Yug zee Tah

Band-aids

2012-03-01T18:24:00.000-08:00

First my tiny shiny fluffy heart
scraped so hard
against your glinting metallic one
I feel a bruise coming up
(the threads are fraying).
And now I hear
you are the sole authorized dealer
of heart healing band-aids.

Blush

2012-02-28T08:08:00.000-08:00

When I abruptly blush
in a room full of people
while talking to someone irrelevant
it is because
your eyes have reached out
to lend me a warm hug
while everyone is watching.

Or not

2012-02-27T06:32:00.001-08:00

The answer to the question
of whether I am single (or not)
shall not be satisfactorily given
until I am completely single (or otherwise).

With a capital i.

2012-02-25T19:15:00.001-08:00

The amount of talent
on the Internet
(with a capital i)
intimidates and dazzles me
and makes me want to crawl
into my Harold Bloom shell
of belatedness.

Once upon a time

2012-02-25T02:44:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time
I was so pretty
My narcissistic self
fell in love
and was never
weaned of it.

Bedeviled

2012-02-22T09:50:00.000-08:00

That good girls fall for crooks

Is old, old lore.
Hetty Sorrel did it, I know
And our very own Jhuma too.
(Though I can't quite place them right now,
too much to mug up you see).

But falling for a downright devil —

Now that is a new one.

(A leap from tradition to modernity,

My professor of 602.4: Period & Tradition would say)

But I can’t help it, Mephistopheles…

My uncle Faustus only gave you his soul,

And that after a lifetime of squabbles.

Mephisto, leave him to his wretched fate.

Look at me instead —

I allow you to tear away the heart

And not a whimper will I utter.

Me, nora, me.

2012-02-19T07:23:00.000-08:00

By the time I realized that
I was the modern day Nora
it was too late to go back
to being un-Nora.
And it was so comfortable
(yes, I hear you muttering about a 'trap')
I decided to pretend I had
never discovered I was
Nora incarnate.

Craggy Comfort

2012-02-18T04:22:00.000-08:00

To all others you are a

Jagged, ugly, space-occupying rock.

But to me, you are what I always hoped

a rock would be.

Tormented by my three weepy children

I noisily slam the door of my house

And venture into an unknown path

I see you, and randomly lift you up

And I find —

Well, you know what I find.

One, two, four, seven…

Eleven tiny, chubby mushrooms

Begging to be plucked and

Simmered in a bowlful of rice gruel

Before being hungrily wolfed down

By three clamoring mouths

And perhaps even a ne’er-do-good one,

If he deigns to grace his home today.

Under the Rock also read:

Diteez: hidden treasure

Easy (Peasy) Cheesy Pasta

2012-02-17T04:44:00.000-08:00

It looks much better in daylight, photographed near a rose bush.

Do not roll up your eyes and say “Not another of those easy-sounding recipes that turn out all complicated!” Believe me, I am as much a non-cook as you are, quite apt to burn and undercook and oversalt. But this is a recipe perfected by Sewa and me, really easy and yummy, and I make a bowlful many, many evenings of the month. Try it out, the recipe is enough for two.

INGREDIENTS

1. Pasta/Macaroni (whatever the packet likes to call itself) : I estimate one fistful for one person.

2. Chili: One for each person too, unless you prefer something more or less spicy.

3. Salt: Well, obviously!

4. Onion: One, since I am not a big fan.

5. Sauce: Sewa and me like Maggi Hot and Sour, and lately I like Druk too. Plain sauce does not do as well.

6. Potatoes: Around four medium-sized ones. Peel, and cut into (very) tiny cubes.

7. Fresh shelled peas: Not mandatory, of course, but it is for me the highlight of the dish.

8. Carrots: One should do. Peeled and diced into small cubes.

9. Cauliflower: If you want some. Or cabbage, or even capsicum or beans. Whatever you prefer. Cut into miniscule pieces.

10. Tomatoes: Five small ones.

11. Cheese: As much as you want, and I want a lot. Grate it for convenience.

METHOD:

1. Heat oil in a frying pan and sauté onions (or fry them, but I just wanted to use the word sauté in my recipe.)

2. Put in the peas first, and cover while they splatter around merrily.

3. Toss in the carrots and potatoes and assorted veggies.

4. Mix well and cook on a small flame. After it is near ready (you can taste one potato cube, that’s what I do), drop in the tomatoes and cover.

5. In another pan, boil water, drop in macaroni, with a pinch of salt and a drop of oil if you want (I never seem to want any).

6. Around fifteen minutes should be enough for both the veggies and the macaroni.

7. Wash the macaroni in cold water, drain and keep aside (or nearby, I should say).

8. Now add the macaroni to the veggies, and stir really hard.

9. Then add dollops of the sauce to the mixture, so that everything is evenly red.

10. Add the shredded cheese, stir until the flavor becomes heady and the texture thick and sticky.

11. Mix well, and ladle unto bowls. Garnish it with more cheese if you like, or even coriander (though I haven’t tried it personally).

नबोलाउ त्यो छाताको ओतमुनि

2012-02-15T12:57:00.000-08:00

तिमी एलआइसी बिमा कम्पनीमा काम गर्छौ हो?

सुर ताल मिलाएर "प्यार हुवा इकरार हुवा" गाउन सक्छौ?

नया प्रजातिको च्याउ पो उत्पादन गरेको छौ कि?

"मेरे छतरी के नीचे आ जा" चलचित्र हेर्ने हो?

रुघाखोकीले ग्रस्त छौ कि कसो?

तेस्तो केहि होइन रे?

उसोभए मिल्काईदेउ तिम्रो झिंझोलाग्दो छाता

आउ केहि छिन रुझौँ झरीमा |

झरीका कविता:

दिती: हिँड जाऊँ
केशव: त्यो झरी परेको साँझ

Melt melts molten

2012-02-15T08:38:00.000-08:00

The tense might be wrong

But the verb, my love, is always right.

See, melt, eat.

You adore me and cling

To my thighs, to my hips

To the tip of my tongue

(and I think, is it not sordid

To care for someone so very much?)

But still I melt

As long as you are molten.

Also read:
a perfect evening
No to fate of molten chocolate

Tools of Seduction: Latent and Blatant Sexuality in Gillette Razor Advertisements

2012-02-11T09:18:00.000-08:00

Long before we were assigned the task of analyzing a public discourse, my friend sent me an advertisement he thought I would find interesting. And indeed, I did. Creativity in any form inspires and intrigues me, and I thought the advertisement of Gillette Razor, which depicted a feminine face sporting a slight stubble on her cheeks and chin (Ad I), was a particularly imaginative one. The words stamped on the pretty model’s upper lip and chin made the ad stand out. They say, “I don’t mind the look. I just hate the feel” (Ad I).

Ad I

I found the ad making mild use of sexuality in two counts — first because it uses a female model to promote a purely male product, and secondly because it suggests intimacy and physical proximity between the opposite sexes through the use of words ‘look’ and ‘feel’. By making use of a female to imply to a male that she likes the ‘look’ of his stubble but not the ‘feel’, the ad is challenging the notion of male attraction too — that they might look tough if they want but if they want to please a woman, they have to feel soft to her touch. This is, perhaps, a reflection of the notion of the modern metrosexual males, who are described as “straight urban men willing, even eager, to embrace their feminine sides” (6). The wily use of sexuality in advertisement is no longer a hush-hush topic, especially in the West, which has accepted that “Sexuality in advertising is often used to grab an audience’s attention. As well as being a product to be sold and consumed itself, sexuality is also used to sell nonsexual products” (Sex and Society, 43). Agreeing to this are Courtney and Whipple, who state:

Sexuality in the form of nudity, sexual imagery, innuendo, and double entendre is employed as an advertising tool for a wide variety of products, ranging from personal-care products to heavy-industrial machinery. The use of sexual appeals in advertising stems from the widely held belief that sexual portrayals are effective in calling attention to the advertisement. (103)

This was the first advertisement that came to my mind when we were assigned the present research. The Gillette ad led me to believe that the Proctor & Gamble Company, responsible for the advertisement, believed in the notion of subtle or in-your-face sexuality to sell their product. This is not a surprise, as Gupta explains “Sex is the second strongest of the psychological appeals, right behind self-preservation. Its strength is biological and instinctive, the genetic imperative of reproduction” (77-78).

Gillette not only understands this basic human need, but knowingly exploits feminine sexuality to endorse their products. This echoes Berger’s views, who says “Women, and now men, are made into sex objects, used to sell everything from automobiles to toothpaste, though women are exploited much more than women in advertising” (89). Their second ad confirmed my belief. It is very similar to the first ad except for the words — this time, a bearded woman says “You want to kiss this? Neither would I” (Ad II). This is an even more direct appeal to the male sexuality, as it uses the word ‘kiss’ to make males understand that females would not want to perform this action with them unless they use the razor to shave their beard and moustache.

