धेरैपछि नेपालीमा लेख्ने चेष्टा गर्दैछु । भूल-चुक माफ गर्नुहोला । शुक्रबारको दिन, अफिसमा बसी रहेको थिएँ । काम धेरै नभएपछी सार्है पट्यार लागेर आऊछ । त्यसमाथि पनि, बाहिर हिँऊ परिरहेकोथियो । बिहीवारको हिँऊ सफा गर्दा गर्दा सारा जिउ दुखिरहेको थियो । फेरी पनि दु:ख पाउने भैयो भनेर दिक्क लाग्ने भैहाल्यो ।कतिबेला घर गएर बुढीसँग मिलेर म:म बनाएर खानुजस्तो भैइरहेको थियो । अनि हेडफोनमा नारायण दाईको गाना बजिरहेको थियो । अनि त मलाई के चाहियो - म त नेपाल नै पुगेछु । दस मिनेट समय अनि Unicode मा Nepali Typing को नतिजा - यी तलका हरफहरु :
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पर्खाई
हिउँ हेर्दै, टोल्हाएर बसेको छु
अनन्त देखिको पर्खाईजस्तो
न त पाउने आश छ, न त आउने
किन, केको पर्खाई हो टुङ्गो लाउन बसेको छु ।
मेरा ईच्छाका बिम्बहरु प्रत्यक्ष भैदिए
सुम्सुम्याएर, जतन गरी स्याहार्ने थिएँ
आकांक्षाका ती दुर्लभ जिनीशहरु
कति स्नेहसहित हुर्काउने थिएँ
तर, मेरा रहर कुनै नवबिबाहिता जस्तो
मानसपटलको कुहिरो भित्र नै लुकिरहेछन
सैयौँ खोजहरुका बाबजुत पनि
लुकामारी मात्रै खेलिरहन्छ
यही लुकामारीको दोष हो
या त मेरो प्रयासको
म खोजी रहेछु, तर
मेर ईच्छाहरु लुकिरहेछन ।
मेरो खोजी ...
फेरी उहि अनन्त देखिको जस्तो,
चली रहेछन ....
केही गुमाएकोछु, न केही कमाएको
लेखा-जोखा गर्ने तराजु पनि
शायद मैले कहीँ हराएको छु
म भन्न सक्दिन मैले कहाँ, कति, कहिले गुमाएँ
बनाएकाहरु पनि जब म चिन्न सक्दिन
सबै प्रश्नहरुको भुमरीभित्र पनि
मलाई थाहा छ, तर
मेरो खोजी . . म रोक्न सक्दिन ।
तिमीले देख्यौ? तिम्ले भेट्यौ?
होइन .. के भनि नसोध मलाई
म प्रश्नहरुदेखि भागी हिंडेकोछु
मैले खोजी हिंडेको बस्तु भेट्यौ भने
तिमीनै आफ्नो बनाऊ त्यसलाई
हुनसक्छ, म त्यसलाई नै नचिनेर हिंडेकोछु
मलाई चिनाउन नखोज केही, कोहि पनि
भ्रमहरु नै सार्थक लाग्छन मलाई
अर्थ-अनर्थ नकेलाऊ मेरालागि
हुनसक्छ, सामर्थ्यको परिधी बिर्सिसकेकोछु ।
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यती लेखिसकेपछि मलाई meeting मा जानु पर्यो ।
Even I wanted to continue it and probably give a better completion, but the next time I tried to do so, the juice was just not there any more. I thought - so be it.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
Laxmi, Saraswati and I: A short story
"How is your tuition going on?" demanded Mr. Sharma. He was a prominent figure in the community we lived in. I must have been thirteen then. I am not certain now whether we, my brothers and I, liked Sharma-uncle, as we used to call him, or not. He was senior to my dad in the government service. My dad was posted in a Terai district then. During our winter vacation from school in Kathmandu, it was a routine for us to go and visit dad and mom there. It was kind of bliss for us to be there during the harsh winter months of Kathmandu. With abundant guava to be plucked, variety of sweets to be devoured and sugarcane sticks to munch on throughout the day, all of us children were too occupied to notice anything else. Somehow, this Sharma-uncle always stood out among the social circle that naturally forms in all the district headquarters among civil service officers. For us, he was one of those grown-ups who just never lets go and insists on having a conversation in English so as to test what we have learnt in school in the year past. I have no way of telling now if he spoke well or not. Then, he was the only other person, besides my dad, who seemed to speak in English.
"Jolly good" - that was our standard answer, and we ran off as quickly as possible so that Sharma-uncle didn't have any opportunity to inquire more. All of us savored the coffee flavored toffees that he gave us as a reward for each sentence spoken without error. But, somehow we all dreaded the questions. With strategic calculations, we simply sacrificed that delicious treat in favor of saving ourselves from the humiliations that would come for not being able to answer the questions that were inevitable to follow the "How is your tuition going on?" one. That day, he let us be and called for my dad. "Hakim sa'b...," He hailed and off we ran. I knew of his reason for visit. Saraswati puja was near by and so was the time for another round of festivities. He was here to plan the planning events!
Living in districts outside Kathmandu (Jilla, as everyone calls them) is a life on its own. For the officer's children, like us, visiting for vacation, it was a special treat - a time to play hard and dirty, meet many uncles and aunties who just never seemed to get enough of our naughty tricks, almost no studies besides few hours of home-tuition in the mornings and evenings and vast array of food. Add festivals to it and you got yourself a lot of opportunities for mischief even more. All of us were making the best of it. There were lengthy plans of the upcoming puja day. My dad and all the uncles had elaborate discussions about it during their "Paplu" and "Twenty-nine" games for weeks. Sharma-uncle was, as usual, in the center of all the events and planning. One of his office staffs was a semi-pro idol-maker. No, he was not a sculptor. Shyam dai had been making idols for Dashain, Ramnawami and Saraswati puja for few years before that year. As the norm called it, he was to make ample use of the resources in Sharma-uncle's quarter. Other details were planned too – puja procession was to commence and conclude in the chowk near which most of the officers were quartered, the event was to be open for all, proceeds from the offerings were to go mostly to Shyam dai, and so on.
I was excited at the prospects ahead. Unlike the year before, Shyam Dai offered to make more than twenty statues, of several stances and sizes, and have them displayed in the chowk. That meant I could treat myself with even more hours of un-interrupted statue-making spectacle everyday, for a couple of weeks. Shyam dai secretly admitted to me, with a satisfied grin, that he would make some extra Laxmi by selling some of his statues. I was not sure then why he emphasized Laxmi. I took it as a funny-sounding manner of speaking Nepali like other Maithili or Bhojpuri speakers do. But I was excited all the same. For those couple of weeks, I was the only devoted audience that Shyam dai had. Out of sheer respect and awe to his craft, I sometimes even offered to be his help. Shyam dai was no fool. He didn't want to offend my dad or Sharma-uncle by asking me to do some menial chores. I am sure my dad wouldn't have cared since he used to make us wash our plates after meals and to make our beds in the morning – it was his way of teaching us responsibilities. I had no idea what Sharma-uncle would think, so I simply took Shyam dai's answer of "No" as my guru's command. I was glued to his every move during his idol-building process. He made a support bases out of a flat wooden plank about two inches thick. In the dead center of each support base, he erected a wooden column, each different in height from the others. He nailed and tied some more wooden sticks at about shoulder and hip level of each statue, across the center column. He then wrapped the wooden skeleton with ropes made of straw. He would wrap the ropes snugly and with precision, thus creating bulges of varying curvature and size at different places. To my utter dismay, they already started to look like ghostly headless creatures. I couldn't wait for another morning meal to be served so as to join Shyam dai's rituals. It never failed to amaze me how, in the next step, he would transform a figure that resembled a scarecrow into a human like form.
