Somewhere i belong

Backpack was ready ,so was my Guitar. I hadn’t seen her for two years now. Qatar Airways ticket laid on bed , alongside my Passport. My Airplane was scheduled at 8 am departure from Tegel Berlin, the next day. I couldn't sleep. Sweaty and anxiously, I rolled over and over again in bed. I missed her. I missed her smile. The most beautiful smile in this entire world. I missed sleeping next to her in those cold winter days where she would rather cover me without caring for herself.

She told many beautiful stories. My food always tasted better with the mixture of imaginary characters of her stories in it. I missed her voice. Her love to me was pure, without any expectations , carefree and harmless.

Bus came 10 minutes late and then I had to change train as well and meantime it rained on me and I obviously did not carry my umbrella with me before deciding to fly fourteen hours to the next end of the World. Then I remembered her sheltering me under an umbrella my way back from school, when it monsoon rained and flooded the river on the way . Water came up to her knees but for her the main priority was to shelter me on her arms so that I did not get wet.

Finally I reached Airport and miraculously on time since my train came earlier than expected. Then

there I flew, slowly leaving the German soil. I glimpsed out of my airplane window, where I could see Berlin below the clouds, getting smaller and smaller and finally vanishing into the eternity. I kept on looking at her until she vanished.

It was a strange feeling because I did not know which side to take. Berlin was home to me as well and I felt pain leaving her as well. It was a strange feeling of having everything without really having anything.

I remembered her buying me a plastic airplane and she told me' one day you are going to fly all around the world' I played and played with it until I broke it the next day. She was not very happy. I never grew up in front of her. We human never grow up, we just pretend and try to show the society that we are mature. Our entire life is a drama.

I reached Doha, the Capital city of Qatar where I had to change my next flight home. I was getting closer and closer and heart was beating faster and faster. Adrenaline pumped like a meteor striking the ground. At that very moment, I remembered the last time I saw her. She tried hard to be strong and not to show any pain in her eyes before I left. But inside I am sure she died.

Finally I could see Kathmandu getting bigger and bigger below the clouds, then at that very moment I remembered Berlin , my next home which got lost somewhere into the horizon.

'This is a story of a man who doesn’t belong anywhere'

Kite

The smell of cardamon out of my Mamu's freshly prepared traditional Nepali tea always woke me up each morning. My mother decorated our dining table that day with freshly fried Shel-roti, Patre and other sorts of sweets as Dashain and Tihar(Traditional Nepali Festivals) were just corridors away. I went out to the balcony of our old house, where I closed my eyes and took a deep breath through my nostrils into my lungs, that smell ,I can never compare it with any other smells in the world, the smell of being home. The sun played hide and seek behind those trees and norished me with its warmth through those tiny spaces between the branches.I could see shoemakers,bottle collectors & vegetable venders on the street carrying their day to day job everywhere around the town, making their living and fighting for their survival amongst the fittest. My eyes could photograph everything. Our eyes are actually better than a camera. Easy to take a photograph through it and even easier to save it forever in your brain.

My Father was always fascinated by flying objects. I remember me and my father staying late in the evening at the Airport and looking at all those different kinds of Airplanes flying around. He could even tell the model of each and every Boeing , quite fascinating though . My father loved his motorbike. The Honda Model of CD100, he loved more than anything else, which accompanied him and my mother on its back,every other weekend to the Hills and Parks around the valley. Old fellas always loved adventures.

Bua( Father) took me and my sister Anima to Ashan Bazar ( Pretty crowded center of Kathmandu) that day with me sitting in front on the Fuel tank of his motorbike and my sister Anima on his back. Mamu made a huge shopping list that covered everything from Vegetables, Fresh meat to the things that Krishna and Shiva(Gods) needed to get satisfied. We finished shopping our list. Bua saw in our face that we both were pretty much starving. He took us to the nearby Shop where we got Jery-swari to eat.

Bua loved kites. Kathmandu sky covered with fighting kites always made it a battle field. Bua planned that whole weekend we were going to fly kites and go on a weaponless war in the sky. He bought a special kind of a string that tailors used , usually to sew a mattress. He bought sabudana ( rice look alike stuff) which gave a sticky glue when cooked. When we came home,my mother was ready to serve her delicious food placed on the table.After our lunch, it was time to hit the sky.

