Meals In The Dark It is a challenge to eat in the dark--especially when you disagree with the ideological reasons behind the lifeless light bulbs, motionless fans and a frail, flickering candle. The “lights out nights” are to show solidarity to the rebelling political parties; it is an imposed solidarity against the monarchy--but solidarity, nonetheless. Two years of groping in the dark solidarity for the people of Nepal, save for the nights of government imposed load shedding--the latter to conserve energy. Ravi picks at the Basmati rice on his plate--his last meal with his family before he returns to junior year at American University, Washington DC. This is a different Ravi that sits at the table this night--a post-spring break changeling created by circumstances. “What time is your flight, Ravi Babu?” His mother reaches over to pour some lentil curry onto his plate, her hand guided in the dark by instinct. “No more Ma, I am done with dinner. I have to be at the airport at least three hours prior to departure time.” Ravi is reluctant to divulge details--she will find out that tomorrow is yet another day of party imposed “chakka jaam”--no vehicles allowed on the roads. Those who dare venture out, are likely to be stoned by party demonstrators who’ve called on the “jaam.” It is better if she hears about it from the radio--a neutral source. Ma has enough to contend with; rheumatism has deformed all but one last finger on her left hand, but she needs to know about Dev. He must tell her before he leaves. “We leave at daybreak tomorrow Ma. There is a chakka jaam, A friend will drop us off in his security van.” Dev, Ravi’s older brother, informs without looking at her. “What? Chakka jaam again! Dev Babu, this friend is not mixed up with the demonstrators, is he? I know, students in your college are against the king. Just stay off the streets, please!” Ma reaches over the table with sudden urgency; her shadow flickers, ghostly in its length stretched across the table. Their shadows touch and merge even if their physical bodies do not. At another time, seventeen years ago, Ma had uttered the same warning to her husband, now deceased. She fears the worst for her sons--one studying in America and the other, precariously balanced between political idealisms and a desire to study medicine. Two Saturdays ago, Dev had picked Ravi up in a dilapidated old taxi which lurched around potholes and honked its way through a slogan chanting rabble--youth who’d discarded their books for placards. “Look at them! A bunch of bums, wasting time and resources of the tax payers--they should all be locked up.” Ravi was irritated at the crowd which showed no sign of dispersing. “Sir, I would be careful, if I were you. These are peaceful demonstrators who seek justice from the government.” The cabby twisted the rear view mirror and glared at Ravi in the back seat. “Well, slogan chanting and throwing stones is not going to help them, is it? Why don’t they storm the palace? In the US, where I live, discontents demonstrate in front of White House--no human road blocks, no chaos--it’s all very civilized.” He ignored Dev’s warning hand on his sleeve. “Bhai,” The cabby, a young man with curly hair, in his twenties, turned around and addressed Dev, “Tell your brother, people in America are not fighting price hikes of rice, sugar, oil; lack of drinking water, energy load shedding--you name it. Yes, if we could, we’d be planning a brilliant future too!” His stress on the English word “future,” indicated some level of education--perhaps, he was a student himself, with no choice but to drive for his meager meal of rice and watery lentil soup. He slowed the car as he passed a small band of moving placards and turned to Ravi, “Bhai, you’ll find out soon enough!” “Do you know the schedule for blackout nights? I have to study for my medical exams.” Dev changed the subject but kept a warning eye on Ravi. “Trust me, you won’t be studying much at night; you might as well burn those books for fuel!” Cabby commented wryly. Ravi shrugged and looked out of the window--one bushy brow arched over dark brown eyes and an aquiline nose which flared at any hint of irritation. His lips, while thicker than Dev’s, were quick to smile and bordered on the sensual--a “chick magnet” as he accidentally discovered in college. The cab dipped, narrowly missing a meditative cow chewing its cud, oblivious to the approaching crowd and traffic. A young girl (probably, 15 years old) sat on the broken sidewalk while another of similar age with a sleeping baby tied onto her back, braided her hair with red rags. Life went on as usual; Kathmandu was in a time warp--girls were still married off at a young age like they were a hundred years ago; Ravi wouldn’t have known the difference. -------------To Be Continued--------------