A tale of two men

Zurich Airport

I was waiting for a connecting flight to Geneva. Being first time in Europe and that also in the German dominant city, I was keeping mum. I was just waiting on a bench and letting the time tick by.

The aroma from Starbucks next door was challenging my craving for a hot cup of capuccino. I suppressed the urge. Then a man grabbing a huge Subway sandwich, munching in between, hurriedly passed by my side. Although I had resisted the desire to have a capuccino I could not stop myself from fetching a yummy sandwich for my tummy.

As I was gobbling the piece of newly-found amusement, a young man in his early twenties approached me. He was neither tall nor short, was strongly built and looked smart in his blue uniform. "Excuse me, Sir," he initiated the conversation. "Are you a Nepali?"   

"Yes," was my terse reply.

"Oho dai, what a relief. I met a Nepali after six months. I am from Ramechhap." Within seconds, he had discarded the robes of formality and addressed me as an elder brother. Finding him in a new city was a relief to me as well. 

"It's so nice to meet with you in a foreign land, are you studying here?" I asked the young man. He was well-mannered and humble and his concern for a fellow countryman drew my interest towards him.   

He had come to Switzerland to work. He had completed his Bachelor's in the neighbouring country (I forgot the country's name) and was working for a private company in the airport. Switzerland was the best place to work in whole of Europe, he said. The companies were concerned about employee security and welfare. And he was happy to be there, though being thousands of miles away from his home. 

He briefed me about the dos and don'ts, advised me on the rules and regulations, and accompanied me to the boarding area. On the elevator, he asked about the political turn of events in Nepal. He was enthusiastic about the peace accord signed by the rebel Maoist leaders. "Now I wish our country will also be like Switzerland," he said. "I hear they are talking about federalism and inclusion. They should learn from Switzerland. In spite of being a land-locked country and smaller than Nepal, we have 26 cantons (federal states) here. The poor cantons get support from the Confederation (central state)."

I was amazed by his knowledge on the issues of federalism, ethnicity and inclusion. He was talking about a society which takes care of both equality and equity. Silently I saluted his opinions and wished the decision makers also think on the same line. "Well said bhai, Nepal should follow Switzerland," I advised, "Why don't you write Op-Eds in some leading dailies in Nepal?"

But the devil's advocate inside me was sarcastic. Might be he was saying that because he belonged to the Tamang community which was marginalised and discriminated. I was thinking about the worst examples of Nigeria where federalism has done more damage than good. My Kathmandu-centric thinking, upbringing with elites, and belief on capability (ability) and identity were taking toll on the poor guy's opinion on federalism and inclusion.          

"Utopia is what Maoists, indigenous peoples and Madhesis are talking about," I quipped. "It was so nice to meet you. Thanks for your guidance to get to Geneva."

"I hope Nepal will show the world how Utopian society can be built," he was shouting with a gleam in his eyes as I proceeded towards the boarding area.

Zurich Railway Station

I had survived the first snowstorm of the season. Never had been the trains delayed. Thanks to the heavy snow, most of the trains had to halt and take to alternative routes. And I was the one to benefit. I got to travel through many cities in Switzerland though the landscape was draped in white. I abandoned the direct train from Geneva to Zurich and followed a kind lady who volunteered to help me find the alternative trains and routes. The announcement made in the train was in German and I wasn't able to get anything, so I had to depend on her.

Finally I made to the Zurich Railway Station, kept the luggage in the locker and waited for my college friend.  

It was Friday evening and the streets were full of fervour and merriment. The snowstorm hadn't arrived in that part of Switzerland. The weather was chillingly cold and the people were in the mood to party till the arrival of the first snowstorm.

A young man had sprayed cans of silver paint on him and was entertaining the crowd. Nearby a group of youngsters was rolling tobacco and marijuana. A man was strumming a guitar and singing from the depth of his heart. 

I was amusing myself and trying to mix with the crowd. Then from nowhere, a well-dressed man, probably in his early fifties, inebriated and stuttering, came towards me. Like the young man I had met in the Zurich Airport, he enquired, "Are you a Nepali?"

I said, "Yes."

I had expected the same warmth as that of the young man. But with him it was just the opposite. Knowing that I was a Nepali, his expression turned cynical. "So, how did you manage to enter?" he posed the question with a smirk on his face. "What was your excuse to apply for the visa?"