True to his word, Sharma-uncle provided a room in his quarter for Shyam dai to live during his project. He allowed Shyam dai to dump-store the molding-clay inside the quarter premise and even let him build fires when needed. It was no small sacrifice. Shyam dai confessed to me once that he had never met so lenient "haakim sa'b" in his life! I agreed - after all, he never failed to give us that wonderful candy after answering his questions. On rare occasions, Shyam dai did ask me to fetch a tool or a utensil or something very minute from his room in the quarter. He did it for a reason - once he started plastering the straw-wrapped figures with molded clay, he had to work un-interrupted and fast, otherwise the clay would dry out. There was no time to wash up and go inside the building just to fetch a matchbox for his bidi. I was too happy and eager to help and Shyam dai succumbed to the convenience once in a while. In any case, the chore was not at all so. All I had to do was go inside the house, find someone in house to ask for what Shyam dai needed and fetch it to him. The only problem was finding someone in that house.
Sharma-uncle was a widower, his son off to college somewhere in India. An elderly lady who lived next door did all of his cooking and cleaning. Mai, as we called her, probably didn't like me, for I always seem to irritate her with constant nagging. But, I liked this younger lady who attended to some of Sharma-uncle's finer needs like, ironing his clothes, seeing to the grocery needs, supplying his medications and prepping special foods and the quarter for parties. I simply called her Didi because I didn’t know she had a name. She was often seen in the quarter during the frequent parties, prepping food and serving it. I remember her being kind looking and mild mannered. She walked silently but swiftly and seemed to care for everyone who asked for her service. Didi’s visits were not limited to parties since Sharma-uncle seemed to have plenty of things for her to do. I know Mai was no good; I despised her – that foul-mouthed old hag.
Didi was quite another creature; and besides, she was not just a domestic help. She was one of the staffers in the office as well. She had her own desk and chair and I had seen her read magazines sitting there. I knew she lived near by but I was not sure why she lived alone. I had heard some grown-ups say that her husband had run away with another woman. That is all I can recall of her private affairs. Regardless, I didn’t care as long as it was Didi and not Mai that I ran into. I always made my intentions clear as to whom I preferred to see. As soon as I entered that house I would invariably holler “Didi….”. She was the safest bet – she didn’t make faces like Mai and she didn’t start conversations in English like Sharma-uncle. She usually responded aloud “Wait there, babu. I’ll be there right away.” She would then take a peek from inside a room and would either come out to help me or would call me inside if she were busy. She must have been quite a skillful worker, and a silent one at that for, many times, I had seen Sharma-uncle soundly asleep in the same room while she kept busy dusting the furniture, or ironing his clothes or even cleaning his gun. Nevertheless, she always helped me with my chores and dutifully returned to hers.
Shyam dai’s idols were taking shape and becoming more human-like, albeit without heads. Shyam dai had already completed plastering the straw figures. He had started giving more definition to the anatomy of each figure – adding more clay to some parts, removing excess from other – constantly wetting his hands in water and running his hands over the surface over and over again. I sat there, bewildered, watching this man constantly sucking his bidi and creating amazing shapes out of as trivial things as straw and mud. I knew it had to be his bidi that provided him the skill and the energy to be doing what he was doing. By the way he moved his hands over the idol’s surface, it seemed like he was spreading creamy lotion over a sun-soaking body. In a few days, he declared the figures were complete and needed dressing up and accessorizing. I couldn’t believe it – had this man gone haywire? Must be ! Those things didn’t even have heads on them; sticks and straw ropes were sticking out where goddess Saraswati’s four palms and two feet were supposed to be. Where were the Bina, and the Swan (goddess’ ride) and the Lotus? I had never seen Shyam dai complete the whole idol before; but I sure was not going to take this travesty as a “done” one. Apparently, everything that I saw missing in the idols would be installed during accessorizing – even the head, hands and feet and the tools and so on. Once the idol was plastered and a thin cloth of sort was wrapped over, the figures were ready for a makeover of a different kind.
Significantly different kind of process was involved in the later phases of idol building, which I didn’t care much for. All Shyam dai did was made a dough and cast it in molds, took the formed shapes out and set it out to Sun-dry. He did it over and over with different kinds of molds. I didn’t think much of it. I did take a note when he would twist a finger or bend a foot or align something or the other right after the shapes were taken out of the molds. Other than those modifications, I was not hugely impressed with Shyam dai anymore. Nevertheless, I was watching.
There was a pond in the quarter compound that Sharma-uncle took great pride in. He had built it out of the excess office budget and made sure it was well tended. Sometimes, he would shoot a duck swimming in the pond and send his dog to retrieve it. I had seen him fish in it too. While Shyam dai was busy with his casting, I would wander off towards this pond to see if I could hit any fish with a pebble or two. That day, I came to the ponds to try my luck with some pebbles and the few remaining fish. I threw a couple but did not seem to disturb the fish enough to make them run about. I didn’t see a single one; may be Sharma-uncle had already netted the pond to make it ready for another season. Besides, the water was already too murky owing to low water level in the dry winter months. Then I saw a duck in the other corner of the pond. It was not in the water, but seemed to be trying to hide in a bush near by. I thought to myself “Well, if not the fish, let it be duck.” I aimed and fired the largest pebble I had with me. By God! I hit it! I used to be a lousy “Khoppi” player and this marksmanship was indeed something to be bragged about. Too bad, none of my buddies were there to witness the incident. With hesitation, I moved closer to the duck so as not to scare it off. I held my breath and moved my hand ever so slightly closer to it. When I thought I was near enough, I grabbed the duck with my bare hands! How amazing is that? Another bragging right lost sans witnesses. I was beginning to doubt my luck when I realized the duck was bleeding badly. It had been shot but had not yet died. I thought to myself “What I caught is mine to keep.” Dad would not hear any of it unless I asked Sharma-uncle first. I knew he would agree to it if only I could ask in English. He was usually home few hours earlier than my dad, probably because he was the senior-most officer.
I started to walk towards the house, with the duck in my hands, still bleeding but alive. I was practicing my lines of conversation with Sharma-uncle. I was not sure what I was to do with the duck but I knew what I had to say when Sharma-uncle asked about it. “I want to eat it,” I would answer. Yes, that was very short and a correct sentence too. “Now, if only I could get my starting sentences correct there was nothing to stop me from having this duck,” I thought to myself. I was sure Mai was not there since I had seen her leaving earlier. Good, one less trouble. The moment I was inside the house, I hollered: “Didi.” Oh, yes, I could probably even get away by asking Didi instead of Sharma-uncle. Yes, that was a fine idea. After all, she never said no to what ever I asked of her. “Babu, wait there,” I heard her scream back from inside a room, as usual. She came out a few moments later – her face somewhat red and eyes wide open – excited to see me carrying a bleeding duck, I assumed. She must have been very excited for she dropped the shoulder end (Pallu) of her sari more than once and she was fumbling her hair unusually. I told her I wanted to ask Sharma-uncle if I could keep the dying duck. To my delight, she told me to not bother asking him and that he would not mind. She also asked me to be quite on the way out so as not to disturb Sharma-uncle, who was sleeping inside. I ran off victorious.
Shyam dai finished his idols a few days before the puja. After his mechanized process of casting molds was over, I enjoyed his putting together of pieces once again. He would skillfully place the manufactured limbs and heads at appropriate places and glue them together with clay. He painted the idol when they were dry and wrapped saris of different colors around the idols. With the wigs, crown, ornaments and eyes painted lifelike, it was a scene to behold. I tried my best to find fault in any one of them but failed. To me, they were not idols anymore – they were the goddess Saraswati in her several forms. I could almost hear them wisher wisdom into my ears as I scurried along the farm of idols. I counted them once more, knowing exactly what to expect but somehow doubting it – twenty-four. Shyam dai had indeed spelled some magic when I was not looking. I had learned my lesson not to doubt so skilled a craftsman as Shyam dai, even when he was casting molds. One by one, prospective buyers of these beautiful idols started to come by. I would not sale any of them but he had other ideas. He told me that he would sell all but two a few days before the puja. I was determined to enjoy the company of so many Saraswati goddesses while I still could.
