absence of answer

The Best Friend

2012-02-09T22:29:00.002+05:30

My BFF Ms. M today turned whatever age she is supposed to and she declared that she is finally ok with it. She said that with her usual blush. She also said that she asked god categorically, in bullet points, what she wants from life. She said that she feels lucky today and god won't deny her anything as it's her day.

M and I became friends in grade eleven when we both changed school after our high school degree. We were not many in the class and because we didn't have much choice we had to sit on the same bench. I talk in classroom. I talk a lot. I specially talk much more when the teacher is talking as well. She used to be so embarrassed of me. One day she said, I can't sit with you in class, you are too talkative. She went and sat with someone else in the back.

Next day she was back sitting next to me.

We have not stopped being friends to each other in over 16 years. Sweet.

One day

2012-01-15T00:59:00.000+05:30

My mind right now needs a moisturizer.

I do not know when i will write again. There is so much to tell but there is nothing to say. \

cold airport at night

2012-01-08T00:06:00.000+05:30

Waiting last night
for the tall blond girl and
a pretty red-head
to come through the door
marked "ARRIVALS"

We finally had time to sit
hold hands
smile at each other
and talk.

Cold airports at night
make for a good
conversation.

Richer by a book

2012-01-04T00:37:00.001+05:30

I am richer by a book today. I picked up Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's from an unlikely place. The Namaste Supermarket in Pulchok has a little corner of books. The sales guy there always has a book in his hand. Today he was reading his economics textbooks for exams but he was reading. He remembers the two of us who always come to him with requests of books that are not on his shelves. I said he could go back to his books as we were just browsing but he kept telling us about the new books, following us around to find out what we were interested in. I would not have picked up Capote's book if he had not set his text books aside to talk to us.

Breakfast at Tiffany's was one of the first black and white classics I watched when dad got cable TV for our home years ago. I remember scanning the newspapers that day to find out the time for its re-telecast. I must have watched all the possible four reruns that month. Watching it once was not enough.

If a book became a movie, I will watch it. If a movie became a book, I will read it. That's a little thing I have about books. I like comparing notes on characters and see how different or similar they are while traveling from a book to a movie or in reverse.

I will tell you how I liked the real Holly Golightly straight from the brilliant mind of Mr. Capote.

Not walk away

2012-01-03T02:16:00.000+05:30

I walked away while I saw a little kid (probably 5 or 6 years old) cry on the side walks looking for his mom. I just walked away. I do that a lot these days. I walk away from everything. So, I told myself, it would be yet another day of walking away.

Well, I also walked back 5 seconds later and saw that the kid was attracting some attention but no one approached him. I walked to the kid and asked him what was wrong. He was lost. He said he could not find his mom. Some more people joined in and tried to find if the kid remembered him mom's mobile number or any number or name.

A few minutes later a scared looking mom found the kid.

It just took few minutes of waiting and he was found. I should do this more often. Not walk away.

Year End Notes: 2011

2011-12-31T00:35:00.001+05:30

A day more to go and I will not be in 2011 anymore. I hear in few countries they are skipping Friday and landing straight on Saturday the 31st. Skipping a day. I feel like I have skipped a whole year and now the new year is almost here, making a complete mockery of how promising the beginning of this year was.

How could I have skipped a year ? I didn't. There are evidence that I didn't.

I stepped on the warm (it was so cold but the idea of sea makes me go all warm in my heart) Mediterranean Sea and the overcast day at the place I used to dream about - Jerusalem. I floated on Dead Sea and gained a friend for life from Russia over endless use of internet minutes. I fell in love with a quiet city atop a hill (mountain).

Friends, good friends, made my year. Over endless plates of aloo, we created conversations and laughs that helped me end otherwise bad days in a good note. You know who you are. I would not have made it through this year without you.

This was the year I realized I suck at long distance relationship. I almost failed once again.

I bought a lot of books this year like most previous years but they all end the year half read and half open.

I realize I do not remember a lot about this year.

I travelled a lot this year. There was that 15 days in September when I was constantly crisscrossing airports, highways, hotels, peoples, jeeps, rivers and skys. This meant I also took a lot of pictures and talked to a lot of people, most of the stories remain shut in 4GB cards.

At the end of the year, I could not bear it anymore how bleak my year looked when I looked back. That was one of the reason I started putting up pictures I took this year and suddenly my year didn't look so dreary. It looked like I had fun. It looked like there is color in my life. It looked like there is happiness. It looked like there is hope. It looked like they are 'full of possibilities' (a word a good friend used to describe how my 2012 should look like) and there is meaning.

This is also the year, when I am making my parents very happy, very proud and very happy.

Year End Notes: a question

2011-12-26T02:18:00.002+05:30

A friend of mine asked, "what did you lose this year?"

A suitcase for ten days,

People,

Respect for some,

A little piece of my mind.

end of the day

2011-12-24T01:03:00.002+05:30

Over four years ago, I quit my first real job after three and half years of gathering some good experience on how to work hard. I had planned to quit that August, even warning my boss that I might leave six months in advance. I applied for a doctorate program and waited. It was going to be my year of change, when I make the big move to another country. I was getting a little worried about being able to do two people's job (another colleague quit a year ago and he was never replaced) and finishing everything by mid day. After lunch, I did nothing but read online, write and surfed for direction. I knew things were getting predictable and I could literally finish the daily deadlines by 12 and then wait till 2 to submit just so that my boss would not think I needed a third job as well. But, I didn't quit because I was going to get work on my Ph.D. I quit because I had applied for another job months before and had not heard of it for months and the job came my way in August, when I had planned to quit. When I quit, there was no one to hug me goodbye. I still feel sad about it.

Today, a very dear colleague had her last day at work. She didn't quit. She had spent her last week at work writing down hand over notes for other colleagues who will be picking up where she left. She filed all the documents on the right folder and backed them up on the server. She spent her last minute at work sending work related emails. She handed me her clearance form, her computer, the memory stick, her staff ID and a calculator that she has used for the past year and half, we were in the same team.

She had worked there for 15 18 years. There was no farewell for her, no parting gifts, or warm hugs to wish her well in future.

I stayed back to hug her.

Buwa ko pahelo junga

2011-12-18T23:06:00.000+05:30

"Buwa, photo khichau?"

I asked if I could take his picture on a foggy day atop Shrinagar hills of Palpa.

"Tapai lai faida huncha bhane khicnus. Kei farak pardaina"

Yellowed by morning dal bhat, his whiskers and beards smiled.

the light under the straps of your slippers

2011-12-17T22:48:00.001+05:30

Thank you for letting me take pictures of your feet.

Palpa 2011

Untitled

2011-12-14T22:11:00.000+05:30

I wish to leave you untitled

those colors you wear with ease

the legs that move to every tune

the skirts that swirl and dream

I wish to leave you untitled

Imperfect

2011-12-13T23:07:00.001+05:30

I live in my egg-shaped

bubble

imperfect

Eli

2011-12-07T23:44:00.001+05:30

All his life

he made lights

working in darkness

Eli.

Haifa 2011

Age

2011-12-06T22:50:00.001+05:30

Haifa 2011

Goodbyes

2011-12-05T21:08:00.001+05:30

He sped past me

to the other world

Mangalbazar 2011

Of Daughters and Fathers

2011-12-04T23:41:00.001+05:30

Sindhupalchok 2011

Radha at Sea

2011-12-03T21:35:00.001+05:30

Sea of Galilee 2011

Giuliana's Dance

2011-12-01T22:01:00.001+05:30

we might not talk to you much but we like you much

she said

Haifa, Israel 2011

The Bookseller

2011-12-01T00:06:00.001+05:30

Let's swap places

me in a well of books

drowning

Haifa, Israel 2011

Portraits

2011-11-30T01:05:00.001+05:30

Her earrings fascinated me.

My camera fascinated her.

Bardiya 2011

Tansen Baazar

2011-11-29T00:12:00.001+05:30

his sarangi slinging on his left shoulder and a stick to guide him home.

it looked like he had sang his heart out in some corner of Tansen Bazar all day

I followed him till the dark blue sky turned black

till he out-walked me on those steep alleys

Palpa 2011

100 -10 things about me II

2011-11-26T20:49:00.003+05:30

I have been taking pictures for three years now.

It all started with being forced to take pictures at work.

Then I got myself a small camera and started taking "ok" pictures.

Then I got an amazing chance to see a famous photographer at work.

He refused to teach me anything.

I learned and am learning

Pyuthan 2011

Inspire me.

2011-11-24T00:43:00.001+05:30

I feel this week is coming to an end just like that. Nothing significant is happening. It felt like Monday was here and now Friday is almost here. I have had a very unproductive time at work too. I am supposed to be working for a semi-huge event on Saturday, a lot riding on its success but I have been taking one task a day and turning it in. I feel the 'me' of five years ago would have finished those tasks in a day and decided to tackle challenges earmarked for next week but I am not a me from five years ago now. I am me at this time and day. I just do one thing a day and let it be. Deadlines have stopped giving me nightmares not because I have found a great secret to meeting them without turning myself completely crazy but I just do not seem to care anymore. That's a sign of danger my first boss would say. After a year doing the same thing day in and day out, he had one day given me three days off to go watch a movie, go have dinner with friends and sleep. I am not sure if those tricks work anymore. In the middle of the week, I seem to be in a crisis that I do not want to deal with. And I get this email from a co-worker

I decided to quit at the end of this month, (my decision) and trying to be a yoga teacher to children with special needs.

Inspire me.

100 -10 things about me.

2011-11-20T02:22:00.001+05:30

Inspired by my friend plutoed with whom I took some weird photos with 3D glasses on, I decided to write 100 or more or less things about me before this brief year ends:

78. I have gray hair like there is snow in the Himalayas right now. A lot of them that you can spot from afar. Everyone has an opinion about it and what colour dye I should use. I love my gray hair, inherited from my dad who thinks I got nothing of his unique traits.