I was irritated by the man's sneering and domineering attitude. However, I remained polite. "I had come here for an induction course and am leaving tomorrow for Paris," I clarified. "From there I shall leave for my country. I have no intentions to overstay in this country."        
  
"Everybody says the same," he sneered. "They come here as academicians, students, sportsmen, artists, throw their passports in those dustbins," he was pointing to two huge garbage cans, "And stay here illegally, working in restaurants owned by Indians."

I was horrified to hear the details. I tried to convince him that I was hell-bent sure that I would return back to Nepal. But he was adamant on his conviction. He even proposed to provide me work in one of the Indian restaurants if I throw away my passport down the gutter.

I have the gut feeling that with age a man mellows. He turns into a sensible fellow, with all sorts of experiences and sufferings. I took him as an exception. Probably his frustration and anger was suppressing the good man inside him.

I was keeping mum, just listening to his murmurings. It was the perfect situation to practise "selective hearing". Seeing me silent he said, "See gentleman, you need money to survive and I bet you won't be able to earn enough in Nepal." He then narrated his own story. He was a Director in one of the well-known INGOs (International Non-Governmental Organisation) in Nepal. What he used to earn was enough for a luxurious life. However, it was just the salary. His peers in the government having lesser salaries had built houses in the capital, but he was still living in a rented flat. Likewise, his classmates settled in the USA and Australia had earned enough to build houses in Kathmandu and start businesses of their own. So the only thing he could do was to throw the passport while he was in Switzerland to attend a workshop.  

"Now I have four houses in Central Kathmandu," he said triumphantly. "My children attend top-rung schools, my family members are happy and I feel that I have done my part of the job."

The only unhappy soul in his family was he himself. It appeared so to me. He was drunk, the knot of his tie was dangling near the third button of the shirt, his pants had dark smudges near his knees and his coat was in shambles.

He again babbled, "Seems you are one of those idiots who want to stay in Nepal." He solemnly advised me, "Listen, if you want to be a successful man, think about yourself first then think about your family, community and country." According to him, Nepal is a country doomed to fail.

As I was gathering facts in my mind to counter his claims, I could see my friend coming at a distance. He was working in Zurich at that time and had promised to take me around the city. "Thank you for your suggestions dai," I said, in an attempt to conclude the conversation. "Though you are right somewhere, I can't follow it. Good luck with your earnings." I waved to my friend and ran towards him.

We had met after nine years. We hugged each other and started throwing questions at each other to quell our curiosities. As we mixed in the crowd, the inebriated man was waving to me and shouting, "I am damn sure you will join me, sooner or later."  

That night we partied until dawn. It started snowing from early morning. I bade farewell to my dear friend and boarded the train to Paris. Mine was a window seat, so I got glued to the passing panorama. The white blanket of snow was a newfound amusement for me.

The TGV was gliding at a breakneck pace. The blanket of snow in the surrounding was getting thicker and thicker. And in the void of the whiteness, I was comparing the souls of the two men. One was like the white snow, pure, beautiful and welcoming. Another was like the big buildings piercing out of the white blanket of snow, like sharp nails pointing to the sky.             

Cell of change

Republished from The Kathmandu Post

(c) The Kathmandu Post

Mobile technology has greatly aided farmers in India; Nepal should emulate such practices

The hills of Almora in Uttarakhand of neighbouring India resemble the landscape in Nepal. The culture and way of life of the people are similar too. However, farmers there are a little more fortunate than Nepali farmers. They can obtain information on market prices, weather conditions, agricultural policy news, and tips on farming cycles via short message service (SMS) from Reuters Market Light (RML). The RML service is delivered in the form of a simple SMS that fits into the daily workflow of the farmer in his/her preferred language. Information can be obtained on 450 crop varieties in eight different languages. 

Mobile power
A woman hidden behind a veil narrated  to me her experience with mobile technology. She had laid out the whole lot of crop to be dried out in the sun. It was a sunny day and there was no sign of rain in the horizon. Then she received an SMS from RML. Being illiterate, she ran to her daughter who read it out. The SMS predicted rain.

