WORKING WOMEN OF KATHMANDU, 2009 (Dipesh Dulal)

The development studies of the contemporary globe carries fantasies created by folks like Adam Smith, J.S. Mill, Amartya Sen, M.P. Todaro or whoever.
Whatever the paradigm prevail about economies : The Marxism or Chicago School of Thought cannot truly interprete the baseline of practising political economy. All, it is full of fantasies.

The author felt to explore his locality and present the baseline in his own version of picture. Evidently, not putting some new hypotheses forward. This time, the working women of Kathmandu.

The growing trend of exploitation of land all over the world has modeled Kathmandu – the Nepalese capital city on its own. Each year tens of thousands of people come to Kathmandu aspiring the better lives. But the quality of life in Kathmandu? Till the date in 2009, the story makes us ashamed that our locality is nasty, with no social security. Many people from rural Nepal or from backward population of India feel difficult to return back to home towns or villages as the centre-periphery disparity is very high here. Somehow, women and their families are residing in Kathmandu.
In this article, I illustrate different stories with figurative pictures; not the same characters.


Nira Thapa, 22, is a security personnel. She came to Kathmandu when she was 18 and joined the service right after that. She has been enjoying her job as traffic police. She has a boyfriend, a retailer. Both of them are not getting spare time to get married.
Leaving Kathmandu?
** She says : No, I will settle here at any cost.
Why do you like Kathmandu despite a lot of smoke and dust and more problems?
** Sometimes these things smell pleasant. (smiling)

Devimaya Khatri,37, sells fresh corn, servicing hot from her charcoal oven at Kirtipur, Kathmandu. The university students are her key customers. She has a husband and a son of 20 years age. Husband is an independent mason and son wanders for a job, who has completed high school. With income of husband and her own, her family is semi-happy in Kathmandu which she feels like impossible elsewhere in Nepal.

Shanti Adhikari, a widow of age 35, has a small family dwelling in the locality with settlements of farmsteads; being just 12 KM away from Ring Road of Kathmandu. The unmanaged and extending urbanisation has been touching her village too. The increasing sales of her farm products esp. fresh organic green vegetables makes her happy. She doesn’t deal with retailers, but sells her products directly with customers whom she meet in the mornings. She takes her products in ‘doko’ – traditional bamboo basket to the city centre. The seasons of crop plantation and harvest makes her busy bee. She has a daghter and a son. She is a bit worried about her daughter’s future as she is not getting a job in the city and is growing having just reached the marriage age-18.
However, this article couldn’t include mini-stories of working women. The occupations that account the low percentage of women, still though that prevail in Kathmandu will be included in other articles.

KIDS STORIES (Dipesh Dulal)

I am trying to make a series of stories which starts from a funny old woman’s kitchen (Japanese Folk Tale); goes through the series of adventure, moral lessons, glimpses of magic spell stuffs, fun and ends with totally new characters on scene ready for continuation of series. I am being helped by an enthusiastic student too. :)

Part I : The Funny Old Woman

Once upon the time, there lived a funny old woman who liked to prepare rice dumplings for her husband. She pased most of her time in her kitchen and in care of her husband. She used to laugh “Tee-Hee-Hee”.

One day she was preparing rice dumplings for her husband. Accidentally, one of the rice dumplings fell down on the earthen floor. It rolled down into the small hole on her floor. She tried to pick it up, but the hole grew wider and she fell down through the hole.

She stepped on a new place, which looked like her neighborhood. Actually, it was not her neighborhood. She was on a inclined road. The sides of the road were green paddy fields. She began to run down the road crying: “My rice dumplings!”.

At a place, on the side of the road was a ‘Statue God’ who asked: “Where are you going old woman?”.

She didn’t care much about the question. She looked at the Statue God and asked: “Have you seen my rice dumplings?”.

“Yes, it was rolling down the road.” – replied the Statue God and added: “But don’t go further for there is a wicked Oni who likes human flesh and blood.”.

She thought that was funny and laughed “Tee-Hee-Hee”. She began to run down the road saying : “My rice dumpling, my rice dumpling !”.

Same incident happened when she met second Statue God. She was running down crying, when she came across third Statue God.

