A Dogs Life

The dog sniffed around, thought she smelled something in the air. She poked her head out of the kennel, expectantly looking for something.  Her eyes showed grief as she let out a soft whimper. With desperation and helplessness, she crouched back in her little sanctuary. Her eyes were in the darkness but her nose was searching for hope in the air.

Her masters were inside the house, going about business as if nothing had happened. She could hear them with their television turned on -- the husband on the couch, watching his news and the wife on the phone, chatting with her friends. She didn’t sense the boy though. 

Till last week her children were there playing around, under her watchful eyes.  They’d roll, jump, bite and do things that cute, innocent puppies do.  They would try to climb over her and would tumble. She would pick them up with her mouth and set them upright. Again they would try and fall. Finally one would make it onto her back. The summit now conquered, the pups would lie down and sleep beside her – tired. The lone victor, alone at the top, would tumble onto the sleeping ones and try to get them to acknowledge his victory. The others would not pay attention and he would fall asleep too.

Even till yesterday she still had one last remaining child with her.  She was content with that.  It was good that her masters at least let her have the one pup. But today morning her last one had been taken somewhere, she didn’t know.  She had tried to stop them. She had shouted, wailed and begged.  But she didn’t think they understood.  Her protectiveness getting the better of her, she had bitten her master and he had hit her. The battle lost, her child gone forever.

As she slouched in her kennel, she heard a slight sobbing coming from the house. She looked about trying to see where it had come from. Why would her masters be sobbing? Did something happen in the house? Did a robber come and rob the house? Instinct and faith told her to run in and scare the robber away. But then again why should she? Her faith would have to wait till her motherly heart was healed.  As she put her head down, she saw the boy. Up by the window in his room was the boy --looking at her and slowly sobbing. Her best friend.

Second Life

Milan never went there. There was something about Lord Shiva that made him look for an alternative to the Pashupati Temple, the revered temple of Shiva. But today was an auspicious day and his wife wanted to pray at the temple. There was smoke in the air and he smelled burning flesh, heard the sound of cries, and saw a body consumed by the fire in the funeral pyre. His eyes were transfixed on the fire but his mind was not.

Something about death made him revolt against God. Why should God play with our feelings? Of all the people in the world, the least person would be our creator. God had been good to him. He had been a good person all his life. His parents had educated him well and he respected and admired that. All his life he had remained faithful to the hindu beliefs. He had never done something that someone could throw at his face. Maybe that was what he did wrong. His sin was that he hadn’t committed any sin all his life and so God punished him for it.

His wife was inside the Pashupatinath temple, praying to Lord Shiva. He was standing across the Bagmati River, which separated the Pashupati temple from the holy forest. Even though it had been so many years he couldn’t forget. There was always that empty spot in his heart that he had been filling up with atheistic revolt.

The burning flesh filled the air. A child had lit his father’s funeral pyre. He lay there with a strange look in his eyes. A look of confusion, of hope and eyes filled with tears. He went to his mother’s side and the two of them cried. Milan looked at both of them. He felt sorry for them -- the smell got to his senses. He looked at the burning wood and amongst them the burning corpse. He kept staring at it, unable to move as if he could see the man, that was, get up from the fire and walk to his family. But it was not to be and even if it had it been, he wouldn’t be accepted by the norms of the society. Milan had heard the story of a man in coma waking up at the pyre and not being accepted back at home, because he was already dead and his rites had already been performed.

He turned to look at the people in the temple, strained to see if he could spot his wife among the people in the line. He couldn’t. There were to many people there, too many monkeys and pigeons. He used to be like them, he remembered, standing in line with his son holding his hand. Him afraid – the monkeys would be too playful with his son; his son – looking at the pigeons with mischievous eyes. He remembered his little boy so vividly. It’d been so long yet those memories were hard to erase.

Tears welled up in his eyes as memories started to play wickedly with him. He let them run down his cheeks and felt their warmth. Embarrassed, he quickly wiped the tears with his sleeve and turned his face up towards the heavens. The blue sky changed into a lake with a greenish cold appearance. The lake was cold and remote, but like other devotees, his family had gone there for the annual festival that took place. After climbing a steep five hour climb they had finally come to Gosainkunda -- the holy lake. The lake that had quenched Lord Shivas’ thirst. It was a yearly pilgrimage that most Hindus took and this year he wanted to go there with his son. Lean ascetics, old grandparents, rich sinners, poor workers, young students, all merged at that holy lake on that day and prayed in the lake. They braved the icy temperatures, waded into the lake and prayed. “Faith”, Milan told his son, “is what makes a soldier follow his King, is what made us who we are now. If it were not for faith then many people here would have despaired at the least hardships of life. Faith and hope are the mightiest illusions that the Gods have created.” His son listened to him with great interest as would a lesser mortal to the sermon of the Buddha.