A few days later, my dad brought us back from a tour of an Indian town nearby. I got sweets and toys and my dad bought some tapes of Anup Jalota bhajans. That day, I was less interested in sweets or toys. I was more eager to go and see the idols since I knew it would all be over in a day or two now. I rushed off to Sharma-uncle’s quarter. It was almost dusk but not dark yet. Unlike the days past, Shyam dai was not soaking up the warmth from his dhuni – enjoying the fire and his ever present bidi. I could hear his voice inside the house. I followed it and went straight to his room. He was visibly drunk and speaking the words that I had no idea what they meant. I turned back to go back to our own quarter, feeling confused about what had happened. As I walked back home, the only scene that reamined clear in my mind was of Shyam dai waving a bundle of money in his hands with a wide grin and a bidi in his mouth. He seemed to be mumbling: “Laxmi…Laxmi…” None but two idols remained in the backyard.
Next day was the puja. After all the morning prayers were over and sweets were distributed, we returned home from the chowk where the two remaining idols were kept. We were to attend a party at Sharma-uncle’s place that evening. After a small snack, I went to my backyard to check on my ill friend – the duck. I had been trying to feed it earthworms and milk since I knew ducks like both. Despite all my efforts, it never ate or drank. I was keeping it warm in a used jute-sack in the storage area where firewood were usually kept. I tried hard to listen to its quack-like grunts as I walked towards it. I had a few spoons of milk with me, just in case the duck decided to drink that day. It was sleeping. I tried to wake it up but it wouldn’t. I called Narayan dai, our cook, to help me wake the duck up. He came running to see what was wrong – with me, not the duck. After I told him what was wrong; he simply turned to walk away. “It’s dead,” he declared without even bothering to look.
Since I had lost my duck, I decided I could ask Shyam dai to make me one of clay, just like the swans that he had made for all those Saraswati idols. I looked for him in Sharma-uncle’s quarter and the backyard. He was nowhere to be found. Surely, he must not have left already. After all, there was to be a feast of sort in that place that night. I made up my mind to ask Didi about his whereabouts. She was sure to be there preparing for the party. For some reason unknown, I didn’t holler for her that day. I went towards the room where she usually seemed to answer from. I pushed the door ajar and couldn’t believe what I saw. Sharma-uncle must have been in a trance of some sort for he was reciting “Saraswati! Saraswati!” from under his blanket.
I had a duck to replace and no interest in other matters. I surely didn't want to be practicing my English skill with Sharma-uncle. I decided it best to stick to my plan and find Didi first. I looked for her everywhere, but strangely she was nowhere. She was sure to be there on a party day. I must have skipped some place. So, I tried my usual method. “Didi,” I hollered. Silence. I went to the kitchen. “Didi,” I tried again. “Babu, wait there. I’ll be there right away,” came the usual answer at last, from the usual room. I was relieved. I was even happier when I saw her face – she looked even more jubilant and radiant than I had seen her before. I made nothing of her unkempt hair. I explained her my woes and she seems to care. She did care, I am sure, for she even asked me if I had given the duck any name. I laughed at her stupidity. I said, “Not everyone has names. Umm, like you. You don’t have a name too. You are Didi.” To that she simply smiled warmly and said, “No silly, I have a name too. My name is Saraswati.”
"Jolly good" - that was our standard answer, and we ran off as quickly as possible so that Sharma-uncle didn't have any opportunity to inquire more. All of us savored the coffee flavored toffees that he gave us as a reward for each sentence spoken without error. But, somehow we all dreaded the questions. With strategic calculations, we simply sacrificed that delicious treat in favor of saving ourselves from the humiliations that would come for not being able to answer the questions that were inevitable to follow the "How is your tuition going on?" one. That day, he let us be and called for my dad. "Hakim sa'b...," He hailed and off we ran. I knew of his reason for visit. Saraswati puja was near by and so was the time for another round of festivities. He was here to plan the planning events!
Living in districts outside Kathmandu (Jilla, as everyone calls them) is a life on its own. For the officer's children, like us, visiting for vacation, it was a special treat - a time to play hard and dirty, meet many uncles and aunties who just never seemed to get enough of our naughty tricks, almost no studies besides few hours of home-tuition in the mornings and evenings and vast array of food. Add festivals to it and you got yourself a lot of opportunities for mischief even more. All of us were making the best of it. There were lengthy plans of the upcoming puja day. My dad and all the uncles had elaborate discussions about it during their "Paplu" and "Twenty-nine" games for weeks. Sharma-uncle was, as usual, in the center of all the events and planning. One of his office staffs was a semi-pro idol-maker. No, he was not a sculptor. Shyam dai had been making idols for Dashain, Ramnawami and Saraswati puja for few years before that year. As the norm called it, he was to make ample use of the resources in Sharma-uncle's quarter. Other details were planned too – puja procession was to commence and conclude in the chowk near which most of the officers were quartered, the event was to be open for all, proceeds from the offerings were to go mostly to Shyam dai, and so on.
I was excited at the prospects ahead. Unlike the year before, Shyam Dai offered to make more than twenty statues, of several stances and sizes, and have them displayed in the chowk. That meant I could treat myself with even more hours of un-interrupted statue-making spectacle everyday, for a couple of weeks. Shyam dai secretly admitted to me, with a satisfied grin, that he would make some extra Laxmi by selling some of his statues. I was not sure then why he emphasized Laxmi. I took it as a funny-sounding manner of speaking Nepali like other Maithili or Bhojpuri speakers do. But I was excited all the same. For those couple of weeks, I was the only devoted audience that Shyam dai had. Out of sheer respect and awe to his craft, I sometimes even offered to be his help. Shyam dai was no fool. He didn't want to offend my dad or Sharma-uncle by asking me to do some menial chores. I am sure my dad wouldn't have cared since he used to make us wash our plates after meals and to make our beds in the morning – it was his way of teaching us responsibilities. I had no idea what Sharma-uncle would think, so I simply took Shyam dai's answer of "No" as my guru's command. I was glued to his every move during his idol-building process. He made a support bases out of a flat wooden plank about two inches thick. In the dead center of each support base, he erected a wooden column, each different in height from the others. He nailed and tied some more wooden sticks at about shoulder and hip level of each statue, across the center column. He then wrapped the wooden skeleton with ropes made of straw. He would wrap the ropes snugly and with precision, thus creating bulges of varying curvature and size at different places. To my utter dismay, they already started to look like ghostly headless creatures. I couldn't wait for another morning meal to be served so as to join Shyam dai's rituals. It never failed to amaze me how, in the next step, he would transform a figure that resembled a scarecrow into a human like form.
True to his word, Sharma-uncle provided a room in his quarter for Shyam dai to live during his project. He allowed Shyam dai to dump-store the molding-clay inside the quarter premise and even let him build fires when needed. It was no small sacrifice. Shyam dai confessed to me once that he had never met so lenient "haakim sa'b" in his life! I agreed - after all, he never failed to give us that wonderful candy after answering his questions. On rare occasions, Shyam dai did ask me to fetch a tool or a utensil or something very minute from his room in the quarter. He did it for a reason - once he started plastering the straw-wrapped figures with molded clay, he had to work un-interrupted and fast, otherwise the clay would dry out. There was no time to wash up and go inside the building just to fetch a matchbox for his bidi. I was too happy and eager to help and Shyam dai succumbed to the convenience once in a while. In any case, the chore was not at all so. All I had to do was go inside the house, find someone in house to ask for what Shyam dai needed and fetch it to him. The only problem was finding someone in that house.
Sharma-uncle was a widower, his son off to college somewhere in India. An elderly lady who lived next door did all of his cooking and cleaning. Mai, as we called her, probably didn't like me, for I always seem to irritate her with constant nagging. But, I liked this younger lady who attended to some of Sharma-uncle's finer needs like, ironing his clothes, seeing to the grocery needs, supplying his medications and prepping special foods and the quarter for parties. I simply called her Didi because I didn’t know she had a name. She was often seen in the quarter during the frequent parties, prepping food and serving it. I remember her being kind looking and mild mannered. She walked silently but swiftly and seemed to care for everyone who asked for her service. Didi’s visits were not limited to parties since Sharma-uncle seemed to have plenty of things for her to do. I know Mai was no good; I despised her – that foul-mouthed old hag.
