My Slingshot Catapult.....it happened to be the most expensive one.

In those days, we had lots of outdoors. I grew up playing football....atypical ones. Just anything that was worth dribbling and kick-able would be a good football. Fruits, especially citruses, ball of plant wool, spider net or cobwebs, inflated animal bladders, tufts of dub-grass (dactylon) and just anything. The other being bird hunting. We would form a teamster of about six to nine boys and would chuck out strategies and grand war plans on bird hunting. The teacher would miss out classes and that would give us finest congeniality for hatching ambush. In the south, wild dove, bulbul, pegions, cookcoos, peasant and other birds were aplenty. We would go for dove because they form a huge cadre of about 20 and more birds. Through out my regimentation as slingshot shooter, I never hit a bird. The ammunition for my Slingshot would be of amazing variety; pebble, mud-balls, steel-balls, bearings, marbles or anything that would leave the sling with perfect aerodynamics. For me, steel-balls were the golden bullets.....would use for assassinating only high profile game like peasant and queen dove. I would prowl with perfect stealth accessing the distance and the angle of my trajectory. At about fifteen meters with perfect angle, I would pull my sling up to my ear and release the marble like a sniper. To my dissatisfaction, the missile would take on quick turn and my sling would bungee up buckling in its own length......the bullet would land at the back with a thud, the dove on the branch would not even notice the air. One day, I settled on making one of the finest Slingshot catapult of my life. I researched whole of the vicinity looking for the best slingshot handle, a branch of tree that is "Y" naturally, stout and resilient. I hack-sawed one best from citrus tree, with sheer mathematical  intelligence. I then seasoned my weaponry with the edge of Khukuri and file away all the rough granules, made it smooth and beautiful. I tugged the bungee sling on the handle with rubber bands cutaways. This could be done with, football rubber, balloons, even condoms would do the securing of the arms. The only resource deficit at that moment of making was the strap. I tried to find and ransacked rooms and trunks with little luck. Later I realized that the providence was too smart  because I had the biggest luck awaiting for me at the corner of the staircase, The lather shoes. Without further ado, I just picked up the luck, and went to my workshop and neatly cut away the leather of this Moccasino, picked up eyes on the strap and secured at my sling. It was beautiful with mechanical redemption. I exercised my regular hunting with bunch of wolves. That evening, my old man, Deewa (grandpa) was carpet searching for his beloved pairs of shoes. I remember his expression and countenance of despair in losing expensive Italian Moccasin, inverse lather shoes, gifted to him by one of his Natees who been to west for study. The left out of the shoes, sole and the reinforcing I put inside the firewood stacks.........it was like the taliban hidout in the mountain of Hindukush.....only this time, the secret would spill over like an elephant under the carpet, as the stack of firewood receded........when later the leftouts were finally discovered by Mama, the all out blame went to biggest rat in the house......I still remember my old man laughing his heart out with slightly emotional sweet pain conjecture.............

The  mysterious, mischievous Macavity from Eliot's pen would be the near perfect definition of a young boy learning the ways of the world. Then, that was me a very long time back......almost three decade and half winters back. Thin stature that no one in the family would believe me to grow in girth. Kiran, an equally mischievous and mathematically intelligent, immediate sibling who never would take me by three winters was a company, friend and my brother. Smart and temperamental in his natural best. We would hang around the house playing a boyish gun battle and a tricycle that Papa would have got for us from Gwahati. I would steer and peddle till my knees gave up, while he would occupy the stepney seat, hooting in great enthusiasm as we roller costed the slop behind our house. Then, we would let the gravity do the job, take a turn and come to the same point, routinely as ever. I don't remember, getting tired of this function till some one in the house, intercepted our brotherly round the world, in tricycle. Our contemporaries would watch and jeer us play and may be borrow turns for the ride. It depended, sometime they would get, or otherwise, we simply rejected the sweet tongues. We would play and play and play mischievously till some we get into trouble of being caught in the action or being reported of. We would reap away the birds nests and take a pleasure in crushing their progenies. We would climb tuft of plants, thick bushes or orange branches just to break into the bird's nest and spoil their families. The orange trees were lean and just, we would swing and lay them into ground. We had these plants, from the time our ancestors threw seeds on this land. The favorite of all the trees was the one near the brook, shadowed by the bamboo reeds, overly at the cardamom nursery. While the orange sprouted and started to flower, cardamom spindle would watch and envy......I being elder, I would often monkey the tree and vandalize the dove, bulbul or faista's nest, That day, we were in inaction spree and we had Kombies, bent sickles with blade like scalpel out of operating theater. Bubu, there shouted Kiran in excitement. Without wasting a second, I jumped into the tree and started my hands on Kotera bird. Poor birds, the nest was ofcourse, with the baby birds, just about few days. With my expertise, I ransacked these unfortunate birds and vollyballed to the ground. The poor chicks, six or seven in counts were naked, still delicate and pinkish with dots of eyes. They would open their beaks, quivering and with great hopes of maggots and worms. I would take them one by one and execute them by running their tender neck through the razor blade, position them horizontally to the edge, slightly push and slide them. The razor would shear them like water.....they would never feel the pain but the very act would be painful. I would giggle in excitement, mutter and execute another.....till the last bird. Just then the execution of the last chick finished, I found my self being missiled by stone pebbles and hard mud. There was that monstrous voice shouting at us and as I lifted my head up, found Bhakta bua, pelting another mud bullet on my way. I ducked and jumped and sprinted like a deer in-front of a lion. He was home from college as accidentally found our vicious endeavour. Having stalked for a while, he punished us by pulling our ear and rendering us few slaps, and delivering us of discourse covering the value of innocence, helplessness and life at large. Today, as I write this piece, I understand him then, that he was just scaring us by short-putting stones at us.....and yes, I learnt to save life......often, when we meet and over the barrel of beer, we talk and laugh these things. He is my Rimpoche, presently he is a professor at CNR!!!!

 The beauty of verbal innuendos is as glorifying as it can be and I love the sharp double edges that it bears.....it is like the marriage between Japanese Samurai sowrd and legendary Khukuri in the hand of a Seal.....it exposes the intelligence of the executor and the indulgence if the executee....its like a baby tooth....deciduous but bites u like a 15 tonnes shark....its just beautiful and overtly addictive.....like a pornography in the mind of teenage.....just shakes you off till you bleed with unfathomable ecstasy........Naked as I can be and would wait in between the sheets.....with billions of floating dreams....and anticipation. I would suggest to myself as how should I complete my tonight. The angle, the depth, magnitude, do I use pillow, switch on or off the glaring lamp, am I going to sweat or shiver....do I lie on the back or hit from the top, am I going to groan and moan.....all alone. She would without conscious effort let me inside her softly and with gradual progression lull me like an opiated miracle. She would dissect me to my atomic level, as I start to fall apart.....as my eyes droop down and finally close in that infinite dimension....I enter the oblivion. She takes over my cerebrum function cowboying me through the heaven and hell of the dream.....and of-course, in-betweens. She hangs me whole night with little suspension to my nature calls.....to drink, to eat, to lick, to squat or to stand......the need. I would float and sail smoothly through the ocean of her empathy.....some night it would be nightmarish and I would shout my guts....or detonate in silent depth. Warm and blissful. The hidden balls in the jungle of glued skin roll and skew....the skin starts to shear apart and the touching trihocysts longs for departure...the balls come out and my conscious life begins then. I leave those cozy moments in between the sheets....blasting passion of life and the nirvana of the night. The 'Sleep'. Tonight she came late and left early.....skinned me to total nudeness of my soul.......