Then it happened. His son was playing with the water, perched on a rock, playing with the icy water and looking for fishes. His son leaned over too much. The rock was unstable and rolled over, taking his son with it. Immediately he ran, dove into the water – but there was too much offerings of petals and grains floating around. He couldn’t see with all these crap that the devotees had thrown in the water. He was cold but he didn’t feel it. The water burnt his eyes, but he kept his eyes open. He felt around with both his hands and feet, but still couldn’t find his son. Then something made him swim to his right, he clung on to his instincts and swam as hard as he could in the chilling water. He saw his son, trapped under the rock, caught between surprise and fear. With a burst of energy he surged on and tore at the rock. He pushed it but it was too heavy. He pulled but nothing. In despair he clawed at it till his nails were all broken but still the rock wouldn’t budge. Finally with a huge effort he pushed at the rock and this time the waters current helped him. The rock rolled over and freed his son. He swam up as fast as he could and brought his boy up. There were so many people surrounding them, all looking intently and shouting, but not much of any help. He didn’t notice it then but they had that look in their eyes of people who are barred from helping by an invisible barrier they themselves create.

His wife took his son from him.

Fortunately for them there was an emergency team there to help them. Their son was taken into a make-shift hospital. Milan and his wife waited outside, shivering, in each others arms. Time seemed to stretch over and over again. Finally the doctor came out with a grave face. There was no need for words. Tears rolled down their faces, his wife ran to their child. She cried, clutching her boy, she cried till she couldn’t any more. She shouted and called her baby to come back into the world. “Look I even have you favorite toy, you don’t want to miss this……” Milan just stared blankly, at his boy and his wife. One moment there he was playing happily and then the next moment gone, never to return. His mind was empty. He went to his wife and calmed her. She tore at him, blaming him and he bore it all with a heavy heart. She wrenched herself free and tried to wake her son, but he was gone.

    A shimmering piece of glass got his eyes. He was back across the temple watching for his wife praying to Lord Shiva at the Pashupati temple. He wiped his tears again.

It had always bothered him that his wife had blamed him for the accident. “Why didn’t you watch him?” He couldn’t reply back. Instead he blamed it all on God. Why take a young boys life when he’s there praying to you. “Don’t you like children, God?” He blamed it all on God, not just any God but Shiva. Shiva who is meant to be the destroyer amongst all the gods and also the most revered, then why does a revered God take so many lives?

Unlike other Hindus his son was to be buried as was the custom with their sect. He was buried in the cemetery in the forest across the Pashupati Temple. Milan had never been to his son’s grave after the burial. He was afraid that memories would come flooding back again, and he didn’t want to hurt again. His wife prayed at their sons grave regularly but he had never been there, always afraid.
He heard the mother’s cry near the funeral pyre. The body was still burning. Milan watched the child as he got up from his squatting position. The child looked straight into the burning funeral pyre as if something heavenly was calling on to him. He then turned his gaze to his mother and then like a learned man took his mothers hand and consoled her.

It was so amazing. Milan couldn’t help notice it, but the mothers crying had stopped. The mother had found someone to lean onto. Milan had never turned to his wife.

He sat on the bench there, thinking. His eyes closed but his mind wandering around. His wife came and told him, “I’m going to visit the my sons resting place. Please wait for a few more minutes.” He nodded without even opening his eyes.  His tormented heart had found a closure -- he changed his mind. He opened his eyes and turned towards his wife. She was already on her way to the cemetery, a young woman in a plain sari. She was still beautiful. He remembered their promise at their wedding - to be with each other for seven lifetimes. He hadn’t kept his promise. One life was over but another had started. This life didn’t have their son. He was no more in this life and even though it is difficult he must accept it. It was his duty to support her, but he had been too much of a coward to do so.

He ran and caught up with her. Their eyes met. No words. Their eyes welled up but yet no one said anything. They walked – slowly, hand in hand. Both recovering. Both finding their peace.