56. I just bought 4 pairs of wedge heeled shoes. I have four more in the shoe dump. Do not ask me why.

22. I was once admitted to the hospital because I had constipation. That's the only time I have been in the hospital and taken over a week off school because I was so sick.

13. I watch old romantic comedies on YouTube, probably uploaded with a massive copyright infringement blame on it. But I am a sucker for romance (the good kind). I just watched "While you were sleeping for seventeenth time"and am frantically looking for "The Roman Holiday" online.

99. I love reading. It's one true love I have had since I was fifteen. It started with sneaking in Mills and Boon during math class in high school and it never stopped. My current love in reading is Murakami and his twisted tales.

87. I have no body issues. When I was one and half years old I nearly lost my life to third degree burn. Ever since, my mom did a real good job of training me on not having any body issue. I do not care that my lips are not made for lipsticks. I have hips that outshines any other part of my body. I have thick legs that I like showing off by wearing skirts during summer. And, I have scars that I proudly wear with my sleeveless shirts.

1. I am not sure what I should write here that matched doodling.

29. Right now, I only have one decent pair of blue jeans that I wear with everything and everywhere. I cannot seem to fit my amazon hips into the jeans available around town and ones you get stitched in New Road pretty much has no character. It seems my only pair of Jeans and I will have to survive this obnoxiously cold winter together.

When it doesn't love you back

2011-11-19T02:14:00.001+05:30

It's made of nothing until you come into it.

A very close coworker got laid off - position made redundant. She got a day's notice to process so much information in less than 24 hours before it was made public and everyone was asking questions that she had no answers to. She is one of those girls who would stay up all night preparing for a training she was about to give, never happy with what she has, always looking to push herself a bit further until she was marginally happy with what she did. She loved the job for eighteen years. A while chunk of her good years.

Work is great. You need work. Work defines you at times. Work rules your life until you have no life. A job is a job, made of nothing and meaningless until you come into it and make it as good as chocolate with your little and big skills and passion. It's at times chocolate that makes you money to be able to send your children to good school, buys you a car, a business card, jelly-like success. Job is a job, a lifeless big monster that doesn't love you back.

On Taxi Drivers

2011-11-07T01:17:00.003+05:30

Taxi drivers are a treat in Kathmandu and I will tell you why.

Today, it rained in Kathmandu. Early November. Its like December decided to show up early and the left over monsoon rain decided to pour on us. Three of us caught in the rain without our umbrellas were trying to find a taxi to take us back home. It was New Road. Anyone can find a taxi there but taxi drivers were mean. They were passing by empty but didn't stop. Some said, they were not looking to go into our direction. I thought the passenger chose which direction to go to. Then some said, they were not 'khalli'. I mean the seat next to the driver was empty so was the back but they said it was not 'empty'. Some said, 400 rupai to go the distance that I pay only about 120. Some just waved their hand in that gesture that said, I am not stopping. And then everyone else seem to be able to get into taxis but us.

We just walked in the rain till Sundhara. With our shopping bags as make shift head covers. Three of us with our fogged up rained down glasses, finally got into a micro up to Pulchowk. Its still 20 minutes walk or so to home. Rain that stopped while we were in micro started when we got off it. Kasto k!

We decided to walk up to Jawalakhel where taxis are aplenty. Well, today, there was just one. I knocked on the driver's window and said, "dai, jane ho ...?"

"Sai rupaiya parcha! Jane ho?"

100 rupees! It will probably cost me only 40 rupees to get home in a taxi but I am not winning this battle today. Our soaked clothes were now icy cold. We couldn't wait to get back home. In just a few minutes the taxi stopped in Jhamel. I thought it was a traffic jam. but.

The cab driver stopped and rolled down his window. I realized that he was stopping for a bideshi. He asked the foreigner where she was going. She said Jawalakhel and then he just drove on.

I was awe struck by this taxi driver who was so overcome by the feeling of "atithi devo bhawa" (guests are gods) that he had to stop his not empty taxi in the middle of rain and ask if he could help a foreigner. I was left wondering if this is the Nepal Tourism Year 2011 training that the taxi drivers got or part of the test they take before becoming drivers. What was it?

I didn't see any taxi driver stopping for us while we stood in rain. !! rolling down their window asking us "Kata jana lagnu bha ko".

Brothers and Sisters, year 3

2011-10-28T00:55:00.005+05:30

Happy Bhai Tika !

You

2011-10-23T01:36:00.001+05:30

In between tea mugs and conversations

I still cannot bring myself to write
about you
in the past tense.

A Skype Moment!

2011-10-11T01:31:00.000+05:30

I have never connected or clicked with Skype. I use it mostly, almost always for work. I am never signed into it unless someone has written an email to me weeks ahead with a reminder few hours before the call time. I am always surprised whenever I hear that swooosh sound that it makes whenever I sign in. "what is that".

My friend F has been telling me for years to skype more often. Ever since he went to bidesh, he wrote to me ever so often saying "you need to be on skype" like at least once a month. I always forget. I forget that I have a skype ID until someone form work asks me about it to set up a meeting online. He was back home in summer and he insisted on it again. I said I will try. I said I do not promise.

So, today after many miscommunicated attempts to connect on Skype with him, we were skyping.

He in his blue hoodie, his "I know what you are up to" smile, and that hair style that needs no styling talked talked and talked. His girlfriend joined in. We were laughing and making fun of F, just like the first day I met her. Then she complained a little bit about how her deadlines are all over the place because of his deadlines and how he helps her by eating what she cooks. Then both of them put up the cover of a DVD in front of the camera and I was staring at fuzzy words. I realized its the cover of the latest film he had made and she designed the cover. They even showed me how the back side of the cover looked...(I was instantly transported in their lives, two student living away from home, taking care of each other and staying up all night to complete each other's deadlines)

There was my Skype Moment!

Sarees of Bliss

2011-10-05T23:24:00.001+05:30

Growing up, I was handed down clothes that came in suitcases from my cousins who lived in America and here in Kathmandu. I liked wearing them. Clothes were meant to last back then. The colours didn't wash off easily and it still looked new when it reached me. I handed down clothes to cousins younger than me as well. They weren't handed down with pity. It was just how things were back then when we were kids.

We also got new clothes three times a year - birthday, Dashain and family puja in Baisakh. Mom also liked making skirts for me even though she didn't have a sewing machine. She would hand stitch some shirts as well. Also she knew a tailor aunty who would make cute dresses for real cheap. I didn't grow up loving clothes. I wore whatever mom chose for me and whatever came my way. I always wore long shirts, that covered my hips. That was my only fashion fixation then.

When I started working, mom got me some responsible looking salwar kameez. I quickly shifted to wearing trousers to work as well as they seemed more comfortable. Ten years and 3 jobs later, my wardrobe has not changed much except for occasional adventure when I wear skirts and dresses in summer. I do not fuss over clothes. If the tailor doesn't quite get the sleeves right or the neck line, I usually do not consider it a big deal. If the pants don't quite fit on the hips, I just wear longer shirts to cover the flawed tailoring. If none of the stores in Kathmandu have jeans that fit me, I do no despair. I just wear cotton pants.

I am not sure where I am going with the three paragraphs above about my not so adventurous clothing habits but I think this fourth paragraph should be about sarees. I love them. I love them in silk, chiffon, georgette, cotton, etc. etc. Seriously. It is the most outrageously difficult piece of clothing in the world (according to me) yet it is something I save for the days when I am happy, when I need to impress, when I have that big meeting, when my closest friends and cousin get married, and when I need to feel good. If I wear saree to your wedding, then you must be a very special person in my life (!!!)

My aunt who had great taste in sarees always let me wear her exquisite work of art. I have worn her black painted saree, the blue flower printed chiffon, the green Banarasi, the purple and golden georgette and her Swarovski studded brown one. I think I feel a kind of bliss when I am in a saree, even when the tightly tied knot on my petticoat is digging into my waist and the heels are destroying my ability to walk. I can still run in them thus the bliss.

Last year in June, my aunt passed away leaving all those sarees behind in her wardrobes, locked steel cupboards and see through plastic storing boxes. Months later, I sat like an island surrounded by colours that were my aunt and started putting them away for good. She didn't need them anymore. My cousin Y, my sister told me to take all of them home with me. As I started folding them into neat stacks, layers of colours, I realized that I had worn almost all of them at some point and had seen my aunt drape it around her petit stature supported by those grand heels she wore. Each seemed to have a memory of its own attached to it.

The black painted chiffon was when I first got rejected on an arranged marriage date, blue flowered chiffon was the one I borrowed most often, green Banarasi from rain soaked wedding of one of my best friends, purple and golden georgette from my cousin N's wedding reception, and the Swarovski Brown was probably the most expensive saree I have ever worn. They are all safe in my wardrobe now, neatly folded and flushed with memories, hung in worn steel hangers I bought from New Road. They will be attached to more memories and stories with me now and with her.

Airports

2011-10-03T00:48:00.000+05:30

Airports are where I am mostly alone. I am incapable of sleeping under the blaring duty-free lights and big (apparently) sleep friendly couches and benches there. I am unable to appreciate the constant gush of cold air manufactured by air conditioners. I feel completely alone in sleeplessness. I stare at people sprawled in their suits, sarees and travel clothes, hugging their luggage. A friend of mine snuck under a bench to get some sleep when our flight was delayed by almost over 12 hours in Delhi. She slept like a baby and I stared at her in disbelief.