The brook, Shongbhen Kholsa,  remained perpetual and flowing but during the winter it became anorexic and thin like thread.  Hidden beneath the Utis, Siris and devil's trumpets, it whispered happily and gave me my childhood company. I would rush with a "Batcha Kombi", small sickle basically Rainees keep handy for obvious reasons. With lots of effort, as it may of a boy of five, would cut the best bamboo shoot-let and make a split to install water ways. I would, with my tiny fingers bulldoze mud and scoop out sands, make a large dent. The water would pour in and raise rapidly, flooding away the embankment for which I would work again. With my starred shorts and torn away t-shirt, I would work and smear away my nasal discharge quite at quick successions. Only this time, the muddy water would raise up to the brim, spill over the bamboo split and run through it and fall like a tiny waterfall. I would wonder and engineer more of such feats. I would not realize that my Mama would be freaking searching for me everywhere, except for the place where I remain engaged. She would call me "kailash" on top of her voice. Then I would stop thinking for a  moment, leave everything as it may and rush out of my workshop. She would be waiting for me with a stick at hand, for I know she would use it purposefully for about three to four times. I would beg her not to but she would not like to spare the rod. I would sob and forget as earnestly. Such drama would last my childhood, only the circumstances would change. Then she would call on for lunch. We would have early lunch at village because the three quarter of the day is tremendously important. Today, I am going with Nana Kanchi, Sister, to cattle graze and tendering. I would eat my meal fast enough and follow Nana. She would ask me not to trail her but for me, its a fun. I would beg her, Nana please let me come with you......after few disapprovals, she would allow me to accompany her to the vicinity. The Punri, Ramree, Sindure......few of the cows and buffaloes names I could remember. For certain reasons, buffaloes were kept in my family then. Ramree was that buffalo, a Gujrati breed, supposed to be the best for milk and cheese, and yes, she was the best. For me, it was gentle and sober, would allow me to ride on her back while she would graze and graze on. The animals would go to the brook to drink, and I see them vandalizing my hard work and complicated water ways that I created the other times. I would wait on the high ground so that when this Ramree passed, I would jump at its back and stick there for as long as I could doze away. She would allow me to do so and shear through the jungle of thorny vines to the open green grass. By the time we would come out of our plant tunnel, I would be covered with leaves, sticking through my hairs and shirt. Then she would dig her head in grass while I would try the flute Bhakta bua giftee me. Nana, would climb some fig trees and prune of some branches, I could see that the animals would run around for the feast. Occasionally, tussling and stealing a branch. I would listen to folk songs, while she sang on. I could see horn bills as big as it could be, beating air with a huge pair of wings, almost creating whirl wind around. Some other time, my Deema would tell me the tales of these wonderful birds. The sun at its zenith would treat us brutally, we would scoop pond at the marshy landscape and wait for a moment for the sediments to precipitate and clear out. Then with bamboo straws, drink to our thirst. We would share with animals......the month of  may would be the most lethargic one, basically the concoction of hot sun, long monotonous cicada cricking and the opeating planting auxin in the air would make you drowsier than a score of beer. Nana, would check on her citizen, and would announce its time to go home. She would give a call and all animals would fall in a file and start home. The heat on the bull would be nasty, and he takes chance on the line, creating a chaos. Nana would pelt a stone and shout at him to pacify him. The line would terminate as these animals would take their own place, for the nose to go in. For today, we would be done. I would rush home, almost running and sprinting. Mama, would be waiting me with black tea and puff corn. The menu changes often from sweet potatoes, pan cakes to fried rice. The in-between snack did magic and I would wizz off to play foot ball in the field. It would be always the biggest terrace in the field, rolled by playing football for half of the year. It presents dusty but remarkably popular field. Village boys have already gathered with football made out of some cloth pieces covered by slices of rubber bands and covered by spider net. It is the most priced possession as of now.....and I would fight for this ball. Playing football, the infamous experience of any of my contemporaries. I played and lost my toe nails more than often. We would play till we could see the silhouette of the ball on its trajectory to opponent's goal post......diluted in the air, I could hear Mama calling home for the dinner. We would disperse away, without the promise to see tomorrow, but we would play the game. At the threshold, Mama would be waiting for me and would tease me of the lashes........  

Chapter 6.

Mama (My Mother)

She stood at the trunk of the fig tree and gazed. In her hand she was clutching a piece of paper and was wondering about her endeavour. She was restless, anxious and dazed. There came a man who is the friend of her lover. She waved at him and with a smile she passed on that piece of paper to him. Tell my man not to fail me daju……she asserted in her maiden voice. Ok bainee, the man gave her a quick smile and walked out. It was Sunday, November, 1974. The social structures at villages were still too conventional. They came from Rai families who are supposed to be very traditional in their ways of life and marriages. Village headman was the rule……..every word he spoke ought to be listened. Girl children were protected and were given in marriage to a man of their consent. She was nervous about the evening when her man would be summoned for the acid test. She crossed her fingers and prayed. The sun slowly made his way to the horizon. It has become big ruddy and simmering. Red hue blanketed the sky while birds flew to their broods. She fetched water from the pond, closed the coo door of her chicken and went inside and waited. She sat on the threshold and expected. A man of his age, tall slender, mustached and fashionable was preparing for the meet. In jeans and neatly tugged cottons, he is but a handsome man, almost like Greek god. Mr. D P do not get nervous, teases sharply by his friend, Mr. Pradhan. Well, I am not, in slightly in-confidence retorts D P. In a moment, two men were trailing the foot path, slightly hurrying, slightly hesitating. They walked through the tea garden, crossing brooks and Fhagu Khola. They walked up hill stoned steps, straight replica of Mayan builders. Finally, their steps took last stride; they stood standing on the small grassed uneven court yard. There host, a man of 60s was sitting on a stool and enjoying his smoke. He got up folded hands in response to exchange Seewaroos, Rai ways of greetings. A lady of mid 50s came out from the house and greeted these lads, with a slightly doubting smile. They looked at each other. His most anticipated host was missing, he felt flat and test-less.his eyes roved and rolled….his friend caught the message instantly. They sat still, exchanging conversations with their hosts with his attention diverted to and absentee. Almost by providence, an angelic persona in her late teens bubbled up with a tray of Darjeeling teas and Tibetean cookies. Cascading hair, average build, Mongoloid eyes, apple cheeks and red chilies lips. She is but more than beautiful….pleasant nature and charismatic voice. Please, have tea she tries to present herself as much normally as possible but she obviously is shaky, nervous and excited. As she serves her guest, she catches his eyes, locks for a moment and shies away. The old man queries their coming, where from and other petties to drag this conversations. They answer each question with brutal obedience that old man is already impressed. They sat on the foyer of double stories wooden bungalow, sipping tea and consuming in conversation. The pretension is that they knew the crux of this meet. Slowly, evening at puberty started to mature, the hills seems bigger and ghostly. Dot by dot stars started to appear in the sky, happy moon in his youth lazily crossing the sky smiled, birds chirping in collection, parliament of owls cooking politics of catching insects and bugs, rodents and rats in their evening din. Invitees gathered one by one and groom is called on. The family head tallies bride and grooms horoscopes and consents over home brew beer and eateries. The ceremony dragged unnecessary longer and longer as they drank more by the gallons. Finally, the bride, their daughter was declared taken with traditional but symbolic handing taking formalities. It’s a common tradition in Rais to transfer the death responsibilities towards bride’s side. This is done by invoking Maang and hitting the bell metal thrice. By the time it was ante meridian one; every one dispersed and went to bed. Januka, the bride, went to her room and packed her belonging for next day journey to Bhutan. Unknown, tiring and long. She held memories of her birthplace tightly and broke into tears till she went to oblivion.

The next morning was a sad, emotional and weeping affair. Januka was given a ceremonial farewell, queue of friends and relatives waving her good byes. She waved her red kerchief and tiny hands. As she walked, her eyes became blurred, smudged and in a moment everyone disappeared. She walked in deep silent, heavy heart and unknown. She stopped and turned back for final glance of her village. She gazed for a long time as to catch every details……then unwillingly walked with her man, never to look back again…..

Thulo Deema (Big Granny)

