephew! That's a cheat who lives off selling girls! Oh, God! He's taking my daughter to sell her right now! Bring me my knife! I'll go after him and slit his throat!"
Bam Bahadur ran to his bed, pulled his khukuri knife from its sheath, and dashed into the darkness, brandishing the naked blade.
It's been about seven years since Bam Bahadur went insane. These days he mostly sits, staring straight ahead. Sometimes when a stranger enters the village, he rushes over and grabs the person by the collar, shouting, "Do you have a goat, a nice fat goat?! I've got to set a trap!"
Uma is coming home after spending a long time outside the country. Her mind is full of sweet dreams. The bus is packed and she is being driven along with others. She has nearly travelled for twelve hours. Now it is morning, so she looks out of the window.
Her eyes try to capture green mountains, snow clad peaks, flora and fauna as if the lost sights have come in front of her all of a sudden. She is engrossed in thought, her eyes searched the natural beauty, that is unique. The waterfalls draw her attention and looking at them, she also plunges into the pond of her memory. The waterfalls look like silvery plates and dazzle her eyes.
She remembers the house, where her parents, brothers and sisters used to be busy in morning jobs. She imagines herself coming home in such a situation, after a long time and wonders what would be their reaction.
She starts flowing between the currents of memory and imagination. She listens to the dialogue of her heart and mind.
She imagines, her parents will ask her "where have you been for such a long time? How did you forget us?" In reply, she would go and cling to her mother's neck and say "How can I forget?" It is because of your love, I have come to you. Mother, please forgive me" This reply would definitely convince her and she would hug her.
This vision fills the heart with joy and she remembers her younger brothers and sisters whom she had reared by carrying them. While remembering them, she feels as if they are still on her waist. She feels the load and moves a bit.
Then she remembers her youngest brother who was disabled because of malnutrition. He used to ask her to carry him. Now he might have grown up. He might be asking in his hoarse voice "Where has she gone? She is a woman................... is she dead or alive?"
While imagining she smiles, and her argument takes another turn, "my presence would prove that mind, body and heart are separate but they help the body. In the definition of life now disability would not be attached. Disabled body and broken heart, one seen, another unseen, that is the only difference."
The bus is running towards its destination. The driver blows horn, at times by shifting the gear brings change in motion. After many blow of horn she shivers and this changes the course of her memory.
Uma remembers the wonderful night of Laxmi Puja –the memorable night of her life. The courtyard was full of girls singing Bhaili and dancing on the rhythm of Madal. Uma's both sisters were lost in dance. She was busy lighting oil lamps in windows and on terrace. Once or twice she looked at them after stopping for a while. She was humming the same song silently. Uma loved the pounding feet of the girls. They looked very beautiful to her. She thought of caressing those feet. Then she looked at her own feet, she was disheartened and wondered why she was born like that. Then she lost interest in the dance and she hurried with her work.
After seeing Uma watch the dance, one of the girls in that group said, "come dance with us, this is the time for dancing."
Another girl nudged and said, "What sort of girl you are? Poor girl, she has the wish but what to do! When you've no feet." After saying this the girl giggled.
That laugh pinched her in such a way that she even didn't notice when her scarf picked fire from the lamp. The girls downstairs called in unison" what are you doing? Your scarf has plucked fire, please extinguish it." she shrieked.
Adolescent age is a wonderful age. The same night, after people went to bed, she came into the courtyard silently and danced without music, alone. As soon as she turned the thumping sound came and she tried to subdue it. Now remembering all this she smiled.
She was not afraid of the emptiness of the night. Rather she was afraid of the crowd. People used to talk about her deformed leg, so she did not want to come in front of others. The incidents were making her sadder whereas growing age was making her afraid. She did not get support and encouragement from anywhere. On top of that others’ comment discouraged her further. On many occasions she used beat her own leg and say, "who is guilty, me or those who gave me birth? I neither can leave this organ nor mend it. Then, why people taunt about this disability, why they call me poor, disable! Then, why people want to take benefit from this disabled?" She had not understood the meaning of that kind of behavior. Therefore she used to search inside.
One day her own sister talked about her leg then she told her, "My disable leg is the source of your luck. Because I help mother looking after children, you are able to go to school, otherwise you are also a girl like me.............."