Airports are where I wait. Passengers coming in from different parts of the word pass you by as they clear transit desk and you wait. I have waited a lot in airports. I have seen a lot of people wait in airports. I saw a German family cry at the airport unable to clear transit as they missed their flight and wait for a day or more to catch another flight. Same day I saw an American woman misunderstand her visa status (she had single entry visa and thought she had multiple) she was no choice but to wait. I met scores of my fellow countrypeople, sleeping in airports, waiting for their fate to unfold on their way to the Gulf.

Airports are where I am lost. Throngs of people and yet no one is conversing. Everyone is thinking about their next destination, their ears tuning into announcements every few minutes, even thought the flight is not scheduled to take off for few hours. I try talking to few people. They all seem to not speak Nepali or English. Earlier this year, I missed series of flights and ended up being diverted to places where I was not supposed to go. It was midnight and hurriedly rushed to catch a flight. I had no idea where I was flying. I could feel my legs shake and my heart shiver as I boarded a flight that purple black night. As soon as I got into the flight, I asked a girl who was seated next to me,"where are we going?" Before I could answer I said, sorry, i just missed my flight and have no idea where I am heading now. Her answer assured me. I was going somewhere near home, not exactly home. I would at least be closer I thought.

Airports are where I cry. I closed my eyes to hide the tears welling up.

Airports are also how I get back home.

A little girl

2011-09-23T22:44:00.000+05:30

I met a little girl today. Eight years old.

I have been walking around a bit bruised for the past few weeks and suddenly she put things in perspective for me. She didn't sound sad when she said that her father died and she didn't go to school anymore. Her mother doesn't work so her older brother who is barely 12 looks after the family now. I ask around to find more about the girl. Her neighbours or perhaps cousins say that her father was a rickshaw puller in Nepalgunj and died of asthma over a month ago. Her skin had blotch marks and she was wearing pink salwar, a part of her pretty salwar suit, I am sure.

It's Friday for me tomorrow. I go back home after almost a month working away from home, from my reliable internet, from warm bed, the family that misses me, friends who are already planning a welcome home date for me and mom who wants to know what I want to eat when I get back home.

Well, the bruise has been replaced with something else now.

In Nepalgunj, over two months ago, I probably rode on her father's rickshaw.

(untitled)

2011-09-19T01:07:00.000+05:30

I was on flight today, between land and sky, in the air, just floating when the earthquake hit. I kept waiting for my mom's call to come through like it always did wherever I land but it didn't come. I tried calling her but the network was jam packed with people trying to make sure that their loved ones were all right. I finally spoke to her two hours after landing. I could hear that she was scared by the experience, with both her children out working. She told me that the house swayed and it lasted for a while.

A friend wrote to me - it (on a flight) is the safest place to be (during earthquake). I wish I was with my mom tonight.

Rooms

2011-09-10T01:02:00.001+05:30

I have lost count of how many nights I have spent in hotels now. I am staying at a fancy-smanshy hotel in far-west Nepal with lift and a perfectly working air-conditioning, a TV with all that channels that I watch back home, and a clean loo.

This takes me right back to Rajapur in Bardiya where I crossed a huge river on a steamer, walked on sandy beach, bike ride on dusty track to reach Rajapur town square. My friend H and I were taken to the best hotel and it's delux room with two beds arranged in L shape. There was just enough room on the floor to take four small steps, but there was a TV with all imaginable channel that came from Dish TV. The sole window didn't look out the street but the dingy corridor and a small opening of the top of a wall that separated us from the other room. All sorts of noise came in our room the two nights H and I were there. That was where I had my first asthmatic attack. The bed sheets were visibly unwashed for months and the sirak smelled of assorted per(fumes) of stale cigarette, dust, sweat, and dirt. The pillow covers had not been changed in ages I could guess. But I was a smart girl. I had packed a bed sheet but regretted I had not packed two bed sheets. I had to argue with myself for full five minutes in cold night whether to use it as a bed sheet or a layer that protected me from the sirak. I remember sleeping with dread that I will wake up with rashes all over my body or covered in some slimy insects that I was sure was going to crawl out of the bed at night.

No. Nothing of that sort happened. I had a small allergic asthmatic episode and I was happy H was there. Next day, I came back to the room after working all day photographing awe inspiring stories of female health volunteers and slept well on the same bed sealed by the bed sheet from home, talking to H about the good day we had and Rajapur has been so good to us to give us stories we came looking for.

After that sleeping in a village in Jumla was a piece of cake.

There are more stories of rooms I can tell.

This one right now has a perfect wifi, riding on which I can blog.

In Sunauli

2011-09-08T00:38:00.002+05:30

In Sunauli,

we are not strangers,

we bump into each other literally

Two Patanes in Pashupati

2011-09-03T20:44:00.000+05:30

Aren't you from around here, asked a lady dressed in post-teej red at Pashupati temple today.

M and I went to Pashupati temple today in the morning, on her scooty, not taking any short cuts. Both of us very ill-versed in Pashupati geography and didn't know which was entrance, which was exit. We didn't know where to leave our slippers safe and also where to wash our hands before entering the holy place. We were also not dressed for Pashupati. Women still under the heady hangover of Rishi Panchami yesterday wore red, green, yellow and not white. We wore white, or at least prints on white and didn't have gold dangling from our ears or around our necks and no glass bangles. And we didn't know which queue to follow. A frequent Pashupati goer, a friend of mine had described in detail about which gate I should go to, which line to stand on and even which police officer on duty to talk to so that I do not get lost there but I conveniently forgot all her instructions and started asking people around finally bumping into a short line which were for people wanting to so an 'abhishek'.

M and I, both quite not sure about what we were doing there queued up and waited as it continued to move in a very slow pace. We were probably behind fifteen other 'abhishekars'. The police were impressive. Not only making sure that some over enthusiastic always in hurry worshippers and also late comers who want to get in the temple first didn't cut the line. They worked pretty well, smiled, talked to worshippers, some of them were Indians, to make sure that they were in the right queue and right gate. They also told me to not step on the threshold to the majestic silver doors of the temple.

M and I, were quite taken aback when our turn came some half an hour later. We were suddenly faced with the black four faced Shiva linga and the Gurus in red garb calmly walking their way thru the worshippers from four sides. I handed him the egharasaya rupaiya (Rs. 1100). I had not idea till then what was the egharasaya bhog all about. It turns out it was offering Shiva ji the five kind of food - honey, yoghurt, milk, sugar and ghee - Panchamrit. It lasted probably 3 minutes, when the Guru, methodically offered Panchamrit and gave us the aarti, tika and then rudraksh and flowers. He also asked for my name. I said "Meena". This was for my friend in India who wanted to send some message to Shiva ji and I was just a messenger.

M and I, when it was over, walked out of the temple, feeling a little overwhelmed with the experience. The sheer number of worshippers in the temple, outside the temple, the road side shops, monkeys, constant chanting of mantras and bhajans, the sweet smell of chandan, made for a whole new experience for two girls who grew up in Kathmandu but had never seen the Shiva linga in the temple. We discussed if Panchamrit got recycled and reused. We dropped in at the old age home where elderly people abandoned by their families were receiving a gift of a cup of yoghurt and a packet of biscuit. My memories of Pashupati has been replaced with this fun adventure with my best friend now.

I told that lady that We have a lot of temple in Patan.

2011-09-03T01:22:00.001+05:30

Making Mental Notes

Remember the mental notes.

Memories inbox-ed

2011-08-26T00:12:00.006+05:30

Yahoo Mails are for memories inboxed for so long that you can smell dust rising when you click on it. The side bar full of folders that I have not raked in a decade.

I used to write to you about Kathmandu which you so sorely missed, the weather, my new life in college, how I wrote a poem one day, about my mom's illness, weddings of our mutual friends, break ups of our best friends and food and just randomness of our life in those straight streets of New Road. You wrote back, once in a while, sometimes two lines about how your sister's car got stolen and you could not help but laugh. Sometimes, may be just one time, you wrote that one long email when you said nothing but "how life was ok, just ok" there.

You were my once a week adventure to the cyber cafe when internet was a prize and I didn't have it. I spent my Saturday morning making excuses for you for all the reasons why you didn't find time that week to write to me. I would still write you an up-beat email about how I liked the poetry and fiction, and about my well being. You would disappear for days, months and once an entire year. I made excuses everyday for you as I passed by your best friend on the road who seem to know why you vanished. Then out of nowhere, popped an e-greeting card for my birthday which you didn't forget. I remember writing to you a long email about how broke I was - I didn't even have enough money to scan my pre-digital era graduation photos. I regretted not being able to send you those for a very long time.

I still tell my friends stories of how we bumped into each other while our best friends fell in love and out of it. I still tell them about the full moon day and the cheesy lines you would belt out romanticizing. I still can't figure out how someone who hated reading so much can be at the library every weekend watching me work and laughing in whispers.

You were in between those emails that never came. I read stories into the missing ones which forgot to be sent. I never found out about how you recovered from the accident and who you ended up divorcing. Things you never said in your email are inbox-ed too.

Memories of that last email that you wrote wishing me 'happy birthday' and good life and my stoic reply, the last attempt at winning our long distance battle still fresh, smelling of memories just made yesterday.

Without Agenda

2011-08-21T01:08:00.004+05:30

Some friends just happen to you don't they? I met my two friends J and R when I started university. I ran into J months before classes started when she had come to take the entrance exam. Hmm, actually I ran into J's impeccable taste that day. Cramped inside a stuffy room in Kirtipur, she and I along with hundreds of hopefuls future students (who would eventually be known as the batch that burned down the department of English) took the exam that day but I could not help but notice her. She was there in breezy looking salwar kameez, her henna-hair shining and make up that was not smudged a bit even after two hours in the exam hall. That's how I remember her. So when the classes started, we became friends and started traveling to Kirtipur together, sit in class together, joining force with five other girls to make up a group known as "kathmandu ko ketiharu".

