लक्ष्यको रक्षा

एउटा कछुवा थियो, अनि सबैलाई थाहा भएझै एउटा खरायो। खरायोले कछुवालाई संसद, राजनीतिक मंच र प्रेसवार्तामा चुनौती दियो, "यदि अगाडि बढ्ने यतिकै तागत छ भने मभन्दा पहिले लक्ष्यमा पुगेर देखाउ।"

दौड शुरु भयो। खरायो दौड्यो, कछुवा पनि आफ्नै तालमा सुस्तरी दौड्न थाल्यो।

सबैलाई थाहा भएझै खरायो रूखमुनि आराम गर्न थाल्यो। उसले पत्रकारहरूलाई भन्यो, "म राष्ट्रका समस्याहरूप्रति गम्भीर चिन्तन गर्दैछु, किनकि मलाई चाडै लक्ष्य भेट्नु छ।" यति भनेर ऊ निदायो।

कछुवा चाहि बिस्तारै बिस्तारै आफ्नो लक्ष्यनिर पुग्नथाल्यो।

जब खरायो बिउँझियो, उसले खरायो अगाडि पुगिसकेको देख्यो। उसले हार्ने पक्का थियो। बदनाम हुने डर त छँदै थियो। खरायोले तुरुन्तै आपातकाल घोषणा गर्यो।

उसले आफ्नो बयानमा भन्यो, "प्रतिगामी पिछडिएका तथा कंजरभेटिभ (रुढिवादी) ताकतहरू अगाडि बढिरहेका छन्। यिनीहरूबाट देशलाई बचाउनु जरुरी छ।"

अनि लक्ष्य भेट्नु अघि नै कछुवालाई समातेर जेलमा हालियो।

सत्याग्रहमा प्रकाशित शरद जोशीको लघु कथाको नेपाली अनुवाद 

अवसर र आरक्षण

१
एउटा घोडा र गधाबीच चर्काचर्की चलिरहेको थियो । घोडा भन्दैथियो, “त कुद्न सक्दैनस् भनेर मालिकसँग मेरो नि गोडा बाँधिदिन भन्न गइस् हैन ?” 

“गजब छ, बाँदरले आफ्नो घर नि नबनाउने अरुलाई नि घर बनाउन नदिने । कस्तो अचम्म ? आफू पनि त केही गर, कति अरुको आरिस गर्छस् ।”

गधाले भन्यो , “त्यसो कहाँ हो र, मलाई चाहिं सधैं भारीमात्र बोकाउने अनि तिमीलाई चाहिं सधैं मिठोमसिनो खुवाउँने ?”

“आखिर परिश्रम त म धेरै गर्छु नि तिमी भन्दा। मैले मलाई नि मेरो श्रम अनुसार न्याय पाउँनुपर्छ भनेको मात्र हो ।”

२

दूई गधाबीच चर्काचर्की चलिरहेको थियो । अगाडिका दूवै खुट्टा बाँधिएको गधा तन्दुरुस्त थियो । अनि लुते गधा चाहिं फुकेको गोरु झै अट्टहास गर्दै, जेलिएको, बन्धनमा जकडिएको गधालाई चिढाउँदै थियो,“हेर्न, म त घोडा पो हो त, सामथ्र्यमा कहाँ सक्छस् त मसँग ।”

अनि आफू उच्च नस्ल भएको दम्भमा रमाउँदै अर्को लुते तर फुकेको गधासँग भलाकुसारी गर्दै भन्दै थियो, “हेर्न, हामी घोडासँग त्यस गधाले नसकेपछि मालिकसँग हाम्रा नि गोडा बाँधिदिन भन्छु पो भन्छ बा ।”

“गजब छ , बाँदरले आफ्नो घर नि नबनाउने अरुलाई नि घर बनाउन नदिने । कस्तो अचम्म ?”

अर्को दिन मालिककहाँ बधुँवा गधाले पुगी बिन्ति बिसाएछ , “मालिक, मेरो पनि गोडा फुकाईपाउँ, यी दुई गोडा कुजिँन आटिसके, यिनको उपयोग नगरे म कसरी अगाडि बढ्न सक्छु र ?”

