Three men in a college

Hostel 2, MREC (c) Ajay Deewan

Houses in old Jaipur are pink-coloured. But the hostels of Malviya National Institute of Technology (formerly Malviya Regional Engineering College – MREC) are not coloured (In recent photos I see a thin strip of yellow in between). The only colour that pervades there is the friendship among the dwellers.   

The hostels are made of stones – they absorb heat and cool off instantly. So are the students – they get into tiny fracas here and there, and again get back to their normal routine – attend the class, complete the assignments and party hard with friends. Like the agelessness of the stones building the hostels, the bonding between the hostellers lasts forever.

Circa 1999-2000. I was placed in Hostel 2. The fact is, nobody wants to land in the hostel in the final year. Hostel 5 is the darling of final year students. All students, from all faculties, from all states of India and abroad, who are just a year away from celebrating their metamorphosis into engineers, get to stay together in a hostel which is more than a home. And the few unlucky ones are dumped in the Hostel 2. 

As there is a silver lining in every black cloud, you get more time to study hard in the step-hostel. You slog through the boredom but have enough time to incubate the creative ideas that come to your young and restless mind. In my case an interesting incident happened that changed my perspective towards friendship.

It was daytime and one of my friends was resting in his room.

He hears a knock on the door. He says, "Come in". But the knockings don't stop. He opens the door to the sight of a man in his early fifties.

The intruder politely says, "May I come in."
"Yes."
The man steps in and goes near his bed. "May I sit on this bed."
"Yes."

He sits on the bed – a metal cot with thin mattress and a regular bed sheet. He feels the connection, relaxes, looks at the ceiling and again stands up. He rises up, goes near the study table and asks, "May I sit on the chair."

My friend says, "Yes, please."

The man fumbles with the pen from his pocket and seems to scribble something on a piece of paper. He is expressionless. His mind seems to be swimming in void.

Sitting on the chair, he reaches the switch board and asks, "May I switch on the fan."

What an irritating man! My friend, holding down the vexation, says, "Please Sir, go ahead." He repeats with emphasis, "Do whatever you want. Think this as your own room."

The emotionless man's face turns bright. "Thank you my friend," he utters in his glorified tone. "Twenty nine years ago this was my room. The bed you are sitting on was mine. The chair, table and the fan, all were mine. It's been 29 years and now they seem foreign to me."

Tears start trickling down from his eyes and he breaks down. My friend finds it hard to console the man. Thanking him, the man leaves the room. Feeling curious, my friend follows the man from a distance.

The man heads to the central lawn of the campus. Two men of similar age join him and hug each other. They lie down on the grass, break into tears, laughter and joy. After 29 years.

Later we came to know that the other two men had also knocked on the doors of two other final year students. They had also posed the same set of questions and broken down at the end. The three men had graduated from MREC and had been working in the Silicon Valley in the US.   
In those days, social media was a mere dream. Thanks to Alumni.net, they met in the virtual world and planned to meet in reality – at their beloved campus. They also met their teachers, hostel warden and roamed around the campus streets, canteen and lecture rooms.

This day whenever I think of MREC – the hostel, the room, the cot, the chair, the table and the fan – they still hover round my head. The memories are indelible.

I long to get to MREC and indulge in the colour of friendship, once again. But I am waiting for my friends to poke me and instigate the desire. To be there. With them. After 29 years. Like the three men in the college.  

A cup of tea in the Golden City

Jaisalmer Fort (c) Wikipedia.
Author: Adrian Sulc, User: Hinterkappelen

The train was speeding past the vast sand dunes like an arrow whizzing away from a bow. The babool trees near the railway track amalgamated with the sparse vegetation and the warm wind was hitting hard on our faces. My friend Tashi's fluffy hair was rising up and falling down with the gush of wind blowing past our faces.

We were standing at the door of the railway carriage. While he was busy capturing the panoramic view of Pokharan in his analogue camera I was guessing the distance of the atomic test site from the railway track. Our friends had left for their homes, but Tashi and I had decided to spend our winter vacation in Jaisalmer.

Jaisalmer, the golden city, is 575 kilometres west from Jaipur and is the most strikingly beautiful city in India for travellers who have never been to a desert. It lies in the Jaisalmer district which borders with the neighbouring Pakistan. 