Ad II

The models used in both the advertisements, and also the ones I studied afterward, contain one similar element — they are all “healthy, young, receptive and impregnable”, which Gupta says are “imperative to arouse male sexual desire”. (78)

The third Gillette ad I came across almost shocked me with its blatant display of sexuality. The razor blade is not usually taken as something erotic — it is merely an apparatus that helps people get rid of unwanted hair and maintain social decorum, which is considered a part of modern civilized life. However, the ad of Gillette Proslide (Ad III) is quite explicit in the message it wants to convey — that a simple razor is the path to sexual nirvana. At first, there might be a confusion of whether the ad is appealing to males or females, because it displays an array of female clothes, from a somber coat to miniscule female lingerie. However, there are two factors that make it clear that it is a male product being advertised. The first is the slogan ‘Take it all off’ (Ad III). Combined with the graphic image, it is a direct invitation to males to ‘take off’ all the clothes of women as presented in the ad, presumably as preparation for copulation. Even more obvious than this is the last image in the row of five, which symbolizes a naked body with hair on the chest and the pubic region — which is supposed to be ‘taken off’ by the razor. This further reinforced my initial observation that Gillette wishes its consumers to view it not as an ordinary appliance but a powerful tool by using which men could find themselves in a position to take it ‘all off’ a woman.

These print advertisements have been designed almost exclusively for the Western world, because I have never seen them on a magazine for the eastern world till date. However, the internet has made it easy for viewers from any country to find these ads, and analyze them from our social and cultural context. After taking note of the use of attractive female figures and sexually charged words in the sales of a male product, I was curious to know whether Gillette used this nuance of sexuality in its female products as well. The name of the product — a razor exclusively targeted at women — is Venus. The very name is an appealing one, tricking females into thinking that its use can somehow metamorphose them into the Greek Goddess symbolizing beauty and youth. True to its name, the first ad I picked depicted a wedding scene, which has an immediate connotation with sexuality and reproduction (Ad IV). However, the picture itself is simple and innocent — a male in a suit and a female in a virginal white dress holding hands. Although the basic context is romantic, Gupta explains “To sell a woman, advertising relies on that modern idea (only a few hundred years ago) about how men and women relate — romance.” (81). The impeccably dressed male also tallies with Gupta’s idea:

Romance fits into the woman’s intellectual view of relationships since its major element, courtship, the process by which men apply to be and women select mates, is the discovery of how the male does or does not societal criteria for a suitable sexual partner. Rarely does the romantic appeal contain the blatant sexual messages that appear in ads aimed at men since such messages would counter the intellectual’s view. Although an ad may use a man’s body as an attention-seeking device, he is usually shown in a romantic rather than sexual context. (81)

Ad IV

The image of sexuality in this case is the bride’s red garter belt that has slipped to her left ankle. The slogan ‘Seriously smooth legs’, added to the subtle image, promise women skin which is so smooth that anything slides down it. But beyond this almost ‘cute’ interpretation is something quite sinister — the garter belt, supposed to stay up at the girl’s thighs, is at her ankle for all to see, leaving a naked and embarrassing feeling behind for anyone from the Nepali community. However, for the Western world, this is merely an assertion of female sexuality, and the need for women to keep themselves presentable (with smooth skin) and alluring (with red garter). This example adds to the attempt of Gillette razors to find a place in the sexual life of their consumers. As Berger says:

This sexuality is never free in itself, it is a symbol of something presumed to be larger than it: the good life in which you can buy anything you want. To be able to buy is the same thing as being sexually desirable. (91)

Compared to this, the next advertisement on my list (Ad V) is positively tame. It depicts a pair of long and sensuous unclothed female legs, right up to the thighs, considered a surefire technique of arousing male hormones. What is striking about the ad are its words — or rather the repetition of the word ‘woman’ and ‘curve’. The slogan ‘You’re a woman. Shave like one.’ seeks to differentiate men and women and make women more aware of their feminine form. Its implication is that to stick with the qualities of a ‘woman’, they should ‘shave like one’. Or, in other words, a woman cannot be one if she shaves like a man, or with anything else than the suggestively named ‘Gillette Venus Embrace.’

Ad V

Also, in general, it can be assumed that a razor and ‘curve’ have very little in common. But in choosing to use this word twice, the ad is reminding women that the razor fits into and accentuates their ‘curves’ — cashing in on the context that ‘curvaceous’, ‘buxom’ and ‘voluptuous’ (‘bootilicious’ in singer Beyonce’s words) are naturally seen as intrinsically feminine and attractive. This is also an alarming phenomenon for the modern female, as Courtney and Whipple state: “The use of female body in advertisements targeted to women implies that advertisers believe women define their sexuality in male terms and that they accept an objective and passive view of themselves” (105). At this point, it ceased to surprise me that the razor was being marketed as a cosmetic enhancement device rather than a rudimentary tool to get rid of body hair.

Even with this mindset firmly ensconced within me, the last Gillette advertisement I examined honestly made me wonder whether or not to include it in this study — it was obviously so sexual that it required no explanation. But as an afterthought, I decided to place it as the final discourse of my research as the ad (Ad 5) achieves a double whammy by making an appeal to both male and female sexuality. Ad 5 consists of a man’s slightly ajar lips in a close up shot that also focuses on the fuzzy beard and moustache growing around the lips. When described, it sounds childishly simple. But the visual images sneakily created for the ad are mind blowing — for the red male lips are photographed so that they seem to be that of the female genitalia — complete with the labia and fuzzy pubic undergrowth. This arousing image is further heightened by the use of the slogan ‘For those sensitive areas.’ Here, the word ‘sensitive’ is cunningly meant to refer to the private parts as represented in the picture.

Ad VI

This ad, like all the other ads I went through, is so persuasive because it has been created to make a lasting first impression. All the six ads work so well and linger in the mind because they have been specifically created for the skilled eye with quite a bit of brains and wit. Sexual images that would have been claustrophobic if they were telecast or meaningless if they were broadcast are perfectly eye-catching in print due to the persuasive mixture of succinct innuendos and crisp graphic image.

As mentioned earlier, all of the ads I have dissected aim to appeal to the primitive human force of sexuality. By doing so, they want to directly or sub-consciously appeal to potential customers to view the humble razor as a means to seduce, attract, arouse, retain and bind a sexual partner. However, in keeping with what Gupta has to say, products aimed at women and those at men have distinctly different varieties and amount of sexual undercurrents. Advertisements tone down or notch up the sexual content in their ads to confirm to the notion that “For a male, sexual arousal is important; for the female, sexual attractiveness is important.” (84).

One idea that interested me after reaching this conclusion was that these ads would have been too provocative and incomprehensible for the society we live in. We are used to putting more emphasis on ‘love’, ‘romance’, ‘affection’ and ‘femininity’. These ads replace the mild, placid and family-oriented concepts by direct and sensuous ones like lust, sexual attraction, female liberation and male machismo. So, these ads would be distasteful, embarrassing, vulgar, pornographic and even sinful to the average Nepali ad-viewer. In fact, the exaggerated dominance of male sexuality would be difficult for the Nepali females to accept and vice versa.

The use of sex in advertising is a two edged sword. Although it is extremely powerful and effective when aimed at one gender, it often does so at the social expense of the other. Since humans live in a social world, consideration must be given to the feelings of the people in that world. (85)

But these ads, having been specifically manufactured for the more liberal and accepting Western society which sees nothing wrong with either of the sexes flaunting their sexuality, reach out frankly to their target audience, reminding them to use the razors in the never-ending search for romance, lust and sex. And this is how the negligible razor reaches the revered aide of a sexual aide, an aphrodisiac, or simply put — the modern tool of seduction.

Works Cited

Berger, Arthur Asa. Ads, Fads, and Consumer Culture: Advertising’s Impact on American Culture and Society (4th ed). Plymouth: Rowland & Littlefield Publishers, 2011.

Courtney, Alice E., Thomas W. Whipple. Sex Stereotyping in Advertising. Lanham: Lexington Books, 1983.

Gupta, Om. Advertising in India: Trends and Impact. New Delhi: Kalpaz Publications, 2005.

John, Warren St. “Metrosexuals Come Out”. June 22, 2003. The New York Times. Pg. 6.

Sex and Society, Volume 1. London: Marshall Cavendish Reference, 2010.

This is a term paper I submitted to my Professor Dr Anirudra Thapa for Rhetoric, Writing, and Critical Discourse Analysis (601.6), MPhil, 2012.

Stranger, my stranger

2012-02-11T08:49:00.000-08:00

How romantic you sound on paper.
How grotesque you seem in real life
when I'm waiting for a bus
and notice you looking at me
from there, there, right around that corner.

Diteez : http://diteez.blogspot.com/2012/02/strangers-gaze.html

Kay: http://keshuvko.wordpress.com/2012/02/10/%E0%A4%A8%E0%A4%B9%E0%A5%87%E0%A4%B0-%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%8D%E0%A4%AF%E0%A4%B8%E0%A4%B0%E0%A5%80/

Mirror, mirror, on the wall

2012-02-07T09:30:00.001-08:00

How soon life jumps

From young, delicate, slender

elderly, rickety, stocky.

And I turn into

That person in the mirror

I always dreaded meeting.

Oblivion

2012-01-29T09:35:00.000-08:00

And so we must always remain oblivious
of our feelings for each other.
For I cannot read minds
and you cannot read faces.

Intertwined

2012-01-26T09:26:00.000-08:00

Long after you have left me
and everything has returned to being
(almost) as bright as it was before
My hands still feel out of place.