Ruckus

It’s late in the night and there’s shouting going on at your neighbors. You try to sleep because after all that is a problem of another family. Why should you interfere in others family problem when you have yours to deal with? Try as hard as you may you just can’t seem to shut out their shouts and screams. Cursing them you wake up and turn on your T.V. at full blast. Your action --instead of hinting at your neighbors to shut up, incites your other neighbors to wake up and in their anger turn their T.V., cassette players, radio, car horn to full blast.
Pretty soon the whole neighborhood is up in a ruckus. Above all this din, a police siren sounds – loud, and shrill. The people are all respectable people with respectable jobs to go to and doubtful connections with some doubtful people. So the police basically are screwed, they aren’t able to do anything. In the fiery atmosphere even the police get livened up and there’s a whole orchestra in the neighborhood dominated by an orderly cacophonous police siren. The dogs look up – a questionable look in their faces- turn to another direction where a peaceful neighborhood sleeps; run to that neighborhood and start barking their lungs out.

A foreigner in my own country

It’s not that I stand out in the crowd, but maybe I do. Though I hail from a Kiranti** background I don’t know my mother tongue. Having been lived in Kathmandu ever since being born, I realize I’ve lost some of my heritage and pride when I can’t speak my mother tongue. No wonder I find myself feeling out of place in the alleys of the traditional cities of Kathmandu, Patan* and Bhaktapur*. Although I may appear to be gazing with awe at the beautiful handicrafts I stand there straining to understand a dialect I should have learnt by now.

But this is of no such amazement to many of us, who probably too feel the same way, but it certainly is a surprise when a street –vendor calls out to you and tries to sell you – say probably a khukuri or any souvenir item. You then watch the color fade from his face when you tell him- ‘Dai, yo ta mahango bhayena ra’ ( brother, isn’t this a bit expensive). When his color does return, a cheerful apology from him. Such experiences aren’t rare but are of novelty. I’ve had such experiences, specially in Bhaktapur* and Godavari*, when people mistook me to be of the orient. It didn’t surprise me though when in Bhaktapur* the person in charge asked for a tourist fee from a queer looking fellow in shorts, whom he thought to be a Japanese. It was odd to be caught like this and I was a bit at a loss for words. The truth was that I was annoyed at the man. But I managed to see the lighter side of this a bit later when I was walking around with my friend. And the really humorous side dawned upon me when my friend told the story at his house and a hysterical laughter ensued from all present.

Next time I was in Godavari*, with my sister, trying to capture some photographs of the scenic beauty. It wasn’t odd when a farmer stopped his work and offered me some rice-beer, because Nepalese are known to be friendly. But I think it certainly surprised him when I spoke in Nepali and told him I was one like him. I couldn’t blame him for the picture of an orient looking person with an expensive camera slung over his shoulder and taking pictures of the mountains does seem like the typical tourist.

Wandering around the Basantapur* area I have seen lots of salesmen try to sell their goods to the tourists with some success. I would find it irritating if someone were always on my back trying to see whatever I was doing. And I thought that this must be irritating for the tourists because they have to dodge such salesmen everywhere. I wished that the people would leave the tourists alone to do their bit of touring by themselves. And I definitely didn’t think these were that amusing until one day I was stopped in Jamal. I was going to my friends house. I had just stepped down from the over-head bridge when this person came and tried to sell me his goods. It was funny I think with his broken English, trying his best to convince me to buy his goods. ‘Lo and behold was he surprised when I tried to haggle with him about the price. I named such an outrageously low price that he somehow managed to slip inconspicuously amongst the crowds and find another potential buyer.

It’s all too confusing to look at these incidents and think that I shall grow up and live as a foreigner in my own country. These instances would have helped the foreign ministry a great deal but I am not the ministry. I’m just the average teenager going about my business occasionally being amused by such incidents. But they don’t harm me in any way. In fact they just help me to remember to look at life from a comical angle. I do hope such instances occur from time to time because it helps me stay in perspective with the funny side of life.

* are traditional cities of Nepal

** an ethnic group of Mongolian origin

Chocolate

It was lunch break and all the kids were playing. He sat on the bench, alone. She was sitting on the other end -- eating a chocolate. He turned to look at her, then at what she was eating. He realized he was hungry but didn't say anything. She understood. She slid over and offered him the chocolate. They shared a sweet delight.

One sundae with a huge serving of chocolate ice-cream and two people sharing it. They'd known each other for a long time now, but now had been the only time he had asked her out. They both felt it but neither wanted to ruin anything. This was their first date and it was worth it.