The third Statue God asked her to hide herself behind him, as there was Oni curiously walking up the road. She also saw a giant-like Oni climbing up the road and hid herself behind the third Statue God.

“Hey Statue God, I can smell some humankind here.” , said Oni.

“I am not sure.”, replied the third Statue God.

“But I am sure, here is the old woman” , Oni saw the funny old woman and picked her up.

“I will be angry with you and will never forgive you if you kill such a poor old woman.” – said the third Statue God.

“She will be happily staying in my kitchen preparing food for me and my friends” , promised the Oni. The funny old woman laughed “Tee-Hee-Hee”.

He took the funny old woman with him till they reached a river. He caught the boat and put the old woman into it. He rowed it with a paddle. They reached another bank. Another side of the river was greener with dense forest. They walked together towards Oni’s home. There were other Onis who were waiting for the Oni. They were his friends. He asked the old woman to prepare food in his kitchen using his magic paddle.

She had to put a grain of rice in a pot and fill it with water. On the fire, she had to stir the pot with one grain of rice and water. The rice began to multiply by two. 1-2-4-8-16-32-64-128-256-512-1024- and so on. She used to laugh “Tee-Hee-Hee” when she noticed rice multiplying while stirring it.

Some days passed, and she began to miss her husband and her kitchen where she used to cook her favourite rice dumplings.

One day she noticed that nobody was in the house except her. She quietly came out of the house with the magic paddle under her girdle. She walked down through the dense forest until she reached the bank of the river. There was a boat without its paddle.

Looking at the magic paddle funnily; she said “It helps.”.

She rowed the boat slowly with the rice-paddle.

As soon as she reached the next bank, she looked back to see the Oni’s place as she would never come back again.

What she saw on the other bank of the river was the fiercest Oni ever with red-red eyes.

Oni couldn’t swim across river; so he kneeled down to suck the entire river water. He did so and made the river muddy. The funny old woman was helpless and began to cry with funny face. The Oni couldn’t stop laughing and he again filled the river with water.

Poor helpless woman thought of running away from there and she marched up with pace. She saw three Statue Gods on her way but she didn’t talk with anyone. She saw a hole nearby the road on the field terrace and struggled more to reach the other end of that hole.

She cried with happiness and ran to her husband’s bed as soon as she reached in her kitchen.

The funny old woman and her husband began to pass their days in home with happiness. Sometimes she used to laugh “Tee-Hee-Hee”.

Part II: Flight to Heaven

One day the old couple thought of selling the magic paddle. One of their neighbours paid a huge amount for the magic paddle. Then the old couple bacame very rich and established a restaurant named ‘Food Paradise’.

They kept 4 staff in the restaurant and the funny old woman became the attraction of the restaurant doing some supervision and cooking town’s famous rice-dumplings. She began to earn more money as the restaurant was very popular and earned fame in the short time.

Days passed on and the funny old woman began to become greedier. One day, she went to her neighbour and asked that neighbour to sell the ‘magic paddle’ back to her. That neighbour refused in soft words “I am sorry lady; what I can sell you is a magic broom. Using this; you can save your time and money in your restaurant”. She purchased that magic broom.

Her neighbour’s Tom Cat followed her while she was going home. “Stay back!” she shouted.

Tom Cat said: “I always play with the threads of brooms, kind lady!”.

She allowed the Tom Cat to go with her.

Next day, she redesigned her restaurant with proper corner to the magic broom and Tom Cat playing around it. One of the regular customer liked it and said: “Impressive!”.

In the evenings, she used to clean the restaurant with the magic broom. The broom moved and cleaned as the wish of its master. The funny old woman was happy to get the magic broom in her restaurant.

One day, suddenly her husband died of heart-attack. That was the most gravies moment in the life of the old woman.

She began to stay in her house in grief with her relatives. The restaurant was being run by staff members and the Tom Cat.

One day when all relatives returned to their homes, the old woman returned to the restaurant and suddenly rode on the magic broom. She said:

“Broom, Oh Broom ! Take me to a ride! To a person who made me bride !”.

The magic broom accepted the master. Soon, she was riding on the broom with the Tom Cat behind.

The Tom Cat felt wonderful to see the clouds beneath and gradually he began to miss the mice and rats of the restaurant. He asked the old woman: “Let us return back, I want to return back. “. But the old woman denied. So, he slid down the rainbow down the earth and reached the restaurant.