They do not find warmth in my pockets,
they do not like swinging by my side.
My fingers, most of all, are so restless
they reminded me of grasshoppers.

I do not understand what they want.
They drum a wooden table
and then pry open a tin container
dig inside a cardboard box
and tug at a thread sneaking out of my jacket.

Until I realize they will never be happy
until they are intertwined in yours again.

The world as it is

2012-01-24T22:33:00.000-08:00

There are men with lust
written all over their eyes.
But there are also men
with kindness flowing in their veins.

I meet women whose
middle name is Bitch.
And I have women with me
whose first name is Angel.

The world is perhaps
not such a bad place after all.

Beauty

2012-01-24T08:16:00.000-08:00

If I were really as beautiful
as you claim I am
The crown of Miss World
would have been among
the treasured possessions in my cupboard.

Password

2012-01-22T20:49:00.000-08:00

When you are sole owner
to the password of my heart
Why do you keep demanding
the passwords of my Facebook and Gmail?

You are, and so I am

2012-01-21T08:56:00.001-08:00

You are

The scar on my cheek that keeps me pretty

The sleep that keeps me awake all night

The pain that frees me from all my angst

The tears that make me smile.

And so, I am

A puppet that dances to the desire of your emotions.

Reckless flight

2012-01-11T11:04:00.000-08:00

I see hearts flying around.

I don’t even have to close my eyes.

They are floating all over —

Entangled at the tips of my hair

Brushing my eyelids, touching my lips

Sprinkled atop my frilly black coat

Dancing to my right

Prancing to my left

But mostly just soaring to the skies

As I look out of the corner of my eyes

(for they flit away shyly if I try to gaze at them)

They aim for the stars — up, up and away.

It’s a lovely sight,

and I know I have never seen anything as beautiful.

But all too soon I hear a crash.

The first heart lies right at my feet, deflated.

As I bend to pick it up another lands nearby

Then another, and another

Pitiful and painful and nerve-wracking the way

All those pretty pink hearts crumble, battered

And drop down scattered as far as I can see.

Should I then, let my heart take reckless flight

For that dizzy instant

Even if I know it will be murdered before long?

Earning a living: Way of life

2012-01-04T09:41:00.000-08:00

It’s not like I don’t crib about my job. I do, and quite vociferously too. Sometimes it seems to me all I do after coming home is complain about the hard time I had. I am the first one to chuckle at boss jokes and forward office cartoons. But today is not a day to criticize. It’s a day to celebrate one whole year of my first (solid, office) job and think about everything I have ever liked about it.

And what I truly, truly, like the most are the clothes. Or rather, the freedom to buy and wear any (reasonably) outlandish apparel I want. Call me frivolous or childish, but I’m so glad a newspaper job does not claw away my jeans and converse and jaunty hair bands. I have friends working at banks who must have their formal trousers ironed razor-sharp and shoes shined a crazy black. Or teachers who can wear nothing but saris and perhaps a staid kurta some lenient days. I know there are now institutions that do not frown upon a top-and-trouser combo, but I do think that they would have something quite harsh to say about my (sometimes) skin tight pants and hair left tumbling all over the forehead. The idea of a uniform at work appeals to me every once in a while, but most of the days I’m just immensely thankful I can grab anything from the cupboard — a white frock (yes, a farak from the childhood), a casual half sweater, a knee-length blue dress (better suited for a day out as Prakriti says), an absurd brown sack, gypsy skirt, garish pink tee-shirt, frayed scarf, wellingtons, canary yellow slippers — and don them without anyone batting an eyelid. How glad I am, that I need not have an ‘office’ collection.

And how glad that I do have another kind of ‘office’ collection — a set of fabulous people. From my sister-prophet to ex-walking partner cum confidant and current pillion rider to virtually every other type of friend I could want. There is a little brother who drifted away somewhere before coming back as the troubleshooter in full swing (and quite a bit of dance), the office chatterbox who makes time whiz by on the drop home, a classmate who is now a colleague, another former classmate who is also a colleague (and a brother to boot), the sweet one, the slightly wayward one, the old, the very young. The super-intelligent one who loves nothing more than a truckload of gossip, and then I have the guide and philosopher too — who keeps my feet tethered to the ground lest I fly away too high. And I think I forgot the office clown, who lifts the spirits up with a loud, fruity song no matter what the time and occasion. I am well aware of the fact that colleagues are not to be mistaken for best friends (after a few too many rude shocks), but good friends — definitely!

That is as definite as the fact that I thrive on my ‘financial independence’. I have placed it later on my list, and put it inside the doubt of inverted commas, because I am not yet so independent to think I could get by on the paycheck. A particular red leather jacket in Durbar Marg, one movie and a popcorn too many, a walk through the chocolate aisles of Bhat Bhateni — and I am left with a near-empty wallet the rest of the month. No wonder Buwa says I squander all my money on haircuts and silly bags and sixteen-buttoned coats. But still, the money flows in (even more fluid than water) at the beginning of each month, and it gives me confidence, and satisfaction, and power. To be honest, I was earning from quite an early age, always the one to give ‘treats’ every time I withdrew the crisp notes. But that was only in fits and starts, and I frittered away everything as soon as I got it. Now at least the money allotted to me after a month of (sometimes fun, other times intolerable) toil is sent to the bank, where it stays put, quite safe, until an ATM reaches out and promises to whisk me away to Neverland and then hugs me so tight I know it won’t leave me till I feed it my card.

The word ‘feed’ has made me hungry. Me, who rarely understood what ‘hunger’ was because I indulged only in comfort eating at all times of the day. What great pains Ama had to make take two spoonfuls of chickpea soup, a slice of apple, one bowl of papaya cubes. Now the same finicky person makes toast and spreads jam, peels oranges and packs cucumbers for lunch. Everything seems delicious now, midday at office — I ate up to two bowls of slightly gooey beaten rice and curd during summers, now I don’t turn up my nose at the semi-liquid Rara soup, the omelet sitting fluffy and opulent on top. It’s only hunger that matters, after all. I come home and eat a roti and drink a glassful of milk (without chocolate, thank you) with much relish, much dry fruits and don’t spoon away the spinach. How happy Ama is that I eat slightly better, how happy I am that I cook much better. Cooking lunch for myself has made me the unanimous authority on all things macaroni and chili. I can make macaroni in four different ways (and all quite delicious, I am assured), stir up mixed veggies as well as Ama does, drench fries in sauce and onion as well as Sewa too (or so Bina likes to flatter me). Nana said you learn to cook only if you love someone or fear someone — but I say, you learn it if you want a yummy lunch for yourself too.

And if I can cook now what I couldn’t when I was not working but lolling around, surely I have leant a bit of time management too. I have always been amazed by those who multitask — but now that I have to do it perforce, I can see what a thrill it gives you at times (besides a splitting headache at others). Staying up till 3:00 am for a whole two months to write my thesis, 2:00 am for a term paper, 1:00 am to submit a story. If you have the will, you will find the way. Even if I think I have absolutely not one minute more, I must study and write and cook a little bit, and I do. Well, isn’t that what all the high-sounding time management articles teach you?

On to the spiritual articles, then — that keep warning you not to lose focus of the things that really matter — family, friends, ‘you’ time. This is something where I shall have to dwell a while. Perhaps even complain, though I said I wouldn’t. Because this is where I find the least points to be upbeat about. But then again, at least I do have things to be proud of. I go straight to Buwa after I come home, and laugh with him before I prance downstairs to spend time with Ama, and then the hour-long chats with Sewa and co. Yes, the time to relax is much lesser than I would like. But it is there, and I stretch my legs and gulp down the precious moments. Friends drop by for lunch during my break, or else I go down for a quick cup of tea (an office-acquired habit!), and life is better again.

Moments I had many when I was not working, too, much of them spent in creative pursuits. But now that I think back, perhaps I did not use those moments as well as I could have done. I destroyed too much time being lazy, angry, distraught and particularly grumpy. Now, when Bina says to me, “Didi, you don’t even get angry these days!” I smile to myself. Life taught me, perhaps, but more taught my job — that there are bigger dissatisfactions than my socks not drying, bigger crises than the load shedding, bigger troubles than having to make dinner. Deadlines, pressures, mistakes, unpleasant surprises, rudeness, burdens, no time for love — now I realize what they truly mean. How everyday is a tightrope of all of these, and not worth my misery and sniffles. The day might be tedious, but it will pass. I will survive to embrace another day, harsher times, maliciousness, heart-breaking blows — and I will endure.