She tasted a bit of the chocolate truffle. She liked it. He looked at her. She had some chocolate on her lips. He got close and kissed her. He loved chocolate, but he loved her lips even more. It was their honeymoon, they'd just got married.

Everyone was full, they just had a huge Christmas meal. But none of them could say no to their mothers chocolate cake. She cut it and gave it her children, who devoured it and then they savoured it.

The kids were leaving home. They had graduated and were moving to different places. She watched them pack. She hoped they would not notice the chocolate she had put in their suitcases.

It was Halloween and the grand-kids were outside. With a lot of energy and excitement they burst into the house. They brought home a lot of candy, but they gave the best chocolate to their grandparents.

He clasped her hand. She was on the bed and he kept looking at her. He couldn't take his eyes off her. He didn't want to miss even a few moments. How could he? She was dying. Her hands felt his and within it a piece of chocolate. She felt comfort. She closed her eyes and breathed her last.

S.J.

I listened to him talk about me and my brother. He remembered our names even after twelve years. The amazing thing was that he recounted our problems and reassurance he had given my mother. Munching on a samosa Fr. recounted his days at the old school and how he loved teaching all those students.

On our visits to the cobblers hut in the school, we sometimes noticed his huge black shoes. They seemed huge at that time -- well he seemed a giant to us, kids. He still is a giant of man. Having lived in the country ever since the 60's, he has witnessed more changes in my country than I could imagine. His students have gone to establish themselves as leaders of the country in different professions. And in this context I would have loved to have had him as a teacher in his younger days. Then I could now walk on his side, dwarfed by his legacy.

I admired his acquired taste of all Nepali foods, specially the preference for momos from a particular restaurant in the Jawalakhel area. But he still had roots in America and as I watched he washed down the samosa with a cold beer.

My Grandmother

We used to be with her everyday, my brothers, my little sister and me. Everyday was filled with so much fun. Each morning would begin with us waking up and going to the kitchen where a warm cup of milk awaited us. Our grandmother would be there, amidst the kitchen smoke. It was the times when we still relied on firewood to cook our food. The milk tasted smoky and sweet. That smokiness was the real taste in the early morning milk. Then we gazed at the fire a blank expression on our faces, doing nothing, just staring into the fire. It was interesting to examine the fire with its iridescent colors dominated by the reddish hue and the greenish tinges. More capturing was to see it burn so intensely, partly because we weren't allowed to play with fire and partly because it was amazing that a small fire could grow so huge and eventually cook our food. But for grandma it was a regular routine she had been following ever since she could remember. She'd already spent sixty summers on earth and she was still so slim and so energetic. She always had energy to chase us around the house all day and still chat with her friends in the evenings.

Our dog barked an expectant friendly bark from outside. That was our ticket to playtime. Her name was Lucy. She was an alsation and a good one. Right now she knew we were awake and was waiting for us to come out and play. We got up and ran outside, the milk still warm in our cups. Grandma warned us to be careful with the milk and with that sweet childish innocence we smiled at her and ran out, spilling half the milk on the way out. We shared our milk with Lucy, our guard and play mate. We five were the unbeatable. I don't remember what we played but every second of it was filled with fun.

Time passed quickly and ma reminded us of that when she called us to have lunch. She had made each of us round straw mats from maize straw and during lunch each of us would take one mat from the neat pile in the corner and sit on it. Then starting from my little sister she served each of us the much loved dal bhat tarkari, a very generous helping of gaun ko gheeu and a chilli for my daring brothers. Me and my sister could never quite figure out why they wanted to have chilli when they clearly knew that after taking one bite they would be sticking out their tongues panting for cool air. We finished the food with great gusto and it always pleased her to see us eating so heartily. But we weren't that good helping at cleaning the dishes. After having lunch she would do the dishes and all the while we would watch her and give her company.

It would be near noon by now and we would go to outside and, if it was winter, just sit in the sun. My grandma liked to read a lot of stories and after lunch she would come out with a copy of manohar kahania in one hand and a chimta (forceps) on the other. We would have already brought a small bamboo stool and she would to sit on the ground on her own circular straw mat in front of the stool. Meanwhile one of us would sit on the stool and with the chimta. We would play with her hair and pluck out her white hairs with the chimta. For every white hair we picked out she would give us ek suka. By the end of an hour she would be feeling sleepy and we would have earned ourselves a nice sum of money for us children. Then we would eagerly wait for the madhise to come about selling those wonderful cotton candy. With the ring of his bell our activities would cease and we would run onto the nearest and shortest wall and shout for him. Coming back we would have a nice big sweet smile across our faces and share our candy with her.