I would snuggle on her warm tall and lanky torso and put my arm around her waist. She would put me securely and scare me of Toksongbaa (notorious ghost) at the peep window. My heart would pound faster and jump out of my ribs......would talk to her in soft and meek voice and promise her to be a good boy. Without realizing I would fall asleep. She would pull Kasmari blanket over me and put her head on mustard pillow. A tall, strong and typical Rainee woman she was, with cup-seat size golden ear jewelries dangling hallways through and silver bangles almost like shackles. Her Nepali style scissor skirt of finest Malmal cotton  up to the ankle secured by a yard of cloth belt.......typically white where she pegged her purse, keys and dried betel halves. She would wear Resam, the finest silk Choli, a midriff tugging blouse, cleverly fitting her upper torso. It would always bear two pockets, sexily hidden up to the fringe, tailored by Thatal Kancha, the infamous tailor who sat at his Singar and foot peddled his machine twentyfourseven-threesixfive, the sound of his tailoring machine gently piercing through the spool of reel and scissors searing the design would be heard from the footpath that ran from his flower garden. I would rush to his bamboo split water tap and drink till I burp my thirst away. I would body guard my Deema, just every where. She would put her faltering fingers in her choli pocket and fish dried coconuts dices, nuts or cardamom and give to me....I can see her segueing from feeding the birds to tendering the hog, the price possession of our family, or she would be plucking the millet tufts for the coming affairs. That day, I pester her upon giving me the biggest and the longest cucumber on the bamboo mesh, sort of barn. I convinced her that my teacher would be happy with this gift and so she lost her cucumber. I hid this cucumber on my way to school, neatly nested by grass blades and collected my best friends during lunch hour to feast on this salad, only to be dissatisfied to see that my white-lied cucumber was already plundered by my seniors. She would come out with a bamboo container and corns. Sit at the door side and loosen the corn out of its ear..... rows of kernel would fall, she would collect spikes for removing the bird sully or for the hearth. She would ask me to open the coo door and birds would splutter out like gushing beer, beating me with their wings and rushing for the seeds. Deema, would talk to these birds and distribute the seed.....all of them would get their share. The rooster would bully the chick, for which Deema would lash it with long bamboo line. In few minutes, the birds would vanish in the woods, Deema, would murmur in disapproval of these birds toilet habits. Kami kaila, the village black smith and one of the most important personas, would announce his arrival with his signature muttering of some divine songs. He is taken to be important for few expertise he bears under his belt. He is black smith shaping and making tools and cans, he is also a village witch doctor, shaman, if anyone in the village got sick, its his expertise which worked for ages. He is also good at pulling paddy nursery for plantation. Deema, would quickly prepare Waa-tshon (brewery of millet, squeezed and served) and deliver him at the edge of the foyer. The sweet potatoes are baring out of soil and they need to be harvested. She would prepare boiled sweet potatoes for the helpers at woods. She would sing me our Bantawa Songs, "Aaaiyaani kikkmoo.....", ever green romantic melodies of her youth. I would just shift myself and listen to her emotions. She would tell me how she used to go to jungle tendering cattle and fodders. She would talk of tiger and bears, deers and birds that populated her forest. Then she would lift big brass bowl of fermented millet brew and drag her conversation little longer. There is a loud thud at the yard, indication that mama is back from field with a load of firewood. The calves mows little louder and its time to give them water, she rushes out for the service. Deema, told me the stories that enticed me. I would fix my focus singularly and listen to her, word by word as she played the sound intonation, circumstantially. They were so real life that I would quiver and shriek and skew. She continued in dramatic encouragement. She would take out round gilt metal container, with Belgium mirror, with full of tobacco and the assorted and sized wrappers. She would neatly fold the edge of this paper at length and spread tobacco on this grove, roll into a sleek stick, seal the ends with lick and bury herself into the fumes of rustica. I grew up with my Deema, learned the wisdom of our culture and traditions, the way of life and the art of living like Shongbhen. The legends she taught, are but oral transmission of her greatness. She told me of her youthfulness, her man who protected and fed her, she rarely talked of this man, Deewa, but when she did, it was powerful and deep. How this old man of mine, courted her and carried literally downhill to marry her. She never dreamt of  and now it feels like a dream itself. She would laugh away and say, my time was different after all. One day I caught pneumonia and got bed ridden for a week. I was in my fourth grade. Every thing would feel different and fever took me totally down. She was broken then, and now I understand what might ran in her life. She must have thought that I would not live to see this day, she would never leave me and constantly gaze at me silently, spread her head scarf to keep flies at bay. When she spoke, she was at the meekest and weakest trying to be courageous. "Boy, nothing would happen to you", I have prayers for you. She would summon all the deities and gods and beg for my life. I do not know if she cried silently, but now I know why her eyes appeared reddish and misty then..... 

Sanu Deema (Small Granny)

I would smell that un-mistakable pine terpene, the resin that gives happy fragrance. Then I would hear the spluttering of pine sticks burning on the slate stone kept at the edge of hearth. I would open my eyes and see the simmering dawn, stars still bright and twinkling gracefully. Far away, I would see red fire burning, may be the pine sticks burning......may be someone's Deema is up already. I never heard her singing but she talked to herself all the time, the yammering and muttering was way away from my comprehension. My Dewa, (Grand father), popularly known as BagBir (as brave as tiger!!!) had two wives and two families. He use to oscillate between these two wives. He built this house for his second wife, incidentally the younger sister of his first wife. I would not say my grannies lived in harmony, that a women never share a man. I use to visit my Sanu Deema once or twice a year at Salari,  Kapasey, Tsirang Dara. Bichgoan to Salari is just about 3 hours hiking but it used to be an affair. I was just about five, and my Mama jiggled me up from the slumber. Then I found all of them were ready, lunch pack, bamboo basket filled with dried pork, Gundruk, the fermented green leaves, sufficient bottles of home brewed liqueurs, (hengwamaa=alcohol) readily assorted for the long walking drink and the one for gifting to Sanu Deema. Before the sunup, we would start this neat procession of about eight persons. The grand old man, Deewa, Mama, Dema saily (aunty), Chhana kanchi,  Prakash daju, Nana, Bhakta Bua (Bua=brother) and myself. I would with a small Bhotay Zola (bag with a sling) would take the lead, as I was small and bubbling with energy. I would sprint and wait for the adults to catch on. Mama would ask me not move too fast or will get tired before half way, which seemed meaningless to me then. We would slowly peterout this long trail, adults in their own personal gossips and agendas, while I took onto watching birds and animals on the way. Wayfarers we were, we would cross, Salami School, dipping down to lower Salami. I would see people in their affairs, plowing, trilling, mulching, looking after herds of cattle, or just whistling. Dewa would put me on his horse, Seti and give me the ride, long anticipated. We would then cross the lowest point on our half section of out trail.....Damphu kola near Lapsibotay. Then we would start walking up, on the stony path to Lapsibotay Bazzar. Famous for being the old administrative hub for Tsirang. The shopping spree would spin for a time in a great rush, its already 9:30 am. At great hurry, sweetmeats, bananas, sugarcane, sachets of nuts, coconuts, soap and salt are being scooped. Someone would scout announcement, that we have to hurry and try to cross that long uphill climb afternoon otherwise it would be late night. The formation would take place and there we walk again. Deewa, now at his own would race his horse and wizz off, we have to catch with him in the evening at home. Prakash daju, only 11 months elder to me would teach me how to catch dragonflies on the way and what to look for in the fig tree. The long horizontal path now would slightly curve downward at the base of Suntaley, vertically falling about kilometer to Chanchey river. At the meeting of this geometrical opposite, we would take a rest. The adult party would indulge themselves in bottles while Bhakta bua, Prakash bua and I are given bottle of water milk. The offer would be gracious and we would drink like fish. The vegetation starts to differentiate then, the blue pine in the wind would advertise the monotonous Swah sound....that tingled my emotion. So lonely whispers that they are still ringing in my ears. The sighting of langaurs and makaks were exciting. Lovely cousins on the trees with long tails and prehensile abilities. We would bend our knees on the vertical slop and smell the Artemis and ivies. The villagers would watch our procession in awe or with great degree of curiosity. The kids hid themselves behind the door and peeped from the distance, the animals acknowledged our walk while we sweated the downhill climb. Finally, the bridge would show its majesty, we would pick some green leaves and put at the first pillar of the bridge, invoking the guardian deity to safely fare us to the other bank, The deity always listened to our submission. The bridge was tall, long and swaying in full. We carefully would maneuver with short and firm steps while taking care not to trip. The other side of the river, terraced field would amply give us space to picnic. We would sit around and take lunch in luxury. The pork intestine steam and garnished, the choti rice, peppers boiled in whey, tomato catch up, and water milk, served on banana  and fig leaves. The adults participants would go through one or two more rounds of their assorted Hengwamaa sessions and then we would pick uphill climb. The Sun is just right, at our back and we would start slugging forward on dusty, warm sandy path. Both the side of the trail would be covered with jungle, flat sharp stones and some squirrels startled at out sudden presence. The smell of dark warm dusty mud is but far too lethargic. Harrah, bitter nut  and guava trees would pleasantly stare at us. Sweating and panting, there is less talk, less cacophonies or less gossips. The steeper the path becomes, shorter the steps we take, less we talked and less we wasted our energies. By and by we would throw forward, the back pack becomes as heavier and the path ever longer. I stood there to take a breadth, I could see the Tshokana slope, spotted with houses. The evening din has already begun, the cicada in full nocturnal call while the birds are home. I could see the herders tending their animals and tying up the loose. I could see the man or woman with pail, rushing to milk or could spot a young lady armful of timber split for the hearth. She would stand and watch us climb....the show continuous. As the evening matures, the pines becomes louder, more monotonous and more somber. The foliages settles to becoming still while the last bees returned. Finally, I could see the house. My sanu Deema's house, double stories mud house with kitchen outside. At the pond from where she would draw her water is still, with animal footprints and hardening mud hills. Then we would, like a marathon runner, give our best walks for the last distance. At the foyer, I could see Sanu Deema smiling and extending her best hospitality to our retinue. Seewa Deema, I would seek her bleesing with others and settle down for the evening chore.   

Street musician....