R, joined almost a month later when classes were already well on its course and she was the new girl, a friend of a friend. R, has incredible luck with exams. Whatever exams she takes, she succeeds. I am the one who always takes the exams with her just to keep her company and end up failing, losing my favourite scarf, or on a fluke getting the license to teach English. She is also a friend who went to the exam hall where I lost my scarf hours later to hunt for it. Then we went to the exam headquarters to look for that scarf, hunting down and questioning anyone who could have seen, heard or be in possession of my lost scarf. She is the one who told me to quit the job I was loyal to and move the hell out of my comfort zone.

Today, we traded stories of airports, children, travel, boyfriend, husband, friends, food, weight, age, gray hair, travel, furniture, bangles, gifts, chocolates, teachers, politics while enjoying J's signature lunch of fish, and five other curries. When I met them i thought I had nothing in common with them but today, I thought, we had that shared experience of two almost great years of university that glued us to each other and keep bringing us back to fill in each other on what's happening in our lives.

J is a mother of a boy who is in grade nine and she is also a fantastic teacher now and R is a diplomat. Sometimes friends just happen to you!

I wake up without sleeping

2011-08-17T01:28:00.002+05:30

I can smell the distance winter announcing itself in the dashain-like weather. You walk in the shadowed side of the street, its cold and then you move to the one that's abundant with the blaring sun, and its hot. You keep crisscrossing between shade and sun and dance with the weather. Jeans are becoming comfortable and the sleeved shirts let's just enough breeze. When you realize that you are not ready to embrace the warmth of soup or socks, you know that dashain is not here yet. The winter is further away than that. Sitting here in the ground floor room with couches that have not been sat on enough, my toes curl. It's cold here. I think of winter. I imagine taking the thick blankets out from the store and letting it soak some sun in kausi before allowing it on my bed. I want to sleep under that warm sirak, with it's white, paper thin covers over dhaka-prints, feels like part of me. I want to sneak under my mom's sirak at night and let my toes touch her warm feet. I want to be grateful for the piping hot momos and steaming hot mug of coffee. The lazy Saturday when you cancel all plans, turn off your computer, not complain about load-shedding, not care about what's on TV or how oily or dry your skin is, the hair fall, or just the state of the affairs, and just sit out in baranda with mom and let the sun brown my already brown skin, reading a book.

I wish to sleep and wake up feeling what a great sleep I had. I wish to sleep and wake up without thinking about the deadlines in waiting. I wish to sleep and wake up feeling like I am ready to face the day.

It's not one of those days today.

About my dad

2011-08-16T00:32:00.004+05:30

An extended weekend can make you think. I have been thinking a lot. Most of my thoughts were dedicated to planning my September when I will be working like a donkey (sorry donkey, I do not mean it in a bad way) and traveling with my camera and the notebook.

Back to my thoughts. I have been thinking a lot.

Just now as I was thinking about being more regular with my blogging and constantly worried that the bloggers' association of Nepal will find some fault with my blogging habits, trends and ethics, I realized I rarely write about my dad. Nothing against him. I am not angry at him or deliberately keep him away from the blog.

All that thinking and spending so much time with family lead to a realization that I am very grateful for one thing that my dad did (among a lot of things he has done for his two kids). He had never tried to confuse me with advise. And I am grateful for that. Like a normal dad, he does think I do far too many things that just is not acceptable but he doesn't dish out advise to me.

He also thinks that girls should not travel so much alone but then he enjoys gifts and mostly chocolates I bring back from the trips. But, I repeat again, he has never tried to mess with my mind with advise. He did tell me when I got my first job (applying, interviewing and getting the job behind his back) that he would pay me what my employers were paying to stay home but he never told me what career path I should choose. When he read my master's thesis, he came back to me confused and sat on the edge of my bed and asked me, "you wrote this?" I nodded. It took me a year to write something that was not even a hundred pages long. He then went on to notice how there was no grammatical error and all sentences were coherent and the paragraphs were cohesive. He asked again, "Are you sure you didn't copy this from somewhere?" He likes clearing doubts but he never dishes advise on what I should be writing about, reading, or saying. He laughed at my less than average scores on math tests and always signed the report cards every year in high school with a big fat satisfactory smile on his face as his daughter was going up a grade. He had no issues with my lack of ambition. He didn't tell me to be a doctor or an engineer or a teacher. And, he has never flooded me with advise. I am very grateful.

Now Dad, teach me how to be like that to my own children.

Stoically yours

2011-08-14T00:49:00.004+05:30

Last night,
Wrote an email.
she said it was stoic

A weekend

2011-08-13T09:31:00.003+05:30

I am all yours this time.
I am not heading somewhere
or
heading back home from somewhere
I am all yours
all yours

With her hands swollen
from a small kitchen mishap
mom is mixing her love
in a mix of kwati
many beans that bring happiness

dad behind his daily mix of newspapers
tell us to take over his duties
refusing to divulge his age
obvious from his head full of silver hair

my typical Saturday begins,
eavesdropping on the tete-a-tete between
two people brought together by families

drinking my dark tea, reading the weekend papers
looking for some excuse to not be at the recitation today

I will read aloud that poem.

In my belly

2011-07-30T11:06:00.002+05:30

Woke up to some good news this morning that begin with a comforting whirl in my belly. It is a girl. A girl after a boy. It is a girl.

I am so relieved I didn't have to use my 'comfort speech' on how two boys can be fun too with her and instead squealed with joy (by the way the online squealing over facebook chat window is nothing compared to a warm hug I wanted to give her) over possibility of being a mother (she) and aunt (me) to a little girl.

Blessed blessed Saturday!

Dust and me

2011-06-06T23:47:00.003+05:30

I cleaned my room after a year yesterday. Before you guys scrunch your nose and judge me for being a dust fan, I am sure my room was dusted and cleaned while I was away. That's what my mom does, she gets someone in once in a while to clean. So I was not really living in a pile of dust.

Yesterday was one of those days when I needed something to do. I decided cleaning my room, rearranging whatever little furniture I had would be a good way to spend my day. By the time I was done with the room, my mom was impressed. I could read "FINALLY" in her face.

Yesterday was also the day I got my second asthmatic attack triggered by the dust allergy I seem to have developed. I could not breathe. I could not lie down. It felt like a jet was trying to take off from my lungs. The nose and the lungs and the air was not doing what it was supposed to. I kept trying to inhale some air in and it just would not happen. I struggled for about five minutes before I realized that I had a doctor living upstairs in my home. He is my brother. Well! you tend to forget sometimes.

That's why I do not clean my room, people!

At the airport one rainy Wednesday

2011-05-22T23:12:00.002+05:30

"Coming to pick me up?"

"Yes, yes. Call me as you get on the plane and I will leave office and see you at the airport."

Perfect calculation. It will take me 35 minutes to land in Kathmandu and it takes him about 40 minutes to get to the airport from work.

I usually never expect anyone to pick me up from airport. I never ask. But, this time I asked because by the time i get to Kathmandu it would be evening and I would cry in the parking lot just haggling for prices with the taxi drivers who do not want to take in a local passenger.

The calculation was a little off. The plane took off 20 minutes before it was supposed to and landed in 25 minutes. Some 30 minutes went missing. When I landed in the airport, claimed by baggage and made my way to the pool of waiting taxis parking I didn't see anyone waiting for me.

Upset. I called.

"What? How can you be there (he was about 10 minutes away from the airport)!"

"Should I wait here?"

"I don't know." Figuratively bangs the phone.

I am half an hour early. Of course, he would still be 10 minutes away. I am early. He is not late.

I call back. "Stay where you are."

I haggled with some taxi drivers. One picked my bag and tossed it in the back seat of his taxi and said, "Didi, I will get one more passenger."

"Bhaihalcha ni bhai but I will not go in your taxi." I drag my bag out.

Four more taxi drivers are there by now. All of them commenting about how un-understanding I was about the petrol crisis.

"Do anyone of you want me to get on your taxi or not? My bag is pretty light. I can easily carry it outside the airport (easily! now that's an understatement - last year I had dragged my luggage all the way to the airport gate and got a taxi at a much cheaper price there but dragging part was not easy.) and get a taxi there."

So the taxi driver in a knee- length half kattu decides to give in. I spend almost 10 minutes in the parking lot.

Finally I get on the taxi and head home. I am supposed to pick up the person who was supposed to pick me up now. I spot him waiting for me in the bus stand. I wave. He laughs and gets on the front seat next to the driver. I refuse to crack a smile.

I say "-2 points for you"

"I knew it. I knew you would say something like that. have a plus five points trick here!"

He scoops out two paper bags with donuts in them. Donuts sprinkled with sweet coconut shreds.

Plus 10 points!

And we drink water

2011-05-08T18:44:00.005+05:30

The Kathmandu domestic airport finally had a water dispenser now. We finally don't have to buy over-priced water from the lone 'drinks and food' place inside our plane adda. I was overjoyed at the prospect of drinking water for free inside the airport. Gilas pani cha. They have plastic cupstodrink water from and a big red dust bin where you can throw the snow white glasses.

Ah! Joys of my little Kathmandu. Pani at the airport. You can wait for our delayed flight and chat with friends and drink water. You can eat your over ripe bananas that your mom insisted you should take from the morning puja. Then you can drink some water. You can pretend to read while the flights are announced and drink some water.

Those are all possible as long as the big green bottle doesn't arrive. Someone will walk up with a big fat sprite free bottle and fill the bottle with the airport water. Then someone else will come with empty mineral water bottle and fill it. More bottles arrive. The water runs out.

Who cares about leaving some water for everyone to drink. We quench our thirst first!