In the evenings she used to go off to her friends places. We knew that she visited our relatives nearby but we hadn't act actually seen them. We just knew their names and whenever conversation about them cropped out we listened with a mixed feeling of interest and i-know-him/her-but-who-is-he/she..

Bedtime was always fun for us, kids. After all the family members had had dinner she would come to the bedroom. We slept on the floor and every night we took the mattress off the bed and spread them on the floor, all the time playing and wrestling on it. At last the bed was ready and we would wait to hear a story from her. Me and my sister always slept in the middle with her being nearer to grandma. My brother would turn out the lights and grandma would begin her story. Her stories were wonderful fantasy stories, some from memories of her own childhood days and others she had read in a book, some made up stories and some true ghost stories that happened while she was still a child in Darjeeling, some stories of her parents/grandparents adventures and some interesting anecdotes about her life. Sometimes the stories would be very interesting but she would be tired and she would start to sleep in the middle of the story. Eagerly we would keep her awake and listen till she shortened the story or till the story ended.

One night after watching a horror serial, while we were lying in the bed, listening to her stories she stopped in the middle of the story and asked me if I would be afraid of coming near her body after she had died. I thought it was a sort of joke. We'd just watched a horror serial and we were literally jumpy and her asking such a question made my spine tingle a little. But I couldn't picture her leaving us. I replied to her that she would not die, at least not while we still had a long way to go. She had smiled, and I felt she had sensed my fear.
Later on I was put to the test. She was sick, none of us thought it was such an important sign. But her dreams of seeing her ancestral grave must have worried my grandfather. It was a Saturday she left us. It was supposed to be a jovial day, we'd gone to visit our uncle, but when we returned home a phone call gave us the grave news that she had passed away while on the way to the hospital.

She had been right when she had sensed my fear for I was afraid of her when I saw her lifeless. Why did I fear someone whom I'd loved so much? Maybe a child inside me cried that day. But it was a surprise that I didn't shed any tears. I wanted to shed them but I couldn't bring myself to grief. Maybe she'd watched over all of us, her grandchildren, even when she passed away because a day later we were just as playful as ever. That probably made her happy to see that once again we would be happy again, that finally her worries, and pains were over and that she could now lean onto someone more powerful then her.

Thank you, if you can hear me.

The Wrong House

I was and still am a thief, but that experience has made me wonder a lot.
My new friend had driven me there. He had said he had seen a nice house out in the country that seemed to be abandoned but which was loaded with lots of goods. I thought it would be an easy task and without further inquiring we made a plan to break into that house. It was dark but somehow I had that uncanny feeling that I had already been to that place before. It felt as if everything was calling out to me like an old friend.

The place was unusually quiet, no dogs barking whatsoever. Only the noise of the cricket and the leaves rustling in the wind. It was weird. We went in through the kitchen window. We didn't take anything from the kitchen though. The drawing room seemed to contain all the fortunes of the house. We took everything expensive we could lay our hands on, from the TV to the priceless antiques. I like to read a lot so I took the liberty of even stealing the books in the room. We literally raided the drawing room. The other rooms didn't contain many things though. So after about an hour of stealing we came out of the house and drove to my friend's apartment.

I wasn't feeling well and was a bit tired so I told my new accomplice to split the loot while I took some rest. I drank some beer he'd brought and fell on the couch. I slept well that time. I slept like I had never slept before. When I woke up the room was empty except for my share of the loot. I asked the receptionist and she informed me that he had left a message for me. It went something like this-"I have left the city. Forgive me if I have embarrassed you." Making plans to spend the money I took a novel and started to read. The story was familiar. I checked the title and found that I had already read it. Well I took another novel and found that I had already read that one too. I took another and found the same result. I turned over the first page to see who had bought it.

Oh my god! I nearly jumped out of the couch that time. I was totally dumbfounded.

The book was mine. I checked out the other loots too. The antiques looked familiar so did the paintings and so did the jewelry. In fact everything looked familiar. Then I realized what else had seemed familiar and why. The country had seemed familiar and so had the house that we had broken into. The kitchen had smelled familiar and the drawing room had appeared so inviting.