Both of us were Mongoloid and being taciturn in nature we could not make any friends in the journey from Jaipur to Jaisalmer. However, a Bihari man became good friends with us. He had been to Jaisalmer many times and the Collector (Chief Administrative and Revenue Officer of a district in India) being his distant relative, he assured us to provide help if needed.

While walking from the railway station towards hotel, we met few army men. Seeing us they asked, "Have you come to apply for the BSF (Border Security Force)?" Nearby was a recruitment camp and every year many Nepalis came there to test their luck – to get enrolled in the lucrative service. Both of us were well built and in spite of our denial they didn't believe that we were there for our holidays.

It was getting dark when we reached Hanuman Chauraha, a roundabout in the way. It was pitch dark and we were still searching a place to stay. We were worried. It is hard to get a room in Jaisalmer during the peak tourist season. Then we remembered the words of our Bihari friend we had met during our journey and went to the Collector's residence.

We had no difficulty locating him. As chirpy he was, he dialled a number and scribbled the name of a hotel and address in a piece of paper. He was sure of fetching us a room in the unknown city. With his assurance we left for the hotel.

When we reached the hotel, we felt like scolding the friend from Bihar. We had already been to the hotel and the manager had shown us a "No Room" sign. However, we decided to ask once again. This time the manager was polite and was grumbling. "You should have mentioned earlier that you are the Collector's men," he said complainingly, "I got scolding for no reason." The man's face was worth seeing. The Bihari friend had admonished him badly. Then we, at once, got the best room in the hotel. It was a sweet relief.

As we were to check in the room, the manager came running upstairs, grabbed my arm, and took me to a corner. "Sir, can you please come with me for a minute," he requested and I followed him to the reception.

"Dai (elder brother), you are a Nepali that's why I thought it was my duty to warn you," he continued.
"It is nice to meet you in an unknown place, but why do you want to warn me," I enquired.
"Isn't your friend a Bhutanese?"
"Yes."
"I confirmed from the registration slip," he said. "You know, the Bhutanese chased us from Bhutan. Most of them hate Nepalis and I am afraid he might hurt you at night."
"Don't worry, my friend is a very good human being," I consoled him. "Even in his dream he won't think of harming me."

I left for my room thanking for his concern for a fellow Nepali. We freshened up and were immediately on the hotel's roof to capture the amazing photos of Jaisal Fort. In the dusk, the fort was dazzling – glittering like a golden palace dropped straight from heaven. The lighting was mesmerising, it made the fort look more beautiful. As the fort is made from golden yellow sandstone, it is also called "Sonar Quila" in Bengali. The fort built by King Jaisal who founded Jaisalmer houses a thriving city with Jain temples, palace and houses of commoners.

After clicking photos till we consumed the whole reel, we set off for dinner. As we reached the main street, a police jeep stopped in front of us and the enquiry began. Since Jaisalmer is near Pakistan border the security is very tight there. The police start interrogating as soon as they come across a new face in the city.        

Waking up early in the morning we strolled to a nearby row of shanties for a cup of tea and snacks. As we went nearer, we heard a man singing a Nepali song "Yo gau ko thito ma kanchha mero nam, audai jadai garnu hai sablai Ram Ram" (I am a guy from this village, my name is Kanchha, please keep coming, greetings to you all). The voice was melodious and reminded me of Udit Narayan, the original singer of the song. He hails from Nepal and is an established singer in Bollywood. The man singing the song was a dark coloured Nepali man from the lowlands (Terai/Madhes) of Nepal. Seeing us he had started singing the song and as we went nearer he invited us to his tea shop. While sipping the tea we came to know about his hardship since he left his hometown Butwal in Nepal. The journey from Butwal to Jaisalmer was full of thorns which he hid under his forever smiling face. He had met a Nepali after many days so he didn't allow us to pay for the cup of tea. His master, sitting at the cash counter, smiled at us. To him we were his worker's friends. For him we were mere Nepalis searching menial jobs.

After tea, we went to Gadisar Lake along with a small Bengali family in a jeep hired by the hotel manager. Together with the family we went to the Sonar Quila and Patwon ki Haveli, the mansion earlier inhabited by the ministers and likes. Jaisalmer is also called Golden City, deriving its name from the golden yellow sandstones used for building the houses. Cherishing the golden memories of the Golden City, we went to meet the Nepali friend who had sung Kanchha mero nam seeing us. As we bade farewell after drinking the tea made by him, he was smiling and waving at us. But his eyes were moist with tears.

