The stretch of land to my left seemed to embrace all the stars that had lost their luster and fallen onto the disheveled hair of a brunette. The highway was shying away from the landfill like a guilty unfaithful lover. “Does this bus go to the old bus park?” I asked. “Yes, sister! Hop in! Kirtipur! Kirtipur! Anyone getting off at Kirtipur?” A young boy of probably thirteen spouted everything in a breath. His childhood seemed to have slipped away in a hurry, just like the seams of his knee length trousers.
“Let’s go, guruji!” the young conductor banged on the walls of the bus, “Brothers and sisters! Please head to the centre and make room for others. Hurry up! Hurry! Five Rupees! Five Rupees!” The boy surely knew how to maintain order. He swayed from the door of bus, taking priding in his agility and balance. His last search for anyone ready to board on the bus ceased, and the wheels rolled off to a bumpy ride.
It was a Saturday. The bus was not quite as crowded as the laundry hamper of a college student home for the weekend. My hands lost the grip of the overhead aluminum bars. I was thrown forward to lean against one pervert or the other quite a few times.
“Hey! There’s an empty seat over here.” Another young voice, probably directed for somebody else, penetrated the humdrum. I turned around anyways. The vacant seat was right next to where I was standing like dislocated seaweed in a storm. The gentleman was indeed talking to me. I thanked the gentleman upon taking the seat. He smiled showing off his blinding golden molars.
A middle-aged gentleman sitting next to me was dozing off every five minutes. He would wake up just as his head was about to bang on the window. What remained of the view past my fellow passenger’s profile showed me my Kathmandu. All the vehicles of the country had poured down to the narrow streets of the capital. The city buildings resembled smashed beehives with scores of people swarming in and out and around.
The bus had stopped again. “Kantipur! Kantipur! Maoists refuse to come to peace talks! Twenty-five soldiers forget to breathe in the combat in Ghorahi! All political parties declare a peace rally and a strike for two days! Only Four Rupees! Fresh news! Best news! Kantipur!” This time the voice towering over the crowd was that of the newspaper boy. Some passengers and the driver bought the newspaper from him. I prayed that the driver would not read the newspaper and just take off. My prayers were answered.
The newspaper boy got off the bus awaiting another load of buyers. There were yet more street vendors seeking consumers for corn roasted on coal, strawberries, oranges, roasted peanuts, guavas and more. At every focal point of commotion, a squad of armed soldiers could be seen. Were the rifles pointed at me? A shadow lay heavy on my soul. My eyes brushed past the temples, the stadium, big and small houses, the swerves and curves with bittersweet emotions.
“Five Rupees, sister!” The young conductor demanded. “Do you know who you are talking to, little one?”
It was the voice of a piece of cloth being mercilessly torn, or was it that of a woman? Approximately fifty heads turned towards this new development of our saga. She sat proud with hair like hay stacks in a tornado, bronze skin like land in a drought, teeth coated in turmeric, chapped yet smiling lips and cascade like eyes chasing the beholder. Her flannel shawl, the deepest shade of blue, could conceal her skeletal figure. Her hands, the hues of the bark of a winter tree, were ceaselessly dancing in the air. “I am the future prime minister of Nepal, don’t you know? The first female one. I am the future president of the Woman Leadership Organization. It is I, what Nepal needs for the solution of all her problems. It is I.” Even the driver missed the turn upon overhearing this declaration.
“Well that is just great but you must still pay, ma’am,” the boy was not going to give up.
“No, no, no. Listen to me! I failed the fifth grade. I have made my living without working a single day and without a man by my side. Moreover, you are asking me to pay for the bus ride. Where is your respect for older women, huh?”
“Well, if you will shut up I won’t make you pay alright. Save me!”
To my disappointment, the young boy succumbed to the lady’s ploy much too easily.
“Now that’s my boy. I only have five Rupees on me. Am I to drink some hot tea in the cold morning or pay for the silly bus ride, huh?” Our lady lowered her voice and started humming some folk song in her bee voice: The bride might ask where her groom is. Shatter your glass bangles, tell her so!” We were all drowning, drowning.
“Let’s go, guruji!” the young conductor banged on the walls of the bus, “Brothers and sisters! Please head to the centre and make room for others. Hurry up! Hurry! Five Rupees! Five Rupees!” The boy surely knew how to maintain order. He swayed from the door of bus, taking priding in his agility and balance. His last search for anyone ready to board on the bus ceased, and the wheels rolled off to a bumpy ride.
It was a Saturday. The bus was not quite as crowded as the laundry hamper of a college student home for the weekend. My hands lost the grip of the overhead aluminum bars. I was thrown forward to lean against one pervert or the other quite a few times.
“Hey! There’s an empty seat over here.” Another young voice, probably directed for somebody else, penetrated the humdrum. I turned around anyways. The vacant seat was right next to where I was standing like dislocated seaweed in a storm. The gentleman was indeed talking to me. I thanked the gentleman upon taking the seat. He smiled showing off his blinding golden molars.
A middle-aged gentleman sitting next to me was dozing off every five minutes. He would wake up just as his head was about to bang on the window. What remained of the view past my fellow passenger’s profile showed me my Kathmandu. All the vehicles of the country had poured down to the narrow streets of the capital. The city buildings resembled smashed beehives with scores of people swarming in and out and around.
The bus had stopped again. “Kantipur! Kantipur! Maoists refuse to come to peace talks! Twenty-five soldiers forget to breathe in the combat in Ghorahi! All political parties declare a peace rally and a strike for two days! Only Four Rupees! Fresh news! Best news! Kantipur!” This time the voice towering over the crowd was that of the newspaper boy. Some passengers and the driver bought the newspaper from him. I prayed that the driver would not read the newspaper and just take off. My prayers were answered.
The newspaper boy got off the bus awaiting another load of buyers. There were yet more street vendors seeking consumers for corn roasted on coal, strawberries, oranges, roasted peanuts, guavas and more. At every focal point of commotion, a squad of armed soldiers could be seen. Were the rifles pointed at me? A shadow lay heavy on my soul. My eyes brushed past the temples, the stadium, big and small houses, the swerves and curves with bittersweet emotions.
“Five Rupees, sister!” The young conductor demanded. “Do you know who you are talking to, little one?”
It was the voice of a piece of cloth being mercilessly torn, or was it that of a woman? Approximately fifty heads turned towards this new development of our saga. She sat proud with hair like hay stacks in a tornado, bronze skin like land in a drought, teeth coated in turmeric, chapped yet smiling lips and cascade like eyes chasing the beholder. Her flannel shawl, the deepest shade of blue, could conceal her skeletal figure. Her hands, the hues of the bark of a winter tree, were ceaselessly dancing in the air. “I am the future prime minister of Nepal, don’t you know? The first female one. I am the future president of the Woman Leadership Organization. It is I, what Nepal needs for the solution of all her problems. It is I.” Even the driver missed the turn upon overhearing this declaration.
“Well that is just great but you must still pay, ma’am,” the boy was not going to give up.
“No, no, no. Listen to me! I failed the fifth grade. I have made my living without working a single day and without a man by my side. Moreover, you are asking me to pay for the bus ride. Where is your respect for older women, huh?”
“Well, if you will shut up I won’t make you pay alright. Save me!”
To my disappointment, the young boy succumbed to the lady’s ploy much too easily.
“Now that’s my boy. I only have five Rupees on me. Am I to drink some hot tea in the cold morning or pay for the silly bus ride, huh?” Our lady lowered her voice and started humming some folk song in her bee voice: The bride might ask where her groom is. Shatter your glass bangles, tell her so!” We were all drowning, drowning.
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