Damn! I had broken into my own summerhouse and I hadn't realized it. The nerd had made a fool out of me. He had made me burgle my own house.

Inquisitive learning - (The Rising Nepal)

Every year it is the same thing. The teachers do their jobs, teach, and the students do theirs, learn. Every final exam the students study and give their exams and some, unluckily, sediment of the same class while others float to the next standard. Are those left behind really dumb or is it just that they can't seem to memorize like others? Is it that they don't know much or is it because they can't seem to hold on to information for long?

Ask me and I'd say that neither are they dumb nor are they unintelligent. I'd say the teaching system is too narrow-minded. Ask me what is wrong and I'd say a whole lot, but for starters I'd stick with the teaching part.

As a student I go to my campus, sit through lectures, sometimes understanding and at other times copying without knowing what is being talked about. I hope to read the note later and clarify, but I end up putting the note in my bag. So there it stays until the next lecture where more gibberish (to me) information is added. Finally the exams come and I look at all the gibberish in my copy. My search for intelligible notes leads me into such a frenzy that in the end I sit at my table cursing myself, cursing my copy, cursing the lecture, cursing the lecturer and cursing everyone and everything that enters my volatile mind. This would probably be my fault but I know I've done better. I've given my exams and passed with flying colors because I studied. I passed not because I understood and memorized, but because I memorized and understood.

This leads one to think of the dilemma that, memorizing then understanding, and understanding then memorizing, offers. All of us should have understood and then memorized but it's the opposite for most of us. Not enough practical experience renders the theory incomprehensible to us. I'd say the teachers, instead of sprinting to finish the course in the limited teaching days (thanks to so many public holidays), should take a jog. Build up the speed in the slow slopes and look around to enjoy the scenery in the up-hills. What I mean to say is just that some topics are easy while some are hard. Take a sprint in the easy section, cover up for the lost time. As for the hard section, go slow. Let the students do some research of their own so that they grasp the topic more firmly. Let them understand and enjoy what a scientist had so carefully discovered or invented. Giving a student extra information is the basis for letting his inquisitive mind search for answers. 'Do not give a hungry man a fish, instead teach him to fish' say wise men, and I say 'mould not the students mind as you want it but help him mould it the way he wants it, by himself.'

But ironically all of us, be it children or educated philosophers all have been through this. We've experienced this and even though we've hated it we carried on with doing our duty. Dutifully we've done our part and the teachers have done theirs. We have not had the time to raise our voices because in the future we will probably become a part of the system. Some of us will probably be the teachers we so disliked and, without realising it, we will be a part of the system. A system that treats us like zombies, gives us a few facts to digest hoping that some of us will probably snap out of the zombie phase and give a hand in maintaining the system.

But this is not something that is incurable. Every epidemic has a cure. The only thing it needs is time and understanding to cure. Let us no be what the system has planned for us. We have a cure and we must use it to rid our society of this hinderance. In this wild sprint to the finish the course in the allotted limited time do not spoon-feed the student all the answers but give him your guidance, support, help, and in time see for yourself the fruits of your labour being served to you in a silver platter by a truly educated person.

In Phase with fm -- (The Friday Suppliment)

'Video killed the radio star…' that's one song I've not heard in a long time. But now the phrase does not sound quite right.

It wasn't long ago that most evenings I turned the TV off and listened to the radio. That was the beginning of the fm craze that still lurks wild amidst the younger ones of our society. It started with just a few programmes on air and now we marvel at what that tiny experimentation has blossomed into. Concentrating at the populous capital it probably has more faithful listeners than it could have imagined of and this number is not at the least on the decrease.

What probably enabled it to be a success was that it was new, innovative and on-track with the young at heart. The latter one probably being the most significant one. FM entwined these young people into a sort of free society much like MTV had done in the eighties. It was a platform where new music was played, where they could voice themselves from the crowd, where the people behind the microphone understood their desire for music and gave it to them. Kathmanduities tired of the mundane programmes of the state run radio service had a new source of music. Hit's fm was quite right in saying -'Hits you where it matters' and it hasn't changed a bit. Fitting in for fm wasn't a big deal either because almost everybody likes change. Besides, the society already had a niche in their hearts for such welcome changes and took in the new fad with open arms.