It was orange inside your belly

2011-05-06T23:08:00.003+05:30

"Mom, it was orange inside your belly."

Mom stunned.

"Mom, you know when I was inside you."

Mom still stunned.

"Mom, when you drank water, I nearly drowned but I swam up and floated".

Mom even more stunned.

"Mom, I could only hear your voice when I was inside you. I used to wonder what you looked like."

I had to share this little piece of conversation that my friend and her four year old kid had. I was left wondering what happened to my imagination. Did I leave it behind in primary school when I used to imagine that the bird outside the classroom was singing Narayan Gopal which my dad loved to listen to or it had to be Disco Diwane that my dad and I used to love dancing to.

Hashtag my world

2011-05-04T00:09:00.003+05:30

I have several bosses. One of them is digital. I am trying to get good at online thing which I gather is the way the world is leaning towards. So the digiboss sends an email to bunch of his warriors in all parts of Asia asking, what's your preferred hashtag for the new campaign. He goes on to give at least a 10 possible hashtags that we can use. Its a mix of words and numbers and a bit of wit thrown in for some laugh.

So far I have lived in a tagless world. I usually forget to tag/label my blogs and i do it only when I revisit it later in the week or completely forget about it. Now that I am a digi-communicator hashtag is one of many changing, evolving, trend today gone tomorrow commandments. Its an offshoot of the digi-religion.

After reading his email, I was stumped for a while. Didn't respond for two days until one response trickled over from the south and I had to follow suit. So i just randomly voted for the one that I thought sounded the most witty and short. After a week, it looked liked we had a hashtag winner. But no. One of my mobile tweeting colleague wrote saying, hashtag has to be mobile friendly, uppercase, numbers, lowercase makes for a complicated tweeting experience.

Here is probably the right time to tell you that I have given myself up to the temptation to tweet. Yes, people I am tweeting. If facebooking like a crazy is not enough, now i am tweeterring as well and retweeting and following people I don't know and allowing complete strangers to hear (read) my deep dark thoughts.

After a month of populating an overcrowded tweet world, I have learned that if you do not have a hashtag you are a non entity. You need to hashtag to be trendy to create trends and to add to the trend of what the world is talking about. If you do not have a hashtag, its like being stateless. If you didn't #RoyalWedding last week and #Osama or #Obama this week you are not really a tweeple. If you are not hashtagging then you are untrackable. You will never know how many 'impressions' you created. You become an existential crisis.

I am going to retract my random choosing of a hashtag to the digiboss' email and go back to him with an educated decision on which would suit all our purposes to make meaning in this world. #

A little bit of my Mom

2011-05-03T00:52:00.003+05:30

Let me tell you what my mom likes doing on a Sunday morning:

She picks up the children's section of the newspaper and meticulously works her way through the puzzles in them. First to get her attention is usually the maze - complicated little puzzle in which she needs to find her way out from one end to another. She breaks into a smile every time she finishes. Then, she argues with my dad over how much jam he has started using on his toast. Next up is the find the difference puzzle in which two twin pictures lie side by side but they are not same, they are different. Five minutes of sipping tea and thinking later, she finds all six differences. She folds the paper and settles it inside the broadsheets of the newspaper. Week after week, since we started subscribing the newspaper, the Sunday children's paper has been hers.

Happy Mother's Day! Mommi, you taught me the value of little things.

Spring Rains

2011-05-01T20:53:00.003+05:30

I recommend you listen to people who care about you when can't hear your own voice. A detour to Patan Museum was an answer on a rainy day in spring.

Writing from under a pile

2011-04-30T23:33:00.002+05:30

I feel a huge weight pinning me down. It's a pile of deadlines, projects long overdue, undecided layouts, unedited pages, final proofs not done, colors not fixed, stories unwritten, pictures un-color corrected, decisions not made, courage not shown, confessions not made ...It is all piling up on my head.

I had a long conversation with my computer screen today. I had not wiped the dirt off it for almost a year. I do not have time to google how to clean it. I had electricity all day today. I didn't even bother to work. I just started at the screen, next to my recent rain sprayed window. We engaged in a little silent conversation. It reminded me of all the stale icons splattered all over my desktop which I had not bothered to file. Most of them represented unfinished work. I counted back and realized that I have projects dating back to a year ago which I should have finished some nine months ago.

The mess of it all astounds me. Where did I go wrong? Which wrong route did I start walking on that I have come so far yet my unfinished works date back to almost 300 days ago. What?! Where ? When?

My now old but then new room still had no furniture that makes sense. The bed sheets do not match the pillows. Who threw them together? The books lie piled behind the door in two rooms, shelve-less. The summer clothes I never put away is ready to wear straight from the floor I piled them last summer. The winter gears will see the same fate. I have not gone back to pictures that never got edited. Its lying lifeless in my three and a half hard drives.

I have not kept the promises I made to my mom. I was supposed to go shopping for the furniture for the new house two years ago!

I am writing form under a pile of priorities !

Today.

I am tired.

When happiness..

2011-04-20T21:37:00.003+05:30

When happiness is a tank full of petrol after 6 hours in a snaking queue

When happiness is a turning the rice cooker on half an hour before the electricity goes off for 7 straight hours

When happiness is getting a big fat inverter so that you can light your corridors

When happiness is watching the water fill the pipes at 2 AM in the morning

When happiness is ...

Metaphorical, meaningless

2011-04-19T00:36:00.002+05:30

My brother, who by the way is in the business of trying to save lives (literally) everyday comes home late one night, and asks me over dinner "didi, why do you live a metaphorical life?"

I am stunned.

Hugging you

2011-04-14T18:22:00.002+05:30

Three days after the Tsunami in Japan, I was in Delhi. Almost 70 of noisiest people in the world were making a lot of noise in a room at an exorbitantly priced hotel room in outskirts of the city. We were there to make the most of the four days of collaborative work.

In the midst of that noise was Y from Japan. I was surprised to see her there. I wasn't expecting her to leave her country, her family and work in Japan, when the country reeled in fear of more earthquakes. She has two kids, she told me. Her husband is taking care of them as his office temporarily closed down due to the closure of railways. She joked he finally gets to spend quality time with children.

It became my alternative activity through out my time in Delhi to look for her, sneak into her group to see what she was up to and just check up on her. Every time I looked I found her working, rather hard and giving feedbacks to the group in her low but firm voice, asking question, a lot of them and generally being useful. She engaged in conversations with everyone who wanted to know about Japan. I asked her few silly questions on 'what it felt like" to experience the quake. She told me it was the worst quake she had experienced in her life. She joined us for late night discussion, dinners and fun as well. I found myself constantly putting myself in her shoes - would I be as calm as poised as her if it was me and my country going through such devastation.

When we wrapped up the meeting after four days, i hugged her, hoping some of her good Y ways or Japanese ways would rub off on me.

Fanta New Year

2011-04-14T00:44:00.003+05:30

The new year, one of many that we celebrate here, just arrived. I am talking to my very insomniac friend Wongi who is wondering why Facebook is all about love tonight. I tell her it's just liquor speaking. I am turning into a skeptic, am I ?

A decade ago, new year will be the day, Dad would give us a special treat. On his way back from work, he would bring in a big bottle of Fanta and local potato chips, one pack would be normal salted and another a bit spicy. He would sneak the goodies in his daraj and only take it out as the clock strikes 12.

We would be watching some LIVE dance and song show on Nepali national television. Really enjoying it. TV was simpler then. We didn't have choices. We just watched what was available and didn't pass snide remarks when some MJ look alike tried to do a moonwalk on a Nepali song.

As the midnight arrived, Dad would take out the Fanta bottle and ask us to get glasses. We would use stainless steel glasses to drink our new year share of Fanta and munch on the potato chips.

I reminded dad of the Fanta tradition today and he laughed. His skin still glows at 70. He tells me, now its your turn to treat me. I think I am in mood for some momos tonight.

I was in Jerusalem

2011-03-23T22:38:00.003+05:30

Just saw my friends post news of a bus explosion in Jerusalem that took place during a busy hour of the day, killing one woman.

I was in Jerusalem in January. I walked the stone paved streets, smelling of some good coffee, admiring the monochromatic colours of the houses on the hills, wondering about the cloud like trail the fighter jets leave on the sky, and craning my neck to get view of the harp shaped bridge that welcomes you to the city.

The news of explosion made me flip through TV channels in search of news of what happened. The street that they are showing in the news looks familiar. The blue seats of the bus feels familiar. The buses that always come on time seem familiar. I feel uneasy. Not the same unease of hearing another thing going wrong in the world. This unease is new. It reeks of uneasiness you feel when you hear a sad news of the place you know.

A long long email to December

2011-01-01T02:52:00.001+05:30

As November's end nudged, the December winds picked up and it is here. As I near a year of nurturing someone else's dream, feeding milk from uninitiated breasts, picking up the pieces, I see that three hundred days just walked by me.
This baby didn't come with a 'care' instruction. It didn't know why it came to me. It didn't know me. It only knew me as a distant aunt her mom sometimes visited and laughed with. Her mother and I chatted how well she is growing from a fragment of her imagination to something concrete and standing on so many strong feet and held by strong embraces.
Now, I sit here, on a plump couch, chilly undertows, playing hide and seek in between the 11PM and 12 AM mark on the clock, I contemplate writing a 'care' instructions for whoever will come along and take care of it.
A long long email to December.

Year End Notes III

2011-01-01T02:44:00.003+05:30

To Sparrow:
When nothing in my life rhyme, you help me imagine alliterations. Thank you.

Year End Notes II

2011-01-01T02:31:00.002+05:30

To my best friend by default.
You took me in like i was one of the boys and told me all the secret stories. Thank you for sitting through my lectures! Thank you for trying to quit smoking three times a year. Thank you for being such a brilliant poet, and Thank you for the awesome breeze that you let past your head.