But before that Bua gathered some old glasses around our home, crushed it and made a powder out of it, giving it a sugary look. Its pretty insane when I say it right now but he collected some grass snails from our garden too as it gave extra slippery liquid, when cooked.My mother wouldn’t let him harm the insects so we did it secretly on the garden, and cooked it in a pot on which we used to feed our dog(the only dog we had, which later bit me and escaped). We cooked sabudana, snail and glass together until it was ready to be applied to the string. Then flew my dad the kite and my job was to apply the mixture to the string, so that wind dried the amalgam in the sky.

We were already fierce fighters from the very beginning. We defeated about three or four kites from the start. I was so excited that every time my father won the kite battle ,I used to shout with joy so that my neighbors could hear that my father defeated the opponent. I could imagine the feeling of a soldier winning a battle for his country, not caring about the personal desire, love or even life, but it was same feeling for me, as a boy winning a kite battle. There were kites everywhere, the kites that lost the battle flew slowly down to the earth, where kids gathered around to get it . There were sometimes battle amongst the kids to get the kite, I got into a lot of kite troubles as well, which my mother hated. I used to get beaten by my mother with a rubber pipe that was used for watering the flower and trust me it hurts .

I remember that for going to the top of our house, there was never a ladder. Bua used to climb up and ask my mother to pass me from bottom so that he could drag me to the top. It was pretty risky though , a small failure could have lead me or him into a serious accident but he was confident. We flew kite all day long until we finally lost. My face got all red and the feeling of sadness pinched my heart.

It was already evening in Kathmandu with cold south wind blowing right through us. My mother came below asking my dad to pass me to her, with her lovely milliondollar smile. She put me a sweater and took me inside. Somewhere around in the neighbourhood i could hear evening bell ringing.. like every other evening..

Goodbye Sagarnath

I could clearly see worries on her face. I have known my Grandmother for quite sometime now. She had always been a bold lady with a strict tone to her voice. I loved my grandmother when she was tough . Now she was a different lady with a weak personality. Boldness seemed to have faded away. The person whom she loved and lived together for her entire life, laid motionless on bed paralysed, not even being able to move his eyelids. Honestly speaking , even though I was a kid, I could still feel , how painful It was for her to live her life with the fact that the person whom she loved the most was about to leave her until and unless a miracle happened. Miracle however happens only in storybooks, not in real life.

Me, my mother and my grandmother were on our way to Sagarnath, leaving my Grandfather under the care of my uncle back in Kathmandu because we human never give up . Hope is the only reason why humankind still prevails on earth. Since modern medical procedures were unable to show any effect on my grandfather, we decided to believe in a miracle instead. That was the reason why we decided to travel back to Sagarnath, and meet Nepalbajay ( Man who used natural and traditional healing methods contrary to modern medical science). Only if I knew about the fact that I was travelling with my grandmother for the very last time, I would have hugged her the entire time.

My Grandfather was a very influential person, not only amongst his blood-bonded relatives but also amongst the people around him in the society. As soon as we arrived in Sagarnath, about hundred of people welcomed us .Many with tear-drops on their eyes asking about the health of my grandfather. I had never seen my grandmother crying until that day when she laid helpless on the corridor and cried in front of the people perhaps closer to her than her own children who visited them once or twice a year. Everything in that house was painful for her. She saw memories of her husband everywhere, which she told us frequently. There was not a single day when house was empty and was not full of visitors until we stayed there. Many came by and read Veda and Puran (Holy Scripts) for the health of my grandfather. Some people even stayed throughout the night ,awake and volunteered in guarding the house ,realising the fact that my grandmother was alone and the person whom we all loved was not there.

It might sound a little bit exaggerated for most of the readers , but when we arrived there ,even our domestic animals had tears on their eyes, and we all agreed to that fact. Perhaps our eyes were always full of sorrows and tears, that we saw everything around us from our own perspective. But it was unforgettable for me because I saw it with my own eyes.

Finally we got what we came for. The traditional herb man made us some sort of ointment that needed to be rubbed, which never actually worked.

We returned back to Kathmandu. The Situation couldn’t be worse. There was some sort of internal conflict because children couldn’t decide who was going to take the responsibility of their father so they decided to sent them both back to their own so called home in Sagarnath, all alone, all by themselves. I am not saying that no one went there to visit them, but they were all alone most of their times in those dark electricity less nights until my grandfather finally died and was cremated. My grandmother was traumatised by the fact that her husband no longer lived. Less than a week after her husbands death, she fell down on the corridor. It is kind of superstitious but my grandmother told her children a night ago before her downfall that her husband came to her in her dreams and asked her to come to him because he was all alone. She was taken to Kathmandu for her treatments but died after few weeks.

I never really got chance to spent most of my time with them but I am glad that I have some beautiful memories which will stay with me forever . This is my small tribute to them, may they rest in peace where ever they are .