And more than this courage, the spiritual strength, what the office has (unwittingly) lent me is a dose of fearlessness. Let me be clear — I am the girl stepping out of the word ‘girl’. I embody all its qualities — romance, weepiness, cowardliness. I was the one whose heart skipped a bit if I had to enter a dark room, who was home way before six, who crept under the bed fearing thieves, who cried because there was a mouse regally reclining on my pillow. Really, I was the most timid and fearful of people. Then I began to work the 12:30 pm to 8:30 pm shift, trooping home at any time after 9:00. I remember the first night, when I thought I was the bravest girl in the world to come home in the office drop — though my heart galloped wildly and my ears were in a buzz. How the van wouldn’t reach our house. And I had to settle for the alley a good five minutes away. How I gradually came to love the drop and it was one of the highlights of the day — sinking back into the seat, feet atop the seat in front, listening to anything and everything on Hits FM. The banter with Mangal Dai, my rasik father figure, who dropped pearls of wisdom on everything — the worst professions (driver, soldier, doctor, reporter); the sure-fire cure for cough (XXX rum heated to a boil); the really bad girls at office (…). The chocolates and noodles, Lays and leftover lunch. The jokes and wicked observations of Ram Dai, who reportedly said, “Look at Richa Bhattarai — she never asks to be walked to her home no matter how late it is.” Like he ever offered to. Stumbling home through layers of muck, umbrella in one hand, sandals on the other, sure I would topple over any moment. When I thought I would never, never, reach home, and my frustrated tears mingled with the raindrops dripping down my chin. Poor Buwa or Ama coming up with a flashlight, me flashing a torch back in our Enid Blyton-Tom Sawyer signal. Navigating the path in a state of near-dream at eleven or twelve or two. They were, and still are, one of the most memorable and fascinating ‘character-building’ experiences.

Beyond these experiences, the memories, the confidence — what my profession has taught has me is humility. And professionalism, whatever little I may have. To state it frankly, it made me eat humble pie. I remember when I first joined office, and I thought I must be the best editor ever because everyone I had met until then emphasized on how clever and good and perfect I was, particularly as a student. That made me smug, and horribly proud of my negligent skills, and I was quick to take offence if anyone pointed out my mistakes. And so many mistakes I made, even after repeated instructions from my seniors, what an absolute duffer I was. The way I bristled up defensively when my (highly competent) supervisor tried to teach me — it makes me laugh now, and blush. Until somehow, one day, I (thankfully) realized that I would not learn anything this way. That yes, I might have learnt all my theories, but that meant nothing till I could apply them. That was when I began to learn, and adapt, and adjust, and become hungry to learn some more. That is the biggest, greatest thing the job has taught me — that I cannot always be good or right, but I should never stop trying, and never, ever, be complacent. Give everything your best and sometimes, the best will make its way back to you.

One more day

2011-12-31T11:19:00.000-08:00

When I have a little time

I salt and pickle and freeze your memories
inside the hexagonal chambers
of my heart
to be scraped out
at the end of a tiring day
when the world leaves me
starved and craving for affection.

That is when I carefully peel off
a bit from here,
a slice from there —
to savor the bottled moments
and relish them,
enough to warm and soothe and nourish me
and make me hearty enough
to face just one more day.

My tryst with metal

2011-12-22T19:54:00.000-08:00

The unforgiving Kathmandu morning

is warmed only by the thought of
nudging my hands deep into your jacket pockets.
Well, yes, I have cavernous pockets
in my glaring white coat too.
But what fun is it
if I have to resort to my own means
with you in front of me?

Like every other time
I hitch myself up your bike
(my skirt gets in the way, you see)
and stuff one, and then both the palms
somewhere deep within the tartan pockets,
so that the cruel chill learns to let go.

And then I find it.
The ring. (The ring!)
I have brushed against metal, I am sure.
I finger it — the roundness, the thinness
The ring I had once disdained,
and then worried would never appear.
I lean my head on your shoulders.
Something I do only when I am very, very, happy.

How well you know.
And (try to) turn around,
tears threatening to seep out
from the corners of your eyes.
(the wind does it, not emotions).
“Why?” you ask.
I just snuggle closer to your broad back.

"Tomorrow you don’t give me the ring,
nor the day after, nor the next week.
Every day I stealthily touch it — or try to,
for I can’t reach the inner pocket.
But I reach through the fabric
and the coldness reaches back,
and I am content.

Until the next month,
when you still haven’t handed it over to me.
I try so hard, I bite my lips to hide the pain,
pushing back the thought
that you are saving it for someone else.
Soon the tears tumble down
to dampen some place near your first vertebrae.
“What, what?” you stop the bike, bewildered.

I hiccup and blush, and wipe my tears on my sleeve,
yet refuse to tell.
But you are you.
You prod and pry and take the answer from me
as easily as you did my heart.
I feel like a child now,
crying for a piece of shiny metal.
But I set my jaws and get ready
for my, my very own shiny bauble.

You put two fingers into that tiny pocket
and tug at my ring
from among the wad of notes
You carefully tuck away
to surprise me with Ferrero Rochers.
It amazes me that you do not pull it out right away
You claw at the ring,
and pull and finally hold the glinting thing on your palm.

And that is why,
these many years later,
I have a dull yellow button lining
wound lovingly around my finger.

My more than perfect love

2011-12-21T06:23:00.000-08:00

How dismissively you scoff

“You don’t love me.”

For if I did, I would surely have melted by now?

Surely, surely, I would have left all my attachments behind

And leapt into your arms (and into a magic world)?

I wouldn’t need to dither and dally and make excuses.

Love moves mountains, you claim.

That it has not moved me means it is not ‘real’ love.

Well, perhaps.

But then I do not expect you

To have felt the one true love

That only (slightly more than) half the people in this world do.

So deep, so intact in all its ways

One that so fulfills you with its perfection

Everything else after that is a

Little-less-than-perfect.

The love that begins when you realize

There is no other place in this world

As secure as within his arms.

I can hear your psychoanalysts muttering “Hero Worship!”

“Electra Complex”, the Freudians will nod knowingly.

But I say

It is the only love of my life.

I weep.

2011-12-19T09:47:00.000-08:00

He says I am an angel.

You christen me a devil.

(The inclusion of Christ, quite unintended).

The other one claims I am pretty.

You never forget to remind me of my ugliness.

(And I remember so well, my caterpillarness).

I have been complimented on my pout, likened to a cupid’s bow.

You say it is a disgrace.

(More than a little vulgar, I think you called it).

When they exclaim at my generosity,

You allege I am a miser.

(all because I could not spare time).

When they describe fair, they mean me.

While you rib me always, always — on my dark complexion.

(Krishnaa, some days I feel I was born with this name).

I listen to you, I sigh.

When will I appeal to your cold, grey gaze?

This evening, you hesitantly mutter with averted eyes

“You are beautiful.”

Why should I lie to you?

I weep.

For even you have stopped noticing the innocence of my soul.

Because you give me wings

2011-12-11T12:47:00.000-08:00

I bet every girl will jump with joy when her father wants to buy a scooty for her (except if she wants a car or a helicopter, in which case she will be very disappointed indeed). Well, but I was not happy or enthusiastic or even accepting of the idea. “No, Buwa,” I would flinch at its mention, “I cannot, I cannot.”

Why I could not was a mystery to many. With little kids dizzily riding around town, what was to stop me? It was only an absurd amount of fear, and apprehension, and a complete lack of confidence in my riding abilities. I may have learnt to ride a cycle (with plenty of help from Venki) at the usual age, but the skills never got better, and I never really took the cycle farther than the neighborhood alley. In Damak, I ventured to the bazaar once or twice, but promptly lost my nerve when I semi-collided with a rickshaw, got properly yelled at by the puller, and scampered home. It did not help, either, that I crashed into the roadside paini, a rustic drain that seemed like a river back then, not a few times.
Being a pathetically slow learner of most things practical, I soon learnt to let go of the handles and ride pillion, even behind Bina, the baby of the family, who emerged a perfect cyclist one fine day. I need not even talk of how other family members rode their cycles — Mailobuwa maneuvered it through a road as wide as my arm, Jay Dai dangled three baskets on each handle with comfort, Luna Di performed acrobatics with it when she was not whizzing past at breakneck speed, Kaka spun it in circles in our narrow balcony, and Sewa rode so fast over the speed bumps you would fall down on your face if you did not hold on tight.
And so on. It must have been a decade later, when everyone else had learnt riding and driving and had vehicles of their own, when the cajoling really began. “Everyone else does it,” Buwa would try to convince me. And I would just shiver and shake my head, “No, I can’t.” So he stopped it after a while, and things were quiet, and I loved riding pillion, but I still trembled at the thought of taking a bike out on the Kathmandu streets.
Until things changed, one bit at a time. Pieces of a jigsaw — Prashant convincing me how easy riding a bike was and actually forcing me to try it, me liking the feeling of being in charge, finishing college and thinking of a job. Until I said myself, “Buwa and Ama, I want a scooty for my birthday.” Okay, they agreed, they would clear the down payment, and I could take care of the monthly installments. That was how I went to the showroom with Ram Kaka and fell in love with the red-and-black as anyone would, and Kaka haltingly led it home.

Only then did it strike me — how on earth was I going to tackle the road in front of my home? Those who have been to our place will have begun nodding their heads, but for those who think I am making a fuss: the path is uphill in the most uphill way there can be. There is no place to rest or pause or even think — you must take the straight 30-second dash up the slope or crash down. That was why, for the next one month and even longer, I had to wait for someone to lug the scooty up to the road before I got my hands on it. And the scooty didn’t exactly take to me, either, refusing to start until it was kicked at least a 100 times (or until the “valves of the heart burst open” as Buwa said), stopping midway, wobbling and swerving and threatening to throw me off. Many times, it seemed to me I would never make it, would never be able to do what twelve-year-olds did with ease. Some might think that I am exaggerating, but suffice it to say that I went for a ride to Naya Bazaar, merely five minutes away, after only about a month. Else I just went timidly around TU, screeching to a halt if a bus appeared ten meters farther.