In the sky, the thunderstorm hit the woman and she turned into ash and smoke. The magic broom was just as normal as it had magical power in it. It fell down and dropped just in front of the restaurant. The Tom Cat then became its master.

The intelligent cat then sat on round table with staff members of the restaurant. They appointed him the head and assumed joint-ownership of the restaurant. They also renamed the restaurant “Magical Cat Food Paradise” and redesigned the restaurant with more care on menu and surroundings. They purchased a land around them for making a parking space. The Tom Cat, the magic broom, and the restaurant began to become popular in the village and nearby towns.

Part III: Magic Spell of Jealous Neighbour

‘Magical Cat Food Paradise’ was a popular dine spot in the local area and nearby areas. The Tom Cat, and his human colleagues were very happy working with each other in a nice restaurant. One day the jealous neighbour who had purchased the magic paddle from the old woman visited there. The Tom Cat offered him free drinks and food. He was very happy to have free drinks and food. He became very jealous as his ex-domestic Tom Cat had then become the most successful animal in the village. He found the new setting of the restaurant very much impressive. He promised that he would be their regular customer.

The jealous neighbour returned home and began to think something very harmful to the ‘Magical Cat Food Paradise’ and especially affecting his ex-domestic Tom Cat. Suddenly, he put a magic spell in the paddle that he owned.

“Paddle, Oh Paddle! Multiply a grain of rice! Eighteen more grains and two lice!”

During his visit to the restaurant he put an offer forward to the Tom Cat: “Mr. Tom Cat, I am thinking of selling my magic paddle to somebody else. Are you interested in buying it?”

The Tom Cat was more than happy to get that offer. He said: “Let us do it. How much do we have to pay?”

Then The Magical Cat Food Paradise purchased the magic paddle as they were happy thinking that their rice grains would be saved. The Tom Cat and his human colleagues had a meeting and they planned a festival in their restaurant.

Soon, they began to decorate the restaurant for the Christmas Party. Tom Cat had a car and a driver to drive him to town and nearby areas. He was carrying invitation letters for renowned customers of his restaurant.

The jealous neighbour was looking all these and was being happy that the Tom Cat and his restaurant would serve lice with rice to their customers during the Christmas Party. He was counting days to witness such situation.

In the Christmas eve, the jealous neighbour arrived quite early in the restaurant. Everybody including the Tom Cat were very busy for the final cleaning job. The guests began to come. The wealthiest cat of the town came in and shook hands with the Tom Cat.

“Where is your master?” asked the jealous neighbour.

“Well, this restaurant has invited cats only. Are you invited?” replied the wealthiest cat of the town.

The jealous neighbour had nothing to say and he went out without being able to answer. He was still looking out of his window to see what would happen then after.

Soon after that, the restaurant was occupied with famous cats of the town. They drank and ate. They liked the lice in rice. Most of them seemed very much thankful to the Tom Cat for organising such party for only cats. One of them made a comment: “I like the food most; its delicious ! “.

MY SOLAR LANTERN STORY ( Dipesh Dulal)

My Solar Lantern has now got an important space in my room in the evenings. It glows at evening adding to the ambiance of my room. My room seemed like a deserted gloom in the evenings; nevertheless my Solar Lantern is now there in the corner being evidentiary of me getting new energy.

I bought this Solar Lantern while I was visiting the city of York, in England. York has been a source of inspiration in my life. Even a day of roaming around the parts of the city, esp. National Railway Museum, the Minster Church and etc had made a remarkable impression in my mind. I still remember the song performance : ’stary stary night’ on the footpath, York Visitor Information Desk, and two caring people taking picture of me at the city walls area.

York has got life in it. What I found more interesting there was ‘Poundland’ where we get many things, each item in a pound !! I entered there, as a lucky national of Nepal (a Southern country). I bought a frying pan, a body spray and this Solar Lantern.

The most catching thing: It was printed on the cover of this lantern like there is no need to replace the battery. It sounded like it works forever.