Didi was quite another creature; and besides, she was not just a domestic help. She was one of the staffers in the office as well. She had her own desk and chair and I had seen her read magazines sitting there. I knew she lived near by but I was not sure why she lived alone. I had heard some grown-ups say that her husband had run away with another woman. That is all I can recall of her private affairs. Regardless, I didn’t care as long as it was Didi and not Mai that I ran into. I always made my intentions clear as to whom I preferred to see. As soon as I entered that house I would invariably holler “Didi….”. She was the safest bet – she didn’t make faces like Mai and she didn’t start conversations in English like Sharma-uncle. She usually responded aloud “Wait there, babu. I’ll be there right away.” She would then take a peek from inside a room and would either come out to help me or would call me inside if she were busy. She must have been quite a skillful worker, and a silent one at that for, many times, I had seen Sharma-uncle soundly asleep in the same room while she kept busy dusting the furniture, or ironing his clothes or even cleaning his gun. Nevertheless, she always helped me with my chores and dutifully returned to hers.
Shyam dai’s idols were taking shape and becoming more human-like, albeit without heads. Shyam dai had already completed plastering the straw figures. He had started giving more definition to the anatomy of each figure – adding more clay to some parts, removing excess from other – constantly wetting his hands in water and running his hands over the surface over and over again. I sat there, bewildered, watching this man constantly sucking his bidi and creating amazing shapes out of as trivial things as straw and mud. I knew it had to be his bidi that provided him the skill and the energy to be doing what he was doing. By the way he moved his hands over the idol’s surface, it seemed like he was spreading creamy lotion over a sun-soaking body. In a few days, he declared the figures were complete and needed dressing up and accessorizing. I couldn’t believe it – had this man gone haywire? Must be ! Those things didn’t even have heads on them; sticks and straw ropes were sticking out where goddess Saraswati’s four palms and two feet were supposed to be. Where were the Bina, and the Swan (goddess’ ride) and the Lotus? I had never seen Shyam dai complete the whole idol before; but I sure was not going to take this travesty as a “done” one. Apparently, everything that I saw missing in the idols would be installed during accessorizing – even the head, hands and feet and the tools and so on. Once the idol was plastered and a thin cloth of sort was wrapped over, the figures were ready for a makeover of a different kind.
Significantly different kind of process was involved in the later phases of idol building, which I didn’t care much for. All Shyam dai did was made a dough and cast it in molds, took the formed shapes out and set it out to Sun-dry. He did it over and over with different kinds of molds. I didn’t think much of it. I did take a note when he would twist a finger or bend a foot or align something or the other right after the shapes were taken out of the molds. Other than those modifications, I was not hugely impressed with Shyam dai anymore. Nevertheless, I was watching.
There was a pond in the quarter compound that Sharma-uncle took great pride in. He had built it out of the excess office budget and made sure it was well tended. Sometimes, he would shoot a duck swimming in the pond and send his dog to retrieve it. I had seen him fish in it too. While Shyam dai was busy with his casting, I would wander off towards this pond to see if I could hit any fish with a pebble or two. That day, I came to the ponds to try my luck with some pebbles and the few remaining fish. I threw a couple but did not seem to disturb the fish enough to make them run about. I didn’t see a single one; may be Sharma-uncle had already netted the pond to make it ready for another season. Besides, the water was already too murky owing to low water level in the dry winter months. Then I saw a duck in the other corner of the pond. It was not in the water, but seemed to be trying to hide in a bush near by. I thought to myself “Well, if not the fish, let it be duck.” I aimed and fired the largest pebble I had with me. By God! I hit it! I used to be a lousy “Khoppi” player and this marksmanship was indeed something to be bragged about. Too bad, none of my buddies were there to witness the incident. With hesitation, I moved closer to the duck so as not to scare it off. I held my breath and moved my hand ever so slightly closer to it. When I thought I was near enough, I grabbed the duck with my bare hands! How amazing is that? Another bragging right lost sans witnesses. I was beginning to doubt my luck when I realized the duck was bleeding badly. It had been shot but had not yet died. I thought to myself “What I caught is mine to keep.” Dad would not hear any of it unless I asked Sharma-uncle first. I knew he would agree to it if only I could ask in English. He was usually home few hours earlier than my dad, probably because he was the senior-most officer.
I started to walk towards the house, with the duck in my hands, still bleeding but alive. I was practicing my lines of conversation with Sharma-uncle. I was not sure what I was to do with the duck but I knew what I had to say when Sharma-uncle asked about it. “I want to eat it,” I would answer. Yes, that was very short and a correct sentence too. “Now, if only I could get my starting sentences correct there was nothing to stop me from having this duck,” I thought to myself. I was sure Mai was not there since I had seen her leaving earlier. Good, one less trouble. The moment I was inside the house, I hollered: “Didi.” Oh, yes, I could probably even get away by asking Didi instead of Sharma-uncle. Yes, that was a fine idea. After all, she never said no to what ever I asked of her. “Babu, wait there,” I heard her scream back from inside a room, as usual. She came out a few moments later – her face somewhat red and eyes wide open – excited to see me carrying a bleeding duck, I assumed. She must have been very excited for she dropped the shoulder end (Pallu) of her sari more than once and she was fumbling her hair unusually. I told her I wanted to ask Sharma-uncle if I could keep the dying duck. To my delight, she told me to not bother asking him and that he would not mind. She also asked me to be quite on the way out so as not to disturb Sharma-uncle, who was sleeping inside. I ran off victorious.
Shyam dai finished his idols a few days before the puja. After his mechanized process of casting molds was over, I enjoyed his putting together of pieces once again. He would skillfully place the manufactured limbs and heads at appropriate places and glue them together with clay. He painted the idol when they were dry and wrapped saris of different colors around the idols. With the wigs, crown, ornaments and eyes painted lifelike, it was a scene to behold. I tried my best to find fault in any one of them but failed. To me, they were not idols anymore – they were the goddess Saraswati in her several forms. I could almost hear them wisher wisdom into my ears as I scurried along the farm of idols. I counted them once more, knowing exactly what to expect but somehow doubting it – twenty-four. Shyam dai had indeed spelled some magic when I was not looking. I had learned my lesson not to doubt so skilled a craftsman as Shyam dai, even when he was casting molds. One by one, prospective buyers of these beautiful idols started to come by. I would not sale any of them but he had other ideas. He told me that he would sell all but two a few days before the puja. I was determined to enjoy the company of so many Saraswati goddesses while I still could.
A few days later, my dad brought us back from a tour of an Indian town nearby. I got sweets and toys and my dad bought some tapes of Anup Jalota bhajans. That day, I was less interested in sweets or toys. I was more eager to go and see the idols since I knew it would all be over in a day or two now. I rushed off to Sharma-uncle’s quarter. It was almost dusk but not dark yet. Unlike the days past, Shyam dai was not soaking up the warmth from his dhuni – enjoying the fire and his ever present bidi. I could hear his voice inside the house. I followed it and went straight to his room. He was visibly drunk and speaking the words that I had no idea what they meant. I turned back to go back to our own quarter, feeling confused about what had happened. As I walked back home, the only scene that reamined clear in my mind was of Shyam dai waving a bundle of money in his hands with a wide grin and a bidi in his mouth. He seemed to be mumbling: “Laxmi…Laxmi…” None but two idols remained in the backyard.