It was not directly from Mozard nor from Beethoven, not even from Bach, not even from Elton John or even from Raman....but it was all from the Street of Nepal that touched my heart deeply in terms of Music. The trio of two boys and a girl otherwise, collegians....Madal, Sarangi and girl vocalist. The music blended with air and touched my heart like the fingers of beloved....madly, deeply and passionately in love......like the depth of Mariana, or the the chasm of Rabbit hole in Alice in the wonder land, I fell this never ending emotional touch. The girl of about Nineteen sang with passion with the smudges of typical Nepali shy laden maiden, squinting her eyes and busing like the red rose in the sun yet as continual to the rhythm and note of Sarangi. I watched her motionless....wanted to see her in her eyes but she never gazed on. Wanted to hug her and say, girl, you sing like angle but my rush was overpowering me. The dusty Nepali highway was quite an experience, more so with the sweaty enthusiasts and human ring growing thicker and trickier just to hear these band. I do not know, whether this is their profession or will or more so the temporal money venting charisma, but I forgive them for their follies. The echo of their sweet songs stuck in my ears and its a matter of time and age to replace them with another contemporary symphony but till then, they are the best. For the whole wheel, I contemplated, realizing that many many more are touched, just like me. Only difference is, they never know how much music they make....how many lives they touch. They are just the street musicians, lured by the need of the moment, ruthlessly beaten by time and space......    

Chapter 1. (Draft only)

My Village.

The sun rises just near to my village. Snuggling neatly up in the receding face, tenderly bounded by the Katikay dara in the South, folding dunes of Gopini, Khorshaney and sister Bichgang towards the east lovingly sheared by Bichkhola…..there is my village Bichgang. From the time I remember, I roamed this village with sheer enthusiasm and vigor. Then, we had to walk to Damphu to get basic commodities like salt and kerosene oil, toiletries and cloths. It’s a sloppy but irresistibly pleasant village. The land starts to rise up in gradual degrees from Chanchey Khola, where Bichkola confluences in happiness……the Utis trees and the sub tropical vegetation gives this gentle pleasantness a colour. The bamboo, phaladoo, taki, ficus, Siris, runners and ivies, climbers and shades flunks in plenty. This is truly a fauna is vanity. The deer barking, squiring squirrels, hooting owls, cooing doves, chirping birds and singing nightingales are but the melodious orchestra in happening. How I wonder about my village with Nepali styles houses, thatched and mud walled, awkwardly simple. Anyone taller than five point six would have difficulty in trespassing these houses, in and out. Simple one room houses, with two stories at the most with a feet or two tall attics. Bamboo cloth-lines and baskets all sullied with birds and chickens, pounding and grinding stones, haphazardly lying timber splits and staffs, a dog lazily sleeping at the isle of the house while an old lady would be guarding the grain spread in the yard. My house stands at the twelve hundred feet, with perfectly balanced whether pattern. While its not very hot, its not cold either, that is an edge to farm produces and diary animals. The terraces, long and curvy run endlessly through this slop, meeting and departing in their own instances, it is but a magical feeling to see the white water in summer, while the paddy just was done. The overflowing water gate would give slow and continuous whisper of singing, while the pulses start to germinate on the terrace bounds.  Right at my place, start Rai village with but about scores of Rai families originating with Shongbhen, Chamling, Thulung, Tambulay, Limkhim and Chha-bhaiyas. When you step in my village, there is this feeling of extended family systems. The people are culturally sensitive and advance that for ages they stood by their traditions and ancestry. They are proud, conscious and yet very simple bunch, poorly literate but willing to transform and learn. Landmarks like Kabra botay, Tambulay golai, DP machine, Bichkhola and Paray Dara are but infamous. The orchids dangling in air from Thulo dhunga below my house, with cattails and blueberries, devil’s trumpet and angles vines, granadilla and oranges, sweet potatoes and grasses the love of my village. Them the time was different, these oranges were small, it was early eighties…….but time changed. Dewa maila, Gomprasad daju, Jitu’s papa and Pusai aantaray all left during the political tsunami in the South. Artemisia and leeches took over, the flat stone we used to sit and peel oranges got covered by the jungle……..the volleyball field and the picnic spots where we talented as lads are crying golden tears………it’s the difference that matters now, not the sameness. As I write my emotions, I can see my village, regal and serene but deeply awarded. The cow shed, horse stable, chicken coo, bird nest, water well, whispering brook, Shongben kholsha, and the big fig tree stares at me…..the aura of change, the change that I see in just four decades. Meaningfully adjusted, my village still basks on the same Sun and kisses the same moon. The first Orange tree grew in my village, first Cardomom rhizome shot in my village, the first Sweet potato crawled in my village, the first Bhotay Khorsaney grew in my village, the first modern toilet, the first rice huller, the first powertiller, the first jeep, the first corrugated zinc sheet, the first stoned walled house, the first of everything happened in here………long long long time back….may be about centaury and decade years back. 

The bell happily tinker as the clapper danced through the brass. I would announce to the family that Deewa (grandpa) had finally arrived. For certain unobvious reason my deewa never arrived home before dark. I would ansciously wait him on the eve of the parapad, typically of three and plus year old, with patched half pants and printed shirt. His stallion would finally smell the equus stink as rythemic hoof drummed through the lose mud of the yard. He would unsaddle himself with sporty composure and would ask me for the kirosene lamp. He would clear his throat, the unconditional announcement of his presence and would settle himself at the bed which remained forever there. Senior attendant would feed the horse and put it to the stable. Seewa deewa....I would say and bow my head in veneration that he bless me with sweets and jaggri from his coat pocket. I would sit near him and look at him in great expectation. Not that he was a kid loving deewa but he would notice my ogling and fish few toffees to wash my constant longing. My deewa was a giant in himself but gentle and wise. I have seen him strong and compassionate. At times he had a name of being real rough. Especially, I adore the slightly exaggerated stories of his youth...as true as they may be, they are as amazing as they could be. How he fought with wild bear, ram and bufflo...how he travelled through northen India doing business. The old man use to tell me how our great grands travelled through elephant and tiger populated jungle fighting malaria and tropical dieases. The introduction of cereals and citruses are interesting. How he got his bride is yet another risky errand yet romantic melodrama of a crazy man. Then he was young and breaming with youthful glories, restless with shooting hormones and volcanic energy. Then he decided to endeavour risky endeavour of woman's world. He went to Chanchey bazzar, the only metropolitian of his time, just open market with stalls stuffed with animal meat, local alcohol of every brewery, boiled yam, potatoes, tapioca and banana. He partcelled cigrettes, coconuts and dry fruits for his lady....its a kind of gestural foreplay. He with his accomplice drank to duch and trailed his girl at resonable pace. The girls would sense the raid and alerted themselves like a deer. They flip flopped the trail and in quite essence. Finally, they reached the watergate where the foot path fell into a chasm. The lad sat there intercepting the ladies in his best of voices and mannerism, least they fell into his sweet bait. Ladies as they were determined to pull out.....did not submit to their cranky propositions. They wipped out the predators, wailed and wizzed. Then my grandpa whirled out her in his strong arms and fled with his game. His friend got his prey....indifferent to what these ladies were doing to save themselves, he put her inside the house and jailed her. In a moment, the commotion ceased and the village headmen summoned the act. With home brewed alcohol and pig in the bucked, they were declared husband and wife.....my grandma bore 19 children to him. Life then was a happy routine...the old man tought me how to ride a horse and clean a gun.....I wrote his epitaph.

The moment of truth....the final testimony to their own intellect and the ability to comprehend the most dreaded hours of life as student of their field of studies. The hall is dead silent except for the timid throatal clearance and the rocking of rikitty tables as the candidate shifted his pen in sheer excitement. The skimming of question page and construction of margin with their pencil would give teeth grinding episode. Sitting on two by four in five rows with fourty intellectuals is a crowd in itself but when there is no alternative this is the ultimate mathematical luxery. I remain there like a spy, not so friendly with unpridictable composure. Invigilating them but not policing them. The ambience is nostalgic to my own candidancy ages back. Yet, burried in their world of Bloom' taxomomical excersise they spill out in abundance. Some even exude yellow bile in bitter like an oil expeller in job...crushing and extracting the last out of mustard. I with professional retroric watch this balled in going. Their pens dancing as they trail cursively along....their calculator in progress and eraser distrophically becoming thinner as they deleted unsatifictory trash. The cool breeze swipping in through the northern door makes them move a little but works the analogy of car radiator system. Then in utter disperation some one cocks and squint his eyes to the nearest candidate to steal away the idea of answer. There I go with a loud made up cough and the candidate gets the message. He feels arrested and almost pretends to be innocent. While some frowns and grunts while another meditates deep into his answre to get the piece of precious. There are some who sit all along and writes nothing...to them failure is still a big success. They tried and failed....because failing is very difficult and thus its a success. Slowly the time piterouted...they sought extra folios and yet next...they wrote pages of essays, mathematical diasporas, the diversity of grammar, the intricies of physics and alcamy of chemistry. As they exited in the offing there was this billion dollar question sucking me into its impossililities. "What is this Examination doing here?" Memory test, poetic aspiration, reproducing, regurgating the past lessons, IQ, cpmmensense, understanding, creating, applying, innovating, or concatination of cacophonic disillusement. To me they are just earning double digits for next year which would continue till they remain in this system. The fallout is interesting.....we get topclass stupides with high scores and no education while some time we produce successful dropouts. Its like hybriding cabbage and raddish- to get cabbage head and reddish trunk. Heavily likely that we end up getting cabbage root and reddish shoot.....and I had this candidate who sat for three hours in exam hall and just wrote index. Absolutely amazing...