केहि दिन पश्चात् , फेरि आमने सामने भएछन् ती तीन गधा । यसपालि आफूलाई घोडा र उच्च नस्लका ठान्ने, सदा फुकेका गधाले यसो भनेछन् , “खै प्रतिस्पर्धा त बराबरबीच पो हुन्छ । कहाँ हामी लुते, कहाँ त्यो अजंगको सांढे ।”
“हामीलाई त अलिक बढि खाना चाहिन्छ , अनि पो हामी नि त्यो सांढेझै हुन्छौ त ।”

Why can’t we do away with the black dots and superstitions?

This pot bearing evil eyes was hung to a sisoo tree to save the gourd climber from evil eyes.

The baby clinging to his mother was annoyed at seeing so many guests. He was trying to get away from his mother’s clutch, forcibly lunging away from her. I could see his feet dangling like a pendulum, swaying from left to right hurriedly to beat the pace of time.

Then I saw something uncommon. Two black dots under his feet – one on each foot!

For Nepalese and our Indian neighbours, it’s a common tradition to ward off the evil eyes. Everyone, whether traditional or modern, illiterate or educated, follows their parents’ footsteps. Almost blindly!

It’s the fear of the unknown evil, so far as I know. If you go by their saying, it keeps away all harmful and bad thought of the onlooker.

And don’t be amazed if you see people putting black dots even over a fruit-bearing tree or a pumpkin creeper. In the southern plains of Nepal, they generally put either a clay pot or a supa/nanglo (bamboo winnowing tray) painted with black and white dots (sometimes circle) representing evil eyes.

Read: Evil eyes 

So, how good is painting black dots over anything you think might be envy of by your neigbours? We blindly follow the traditions without even pondering why we are doing that.

When I saw the babies’ feet and the black dots, I remembered a popular Nepali adage “Kalo biralo badhera saraddhe garnu” meaning tying a black cat to do the yearly rituals of death anniversary.

There’s an interesting incident behind the origin of the adage. A family was doing the rituals of the death anniversary and a pet black cat was sneaking in to lap up the curd, milk and other edibles to be used in the ritual. Being perturbed by the feline’s advances, they tied it up to a pillar nearby and carried out the rituals.

As the years passed, the little boy who had seen his parents tying up the black cat during the rituals searched a similar cat and tied it to a pillar while carrying out the rituals. His son followed the same and tying a black cat became a part of the ritual. And when the black cat was unavailable, it had to be brought from the neighbourhood or even from other villages!

You can no compare the situations. Had not the tradition of putting black dots started in a similar way? You can imagine how one can harm just by gazing at something. It’s no more than a superstition.

Now let me get back to the little child with black dots under his feet. For your information, the mother putting the black dot is a medical doctor and the little boy’s grandmother and grandfather both are well-known doctors as well. In our society, since the doctors are considered the most intelligent people, how can we get rid of these silly traditions when even the ones considered the most intelligent keep on following them blindly?

It’s a point to ponder.

I don't care about crabs any more

Two crabs. Image by Flickr user Mark Jones. (CC BY 2.0)

Seems [it’s] a scene from a movie, today. I was merely eight years of age at that time. I still remember the farmer leveling the field after ploughing – to ready it for planting rice. The soil was muddy and watery - and he was skidding like a frictionless, perpetual machine. It's hard to mention the exact scene, but you can imagine a pair of oxen running as fast as possible in the mud with the plough clung to their shoulders and in place of the tiller, a flat wooden plank attached to the end and a man riding on the plank as if he is surfing through the waves.

As I was a small boy, I kept running after the plough and caught the fish and crabs as they popped out of the mud occasionally. I hurled them in a small plastic bucket as and when they came out of the muddy soil. The crows and herons would look at me enviously while I enjoyed splashing through the mud. After one hour's running behind the man and his plough, I gathered half a bucket of fish and crabs. Walking towards home with my precious catch, many fish jumped out of the bucket and I had to put them back again and again. And in the process some fortunate ones slipped out in the muddy paddy fields.

I had caught more fish and only around 15 crabs. However, when I reached home, the crabs were still at the bottom of the bucket clinging to each others' feet while many fish had escaped. None of them had been able to jump out of the container. When I clutched one of the crabs, two others clung to its feet and similarly others clung to their feet, making a chain of crabs.

I had two things in mind: One, the unity among the crabs and their love for each other. Two, the Leg Pulling Syndrome that did not allow any of the crabs to jump out and seek freedom. However, when I put all the crabs on the floor, all of them started fighting with each other and I knew it was not a case of unity. It was a matter of leg pulling.