Next day was the puja. After all the morning prayers were over and sweets were distributed, we returned home from the chowk where the two remaining idols were kept. We were to attend a party at Sharma-uncle’s place that evening. After a small snack, I went to my backyard to check on my ill friend – the duck. I had been trying to feed it earthworms and milk since I knew ducks like both. Despite all my efforts, it never ate or drank. I was keeping it warm in a used jute-sack in the storage area where firewood were usually kept. I tried hard to listen to its quack-like grunts as I walked towards it. I had a few spoons of milk with me, just in case the duck decided to drink that day. It was sleeping. I tried to wake it up but it wouldn’t. I called Narayan dai, our cook, to help me wake the duck up. He came running to see what was wrong – with me, not the duck. After I told him what was wrong; he simply turned to walk away. “It’s dead,” he declared without even bothering to look.
Since I had lost my duck, I decided I could ask Shyam dai to make me one of clay, just like the swans that he had made for all those Saraswati idols. I looked for him in Sharma-uncle’s quarter and the backyard. He was nowhere to be found. Surely, he must not have left already. After all, there was to be a feast of sort in that place that night. I made up my mind to ask Didi about his whereabouts. She was sure to be there preparing for the party. For some reason unknown, I didn’t holler for her that day. I went towards the room where she usually seemed to answer from. I pushed the door ajar and couldn’t believe what I saw. Sharma-uncle must have been in a trance of some sort for he was reciting “Saraswati! Saraswati!” from under his blanket.
I had a duck to replace and no interest in other matters. I surely didn't want to be practicing my English skill with Sharma-uncle. I decided it best to stick to my plan and find Didi first. I looked for her everywhere, but strangely she was nowhere. She was sure to be there on a party day. I must have skipped some place. So, I tried my usual method. “Didi,” I hollered. Silence. I went to the kitchen. “Didi,” I tried again. “Babu, wait there. I’ll be there right away,” came the usual answer at last, from the usual room. I was relieved. I was even happier when I saw her face – she looked even more jubilant and radiant than I had seen her before. I made nothing of her unkempt hair. I explained her my woes and she seems to care. She did care, I am sure, for she even asked me if I had given the duck any name. I laughed at her stupidity. I said, “Not everyone has names. Umm, like you. You don’t have a name too. You are Didi.” To that she simply smiled warmly and said, “No silly, I have a name too. My name is Saraswati.”
Friday, February 9, 2007
Buff ? Beef? B(r)oth?
Recently, I read somewhere (Nepal Weekly?) about a journo's US visit and his fear of eating beef. Then afterwards, saw the same post in Ajay's blog. Some of the comments to the post were funny, some where ridiculous and some outright stupid. When it comes to food (like many other things), we Nepalese tend to be very narrow minded and limited to very few variety. Very few of us have developed our taste buds beyond Daal-bhaat-masu and Roti-sabji-mithai. Granted that our food does have some variety to it and tends to be closer to Indian food (thus, spicy), but it is common to find too many of us, living abroad, not venturing beyond sandwiches and pizzas or an occasional pasta of some sort. Let's keep it aside for now...it is topic that I think I'll post something about on its own.
Double standards (read, hypocrisy) is what I see in what to eat or what not to eat norms that we follow. We do enjoy Everest momo to a great extent and don't eat buffalo meat at home. We eat Badel (boar) but don't eat Bangoor. We eat goat but don't eat chicken. So on goes our way of belonging to a "higher" sect or the "aaadambar" of it. Being a disciple of science, the only observation that I could make is that we label ourselves as belonging to a higher sect if we eat something that has less meat and more bones. Just think about it: pig then buffalo then goat, so goes our order (untimately, no meat at all :D ) . If all of them are farm raised, what makes one better or worse than the other? Given the free will, a pig tends to bathe more than a goat(which doesn't at all!). Or, may be I am not theorizing properly. May be it is this..less availability means more valuable, like gold, and so the higher status. If so, I have nothing to say..ignore my gan-gan and just enjoy your food.
I remember one funny incident. I brought some dry meat (buff, of course) from KTM during one of my trips home. At the port of entry, the custom inspection guy asked me if I had any meat product. I said I do. He asked me if it was beef. I knew that one couldn't bring beef unless it was inspected/approved by USDA as safe, owing to Mad-cow disease. Anyways, I said "No, I only know that it is a jerky (sukuti) of some sort". At that time, he produced a tissue analyzer and tested a piece of my sukuti with it. There it was -- in my plain sight -- the result read "BEEF". It was tossed off to garbage for disposal !! :-( Was I duped by the Bhatbhateni dept. store? No, I don't think so. It was what it was - it was buffalo, alright. But, it apparently falls into Beef category. Just like "Badel-ko-masu" falls in rest of the Pork category. Tilapia, Salmon, Rahu, Hile, Shrimp - what ever - it's all Fish. My friends, there you go...if you ever ate buff-momo, you ate beef ! Oooooops . :D
As for me, I don't care. I tasted my first beef before coming to the US..in India. I didn't know until a month later that the hot-sukuti that my Bhutanese friend gave me was a beef. To me, it was a sukuti that I was so used to in KTM. Well that was that. I still enjoy beef - but only eating out. I like brisket, meat loaf and BBQ. I am crazy about steak, medium to well-done , thank you ! Why only eat out, you ask? Because I don't know how to cook it properly. I can roast/grill/BBQ pork (chops or ribs) , leg of lamb, turkey and chicken very well; also, fry and stew almost anything. All my friends have enjoyed my cooking to a great degree. For some reason I never did any good with beef - but, never without trying.
Scientifically speaking, we are loosing a great source of protein by being so uptight, attaching social classification with meat types. Don't eat cows if you so believe....but eat something that has more meat on it than bones...for your own sake. My answer to it is : Buffalo !
Even Ted Turner (Yeah, that tycoon guy. Don't know of him? Google him - it's worth the trouble) has turned to buffalo in his chain of steak-houses Ted's Montana Grill . In case you don't know, he started this after "retirement" so that he could eat great steaks. They have started using Bison (wild buffalo), why? here is what Ted said "The taste is much the same as beef, but bison is highest of all meat in iron and is leaner."
Oh, all this talk of food has made me hungry...in mood of a hickory-smoked rare rib-eye, anyone?
Bon apetite :D
Double standards (read, hypocrisy) is what I see in what to eat or what not to eat norms that we follow. We do enjoy Everest momo to a great extent and don't eat buffalo meat at home. We eat Badel (boar) but don't eat Bangoor. We eat goat but don't eat chicken. So on goes our way of belonging to a "higher" sect or the "aaadambar" of it. Being a disciple of science, the only observation that I could make is that we label ourselves as belonging to a higher sect if we eat something that has less meat and more bones. Just think about it: pig then buffalo then goat, so goes our order (untimately, no meat at all :D ) . If all of them are farm raised, what makes one better or worse than the other? Given the free will, a pig tends to bathe more than a goat(which doesn't at all!). Or, may be I am not theorizing properly. May be it is this..less availability means more valuable, like gold, and so the higher status. If so, I have nothing to say..ignore my gan-gan and just enjoy your food.
I remember one funny incident. I brought some dry meat (buff, of course) from KTM during one of my trips home. At the port of entry, the custom inspection guy asked me if I had any meat product. I said I do. He asked me if it was beef. I knew that one couldn't bring beef unless it was inspected/approved by USDA as safe, owing to Mad-cow disease. Anyways, I said "No, I only know that it is a jerky (sukuti) of some sort". At that time, he produced a tissue analyzer and tested a piece of my sukuti with it. There it was -- in my plain sight -- the result read "BEEF". It was tossed off to garbage for disposal !! :-( Was I duped by the Bhatbhateni dept. store? No, I don't think so. It was what it was - it was buffalo, alright. But, it apparently falls into Beef category. Just like "Badel-ko-masu" falls in rest of the Pork category. Tilapia, Salmon, Rahu, Hile, Shrimp - what ever - it's all Fish. My friends, there you go...if you ever ate buff-momo, you ate beef ! Oooooops . :D
As for me, I don't care. I tasted my first beef before coming to the US..in India. I didn't know until a month later that the hot-sukuti that my Bhutanese friend gave me was a beef. To me, it was a sukuti that I was so used to in KTM. Well that was that. I still enjoy beef - but only eating out. I like brisket, meat loaf and BBQ. I am crazy about steak, medium to well-done , thank you ! Why only eat out, you ask? Because I don't know how to cook it properly. I can roast/grill/BBQ pork (chops or ribs) , leg of lamb, turkey and chicken very well; also, fry and stew almost anything. All my friends have enjoyed my cooking to a great degree. For some reason I never did any good with beef - but, never without trying.