Education should be progressive information generating process and not a information regurgating machines. We must let our students to explore, innovate and generate informations with scientific passions and humane experience. As I see our education system I feel that there is a huge systemic errors multypling within. Time chaged and thus the dimensions of how we behave and govern information. I think there are more confusions than clearity in the process. Ideas are mushrooming but they are not sustainable by finencial or other parameters. Look at the school curricula.....how many kilograms of back pack would a 9 year old learner carry inclusive of lunch, umbrella, learning materials a teacher anticipated in last class etcetras. Look at the volumes of paper books a class 12 learner carry excluding the mental weight and stress which ofcourse voids other aspects. Lets see subjects core to a student plus addundum every year they unwillingly take up. English, dzongkha, chemistry, physics, biology, maths, geography, history, commerce, accounts and so on and more surprisingly most of these subjects comes with subsets. Now other ideas that are either conflicting or confusing....optional subjects. IT, vocational, agriculture, environmental studies.....now the clubs ompulsary or complementary...law, Renew, agriculture, democracy, literature the list goes on. How is it possible to chew or swallow or just pretend for a student all these capsules at a go. Now for a teacher part.....teach your subject even if it is not your experty, take each learner under your wing, be a house master, be a club master, games teacher, warden, hod, hrm and so on the list is impossibly large. Make lesson plans even if fir a showman ship or for sole purpose of showing to your principal or DEOs or mentor....apart from this teacher have to be an actor.....do not drink, smoke or be what you want to be....a father drinksor smokes way before a child is in his genetic composition and made no difference it only makes now.....mother probably drank gallons to sedate the child in arm....then it was ok but now it makes a noise.....My mind begs to differ and revolt these sterotypes of less commons. Lets change. Lets not feed internet craps to our learners...they are best themselves but lets create a platform where they generate knowledge and innovate ideas. Why should I believe that E=MC squared......but you should believe in achieving the squared factor of speed of light. Y are you saying its not possible....this is the problem of our education system....find a way to transfer electricity wirelessly......or find a way to lick your own elbows. I believe in Sakespherian literature and Socratein phisosophy.....I mean those experiences ore dying thus the motivation.....let us give our society a big imaganation then they will dream big. Shakepherian literature would be great instead of lesser luterature in our english curriculum....do think of bhutanization of subject. Introduce philosophy, socratus, plato, they are beautiful. Objectively, what is big is big.....there is disadvantage of being small.......our thinktanks, if we have any, should prepare our generation 50 years in advance.....in any aspect. 

If at all I would call on god and tell him that he is an A-hole. I know you are staring at me with that nervous look and most probably you are thinking that I am chewing an atom bomb.....or some moment that this a-hole will annihilate with unimaginable. I was watching Miss World 2014 wnd had this out of mind feeling that exploded with negationatory sharpenals. These beauties have just anything....you make a list and they have them all plus extras. Beauty...oxford education...medicine......money...honour...love....purpose...sensitivities.....whereas there are billions without anything. Dying every half a second because he dod not get food...water...shelter or got trapped in the volcano of poverty disease or hunger. There are them who splint their soul and sell their body to any kind of salavery becoming hair thin of zombies while some makes money more than the counts every blink of an eye.....It really validates my theory that he is poor at mathematics that he does not know what is an equation. He never went to school....he sure is an ass. Has he anytime in your life answered to your prayers....or said hi to you. There you go...now you are getting my point. Where is he hiding when a suicide bomber explode vaporising hundreds of people like a drop of water in a billion degrees furnace....where does he hide when the most unthinkble happens to the mortals.....father raping his own daughter or a life being taken right under his so thought omniscience and omnipresent bugger. He is a liar...he is a rapist of helpless and the lifeless and gigloo to some hunkers....that there are countless gods and goddess yet non of them comes out to say hello. I do not have anything personal but I think I am thinking something so much realistic....When I meet him the other moment even if by the rules of infinities....I will shout at him and make him work for all the hope he gave to all of us.....he is such an ass that he got crusified....he is such an ass that he ate food infested by butulism...the deadly poision.....te is such an ass that he nearly kill his own son.....he is such an ass that his wife flirted with some ten headed monster...he is such an ass that he nearly died of hypothermia at mount kailash....he has to learn cryogenics....if you check on their portfolios.....you will find that these gods are tricksters, flirts, womenizers, killers, shephards, bastards, carpenters, drunkards, molsters, corrupted mad pathetic suffering from extreme form of pshycosis.....I doubt that they even exist. Even if he exist he must be dilapited deaf who does not hear...he must be blind he must be dumb...without limbs and brain!

Today I felt lucky....so utterly lucky that my anscistors have made a place for me that no one can take away....not even god. The destiny that they left for me is here that every time I am upset or blissfully happy....I visit my village home and take a breadth thanking them for the solace. I thank them for keeping me in a safe heaven...out of war and famine, disease and crime. I thank them for giving me clean air and clear sky....virgin water and unspoilt forests....beautiful mountain and majestic rivers....that they knew their DNA would remain ever safe and thrive here....I may not have towering skyscaper...but I have sky touching mountains. The birds and the flowers and the trees....the romance of the nature and the songs of the air....today I realized that I am very lucky to leave this legacy to my son and daughter that they will have same grateness one day. As I smell the grass and watch waves of rice terracs.....as I see the plume of smoke in winter and people carrying oranges in their bamboo basket...as I pick up fresh vegitable from my garden and milk the cow....as I feel the soil beneath my feet...the same soil felt by my anscistors...that I have this space which I proudly call Home and my Country that my children will gracefully call theirs.

The spilling juices of anticipating adrenal shot flavored with ciggrette puffs, 84 mm Gold Flake...garnished by the fourty seven percent distillate binged totally dry I ran into the party hall of different spices. Kareoke....exotic musics mixed with local chords. I would sit there as people from every walkes of life congressed to thrash their monotonies...mudane scores of routine chores. The next is a dance hall where beautiful ladies n men do the entertainment. Wow...mussy...unkemt and mesmaric in every sense. They dance well....sing well and disinhibited. Someone at the corner jumps out of his pants and joins the single on the stage. Her hairs sexually intimidating and more so as you travel south....bust appealing to every man's conscience and the hip and the butt.....could be equivalent raved rocket engine. Her moves are smooth like a trailing mercury beads.....executed otherwise with sheer intelligence. I got drawned. The next is the discos.....phenomenal in its essence....demenaure and breeds. With alcohol, nicotine and testestorone chemistry in molecular rush I carried them in the zineth of the call. The sensual organs performing sexual mandate I felt the invitational indulgement. The hip rolled...banged and spanked....the torso went berssak and the knee jelly as the heat fermented the intoxicating desire to burn. The jocky kept everything high like a raising flood. It rose unprecetented. There is a the loner....there is a party animal....hunter...hooker....taster....seer...looker...physical...mental...or even spiritual. I indulged kneading the untitled nirvana of the moment......terminal and yet invoulentary gush of oozing enlightement........

