आजको दिन

कामको प्रकृति पढ्ने, बुझ्ने र लेख्ने मात्र भएकाले सायद फोन गर्ने काम पाउँदा ममा चाहिने भन्दा बढी जोश आयो। कुर्सीमा पुग्ने बित्तिकै फोन दबाँए, फोन उठ्यो तर उतातिरको हल्लाका कारण कुरा प्रस्ट्याउन पाइएन। हतार थियो, हिँडे। दीपक बज्राचार्यको नक्कली मोरीलाई मायाको डोरीले बाँधेर नाच्न चाहन्थे भन्ने कुरा पनि बिर्सिएछ। नेपाल यातायातमा ‘जु जु ना ना ना’ सुनेपछि बल्ल याद आयो। लगातारै निमा रुम्बा ‘हुरी बतास’ बज्यो। यो गीत रिलिज हुँदा स्कूल पढ्थेँ, बिदामा घर आएको बेला मात्र इमेज च्लानलमा गीत हेरिन्थ्यो त्यही पनि मलाई यसको यो हरक चाहिँ अझै पनि कण्ठ छ :

हुरी बतास झैं आउँछिन् ,
उनी मलाई उडाई लान्छिन्,
उनको प्रेमको सागरमा
तर दिल मेरो तोडी
मलाई प्यासी त्यहाँ छोडी
उनी जान्छिन् आफ्नै बाटोमा

उभिए पनि यात्रा रमाइलो लाग्यो। टिचिङ कटेपछि बस–कन्डक्टर र एक यात्रु बीच बसको भाँडा र विद्यार्थी परिचय–पत्र बारे चर्काचर्की पर्नथाल्यो। गोपी कृष्ण तिर जाने नेपाल यातायात चढ्दा विद्यार्थी छुटबारे ठाकठुक नभाको दिन छैन। अन्तिम गन्तव्य आउन लाग्दा कन्डक्टरलाई निहुँ खोज्न मन लाग्छ क्यार। तर विद्यार्थी परिचयपत्रको दुरुपयोग नभएको पनि होइन। आजकाल सार्वजनिक यातायातमा कार्ड नभएको कोही हुँदैन। सायद काठमाडौंका सबै मान्छे जन्मदेखि मृत्युसम्म कुनै न कुनै शैक्षिक संस्थाका विद्यार्थी रहिरहन्छन्। युवा–युवती जति ‘मिसन अमेरिका’ नाम र आशय भएका संस्थाका विद्यार्थी र बुढा जति चाहिँ महँगीको शिकार भएर विद्यार्थी। जेहोस् सुकेधारामा ओर्लने एक युवतीले चाहिँ बसमा टोफेल/ आइएलटिस नामक एक किताब पढेर आफ्नो विद्यार्थी पहिचानको प्रमाण दिइरहेकी थिइन्।

Lunch Time Writing

When weekends matter, you know that you have a job. And when I can hear the ’sir’ next door instructing the student to ‘flow’ while dancing I know I am at work. Today, I can hear them sing ‘ Malai pyaro lagcha , malai ramro lagcha, lahara pahara chaharako…mero desh’ for a change. The kids are singing exceptionally well. ( N its lunchtime@ work now ) ..And I am reminiscing the times when we used to sing songs in the similar way back in school. It was during our “Yo mero Topi” sing song times I started wondering what ‘learning to sing’ was actually, was it learning the song or mastering the notes, the scales which formed the basis of music…my prodigal thoughts…

The lunch was good, as usual. Lunch is communal.Each day; a new topic for discussion engages my ‘male colleagues’ here. Today it began with national songs (the school effect), moved on to Sarangi Vs Violin and when I left the dining room it had shifted to ‘whether marriage is a social construction or a natural phenomena’..And because I never take part in the discussions I am back to the desk which makes me long for a break on Fridays of every week. Its boring and frustrating at times (I forget what ‘permission’ is called in Nepali too) and having to create new technical terms isn’t an easy job either. The only solace at times is the thought that well; it is still one of a kind ‘field’ to be involved in…but easier said than done.

I don’t want to get lost, so I am focused. Last Friday I was had more than one idea for scribbling my thoughts in writing during the Nepal Yatayat ride back home. And my head still brims with ideas but there’s no passion to work…and what is happening to my language these days…I can’t write ‘proper’ in either Nepali nor English..uffho … I think I need to learn to pronounce “Globe” in addition to ‘holiday’! Aja Monday, but will soon be Friday. Its life in the fast lane. Weekdays don’t pass, they speed to the weekend. And the cycle continues: home-work-lunch break-work-home.

Blogging holds no charm; I haven’t come across any active/worthy of a read blog in recent days to be inspired too. But I hope it’s only a cycle and the passion to write will be back someday .For now, the dance continues next door and my life still revolves around ITPGRFA !