Scientifically speaking, we are loosing a great source of protein by being so uptight, attaching social classification with meat types. Don't eat cows if you so believe....but eat something that has more meat on it than bones...for your own sake. My answer to it is : Buffalo !
Even Ted Turner (Yeah, that tycoon guy. Don't know of him? Google him - it's worth the trouble) has turned to buffalo in his chain of steak-houses Ted's Montana Grill . In case you don't know, he started this after "retirement" so that he could eat great steaks. They have started using Bison (wild buffalo), why? here is what Ted said "The taste is much the same as beef, but bison is highest of all meat in iron and is leaner."
Oh, all this talk of food has made me hungry...in mood of a hickory-smoked rare rib-eye, anyone?
Bon apetite :D
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Looking back...
Birthday:
It so happens that it was my birthday yesterday. I don't make a big deal of it let alone celebrate it. There are many years that I didn't even realize that my birthday had passed me by. During and after my college years I used to go to Pashupatinath or a nearby temple as a way of thanking the Almighty for all the privileges that I enjoyed. In the more recent years, it is only because of my darling wife's insistence that we started having a few friends over for a dinner. Even so, we never tell them what it is for until we are half way through our food, lest they worry about gifts and cards and the likes. I have managed to make that guest list smaller by the year and this year, it was the ultimate - we were on our own ! I, sort of, tricked her by offering to take her to a nice dinner. And I'm hoping that our attentions will be diverted to our child's birthdays next year on.
Adulthood:
One funny thing about birthdays is that they tend to make me nostalgic. I unfailingly look at my life in retrospect and find myself still searching...for countless things. Last few years, I have been searching for something that would define me and my life. Yeah, yeah...I am getting paid (and getting paid well at that) to work in the field that I chose to work in. But, is that all? My wife thinks I have an inherently restless soul and get easily bored with mundane routine. She probably means to say that I am lazy. I would like to think otherwise, but can I really? Over the years, I have changed my objectives and point of views far too many times. I changed to Physics from Biology in my early college years. I changed from one engineering branch to other. I started my job in software, a different field than what I graduated in. I changed my academic focus again and joined a grad school in Computer Science. Only this time it was what I wanted to do and teach afterwards. I think I thrived in it then. I did a lot of research, taught classes and even got published. No, it didn't stop there - after four years in grad school, to my professors' dismay, I threw my thesis to trash and dropped out of school - probably one year away from PhD. I changed my mind and started working in software industry again. I still want to go back to school to complete that thesis and get my degree and at some point start teaching. My professors are more than willing to have me back - probably more than me. I don't know if I will actually come about doing it though. Cliche - nothing in life is certain but uncertainty. However, weren't I wavering rather than searching all the way through?
I believe most of us are like that. Do we really know, early on, what we want to do in life? During my teenage days I don't remember any of my friends saying anything but wanting to become a doctor or an engineer. It is just a social custom and what others expect you to become than our own choices that led us to our respective fields. And sure, almost my whole friend circle became what was expected of us. But,do we love it? How good are we in what we do? Who measures it? Does anyone actually tell you the bad news if you are not good enough? I've seen so many of my friends do wonders in standard tests and yet remain average or below average in practice - even at professional levels. USMLE/GRE/GMAT/PE you name it and I've seen my buddies shoot the charts and set the competitive bars very high for others. But that doesn't mean they were destined to write those tests. Just like my buddies, I did everything (minus my PhD drop-out time) that made my parents proud and the observers elate with appreciation. Does that mean I continue to do what I am doing and I'll be fine? Looking at my track record, there is much evidence that I probably will not settle down doing one thing for a long time. what I have observed is that once the initial excitement is over and the dust of novelty factor in my involvement settles down, I start getting bored. I don't see any reason to continue doing the same thing once I have mastered the required skill, and some. The perfect thing for me to do is probably something that constantly provokes me, gives me challenges in small doses and of increasing difficulty, and most of all lets me have my own hours. So, what am I to do? I don't know. There are far too many things that I would like to do. I'd like to get an MBA. I'd like to go to law school. I'd like to do a bit of research in social science. I'd like to start a business and grow it big. Join a volunteer organization; paint for a living; go for a hike for months on end; join political organization...you name it and I've thought about doing it in detail. Like a kid in a toy store, I still can't control my urges when it comes to my desires of becoming (something/someone). No matter what I am doing, one question always comes to haunt me back - "what now/next?"
Tender years:
Strangely enough, I don't remember much about my early childhood days. The earliest recollection that I have is of Dhankuta. My dad started his employment there. There were no motor-roads then. We used to live in a rented apartment. DO you know what kind of house I am talking about? If you have seen wooden houses in eastern regions, you'll know. Basically, 8-10 tree trunks act as columns to raise the platform. The planks make up the walls and ceilings. Tile or tin roof and mud-packed floors. Well to do families painted their exteriors with different bright colors. Anyways, there was a veranda outside but it had a swing to it, owing to loose connections or overuse. I was scared to go to the toilet about 20-30 meters away from home during the evenings. I always used the veranda and tried to pee as far away from the house as possible. To discourage me from doing that, I remember some of my neighbors telling me horror stories; like, this giant monster coming to check on kids peeing off veranda and pulling their pricks (toori) out. Every time I peed off the veranda and it swayed in one direction, I used to get scared. But, I remember thinking to myself.."the monster must be busy checking other neighborhood kids". I remember going to pluck Amala, Tittiri (Imli), oranges and guavas with other kids. During winter, mom and her friends used to have sessions of Sun-soaking and eating "saadeko" citrus-fruits. I took part in a horse racing event during King's birthday. I was barely 5, I think, and I was more interested in keeping my grams (Channa) falling off my pockets than riding to win. I used to ride good and I won the race but I was crying very hard...of course, for all the Channa had fallen off during the ride. I remember being punished by getting locked in a cupboard of sorts in Illam. Also in Illam, a white dog (small, hairy type) chasing us every time on our way to home. I also remember Panchthar, Phidim. I think I used to go to school there. If I did, it must have been for first grade. But, you need not have joined the school to attend classes then - it was much simpler times. Here again, no motor vehicles. I remember riding horses there too. Once or twice, the horses had slipped on icy rocks and nearly crushed my brother and I. I remember wild stories told by the horse handlers during our 1-2 (or 2-3?) days journey to/from Phidim. I remember one place they showed us and told us a story that I remember to this day - a revolutionary of some sort jumped off a cliff to escape being shot/captured...and he lived and ran away ! Anyone from that area of Phidim will tell you his name; unfortunately I don't remember. I have many incoherent memories of this place. Going to school, painting the blackboard with used battery's carbons, my brother and I floating our shoes in the open drain/canal and following it home, going to play with neighbor's daughter. I think we used to call her Kaali or Nepti. Oh, I had quite a crush on her - I was smitten. I remember always taking her with me to hide during our hide and seek games. We used to hide really well, inside haystacks. She must have been afraid of dark and used to sob. To appease her, I then used to recite rhymes and fairy tales. We enjoyed each other so much that I remember others getting angry at us for not showing up for quite some time even after the "seekers" gave up looking for us. Our office peon/cook used to come and fetch us home every evening after play time. I still remember painful grip of his hands, lest we run away and thus more work for him. This same guy taking us on a tour to his village, feeding us with dahi-chiuraa and felling Kattus and Walnuts from trees on the way back.