As I walked bare foot through the edge of the terrace, the frost biting my sole as coldly as it could have been, the rows of rippling paddy in full, sweying in the morning breeze and smelling of fresh grass, dews forming spherical beads on the spider line and oranges inviting and millow. These are but the precious crystals of my memories of my young school goong age. I went to Salami Primary School in Tsirang. The smell of oranges, paddy fields, the feeling of raindrops, the seductive morning sun and the flying of dead and dry leaves are but treasures. How we use to play football out of anything bet on anything from pencil to folios...I still remember all the boys in a row shooting urin gun at the wall below football ground in great competition while girls had to run little down for the relief. This was fun then and need as well as we did not have so called toilet. How we use to drink water from a run made up of bamboo split we called Dahal dhara. Wer could hear that dhimal's rice huller at Gurasay dara from the class...I can recite almost all the Nepali poems I learnt then...the infamouse Dzongkha letter to pha-maa I can almost say it like a prayer which I do to entertain my kids. My contemporaries were: karnay, kiran, tejman, kumar, tika, kalyan, kharay, yeshi, manju, kalpana, phulu, bhagi, khari, nari, prakash, indrajit, chandray....all settled and doing life as they are. As I look back to those days I feel I had my great moments then...it was day today affair going to school. There are exactly six footpaths those converge at the school....watching students coming and going through these points is wonderful.....especially during rainy seasons....not every one was privilidged to have umbrella. Students would come to school fully soaked in rain, some taking refuge in banana leaf, some in yam, some wraped in plastic while some took chance...we would wear just anything...flipflop, gumboot, canvas, rubber and PT shoes. Blue half/full pants and froks and white shirt was our uniform till late eighties. When gho and kira was introduced in our school as uniform it was but hard learning time for us to wear first. We learnt wearing it in rrgimernted fashion but it was worth...we did not need any bags for our books and also made plundering of orange garden far lot easier.....by the time I graduated my Primary school.

My unconscious mind suddenly revolted. The phenomenon was out of ordinary. I had been sleeping or rather lazying on my bed for the whole morning hours.... I was alone and had very little to do. With a wish in my heart, I went out to endeavour the thrue baab festivities...friends, knowns, unknowns, young, old, joyous or otherwise. Hi there! Happy blessed rainy day...I threw this typical greetings generously like a machine gun bursts. Followed by more snipers ones bit classified liners....hows your thrue celebration? What have you got for this day? What special for the rainy day? I almost from everyone got the same synchronised answers. Or the statement I least attended for a reason of common conversation.....I had pork..I had fish...i had beef....and the list of animals keeps on inflating with parts, garnishes or cooking processes. Pigs, cows, yaks, bulls, calfs, chickens, eggs, legs, intestines, heads, ribs, bones, skins, fresh or stinking, local or exotic, large or small....it has to be meat, flesh or bones. I saw meat venders smiling out of their face....I saw some people birding and almost shouting their frustration...no meat and it spoiled my table...Then the liquid part of the day....alcohol. We drink alcohol without inhibition, young, old equally. We drink by shots, we gobble by bottles and we beinge in by jerry-cans! Then we advertise the dutchness in us....world contracts all of a sudden, people become lilliputens and he becomes Guliver in distorted conscience. The last episode thoe is our art of playing games. We have beautiful games khuru (technically dart:-), archery and degor(pelting of flat doughnought like stones:-) and all these sports are dangerous if played in a fluid state. But in occassions like today we do take it fatally. It would not be a surprise if someone somewhere gets strewn by the arrow missiled by a compound bow....another Arjuna ambaressed, another Robinwood missed his eye! And I bounced back to my room just to confront myself in lone. I was contemplating over the post that someone beautiful....that this thrue baab is to cleanse ourselves of our bad deeds, bad luck and bad karma...its a super holyday....its a super auspicious day to earn merit. Practically our celebration boils down to killings of animals, drawning in alcohol and display of vanity in air. Thus, I fought with my consciousness that we celebrate with tender lives. That innocent animal made my day a big hyped celebration. Spritually what I did throughout the day is In direct negation to what I should have done. One lost his family the other packed his family.....but I bathed in a hope to cleanse my bad karma, I decorated my table with whatever carcass I could hunt, I swam in the pool of alcohol, I ate with my family and friends and I played khuru.....as day draws in, I am already nostalgic about my holy shower!

Chapter1.

My village.

Almost 140 km from the capital, travelling through snakey butulumined road towards the south in a school graph plotting excercise, the raise and fall upon the Dochula peak plateauing through the Sunkosh river.....and finally raising in an akward turn and twists will take you to a small town, Damphu. It was then when I first remember it as few huts and famous Deshwali tea stall. Walking towards east with a normal strides would take one hour and half to reach my village. Bichgang. Comfortably sloping North, with few scores of Nepali style houses is but my village. Time changed. Cupped by jungle and severed by streams and brooks the happy village learnt lesson of time. We used to have double storied houses with thached roofings, smeared by red mud and white washed by quick sand. I was but about three and still remember pestering my paternal aunt (chhana) into accompanying her to cow and buffalo grazing routines. When in her good mood she would lift me on to buffalo back where I would cling for hours. The gentle beast would let me bully her except gruntling occassionally. She would keep her head down and I would listen to her shearing of grasses like a garden mower. Life in my village was almost regimented by the swing of the sun. Mama would get up at the wee hours and start her ordinary life. Go to the water pond with a peacher and a pail to fetch fresh water for everyone. On her way she would check that animals are at their places safe snd sound. She would feed fodder and talk to animals...passifying them. There would be long silence followed by a light footsteps at a distance. She would come in and I would hear tinkering of pail and bumping of water as she carefully picked it out. Then she would make fire staking the amber from last hearth. I would jump out of the bed and sit by the hearth listening to the popping of fire as it rage into flames. Mama would have already finished her morning house chore, shining rows of brass pails filled with fresh water. Its six in the morning and every one sat around the burning fire sipping tea discussing nights dream.

Actually by this moment i should be hitting the road towards badminton hall but some thing urged me to push WPS button on my galaxy...i pulledsummet blanket over my naked torso and srarted to hunt and peck on touch pad like an amatour.....the rush is unstopable and yet its threadless...its not the pain yet not the pleasure, its not the moment yet its not any time either....its not the intoxication yet not the air either. Its a common feeling yet deeply different that yours, its not the opposit of anything yet its not the same either...the wormth of the polyethylene is no where comforting than the wormth i owned from the skin i touched, the fan sounds so much different thoe its the same fan we took comfort...its not that i am missing you that is terrible but the pretension that i am not is desperate. The long cascading hairs sweeping my pleasure and the smooth wrilwind spirilling through, the cyrving arches perfecting Pathogaras geometry would but tempte the god of de-tempion....longing but natural crave that crushed and peeled me into a dot of nothingness is but too strong an emotion that i see u seductive as Aphrodiasc in prime. I know its the same in opposite face that you are trying hard.

Slowly the eastern horizon starts blushing as the tender beam of the sun kissed it with burning passion. I would come outside on the foyer and settle there wondering as the streak of sunlight escape angularly towards sky. Deema (granny) joins me with a basket of corn to feed the chickens. She would squat near me as she snapped corn out of the staff. In a moment, the basket would reap heap of corn to be thrown to the birds. I watched queriously. She would deligate anyone to open the shutter of the bird house. Like sprinters the birds would flutter out and surround Deema, cooing and cherping. She would throw corns on the ground. Before seeds get scattered around the birds would hunt and peck each grain in sheer competition. Before Deema empties her basket and the minute scales flew away...the birds disappeared towards the grasses. I would see roosters courting around and the smaller ones drinking water in the swarmpy drain. The sun finally blanket my village inch by inch I would watch the sand particles dancing in random symphony. Mama stood there dusting and sweeping the extention. The house yard was traingular and slippery with stones peaking roughly. The traditional pounding log (machine) stood there dilapitated as the rice huller in Gurasay took away the dehusking and grinding job. I grew up playing these traditional luxuries. My favorite was the grinding stones that elders rotated with ease. Our cloths all khaki turtle or long sleeve sweaters, hand woven hung on bamboo clothline. Bundles of paddy straws, baskets of squases and dried pumkins would make walls of stackes. Bhakta buaa (brother) was at his secondary level studies at Kanglung where my papa worked in Agriculture Department. His arrival at home would be an occasion. The biggest rooster would be cought for the dinner. Banga (uncle) from neighbour would be called for the butchering. With an easy slit by the sharpened khukuri would kill the bird. Quite an euthanistic excercise. The blood would be collected over the finest rice and the bird well dressed. The down feathers was burnt and cooked with the blood smeared rice which is a kind of delicacy. Known as waa-tshi-paa (burnt feather of a bird) would be served with home brewed rice alcohol. We would talk on subjects that just popped in from no where and he would be interviewed on his studies health and welbeing. Deewa would insist softly to him to get married but the other members would firecly protest. He should finish his studies in almost sync.

