Normal 0 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} Stranded By then, I was well versed that empty stomach would cause a lot of trouble during travel. The crowded bus station showed only some cheap and unhygienic food stalls and restaurants. Carrying my language – a brown side bag with some cloths, a book and edibles for the way, I set out to look for a decent one. It was not so easy. The 2 o’clock summer sun was intense, dust and smoke stinging eyes and nose and deafening honks of the jammed vehicles added up a mild headache. After ten minutes of walk, beside a petrol pump, I found a clean coffee shop. A cup of tea and a slice of cake would be a better choice, I thought. My phone rang as I pushed aside the glass-ash tray in the middle of the table that was continually emanating the smell of burnt cigarette from the studs in it. “Home Calling…” the phone displayed. “In Kalanki, will leave at 3:30”, I said and hung up. I rested my head on the seat and closed my eyes. A moment later, the engine started and I could feel the vibration of it. 4 o’clock, my wrist watch showed. All the passengers hurried inside and instantly after the bus was full. Meanwhile, with black clouds hovering above the Kathmandu valley, it had started to drizzle, the first rain of the summer and a relief from dust and heat. With a loud honk the bus pushed itself forward. A cool breeze of air slipped though the narrow opening of the window, and I slid it completely closed. I reached for my bag, took out a red jumper of mine and made myself comfortable in its warmth. After six hours we had our meal at Hetauda. I was not so hungry for I had eaten biscuits and potato chips that I had brought along with me. The highway side hotels are often characterized by low quality food but with expensive price. The lantern and candle lit hotel stood solely in its area and was no exception. A stout man with protruding belly stood in front of my table. “Rice..?” He asked. “Noodles.” I said. Soon, he arrived with a bowl and souped noodles in it. I emptied the bowl but with not much delight. As our bus was about to leave the place, the scheduled electricity lit up the bulbs and tube-lights of the hotel. A long yawn, and soon I dozed off on my seat. Mosquitoes. A lot of them, biting my arms and neck. I pulled the sleeves down and slipped the hood of my jumper into my head and tried to sleep. But I couldn’t. Though it was hot, an irony that I had to put my jumper on. It was 1:30, had been nearly one hour our bus stopped and joined the queue of other vehicles, along the highway. I look out, but could see nothing, not even a small bulb glowing anywhere. Load shedding, that invited the utter darkness. Though I managed to get a little nap my eyes were still heavy and a feeling of drowsiness was prevalent. I stepped out of the bus. The sun was ready to illuminate the place showing the line of queued vehicles and faces of stranded passengers. For two years, I had been seeing the sun coming out from behind hills or some buildings but it was the time when I saw it coming out directly from the earth. Literally, it seemed that the sun was coming out from the black pitched East-West highway and the width of the highway just fitted the diameter of the sun, making it to look like a giant semi-circle standing at the end of the road. Indeed, it was a good feeling amid the sickening uncertainties and the yet to come frustrations. Now, I could see the buses, trucks, tractors, small jeeps and cars in a single line, facing east and standing on the left side of the road. I could neither see its end nor the point it had started. The cuboidal, concrete water tank, a couple of feet away from road was surrounded by the people from the halted vehicles. Washing their faces, brushing their teeth and filling up their empty water bottles, they provided a reminiscence of the crowded ‘Dhunge Dhara’ of Kathmandu valley. Morning tea sip is almost mandatory for me, otherwise an eternal headache is likely to accompany for the rest of the day. A bamboo made, thatched roof tea shop was near by my bus. But it was too crowded. I moved a few steps further and noticed an old man sitting inside a small shop and sipping tea from a steel mug. I stepped inside the shop, a two storied wooden house with metal sheeted roof. “Can I get a tea?” I asked. “Laxmi, Laxmi.” The man cried, paused a little and said, “Make a tea.” Though the shop looked like a small grocery store, later I knew it served tea and some fast-food also. After a while, a woman appeared with two glasses on her either hand. She placed a glass on the table in front of me and poured the tea onto the old man’s mug from the other. She had a distinctive brown wart on the tip of her nose. Although she was around forty her appearance suggested that she had been an attractive lady in her youth. I noticed the old man as I drank my tea. He looked past seventy, missing lower front teeth; almost white hair combed back and puffed up lower portion of his eyes, below his eyelids. He continuously looked outside as he sipped tea from his mug. Breaking the silence, he asked, “Where are you heading to?” “Biratnagar.” I said. “Had been blocked from yesterday, 11 o’clock at night.” He said. “They are demanding a large amount from the truck owner. Laid the dead body in the middle of the road.” He added and this time I could clearly notice a mixed Indian accent in his tone. The day was getting hotter with the sun almost above the head. I had taken some food in the shop and was sitting inside the bus reading the book, actually a novel, that I had brought with me. From time to time a group of 6/7 policemen would patrol along the line of vehicles on their jeep, ensuring no any incidents. The bus was heated up by the sun and in turn the radiated heat