Growing up:
I started formal schooling in Dharan in second grade. Even though I was there for two years, I hardly remember anything at all. One thing I do remember is going to school with a neighborhood friend Fuchhe. Fuchhe and I used to skip school quite a lot, probably because it was too far away and there was no other means to go than walk. I remember spending entire day on many ocassions by the riverside (Khahare)...making a nest like enclosure in a bush. We ate out of our tiffin-boxes and slept in our nest after a tiresome game. It feels so strange now - how could so small kids do things like that? Why didn't anyone notice or care about our roaming about? I think it was a social structure -- my parents were away, I living with grand parents. Fuchhe's dad was a lahure, never home and his mom never noticed our adventures. One thing I was never short of was the stories - I was quick to make up one and tell in detail about school and other kids and teachers even if it had been a week since I set a foot in school. I remember making a bird out of clay for final test of our so called "handwork" class. I got a second prize but was taunted at home all the same - by a cousin.."second...second...booooo". There was (I think there still is) a slang-like word in Dharan - "Sekkken" - meaning hopelessly surprised or realization of a failure. Other than that, I don't remember anything of this period. I changed school for 4th grade (Jhapa this time) and I remember most of it after that - both good and bad times and several places, best of which were in Kalaiya (Bara) and Birgunj during winter breaks.
I was in Kathmandu after 5th grade and ever since, practically speaking. My tender years were good but I don't consider my school days between 5-8th grade as jolly ones. No, nothing bad happened but I think I saw too many bad taking place around me. Lousy teachers, unruly and belligerent kids, dismal environment, exposure to hazards, lack of guidance ...it is not expected of a private "boarding" school but it was all of those. My parents probably had no idea how bad it was. But, considering the reality of the country, I was probably one of the lucky few. I did go to an English Boarding school, didn't I? I wonder if Banasthali is/ever was one? Forturnately, I made two very good friends in my 8th grade and life took a very good turn thence. One of them is still in regular touch and the other one rarely. But, I guess being in 3 different countries (US, UK and Australia) doesn't help much either.
As the crow flies...:
As you can see, most of my childhood memories are limited to few incidents. The ones that I described pretty much sums it all up. As few as they are, I intend to cherish them all. At this juncture in life when I am about to become a dad, I try to think of those days and wonder what my child will remember at my age. Nostalgia is a funny thing - it can be heart warming and full of discomfort at the same time. I have to quote one of my seniors who quoted Khaptad Baba - "Chitra, mitra, shahitya" - that is what one needs to keep in plenty and of quality. I try to follow this simple mantra to the word.
It so happens that it was my birthday yesterday. I don't make a big deal of it let alone celebrate it. There are many years that I didn't even realize that my birthday had passed me by. During and after my college years I used to go to Pashupatinath or a nearby temple as a way of thanking the Almighty for all the privileges that I enjoyed. In the more recent years, it is only because of my darling wife's insistence that we started having a few friends over for a dinner. Even so, we never tell them what it is for until we are half way through our food, lest they worry about gifts and cards and the likes. I have managed to make that guest list smaller by the year and this year, it was the ultimate - we were on our own ! I, sort of, tricked her by offering to take her to a nice dinner. And I'm hoping that our attentions will be diverted to our child's birthdays next year on.
Adulthood:
One funny thing about birthdays is that they tend to make me nostalgic. I unfailingly look at my life in retrospect and find myself still searching...for countless things. Last few years, I have been searching for something that would define me and my life. Yeah, yeah...I am getting paid (and getting paid well at that) to work in the field that I chose to work in. But, is that all? My wife thinks I have an inherently restless soul and get easily bored with mundane routine. She probably means to say that I am lazy. I would like to think otherwise, but can I really? Over the years, I have changed my objectives and point of views far too many times. I changed to Physics from Biology in my early college years. I changed from one engineering branch to other. I started my job in software, a different field than what I graduated in. I changed my academic focus again and joined a grad school in Computer Science. Only this time it was what I wanted to do and teach afterwards. I think I thrived in it then. I did a lot of research, taught classes and even got published. No, it didn't stop there - after four years in grad school, to my professors' dismay, I threw my thesis to trash and dropped out of school - probably one year away from PhD. I changed my mind and started working in software industry again. I still want to go back to school to complete that thesis and get my degree and at some point start teaching. My professors are more than willing to have me back - probably more than me. I don't know if I will actually come about doing it though. Cliche - nothing in life is certain but uncertainty. However, weren't I wavering rather than searching all the way through?
I believe most of us are like that. Do we really know, early on, what we want to do in life? During my teenage days I don't remember any of my friends saying anything but wanting to become a doctor or an engineer. It is just a social custom and what others expect you to become than our own choices that led us to our respective fields. And sure, almost my whole friend circle became what was expected of us. But,do we love it? How good are we in what we do? Who measures it? Does anyone actually tell you the bad news if you are not good enough? I've seen so many of my friends do wonders in standard tests and yet remain average or below average in practice - even at professional levels. USMLE/GRE/GMAT/PE you name it and I've seen my buddies shoot the charts and set the competitive bars very high for others. But that doesn't mean they were destined to write those tests. Just like my buddies, I did everything (minus my PhD drop-out time) that made my parents proud and the observers elate with appreciation. Does that mean I continue to do what I am doing and I'll be fine? Looking at my track record, there is much evidence that I probably will not settle down doing one thing for a long time. what I have observed is that once the initial excitement is over and the dust of novelty factor in my involvement settles down, I start getting bored. I don't see any reason to continue doing the same thing once I have mastered the required skill, and some. The perfect thing for me to do is probably something that constantly provokes me, gives me challenges in small doses and of increasing difficulty, and most of all lets me have my own hours. So, what am I to do? I don't know. There are far too many things that I would like to do. I'd like to get an MBA. I'd like to go to law school. I'd like to do a bit of research in social science. I'd like to start a business and grow it big. Join a volunteer organization; paint for a living; go for a hike for months on end; join political organization...you name it and I've thought about doing it in detail. Like a kid in a toy store, I still can't control my urges when it comes to my desires of becoming (something/someone). No matter what I am doing, one question always comes to haunt me back - "what now/next?"
Tender years:
Strangely enough, I don't remember much about my early childhood days. The earliest recollection that I have is of Dhankuta. My dad started his employment there. There were no motor-roads then. We used to live in a rented apartment. DO you know what kind of house I am talking about? If you have seen wooden houses in eastern regions, you'll know. Basically, 8-10 tree trunks act as columns to raise the platform. The planks make up the walls and ceilings. Tile or tin roof and mud-packed floors. Well to do families painted their exteriors with different bright colors. Anyways, there was a veranda outside but it had a swing to it, owing to loose connections or overuse. I was scared to go to the toilet about 20-30 meters away from home during the evenings. I always used the veranda and tried to pee as far away from the house as possible. To discourage me from doing that, I remember some of my neighbors telling me horror stories; like, this giant monster coming to check on kids peeing off veranda and pulling their pricks (toori) out. Every time I peed off the veranda and it swayed in one direction, I used to get scared. But, I remember thinking to myself.."the monster must be busy checking other neighborhood kids". I remember going to pluck Amala, Tittiri (Imli), oranges and guavas with other kids. During winter, mom and her friends used to have sessions of Sun-soaking and eating "saadeko" citrus-fruits. I took part in a horse racing event during King's birthday. I was barely 5, I think, and I was more interested in keeping my grams (Channa) falling off my pockets than riding to win. I used to ride good and I won the race but I was crying very hard...of course, for all the Channa had fallen off during the ride. I remember being punished by getting locked in a cupboard of sorts in Illam. Also in Illam, a white dog (small, hairy type) chasing us every time on our way to home. I also remember Panchthar, Phidim. I think I used to go to school there. If I did, it must have been for first grade. But, you need not have joined the school to attend classes then - it was much simpler times. Here again, no motor vehicles. I remember riding horses there too. Once or twice, the horses had slipped on icy rocks and nearly crushed my brother and I. I remember wild stories told by the horse handlers during our 1-2 (or 2-3?) days journey to/from Phidim. I remember one place they showed us and told us a story that I remember to this day - a revolutionary of some sort jumped off a cliff to escape being shot/captured...and he lived and ran away ! Anyone from that area of Phidim will tell you his name; unfortunately I don't remember. I have many incoherent memories of this place. Going to school, painting the blackboard with used battery's carbons, my brother and I floating our shoes in the open drain/canal and following it home, going to play with neighbor's daughter. I think we used to call her Kaali or Nepti. Oh, I had quite a crush on her - I was smitten. I remember always taking her with me to hide during our hide and seek games. We used to hide really well, inside haystacks. She must have been afraid of dark and used to sob. To appease her, I then used to recite rhymes and fairy tales. We enjoyed each other so much that I remember others getting angry at us for not showing up for quite some time even after the "seekers" gave up looking for us. Our office peon/cook used to come and fetch us home every evening after play time. I still remember painful grip of his hands, lest we run away and thus more work for him. This same guy taking us on a tour to his village, feeding us with dahi-chiuraa and felling Kattus and Walnuts from trees on the way back.