Year End Notes I

2010-12-27T01:22:00.003+05:30

I got through life with one best friend.

Thank you M. Thank you for being there that day in the crowded auditorium and you found me a hiding place.

Running into you

2010-12-25T21:36:00.007+05:30

That year a good friend of mine (remember her?) had a huge crush on you. We spent many a minute just following you around. The gang of girls looking out for a friend. We wanted to make sure you never found out about it because crushing from afar was our thing back then. I was one of her chorus singers but your best friend. Years later I ended up having the first real crush of my life on your best friend and you smiled from the sidelines.

Fifteen years later, she is a friend I see may be once a year and your best friend became your ex- best friend.

And, I still get to be your little sister !

and not some place else

2010-12-23T00:21:00.007+05:30

Today my hakim sab (the boss man) asked me what do I think of a year and half of starting the job when in a four walled room, with no window, he had told me that he was not very happy hiring me but he saw that I could may be do the job.

I write and I photograph. I try to find a story to tell. Sometimes the story is there sometimes it's not. Most times the search is deposited in the hard drive and never see the light of the day. But I keep looking for that story that will not change the world but make a difference.

Today, my hakim sab, asked if this was the job for me, if this was the right chair for me, if it was the right shutter that I have been opening and closing at various speeds.

I heard about a distant acquaintance losing his baby. I have not been able to not think of it since then. I just saw a 1.8 kg baby holding on to her mother's chest. I just heard a kid ask "what was inside" a huge guitar. I was just ordered to draw a flower by a 3 year old kid. I just saw bunch of children teach me how to cut the grass, draw a sleeve of a sweater, sing, dance and fall like an elephant.

And for the first time in life, I feel like I would make a good mother, not aiming high but may be like good 30 percent of what my mother has been.

Today, my hakim sab asked me why am I here and not some place else.

Of age

2010-12-17T00:54:00.006+05:30

Filling up insurance forms today, I forgot what my age was. I had to recheck with my mind twice before I wrote down my age.

Then few hours later, a chat window popped another age musings, "I thought you were 60".

"yes, I am 60 in my mind but much younger".

Inspire me

2010-12-13T00:01:00.003+05:30

change is here, and its difficult. i have been staring at my scratched computer screen all day battling between power outage schedules. no words came to me all day.

now at 12:19 AM I read, that Suntali used to write on her notebooks with pencils so that she could erase them and reuse them. no, she is not going to Cancun to picket the climate change fiasco. she could not afford to buy notebooks. good news is she just got herself a scholarship that will help her till grade 12.

the faded letters on my keyboard are ashamed i didn't write all day.

Brothers and Sisters II

2010-11-07T21:27:00.001+05:30

Waiting

2010-11-06T13:23:00.002+05:30

Tomorrow will be a different kind of waiting.

Tomorrow is Bhai Tika.

My brother is back home after three years so it is extra special this year. He is someone who likes things done the right way. You cannot take a short cut in his world. You have to do things a certain way like our grandmom taught us how to do or not do that at all. He is the keeper of rules in our house. My mom consults him about rituals and what exactly are we supposed to do. Tomorrow, he will insist on making an elaborate manda (mandala) on the tile floor, he will inspect if three types of grains, and flowers have been placed accordingly on top of the manda, he will recheck his memory if the broom goes in the left of the puja area or the right, he will make sure that I get up on time to make him sagun, he will insist on buying me a gift (he already did on Friday)...I look forward to being nagged on doing things the right way tomorrow.

My dad for the first time in fifteen or twenty years will not have a bhai tika. Though he has three sisters, only one of them live here. Or, lived here. My aunt passed away in June. For the first time in fifteen years, she will not arrive early at 7 in the morning and make me carry her gifts to my father. She will count the apples, pears, sweets and nuts and place them carefully on the golden trays, ready to offer them to dad. She will not climb the stairs laughing her big full laugh and then go on to praise my bara making skills and hurry on.

I do not remember doing Bhai Tika without her ever. She said, I didn't need to but we always waited for her. We always did the bhai tika together. We always laughed in unison as we did the puja and how we mixed up rituals.

Tomorrow will be a different kind of waiting for her.

I can just imagine her. A look of disapproval on her face, telling me to enjoy the fact that my brother is back after three years and I will have a beautiful bhai tika.

Fix it

2010-11-03T23:23:00.007+05:30

it is a lonely soup

resentment

stale and salt

watery

winter is here

so is my madness.

Making up for lost time

2010-11-01T22:13:00.003+05:30

I was not on vacation but on stay-cation. I did nothing but stay home, mostly mine and few days at my cousin's place in the super suburbs where the internet dies a slow moth death. But, bliss. Nothing to do but left with books to read and few closets to empty.

Going back to work after two and half weeks of holidays almost felt like that day long buried in my memory. The day my parents left me at my school for the first time. The creeping panic that I felt but at 5 too old to run after my parents. I wanted to but I suffer from the chronic disorder to act responsible.

This morning the flurry of events I saw on my way to work jolted me back to reality. The taxi meters as usual was walking faster than an ant on fire, I witnessed an almost accident. A motorbike trying to overtake a vehicle ten times its size. The taxi driver had an old Hindi film song. Well this guy has great taste in music, he will probably not cheat me like other cabbies in Kathmandu. I was almost not wrong. When I was waiting for a taxi, two men, big and muscular, stood right next to me and kept punching numbers on the mobile phone. I didn't understand why these men were standing so close to me. Why? Will this be my first mugging incident? Few minutes later a woman walked up the road with a child in tow. The men exchanged distant smiles with her and went on to hand over a small bundle of 500 rupee notes to her. There reality. A man somewhere working in the Gulf was sending money home through his friends back home for the festivals.

Then an elephant walked by.

Another version!

2010-10-20T00:16:00.004+05:30

I am not a fan of Dashain - have never been even when I was just a kid and I could get away with just playing and watching tv and sitting by my cousin's side while he won or lost tons of change in card games. We never go get tika from anyone unless invited. And year after year we are only invited to just one home. My mom's home, where my grandfather (or rather his wife and then after her death, now his daughters-in-law) hosts the annual family gathering. Last December, my grandfather passed away so no Dashain tika away from home.

I am not a fan also because I do not believe in cooking communal meals and forcing already over-stuffed people with more food that they are not going to enjoy. I do not believe in everyone inviting everyone else. Let me add another juicy bit here: I do not enjoy cooking. Let me be clear. Of course, like a good newar, I know how to cook all the yum newari cuisine that I learned while I helped my mom through many festivals. My mom being the youngest daughter-in-law of the family HAD to cook. Recently when my brother, making one of his many experimental dishes this Dashian asked my "why do you hate being inside the kitchen so much?" I said, probably because I always saw mom in the kitchen when we were a joint family. I think that left a deep scar in my mind! Of course not. I am one of those people in the world who doesn't like cooking. Simple. Really.

I am not a fan because the festival are too much of a pressure on my mom (and the women folks of the family). There is just so much to do and very little to enjoy. At the end there is a mountain of dirty dishes, pots and pans to wash. (But I love dish washing, which is another story for another day).

I am a fan of the Dashain I had this year. It was just the four of us. Mom, dad, bhai and I. My brother home after three years, took responsibility of the cooking while I cleaned after every meal. After his incessant experimentation with the masu bhat, I had to intervene one day. I cooked. Dad says, he can't be cooking at 70 so we spared him the duties. (!) He is funny. My mom worked on her plants and flowers and she looked rested. We went out every evening for a stroll around our still new neighbourhood, trying to discover new temples everyday. One day we also found a ping. We watched movies together, and several reruns of old shows on TV and heard mom explain what was happening in her favourite hindi daily shows. We slept a lot. I managed to wean myself off the internet and my desire to be useful even during holidays. I finished a book which I started months back. (Milan Kundera, I think you are god of short stories from Prague) and am already on another book. Welcome back reading bug. I think we will get along even better this time as I read slow these days. Not the reckless girl in her twenties anymore, I am a more responsible reader now. I learned to sleep on time and wake up when the alarm rings. No snoozing.

This Dashain had been fantastic. I am grateful for no parties, no card games, no drinking, no family drama, no nakhatyas, no forced food, no noise and no rituals. This was the best holiday ever.

End note: I also rediscovered my obsession for CNN and BBC.

The short shrinking life of a festival

2010-10-15T21:59:00.004+05:30

My grandfather had five brothers. They all got married and multiplied. They all lived a very happy joint family life in two courtyards of brick houses in the back alleys of Mangal Bazar. For years, nothing much happened in the family except for the usual flow of children being added to the already big family. Then, one fine day, unbeknownst to the world, my grandfather passed away one night. With the head of the family gone, the people and assets were divided into five pieces.

Our family split like amoebas and we became five small families. Some continued to live in Patan while my grandmother, now widowed decided to cross the river and start anew in a new city. By the time I arrived, several decades later, our family had grown into quite a formidable number. My mathematics places me as the 74^th member had we continued to be counted as one family.

Though we were five satellite families, one tradition never changed. It was Dashain. The big fat newari Dashain, in the old family house where my grandmother had her five children and lived with four stepchildren. Without fail, for the five days of Dashain our family converged at the Patan ghar and celebrated Dashain, raising their salinchas filled with bitter home made aila to the spirit of our family.

Five days of Dashain, Ghatasthapana, Astami, Nawami, Dashami and Chaturdaasi – everyone, young and old, dressed in new clothes arrived in the old house without fail to celebrate this all family festival. The daughters-in-law of each of the five families cooked sumptuous food, the elderly generation took ages doing puja in a dark room where no strangers were allowed in while the men of the family played cards and laughed in the baithak. As for us, we would be busy running around the entire stretch of the two courtyards playing with cousins we only met once in a year. As for me, I enjoyed playing a game with myself, remembering all the names of innumerable relatives.