After I returned to Nepal, I kept it at the top of my house. Its glowing at evenings looked nothing, as number of such Garden Solar Lanterns makes a nice ambience in the evening-garden with much landscape design and other arrangements. The fantasy for me was that I am naturally overwhelmed with things caring mother earth. The Solar Lantern was such thing which could reduce the use of fossil fuels, or biomass. But to what extent? The answers could be nearly equal to zero.

However, what sort of fantasy I have made with the particular Solar Lantern; is an example. I hope so.

Time passed on. Busy life schedule began. One day I noticed that one of my nephews pulled the LED off from the Solar Lantern. Then after, the whole remaining things were ready for disposal. My room had been in mess those days. Fortunate Solar Lantern was not disposed off. One day I found a LED when I was removing dirt from the corners of the room. I just collected the other parts of the Lantern and went to a repair service.

The man who was busy on fixing the FM radio questioned me: Are you sure that you will mend this? I replied: Yes, Just for amusement, hehe. He took NPR. 15 for fixing it and asked to keep it under the Sun for complete 4 hours or so. I did the same and waited till the evening.

The very day was lengthy for me. I didn’t have any work to be done for that day. The Lantern did not glow in the evening. Initially, I was worried. Silly I, I then remembered to switch it on. Still it did not glow. Ahh, it was automatic, I then covered the Solar Panel with palm, and then it glowed being sensitive to the darkness.

Amazingly, the LED that I found was not white one, it was red LED. So, it was dimmer than it was before with the white LED. It had already taken much of my efforts; I found a place in my room to add some to the ambience of my room. Before that, I had taken some pictures of red glowing Lantern using my Chinese Mobile Phone.

LANGUAGE IS INCOMPLETE

amar limbu (immortal)
Language is a system of communication with the "means" of verbal symbols. But language is complex and paradoxical. Hopi, the language of Pueblo Indians of Arizona in the US, consists of various grammars. For instance, the Hopi language doesn't have the same tense system, and a similar expression to express ideas like that of future and neither does the modern English language. They are expressed in different ways. In the Nepali language, there is a future verb but not in English. They express future tense saying either I will go home or I am going home.

        On the ground of different grammars of languages, the speakers of different languages have different observations and evaluation of externally or physically similar acts of observation. The Chinese people say that the "grass greens', instead of saying that it "is green". They see 'green' as a process rather than a 'state'. Moreover, Nepalese speakers say 'My brother hungers", and are likely to think that it is brother who does that, and so on. Another striking example of dissecting the nature along the lines of language is with colours. We say there are seven colours because we don't have the idea of other kinds of colours.

           Likewise, Black English speakers do not use "if" to make conditional sentences. Rather, they use the rising intonation to signal the conditional connection. In fact, modal auxiliaries in the English language are derived from content words. People can say one thing and mean another. They can use language connotatively, suggestively and in many other ways. Though the English speakers say that they take exams and the Nepalese speakers say that they give exams (as students), some Nepalese say they returned back to their home or home came whereas the English speakers say they arrived home. As we know home is static. It doesn't go and come elsewhere. It is after all the same thing they understand.

             Jacques Derrida, the father of deconstruction who accepts the language as a system of communication, yet extends the problem of it. He claims that the knowledge of language and communicability and its meanings don't give the desired relation. Of course, the knowledge we acquire is not reliable because the language itself is problematic. When the bus we are getting on is not safe, how can you say that you are safe?

                      Language conveys a number of meanings from time to time and person to person. A question arises: Does the word "communication" give that determined meaning? Western metaphysics believes that communication is a vehicle for thought and passage of meaning. So, communication is polygenic or plural in nature. It is difficult to bridge gap between a reader and a writer. A text is implied by a writer and its readers infer from the text which may be different of the writer. Innumerable meanings can be produced from the text. We can say that communication depends on context but the context is never fixed, hence, communication doesn't communicate. This language is incapable of communication. In addition to these, underlying and surface meaning have, to an extent, helped to simplify the English language. "A fish is ready to eat." It is ambiguous.

             We think also that communication conveys the intended meaning, but actually it doesn't. The person who we speak understands it in accordance wit the concept, thinking and context. What matters more is that limitations or orientation in language are not absolute, for, as long as competency is there. Performance will take place in whatever way. This is why it is wise to deconstruct the traditional idea of fixity of knowledge of language and communication capability or meaning. Today's knowledge will be insufficient for tomorrow and tomorrow's for next tomorrow.

