A Story of Zen and Sparrow

You first heard about me here. Yes, I’m the one who serenaded Zinta with a song without words on the guitar. In the same platform where you first heard about me, you are going to hear something from me. Last night as I wafted off to sleep. Zinta asked me a favor. “Tell me a story,” she said.

Here it goes.

It so happened on a fine day… a mother was teaching her son how to write…

“Huh? What’s this?” asked a curious face, on whose hand was a slender, pipe like thing. It was sleek, smooth to touch, coated in brilliant yellow stripes and had a shiny crown on top. “Umm, where does this go?”

“Hey, hey,” someone bellowed with a start. “It’s not supposed to …”

Too late.

“…to go…”

“Ouch! That hurt!”

“Now, don’t go looking at me like that. You should know better than to insert a pencil up your nose,” a warm voice said. She then reached out her hands to a toddler, who curiously looked exactly like a kid with a pencil stuck up his nose.

She pulled out the pencil, gently, yet firmly, in a ways that you attribute a mother with. Yes, she was suppressing her laugh all the while too. A few turn of the kutter (pencil sharpener, before we were accused of dating a thesaurus) and a shiny tip emerged.

“Whoa! Aaba k garne?

“Now,” said my mother, “I’ll teach you to write.”

“Yay! Can I draw then? Can I? Can I?”

It must been a fine day when my mother first sharpened a pencil for me, not a Robin Hood tip, a little bit blunt, the ones that artists use to do the shadows in. The right shade of the ‘lead’, which I found out later, is not lead after all, it’s granite re. I regret that I do not remember the warmth of her hands, her frustration of her son not getting the hang of her elegant hand, the smoothness with which he rounded her o’s with and a dash of blob rushing out to freedom when she dotted her i’s. Her hand was something that could break a calligrapher’s heart: perfectly aligned within the confines of the lines that came imprinted in the Rs 5 copies she got for us to practice.

I still remember her stories, though. The stories with which she serenaded me with. Every night, she chose one from her endless repertoire. One of my absolute favorite one was that of the boy who gave his all to learn to a play a magical musical instrument. His teacher had said that until the boy found his true calling, the notes it’d produced would be too bland for anyone to bear. Dejected he sat on the river bed, chucking stones to see the ripples on the surface. Plonk, it went. He threw another stone, it went down making a wonderful ruckus: plink, plonk, plink. In an inspired fit, he opened his leather pouch, took out his musical instrument and struck a note. It hummed, making a sweet melody he’d never heard before. He twirled the notes around, which reverberated with the hint of magic in it. He plucked few strings, it twanged with a sense of rhythm, a purpose he had never felt before. He smiled to himself as he played. Just as was about to wrap up for the day, smiling away to glory on finding his muse, his music, the most beautiful lady he had ever seen in his life appeared before him. She was, all the while, hiding in the bush, listening to the wonderful music being played by her side. “Can you play me that song again?” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

"It's beautiful," Zinta had said so too.

Lost in numbers

A whole set of festival is over and no one really missed my two cousins. Year after year, festival season comes and then goes and no one really remembers them. One of them dared to marry a guy from a different religion and she was never spoken of in the family. This was probably twenty years ago. I do not remember her face but I know her name. When a ten year old me asked my uncles and aunts about Sabina, everyone dismissed the question with a matter of fact 'no'. Then almost twelve years ago, another cousin decided eloping was a good idea and no one welcomed her back in the family. She was considered the prettiest among us grand daughters so she was talked about for a while by the neighbourhood and anyone who knew her but within a year she was also forgotten.

Every festival season, newars have a tradition of inviting their daughters a few days after the festival to acknowledge that they exist and they were missed. They cook up a feast but every feast, my two cousins are never invited or talked about or missed. This year around Dashain, I asked my mom if there was a possibility of them being invited ever again. My mom answered with a silent "don't know".

I wonder what happened to them, if their hubands love them more since they lost one whole family, if they work, if they have children now and since all the girls in our family resemble our late grandmother, if their daughters look a little like her. This festival season, as I saw my married cousins- sisters clad in red, pass by my grandfather, who at 96 only remembers only few of us, receiving blessings, I realize we have been punished for being too many. We are among 23 grand children. Even if two eggs in the basket turn out rotten, there are still 21 to go and some of us will be - lost in numbers.

I have not written in a while

It all came crashing down on me at the end of October. Fine month I should say. I always thought October was such an uneventful month, not counting the days of festivals. The story took a turn without me even noticing it this year.

I try not to talk about work because I tend to vent and venting about work never gets one anywhere. At least not for me. At the end of the day, whatever it is that makes me want to throw things five stories down, must be accomplished at any cost and that too by me. Its called 'stepping up' the new word in my work vocabulary. So, past few weeks, I have been stepping up which came in the form of a 'big project' which i was asked to coordinate. not head. not manage. not lead. but just coordinate. I did just that without disturbing the sanctity of my ever so glorious job description. The project was supposed to take off on 1 November and it never did. It all came crashing down on the eve of the big day and there was hardly anything I could do but go back to sleep and plan a trip around art exhibits in town. But what came crashing down was a tiny realization that grew big and fat over the weekend...that i was so head over knees in preparation for it that I hardly managed to get five hours of sleep everyday, meeting deadlines, meeting people, hardly seeing my brother who was home after almost two years. When the project burst mid air on Saturday morning, I realized that my brother left on the first flight on Friday and my friend was on first flight on Thursday.

Brothers and Sisters

on feeling loved

flood,

soggy floor,

delayed flight,

delayed landing,

turbulence mid-air,

a day goes by without food,

feel loved because I have a raincoat!  

and a song without words on guitar!

Adjusting to a couch

First time in my life, I have a couch. My family's first couch. Its brown with golden flower patters dotted all over and its a tad too big for the room but my mom loves it. And that is the whole point, the big point, the most important point.

Lived all our lives as a family for that last 32 years in an eighty year old house, build with British aid money after the big earthquake of the 1990 (BS). The rooms are not quiet right, the walls are not quiet erect, the stairs are not that steady, the kitchen is not really there, the porch is slightly tilted...It was our Home for so long that we turned blind to its faults, like unconditional love. We loved the basicness of our house, no scope for fancy decoration when the walls are disintegrating and floors are caving in. This is our Home, where my grandmother, widowed at 28, brought her five children to live, leaving the life of sealed courtyards in Patan. She dared to cross the bridge to Kathmandu. This is my Home, where I shared a room with my grandmother for 24 years, loving and hating each other as roomies. She turning the light off as I am reading a book and me waking up at night, well past midnight to check if she is still breathing, her steady breath warming my heart and sending me back to sleep. This is my Home, where my brother and I have shared one too many fights and innumerable number of songs in the darkness, he leading the song, me his back up singer, waking up all night to study, making tea at mid night, celebrating little successes and seeing each other through great failures. This is Home, where my mom learned to sing after everyone left and dad learned to shop for groceries. This is Home, that stood tall even when rain gnawed at its root. It was warm in winter, cool in summers and leaked in all the odd corners during rain.

Last month, we left our Home in fear that it will fall, brick by brick, in the face of change.

This month, we are struggling to adjust to a couch that has invaded our lives by our own choice in our new House. We are on the other side of the river once again.

Learnings of last week or last two months

I do not file, I pile
The problem is I look young
I do not have a 'work' voice
I say 'yes' to everyone even when someone cannot find a 'send' button on her email interface
And I do not deliver
Promising yourself chocolate mint ice cream helps !