As I grew up, I found similar situation many times - many people clinging to each others' legs - restricting others to reach their goals. I wonder why people do it. Can’t we just push each other forward instead of pulling towards the bottom?

Seeing the leapfrogging neighbouring economies – China and India, I just could not help myself sharing this incident. We are like those crabs and they (Chinese and Indians) are like fish. They have leapt out of the bucket and we still are at the bottom. We must be aware that if we remain at the bottom for long we will be devoured by the consequences at the end of the day.

So, I don’t care about the crabs any more.

And my simple proposition – let’s get rid of this Leg Pulling Syndrome and start pushing forward each other. That will lead us to a brighter future. There’s no doubt!

If you are in Kathmandu and want some adrenaline rush, plan a hike to Kalinchowk

Mountain range, as seen, from Kalinchowk.

I don’t believe in superstitions. But don’t know why, it seems that if I hike and travel on the first day of the year, the spirit will continue throughout the year.

Keeping up with the tradition of travelling to new destinations on the first of January, along with my two friends Dilli and Deb, I set out for a hike to Kalinchowk, a famous religious and touristic spot in Dolakha district.  

One thing special about the trip was no substantial planning involved. Now ask me why I believe in such an old philosophy of procrastinators. Let me tell you – it makes the journey more unpredictable and filled with surprises.  

The unofficial blockade has blocked the veins of economy. But people have no complaints.

The journey to Charikot in a public bus was a memorable one. We started at 9:30 am from the Old Bus Park and it took us seven hours to reach Charikot. On the way, the bus stopped a zillion times to accommodate the local passengers. One of the reasons for such a crowd in the bus was the fuel scarcity due to the unofficial blockade. Half of the bus corridor was filled with 50-litre jerry cans carrying diesel and other half with passengers, packed like sardines. At places people even got up the bus roof-top with loads of firewood. Not to mention, it was already packed with travellers.

As we got down the bus for snacks in the mid-way, the restaurant owner quickly heated the chick-peas and potatoes over a firewood stove. He had no qualms about using up the precious firewood in the wake of the cooking gas shortage and he did not charge more than usual for this extra service.

Back in the bus, the old people, ladies with little children all clung to each other while some rested on the seats. Even little children were standing along with their parents. But still they were cracking jokes – about the hardships they had to face due to the unofficial blockade. They had no complaints – neither against India nor the current government. The whole bus was making its way through the narrow roads in a jolly mood.  

A frog’s leap for locals is more than leapfrogging for outsiders

Entering the Dolakha district, we could see the buildings destroyed by the 25 April earthquake and people living in temporary shelters. The landscape was a beauty to watch but the rubble and the shelters were like lesions on a soft skin.

Finally after seven hours’ ride we reached Charikot. Finding a place for the night was another big task in the New Year eve. Although the hotels were booked and packed with new arrivals, we got a nice deluxe room in a reputed hotel.

Another big and arduous task in front of us was to find the right suggestion to get to Kalinchowk. Everybody we talked with suggested hiring a jeep to Kuri. Although the distance from Charikot to Kuri is only 18 kilometres, nobody advised us to hike. The didi at the hotel where we stayed said that it would take us more than five hours to reach Kuri and additional one hour to reach Kalinchowk from there.

The next morning we set up for the hike – decided not to hire any vehicle to Kuri. However, as we were sipping tea in a road-side café, luckily we met the president of the local transporters’ association. He advised us not to go on foot and said it would take seven hours to reach Kuri. The number of hours needed to reach Kuri had increased with each person we consulted. According to the first person we consulted, Kuri was only three and half hour away from Charikot. Thus, after talking to the president, we decided to take a jeep ride one way and he helped us connect to one of the local drivers.    

A tea-house in Kuri.

Luckily, in next one hour we were at Kuri. Everything was happening as per our sporadic plans and in a way it was much better than planning everything in advance.

We saved almost five hours that, otherwise, would have been spent in hiking uphill. For the locals the ascent takes 3.5 hours, but even for brisk walkers like us, it would have taken more than 5 hours.

Thus, we learnt an important lesson: Always add an hour and half to what the locals say it will take, if you are planning an uphill hike. For the locals it might be a frog’s leap but the same, for you, might be a never-ending trek.  