Sagarnath Memories The First Visit

It was 1994; I can still remember how excited I was since I was finally getting chance to travel outside of Kathmandu and moreover getting chance to meet my maternal grandparents for the very first time. My mother told me that I did meet my grandparent right after my birth but that made no sense to me because of course I did not remember anything about that visit. This visit was for me the first visit with my conscious mind. My uncle Gyanendra (my mother’s youngest brother and whom we all kids loved more than other uncles because of his jokes and never ageing personality) was traveling with us. I can still remember how I felt. I felt like as if I was on the top of the world. Uncle Gyanendra never grew up. But I honestly thank god he is still the same, same up to date, a bit American perhaps but never mind.

We were traveling with the night bus (Sarlahi Express videocoach) and the trip was estimated about 10 hours from Kathmandu. This was the longest bus trip I’ve had up to that date. What could you expect more, you were travelling with Videocoach and with uncle Gyanendra. They played Raja Hindustani ( an Indian Film ). I had my eyes wide open and was so focused on the small screen of their 14 inch black and white television that not even an earthquake could distract me. My mother was already slept right next to me and I was thinking how you could even sleep when you are on Videocoach. We arrived in Mugling ( A famous junction where all the long way travel busses meet for a travel break, passengers can eat and take a bathroom break) . We ate our Bhaat, Daal and Tarkari (National food of Nepal including Rice, pulses and Vegetable). Food in Mugling was perhaps the most unhygienic food prepared by workers with zero hygienic procedures and precautions but it tasted actually better than everyday food at home.

It was perhaps 3 in the morning and I could hear my mother asking a person in front of her to close the window because it gave a strange smell outside, then my experienced traveler uncle said that we had arrived in Hariwan and the strange smell was burning fructose from Hariwan sugar Factory. In Hariwan lived one of my mother’s sisters Umadidi (didi= sister in Nepali) and we had plans to visit her sometime later that week. Up to that date I had only seen Gyanudidi, who also lived in Kathmandu. My mother has a big family. They are altogether 10 Brothers and Sisters, with everyone scattered around. Now almost everyone live in Kathmandu apart from Narendra uncle in Germany and Gyanendra uncle in Texas. I almost forgot to tell a story about a person that was just in front of my uncle. But I have to tell you first how bus windows look like in Nepal. Two people, in front and back seat on the same side have to share the same window. Theoretically both people have to agree regards closing and opening of window , otherwise there could be a heavy dispute. A person right in front of my uncle Gyanendra had a travel sickness, a fat black bloke from Tarai(South Nepal), with a big belly stuffed with digested rice from Mugling had to throw off. He opened the window and vomited but most part flew and fell right on the top of my uncle. There was a small discussion but in Nepal , it’s pretty normal.

At many places on the way I could see forest on fire. It was perhaps because of the unextinguished cigarette from wood collectors. But my uncle had his own explanation and I believed him. He said that it was Rankebhoot ( A Nepali word for Fireghosts) and not only me but my mother believed in him too. But I did a simple research few months ago and his explanations could be true though. If corpse are not buried deep enough they give off methane after some time, and the combustible nature of methane could have perhaps set the forest on fire .

We people in Nepal are very superstitious. We live every second of our life in between god and devil. We still believe in witchcraft, we still sacrifice goat, chicken and even buffalo for the fulfillment of our Bhakal(Business deal with god for the fulfillment of wishes). My mother is very superstious by the way. Whenever I felt sick, first thing that came on her mind was palmful of rice, which she touched all over my body and went outside our house and threw it away. Her explanation was that she was throwing evil force out of my body.

After traveling for about 10 hours we came to our stop at middle of nowhere. Our bus left us three infront of Fuljors jungle early at about 4,30 am and it was still pitch dark outside. Honestly speaking I was scared, we were all scared but my uncle couldn’t show his fears as he was the only official man and it couldn’t get better when my uncle told that we had to cross that jungle to come to Sagarnath, the village of my Grandparents. It was like Little Red Hoods story of crossing the jungle to come home. When I think about it now, we could have perhaps been attacked by wild animals or robbers. Anyways , we all gathered our courage and started walking. There was a small pathway in between the trees, mostly Sal (Shorea robusta), a tree found in southern Asia that is an important source of hardwood timber. And the most amazing thing about that tree was , it had a white bark and one could write his name ,stories or anything on it. I could see thousand of names on it , quotes, addresses, dates and stuffs. My uncle Gyanendra wrote his name and my name on one of the Barks. It was an amazing experience. Uncle Gyanendra always sang his way through. He sang lots of folk songs that he created spontaneously and simultaneously. His songs were most of the times funny but there had also been times when they were very rhythmic. My mother noticed that there was sand instead of soil where Sal grew. Uncle Gyanendra told that it was a scientific failure. Never understood what he meant.