This tradition continued for few decades. Like everything else in the world, our little Dashain had to turn a new leaf and it happened in the hands of my sister-in-law. Few months before Dashain when she married into our family, the family’s official keeper of rules decided that she is not fit to enter our family as caste of one of her great grandfathers’ was an issue. In order to avoid causing any family feuds, no one contested the decision. She became a part of our family but she was not welcomed with fanfare into the old house. A god-fearing clan of ours sat quiet.

So, Dashain changed again. One family stopped going to the old house to celebrate. We had become a big family by then, my father and his brother and their children. We recreated the old rituals at our home. We continued to play cards, the women of the family kept on slogging in the kitchen and my grand mother performed elaborate pujas. The five children of the family played in their new clothes.

The initial overpowering feeling of being banished from the family home turned into one of exile of our own choosing. My grandmother told me that my cousin’s wedding was just a bait that we decided to bite on. Everyone has been growing tired over the years to make an effort to go to the old house for years and she just came at the right time to change few things around for the family. Dashain changed again when my grandmother passed away. The amoebas split again and became two small families. Dashian kept shrinking and we kept adjusting to it.

Not BE cute

2010-09-23T00:42:00.006+05:30

Deal, now,

Shall not be cute,

Flaunt no irrational

water, earth, tears

Deal, now,

Constrict, Constrain, stay in pain

A new fear and flavours

2010-09-09T00:22:00.003+05:30

I must admit i was scared. Scared is a small word to describe what I was feeling that cloudy August Monday. Sitting and waiting at the airport for my afternoon flight to Nepalgunj to take off with four VIP visitors in tow was suffocating. With the overpriced water and food inside the domestic airport lounge, which is not really a lounge but a bus station next to an air strip, I wanted nothing but to get to the destination, get the work done, get back home.

The screen, blue and green, flickering always, told me my flight was on time. I looked out. More cloud. No hills in view. Hills are reassuring. I felt a strange sensation on my feet, that creeps into my calf, swirled around my hips and settled on my stomach. Fear. I looked at the person next to me. She is a frequent flier. She has a silver royal club card to prove for it. She has a teenage daughter at home, a young son in a boy's hostel in a private boarding school and a long-distance husband. Boarding a flight is everyday for her. She doesn't think much about it anymore.

My mom tells me I enjoyed flying when I was a kid. She tells me random tales of how I used to wink and make cute faces at the air-hostesses on the then Royal Nepal Airlines flying to Simara. All for extra candies they dish out in the short flight. I think i remember the blue demin skirt which had many pockets filled with candies after every flight.

If my mom says so, it must be true.

The flight was announced ten minutes early. Surprise. I missed the first call for passengers to board the flight 405. While my team munched on pricey chips with the swags of diet coke or something similar in a can, I think i was too busy listening to my own head. Second call woke me up from a minor stupor. We all rushed into the gates that lead us to the big blue bus inside which we were counted like bheda bakhra in a fellow passenger's word. I can never understand the need to get on the terminal bus. The distance from the lounge gate to the air craft is hardly few minutes. The comic relief came in the form of the audio exchange between the saree clad lady who was in the bus with the walkie talkie ..who seem to be constantly shouting in the radio that 'the pilot is missing" where is he:? Oh well. just what i needed today. a missing pilot, to add to the hidden hills.

A familiar face greeted us as we boarded the plane. Former Miss Nepal Contestant whose name I cannot recall. My friend remarks - a la yini haru ko uniform change bhayecha. She liked the older one better re! Hmm. I do not recall their former attire so I cannot compare the difference in the present outfit. As we settled into our seats, the pilot, rushed in. He had a fancy Ray-Ban on. May be it was a fake. but he looked dependable in his starched shirt.

The wait inside the aircraft with no airconditioning on was another agonizing episode. Packed in a can without any air. Finally after five minutes of confusing wait, the aircraft moved to the runway to gather speed for take off. The flight attendants were done distributing the colorful candies all sealed in a depressingly dark blue wrappers. My friend took a handful. And for the first time since my Simara days, I grabbed a handful too.

(At this point in every flight, i turn on my phone once again, defying the announcement to switch off all electric equipments including mobile phones, and quickly type a text to a person who i know is thinking about me)

As the flight took off, both of us, seated next to each other, with the aircraft folded in the brilliant layers of cloud, started breaking into the candies, in search of our favourite flavour.

you and her

2010-06-08T21:18:00.001+05:30

I am scared

she will never appear in my dream

and you will never appear in my life again!

two...

2010-05-23T00:39:00.005+05:30

I am two

the resentful, unforgiving me (Vs) the recent buddhist

my personalities divide and rule

NO, I won't give up talking!

2010-05-22T23:00:00.004+05:30

Yesterday evening, all of us women at work were listening to a coworker tell her life-story, which she said was all about making wrong moves that turned out right. I have worked with her for last three years and never seen her 'stressed'. We asked her,"how does she manage to stay so positive?"

She said, "I talk." I never keep things inside myself. I usually make my husband listen to me as soon as I go home. I tell him all the good things and the bad things. And when the story of the day is over, I am done. I actually forget about it."

The all-woman audience were nodding 'yes(es)'.

My friend's wedding

2010-05-22T00:27:00.002+05:30

A 'great' friend from work who taught me how to laugh like a frog got married last week. The bride in a red kurta and black capri plus the work shoes and the groom in a brown shirt and jeans moved from one room to another, and after two hours of waiting, talking and smiling later, they committed to each other for life.

I had the honour of being one of their three witnesses!

Why you need best friends?

2010-05-01T21:13:00.004+05:30

Because they will find you the best seat, most obscure yet in the middle of the auditorium so that long-forgotten ghosts won't hunt you down.

My May Day

2010-05-01T16:52:00.007+05:30

I am sitting here chatting with two young me: one from Golbazar in Siraha and another from Birgunj. They are painting my house. white on day when the city wears a look of an abandoned city. The boys came quietly this morning and started working. I had asked them last evening if they were going to join the comrade awesome's May Day rally or take a day off work. Hanging on to a ledge by the window, unharnessed, outside my room, they peered in to have a peak at the big-voiced comrade telling everyone how they are the only fit party to rule the country and everything is regressive and remote controlled by southern neighbour.

aja sachai bida naleko bhai haru

K ko bida? only holiday we want is the one that gives us enough days to go back home

Comrade awesome cum fearsome is addressing a large red crowd in the middle of Kathmandu, claiming he is doing this for the janata.

HAIKU

2010-04-15T16:26:00.002+05:30

She works,
at two in the morning -
another brick in the wall

The M-word

2010-03-25T13:49:00.001+05:30

The Sparrow is out of town, in a place where internet is still dial up and slow as a snail.

I just called him (little mercies like mobile phone) and read him a part of Bleach, (it is apparently a Manga series- now don't ask me what it is ? I have no idea!) but i have always been good at reading!

He laughed, even as my mobile phone last few credit started evaporating, with each faint beep.

He laughed at the invasion of the M-word in my life!

Few minutes later, amidst 8 text messages in my phone, seven of which are reminders for me to recharge my phone, he said:

"I love hearing you read me manga. Even when you've no idea what's going on. :) and its the reason no.47..."

an Ocean

2010-02-15T14:10:00.003+05:30

Last few months have been a frenzy of travelling in western side of the country in search of stories - the envigorating cold in Jumla sans the snow fall, steep climbs in Sindhupalchok, insane fear in Rajbiraj, a hostile rain in Nuwakot and dusty brilliance of Bardiya. When I come back home, laden with stories of good and bad and uncontrollable, it takes me forever to commit those into the memory of the hard drive and I do not seem to want to write a story like in the good old days of pen and paper.

Last week I finally went back to the notes I scribbled in a room in Bardiya, wrapped in a blanket smelling of stale piss. The story was about a baby born at home who nearly died but an angel in pink saree (a community health volunteer) used artificial aid to bring the baby back. A young mother, dressed in a patchwork quilt like blouse and a flamboyantly green beads around her neck could not take his eyes off the baby. Her husband walked around her in muted footsteps not wanting to disturb the bubble of happiness that the baby and the mother seem to live in. I was invited to feel the bubble next to her yellow mustard field, in the backyard where she held the baby with soft hands and spoke to him in little baby language. I was afraid to go too close as I changed lenses to get better pictures of the mom and the little one. I said to myself the borrowed 50mm will bring me closer to them.

Last week I finally went back to the notes and I started harping away at the computer, taking away some silver sheen off the keyboard in an attempt to capture what I had felt almost two months ago. At the end of a three day struggle between the sleepy notes and the desperate need to churn out words, I was left with a warm story about a baby who was saved by an angel in pink.

Last week was too late. As I was the story, the baby slipped out of the bubble, probably battling another bout with pneumonia.

His name was Sagar. It means ocean.

Because I like it, I will do it again

2010-01-06T00:01:00.002+05:30

I like writing these stuff, so I will do it again. Looking back at the year that escaped just few days ago and telling you guys, how it went for me...

The year began with my passport finally finding some meaning. It was thoroughly checked by immigration officials at both Delhi and Bangkok airports. So thrilled about it still, even after a year !

Oh, yes, I stepped into the warm mix of water and sand of the beach. Finally, i saw sea. It was overwhelming.

And I turned the big three zero this year and I receive three comments about my age every week, some come as advise and some as surprise.

We moved this year. We moved big. We changed cities. We traded loyalties and came to the other side of the dear old Bagmati River. We were not sure in the begining but we are begining to appreciate the lack of noise which was so readily available in the roadside home.