The only way I could lead the bike downhill to the home was to get down and brake the whole way — with someone pulling from behind. That would be Bina again, and she carried out the wearying task faithfully until one day she slipped on a bunch of cabbage leaves (yes, not even a banana peel) and let go — and I hurtled to the left, straight into a bush. Shocked but unhurt, I only remember Buwa rushing up in haste, feet bare, slippers forgotten, until he saw that I was safe. “Bankars,” he yelled then, “You are jangalis, giving me trouble all the time.”
Yes, I had troubles one after the other — of how to crawl forward on the road, how to look at the mirror without bumping into something in front, how to unravel the complexity of directions (that has always eluded me) enough to give signals. And then the ever-present ghost of obtaining a license — the process was supposed to most arduous. Only once did I ride without a license, zigzagging in Prashant’s scooty to office. I happened to catch sight of a truck behind me, and my heart nearly flipped over. “Oh my God,” I remember thinking, “There’s a truck, a truck behind me! I can see it!” Then at the Tripureshwor roundabout, I saw a policewoman in front, and that was that. “You ride the scooty, please,” I hissed at the bewildered Prashant, “Please come forward and ride it. I am going to step down. She knows I don’t have a license. She can see it.” It’s a miracle we weren’t both caught and fined, and that I managed to come to a shaky stop in front of the office. But I also knew I wouldn’t ride again without a license, and so I mulled over it — should I buy one? Should I go to Damak, perhaps?
I’m glad I did neither, and I’m even gladder Ram came down from his school up in the misty hills, to threaten and scold and persuade me to practice. It was off to the TU grounds again, collecting stones and sticks, and trying to wrestle in a bike through those tiny gaps that made me want to scream. If it was only the two of us, I was somewhat tolerable. I could wobble past two or even three sticks. But let there be a single little girl watching, and I would go slack, flustering and bumping into each stick and making it clatter to the ground while Ram made big eyes at me.
For four full months (yes, I know I’m so terribly dreary) I dithered on the license, because I would have to stay put for three months if I failed. But then Suryama bought her own Pleasure too, and wanted to try for a license, so I and Ram filled the forms too, one depressingly sweaty day. There were more brokers than applicants, more nervousness than excitement.
And I knew, two days later, that I was going to fail. The space between the poles was too little, every other person put their feet on the ground, the person on duty yelled ‘Fail!’ in a monstrous manner. I rode into the battlefield, and I recall thinking ‘I can- I can’t’ until I finally cleared it, sat for a traffic orientation given by a slightly attractive policeman a week later, and felt unburdened after a long time.
Well, the piece of paper lent me a surge of confidence, but nothing much of anything else. There was no fairytale ending, I did not turn into the best rider in Nepal — in fact, I barely used my scooty until much later.
But that is not the point. It is just that now I know that I can do things. All my scooty experiences were so strange and bewildering and frustrating and yet immensely character and confidence building. All those interesting encounters — the time when a kindly traffic police looked over my license and said, “Bhattaraiji, please look ahead and drive slow, you might get hit.” Or the kind-nasty one who said, “If the license is too heavy for you, I have lots of pockets, you know.” Or the nastiest (and rudest) one who said, “Oh, you just got a license, no wonder you have wings growing out of you!” (when I pondered for a while on whether or not the road ahead was a one-way).
But he was right. I do have wings on me now. That is all I mean to say. “What?” you might crinkle your nose, “You spun this yarn just to tell something we all know?” Well, yes. Whether I use my scooty or not, whether I have the same one next year or not, it is one of the few material things in life that makes me happy and joyous and free — and full of life. Happy Birthday, dearest J

P.S. — I stopped paying the installment after the second one. :D

Move over please, I am a little proudy (and quite a bit talent)

2011-11-23T20:39:00.000-08:00

Nepanglish, they say — the English so enmeshed with Nepali they can’t be cleaved apart. And no, I am not one of those purists who will drone about how there is no more pristine. I find it cute, and endearing, and perfectly natural, that we borrow words from one language and lend to the other and get lost in a rich, delightful mush. But having said that, there are some special ‘Nepalized’ words that are not only wrong but so — so annoying and jarring — that they weary me no end.

I don’t care that your pronunciation is distinctly Nepali (I have a very Indian accent myself, and it bothers me not a bit), I don’t care much that you find it difficult to string sentences the correct grammatical way (though you will have to forgive me for sneakily editing them), I don’t care that the spellings are wrong (I can’t spell receive till date, and doubt if I ever can). But if someone uses one of the following words, I’m not going to take it in (my usual) kind way.

1. Proudy: This is the first ‘bad’ word that pops up in my mind, and it’s certainly the one I detest the most. ‘Oh, she has married a rich person now and become so proudy,’ someone will say, and I will grimace. They might think I am reacting to the person, but I am only reacting to the word. We were in the eighth standard, and had to identify nouns and adjectives of the same word. I had to keep repeating, “Please, there is no word called proudy,” but many of my classmates insisted there was, and kept on using it. I can see that it is a sub-conscious response to adjectives like shady, cloudy, or airy, but I still don’t like it.

2. Talent: Such a pretty, positive word, but one of the words that aggravate me most when used as an adjective. ‘He is so talent, he finishes a novel in two days.’ Quite impressive, I agree, but also distinctly depressing. Why can’t he be talented instead?

3. Fooding: No, no, no. I don’t want any fooding, please. I will be more than satisfied with food. Please don’t offer me fooding, even though it rhymes so perfectly with lodging. I must admit I was guilty of the ease of ‘fooding’ till the tenth standard, when our Accounts teacher told us (looking at me with a beady eye) that we must never include ‘fooding’ in our debit and credit accounts.

4. Anyways: Anyway, I don’t know anyways. I’m sure it sounds super cool, and that the whole of the world uses it, but I don’t like it. Call me old-fashioned, call me rigid in this one, I don’t know any other way. It is to me as a website describes it ‘just like nails on a chalkboard’.

5. Heighty: Quite a weighty issue, this. When things are lengthy, why can’t they be heighty? Don’t ask me, I am no linguist. It was my least favourite subject in my entire years of formal English major studies, and the only thing I remember out of it are langue and parole (with they idea what they mean). Anyway, to come back to the matter, he is not heighty. He is just tall.

6. Movement: for moment. What possible connection could they have? And the irony is that among many others, one of my closest friends uses it this way — ‘It was a movement to remember.’ “Really?” I want to scream, “Will you teach me the movement, too?” I must have told him ten times, and the only answer I get is ‘whatever.’ Well, such are the movements of life.

7. Touchy: Yes, I am a touchy person. No, it was not a touchy movie. It was not oversensitive, was it? And I am sure you did not mean it contained any rousing issue. Then why are you calling it ‘touchy’ with so much expression?

8. Antique: Now, to be frank, I do not dislike its word, and its misuse either. I find it rather funny and sweet, perhaps because my pyari cousins use it. Antique for Unique. I did not get it for a long time, when they kept telling my sister her skirt was ‘antique’. But then she said it again, “Didi, your skirt is so antique. One-piece!’ It struck me then. Ah hah, unique.

9. –Ness: Beautyness, charmness, worstness. The misuse of the suffix –ness is no less damness. It reminds me of the word ‘Saundaryata’ in Nepal — which I have heard quite a few RJs use with aplomb. Isn’t ‘Saundarya’ more than pretty enough? Isn’t charm? And isn’t worst bad enough?

10. Chilly: This is more of a written rather than verbal error, and more graphic that way. Almost all restaurants in Kathmandu offer ‘Chilly Potato’ and ‘Chicken Chilly.’ Really now, would I like a plateful of ice cold potatoes or chicken? There is even a restaurant, right in the middle of Kathmandu, that proudly calls itself ‘Hot Chilly.’ Quite a lovely combination, eh, the hot and the freezing? Write Chili if you like, or Chilli if you don’t, but please end it with an i!

Nowhere near

2011-07-25T10:22:00.000-07:00

There is a subtle tap at the door
and I dart to the knob so swift.
But is merely the imagination of a forlorn girl -
the only one stepping in is the chilly drift.

The telephone rings in the background
I cross my fingers and pick it up so quick.
It is some insignificant individual
I am rendered weak; so sick.

Footsteps seem to crunch on the dried leaves
and I lift up my gaze so fast.
There is a striped kitten nosing around
and my abrupt euphoria does not last.

A letter is dropped into the red mailbox
I close my eyes and touch it so slow.
But I know instantly it is only a bill
that is only out to land me another blow.

My senses detect a faint trace of fragrance
wafting around deliciously in my little room.
I stand still; hoping for a familiar scent
but it is only flowers showing off their bloom.

You are in, around and within me
and yet you are nowhere near.
Your thoughts enter unbidden in my mind
and your memories do my heart sear.

So pitifully do my days pass
pining for you in your absence.
What more do I now have to add
except begging you to end the distance?

But No

2011-07-19T07:20:00.000-07:00

I put on dark glasses

so my eyes do not get noticed —

Eyes that sparkled when they met yours

are now so teary as to be colorless.