Read the Nepali version at http://yetaautaa.blogspot.com/2012/06/blog-post.html .

Good samaritans: The godown owner in Siraha Madar

I love to travel. During my wanderings I meet hordes of people – some are good, some not so good. Coming across people of different nationalities, whenever I encounter a Nepali, that special feeling, the love for my country starts pouring in spontaneously.

I feel, Nepalis are special – they are there, at every nook and cranny, to pull me out of trouble. Their little acts of help, genuine smile, and quick chat have turned me into an ardent admirer of Nepalis. During my travel in and outside Nepal, I have met many Nepalis who have etched indelible memories giving me ample reasons to love my countrymen.

I am always excited to meet with Nepalis who want to remain anonymous, in spite of their generous help. In my couple of postings following this, I would retell their kindness and thank them for their benevolence. 

I had never been to Siraha Madar, the small town bordering India from where Jayanagar in India is just a few kilometres' walk. I was to catch a train to Patna from Jayanagar and then to Jaipur. Knowing the transportation woes, I left from my home as soon as the clock stroke 12. It took me one hour to reach Rupani from my place. Thanks to the intermittent bus services, sometimes you won't even see a single local bus on the highway for hours. Rupani is a small settlement on the East-West Highway from where the road bifurcates, with a 10 km stretch towards south leading to Rajbiraj, the headquarters of Sagarmatha zone.

Local buses ply between Rajbiraj and Siraha Madar at least two times a day. So, I kept waiting for the evening bus. But it didn't turn up on time. It was two hours late than the usual schedule. Thus, I reached Madar when it was dusk. Just after few minutes of my getting down from the bus, the whole area was shrouded in complete darkness. Unfortunately, it was a new moon day.

My close and dear friend, who had come to Madar to receive me, lives in a village that is 2-3 kilometres from the town. However, when I reached there, he had already left. He had waited for hours and seeing no signs of the bus arriving from Rajbiraj, he had left. I know his mentality very well. He respects time, is never late for any appointment and gives his best shot to help his friends. But he is afraid of darkness, ghosts and robbers.

It had started getting dark and his village is around half an hour's walk from the town. Between his village and the town is a vast patch of deserted fields. The area is notorious for robbers and dacoits, and few days ago a man was murdered in the area. My friend might have left the town fearing the dreaded robbers and murderers.  

I had no place to go. I asked the locals whether there were any hotels or lodges in the vicinity, but was saddened to know that only in Indian side there were few lodges. While I was searching a place to spend the night, a baba (a sadhu) in the nearby temple suggested staying at the footsteps of the temple.

I had no problem sleeping on the cold floor. Only thing I was worried about was the huge rucksack containing valuable gifts sent by my friends' parents. With no options, I made up my mind to spend the night there.

Then, all of sudden, a kind-hearted godown owner who had come to offer the evening "Aarati" (worship), knowing my condition, offered me a place to sleep in his godown. He also gave me the option of spending the night at his house in a nearby village which was one and half hour's walk from the temple. I chose to stay in his godown. I was afraid whether he would rob me in the way.

He left the whole godown and goods worth millions to my mercy just to help me as a fellow Nepali stranded near the Indian border. I had always heard from my friends in Kathmandu that Madhesi people (people living in the plains – Terai/Mades) were not helpful. But he had come to my rescue as a god-sent angel. Though he was like Gabbar Singh (a famous villain of the Hindi movie Sholay) and we had never been friends, he offered me help. He didn't even try to analyse my intentions. Seeing my condition, he believed me. My dress, posture and behaviour convinced him that I would not touch his property.        

However, I could not sleep well. I was suspecting – he might send some goons to rob me. So, I clutched the rucksack and tried to get some sleep. I was determined – if somebody turns up, I would fight with the fellow, till death. While unwanted thoughts hovered in my head, the mice and mosquitoes added to the woes. The eight hours I spent in the godown seemed like eight years. 

Early in the morning, I latched the main door and left the godown. The owner hadn't returned and I had no time; I needed to catch the early train. I moved towards the main market and found a rickshaw. As I was getting on the rickshaw, my friend appeared with his huge suitcase and bulky bag. He was vexed with my timekeeping; I couldn't reach Madar on time. He had bought fish from the market and arranged a welcome dinner for me. It was pity that I could not even taste a pinch of it. Then  leaving aside our misunderstanding, we left for Jayanagar.