ONE FINE MORNING

“Jack of all Master of none”, may be this defines me. Disguising to be a perfect, tried my best but fate has its own choice. Lucky to be alive but unfortunate to be alone. The way I choose is again the same: making my mood to money and taming my anger being agitated for the loneliness I deserve.

In the morning I wake up with a big smile on my wretched face, look into the mirror, happy and generously charming. The reason behind my rare smile may be: a sweet dream.

‘Dreams’ whatever you see and think will ultimately finds its way to be felt subconsciously, lively but imagery . That is dream. I like dreams. They are like franchising my soul to live, it loves to.

Sometimes it is spooky, scares the hell out of me, gives goose bumps even to remember. But sometimes, it is so lovely and lively; I wish to dream it over and over again, so beautiful that I wish to immortalize them. Awake but forcefully close my eyes to get back into sleep, plunge into the same dream, but it never happens.

I flip my mirror; turn it upside down because the reflection is not so handsome. Then, I try to grasp an angle that makes me the man I like, but it doesn’t. I give up. I curse the almighty, who is ruthless and merciless, who designed a wretched model and a piece of crap “ME”.

Life in the mid 20’s, better finds its value to an oldie in his late 60’s. Mid 20’s weighs more to other but not to me because that’s my age. My flair has availed my basic needs. Have to keep my clutches sharp to be a tiger, to be alive. If they are blunt, I no longer will be a tiger.

Tiger lives its life in complete solitude. Till it is strong, it hunts, survives. It gets older, prey gets faster. Sharp clutches rust and get blunt. It starves to death. I don’t want to be that tiger. So, I am toiling hard to make my future a safe side, but in the meantime, AM I FORGETTING TO LIVE MY PRESENT?

Just like a protagonist in the movie, what if my life has love, romance, tragedy and finally a happy ending. Don’t I deserve? I question my heart. Heart is speechless so my mind argues, “It is a movie, a carefully thought and scripted imaginary life, programmed by specialist, scrutinized and edited with professional hands. But I can’t program my scenes, retake my mistakes and edit my life.”

And I live a real life.

My monologues; my debate. My heart is a part and my mind is counterpart. They argue, they agitate, and they collaborate. I, a spectator and a true follower of them, whoever wins I am a slave. I walk, means an initiative to my monologues. They rise and fall and I enjoy them.

Almost have forgotten, I have to be ready for my office again, a daily routine. It’s Tuesday and still three more days for Saturday, I love Saturday. So………. I am getting up as fast as I can. It takes no time me to be ready. I am not a girl to waste a whole hour sticking in the mirror and painting my face with inorganic fancy materials. (Girls; please do not mind).

 I walk half the way to my office and take bus. My usual routine; Same nasty roads, crossing stinky BISHNUMATI River, same narrow lane of ASON and finally to RATNAPARK. My ways are so used to with me that feels like, I can walk all the way blindfold. I am so familiar to them and vice-versa. Same houses, same Junctions, same temples and most precisely, same “ME”.

So, I am walking all the way to my office. I feel little relief after climbing an overhead bridge at Ratnapark since I can behold the beautiful RANI POKHARI. Tranquility there really quenches my thirst of peace for a moment.

As I climbed down the overhead bridge, peered few beggars in rags. One is playing MADAL with awkward sound like clunk. My eyes reach to micro station. People are trying to navigate micro buses. Suddenly my eyes collide with a pair of beautiful eye. Of course she is waiting a micro the other side of the road. I cross the road and reach there. I pretend as if I didn’t notice her and so does she. Strangers rarely talk. That’s the philosophy.

 I am standing few meters away beside her. She is so beautiful, so fair and I feel she cast spell on me. I am unable to stop my head unconsciously turning to her. I plan to talk to her. I am searching my guts, but my heart is palpitating and my hands are trembling. “Oh! God! What the hell. Why this always happens to me?” No later I got a second thought, “she is so beautiful, so fair like an angel and me?” A big question mark. I left my idea to go and talk to her and I said to myself “She deserves the best and you are not the best”

“Baneshwor, Koteshwor,Kandha Ghari,Bhaktapur” Khalasi (conductor) yells. That sharp noise makes me awake from my dream. I am dreaming, dreaming to talk to her. I get into the bus. Bus is full. I try to cling on the bar. My hand barely fits. Once I read a story “Beauty and the Beast”, story about a beauty and a beast. It has happy ending. The beast changes into a handsome prince and they live their life happily ever after.

