When I woke up today the curfew was on; and it will last till late evening. Yesterday, an aquaintance had called in to inform about it, but I had not paid any heed to his warning. Rumors are as much in abundance here as there are bandhs and agitations. As stated on my main blog a few days back, curfew does not affect me as such, except that the shops are closed.

Half awake, I had trudged to the neighborhood shop to buy milk, and that is where I got the news. Being in a by-lane, the shop was open; it is basically a ‘dhaba’ but keeps stock of milk, water, cigarettes and a few other daily use stuff. Thankfully, I have some basic cooking ingredients, so will manage the food part for today!

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That pretty much summarises the last four days. It’s not that I had some huge work to do by roaming in the city; but, the curfews have resulted in shortages in essentials like vegetables and milk. Plus, of course the immense loss in business with most establishments, including restaurants, closed is a separate problem.

Personally, the biggest hit has been food and entertainment. With the maid’s arrival erratic, one day of cooking means utensils piling up. Plus, as I said earlier, what to cook is the biggest question? The quality of basic stuff like tomatoes and onions is quite off-putting. Restaurants are closed, so I have to rely on a single near-by hotel for dinners once the curfew is lifted in the evening!

Entertainment was primarily watching films – and that is impossible now! Songs continue, however!

Anyways, I will try to put up some thing better and more positive soon. Right now, the overall melancholic mood has permeated within. Meanwhile, the story progresses slowly; two last episodes are left, so that should be done during this week!

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Never really largely used this space as an online diary, but today I just felt like penning a few things about the day; or rather, felt like talking, so instead of being with a friend, or on YM, here I am blabbering some inane nonsensical mundane stuff; writing this online, hence please excuse the typos or spellings.

Before proceeding, another thought just erupted – I used to keep a diary many years back; the habit just petered out on its own with age; even recall ‘ordering’ my sister to do the needful when I joined hostel, so that I could come back and read about all that I missed. Well, let me not get into more memories, lest you run away- though, to think of this, the visitors seem to have dwindled here, if the comment box is anything to go by.

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Ghatasthapna
(From The Himalayan Times)

People have already started making the rounds of the markets to buy clothes, food-stuff and puja materials in preparation for the upcoming festival. Houses have already been cleaned, decorated and painted for Dashain. Dashain commences with Ghatasthapna…On this day, a priest or the head of the house places a kalasha – a sacred jar of holy water – in the prayer room where daily religious ceremonies are performed or in a purified area of the house pleading to Goddess Durga to bless the vessel with her presence.

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Zindagi toh hai amal, sabr ke qaabu mein nahin
Nabz ka dharm lahoo, thande se aansoon mein nahin*

A chilled vein freezes the imbecile heart. The brain crystallizes into a venomous residue. Dead passion’s python strangulates emotions. Lethargy slithers through the tissue’s sieves. Fear crawls, biting into thought pores. Stillness, heavier than lead, crushes the soul.

Yet, life’s purpose is to be eager, and not be contained within patience; the vein’s rule is to flow with warm blood, not congeal with cold tears. There is light in my eyes, and not only water. I am reality, not some story!

How does one reconcile the two thoughts?

The evening comes empty handed. The evening departs empty handed. Nothing has moved. Nothing moves. Nothing will move. After this, the night tiptoes in. The night is quiet. It does not cry. It does not laugh. It is a blank night. Neither do I cry. Neither do I laugh. The blank night will pass away. But I have to wipe out the night’s stain. If I do not do it, it will return tomorrow. And the day after. Time has lost essence. I have seen time slip by. Slowly. Ardously. It is black. And white. I want to fill it with colors. I cannot do it. I want to stuff it. Yet, I am unable to move. I am helpless. The effort is coagulated within my thoughts. I am my own spectator. I want to intervene in my own life. Yet, I feel tied. Time slips by. Life slids by.

*Lyric: Kaifi Azmi; Tunesmith: Anu Mallik; Voice: Sonu Nigam; Film: Tamanna

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Sitting in the plush environs of the restaurant at Radisson, Kathmandu, with the head of our company’s advertisement agency, I casually enquired, Why do Nepalis hate Indians? At first he evaded the question with an incoherent mumble. I laughed. He couldn t fool me, I informed him. It was evident and there was enough documentary proof available for this. On a small persistence, he opened up, and what he told me was something that I was aware of, but that day it hit a bit harder. What he said can be paraphrased as such: Nepalese are not born hating Indians, certainly not the way we do our other neighbor, but there is a significant number of Nepali students who go to India for studies. There, they are subjected to ridicule, called unfriendly names like Bahadur and chowkidar and they return with a strong and seething resentment. (This is a simplistic view, without taking into account the political policies, but still it is a strong ground).

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When the landlady’s bitch (ok, she-dog) started barking again today afternoon, I had thought she was at her vocal best again; she often goes into a hyper-module even if she sees someone climbing an electric pole on the other end of the compound wall (apart from a variety of other inexplicable reasons). Generally, from a back room window, I stand and shout, and she is positively scared of me from there. In a normal course, immediately she would quieten and retreat to her kennel.

Today, it was different. It did not seem a normal bark of a bored canine. There was an urgency, a snappiness, a shortness. Peering out, I noticed her body was stretched like a tense bow, and her eyes were concentrated on the main gate. At first an irritaton swept me; barely a couple of minutes ago, I had walked in from the same gate. From a side window of the same room, I looked out towards the gate; the latch was securely tightened, as I had only done so before entering.

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For those visiting Kathmandu, a trip to the restaurant Banchcha Ghar is a must. Housed in a building that is nearly 100 years old off the main Darbar Marg, Banchcha Ghar preserves the traditional Newari food in its authenticity. Newaris were the original inhabitants of the Kathmandu valley.

The must haves there are Sukuti (spicy, dried deer meat) and the wild boar dish(slices, served with an array of masalas/salt/mirchi), the preparation of which was one of the best that I ever had.

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(I wrote this at the airport before departure; I am reproducing this piece, without editing or changing the tense and sequence. I had thought I would get time in Mumbai to post it, but it was quite hectic and jam-packed, hence, could not…)

I am waiting at the airport writing this post; by the time it reaches you, I would be in Mumbai, sucked irrevocably in a slush of meetings.

Hell, I always get the timing wrong- the last time I was stuck at a lengthy immigration counter, and caught the plane nearly the sameway as one catches a DTC bus at rush hours! This time, chastened, I have reached airport earlier; lo, it’s absolutely empty- had my coffee, loitered at the duty free, done my immigration, over with the security check…and still have some one hour to spare. The sequential number on my boarding pass wickedly grins that I was the first to check in.

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It is strange that in your comfort zone one tends to take for granted the sounds that emanate in the night. In Delhi, I live very near a railway track; but till the time a staying guest points out, I never realize the bursts of train rambling along at regular intervals. Honestly, how many of you have actually listened to the noise and sounds before slipping into the cushiony tenderness of sleep?

Despite a month of staying here, my sub-conscious has still not befriended the nocturnal acoustics of Kathmandu. Since I stay in a virtual greenhouse, surrounded with a lot of trees and shrubs, the rustle of the leaves is a consistent background score, joined in by insects shrills.

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