I am thankful to the man who let me stay at his godown. It was my fault, I didn't ask his name. He still remains anonymous. 
 

You ignited the fire: RIP Anurakta

A page from my school diary

I was a complete loner. I had curly hair which made me look different from other kids. On my first day at school, as we were lined up for the assembly, I could see two boys from the adjacent line teasing me. They were making fun of my hair. I was admitted in the kindergarten and they belonged to grade one. Being a new kid on the block I kept mum.

It happened again and we had a small scuffle. Seeing us fighting, my class-teacher grabbed our ears and took us to our head-mistress. Her office was on the first floor. It was a small wooden room protruding out from the main school building. The boy with whom I had fought was a well-known litterateur's son. At that time I did not have the slightest inkling what literature was.

The head-mistress and class-teacher counselled us and asked us to shake hands. The counselling made us forget our grudges; we shook hands firmly and became firm friends. The gregarious, spontaneous and bubbly boy Anurakta with his kid brother Anubandha took me in. I was introduced to his circle of friends and never remained a loner.    

From left to right: Standing - Raj Kumar, Anurakta, Bidur,

Nirupama, Sharada, Neer Kumar, Ramesh, Yalamber, Sanjib;

Sitting - Neera, Muna K, Jyotsna, Ms Sushila Khatiwada, Jayanti,

Muna P, Sushma, Maya. (c) Udaya days.

I have some faint memories – an old house with a big compound and a pine tree at the gate – that was my first school "Udaya". Udaya Pre-primary School was the first boarding school in the whole of Baneshwor (Baneshwor is now a crowded segment of Kathmandu, the capital city of Nepal). The house belonged to the late movie director Prakash Thapa. It was ascertained when the famous actor Bhuwan KC dropped in one day along with the beautiful Karishma KC in his red jeep.

On one side of our school was the trolley bus office. The trolley buses were a must-see vehicle for people who visited Kathmandu for the first time. Donated by the People's Republic of China, the buses ran from Tripureshwor (near the national stadium) to Surya Binayak (in Bhaktapur) with their butterfly feelers connected to the electric wires along the 17 kilometres stretch.

On the other side was the office of an Australian forestry project and next to it was the office of cooperatives. It had a huge compound and was a place of envy for us while coming to school and going back to home. Its walls had big holes (designed for aesthetic purpose) which were perfect points of intrusion for us. We never missed a chance to get inside the compound and play on the fluffy green grass.

Nearby was a small place of worship under a khari tree (Celtis australis). The adjacent building housed Deurali Club. The most fascinating thing inside the club was a blue table tennis board. I always wished to get inside and play table tennis, but most of the times the door was locked and we were just kids at that time. Not to offend anybody, the one-storeyed long house in the east of the tree was a government-run school of unruly kids.

Those were the frequently visited places before school, after school and during the tiffin-time (though we were not allowed to sneak out of the school compound). On Saturdays I liked to visit the Sarki Gaun (what it was called earlier) to the east of the government-run school. There, next to a big khari tree was Anurakta's house. Nearby at walking distances were houses of Yalamber, Bidur and Ramesh.

Then the school closed abruptly. When I returned from the min pachas (we used to have 50 days of winter vacation after our final exams), the school had been closed and my friends had moved to other schools. For a year, I had to study in a small school in Old Baneshwor with a completely new set of friends. I longed for the good times with my friends in Udaya, however, I got used to new environs, new teachers and started enjoying. 

After a year, I was admitted to English Preparatory School (EPS) which had opened nearby the old Udaya. I was again back with the gang. I was glad to see most of my friends from Udaya in EPS. It was reunion time. The similar hobbies of philately, sketching and reading comics brought Anurakta and me closer.

Once he invited me to his home. I knew his father was a litterateur, a poet in particular. Entering his house for the first time, I was happy to see a big collection of poetries, short stories and novels written by Russian and Indian writers. I borrowed the Nepali translation of Anton Chekhov's short stories from him and devoured it in no time. I also read Premchand. "First impression is the last impression" – though this doesn't hold true all the time, I became a die-hard fan of Chekhov and Premchand. The man behind it was Anurakta.