A pin striped muffler

screens my darling little chin —

A chin so pert and daring before

is only as a miserable, dull mass seen.

For the cheeks I go bolder

I smear them red with all the rogue I have —

My cheeks so chubby (how I agonized!)

are now flat, sunken, drab.

I polish my mouth a gaudy hue

in the far-flung hope that no one knows —

How my lips always puckering for a laugh

have changed to ugly, thin bows.

My hands want their share

so I encase them within velvet gloves —

For my fingers so nimble and playful

are rickety lumps of inertia with painful moves.

I even pull on a glittering sweater

and stare at the mirro r—

But no, even this cannot ever hide the pain

that you gave me and my heart does yet harbor.

When bangles beckon

2011-07-15T10:33:00.000-07:00

It was barely a month to Dashain, when people would care for nothing except to eat well and make merry. The streets were overflowing with shoppers, and a group of them had just streamed into the jewelry store bedecked with flowers.

Mikha looked up, her lips automatically stretching to a smile. She beckoned for them to sit. “Yes?” she said, not unkindly.

The customers were a harried group, she discerned immediately. There was an elderly woman tugging at her green shawl. There were random kids who looked bored. And then there was the main shopper, a middle-aged woman, who seemed distracted. Mikha had seen this type before – a family anxious to add a piece of jewelry, preferably gold, to their collection every Dashain. Other jewelry storekeepers would have paid little or no attention to them, for such people bought barely a tola or two of gold, and that too after much haggling.

But Mikha understood how difficult it must have been for them to add up the amount, rupee by rupee, and then build courage to let it go in one purchase. Not that she had ever been in that position, she was just born sympathetic. “This girl will turn us bankrupt,” her father would say affectionately, when she granted a heavy discount to such a family. But her father did not grudge it much, Mikha knew, for he was a gentle soul himself, if uncharacteristically strict at times.

So Mikha listened patiently to the fidgety woman until she knew what the customer wanted – a finger ring – “But it must not be too expensive, hai?” she whispered, anxious that she would be mocked at in this huge store bordered with mirrors. Mikha smiled reassuringly before reaching for the phone. “Five cold drinks for Mahendra jewelers,” she said as soon as it was picked up. Then she turned back to the woman and took out almost all the rings on display. The customer grinned in delight and bent to look at them, nudging the elder woman as well, “Look, ama, this white stone is nice, or we could buy that one in green…” As they both conversed, the door opened and a youth came in. Mikha began taking bottles of cold drinks from him absent mindedly, and then she suddenly seemed to come out of her reverie.

“Where is Giri?” she furrowed her brow.

The newcomer started at being addressed thus, and then tripped over his words, “Giri I know… They said that… umm… I am new actually.”

“Oh, okay,” Mikha nodded. “And what is your name?”

“Bimalesh.”

Mikha smiled at him, before he smiled back shyly and went out, closing the door softly behind him.

* * *

It was about a fortnight later, when Mikha had a craving for burfee and visited the sweet store across the road that she learnt about the changes in the employees. Giri had been one of the errand boys in the large family establishment, and was quite a good employee too, but he had to rush home after his mother fell from a tree and hurt her spine. Bimalesh had been recruited in his place. As the manager of the hotel finished telling her this, Mikha licked the last crumb of her burfee, paid and left.

She had not even reached the doors to her store when she heard footsteps behind her.

“Your mobile, didi,” Bimalesh was gasping for breath.

Mikha was suitably touched. “Thank you,” she said warmly. Then, on an impulse, she opened the doors and gestured for him to step in.

“No, I have to go back to work,” the slim youth had begun to blush, and he looked almost a teenager.

“I know this is your break,” Mikha said, “Come on in.”

Although Mikha was mostly friendly with all kinds of people, this was a new one – chatting with an errand boy with whom she had very, very little in common. She did not even talk much to the salesperson in her stores, though she was unfailingly considerate towards them. It was just the nature of the big-boned, slightly masculine-looking yet attractive girl to stay aloof.

But Bimalesh was, somehow, different. He was easy to talk to after his initial hesitancy wore off. When Mikha asked him about his life, he evaded the question at first. “What is there to talk, didi. My parents are from India but they came here when I was about ten. We used to live in Janakpur, and then one day my father beat me when I failed my exams, and here I am.” Mikha coaxed him some more, and then his real story came tumbling out: it was not just his father’s beating that had made him leave his village; he had made up his mind to leave long ago. He was tired of studying and of being one among a brood of siblings. He did not want to go back home before he had a decent job to fend for himself at least. Actually, he quite liked it here, the work was not too difficult and his employer was not harsh.

He went away hurriedly when he noticed that it was more than an hour since he had come in. But he came in the day after, and the day after that, and soon Mikha was used to him hovering around her. Sometimes she had customers and they could not talk, but he was content straightening a necklace there and sweeping off dust here. But most of the times Mikha would ask her staff to handle customers so she could chat with Bimalesh. Somehow, it seemed an important task to her.

He had now opened up enough to share with Mikha anecdotes about his customers, about the phone calls from his mother imploring him to come back, about his younger sister’s aim to come to Kathmandu and become an actress. In return, Mikha found herself telling him things that she had not told anyone else – not that she had anyone else, either. There never seemed to be enough time, what with running the store and catering to her father’s demands at home. She had no close friends, nor cousins.

“I do have a brother, though,” she confided in Bimalesh, nearly six months after they first met.

“What?” he looked up from the counter he was polishing, “Where is he? I have never seen him.”

“I haven’t seen him since twelve years,” Mikha smiled wryly, “I have heard he lives in Pokhara.”

She noticed the astonished look in his face, and clarified, “He married against my father’s wishes, and my father broke off all ties with him. Mahendra dai– yes, this store is named after him – did try to call me up a few times, but my father never let me talk to him.”

“Oh.” That was all Bimalesh could say.

He had always thought that Mikha’s father was a benevolent old man, but then he had seen him barely a dozen times. But what kind of a father was that, cutting himself off from his own son! Why, his own father, who had been quite indifferent to him earlier, was almost begging him to come back home now!

Mikha sighed, “He can be stubborn, my father. I was still in school at that time. My brother was a lot older to me, but he was a good brother. My mother passed away so early I do not even recall her face, but my brother tried to fill that gap. He would tell me stories at bedtime and discuss my day. He had told me slightly about bhauju too, but it was not until I witnessed the verbal matches between him and my father that I realized the seriousness of the matter. Perhaps Mahendra dai felt father would have to agree to the wedding after it was solemnized, and so he went ahead rashly. But my father was just too hurt, I guess. He never expected it from his obedient son. For many days, he did not speak even to me. And then, gradually, he regained his jovial nature. But he never forgave my brother.”

Mikha realized she had been holding back tears when Bimalesh reached out and stroked her hand, “You have so much of pain inside you. Don’t keep it all bottled up.” This made Mikha’s tears stream down her cheeks.

“You… do not know how painful it was…” she hiccupped, “my father used to be so lenient, and then suddenly one day, he talked as if he would stop me even from going to school.”

Bimalese merely nodded, “I can understand.”

“No, you can’t,” she almost screamed, “Do you think I want to spend my days in this jewelry store? I am an MBA, do you hear it, an MBA. I fought with my father just to study this far, and then I passed out and applied for a job at a bank. I was so happy the day I got selected, and I hoped my father would see what a worthy person his daughter had become, and begin to trust me. But no! Do you know what he did? He tore my appointment letter and said I could either work in this store or I could stay home. I resisted, but he bitterly said, “Go, then! Go as Mahendra did!” ”

Mikha was hysterical by this time, Bimalesh could see that this was the first time she had fully realized the unfairness of it all. He searched for his handkerchief, which was quite worn-out but served its purpose at that moment. Mikha wiped away her tears fiercely.

“You must think I am such a fool,” she said without looking at him.

“No, no,” Bimalesh said softly, “You are too intelligent, and it is your intelligence that kills you every day.”

* * *

Mikha thought she would be embarrassed by her ruckus the next day. Or Bimalesh would. Strangely, though, she wasn’t. And neither was he. He came at the usual time, talked to her, they had lunch.

Sometimes they strolled up to Durbar Square and sat on the steps of a temple, shelling groundnuts or peeling oranges. Once, they went to a famous eatery farther away to try its dahi lassi. Other times, Mikha would drag him to a special nook where a nonchalant vendor handed out lemony chaat with flecks of coriander strewn on top. But most of their times together was spent in the store, just sitting and lazing around. Mikha had begun to understand Bimalesh’s humor and his practical jokes, which had left her dazed in the beginning.

Then one day, just like that, Bimalesh didn’t come. It was more than a year since they had first met, and Dashain was knocking at the doorstep again. All day long, in the midst of looking after customers, Mikha’s gaze strained towards the sweet store. An hour before her usual closing time, she pulled down the shutter. As she was about to stride towards the sweet store, he emerged before her.

A minute earlier, Mikha had been so worried, and now she was just angry. “Where were you?” she snarled.

Bimalesh must have been surprised by her outburst, but he did not comment on it. “I… umm… had to meet someone.”