Right now I am desperately lying on my bed three-fouth naked and dangerously trying hard to boost my energy....not because I am lazy but I am doubly down with burning cold and smoking cough. Every nanometer of my body is moaning with cracking aches and tumbling pain. My torso is literaly on nuclear reaction but the monostrous irony is I am thermodynamically stable, in other words my energy level has dropped to ground zero. 'In thermodynamics a dead man is the most stable man...therefore, a man in comatose may be preparing for stability'. The law is everything tends to become stable because energy is like a 'goiter' hanging from a cephalothoric junture. If you are energitally at the top...you are heading towards diaster...energy is such a burden. The fever us such a charismatic company that it tends to put in ''time wrap' and teleport you to some knowingly unknown dimention. The drying of your lips, tongue going in a desertification spree and brain taking a gyroscopic spin are all but little too flat and tasteless.....it is but like munching on a silicon sandwich....the numbing pain is nostalgic to marathon run...and I am taking a stallion ride through the Kashmiri hills. I watched Amir Khan program in my android....and I awear I cried real big tears. It basically is about a lost childhood, sleeping in the slum with nothing but an open sky above and cold earth beneath...the child grows without realizing the meaning of papa and mama and yet these are the words he longs every moment in his run. Anonamously, in the stream of millions dissolving in the futile rush of metropolitian life he becomes a father. The tears of unquistioned thoughts bottled up in his chest syarts to spill out....he gazes at his daughter and silently vows to give her beautiful life......then she becomes. The call breaks my crying endeavour and my broher calls me for dinner. I have especially asked him for a soup which he did generously. Wowing in a china the supper let its seductive aroma profusly spotted with red chili jacket, ciliary greens and garlic pods. I took a pool of my evening grace which obviously flooded my GI track, from the tip of tongue to the J-joint in the stomach. I could feel the rush of concatination of orgsnic mixture in relatively high temperature, atoms and molecules tumbling and rubbing the mucosa membrane, which ofcourse is already sirated with the gush of punctured coughing. The feel was but acidic...then having finished this choir of tbe eve, I prepared another routine of injesting some pharmacutics which physician authored me. Capsules like the lunar lander took their adventure. Then the citrizene sniper followed by para-tabs. I purformed this rite with riligious dedication with a wish that I win this war sooner. Then I retired to my bed hopping 3G sufficently around but it seems like raindrops...I monitored my vitals...BP, temp, pulse and other relatives. All clear and good except I had to fight with my Son. I do not want to gift him my ailment right away and ask him politely to isolate me. The idea of quentining an olf man seemed too much in him so he insisted lying beside me. Its then the adrenal behaved and I parted him with slapping treat. Now he is at ground state and I am at guilt. Seems tonight is going to be uncomfortsble one for me for a sheer reason that mercury is still upping at tremendous vilocity...

As I repose my cranky skull on the soft, tendering and all welcoming pillow and try to drawn myself into the oblivion, there was this memory flash meteoring my monkey mind. I was proud then. That day we settled for the evening affair, some glued to TV soap, some busy with kitchen department. It was but usual ordinary evening. I sneaked out to recharge my voucher, casually in a pair of flipflops. The evening din set into a monotonous song of winterly ambience. The cycada and criket almost on their zineth while the kites that nest opposite to my window were flying in. Malencholic sky with ruddy red hem and dark lining hurried for nothing. We used to rent on an apartment at level 3 of a 4 storied building. Then I was lazing on the ground that I heard rumbling deep sound almost knocking my heart. I thought it was an earthing removing machine at its best. Suddenly, I saw everything was moving and ground beneath my foot shaking. The Earthquake......I do not know how I manuvered those staircases....I do not know how that burst of unknown energy came but I only remember thinking of my 6 month old daughter and 8 years son. This I credit to my adrenalin rush, as a hunter, the basic instinct of a man as a worrier and a protector of progeny. In a jiffy, I was in a paddy with two kids slinging at my arms. Then started all the commotion and the cacophony of paniking people....the tremor was one of the strongest. I collected my bata next day only. 

Its a total indulgence, total consumption, a total passion.....sitting outside in an open air around the raging fire....chit-chatting with friends over bottles and jokes of every genre...especially the cheesy ones pregnant with fatty inundoes.....its pitch dark and the chill is almost piercing like hypodermal needle through subcutinous world. 

My deema would frisk her Nepali style coat pocket and fish me 10 paise as my daily allowence to school. That aluminium coin with serrated edge use to have good bearing on me. I never thanked her for the allowane but I felt utterly happy. I would stick to that coin like a thief on his bounty and by the time I ran my way to school it would be warm and sweaty. If the school was yet on time I would run to Mr.Dahal for sweets. An old hairy man would miserly count ten balls of sweets mearly the size of bean seeds. That would be enough to sweeten my day....I would call on friends and share the sugary affairs buying their opinions. 

AAja malai kata kata kabita lekhnay rahar lagyo
Temro pratibimba ko tshari muni basi ek dui thopa aasu khasauna kar lagyo
AAtit ka deen samji mushkuraunu maan lagyo
Teeme sanga paal beetau chhu bhanay sapana lai chhuna rahar lagyo
Keena keena aaja malai temelai jiskauna maan lagyou
Hejo ka tee pal haru chati ma tasaunu maan lagyou
Temelay deeya ka tee kasam haru batshauna rahar lagyou
Tee temra lal patay ooth haru chumi teme sarmaya ka herna maan lagyo...
Lagchha malai temelay pari rahaya ka chhau mera sabda haur
Lagchha malai teme maan manai muskurai rahayaka chhau
Lagchha malai teme aangali rahaya ka chhau
Lagchha malai teme malai maya gari chhumi rahayaka chhau..
Keena keena aaja malai yesto lagi rahay chha....
Teme malai hari rahay ki chhau Jun ko Kiran bani....

Almost dilapidated C shaped mud wall building with about 10 square rooms, no standard ceiling, corrugated zinc sheet red and dull with rust, leaking like broken pipe with no drainage, no toilet facilities and no proper campus was staring at me with a surprise and awe. I sat on the wood slab at the edge of the undulating ground, furrowed forehead and deeply travelling back in time wrap. Then I saw myself with blue half pants with white shirt awkwardly tugged, wizzing down the trail through the vertical cliff, with sling bag hanging by my shoulder diagonally with slate and chalk few plums inside it. I would proudly catapult on bata flip-flop making some funny sound. I still freshly remember uprooting doob grass and playing football with it. Then football was luxury for us, lemon, citrus, some junglee fruits, dried radish, stuffed socks wrapped in spider net was the finest ball we would kick, or a ball or resign directly collected through rubber tree sap would function as another alternative. That was then. I saw the plants I planted, may be on social forestry day (don't know...forgotten long way back) have become arm full, thick in girth and tall in height. Time have changed everything. I imagine playing football (KGBSC=Khorshaney, Gopini, Bureechhu, Salami, Chirangdara, Semjong, Lapshibotay and Patalay). This was the time I learnt playing football with rules. We had coaching by our teachers and then made hero. Felt like David Bekhem in its own accord. Lifting Taksary trophy was the equivalent to the World Cup. Then I remember all the mischief we mastered be it looting orange orchard or untying village cattle, fist fighting or bullying. The most famous was making snare out of millet grass and put it at stealth. Anyone who is unseeing would trip over it and roar of laughter would resonate and yet sometime, this would lead into a duel fight. Mr. Dahal, the shopkeeper would tread sweets pallets for 10 paise. I would get my daily school allowance anything ranging from 5 to 25 paise from my granny. That would make my day brighter with sweetmeats, cookies or coconuts. I would pester my mama upon giving me money before I leave in the morning.....the allowance would come easy by blackmailing them; "otherwise I am not going to school". This school gave me millions. It gave me the light of education, gift of friendship, wisdom of value system and on top it gave me almost everything. I felt rain becoming harder, each drops pelting on my head. I realize getting up unwillingly from that slab, pull my strides which after a moment stopped....I look back. It is Salami Primary School, quietly sleeping at the chasm of time....old, un-cared and dying.

She stood at the trunk of the fig tree and gazed. In her hand she was clutching a piece of paper and was wondering about her endeavor. She was restless, anxious and dazed. There came a man who is the friend of her lover. She waved at him and with a smile she passed on that piece of paper to him. Tell my man not to fail me daju...she said. Ok baineeeeee, the man gave her a quick smile and walked out. It was Sunday, November 1974. The social structure at the village were still primitive and strict. They came from Rai families who are still supposed to be very traditional in their marriage. Village head man was the rule...every word he spoke ought to be taken. Girl child was protected and was given in marriage to a man of their consent. She was nervous about the evening when her man would be summoned for the acid test. She crossed her fingers and prayed. The sun slowly made his way to the horizon. It has become big ruddy and simmering. Red hue blanketed the sky while birds flew to their broods. She fetched water from the pond, closed the coo door for her chicken and went inside and waited. She sat on the threshold and expected.....A man of his age, tall slender, mustached and fashionable was preparing for the meet. In hara and neatly tugged cottons, he is but a handsome man, almost like Greek god. Mr. Shongbhen do not get nervous, says his friend Mr. Pradhan. Well, I am not, in slightly in-confidence retorts back. In a moment, two men were trailing the foot path, slightly hurrying, slightly skeptic and slightly hesitating. They walked through the tea garden, crossing brooks and Fagu khola with a long and rickety suspension. They walked up hill stoned steps, straight replica of the Mayan builders. Finally, their steps took last stride that they stood standing on the small grassed uneven court yard. Their host, a man of sixtys was sitting on a stool deeply enjoying his smoke. He got up folded his handa in response to the exchange of Seewaroos, Rai ways of greetings. A lady of in her fiftys came out from the house and greeted these lads, with a slightly doubting smile. They looked at each other. His most anticipated host was missing, he felt flat and taste less. His eyes roved and rolled, his friend caught the message instantly. They sat still, exchanging unattended conversations with their host with his mind constantly looking for the absentee. Almost by providence, an angelic persona in her late teens bubbled up with a tray of Darjeeling teas and Tibetan Cookies. Cascading hair, average build, Mongoloid eyes, apple cheeks and red chili lips. She is but more than beautiful....pleasant nature and charismatic voice. Please, have tea, she tries to present herself as much normally as possible but she obviously is shaky, nervous and excited. As she serves her guest, she catches his eyes, locks for a moment ans shys away. The old man queries their coming, where from and other pitties to drag this conversation......