All at once, she collected her crop and stored it in a safe place. It rained just after that but her crop was safe. A lean farmer standing next to her shared a similar experience. He was ready to spray pesticide on his standing crop of vegetables. But he changed his mind after receiving an SMS notifying him of a light shower. It saved both time and money.

Such is the power of information. And it is a blessing when it comes to a mobile set worth a few thousand rupees and in your preferred language. In Uttarakhand, the RML services are free of charge, sponsored by the Department of Telecommunication and the German development agency, GIZ. In other parts of India, RML services can be availed of through a paid subscription. This service is being used by over 1.2 million farmers in 50,000 villages across 17 states of India. Even the information can be personalised based on the type of crop, region of the crop, region of the country and local language. This enables farmers to make informed decisions, reduce waste and maximise their profits.

Farmers are well informed about the prices of their produce in two nearby markets. It helps them sell their products at a fair price to buyers. The service also has a provision of flashing the name and mobile number of a farmer or a trader who wants to sell or buy the commodities. The seller and buyer can then negotiate with each other for an agreeable price.

Likewise, RML flashes the name and contact number of successful farmers periodically. The farmers end up receiving thousands of calls from fellow farmers asking them about their success mantra.The farmers can also enquire about diseases and pests affecting their crops with experts and specialists through a toll-free number provided by RML. They simply need to dial the number and record their problems with the call centre employees. The problems are then discussed with experts and the caller gets a reply-call with prescribed solutions.         

With the ever-growing use of mobile phones,  farmers in Nepal are also discovering ways to make their life easier. Now they can enquire about the price of their produce at major markets and negotiate prices with middlemen, avoid unnecessary travel to fetch agricultural inputs (especially if it is not available in the market) and seal deals with buyers. Farmers in Surkhet and Dailekh in the Mid-West development region can find out the price of vegetables and fruits through an SMS service provided by the Agro Enterprise Centre. Likewise, by calling a toll-free number, they can find out the prices of vegetables and fruits through voicemail. This service was piloted by Practical Action.

Mobile innovations
While we are being hit hard by loadshedding, farmers in India have found a unique method to deal with power cuts. With the help of a device designed by Vijay Bhaskar Reddy Dinnepu, founder of Vinfinet Technologies, they can direct their irrigation pump motors to switch on and off whenever they choose.

Through the device, the motor can also call back the farmer if there is voltage fluctuation or a power cut.  The device connects to farmers’ mobiles through an interactive voice response system (IVRS). With the provision of krishi meter (electrometers measuring subsidised electricity for agriculture), Nepali farmers can now irrigate their crops even during the dry season at cheaper prices. A device similar to that of Vinfinet Technologies could help them cope with regular power cuts and they can avoid staying on their fields for the whole day and night—in the cold and heat—waiting for power to resume.

The brains that developed the popular Android application ‘Taxi Meter’ which calculates the price of the distance travelled in a taxi and prevents travellers from being fleeced by taxi drivers must not leave behind farmers and agriculture in the ‘mobile revolution’. 

Ever growing mobile users
Cellphones, which are a necessity these days, is ubiquitous even in the remotest corners of the country. People living below the poverty line, above the line and the ultra-rich, all have access to mobiles and the telecom network. What aid workers could not do in decades has been accomplished in years by mobile operators. While the thought of building toilets in every household seems to be a dream, Nepalis from all walks of life hold mobiles in their hands. The private telecom service provider, Ncell, boasts of having reached the mark of 10 million subscribers while state-owned Nepal Telecom has similar claims (including Namaste, CDMA and 3G subscribers).

Like RML in India, across the developing world, mobile services in agriculture have focussed on sharing and obtaining information. The programmes developed so far provide farmers access to research and best practices, weather information and market prices via SMS, IVR or call centres. With the rise in population and intense competition in agriculture, it is of vital importance for farmers to increase their production and raise incomes. This is possible only if they have access to right information at the right time through mobile technology.

Recently, in an Information Communication Technology workshop held in Rajbiraj, one of the presenters asked the participants about the best way to reach people who do not have access to the internet. Three hands quickly rose in unison. The answer was the mobile phone in their hands. With millions of farmers with mobiles handy, what we need now is the right technology, like RML. It could be a ‘game changer’ for Nepali agriculture.       

Read the original post here.

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)