Mikha found her fists clenching by themselves. In a very small voice, she asked, “Who?”

“My cousin,” he answered, “from India.”

He did not notice her hands relax, nor her look of relief.

“He wants me to go back with him. My uncle and aunt sent him to fetch me,” he continued.

“Oh, but you can’t go, can you?” Mikha tossed back her hair.

“Why not?” he asked. “My uncle has an eatery in Hyderabad. He is planning to expand it, and he thought it best to employ a member of his own family.”

“But…” Mikha said, “What about… your… life here?”

“What of my life here?” he asked, perplexed. “I was here just to make a living. It was good, but this is more like what I have been looking for.”

Mikha tensed up again, “What about… us?”

Bimalesh looked at her blankly, began to say something, gulped and then looked down at his feet.

“Will you leave me alone?” Mikha prodded him.

He continued to stare at his shoelaces.

Mikha reached out and touched his shoulder. He looked up uncertainly, and looked far away, “Will you… come with me, didi?”

She gave him a wide, wide smile, “Will you stop calling me that?”

He did not stop addressing her as sister, but the equation of their relation overturned since that day. It was Bimalesh who took charge now, telling her of the beautiful city where were crafted the most beautiful bangles, planning buses and train routes and estimating how long it would take them to reach there, instructing her to begin packing. Meanwhile, Mikha collected her own savings, decided which possessions she would take with her, said a goodbye to the place she had spent all her life in.

Bimalesh was concerned that she would find it difficult to be uprooted so suddenly from her orderly, protected life, but she confided in him that she felt just the opposite. Yes, there was fear of the unknown, and trepidation at having to settle down in an entirely new place.

“But I do not mind as long as you are with me,” she smiled, “You give me courage.”

He stopped being frightened then, and his timidity dissolved as he made excited plans of what they would do. His uncle would surely let them stay in a room in his house, and Mikha could then search for work of her choice. And they would go out to the sea sometimes, and they would visit the streets behind Golconda towers, where he had spent his childhood. Mikha agreed as her heart lifted with happiness, but the only thing she was thinking of now was her father. She had suggested to Bimalesh that they leave without informing him, but he was adamant.

“Let us just tell him, Mikhu,” he looked at her with his grey-flecked eyes, “And then we can leave in peace, for he will not worry about where you have gone.”

Bimalesh understood that her father would never approve of their relation and that they were on their own. But Mikha knew her father too well, and thus she knew that it was a risk going before him with the news. She could already imagine his mild face turning stern, then cold, and then him warning her not to step out of the house again. But Bimalesh said he did not care.

“We will go when we have to,” he insisted, “But we will not leave without telling him. Your father deserves at least that, he has done so much for you.”

So the next week, as her father was relaxing after dinner, they both went up to him. Mikha began hesitantly, but Bimalesh took up soon after, his tone strong and resolute. Her father took off his glasses, closed his eyes, and listened to him without uttering a word. When Bimalesh finished and looked nervously at Mikha, her father pointed with his finger, “Wait outside.”

Mikha nodded at him, and he left the room. Her father, the lean businessman who still walked without a stoop, turned to her. Mikha inadvertently flinched, for she knew what would follow: a reminder of all the things he had done for her, of how he had disinherited his son and would think nothing of losing her now, how he had not brought his children into this earth to be a disgrace to him. Strangely, though, it did not bother Mikha. She would face him, she would argue with him, and she would leave him with her head held high. She could almost feel Bimalesh’s pull as he waited for her to join him.

“Your brother…” he said. Yes, it was going to be exactly as Mikha had imagined.

“Your brother was headstrong, and he had his way, and now I see that you intend to do the same. Telling me you want to get married with a boy six years younger than you, and that too someone who is not of our caste and does not heed to our culture – he is not from this country, even!”

This last word was almost roared out at her, but Mikha continued to look at her father steadily. He came closer to her and continued, “Do you think I have been unaware of the friendship developing between you too? Do I not check the bills and see that two lunches have been ordered for the shop for the past one year? My staff tells me things, even our customers tell me!”

Mikha had opened her mouth to speak, but she closed it now, a bit confused. If her father had really known of it, he would have reprimanded her, surely? What was he trying to do?

One instant, her father was standing there, forbidding and distant. The next, he had fallen to his knees before her, “My little girl, I have made a mistake once, and have deeply regretted it since. If your happiness is with this boy, I will not stop you. But please, please, do not leave me. Do not leave me alone and go to that foreign land, I need you, my child.”

His little girl, who stood almost as tall as her father, and much broader, looked at him dazedly. She wanted to argue, to revolt, to flounce out of the room. But… what was there to argue against now?

He was almost tugging at the helm of her kurta now, “Why should you elope with him? I will get you both married in style, I will accept him as my son-in-law. Just please, please, do not go. I will hand over the store to both of you, and then you can run it in the way you like. I will help you build a house. Then you can be near me.”

Mikha looked at him, a slow smile forming on her lips. She had never, ever imagined that it would end up this way. Why, the very thought was laughable.

She raised her father to a chair, her face calmness itself. He took heart from her expression, and continued, “I have raised you like a princess, daughter. You cannot even exist in the cruel world outside. But don’t you worry, I am here to look after you, forever.”

Mikha stroked her father on his cheek, a loving, affectionate stroke.

He grinned, “Now call him in, and we can discuss all the details.”

She hugged him then, a hug so tight that the elder person was pleasantly shocked. “Thanks, baa.” She said, a lone tear spilling down her cheek, “Thank you so much for everything.”

He patted her back, and then she let go and stepped outside.

* * *

She stepped out to the slight drizzle and tapped Bimalesh on his shoulder.

“What, what happened?” he turned around immediately.

Then he caught sight of the gloom spreading across Mikha’s face.

He questioned with his eyes, she answered with a shake of her head.

“No matter,” he slipped his hand into hers, “at least we were honest. Now we can do as we please. Are you ready to leave tonight?”

“Yes,” she sighed in half-sorrow, half-joy, “I am ready right now, in fact.”

Bitter Strong Rich

2011-06-14T20:22:00.000-07:00

I shattered my heart

the day you wanted us to part

the moment you murmured

you couldn't keep it

I dashed the poor being

against my wishes/dreams

and what not.

Frail as it was

it broke down all around me.

Time slipped by

once I chanced to step on a shard

the tiniest one.

It hurt / I hurt

so lonely it was / so helpless

I loathed it

loved it

allowed it to snuggle

among the dead ruins.

It thrived –

warmed me

and scolded me.

Then again

shyly suggested coffee

bitter strong rich.

I agreed.

The mite couldn't change me, I thought

But something happened then

I resisted / It insisted

I had to mend myself

and here I have a whole heart

now mine alone.

We do still clash at times

I keep on threatening it.

But it knows/ I know

I will never split it again.

It is worth to me

what you could in no way mean

Yes, it's value I've seen.

Loyalty it did teach –

bitter strong rich.

MeYou

2011-06-06T10:38:00.000-07:00

Before we were we,

I wonder –

Was there a you,

was there a me?

When you are the silvery wick

and me the flickering flame

do you solely burn me

or am I instead to blame?

When you are the polka-dot cup

and me the flavored tea

do people hold you up

or do their palms enfold me?

When you are raw rhythm

and me the underlying verse

have you welcomed me in

or did I call you first?

When you are the pillar

and me the trustworthy wall

will you take care of me

or shall I give it my all?

When you are the cherubic sun

and me the radiant ray

do they call out to you

or is it for me they pray?

When you are the merry dawn

and me the sultry night

do you give birth to the day

or do I have that right?

Before we were we,

I wonder again –

Was there ever a you,

was there at any time a me?

But you know what?

2011-05-31T19:19:00.000-07:00

The doctor frowns and makes me sit up.

"We have a problem here," she says

"I think you should be the first to know —

I cannot find where your heart lays."

"That is quite okay," I assure her

"It has been absent for quite some time

There's no cause for worry,

if otherwise I'm sturdy and fine"

She grimaces yet more and demands

"Show some sense, child, and explain"

I sigh and roll my eyes, "It is an

outwardly tale, so please do not complain."

"God asked me what kind of heart I wanted

I opted for a pretty glass one

but moments later someone aimed a light barb

and into fragments was it blown.

I was given gold, glossy with a plain touch.

Plastic was no better — melted into a mush.

Iron was so heavy it made me ache

and wood blazed up easily into ash.

God finally carved out a light weight stone sculpture

assured it would not burn or break or scratch.

But you know what?" "What?" the doctor was agape.

I continued, "God forgot to close the latch.

The intruder edged in on tiptoes

and filched away my heart so quiet.

But I don't want a heart no more,

this void is throbbing and right."

What I know

2011-05-27T07:21:00.000-07:00

When you smile

that naughty smile

I think

there never can be

anything

as lovely, as enchanting

as hopeful,

as your beautiful smile.

But then, you laugh

and with the tinkling

of those faraway bells,

the unsolved legend of

your half revealed dimple

so enigmatic yet so simple

by that mischievous song

I know,

That for long,

I have been wrong.

New Year, Remember?

2011-05-26T00:12:00.000-07:00

Karna knew where she lived, of course - beside the culvert, in the green house fenced with barb wire. The house had been there for the last eight years, since the old pensioner has decided to settle there for good. But that girl had entered the two-storied house as a family member only about six months ago.