After walking about forty minutes, we could finally see a road leading to the village. I could see small huts, people milking cows, getting ready to go to field to harvest their crops, it was completely a new world for me. Since we don’t get such stuffs in Kathmandu. We finally arrived in Sagarashram, the name of the home where my grandparents lived. On the entrance, an old woman was standing, she looked at me with very cruel eyes and asked what my name was. I gazed back into her with wide open innocent eyes while my saliva went back into my stomach and said gently, my name is Deep. She replied I don’t like Deeps, most of them are murderers. That’s my first introduction to Thuldidi, the helper to my grandparents. She was a thin lady, with a very cruel mouth but she was a very kind lady in her heart. I found that later on. Finally I met my grandparents for the very first time. My grandfather looked a very clean Gentleman, he had a crystal clear Daurasuruwal (traditional Nepali Dress) with Shiny leather shoes and a well fitted Nepali Hat. He called me babu (cute word for young boys), and dragged me towards him. My mother asked me to bow him. We normally consider our parents and grandparents as another symbol of Vishnu(God). My grandfather loved young kids a lot that could be felt from his voice. Although I never met him I already loved him from the very first time I saw him. My grandmother was just the opposite. Perhaps she spend all her life raising ten children of her own, she did not show much of the interest in me, which I found quite normal. She had a very strict tone on her voice, she never went to school and was house wife her entire life.

We had two cows , an aggressive buffalo and 3 goats of our own, that was actually the coolest thing in my entire life. I could watch my grandfather milking these beasts all day long. We did not have electricity at night. We lit up candles like early 18^th century Europe all over our house or handmade kerosene lights (Tukibatti). I was scared at night, because we used to hear strange noises at the back of our house, it was always pitch dark with no electricity and no one had courage to go and look. My grandfather always sat on the wooden bench, placed on the corridor of our home, this time he dragged me and told me, there is nothing such as a ghost, it’s your brain. I couldn’t understand him then but he was right. He gave me a strange example. There was a Peepal Tree infront of our home and he showed me shadow of its branches reflected by full moon moving tru and fro on the ground and told me sometimes people get scared while walking in the night and perhaps get nervous breakdown ,feeling being followed by someone at night, like when you walk, movement of shadow gives a strange feeling as if you are being followed but it’s a tree branch after all and a simple reflection. It’s all your brain. He always comforted me. He had an old Radio, which ran through Batteries where he used to hear BBC late at night.

Caste system always prevailed and still prevails in most part of Nepal. ( Brahmins were/ are considered as a high caste and class of people where kami damai are/ were considered as a lower caste of people . There was a family living right infront of our home who were kami , and helped most of the time on our harvesting activities were never touched and they were not allowed to enter inside our home. I, myself as a kid found it very disturbing. I remember once entering their home and my grandmother was furious on me. She washed me with gold-water(as a sign of purity regain) for like 3 times before I could enter inside my home and thuldidi(the helper) told everyone this kid is going to bring insanity to the family. As I was very fond of kites, I used to make my own kites with old news papers, bamboo sticks and as glue I used mashed rice and flew kite at the back of our home My mother hated it, I don’t know why.

Later that week we went to meet my mother’s older sister who lived in Hariwan. There I met Sailendra Daju for the first time. He is younger son from my Aunt and a very cool dude. As a welcome treatment he cut a chicken and we had a very tasty chicken meal. They had lycee trees at the back of their home with lots of lychees. Shailendra daju climbed up the trees and we brought back some lychees to Sagarnath later that day.

The days went by so quickly and it was time for us to return to Kathmandu. We planned returning through Bayalbas(A small town west of Sagarnath), It was hot as Sahara and my cunning uncle brought me Chanachatpat( An Indian snack ) where he added extra chillies to see my face. I took like a tablespoon, and I could no longer open my mouth . My mother was furious on him but o well he was the youngest kid in the family and was always excused. With no electricity around, there was no fridge and coca cola was like a tea. Theoretically I could have been taken to hospital . Our bus did not come that evening, so we had to return back to Sagarnath again. I was kind of happy because I already missed my grandparents as they did. As we came closer to home, my heart was joyous. I could see them both from far away, alone in corridor, I couldn’t stop myself from running to meet them again.