 But this real beast “ME” can’t transform himself into a handsome prince like in the story. He is in a real world, living a real life, not in the story, not in the fantasy…………………

subhash thapa magar

AFTER TWENTY YEARS..........

T

              o the north of my home, there stands   a       tall chain of mountains. They are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clean evening sky, but, at times, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapours about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.

 At the foot of these breathtaking mountains, you can see the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks, having latticed windows and gable front, surmounted with weather-cocks.

                In the same village, and in one of these very houses, I lived many years ever since love marriage. I was a kind neighbour, and an obedient hen-pecked husband (villagers used to say). Many of the villagers knew me by name "Writer Baje". The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever I approached. I assisted at their sports, told them long stories of ghost and witches. I was not lazy; for I would sit on a wet rock basking in the sun with a pen and a diary all day meditating on my wife's behaviour and attitudes towards me. I was fond of writing, so there was a wealth of writings but none of them were published. I would never abnegate assisting a neighbour even in the roughest toil and was the first man to help in husking corn or building stone-fences. I also ran errands for the women. I tried to find a job outside of farm. I declared that I was of no use to work on my farm, everything went wrong. Fences were continually falling to pieces; our cattle would go astray, weeds were growing quicker in our field than anywhere else. Our financial condition was worsening. Our only daughter was ragged. We couldn't provide her with a fine dress and send to a good school.

         I, however, was one of those elated mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat loaves of bread or dhindo (a food item found in the hilly region of Nepal), whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve or a penny than work for a pound. If left to myself, I would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but my spouse kept continually dining in my ears about my idleness, carelessness and the ruin I was bringing on my family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and everything I said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. My sole domestic supporter was my dog Bhote. I remember Bhote got more respect than me. Time grew worse and worse as years rolled on. I was at least reduced almost to despair; and my alternative, to escape from the labour of the farm and clamor of the wife, was to take a diary in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here I would at times sit at the foot of a tree and put my feelings into words and share the contents of my wallet with Bhote with whom I sympathized as a fellow-sufferer." Poor Bhote", I would call.

            In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumn day, I had scramble without thinking to one of the highest parts the mountains. I loved writing fictions. Late in the afternoon, exhausted, I threw myself on a knoll covered with grass that stood at the brow of a steep cliff. From an opening between the trees I could see many a mile of rich woodland. I was enjoying this scene; evening was gradually advancing, the mountains began cast their long blue shadows over the valleys. I saw that it would be dark long before I could reach the village, and I heard a heavy sigh of when I thought of encountering the terrors of my wife, Srijana.

              As I was about to descend, I heard a voice from a distance, "Writer Baje, Writer Baje!" I looked anxiously around and saw a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks. I approached him; he was a short-square built old fellow with thickly bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg that seemed full of liquor. I assisted the old fellow with the load.

          On reaching the clearing, new objects of wonder presented themselves. At the centre were more odd-looking people dressed in combatant uniform. Maybe they were Maoists. They untied the keg and started drinking wines in silence, I was trembling with fear and my heart was palpitating. I even risked, when no one was looking, to taste the beverage, which I found to be excellent. I was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat. At length, my senses were overwhelmed, my eyes swam in my head, and fell into a deep sleep. On waking, I found myself on the green knoll where I had first seen the strange old man. I rubbed my eyes--it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was flying aloft. I thought, "I haven't slept here all night!'' I recalled the occurrences before I fell asleep. "Oh! I thought, "What excuse shall I make to my wife!" She would nag for not returning home last night.

             I looked around but didn't find my diary and Bhote. Rather I saw an old diary. I suspected that one of the Maoists combatants might have replaced. And I thought Bhote might have strayed away after a squirrel in the dense forest. I whistled after him; the echoes repeated my whistle, but no dog was to be seen. I rose to walk and found myself stiff in the joints. I shook my head, dusted the diary, and with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned my steps homeward.