Growing up:
I started formal schooling in Dharan in second grade. Even though I was there for two years, I hardly remember anything at all. One thing I do remember is going to school with a neighborhood friend Fuchhe. Fuchhe and I used to skip school quite a lot, probably because it was too far away and there was no other means to go than walk. I remember spending entire day on many ocassions by the riverside (Khahare)...making a nest like enclosure in a bush. We ate out of our tiffin-boxes and slept in our nest after a tiresome game. It feels so strange now - how could so small kids do things like that? Why didn't anyone notice or care about our roaming about? I think it was a social structure -- my parents were away, I living with grand parents. Fuchhe's dad was a lahure, never home and his mom never noticed our adventures. One thing I was never short of was the stories - I was quick to make up one and tell in detail about school and other kids and teachers even if it had been a week since I set a foot in school. I remember making a bird out of clay for final test of our so called "handwork" class. I got a second prize but was taunted at home all the same - by a cousin.."second...second...booooo". There was (I think there still is) a slang-like word in Dharan - "Sekkken" - meaning hopelessly surprised or realization of a failure. Other than that, I don't remember anything of this period. I changed school for 4th grade (Jhapa this time) and I remember most of it after that - both good and bad times and several places, best of which were in Kalaiya (Bara) and Birgunj during winter breaks.
I was in Kathmandu after 5th grade and ever since, practically speaking. My tender years were good but I don't consider my school days between 5-8th grade as jolly ones. No, nothing bad happened but I think I saw too many bad taking place around me. Lousy teachers, unruly and belligerent kids, dismal environment, exposure to hazards, lack of guidance ...it is not expected of a private "boarding" school but it was all of those. My parents probably had no idea how bad it was. But, considering the reality of the country, I was probably one of the lucky few. I did go to an English Boarding school, didn't I? I wonder if Banasthali is/ever was one? Forturnately, I made two very good friends in my 8th grade and life took a very good turn thence. One of them is still in regular touch and the other one rarely. But, I guess being in 3 different countries (US, UK and Australia) doesn't help much either.
As the crow flies...:
As you can see, most of my childhood memories are limited to few incidents. The ones that I described pretty much sums it all up. As few as they are, I intend to cherish them all. At this juncture in life when I am about to become a dad, I try to think of those days and wonder what my child will remember at my age. Nostalgia is a funny thing - it can be heart warming and full of discomfort at the same time. I have to quote one of my seniors who quoted Khaptad Baba - "Chitra, mitra, shahitya" - that is what one needs to keep in plenty and of quality. I try to follow this simple mantra to the word.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
ConstitWiki - Constitution in a Wiki
Web 2.0 provides a solution to Nepali woes!!!
I sprang up in an epiphany ! Eureka !! I have it figured out once and for all. It is the perfect solution to all the bickering and finger-pointing going on in our political arena. With any luck, we can soon say adieu to the violence in the terai.
I am surprised why it never occurred to me before. After all, working in the leading edge of software technologies is what I do for a living. Besides, day in and day out I've been using the today's stuff actively and all with proper choices.So much so that I suffer from Carpal Tunnel developed by over-indulging in blackberry; I gave up keeping a physical photo album in lieu of a flickr account; I get most of my news from pod casts; my current event talk shows are limited to Comedy Central's The Daily Show and The Colbert Report ; I refer to wikipedia like a religion and I am proud to say that I too have contributed to the wealth of knowledge there; and oh, did I tell you that I blog too? Well, one way or the other, this particular solution never occurred to me before. I have it now.
Consider this - create a wiki for all the leaders of all the political parties and ask them to work their butts off in producing a constitution that everyone agrees upon. No more finger-pointing and crying fowl over missed opportunities.No more complaints about not being all-inclusive. If you mess up something - it's your behind that will get kicked not anyone else's. You all can consent to each other, erase each others articles, delete it, amend it, do it over and all of it as many times as you like without having to call strikes, bandhas and riots. It will suite your attitudes too since being lazy heads as you are, you won't need to get your butts off the chair too. As for the rest of us, we all can participate by being passionate observers. Besides, for the rest of the folks like us, our butts are already taken, thank you, either by schools or work or in search of one. If they promise to spare us from all that is going on, I am willing to set it up myself. Heck, I'm upping the ante - I'll even buy them a domain and host it for them. Armed with a 21st century ConstiWiki, who dare say we are still in the stone ages?
But,that's one area our dear leaders don't lead anyone of us in - they actually lag. Ironical as it is, this reminds of one country that beat all the odds and has made it big beyond imagination in the span of a little over a decade. Estonia. Starting off with more than 30% unemployment and bankrupt economy in 1991 after the fall of the soviet empire, this country has had quite a metamorphosis. It was mostly thanks to, IMHO, the leadership of a young (he was only 32 when he took office) prime-minister Mart Laar. This is one path that I would like to see being followed by our pyaaaro-desh too. Ready for PM Gagan Thapa folks? If not, brace yourself for the ride.
I sprang up in an epiphany ! Eureka !! I have it figured out once and for all. It is the perfect solution to all the bickering and finger-pointing going on in our political arena. With any luck, we can soon say adieu to the violence in the terai.
I am surprised why it never occurred to me before. After all, working in the leading edge of software technologies is what I do for a living. Besides, day in and day out I've been using the today's stuff actively and all with proper choices.So much so that I suffer from Carpal Tunnel developed by over-indulging in blackberry; I gave up keeping a physical photo album in lieu of a flickr account; I get most of my news from pod casts; my current event talk shows are limited to Comedy Central's The Daily Show and The Colbert Report ; I refer to wikipedia like a religion and I am proud to say that I too have contributed to the wealth of knowledge there; and oh, did I tell you that I blog too? Well, one way or the other, this particular solution never occurred to me before. I have it now.
Consider this - create a wiki for all the leaders of all the political parties and ask them to work their butts off in producing a constitution that everyone agrees upon. No more finger-pointing and crying fowl over missed opportunities.No more complaints about not being all-inclusive. If you mess up something - it's your behind that will get kicked not anyone else's. You all can consent to each other, erase each others articles, delete it, amend it, do it over and all of it as many times as you like without having to call strikes, bandhas and riots. It will suite your attitudes too since being lazy heads as you are, you won't need to get your butts off the chair too. As for the rest of us, we all can participate by being passionate observers. Besides, for the rest of the folks like us, our butts are already taken, thank you, either by schools or work or in search of one. If they promise to spare us from all that is going on, I am willing to set it up myself. Heck, I'm upping the ante - I'll even buy them a domain and host it for them. Armed with a 21st century ConstiWiki, who dare say we are still in the stone ages?
But,that's one area our dear leaders don't lead anyone of us in - they actually lag. Ironical as it is, this reminds of one country that beat all the odds and has made it big beyond imagination in the span of a little over a decade. Estonia. Starting off with more than 30% unemployment and bankrupt economy in 1991 after the fall of the soviet empire, this country has had quite a metamorphosis. It was mostly thanks to, IMHO, the leadership of a young (he was only 32 when he took office) prime-minister Mart Laar. This is one path that I would like to see being followed by our pyaaaro-desh too. Ready for PM Gagan Thapa folks? If not, brace yourself for the ride.
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