Kuri village, as seen, from Kalinchowk.

Reaching Kuri on time had its own benefits. We utilised the saved time well. Spending more than an hour on the peak, clicking as much pictures as we could were the bonus of reaching earlier at the hill-top.

The Mount Gauri Shankar (7,134m) and other peaks seemed standing just next to us. The cool breeze atop the hill was soothing and relaxing, especially after the tedious, almost 80 degrees climb for an hour.

Bells and bells everywhere - the offerings from the worshipers.

Once you reach the top (3800m), you get to understand why the Shakti Peeths (the place of worship, highly valued by the Hindus) are located at inaccessible places. The place is free from unwanted crowd, pollution and whatever dirt the mankind produces at easily accessible places.

Apart from bells, tridents are offered to Kalinchowk Bhagwati.

We will never get over with the Hindi music

While reaching the hill-top was bliss with no trace of pollution, the bhajans blaring out of the loudspeaker was piercing our ears. And imagine – all the chants were in Hindi language, dubbed copies of latest Bollywood hits. Not to mention, the songs with hints of sexuality.

I wonder when we will start promoting Nepali bhajans. All the time we talk about taking pride in being a sovereign country and banning Hindi movies and television channels but forget that Indian-ness has penetrated skin-deep. It won’t go away that easily.

The black marketers need to learn lessons on humanity from Kuri hoteliers

While the ascent was difficult even for regular hikers like us, descending down the peak was a much easier task.

If you pile up the stones, it will keep away your joint-aches.

Reaching the base, we searched for our Sherpa friend who had accompanied us in a jeep to Kuri from Charikot. To our surprise, everyone in the small bazaar seemed to know each other and they happily helped us find his lodge. What a shame, we had not even bothered to ask his name during the one hour jeep ride. However, a man recognised him as we described his appearance. He said, “Oh, that must be Kanchha!”

And Kanchha Sherpa, he was. He came, leaving behind the clothes he was washing. With a big grin on his face, he said, “I thought you guys won’t be back for lunch,” while his wife cursed him for not telling her to prepare lunch.

In a jiffy she prepared snacks for us. Imagine lighting up the improved cookstove and cooking food. But for her it was a daily chore and in no time we were gulping down the egg noodles. When it was time to pay, we were dumfounded – it was much cheaper than in Kathmandu!

In spite of the unofficial blockade and the difficulty to get the commodities to that height, the prices had not skyrocketed as in the capital. We could imagine how greedy the Kathmandu businessmen had been.

They need to learn a lesson or two from these relatively poor but honest businessmen!

Kathmanduites still need to learn to be social

While we were going gaga over the good people in Kuri, we had to face few thorns in the way.

We knew it would take us around five hours to descend down to Charikot from Kuri as we hadn’t booked any vehicle for the return trip. Luckily, a Bolero with a back carrier appeared from nowhere. 

We were more than happy and excited as we were, asked the people sitting in the front for a hitchhike. Though the jeep had been reserved, they were okay with it and asked us to jump on the back carrier. However, a girl and a boy sitting at the back acted snobbish and said, “No, there’s no place, you guys can’t hop in like anybody.”

And the boy wasn’t even looking at us. As if we were some animals!

We knew the team was from Kathmandu. And the message was loud and clear – they needed a lesson or two to be social!

Climate change is real. And it’s happening.

Saddened by the behaviour of our fellow Kathmanduites, we marched towards the hiking route – as brisk as we could.

Rhododendrons ready to blossom ahead of the blooming season.

The walking route passed through a jungle of rhododendron. To our surprise, the bushes were laden with flower buds – they would bloom in a week or two. And it was just the first day of the year!

The rhododendrons bloomed only in March earlier. Then the blooming season shifted to February and last year the rhododendrons bloomed in mid-January. This year, it would bloom much earlier. The change was there, right in front of our eyes – the real climate change. And it was happening. In the broad daylight!

It’s the motivation that matters. Be surrounded by optimists.

A good thing about walking back was the experience – the walk up the hills and the following descent. On the way, we met three young guys – tired both spirit-wise and fitness-wise. They had been walking for seven hours and hadn’t met anybody to up their near-dead spirit. Somebody had suggested that it was only a three and half hours walk to Kuri from Charikot – same was what had been suggested to us.

