~Karuna Chettri ‘Sitara’~
It is a challenge to eat in the dark–especially when you disagree with the ideological reasons behind the lifeless light bulbs, motionless fans and a frail, flickering candle. The ‘lights out nights’ are to show solidarity to the rebelling political parties; it is an imposed solidarity against the
monarchy–but solidarity, nonetheless. Two years of groping in the dark solidarity for the people of Nepal, save for the nights of government imposed load shedding–the latter to conserve energy.
Ravi picks at the Basmati rice on his plate–his last meal with his family before he returns to junior year at American University, Washington DC. This is a different Ravi that sits at the table this night–a post-spring break changeling created by circumstances.
“What time is your flight, Ravi Babu?” His mother reaches over to pour some lentil curry onto his plate, her hand guided in the dark by instinct.
“No more Ma, I am done with dinner. I have to be at the airport at least three hours prior to departure time.” Ravi is reluctant to divulge details–she will find out that tomorrow is yet another day of party imposed “chakka jaam”–no vehicles allowed on the roads. Those who dare venture out, are likely to be stoned by party demonstrators who’ve called on the jaam. It is better if she hears about it from the radio–a neutral source. Ma has enough to contend with; rheumatism has deformed all but one last finger on her left hand, but she needs to know about Dev. He must tell her before he leaves.
“We leave at daybreak tomorrow Ma. There is a chakka jaam, A friend will drop us off in his security van. Dev, Ravi’s older brother, informs without looking at her.
“What? Chakka jaam again! Dev Babu, this friend is not mixed up with the demonstrators, is he? I know, students in your college are against the king. Just stay off the streets, please!” Ma reaches over the table with sudden urgency; her shadow flickers, ghostly in its length stretched across the table. Their shadows touch and merge even if their physical bodies do not. At another time, seventeen years ago, Ma had uttered the same warning to her husband, now deceased. She fears the worst for her sons–one studying in America and the other, precariously balanced between political idealisms and a desire to study medicine.
Two Saturdays ago, Dev had picked Ravi up in a dilapidated old taxi which lurched around potholes and honked its way through a slogan chanting rabble–youth who’d discarded their books for placards.
“Look at them! A bunch of bums, wasting time and resources of the tax payers–they should all be locked up.” Ravi was irritated at the crowd which showed no sign of dispersing.
“Sir, I would be careful, if I were you. These are peaceful demonstrators who seek justice from the government.” The cabby twisted the rear view mirror and glared at Ravi in the back seat.
“Well, slogan chanting and throwing stones is not going to help them, is it? Why don’t they storm the palace? In the US, where I live, discontents demonstrate in front of White House–no human road blocks, no chaos–it’s all very civilized.” He ignored Dev’s warning hand on his sleeve.
“Bhai,” The cabby, a young man with curly hair, in his twenties, turned around and addressed Dev, “Tell your brother, people in America are not fighting price hikes of rice, sugar, oil; lack of drinking water, energy load shedding–you name it. Yes, if we could, we’d be planning a brilliant future too!” His stress on the English word “future,” indicated some level of education–perhaps, he was a student himself, with no choice but to drive for his meager meal of rice and watery lentil soup.
He slowed the car as he passed a small band of moving placards and turned to Ravi, “Bhai, you’ll find out soon enough!”
“Do you know the schedule for blackout nights? I have to study for my medical exams.” Dev changed the subject but kept a warning eye on Ravi.
“Trust me, you won’t be studying much at night; you might as well burn those books for fuel!” Cabby commented wryly.
Ravi shrugged and looked out of the window–one bushy brow arched over dark brown eyes and an aquiline nose which flared at any hint of irritation. His lips, while thicker than Dev’s, were quick to smile and bordered on the sensual–a “chick magnet” as he accidentally discovered in college.
The cab dipped, narrowly missing a meditative cow chewing its cud, oblivious to the approaching crowd and traffic. A young girl (probably, 15 years old) sat on the broken sidewalk while another of similar age with a sleeping baby tied onto her back, braided her hair with red rags. Life went on as usual; Kathmandu was in a time warp–girls were still married off at a young age like they were a hundred years ago; Ravi wouldn’t have known the difference.
Ravi Babu, You’ve grown taller and thinner! Don’t they feed you in Aamrika? Two years ago, you were chubbier”¦cute. Well, we’ll just have to feed you.” Their Ma tousled Ravi’s hair as he bowed low in reverence.
“Ok Ma, feed me, feed me! I’ve missed your cooking all these years. Actually, I am hungry even now”¦thanks to the tedious taxi ride.” Ravi laughed. It was true; he was no longer the “pleasantly plump” boy who’d stepped into a plane bound for US.
Night fell as the sun sank swiftly behind snow capped Ganesh Mountain. Ravi watched sporadic lights glimmer in the far off hills, but the city lay dark, blanketed by smog and dust.
“Ravi, it’s nice to have you back but keep your American politics under wraps; there is enough trouble brewing around here without you adding fuel to it.” Dev appeared at his doorway.