This year was the year of the babies. One of my best friends got all pregnant and pretty and had a baby boy so amazing that he hardly ever gives his mom any trouble at night. Why am I all excited about this baby? because she is the first among my close friends to be a mom and I absolutely love the fact that we still talk about life.

Loss is a big gaping hole. My grandfather was 96.

I disappointed books this year by not reading them much but I tried reading new writers. But this is the year I read cartoon strips. Calvin and Hobbes was my literature for 2009.

Saving went to a camera, which I stil have not bought.

I was all happy for my friends this year - for quiting the job she hated, for packing her bags for Europe, for embracing motherhood, for becoming a student again. New friends happened on the blog, on sharing wierdness and one while waiting for the bus to arrive.

Tough year at work. There were many times when I questioned myself about what I was doing but things are looking up now after I decided to become a buddhist at work.

I spend most of the year not talking much particularly at work but six month of that didn't do me any good so I am going back to what I used to be. I used to like her a lot.

Another hightlight of the year came in the form of an awakening. I decided to let me help me into understanding what was I so unhappy about (again at work). I now believe that the only thing I can change is myself.

I fell in love over ten seconds of darkness at the theatre, reading a story and writing 900 of them with the Sparrow.

I can't wait to recap the year 2010 !

As the year ends: the EVE

2010-01-02T00:35:00.004+05:30

This year I was in a mood to celebrate the end of the year. I think the year deserved a good farewell but...

I woke up late in the morning, had to call in at work with a humongous (did i even spell that right) excuse, got in late but I smiled at everyone, just about everyone I met between the elevator and my work station, and started to work the last day of the not so great year at work.

And after many escapes from going to the hospital to get the regular check ups done, I had to go to the hospital or the human resources at work would not have been happy. The good news is my kidneys are fine, so are my lungs. But there is this thing about the nose. That's for the new year.

My dad's heart breaks if we do not do anything to celebrate the new years three times every year. Yes, we are the crazy kind who celebrates in Jan.April.October. A decade back, the only celebration we could cook up during new years was a packet of chips and a big bottle of fanta at midnight, for which me and my brother would stay awake till the clock strikes cinderella hours.

This year, we are in a new home, with our head chef holding fort againt H1N1 in a hospital in northern India, I was forced into the shoes of the cook. I served some strange toppings on bread, (which was pronounced a hit), fried some mashed potatoes, imitated my brother's recipe of pasta, cheese and olives, made some vegetable wraps despite the not so soft wrappers, everyone thought I had a future in the kitchen. By the time I served tea, it was midnight and I had ended the day, the year by cooking for some of my favourite people, my parents, my best friend, the sparrow, and his bestfriend.

If you are interested the health report did say I am "fit, fine and in love".

A Story of Zen and Sparrow

2009-11-14T00:09:00.004+05:30

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

2009-11-09T20:07:00.006+05:30

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

2009-11-02T00:22:00.002+05:30

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

2009-10-19T21:26:00.004+05:30

on feeling loved

2009-08-19T16:59:00.002+05:30

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

2009-07-02T23:30:00.005+05:30

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

2009-06-07T16:35:00.002+05:30

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 !

What do the political leaders of my country need immediately?

2009-05-06T21:30:00.006+05:30

A lie detector - Once you get into the habit of lying, it becomes a truth of your life so this is a must. It should not be imported from neighbouring countries. It has to be custom made to fit the gigantic lies that they tell.

A conscience meter - It is refreshing to see a leader who would resign on moral grounds, who did not under estimate the intelligence of the citizens.

3 Rupee worth of honesty - We know we are poor but we can afford to donate three ruppes and invest on buying some honesty for them. Own up when you make stupid mistakes and don't blame it on others.

A speech writer - Wake up and smell the rain. Marx. Lenin and Mao are dead. Don't speak the language only the dead from six feet under can understand. Write more responsible speech and stop the blame game "my government failed, I had to resign because the opposition didn't let us work" . You expect us to believe that?

An image consultant - Do not ever appear on TV with your haired oiled/gelled to look like the Godfather. Stop wearing colors that depress and ask the first son to behave !

And a Media Manager - Do not ever tape a speech in which you are confessing that you are not what you are. This applies particularly to aspiring Prime Ministers and President. Never use words like "bhale". In the age of Facebook and blogs and new at the touch of a button, you never never never expect that you can get away with anything!

She said

2009-04-25T18:44:00.002+05:30

"People waste so much there. They use things once and they throw it out. I wish I could start a business in Nepal with all the wonderful things that people waste in America."
~Brialliant idea from my aunt who married and moved to America some 35 years ago.

passing thought

2009-04-18T01:26:00.002+05:30

Somewhere between packing and moving out, I realized we have stopped listening to each other.

Taking a moment to say goodbye

2009-04-05T00:20:00.003+05:30

Starting a new chapter in my life- I have a new job, a set of new people to say good morning and namastes and hey to everyday and a new view from the window.
On the first day at the new place, my new superviser took few moments after the most eventful morning of starting anew and said a proper goodbye to the memories of his old team and welcomed me in the new one. He said thank yous, miss yous and we have to find a way to keep connected to each other and said "zinta, welcome to the team". I am not a big fan of formalities but I think good byes need a special moment. It can't be overlooked. I like taking time to say goodbyes. Some do it over SMSes and some do it over Emails (in last one week i have heard of two break-ups on emails) and some just disappear. But I was so grateful that we took a moment to acknowledge that something existed. When he asked "How do you feel about the change ? " - I am sad that my old team disintegrated like it never ever stood on any foundation, like it never had any mind or tail or fingers or a heart. We worked like a crazy machine, the five of us, making sure we covered each and every ground and each others back all the time for two years and at the end we could not look each other in the eye and say good bye to each other. Instead we decided to withdraw into our little caves and (I tend to over-react-over-analyse-beginings and ends) ...I am going to find a way to pay my last respect to the wonderful team I was part of!

This time in Delhi

2009-03-29T22:52:00.002+05:30

All I needed was to be in a different decade in life.

Just back from a trip to Delhi. I had been told to take 'crap load of pictures' but I didn't. There was no time to for such serious business. This time in Delhi was all about meeting some incredible people, women, who stunned me by being at ease with themselves. Luce was great, 50 and getting calls from her husband every few hours and breathing little "I love yous" all day. Rams, younger than me and always on phone who amazed me with her devotion and determination to stay in love. There was just a lot of love this time in Delhi.

Some people are incredibly good at something yet they do not seem to be able to pass on the gift but SHE was one of the rare kind who make exceptionally good teachers. Passing on what she knew like she was born to do it. She was very critcal, told us what kind of garbage we were filling our cameras with. She would tell me that I can do better and appreciate the little improvements I made - That was good but it can be better! I think I have a little crush on her !

This time in Delhi was about confidence as well. I knew the place better, I knew I would not get lost travelling alone and believed that I could get to the hotel at 9 in the night without any problem.

Having to flee Chandni Chowk after not being able to tell the story we had planned, getting into wheel fight between two rickshaws and attacked for being "media or similar types" were some of the great Delhi moments. I was very scared that the suspicious galliwallas would smash my camera but later I was laughing because I couldn't believe they took us so seriously. I will not be wasting any camera time now.

Came back richer by two friends and a crush, not a bad week at all !

arranged and all

2009-03-21T01:30:00.002+05:30

Getting a Mac, feels like an arranged marriage!

LUCK BY CHANCE

2009-03-08T17:35:00.001+05:30

Check Beach

2009-03-08T17:06:00.002+05:30

I am sick right now but I was in Bangkok a week ago and ecstatic to be there. I feel like I should have a lot to say about this but this anxiety that comes with perpetual headache is doing something to my memory...I have fond and happy memories of a week long trip. Snippets ...first day was all about being blinded by light, on the way to the hotel from the gigantic airport, each billboard had so many lights that I felt it could light up a town here...it gave me a power head-ache...but by next day I was begining to appreciate the sky train, walking and getting lost between sois at night and still confident that I would find my way back to the hotel. I felt secure as everything was so well-lit...I guess i didn't get too deep into the darkness that is a part of every city.
Taking a ferry to the Island from Pattaya was an exilirating experience. I still do not know how I feel about my first time at the beach, in the unaccustomed water.
There was a litte shopping of course..I feel strangely guilty about not having bought a little power and a little water from there...I do not know where I went wrong and what went wrong for us to be in this much darkness (literally not the Joseph Conrad kind)...I always tell myself may be there won't be new friends anymore in my life but I keep meeting great people...I came back richer by few friends ...amazing girls, I know I can call friends for a long time. The sea food was great until one day when i saw three tentacles coming out of my food. I knew then that I was ready to be 'dal-bhatted'.
(note: sinus induced post)

Three Zero

2009-02-19T11:27:00.004+05:30

"How does it feel ?"

The most asked question in the last few days- all because I turned the big three zero.

On Saturday, Sunday and Monday, I turned 30 three times - The inexplicable world of the newars when you have to have your birthday on the day which may not be your birthday according to the world of normal calendars. So Saturday was my newar birthday - After the quick self-worship at home, i headed out to work related workshop, where two-day old friends staged a quick 20-minutes surprise birthday celebration with people singing birthday songs in French, English, Singhalese, Cambodian, Philipino, Tamil, Urdu and Bangla languages. A little throwing of yummy cakes and lots of laughter and few curious questions on why i was wearing a tika. Sunday was Nepali calendar birthday with my favorite cousin and best friend pulling a surprise dinner on me and there was a cake too...and it also happened to be my best friend's birthday according to one of three calendars. I was really surprised. Monday was "all identifying document" birthday! This is my real birthday says my passport and there was a third cake at work.

"How does it feel ?"
I think my mom can answer this question better than me!