Still they were half an hour away from Kuri, the base camp to Kalinchok. We knew, for sure, they won’t be able to make to the top that day as the temple gates closed at 4 pm. Seeing us, their faces brightened up. They were face-to-face with another trio that was returning from the summit!

When we said that they were only half an hour away from the base camp their spirits suddenly charged up. We, too, were happy to meet the youngsters. We told them about Kanchha Sherpa and his lodge where they could put up that night and set for the hill-top the next day. They were more than happy and as they bid goodbye, one of them said, “Dai, had we not met with you, we would have left the hope to get to Kuri today.” Such is the power of optimism and being surrounded by optimists.

The earthquake not only took down the buildings but also shattered the human egos

As we returned to the hotel in Charikot, we had a chat over a cup of coffee with a local hotelier. The couple had left their hotel business after the 25 April earthquake and was sustaining the family from the earnings of a small tea shop.

Most of the buildings near the shop had visible cracks, few had fallen down and people were still getting rid of the rubble. The lady was telling how hard the life was after the earthquake. “The earthquake taught a great lesson to us all,” the man added. “All the tall buildings had been built from bank loans just to compete with the neighbours with high-rise buildings. The earthquake not only took down the buildings but also shattered the human egos. Now all of them are back on the streets.”

How to get there

If you have your own vehicle it takes one hour to get to Dhulikhel from Central Kathmandu and from Dhulikhel you can reach Charikot in three and half hours. From Charikot to Kuri it’s only 18 kilometres but as the road is uphill and bumpy it will take nearly one hour – make sure you are riding an off-road vehicle. From Kuri to the Kalinchowk hill-top is a forty-five minutes steep and arduous walk – if you keep on climbing without a break, otherwise it might take you an hour or more.

If you opt for public vehicle, you can get one from the Old Bus Park in Kathmandu. The journey to Charikot is of six hours and costs NRs 335 per person. The buses run at an interval of an hour and half and the first one leaves the bus stop at 5:30 am and the last one at around noon. From Charikot to Kuri you can either hire a jeep (six people can fit in the vehicle) for NRs 5,000 for a round-trip (but it will cost you NRs 3,700 one-way, if you plan to walk one-way) or hop into one run by the local transporters’ association for NRs 250 per person.  

Accommodation and food

In Charikot there are plenty of good hotels. However, it’s always good to book in advance in special occasions like New Year or any Hindu festival. Kuri has few lodges, tea shops and a grand new hotel. There’s no problem of getting good food. The hotels in Charikot charge a room from NRs 800 – 1200 and it’s much cheaper in Kuri. The food is cheap – NRs 200 is more than enough for a meal.  

Say ‘NO’ if you are offered venison in Nepal

The forbidden fruit always lures a man. And that’s why most of the non-vegetarians are fascinated by the idea of eating a wild animal. But have you ever wondered how the meat is procured? How do the profit-makers kill the poor animals illegally and how they cheat the buyers?

Bardiya National Park, Nepal’s largest park in the plains, borders with Surkhet district notorious for illicit trade of wild animal parts – deer meat being one of the most frequently traded items.  

Chital (Spotted deer). Image by Mahesh Balasubramanian.CC BY 2.0

If you travel from Kohalpur of Banke to Birendranagar of Surkhet, you will come across a stop-over “Babai”, at the banks of Babai River. There are small tea and snacks shops dotting over the road-side that sell hot meals to the travellers stopping by. And if you are a regular customer, they will ask, “Would you like to taste venison?”

However, think twice before eating the meat of a wild animal. I must have travelled via Babai to Surkhet more than 30 times. And most of the times, the shop-owners ask me to taste the delicacy of the day. But every time, my answer remains the same. A blunt “No”.

The poachers spray lumps of salt on grass patches frequented by deer. Then they spray Thyodene on the patches. After few days of exposure to the sun, the odour of the chemical normalises and when the deer come to the patches, they eat the salty grass. Due to the grass laced with poison, they die on the spot. The poachers then take away the carcasses and make dry meat. The meat is sold at an exorbitant price.

Himalayan langurs. Image by user Gautam. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

However, if you are not a regular customer, chances are high that you will get duped. Instead of serving deer meat, they will give you langur meat. It’s sad that the langur population is declining as they get killed for the meat.