Here the use the word fad isn't that inappropriate because there were times, when fm was still in its infancy, that some of my friends took pride in their listening to fm. Much like the pride in wearing a new set of designer clothes, better if french designed. A mixed feeling of peer pressure and inquisitiveness present in all youngsters also proved a winning hand in favour of fm. But some who thought it just only as a fashion accessory probably didn't realise that this one was a fad that had come to stay. Their short-sightedness has already been proved wrong by the array of numerous programmes being aired everyday at different frequencies. These probably seem to laugh right at their faces and those good humoured short-sighters have come in terms to laugh along at their own follies.
The single frequency that pioneered this whole fm entertainment biz was to bring about a series of other fm stations popping out with their own frequencies and their own distinctive class of music and RJ's. Among them the oldest being Hit's fm, which still has maintained it's distinctiveness, and not to forget the more informative HBC, which not only plays global music but gives a whole deal of extra information. Could it get better?

But fm's reach lay not just in captivating its listeners to open their ears but it also ignited an even greater passion for creating music. The musically inclined who had lain dormant stirred awake and now the nepalese music industry is bubbling with new bands, new sounds, new faces and new music ever on the increase. Great music and numerous bands, and an even larger number of garage bands just waiting to contribute something to the nepalese music industry.

Then there are other contemporary media, which surfaced at about the same time, like cable T.V. and of course not to forget the ever increasing internet. The internet has also captured the minds and hearts of numerous nepalese here and abroad. Even though it is comprehensible to surf the net while listening to fm it's a better solution to make fm global without the need to set up new radio towers. And what better notion than this to make fm available via the net. Such has been done too. Now for those of us who miss our home and friends can give our messages and not feel so left out of home with just a click of the lil' mouse.

Now with more fm stations to choose from its no wonder that I find myself turning the dial to another frequency whenever the programme starts to sound boring. But fm has really got me in its grip because I can't seem to concentrate on my studies with fm playing in the background. Daily studies would have been an exception but listening during exam was going a bit off-track. I meant to stop this fancy but it seems like something is missing when I turn the radio off. So now the fm plays on even while I study. And this piece of write-up is no exception for in the background the radio is now playing the song I've been meaning to hear for quite a while - 'video killed the radio star………'

Where Do I Belong? (The SundayPost)

"Down there is the famous Dharahara,…. straight ahead lies the Rani Pokhari ………and a bit on your right is the Ghantaghar….." says our guide and I eagerly look down. I see green everywhere, like a sea covered with green algae, and amongst them I see three squarish looking barren land with a few traces of what seems as rock and rubble. The guide on our cruise-plane sees the disappointment in most of our faces and begins to explain. I don't pay much attention to him. I'm already in my own world of my thoughts. I catch a few of his phrases here and there, understanding only that in the past few decades Nepal has undergone a massive change and metamorphosized into a sanctuary. The rest of what I hear seems gibberish.

In my thoughts, I'm with my parents in the old Nepal somewhere in the mid 2000. We leave for America in an attempt to re-establish ourselves and make a different identity for ourselves. But this was just a misty excuse. Once in the US the sun shone and the mist vanished. We were more bent on keeping our identity than making a new one. Faced with the hardships of everyday life, we cursed the day we left our home back in Nepal. However, we managed and had a life much like in Nepal in our Nepalese community. But what we did is of no major concern. What happened to Nepal from 2010-20 was our concern even in our small Nepalese community in the States. So many people started going abroad that the population of the country was at its lowest. Most had gone to the neighbouring Asian countries but nevertheless they had abandoned their motherland. In addition to that, most of these did not return. Instead they got a citizenship of that country. Nepal's foreign aid was also climbing up. So what happened ??? I've asked myself this question a thousand times but still I've never quite got the answer. I admit…..(sprattle..chug…..). "ugh…!", I say in disgust. The guide tells us - a bit embarrassed - " hee…hee…hee…corruption. Never quite goes away does it!" ( damn it! Why can't the government be more careful with only a few thousand people to look after. Let's continue.) I admit that Nepal was huge on debt and high on foreign aids but that doesn't mean that the powerful could do such a thing to our country and our pride. What they did was a huge backlash to our pride. The countries got together, took advantage of the political instability, and named Nepal as the worlds only and biggest - 'International Wildlife Park '. The words 'only' and 'biggest' were supposed to be a sort of consolation or a form of international pride. But, what pride is there when it makes you feel like you sold out your own country. They made a mockery of us and we were supposed to join in the fun. The surprising thing is that we did! There was a mutual and written agreement from both parties as the Government of Nepal and the Representative for the International Countries exchanged contracts and had a grand party to rejoice such an occasion. But rejoice they did, my foot! they rejoiced the end of our country and the dawn of their own country, a country they could manipulate and use.

