She gets off DuPont Circle metro station and walks South. A hot summer day in DC. Tourists; mostly white looking, with families, under the glare of yellow sun, are lazily lingering around in confusion, studying the maps and looking up at buildings or at the open space ahead of them. Wanting to ask some things to the Orangely dressed man standing by the crossroad. Children, all sweaty and exhausted, are looking for a place to sit. Aastha has worn a plain white t-shirt that says at the back ‘Bite Me’ in plain, big black letters. A faded blue jeans and cheap Gap slippers. A pony tail. Her lips are parched, and her forehead is sweaty. Tall buildings, with black glass windows; buildings arranged in a row, like a set of black teeth. But a lot of space in front of them, like you could sit there and sell baked corns, and make more money or no money, unlike the footpath seller waiting all day to make ‘some’ money in Ratnapark. In a corner of one of those buildings, a small hut has a neatly hanging wooden plate, which reads “Café Japon”; a sign right next to it says in bold letters that it requires a dress code. Her 45 yr old heartthrob Senator William Smith was waiting downstairs. It was embarrassing to have dressed so plainly, but Willy received her with great confidence and a beaming pride, Aastha felt prized.
A cozy restaurant with an expensive décor. The place was crowded with fat-looking middle aged men smoking cigars. A dim light, in shades of red, blue and green, a hazy feel of smoke drifting on air. Women loathed with expensive jewelry hanging down their wrinkled, thin and wary neck. People in a relaxed mood, as if there were no tomorrow; laughing, playing pool, cigars tipped at one corner of their mouths, letting smoke float freely across personal boundaries, that otherwise lay so tightly within the realm of professional lives. Randy Newman’s Sail Away passes through her mind; where his typical Americans sit in cushioned chairs, drink wine and talk about Jesus. Willy introduced Aastha to a group of people; Senator Morrison, Arizona, Mrs. Morrison, Congressman Richardson…
Back home dad swears. Saala. Ma jhyakne. Chor saala. (Assholes. Motherf******). He yells at the government for what it has done to his life, to an individual’s life in Nepal.
“Raajtantra murdabad! Ganatantra jindabad!” a crowd of people waving flags red and white march proudly across Ratna Park and stand still for a while. Someone wearing a traditional daura climbs the stage set up high, and starts speaking, slowly, with much thought and stuttering; and people, hundreds of them, with red scarf tied around their heads, stand in awe, listening, half confused, as if some slow poison is working ill on them. Aastha buys a Kulfi for Rs. 5, and stands somewhere near the crowd, biting it piece by piece, letting the freeze run down her spines. She then walks down the roads of Singhadurbar where women protestors are tearing their voices against the Miss Nepal contest to be held in a week. And later that night she sits by the fire watching the demons dance. Boiling rice. Reminiscing moments and missing them, like she missed the disappeared warts in her hands.
Reminiscence. The Asian Diaspora where she sat unnoticed, like a mice, watching, observing; as if it were really important, like a lecture on European History. And the video on some Pakistani models kept reeling, stupefying the audience expectant of some things much bigger, for the 5 dollars they had paid at the entrance. Abbaas and his song without music. “Kasto daami voice!” murmurs Kirti to herself and nods at Aastha “Hai, hai?...” “Tyhi ta!” smiles Aastha back but by then Kirti is in her own world already. Aastha gets up and walks out towards the entrance and stands still, watching the crowd. “Can I help you?” A middle aged man with dark hair and chubby cheeks runs his eyes over her, in semi-darkness. “Yes. Could you bring me a glass of water?” Aastha responds. The man is suddenly startled and angrily points out at a big water filter. “Well, thank you.” Aastha just leans at the wall and stares at the spotlight on stage, watching someone play out Love. Like it was some sports; you play to win. Like Politics.
“You’re pretty” says Hasim, forcefully, and beautifully, like He has declared it, and it is the ultimate truth. The beat of passion. I could have done better, Aastha thinks, and numerous other claims, with portfolios of members of the agitating parties cross her mind; like how they always whine they could do better than the rest. But then, this could do is a looser phrase. I did is more of a winner type. Aastha wants to swear like her dad, right there; ‘Ma jhyakne. Sala! Chor Sala!!’ She kicks the wall hard, her boots angrily banging in a loud thud; once, twice, numerous times.
“Mr. William Smith, Florida”.
“Aastha”. She had forwarded her hand when Willy had smiled, letting his eyes twinkle in happiness. “Aesta!” he had said, with his Southern accent. He had a great sense of humor; like how jobs require it these days. “I’ve this weakness for Asian women...”, she had been flattered by his audaciousness, his way of putting things simply out there, just like that. Willy was a Pink Floyd fan. Aastha had it etched in her memory; that Pink Floyd fans were Her type, and Hindi movie watchers weren’t. Etched in her memory, like a childhood ghost in the khopa of a dark room where she had been kept for 13 days after her first menstruation. It had struck her family; her menstruation had come winding down in their minds like a whirlpool of impossibilities, it was like someone suddenly get pregnant.
