The only thing that changes in the ambiance of the desolate night is the last drop of wax that melts on Dipa’s cotton candy like soft skin. “ What was the scream about? Was that the last candle? Is babu home yet? Are you okay, Dipu? Where is your father? Why does nobody answer me?” mother had heard Dipa’s “ah!” through the bells that were ringing for Shiva and a cement wall that separated the shrine and Dipa’s room. Mother never parted from her mundane worries in her chants and meditations. “Dipu, I am almost done. Do you want to get your father to check if Babu is home yet?” Mother is eternally distracted from Shiva and Kaali. “Alright,” Dipa manages to utter in lethargy.
The molten wax has shoved Dipa from her trance to crude reality. Incessant humming of mosquitoes and their attacks on any exposed part of the body, the blackness of her jet ink hair melting in the silhouette, father’s routine and prolonged yawns, and periodic swats to smash the mosquitoes…nothing has changed on yet another night of her life. Dipa has just finished diligently storing water in all the buckets at the house. They let the water run in the taps for two hours tonight even though electricity has been cut off for the last five hours. Numb with thoughts that rebel against the curfew that is creepily crawling to haunt her, Dipa follows the echoes of her father’s yawning. Just like Dipa guesses, her father is lying on the mattress, with his undershirt rolled above his slightly protruding belly and his hands busy targeting mosquitoes in a random rhythm. Every now and then father hums some old songs oozing in morose and melodic beauty. He never could forget that he had wanted to become a famous singer someday.
“Bua (father)! Babu isn’t home yet,” almost always Dipa has to make the unpleasant announcements. The rhythm of the heartbeats of three souls synchronizes in fears that transcend to prayers. Mother leaps off the prayer mattress, father gathers himself to a warrior pose and Dipa sweeps to the window when the entrance door is violently shaken. “Dipa’s father! Do you want to get the flash light and see who’s there?” Mother grabs father’s shaking arms that fail to conceal tremors of terrors. “Don’t worry. Pashupatinath will watch over us,” father reassures mother and blinds the intruder who has leaped off the wall and has landed into the garage. “Save us, God! Save us! Thief! Maoist!” mother’s screeches in her shrill voice tell her that it was babu. “What happened? Are you okay, Bharatji?” Our neighbor Mrs. Neupane floods on father her imported emergency light. “Its me, Rajat! Everyone calm down! They just announced a curfew and a black out. I felt that someone was chasing after me so I ran, I am okay, mother!” the arrival of Rajat brings home calm like a storm every night.
“Down with king Gyane! Hail democracy!” Faint echoes build up to a ferocious uproar somewhere down the street. “Catch them! Fire! Whoever violates the curfew won’t see the dawn tomorrow!” Sirens punctuate the intermittent silence. Damp smell of blood from gunshots and mosquito bites mingle in the night air. “Let’s eat. I made lamb tonight just for Rajat babu. Come on change your clothes. Dipa’s father, did you lock all the doors?” Mother’s ramblings bring life to normality. The flesh of thousands of Nepalese lost in these nights of riots somehow still smells despite the spices mother used. It is impossible to have meat for dinner tonight.
The molten wax has shoved Dipa from her trance to crude reality. Incessant humming of mosquitoes and their attacks on any exposed part of the body, the blackness of her jet ink hair melting in the silhouette, father’s routine and prolonged yawns, and periodic swats to smash the mosquitoes…nothing has changed on yet another night of her life. Dipa has just finished diligently storing water in all the buckets at the house. They let the water run in the taps for two hours tonight even though electricity has been cut off for the last five hours. Numb with thoughts that rebel against the curfew that is creepily crawling to haunt her, Dipa follows the echoes of her father’s yawning. Just like Dipa guesses, her father is lying on the mattress, with his undershirt rolled above his slightly protruding belly and his hands busy targeting mosquitoes in a random rhythm. Every now and then father hums some old songs oozing in morose and melodic beauty. He never could forget that he had wanted to become a famous singer someday.
“Bua (father)! Babu isn’t home yet,” almost always Dipa has to make the unpleasant announcements. The rhythm of the heartbeats of three souls synchronizes in fears that transcend to prayers. Mother leaps off the prayer mattress, father gathers himself to a warrior pose and Dipa sweeps to the window when the entrance door is violently shaken. “Dipa’s father! Do you want to get the flash light and see who’s there?” Mother grabs father’s shaking arms that fail to conceal tremors of terrors. “Don’t worry. Pashupatinath will watch over us,” father reassures mother and blinds the intruder who has leaped off the wall and has landed into the garage. “Save us, God! Save us! Thief! Maoist!” mother’s screeches in her shrill voice tell her that it was babu. “What happened? Are you okay, Bharatji?” Our neighbor Mrs. Neupane floods on father her imported emergency light. “Its me, Rajat! Everyone calm down! They just announced a curfew and a black out. I felt that someone was chasing after me so I ran, I am okay, mother!” the arrival of Rajat brings home calm like a storm every night.
“Down with king Gyane! Hail democracy!” Faint echoes build up to a ferocious uproar somewhere down the street. “Catch them! Fire! Whoever violates the curfew won’t see the dawn tomorrow!” Sirens punctuate the intermittent silence. Damp smell of blood from gunshots and mosquito bites mingle in the night air. “Let’s eat. I made lamb tonight just for Rajat babu. Come on change your clothes. Dipa’s father, did you lock all the doors?” Mother’s ramblings bring life to normality. The flesh of thousands of Nepalese lost in these nights of riots somehow still smells despite the spices mother used. It is impossible to have meat for dinner tonight.
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