" Coming up you will see the beautiful Phewa lake and if you look carefully you can see……." His voice trails off as I continue my conversation with my thoughts. Then what happened? I think. Then what else was to happen. The government gave the rest of the people, except for the few thousand, a new citizenship and sent them off to foreign land to start a new life. Most of the other countries agreed to grant citizenship to the Nepalese already present. And a few others had to be convinced with a bit of the earning that came from the tourists that visited the 'International Wildlife Park'. I don't think I'd ever seen such an unanimous agreement by powerful countries.

My thoughts take me to another aspect of the matter as I watch some of the kids in the cruise-plane eagerly looking out of the window and asking questions to their parents. What am I supposed to tell my children when they ask about their true homeland. Will I be telling them that I grew up in what is now a jungle. That - where now the animals sleep I used to sleep and where animals now play was where I used to pray. And what about their ancestry? Do I tell them that there is pride in once belonging to a country which is now an international sanctuary. Whatever I tell them I guess I'll be back to square one - no Nepal, so where do I belong?

Stereotypical Business

Laziness has its own virtues. After being a couch potato for most of a his life, Ladduram, definitely found himself in a fix when he realized that there are people who rely on him. Fuelled by the basic necessities of himself and his family he found that lazing around with a spare tyre round his waist wouldn't do him any good. His wife's nagging finally put him on his feet and for the first time in his life he found himself trying to stand on his own two feet.

The most debated topic in school used to be - ' Women and education'. Each year the same topic would appear in the exams - but with different names like - write an essay, prepare a debate for or against, etc…. He had most definitely sided with all his peers in saying that women needed education. Without understanding what he was saying he had memorized the essay itself. Had it been debates he would have been able to rattle off - women and men are created equal, they are the two wheels of the same vehicle, what if something happens to the husband, they must be able to stand on their own feet,… and what not. No wonder the impartial examiner naturally bestowed high marks upon him and lo and behold! Ladduram had passed SLC with flying colors.

But the iron gate isn't everything. After the iron gate comes a silver gate, a golden gate, and lots of other gates. It won't do anyone any good just to sit around waiting for the keys to be brought to him. But alas Laddu had spent his time after SLC waiting for the keys to drop on his lap. Sitting on his sofa, watching cable TV, living on his fathers bread had not just made him a great ball of fat but also given him stretch marks. Each day he sat there watching TV, hearing health hazards of being a couch potato. But like all of us the useful things went through one ear and passed out either through the other ear or through his mouth, giving advice where not required. His fattiness was not just a mixture of food and slouching around but also contained the junk that the TV gave him. Doubtful it was that one day the radiation would turn him into a super fat guy.
So now Laddu found himself without education and after his fathers death without a money plant, and if he didn't get up and earn some money he would pretty soon find himself without a wife too. And if he didn't start working soon enough he'd have to start paying alimony with the little money he had.

He had a roof above his head and with that he began to think. 'Well,', he thought,' I've got a house, and clothes. That's two necessities I needn't be wary of. The only thing I need to worry about is food.' Obviously Laddu wasn't a farmer, after all who in the city has a vegetable garden big enough to feed one through the entire year. Of course there's the family business. But Laddu wasn't the type to go into the stereotypical son-follow-fathers-business. He wasn't ready to put out a sign that read 'Laddu & Sons'. So now he put his thinking cap on.
He thought and thought. Then finally - Eureka!
He'd found the solution. He would add a couple of storey to his house and give the rooms for rent. To him it was a grand idea. It didn't matter to him that his house had drinking water problem, or that the weight of another storey would weaken his houses old structure. No….. for all Laddu cared the house would rake in lots of money. Even at the cheapest price his small rooms would fetch quite some money. He dreamt on.

So now that Laddu has found a nice source of income, Laddu is still a couch potato, watches cable all day. It's been ages since he last took a bath but what to do - no water. The tenants and their children scream all day and night, but he is deafened by the money. For all he can see is the money raking in and the TV staring at him. His wife is still nagging him. His children are becoming more like him. He has two spare tyres around his waist and probably would be a good sample of the - made in Nepal tyres. The only addition is a spectacle upon his nose.
In fact he himself has become quite a spectacle, because from where I stand he looks just like cousin of the four legged P.I.G.