So, next time you are offered a plate of deer meat, say “No” and help save these beautiful species along with the innocent monkeys that get killed to replace deer meat.

And I was the last man to jump off to safety from the jaws of death

The Pulchowk bus station at Narayangarh was bustling with crowd – a mélange of people from hills, terai (plains) and foreigners back from Sauraha, the destination famous for sighting one-horned rhinos. The temperature was soaring at 36 degree Celsius and the air was humid, making everyone sweat perpetually. The Narayani River flowed gently nearby, with the vehicles screeching at the bridge to lower their speed. Policemen were loitering at the station, enquiring groups of people in between.

Adding to the sea of confusion, a bus from Bhairahawa, with a load of bananas and vegetables on the rooftop, stopped near the common ticket counter booking tickets to Kathmandu. People, waiting for the bus, hurried to embark the bus and grab the front seats – so that their journey till Kathmandu will be a comfortable one. Among them was a man with five goats – he got in the bus with the goats in the tow. As the goats bleated, the passengers cursed the conductor for allowing him to get in.

“Mommy!” “Mommy!”

A terrified baby started crying seeing the goats, while one of the goats started tearing at the shawl of the mother seated on the last row. She hit the goat with her elbow and it let go off the shawl. But whenever she looked elsewhere, the goat would again start its work. A game of hide and seek, between the mother and the goat, ensued.

The bus was full within minutes and the passengers were packed like sardines. The perspiration and smell of all different sorts started wafting like a concoction of strong rotten eggs and raksi, a home-made alcohol.

***                                 ***                                   ***                                   ***

A man next to me was chewing beetle leaf and used to lunge at the window to spit in between. The red spurts would splash on my face and clothes as he spat each time. In spite of the man’s audacity and my peaking vexation, I crushed my anger and remained a mere spectator.

All the passengers were asking the driver to start the bus, but the greedy conductor still wanted some more people who could travel sitting on the sacks of bananas and vegetables on the bus roof.

The bus operators never care for the comfort of the commuters but only for the money that they can squeeze out of them.

Then came an old man with a white cap, a silver goatee and a few days’ stubble which confirmed him to be a Muslim. He tried to get in the bus along with a basket of 10-20 chickens in it.

Not letting him in, the conductor started haggling over the fare.

"Hundred for you and 50 for your chickens," said the conductor.
"I will give you just 100, why are you charging for these chickens?" said the man meekly.
"Don't you know, they occupy a space that can adjust three men?"
"But they are not men, they are mere chickens."
"Fifty is not even a pinch of what should be paid," the conductor growled furiously.

The deal could not be struck. But the old man had just managed to get inside the bus door with his basket of chickens. Miffed by the altercation, the conductor grabbed the collar of the old man's kurta, disembarked him from the bus rudely, picked up the basket and threw it out of the bus.

The chickens, afraid, started clucking – adding to the cacophony.  

The old man was no match for the young conductor boy. The boy still managed to get some more men inside the bus. As the engine of the bus started roaring, the old man with tears in his eyes cursed, “You have mishandled a man of your grandfather’s age, the great Allah will punish you for your misdeed.” “Insallah!”

“To hell with you and your Allah!” shouted back the conductor and the bus sped on.

It was not fair. But none in the bus thought of confronting the ill-mannered guy. All were perched to their seats and nobody wanted to share the space with the old man and his chickens.

To the most Hindus in the bus – if not all – he was just a Muslim.   

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The Narayangarh – Muglin road section had lots of potholes and to add to the woes, the driving was reckless. The passengers at the back jumped with each bumps and jolts on the road. As the bus hit a bump, the goats would start bleating and passengers would scream “Ram Ram”. 

The bus left behind a cloud of dust which would finally settle on the trees and shacks by the road. I was feeling sorry for the soothing scenery and the river flowing by the road that provided some relief amidst the agony.

Besides, I was lucky to get a front seat. I had put my bag and sandals on the overhead rack and was reading the latest issue of Businessworld. The man sitting next to me wanted to break the ice and chat, but I kept mum. Still he disturbed me with his chewing and spitting.

At first I would take off my gaze from the magazine and look outside the window as and when the bus came across a jolt. But with a bump every minute or so, the curiosity died away. And I remained stuck to the magazine.  

