Fifth Day Since it faces south, among many purposes that our third floor veranda serves, drying wet laundry tops the list. There are two T-shaped shafts at each end of the railing that serve as the support for the nylon rope on which the wet clothes hang pretty much every day. It didn’t look like that light blue rope has lost any of its strength in the past 15 years. Raam lives in the one-bedroom quarter behind the house. You can see his room from the veranda. He has lived there since he came to help us with our household chores in 1993. He has nested that room for so long that he pleads nostalgia every time we ask him to move to the main house. My fifth afternoon in Nepal was quite breezy. I was in the veranda educating my father about GOOGLE when the gust picked up. Though the plastic clippers clamped the clothes on the nylon rope, a strong wind of gust routinely flapped them and turned them upside down. And one particular gust was so powerful it ripped off my father’s favorite shirt from the rope. Our reflex action was too slow, before we could react, the shirt bungee-jumped on to the ground next to Raam’s room. “Raamey, Raamey, Raamey,’ screamed my father. I volunteered to go down and pick up the shirt myself. My father wouldn’t let me, he was adamant: “He’s in his room, let him bring it.” That followed three more piercing yells of Raam’s homified name, Raamey. Raam did not respond. What happened next left me speechless. I saw my father run to his room and pick up his cordless. He dialed a number. It was Raam’s number. Raam has a cell phone. Let me rephrase that sentence: Raam, our Raam, tehi Raam ke, has a cell phone. I don’t think you get it, let me repeat: Raam has a cell phone. Raam’s brother Lalit who is a ‘Laahure’ in Qatar (or some country as fanatical) has bought Raam a cell phone. I myself have never seen a cell phone that expensive. That phone has more functions than that of Dick Cheney in the Bush White House. Now that I come to think about it, not just Raam, everyone in Nepal has a cell phone. In a country that has an unemployment rate of 42% and a female literacy of 35%, everyone carries a cell phone. Everyone walks like one of his hands is his Siamese twin attached to his ear. I don’t know what they talk about, but you see people constantly talking. Everyone walks like they don’t care how unimportant they are. You go to a restaurant for 15 minutes, ten cell phones ring—and everyone has a unique ringer. The one I liked the most, rang: “Yo Radio Nepal ho, Durgaa Nath Sharma Bata Samachaar Sunnuhos.” As annoyed I was with the cell phones that had me rolling on the floor. That evening, I took my brother to Bhatbhateni department store. I have not met a person in Kathmandu who does not rave about that store. Having seen so little so far, I have already learned to curb my enthusiasm. So my expectations were not high. But I was pleasantly surprised to see the store. It looks or feels nothing like Nordstrom, Wal-Mart, or even a mini K-Mart, but it has its own appeal. It was cozy and homey—and the workers are well trained. A young woman followed us everywhere in the store. She helped us find everything we were looking for. When we were done shopping, my brother said, “He’s going to pay with his credit card.” A moment of silence followed. Suddenly, I saw a newfound respect for me in that young woman’s eyes. Like a horny nurse attending a handsome patient, she said, “Wait here sir. I’ll take care of you.” The news quickly spread in the store. Everyone in the store looked at me as if they wanted to ask: “Way to go sir. Is it Visa or MasterCard?” His head bowed, another clerk begged my pardon: “Sir, since you’re paying with your credit card, you need to proceed downstairs.” Then the man opened the door with utmost respect. When I went downstairs, the woman at the register shouted, “Sir, you’re paying with your credit card, right? Please come over here. I’ll take care of you.” The clerk upstairs had already described my physique to the cashier downstairs. Everyone’s eyes fixed at me, I advanced to the counter. Like other cash paying ordinary people, I did not need to stand in line. I watched the cashier charge my credit card. I had never felt so proud to see someone swipe my Visa card. When she was done, she wiped my card with a piece of eyeglasses cleaning cloth and handed it over to me with her both hands. The credit card holder’s brother was quite overwhelmed. To be continued…