waves from the metal body of the bus forced me to step out of it. Clutching the book in my hand I moved my feet towards the shop. The old man was sitting on the same wooden bench in front of the door, looking outside. I sat opposite to him facing his left part and continued with the novel. I had so much got into the novel that I hardly noticed someone had already been sitting by my side. Actually, he was a boy of about thirteen and belonged to Madeshi community. He recently had his head shaved and tiny beads of sweat glittered between his short black hairs. He wore a brown vest and navy blue shorts. I noticed that his right leg was amputated below his knee, only, when he hobbled on his other leg to get the green plastic water jug. I kept on looking at him as he drank water from the jug standing on one leg. “Michael, tell Laxmi to make a tea.” The old man said looking at the boy. He then jumping on his only foot went towards the kitchen. “Lucky bastard he is.” The old man said still looking outside. “Only lost his right leg, but his brother died on the spot.” “What happened?” I asked. “A stray bomb, they were playing with it.” He paused a while, “He used to dance real good, so the name Michael.” He said, this time looking at me. I sighed and said nothing. It was already three in the afternoon but the sun was still hot. To cut the monotony, I stepped out of the shop. The faces of the people clearly showed the exhaustion and a fading hope of getting out of the place soon. Some were resting inside the bus and shops by the road, some in the shade of trees and some were busy cautiously looking after their kids. A moment later, a group of boys, mostly teenagers arrived on bicycles. They sat on the rug laid outside the shop, just a meter away from where I was standing. They were five of them and among them one looked a bit matured. He had a fancy tattoo depicting an image of a naked lady on his left arm. “Oh boy! The corpse was awful, did you see it?” One of them spoke. “We couldn’t go near, it was stinking shit.” The other replied. “The truck might have run over his head, while he was crossing the road. Poor fellow! Head totally smashed, brain squeezed out, eyes popped up and jaws totally moved aside. Man, it was really disgusting.” The first one said. “Let’s leave the shit.” The tattooed arm finally spoke. He then took out a scrap of newspaper from his jeans with something packed inside it. “You boys got to smoke this, its one of the finest.” He said. “Those mother f**kers wouldn’t give it less than 250 but for me they gave it for 100.” He took out a cigarette from his pocket and handed it to the boy next to him. He then gestured to other boy, “Take the weed.” He said and passed the newspaper scrap to him. I was not so familiar with the after process, but I found it quite intriguing. The boy took out all the tobacco from the cigarette into his left palm. He then, threw half of it and mixed the remaining with the weed and rubbed it with his right thumb against his left palm until the mixture was homogeneous and fine. He put the hollowed cigarette between his lips and sucked the mixture into it. A final tapping at the tip of the cigarette and the joint was ready to be smoked. They left the place having three rounds of joint. The sun was getting dimmer and I joined the old man with a glass of tea. He was just looking outside drinking tea from his mug and at once he spoke, “Went to India when I was 25, just like you age.” “Were you in Indian Army?” I asked. “No, no, a driver in a poultry farm.” He then looked down to the floor. “Worked there for 30 years and then retired.” The story behind his Indian accent was now clear to me. “So, after that you returned to Nepal.” I said. “Where could the old bones go?” He said, curving his lips for the first time. “Ever since I have been living here.” He then put his mug on the table, took a deep breath and said, “Three years ago my daughter came to visit me and ended up living with me, she had no where to go.” With the words he turned a bit emotional. “Why?” I asked. “Those bastards killed them both.” “Accused her husband of spying them. Came at night, chopped him and when her teen age son protested, didn’t spare him also. And the bastards proudly call this, a revolution. Killing and crippling people rampantly, is it what their f**king revolution is all about?” I could feel the tranquil old man getting tempered gradually. “They hung the bodies from a tree and burnt the house. She was here at the time so is still alive.” I couldn’t utter a word. I don’t know why but my eyes fixed on a line – “Places cannot move on their own but take the help of travellers.”, from the novel that I was reading. The old man was calm and silent thereafter. All of a sudden, I could hear whistle and cries of people and instantly after the vehicles started honking and with it followed the rush. My wrist watch showed 6 0’clock. As I was preparing to get myself up, the old man spoke, “Go, go, you might miss your bus.” I got up, looked at him and smiled, then went out of the shop. The morning east-sun that stood ahead of us had now moved westward pretending to be clearing the way for us. I got into the bus and took my seat. The old man was still there as usual looking outside. I could see Michael, nonchalant about the things around him and poking a dog with a stick in his hand. I took in a long breath, rested my head on the seat and closed my eyes. A moment later, the engine started and I could feel the vibration of it.                                                                   Last edited: 29-Jun-09 08:05 AM Last edited: 29-Jun-09 08:06 AM Last edited: 29-Jun-09 08:09 AM Last edited: 29-Jun-09 08:10 AM Last edited: 29-Jun-09 10:04 AM Last edited: 29-Jun-09 11:49 AM Last edited: 29-Jun-09 11:52 AM