As the bus crossed the bend after the famous Jalbire temple, the driver increased the speed. There might have been two reasons – Muglin, the next stop was nearby and a huge loaded truck was in front of us – with a driver adamant at not leaving the tarmac.  

Our bus driver was doing his best to overtake the truck and our ears were abuzz with the horn honking all the time. As he located a narrow strip, he sped the bus further and we were competing with the truck.

Then the only thing that we heard was a huge thud. And a complete chaos. Our bus had hit a post on the road boundary! 

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A bus stranded on the road between Narayangarh and Kathmandu after accident. Image from Flickr by Michael McDonough. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

The bus was hanging by the boundary post. A scary see-saw it was. Thanks to the goats – their weight at the tail end was holding the bus from plunging down the hill into the river.

Some of the passengers had already jumped off the bus from the front door. Some were hanging to the trees with their skins slashed. Two women were crying at the back seat. The window had shattered and the glass pieces had cut their faces at several places.

Even in the death-at-the-sight moment I was able to grab my sandals and bag from the rack above my head. In a flash, I was jumping out of the opposite window.

Then somebody grabbed my t-shirt and hurled me back into the bus.

The man was in his 60s. “Please let my daughter jump first, she has a long life ahead,” he said and started helping her jump from the hanging bus.

Each second in the ill-fated bus seemed like a year to me. I was sweating like nothing and the fear of death was not letting me think anything rather than jumping out of the bus.

After his daughter, it was the man who took the turn to get out of the bus. A minute ago he was talking about giving chance to a younger girl to live and then he was ignoring a young man in his early twenties.

The bus was still hanging to the boundary post. When I jumped off the window, the upper window sill caught my t-shirt but still I was able to get off the bus. As I safely landed on the road, I could see that the bus was already empty. Nobody was inside, except the goats. They were still bleating. And this time, I knew it was because of the fear of death. But the din and hullabaloo out on the road overpowered it.

People care not for the precious lives but think themselves to be more precious than others.

Several thoughts preoccupied my mind and the most prevalent was the conversation between the old man with chickens and the conductor boy. The old man with his silver goatee and white cap would flash each time in front of my eyes as I turned towards the bus. And his words would echo in my ears, “You have mishandled a man of your grandfather’s age, the great Allah will punish you for your misdeed.” “Insallah!”

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It was 7 PM and was getting dark. The stranded passengers were waving hands and getting on to any vehicles that stopped for help. Luckily, four monks and I were picked up by a pick-up going to Kathmandu. We were the last ones to be rescued from the site.

As we left the scene, the bus was still hanging to the post and the goats – tired of bleating were whimpering. And the whimper, I knew, was scary. A sign of little thread of hope amidst the appearing death.

The pick-up, a jittery vehicle, was throwing billows of smoke behind. Amidst the darkness of the smoke, it seemed, the old man with white cap and silver beard was cursing the conductor. And I could see the man in his 60s tugging me by my t-shirt and pulling me back into the bus. I was comparing the tears in the old man’s eyes to the twinkle in the eyes of the latter.

The more I tried to remember, the more cunning the latter looked.

Passing the small town Muglin, we were back on tarmac with no potholes. The journey was smoother and the pick-up no more threw clouds of smoke behind. Till that time, I was getting familiar with the four monks, all dressed in orange and maroon. There was a sort of glow in their faces. Calm as sea they were.

When I asked from where they were coming, one of them quietly replied, “Bodh Gaya.”

I was more interested in them and as I chirped and chirped asking them more and more, the reticent men started talking – this time in one-liners instead of the one-words. They had been to the place of Buddha’s enlightenment. And enlightened they were.

After almost two hours’ ride, we arrived at Naubise – with the remaining journey reduced to 36 kilometres, an hour’s journey. As the vehicle stopped for late tea and snacks, I grabbed a packet of salt and sweet biscuits and started munching on it. The four monks remained in the pick-up. When I offered them the packet, they simply denied. I could feel the sense of fulfillment in their eyes.  

Then the scenes again started revolving in my head – the goats bleating, eating the women’s shawl, the bus smelling of local alcohol, the old man with chickens, the conductor and the man in his 60s – all characters forming an indelible collage. 

Lost in my thoughts, I looked at the four men. I could feel and see the calmness in their faces amidst the dim light splashed by the vehicles following us.

The tranquility in their company was slowly erasing the harsh memories I was hoarding moments ago.

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