Samosa Crazy

I’ve been wanting to write this since a long long time but seems like ‘now’ is the right time. Samosa is not a part of my memory and doesn’t fill in the blank spaces during my ‘mental inactivity’ too. But this movie I was watching yesterday “The Namesake”, a dialogue in the movie would be more politically correct instigated these “Samosa Sentiments” in me. If you have read the book or watched the movie you’ll know who I mean by Maushami. Well, this character tells Gogol, “I’ll be a good Bengali wife and cook Samosas every Thursdays and Fridays from scratch!” This may not be the exact words but the essence is ditto. The sentence, however, has a negative connotation in the movie. Nevertheless, it was the very line that reminded me of my Samosa Cravings though it will be the eighth wonder if I ever make one from scratch!

SAMOSA. I’ve never wanted anything ( whether it be a book, any CD , a person or even a dream) as badly I have craved for a bite of this fabulous meal. And if you’re thinking of the Samosa at Tip Top please do but I relate no brand to Samosa. It’s just the samosa that tempts me. ( Inspite of Sa-Musa ( mouse) phobia some years back in KTM). Last Friday, we had a transport strike in Kathmandu again, so I had to walk all the way to Baluwatar ( Safa Tempo ride from New Baneshwor to New Plaza only). It took one an half hour to complete the journey. The scorching heat is no help when you’re clad in a black t-shirt. Still I wasn’t mad, as usually am at everything around me during such ‘forced walkathons’. I remembered the samosas made by Bhaiya ( that is what Puchhi calls him) when I reached Bhatbhateni and concluded all the trouble I was put through was for this one bite of samosa in the end. Ah! The glories of samosa. So, I brought samosas to office and relished them forgetting the walk, forgetting everything but the crispy taste of ‘Samosako bokra’ ( samosa cover) and the vegetables inside…

Yummm Samoooosa… Source : Internet

BREAK

The Bus stop, the bakery, the coffee shop, the taxi stand and the dog poo. That is Baluwatar for her. The place of the rich without responsibility. Who can step into the bakery and sit down for a cup of coffee without the thought of the poop crossing their minds (even just once) which they stepped over on their way inside? Well, she can’t at least. But that doesn’t stop Baluwatar from being a swinging hot spot. The Bideshis still seemed to enjoy Himalayan Coffee just yards from the dog poop , the vehicles ( with blue number plates) still honk in front of a gate which supposedly is a day care centre for the rich babies while she always wonders ‘who cleaned the poo’? How utterly mundane to think of dog poo when most are interested in what important discussions took place in the living quarters of the most powerful man in the country who lives in the same place! Hmmm but somebody has to wonder of the things everyone else misses on don’t they? So, while the entire populace of Nepal breathe on ‘politics’ synonymous to the place, dog poop replaces the same in her head. What’s the difference anyways? The poo cleaning is nobody’s business; it’s the vehicles that run over them which do the cleaning. The traces remain, the street looks clean but it isn’t clean. Baluwatar politics is somewhat similar.

Baluwatar bothers her lot these days. Life has become some kind of “ Baluwa Tar”. A heap of sand. And it shows no signs of shaping itself into any structure either. Why should it?
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In another part of the city, very close to the ‘Sand Tar’ she walks out of the cinema with nothing but “Na na na na” playing over and over in her head. What else can you do in the city for a one day break? Cinemas and gardens could be a great combination. A tree, a bench and book and the gentle breeze. And of course the view which if spelled would be PDA aka Public Display of Affection. She’d once written somewhere ‘what wonderful memories PDAs made for the actors involved to think how they didn’t care a bit about all that was going on around them, even in a ‘supposedly’ conservative society like this and did their own business.’ The garden has no dearth of “I want to make a memory” couples. Boys and girls ( most of them who seem to be in their teens) are trying to make the most out of the eighty rupees entrance fee sticking like glue in a place which looks ‘more European’ than Nepali and could be best explained in the words of a Bideshi passerby stating “ This looks so unlike Nepal!!”
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It’s the fourth time she is in the coffee house and the second time the place has no lights. “Lights only at six” the waiter says “the machine take half an hour to get heated.” She settles for the mocha cappuccino with ice. The machine is needed to crush the ice. Great, why does the drink need ice anyways? What difference does it make? A blonde girl with a peculiar laugh can be heard now and then, the monks in red are silent in their discussions and another blonde woman seems to be interested in a painting on the wall which is far from being any different from wherever she came from!! That’s the fun of being a tourist. You appear interested in things that you would never give a second glance at if you were home. Attentive nods, eyebrows raised in surprise and occasional remarks just to show that you know about the ‘strange people and the strange place’ = tourist. At times it is fun feeling like a tourist in your own place. When everyone around you looks ‘imported’, an occasional ‘foreign’ drink does no harm to the body either. It just makes a perfect break from Baluwatar with its bus stands, bakery and the dog poop paved road!