Anurakta not only enthused the literary bug inside me, but he also strummed the chords of music resting in deep slumber (inside me). My grandfather (RIP) was a well-known classical singer of his time. He earned his Diploma from the famous Gwalior Gharana (traditional house of music led by well-known gurus, musicians). His regular singing schedule starting from 4 a.m. in the morning everyday had not been able to arouse interest in me. However, listening to "Sacrifice" (Elton John) and "I will be there for you" (Bon Jovi) sung by Anurakta and his band URANS inspired me to learn strumming the guitar. But being a bookworm, I could not take it further. And later gymming erased the ABCs of guitar I had learned.

After our School Leaving Certificate (SLC), we landed up in different colleges – I was in Amrit Science College (ASCOL), a government run college while he joined National Institute of Science and Technology (NIST), a private college. However, our paths crossed as both the colleges were in the same locality.  

Then he left for the United States and I went to Jaipur, India. We were completely out of touch for next six years. While I was pursuing my MBA in New Delhi (India), we got connected again through emails. It was a coincidence – he worked out and ran regularly, and I too had turned into a regular gymmer and a long distance runner. It was satisfying to compare our timings and stamina.

Like all, the entrepreneurship bug bit us and we chatted many a times to establish a joint business. But our busy schedules didn't allow us to partner on a joint venture. We hadn't seen each other for ages but still the faith was standing tall between us. We met once when he was in Nepal on a holiday trip. But the meeting was short – Anurakta, Yalamber and I had a nice time though, to remember and talk about our Udaya days.

From the last one year I have shifted to Surkhet in the Mid-Western Development Region. I am not much into chatting though I check my Facebook and Twitter accounts twice a day. I had completely lost track of Anurakta. There were no more run and status updates from him. I thought he must be a kind of busy. Then suddenly Yalamber rang me up one Saturday. He summarised the sad end of Anurakta to me over phone.  I was speechless. I had no idea what to do. I kept mum.

The guy who turned a loner into a gregarious man was silent. For ever. RIP, Anurakta.       

(Anurakta left this world on 8 June 2013. He was living in Fort Collins, Colorado. He was the eldest son of  acclaimed Nepali poet Mr Shailendra Shakar.)

ऐना

(c) www.morguefile.com

ए ऐना,
मेरो कुन रुप देखाउँदैछस् आज ?
डक्टर जेकिल कि मिस्टर हाइड ?

मलाई अचेल साह्रै शंका लाग्ने गर्छ
तैले देखाउने प्रतिबिम्बमा,
दायाँलाई बायाँ
बायाँलाई दायाँ,
कहिले कन्केभ
कहिले कन्भेक्श ।
क्यालिब्रेशन पो नमिलेको हो कि ?
कि मेरो मति फेरिएको हो ?

नारसिसस् झै तलाउमा नियालेर हेरे
तेरो नियत पत्ता लगाउन,
त्यो त झन जाली रहेछ
तरंगमै गरायो मलाई धूमिल,
केहि नलागी सूर्यलाई गुहारे
आफूलाई चिन्न,
उसले त खालि छायाँ मात्र देखायो
आफू चाहिं हासिरह्यो ।
के म क्षणभंगूर भएको हो ?
कि म भित्रैदेखि रित्तिए ?

ब्यूटि लाइज इन द आइज अफ द बिहोल्डर
आँखा आँखाको हेराइ पनि त होला नि फरक,
आँखा पनि त होलान् नि
थोरै कन्केभ अनि थोरै कन्भेक्श,
अब म कस्कस्लाई सोधूं ?
म ठिक कि बेठिक ?

त्रिशंकु (२३ भाद्र २०७०, सुर्खेत)
 

Say no to peacock plumes next Krishna Janmashtami and no to water lilies coming Deepawali

 

A girl holds a peacok feather during Krishna Janmashtami festival
in Lalitpur near Kathmandu. (c) Navesh Chitrakar/Reuters 

I love Krishna Janmashtami, the birth celebrations of Lord Krishna. The only thing I detest is the devotees' love for the peacock plumes. I don't know whether Lord Krishna adorned his hair with a peacock plume or not. Or it was just an artist's imagination to beautify the portrait, it's still to be confirmed. However, almost all portraits of Krishna have a peacock feather stuck to his head band.