After that retort Bhyakuri stopped teasing her. Thus her attempt to silence her sister was her victory. She learnt to secure her self –dignity and further learnt about life. After this event she started nagging her mother, "Send me to school. You only ask me to looker after the younger ones. You say I am lame, you are worried about me, then why don't you send me to school? People like me should study even more."
Her mother, consoling her, used to say, "Don't be upset, let the young brother grow, then I will send you to school."
She was overwhelmed with joy. Now she started looking after the kids even better. With every passing month she used to tell her mother, "Mother, brother is two years and three months old now. You have to send me school after nine months. Please do not add any more years now!"
"All right, don't fuss" was the usual replay. But for some time now she kept mum. One day she came to know about her mother's pregnancy. The news fell like a thunder on her. She was disheartened. She was depressed the whole day because the chances of going to school was slim. Mother would say –"This is born, let him grow, then I will send you to school." She felt sad and kept on grinding pulse in the grinder.
After this news, she was unable to sleep. After listening to the chripping birds she came to know that the sun has risen. After getting up, she looked out of the window. She saw the temple clearly. This sight sparked faith in her heart. For support she came out of her house and went towards the temple. She had decided to vent out the pain and suffering of her heart.
She started walking briskly. After reaching the temple, she started saying, shedding tears, "O God! please teach my parents the lesson. They have not learnt anything except giving birth. Teach them that their lame daughter has to study and be self –dependent. They say she would not be able to work. Who will marry such girl? Because of her, we are suffering. To free them from worry and make me self –dependent, avail an opportunity for me. I don't want to be disabled. I am lame by birth but don't make me lame by my deed. Please save me."
While complaining to God, She heard her mother's voice. She was a bit nervous whether her mother had heard her complain. Turning round, she heard her mother say "Where have you been? I have looked for you everywhere. Go and feed the cattle, I will come in a while." After saying, her mother had ended her problem but what would she do ....?
In order to escape, she had moved her steps further. She did not know where to go, what to do? But she was ascending and descending, in search of the way to become self –dependent.
She suffered a lot because of her disability. At times she was saved and then sad but continuous attempt brought her success. Now she is returning to her village after fifteen or sixteen years. She is independent and hopes to serve her village. She wanted to tell them that courage and continuous work is the key to success.
While thinking of such things, the bus stopped all of a sudden. For sometime the passengers were nervous and made hue and cry. The driver, annoyed, looked out of the window and said, "old man! you don't have eyes? For a mere stick you want to throw away your life? Don't you see such a big bus? "
That old man didn't bother, picked up his stick and moved away. The bus also gathered motion.
One passenger from the bus told another in a sad tone, "Do you know, this old man is father of half a dozen children. Now he has neither son nor daughter with him. He keeps money in his pocket and climbs the mountain in the morning. He eats in a hotel and spends time talking to people there. He walks all around as if looking for something. After dusk takes meal and comes home humming. His favorite song is –"I have to laugh after putting stone on my heart. If you love ruthless, you have to cry."
He has added the second line himself. The poor fellow, Bishnu prasad, is in a wretched condition. After death of his wife, he has become lonely.
The other passenger becomes serious and says, 'He has no one, that's why he takes his stick as support. After diminishing strength, strong support is needed. All will meet the same fate one day."
Uma, sitting on the last seat, gets up and requests to drop her there. The passengers also requested the driver and his helper to drop her there. Because the bus stop is near, the driver does not want to stop but Uma kept on insisting.
The driver is unable to avoid her request. The helper asks her to hurry and also takes out her language.
Instead of being happy, she feels sad. She has got down in every race of life. She looks ahead, she has to walk that way. She is also reminded of her past. She sees the same old man, walking alone with the support of that stick. As Uma draws near the old man she hears the sound of the stick clearly, "Tak –Tak -Tak."
The environment is queit. Only these two are walking. At a distance she sees some shops. Uma walks quickly and calls, "Father! wait, I'm coming."
Listening to the passionate call to stop, he halts and turns round, cleans his specs and looks towards her.
Uma by putting forward her deformed leg moves ahead "Khwatang...............Khwantang." Her eyes are sparkling with self –pride, heart full of love and bag full of books, her only support.
