~Soham Dhakal~
Something caught my eye. I was walking around Kathmandu aimlessly; something was written on the pillars near the New Road gate. It read ” Bahudal Murdabhad, Daka sansad Murdhabad”. Although such slogans are not new, and neither is the graffiti on the walls, something made me pause and stare at it. These pillars preceded my memory. They still retained their original green color, and were probably painted from time to time, whenever there was an important enough event,
like a visit from a foreign head-of-state or a festival. There were flagpoles protruding from the top of the pillars, at an angle, which would be adorned with flags then, and everyone who walked on the pavement beneath, would know for a fact that something important was going on. Since I had been away for a while I did not remember the last time I had seen these poles being utilized to their full potential.
The letters were barely legible since the whole slogan was divided into two pillars. The ink was faint, maybe the weather had stripped some of the coloring, maybe the person writing it was running out of ink or maybe he was in a hurry. The handwriting was horrible. I have seen slogans written during election years where the writing is purely artistic, and just that. Surely if this person had been caught he would have been labeled a Maoist and punished. Was it out of desperation or was it an orchestrated move? After all, the slogan denounced the multiparty system, the very base of democracy according to the intellectuals, and it also did the same to the parliamentarians, who were the leaders of such a perfect system.
I cannot busy myself with one simple slogan written on the wall, after all it was graffiti and it was making this beautiful city look ugly. Like the other pedestrians, this had little impact on me. Many were probably staring at it indifferently, and many would not even notice it. I moved on, narrowly escaping a close encounter with a fat Pajero 4wd trying to squeeze into the side street. The passenger on the front seat, with a clean Nepali hat on his head, just looked out unconcernedly. A Sansad, I presumed.
I kept walking, negotiating my way within the crowd and the street vendors, all crammed between the iron railings and the expensive shops. The streets were unusually crowded, Dashain being only a few days away. From inside the shops the Sahu ji’s and their assistants would look outwards indifferently, unless a tourist or a pretty girl walked by and their gaze would follow them, like spectators following the ball at a Ping-Pong game. In turn some of the passerby would look inside at the exquisitely displayed merchandise, they might even pause for a few seconds, but then move on. Then there would be the young Kathmandu-ites, who would go from shop to shop with plastic bags which have the brand/store name printed vividly, trying harder everyday to be mimic images and figures seen through their cable TV’s.
“70 rupees, 70 rupees”, I heard distinctively, a voice that rose above the constantly blowing horns and the humming of the crowd. I stopped, lifted my heel, and looked around to locate the source. I saw her, with what looked like pants waving from her hand, yelling to all the people that were passing by, not really caring whether they listened, but just shouting out the price repeatedly. I made my way towards her, underneath the “Pipal” tree. There were a few potential customers inspecting the merchandise. Some were even kneeling to get a better look and to possibly dig out “the one” from the pile of corduroy pants on top of the blue tarp. I also instinctively started browsing the selection in front of me. I knew I would not buy one for me. I was too happy in the pair of pants I had bought on sale at Old Navy for 15 dollars just a while back in US, and the one my relatives were eager to remind me by asking whether I only brought one pair of pants from Amerika. “They are good quality, from China” I heard her say. I looked up. She was talking to me.
I really could not guess her age; her eyes were a lot younger than her face; like the rest of her aged rapidly than her eyes. Her face was symmetrical, and her hair was combed diligently with a parting on the middle, stretching from the center of her scalp to her forehead. And the Sindhur that covered the parting was glowing bright in the afternoon Sun. She was wearing a short-sleeved gown that covered her from her chest to her ankles and inside which was a Cholo, the traditional blouse. You could not really tell the color or the pattern in the gown, since they were fading. Snaking from around her neck and meeting at her chest, also in vibrant red was a sparkling Pote, the centerpiece of which was a golden Tilari. She was by no means gorgeous but she commanded attention.
I found a pair, which I was slightly interested in. As was required from any decent customer, I started haggling with her about the price, and why the merchandise was not worthy of the money she was asking for. I thought that she might start to get irate with me but on the contrary, her attitude was that of enthusiasm. After all of this I made up my mind to buy them.
Just as I was fumbling though the contents of my pocket to find the money to pay her, came the hungry cry of an infant. The umbrella behind her, which I had paid little attention to before, was being used as a shade. She reached in, and gracefully picked up the child that until now had been sleeping, even with all this noise around. She signaled to an older lady, who had been sitting next to her with her own tarp and merchandise. Then she turned away from me, and somehow managed to get her breast free from her dress to feed the child. The older lady stretched her hands out and motioned me to pay her. I put the money in her hand and stuffed the merchandise into my bag. I started to walk away and blend into the crowd. I looked at her to see if she was going to say a parting word, but she was too busy to notice anything, she was nursing her baby.
The rest of the day I just wandered around Kathmandu. Finally, when it was time for me to go home I decided to take the Safa Tempo. I made my way to the same place where I had seen the graffiti, since that was also where most of the Safa tempo routes originated. I did manage to get a seat in one on my fifth try. I liked traveling in tempos in Kathmandu. It was lot more personal, just enough people facing each other and a conversation would start without any effort. The tempo was on its way and we were turning slowly around Ratna Park, and I saw her again. The Police, from their earlier spot, had probably chased them, or it could be that this was their routine. This time she was selling something else. She reached into a little bag and took out what looked like Makai and handed it to the lady next to her. As they were eating, they both burst out into laughter, and her face lit up from within. It was not hard to figure out what they were talking about, and their laughter was contagious so I smiled all the way home.
Several days later, I traced the same path I had taken on the day I had seen her. I saw the older lady in the same spot by New Road, but she was not in sight. I asked the lady where she was. She recognized me and said in a heavy voice, “Her husband was accused of being a Maobadi, and he was killed in a encounter with the Police”. I kept walking all day. That evening, before going home, I stopped by a paint shop, and bought a can of black paint and a brush.
(Source : Suskera.com)