Voices had gathered long time back and sedimented around the vicinity of Nepali politics; that the Constitution needed change. Amidst agitations against the Raj Parishad Conventions, constitutional amendment had gotten little attention, but Dr. Ramanath Mahato, determined, had led a team of researchers. Fear was still there, but had been sheltered by the heat of the ongoing mass movements in the streets. Everyday, a large group of people, a procession, would start from Jamal and reach Ratnapark, or sometimes, the Supreme Court, with the front row of men in cotton pants and leather jackets, women in nicely imprinted Indian saris, and the rest of the troops in sweaty, unwashed clothes shouting slogans at the top of their lungs; most of them with plenty of time, wanting to experience the heat of a julus in a whim.
“Ma pani Amrika jaani, didi sanga…” 6 year old Amish had said, tugging the end of her kurta tight, crying; while Aastha was hurriedly looking for coins, to drop into two glasses of water somebody had set at the door. “Aastha euta photo liu na, la…” Bhuwanesh had looked at her from a distance, his lips dry and wanting to say something, holding a camera, in frustration. The kausi had been bright and sunny, with warmth emanating from everyone. Aastha had quietly lent her forehead, looking straight, trying to understand the unspoken words her mother was chanting in her mind, and the red red tika had stuck wet in her forehead; somewhere in between her confusion and confidence. A spoon of yogurt being put into her mouth, and her emotions had suddenly vanished with the sourness of the yogurt moving down her throat.
But things had changed. Amish’s Amrika had failed to entice her anymore. Aastha recalls the can of coke she had poured down Katie’s head. When things hadn’t been right, when past midnight the bar was still wide awake and roaring in laughter, when her mind had gone in a merry-go round. And she had quit loving Willy, and had started hating Katie all the more.
Back home Dad swears again. Biku is playing chungi downstairs. There is no water in the tank; Aastha has to go fetch water from the neighboring house; burrow a bucket of water may be. She was getting used to it. Like the deep rooted system of hierarchy, transfer of power not by popular consent but by birth; Aastha was getting too used to some things. And 10 yr old Amisha is getting late for school; white shirt and white skirt, dirty black shoes and uncombed hair. Tiger is lying on the ground, near by the tea stained floor that is swarmed by flies; sometimes jumping to chase flies in frenzy, as if dad’s anger has gotten into him.
“Pandhra rupaiya ho didi yo ta, naya ho ni” Harisaran from inside the little stove pasal rents out pirated DVDs. Harisaran from Birgunj, people allegedly call him Madhise, derogatorily; his skin standing out amidst the numerous little things he sells; kerosene stove burner, gas stove lighter, pressure cooker rubbers…sitting in the middle of greasy rubber and tin products, he strives to serve his customers the best; spicing conversations with his local-made jokes, unlike some lame, erudite jokes of her history professors. Yet the professors bag all the credit while Harisaran is just there; existent yet not visible. Her anger swells large over this aristocracy of education, this capitalized intelligentsia, this horrendously fake circle of elites; who live lavishly, in a circle, away and detached from the People, wanting to elevate the same People; egocentric intellectual ambitions to ‘liberate’ the ‘poor’. “Oh bhaiya! Katro ber lagako!” a soberly woman dressed in flowery maroon kurta asserts. There must be some reason, Aastha thinks, and quits.
Falling in love is so easy. So Aastha falls. Falls and falls. Like she has nothing else to do. While Bimal comes online and flaunts his skills like a new Salsa dancer and leaves the room in a whim, letting his furry coat sweep air at his back. How he whines he had been looking to get married and how hard it is to find a woman for an America-returnee in Nepal, like finding cactus in New York; amidst the twenty eight million living in Nepal. “Sulekha has three academic degrees, and no degree in a relationship, isn’t that good?” Aastha had asked him once. Aastha could fall in love with anyone, even the Harisaran sitting in the middle of nowhere. She always wondered why it was so hard for others.
Aastha had been observant. For many days a crowd had gathered in front of the Supreme Court, Thapathali, to get a glimpse of the constitutional amendment somebody had promised them. It was a crucial moment, and a very crucial decision. The result would have been obvious to many, but hope, that the ‘absolutism’ might spare some leniency and grant them concession in decision making powers over matters of their own; some hope, that this autocracy might actually feel pity over people’s strenuous efforts to guard democracy however little they have understood it; this hope of being able to wipe the picture of feudalism from their minds and experience the dawn of a democratic tomorrow, brought this mass kneeling in front of the Supreme Court; anxious.
While the crowd is waiting, sometimes boldly, sometimes timidly. After half an hour of waiting straight outside the Supreme Court, people are more anxious than ever to hear the decision for constitutional amendment. But alas, they hear some disruptions. There’s rattling of chairs and tables. They fathom someone must have swirled a chair in anger, like they did in a parliament meeting once. But no, they hear a gun shot. Two gun shots. Three gun shots. Someone is firing gun shots!! Rapid firing. People rush out from the Courtroom, some limping, some in tears, some shocked and freezing, turning pale, running amok in confusion. No one can really think, the crowd disperses in panic; but something keeps ransacking Aastha’s mind, that it was a grand plan. With the entire parliament and revolutionary factions present inside, when could it be better?
Another Kot Massacre. For the third time. History of bloodshed. The next day television stations play out the drama in a more sensible way; where ‘absolutism’ assumes itself the sole proprietor of the nation, formally, with a ceremony that grinds the hopes of millions, cultivated throughout hundred of years; grinds and grinds, until there is nothing left; this desire for freedom.