Not that he asked anyone about her. Why should he? He did not care for her in the least. But people talked constantly in the village, particularly about a new entrant. It was his maternal aunt from whom he had received the first bit of indirect information. "You know, didi," his plump, frizz-haired aunt had flopped down comfortably onto the hand-woven mat, "that Rai Baje's niece has come to stay with them. Good for the old couple, eh?" His mother, fanning herself furiously, nodded in agreement, "I heard that, too. The young blood will do them good."

He had not paid any attention to the sisters' chatter, busy in filling up a pie-chart to take to class the next day. But the conversation did resound in his mind early the following morning, when he passed by the green house on his way to college. He caught sight of a petite figure hanging up clothes in the otherwise deserted balcony. "So this is the new girl," he thought briefly, before cycling away and forgetting it all.

But it seemed as if he would not be allowed to forget her after all. Barely two weeks later, Manish poked him quite hard, "Doesn't that girl live near your place?" He glanced up, saw her peeping in uncertainly at the volleyball court, and shrugged, "Maybe." Manish looked at him disbelievingly.

He often saw her after that - when she was running errands, going for her tuitions, or simply cycling down the stony path, her coal black hair streaming behind. He knew her name now - Paru she was called - the information provided by Manish again. "She is pretty, isn't she?" Manish had queried twice. Again, Karna shrugged.

Was she pretty, he wondered now - he didn't think so. Nothing special, anyway. He accepted that her smile was quite radiant, but then, most girls did have the most beautiful smiles. Otherwise she was quite ordinary, what with that flat nose and hoarse voice. Her eyes were again quite unique, green-black, but then, why should he even bother about her eyes?

And just look at the way she walked! It was as if she were prancing to an internal rhythm. Didn't she realize how funny she looked, a grown up girl like her? Aseem said he found it 'cute.' Huh! What did he know about cuteness, that bulky dork!

This girl - Paru - she always seemed so pleased with herself, as if there was nothing better in this world than her existence. Once, when he was bending down to pick up a dropped coin, he heard her chirpy voice intermingling with the milkman's. "It must be so difficult for you, rising up this early in the morning. You can come here a bit later if you like; I will make do with yesterday's stock." As he mounted his bicycle again, Karna was startled to see the usually sour-faced milkman smiling down benevolently at her. "Sucker!" he thought to himself, turning his face away.

* * *

His face he may have turned, but he just could not avoid seeing her around. Always cheerful, ever sunny - sympathizing with arthritic grannies, gobbling down gooseberries and scrunching her nose, arranging pebbles on the doorway, hanging lanterns from the ceiling. One balmy evening, returning from his visit to Shambhu's place, Karna actually watched her gather the children of his street and distribute chocolates to them.

No wonder she had all of them eating out of her palms, Karna thought resentfully - perhaps a tad enviously too. Always sidling up to everybody. Why, even his little nephew, who feared no one in the world, was in awe of her. "I must finish this homework," he would turn away resolutely from his Tom and Jerry cartoon, "Paru fupu will ask me about it tomorrow." Karna shook his head, a wee bit glad that he would not have to nag the little one, but hurt and just... exasperated. Who was this Paru anyway, intruding into their lives?

"Do you only talk about homework with her?" he teased Samyak. The latter looked up seriously, "Of course not. We discuss a lot of stuff, about life... Do you know, each time she sees me, she pulls at my cheeks and asks me, "Kaka khoi, haan? Where is your uncle?"

Karna furrowed his brow then, confused. He had wanted to tell Samyak not to allow anyone to pull his cheeks, but something stopped him. That chit of a girl was taking over his nephew too. He just pretended to be busy in the video game.

That was what he was doing that Thursday, pretending to sweep the shed, when Paru actually looked in and waved a hi to him. The nerve of that girl! He barely even knew her by sight. He just spared her a nonchalant half-smile and began sweeping even harder, so that he did not even hear her walking away.

But she was back again a week later - this time escorting his sister-in-law, who had nearly fainted in the way back from her stitching course. After that, of course, even his somewhat strict sister-in-law fell under her charm. "Lachhinki," she recounted fondly, "She comes with a lot of luck."

From what Karna heard others talk, Paru also came with a lot of grit and spunk. Once even a memeber of the National girl's team of volleyball, she had abandoned it to tend to her aged uncle, her own education and an orphanage some distance away. "She is a good cook, too," his brother, who never noticed such things, informed him offhandedly, "She lent your bhauju the recipe for this pickle." Karna had been relishing the pickle, but now he just left it on his plate and rolled his eyes inwardly. Really, why did people have to praise this girl so much? And anyway, all girls were as double-faced as her: sweet outside and sly inside.

* * *

She may have been a skilled homemaker as the gossip vine circulated, but Karna also knew what they didn't - that she was clumsy. She had been cutting up fruits in the kitchen when Karna entered it in his search for the Rai hajurama. She had turned around, see him, and retreated so rapidly that her elbow smashed onto a tray full of pomegranate seeds, scattering them right up to his feet. Amidst her furious blushing and incoherent apologies, Karna suppressed a private, gleeful smile - whoever could call this girl efficient?

He had seen another example of her negligence when she had been pulling up a bucketful of water from the well. Her hands might have been pulling at the rope, but her eyes were somewhere far away - she seemed to be dreaming. Not that he was watching her, of course - what interest had he on her? But he was still startled when the rope slipped from her hands and fell into a well with a resounding splash. And there she was - a careful worker indeed !

And now he also knew something else - that she was not as innocent as everyone assumed her to be. Jeet may have gone on and on about the clarity and purity of her heart, but he, Karna, knew the truth. He had been sitting in the balcony, squeezing lemon drops into his tea, when he caught sight of her skipping along as usual. To think of it, she seemed to hover around his home a lot. And he soon found out why.

He did not particularly want to see her, but then she stopped right in front of their gate and what could he do then? He could not rush inside, could he? And why should he, indeed? It was his territory, he would stay wherever he liked. He would not let that girl direct his actions. She began calling out to Binod - their young tenant who occupied a room on the ground floor. He emerged onto the path, responded to her warm (too-warm, Karna thought) greeting, then they both walked a little ahead, before settling down beneath the shade of the mango tree.

Karna gave too hoots to their conversation, but his neck craned of its own accord to look at them, Binod must have asked her about something, for she touched her earlobe and nodded, "Yes, yes." Now Karna got annoyed at Binod - his mother had taken such pains to send her youngest son to high school and here he was, whiling away the morning with a... with a... flirt. Not that it was Karna's problem, but still... he acted as a semi-guardian to the boy. Not knowing how else to react, he slammed the door shut and went inside.

* * *

He lumbered down the stairs a while later, and was met by Binod on the bottom one. "Dada," Binod grinned, "I have to talk to you about something." Karna did not even pause. "I am getting late," he said resolutely, avoiding Binod's eyes, for both of them knew that he did not have to leave until two hours later. He did not know why he was doing this - trying to get away from the house, from Binod, from... he did not know what.

He felt claustrophobic, that was all. He needed to go far, far away, until this restlessness haunting him would leave him and he would not have to pretend that he had not waited a whole day to see those mischievous, torturous green-black eyes twinkling above a twitchy nose.

"Dada," Binod touched him, "It's about this..." And now he was actually pulling out a powder blue envelope from behind him. Karna did not even blink, he had guessed right away that Binod wanted advice. "That Paru gave it to you, didn't she?" he asked quietly.

Binod smiled, holding on to the envelope protectively. Karna looked at the ground, his mind somehow numb. What did he care anyway, why should he care? What should he even expect anything from someone as wanton as her who went and handed out cards to the first boy she befriended? He dug his nails harder into his palm, not even listening to Binod, who went on blissfully, "She asked me to give it to you. She said she wants nothing more than to be your friend, but that you just do not seem to be interested. And so she has passed on this New Year message."

Karna had to sit down on the stair, he simply had to. He clutched the envelope so fiercely that it nearly crumpled. And then Binod's voice seemed to drift in from miles away, "And dada, today is a holiday. New Year, remember?"

Karan remembered now - of course, how could he have been so forgetful? Of New Year and new days and the newest sunshine that could ever have streamed down on earth...

Dumb/Numb

2011-05-24T17:31:00.000-07:00

I have lighted the lantern for dinner

Will you not come home now / heart in tow?

The rugs are dry-cleaned, curtains sequined.

Cobwebs have been dusted down

I am awaiting you in my wind-blown gown

in the corridor I hug myself and shiver.

My endurance is brittle; shakily it does quiver

I have spent the evening on pineapple sauce.

Won't you grace it with a taste / will you let it waste?

The cutlery has been laid; prayers have been said.

Faraway fragrances are being escorted in by the air.

I am on the stair / breeze gushing through my hair.

My gaze is wavering with a hopelessness so sheer.

Everyday I long for you to be near / never do you appear.

The house goes dumb and I grow numb.

Won't you soothe me then / my prince among men?

In my isolation so freezing is the bed

I pile quilt upon blanket and lay down my sad head.

You still do not arrive; the recognition dawns instead.

It is seventeen years to the hour you have been dead.