The fascination for the peacock plumes on the auspicious day brings traders selling the plumes at Krishna temples throughout Nepal. Imagine – only in the Kathmandu Valley there are hundreds of Krishna temples and at each temple there are at least two traders, each selling hundreds of plumes. If honestly calculated, the number of peacocks trapped and slaughtered for the plumes will cross thousands.

So is it worth buying a peacock feather on Lord Krishna's birthday? I would say a big NO to the feather sellers. Let's make sure that the peacocks stay safe in jungles and are not afraid of losing their lives for Krishna's birthday celebrations.   

Likewise, in Deepawali, similar is the fate of water lilies. The nook and crannies of marketplaces in major towns of Nepal are filled with water lilies. Water lilies are considered to be the best offering to Laxmi, the Goddess of wealth, in Deepawali (Laxmi Pooja in Nepal). Thus, to please the Goddess and amass wealth, people pay a fortune to buy the lilies. And the lily gatherers scour the ponds and ditches of lilies, not sparing even the buds.

Imagine – what will happen if the naturally growing lilies face extinction? Let's choose an alternative to offering water lilies to Goddess Laxmi this Deepawali and not devoid the ponds and ditches of their natural ornaments.

From mundane to serious affairs in Nepal: A journalist's viewpoint

I am a big fan of Barclays Premier League. Don't ask me about the English clubs, I can tell you in detail even about the recent transfers. However, when I see students going to Liverpool and Chelsea International colleges in Kathmandu, I start pulling my hairs.

Such is the fascination for English names among the college-goers and educators that "Many sound more like American or British colleges (or English football clubs) than Nepali: Chelsea International, Caribbean College, Caspian Valley, Bridgewater Int'l, Guinness Int'l, Welhams College, Columbus, Gillette College, Golden Gate College, Thames International College, Bernhard Campus, Northfield Campus, Xavier Academy, New Millennium, Liverpool International College, to name a few".

Journalist Anand Gurung sheds his frustration towards Nepalis' fascination with the West in the article Kathmandu Capers in his debut book Journalism & Journeys. The book honestly expresses the author's impressions detailing the nuances of daily lives in Nepal in form of travel essays and articles. All 19 articles are engrossing and will take you through the streets of Kathmandu, jungles of the Terai, and even to Raxaul and Darjeeling of India.

In the article A house in the City, he laments at the concrete jungle the Kathmandu Valley is turning into. In Tragic Traffic Tales he highlights the plights of the public vehicle users, the tampering of meters by the taxi drivers and the reckless motorbike riders.

While talking about mundane affairs, Anand raises some serious policy issues in his article Mongolian Momo. He states: "The state's policy of systematic discrimination meant that the Janjatis, Dalits, Madhesis and of course, women, were completely sidelined. They were left out in the cold and had no voice in the running of the state. The state never fostered national integrity by advocating social and economic justice for them. Instead, the Kathmandu rulers forcefully tried to thrust one religion, language and culture on them to promote the sense of "Nepaliness" and partly succeeded in this attempt."   

In Wildlife Diaries, he highlights the community conservation efforts in Bardia to save the wild animals. He interviews the community based anti-poaching unit members and the Chief Warden of Shuklaphanta Wildlife Reserve to find out about poaching and poachers. In The Hissing Trishuli Rapids, he describes the thrills of rafting in the famous Trishuli River. Having had a similar experience in the rapids of Bheri River, I liked this piece the most.

Anand's writing sometimes turns poetic which makes the read more pleasurable. His attention to details takes you right to the action point. You never get bored and find newness in each of the writing. The articles are a mix of all sorts of jottings and cater to all types of readers. However, had the book been a collection of either travel essays or personal impressions, it would have garnered niche readers.

The above mentioned articles are only a glimpse of several other interesting articles that are compiled along with them. All the articles are beautifully written and deal with completely different topics. One link that binds them together is the mention of Nepal, Nepalis and Nepaliness. If you like Nepal and Nepalis, like reading from mundane affairs to serious issues, this book is meant just for you.    

Anand Gurung is a Kathmandu based journalist and editor of the online portal Nepalnews. Journalism & Journeys is his debut book published by Vajra Publications, Kathmandu, Nepal and Dragon Publications, New Delhi, India. The book is priced at NRs 400 in Nepal and IRs 250 in India. The book is available at major bookstores in Kathmandu.