            No sooner had I neared a village at the foot of the mountains than I me t many people, but knew none. Their clothes, too, were of a different fashion. They cast their eyes upon me, they stroked their chins. A strange faces appeared at the windows. Different names on the door. The narrow trails were widened and pitched. Skyscrapers were standing with pride. To my astonishment, if found my beard and hair had grown a foot long.  Even dogs, too, barked at me as I passed. The whole face of the little village was altered; it was more populous. I was sorely perplexed. I was still in a sea of wonders. With some difficulties I found the way to my home. I found the house gone to decay--the thatched roof fallen in and the doors off the hinges. I entered the house hoping to hear shrill voice of my nagging wife but found empty and apparently abandoned.

       My appearance soon attracted the attention of the people. They surrounded eyeing me from head to foot with great curiosity. They wanted to know who I was what I came there for, who I was looking for or what my name was. I cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Writer Baje? At the very moment, a young woman pressed through the crowd to get a peep at me. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened by my looks, began to cry. "Hush, the old man won't hurt you" she consoled the child. The air of the mother and the tone of her voice all awakened a train of recollections in my mind. "What's your name, my good woman?"--"Ayesha." "And your father's name?" "Ah, poor man, Writer Baje, who left home with his dog. The dog returned, and never has been heard of since. I had but one question more to ask, but I put it with a faltering voice: 'Where is your mother?' "Oh, she committed suicide as she felt that father would not return home on the ground of  her nagging nature." I caught her and her child and cried, "I'm your father!'' --Writer Baje. All stood amazed until an old woman peered in my face for a while, exclaimed, "Surely enough! Welcome home again, old neighbor--"Why, where have you been these twenty long years?"

This story has been adapted from a US story based on the ancient culture.

By Amar Limbu

The Chief Editor of Writers’ Diary

UNDER INFLUENCE OF WESTERN CULTURE

                                                                                    I was in a hurry one fine morning, so I rushed to school quite earlier than usual. Whilst I was peeping outside through the windows of the bus, I spotted some banners, hoarding boards and adz reading, "Merry Christmas, Christmas Offer, Christmas Discount!". I was wondering why only Christmas is overemphasized. I was asking myself this question..

Some minutes later I reached the school and entered a class. No sooner had I got into the class than the students wished, "MERRY CHRISTMAS !" in unison. I was stunned at their wish and the decoration of classroom. Walls, notice boards, white boards, everything was speaking of Christianity. Neither was it Christmas Day nor Christmas Eve. Since their mind and heart were filled with celebration mood, impulse, spirit, I did my best to wash their brains but couldn't. They were so insistent about the festival that they didn't let anyone of the teachers teach. Every class had at least a cake to eat and mark the so-called festival.

 As our country has been declared a secular country, all the festivals have to be celebrated with equal importance. Nearly one-fourth of the calendar is occupied by festive activities in Nepal. But amongst the activities, I find Christmas being overemphasized by us. A wealth of people have been preparing for Christmas over the past week.

These activities have shown the sign of Christian influence and domination in our country. From children to aged people are under its influence. No one can speak ill of other religions, festivals, customs and practices inasmuch as all the religions teach and encourage to do right things. Religions provoke us to amend our ways. Regardless to say, some people are committing misdeeds in the name of religions. Apart from these, religions play a key role to make people disciplined, well-mannered.

                        There are some festivals which are in process of existence; some are trying to emerge as one of the notable festivals. Festivals like Lohosar, Id, Udhauli, Uvauli carry their own significance, when these festivals fall on, we scarcely share greetings and wish each other. Foremost thing is we are not conversant with the above mentioned festivals and hesitate to try to know about them. No discount is offered in the market on the occasion of these festivals as we are obsessed with the western cultures. Doesn't it hurt those people whose festivals are not considered to be a part of our country, our friends or relatives? Do our anti-religious activities not offend those who do not belong to our religions?

Whilst other cultures, norms are adopted, our original cultures, norms, values, practices should not be ignored which have been identifying us around the world. We are scientifically, technically and commercially back, but are very rich traditionally, socially and ethically. This is why, what I want to plead through this writing is to give equal weight to our identification-bearing festive practices. Whichever religion we are following, we should maintain the feeling of brotherhood, and we are the offspring of the same mother.

Amar Limbu,