“Dev Dai, what’s wrong with my opinions? It’s true though, we, Nepalese should learn from larger, progressive countries. Anyhow, this country could do with some international intervention; the way things are”¦ we’re digging our own graves; killing our own people and squandering our own resources. So, why aren’t you out there on the streets if this revolution means so much to you? Man, I would, if I were you!” Ravi couldn’t help the taunt.
“Shove it, Ravi! I saw on TV, a handful of so-called concerned Nepalese living in USA demonstrating against the Nepalese monarchy outside the White House. Impressive–considering they don’t live here. It’s all this bullshit about saving Nepal with American intervention. Look at what has happened to Iraq. All this big talk amounts to nothing; you’ve changed Ravi. Just keep Ma out of political discussions! Dinner’s ready. Cut off the lights; it’s blackout night–we don’t want trouble from the vigilantes.†Dev’s voice was low but menacing. So much for spring break filled with white water rafting and daring treks through treacherous mountain passes.
Eating at the narrow kitchen table by dim candle light was aggravating. Ravi groped for his glass of water and tipped it over.
“Damn! This is annoying!†He switched on the light. Immediately, there was a commotion of stray dogs barking, shouts and whistles as a stone crashed into their kitchen window–narrowly missing Ma who’d stood up to bring them a second helping of potato curry.
Dev’s reaction was swift as he pulled Ma away from the window and switched off the light.
Ravi, you forget you’re in Nepal! Ma, are you ok?
“I’m fine. Ravi Babu, it’s dangerous out here if you don’t heed your brother.” Ma started sweeping up the broken glass with trembling hands.
Ravi slept off his jetlag for the first three days. On the fourth day, while Ma massaged his head with warm mustard oil as he lay on his old bed, he watched Dev’s collection of videos–Fahrenheit 9/11(he couldn’t believe Moore’s propaganda and people’s naiveté). For the next three days he watched the rioters burn tires and stone the police; another day he watched a spider devour a butterfly. One morning, hoping to catch some action on camera, he slipped out unnoticed.
Nothing had changed–open sewage, dozing stray dogs, crowded tea shops filled with men (gossipers, propagandists, debaters, sophists and preachers). Ravi’s white, Nike tennis shoes were caked with dried mud as he dodged wet linen hung out to drip dry by the roadside. Again, the smell was ancient–open hearth billowed smoke mixed with smell of cow dung fuel–a scene right out of Mira Nair’s “Salaam Bombay.â€
“Run! The police are here!†A voice yelled from around a street corner ahead. Ravi took out his camcorder; his hands shook with anticipation–could he capture a moment of “9/11?†He climbed up an ancient Peepal tree near the sidewalk. As if on cue, shops shuttered down and windows slammed shut.
A grenade rolled down the street from around the same corner–tear gas inundated a ragged band of flip-flop-clad men who ran toward Ravi; stones, shoes, rocks and sticks pelted a group of policemen dressed in riot fatigue and armed with batons.
“DOWN WITH AUTOCRACY!†“THE KING IS A DICTATOR!â€
A mob of protestors ran defiantly down the street. Some fell and mercilessly beset by baton wielding police; others were herded into a police van–doomed stray dogs. Ravi caught every sound on camera– screams, slogans and even moans of those lying blanketed in dust.
He didn’t see it coming–the rock hit Ravi squarely on his forehead knocking him off his perch and onto the hurtling blue van.
“Hey! Hey, I’m not part of this riot you morons!†Ravi struggled to move away from a pool of blood–with a shock, he realized it was his.
Two policemen yanked him up by his collar and shoved him into the crowded van of bleeding, pounding bodies–hapless rioters doomed to rot in jail.
“Hey, hey, let me out! I don’t belong here!†Too late, Ravi realized he was one of them—he was a commoner stripped off his voice and his right to justice; too late, he realized what it meant to be poor and powerless–his last thoughts before he slipped into a stupor.
Ravi blinked. Two men sporting black scarves on their arms and heads carried him swiftly. His head pounded; faint sirens and remnants of tear gas lingered in the confined narrow side street. They bore him silently into a low doorway and up rickety wooden steps. He assumed he would be held for a ransom –he’d read that Dawood, the notorious Mafioso, operated out of Kathmandu (these men seemed professionals).
They dumped him unceremoniously on a narrow, moldy bed. Ravi was not terrified; he had surrendered to being murdered. He faced his assailants; one appeared familiar as he moved around the dingy room–shutting windows and locking doors.
Ravi froze in shock as Dev turned around and faced him.
“If you tell Ma, I’m going to kill you with my bare hands.â€
“Thanks Dev!†Ravi whispered–Dev was an activist.
“Ma, there is no other way around the Chakaa Jaam. I won’t do anything stupid. I promise.†Dev picks up his stainless steel plate and avoids eye contact with Ravi. He has discarded his usual leather shoes for old canvas ones and a pair of faded jeans; his dark T-shirt screams, “Mute Peace Is Not Democratic!†words their Ma can’t read or understand; words crafted in English and fashioned by international protests. Despite such subtle changes, Dev retains his geeky, intellectual looks and thick glasses.
Ravi contemplates revealing Dev’s duality to his mother but the shadows stop him–the nightfall protects Dev, his mother too; there are fewer queries made; meals are shorter and his mother is safer for her ignorance. Ravi is relieved by his decision.
(source : sajha.com)