I would imagine mid summer heat at Tsirang. Weather so lousy so lethargic that you would be opiated by the auxin in the air....the rustle of the grass blades, bending of new sprouts in the air, occasional whir wind in the dusty trail punctured by the continuous far cry of the cuckoo bird. From no where you would see a cotton ball being molested by the air, torn apart and each thread disappearing in nothingness....hot wind blows while the corn in green submits to wilting helplessly. She untiringly carries stack of timber and reed splits for fire-wood, on the typical Nepali bamboo basket referred to as Dokoo...its a vertical climb with load of ever increasing weight as you ascent the trail...I do not know what she would think while laboring these feats but now I understand that it was an unquestionable love for her husband and family. She wipes beads of never ending sweat from her forehead...she takes a long sigh as if to maintain her energy like a sprinter and she bends on. I watched her do this forever then. Nothing pained in me for a reason that I did not understand what life was...too young to deliberate my emotion. Now as a man heading midlife, I see the reasons to be painfully happy for myself that to have a Mama like mine....she was an orator, straight from Shakespeare. I never saw her weep though now I understand that she did it every moment of her youthful life. She bled in-fact. She would cherish me in her chest and call on me....I did not understand the pain then. She would give me her little finger to hold on and I did not understand what for, but now I am blissfully happy that because of her little finger I am what I am. She tendered me like a nurse sent from heaven.....then I did not know for what but when I watch my Son and Daughter grow up, I see the point....its so simple, simply love for your own. I can reproduce each smile and each word she commerced with me for my happiness......and I feel so lucky that I got her still smiling at me, when I need her the most. Mama, I love you beyond everything.

The utter suffocation, asphyxiation with sophisticated internal emotional Armageddon is nearly suicidal yet the facial countenance should betray this tragedy....sweetest form of irony.....to be expecting and hoping and seeing your love from the back as her hair flow on the air, her steps lengthening in strides and the space and distance growing in between you is killing, the most beloved sweet love becoming more stranger as she moves forward, the most intimate body becoming more and more blurring and smaller dissolving in the horizon, the ocean of unspoken words, universe in itself would become heavier taller with time...finally, snapping and burning two worlds with a single flare, that undeniable amber, ruthless raze consuming you into a void....the incidental karmic symphony orchestrated by the divine providence that we call probability. I think the god is a good mathematician but a bad physicist....because what he makes never last long enough.......

He stood there....his gho groomed like unseasoned barber scessoring median's cascading lock....poor man I sympathized.I stride little closer and out of common fondness I extended my greeting. Hi he said indifferently and with diluted emotion. We spoke many a thing of petty matters.....I noticed tonal sadness and physical stress in him. He smoked and chewed and drank. I fixed myself in his un-typical social display. So inquired on his health. I got the same involuntary answer all of us are use to. I am good while obvious like a giant. Then I cannoned him with the most typical question of Bhutanese conversation....man how is your wife? With little discomfort and constipated countenance he shifted a little. He soloed at gluttol husk....we divorced....I could not but believe less n I shouted at low pitched note....what? He continued.....with little resistance and more machinacle accent. He did not blamed his wife but took all the burden of guilt unto himself...he said' just a little human mistake i made.....to hold a hand of a beauty at my work place and it became ocean of reasons for my wife to burn our 15 years of nuptial abundance.....he said, i made that mistake.....and she made hers. He tried to stop his internal tsunami but it metamorphised into a volcano of loud wealing.....out of drawning tears and salt I could just hear......my children.....my kids. Forever.....he swallowed a big gulp of tears....rubbed his nose.....cranked his alto and drove away. I stood there...

Love at Taxi Stand....

She held her hand and looked deep inside his eyes, he shifted his glance...may be to avoid this thundering emotion gushing and avalanching his inner world. She lifted his hand and felt on her cheek...reposing on her bloosms......I stole their moment silently...not even feeling guilty of sharing my part of sensitivity. The moment intensified into larger meaning. The pairs are defined in heaven....I nearly started to believe this oximoron. They were obviously of same everything, except for biological opposits. The man of thin stature in black gho....sanwitched in between puberty and a full fledged ram....slightly confused but all up to his age. He leaned on the dusty wall of time....wanting his moment to last eternity. She was fully dernched in her beloved's departure....may be not that long yet equally lonely. I saw tears in her eyes.....most probably she blurred that image just to drink sweet pain of her first love....so intensely poignant.....she stood medium space...thin and fair....just inundated by few menstural agony...still upping into her virginity....the conction of hormones configuring their chemistry. Only this time the oxytoxin barometer rose beyond red line. The wizard at maddening magnitute. They mumbled unwilling to shear into entities of direction. She snuggled in his chest....unfluring her knotted passion. He surrendered and clenced her tightly as if nevrr to let her.....the warmth of heat welled....they lulled into this moment and phoenixed into carnal rush....consuming themselves into unawaerness of the ambience. They kissed and touched and dissolved into the aura of love.....raising and falling into the void of departure.....the taxi gave a diabolical honk....he gravitated away from his inconsolable juliet. He held her for a moment.....devouring minutae of the feelings....just to carry on. She remained ruddy red....drinking salty pearl. I do not know what went in their separating moment but I saw through my blurrng eyes that she stood weaving to the back of that sedan....I collected my hazey envision slurring myself into another taxi.....I left her standing inanimated and sobbing...........

...... I started my schooling from young age, by the standard of my contemporaries in eighties. Then I was the smallest and hopefully cutest as well...I do not much know about this but I was smart. Had to walk the village trail up to 20 minutes downhill but then it was a matter of long hours....just unwilling to school or on a spree of counting steps, making wind fan out of ficus leaves or bamboo clums.....or into some Makavitie's mischiefs.......I would rush like April wind, slinging a bad full of white chalk and slate....blue half pant with buttons dropping, half sleeved shirt tugged, belted and groomed. Flipping bata No.3 small, flip-flops with improvised holder..... Parted hair almost drenched in Mustard......smelling like Keralite.....that day was very interesting and it remained in my mind like my birthday.....not much I remember about the chore...but it simply is one of the incidents that trickles my funny bones...makes me wonder and is a big blaster......My mother remembers me coming home in style that day, in a gorgeous way in its own accord, much like a boy after getting his wishful toys in the market.....when I reached my mama, she gasped and got shock of her life....she just burst into laughter and i still remember her laughing her heart away.....loudest of all times.....then joined the symphony of this particular laughter by my chhana (aunty) and deema (grandmother)...I just got stuck in this perplexed atmosphere. Now I understand that "that day I went to school wearing my aunty's BLOUSE"!!!!

I know u de-slumber from the sweetest oblivion in the darkest night n hold on me....between the sheets u long unto my meditation....nakedness of your soul and emptyness of the state chewing every conscious memory of me and you....like an emotional pathogen paralizing u into a restless vegitable. U cry u laugh n like a child unwilling through muddy water or a wet ground. Then I carry u on my shoulders....through your divided contemplation into a Nirvana. Then u close your eyes.....

( On Dicovery of Gravity)

Today as I pulled myself from in-between the sheets, I remembered a popular Nepali story from Class 4. 'Malii n Phursi' the gardener n the oak tree....in the story the gardener one day sits under the big oak tree opiated by the sun at the zenith, lulling n dozing off, contemplating the imperfectness of the creater....the tree is huge but the fruit is tiny whereas pumkin has tiny plant and bears a huge fruit....he laughs, contempts n calculates......' he says it should have been opposite'. In a moment, the acron falls off the tree n hits n smacks his nose. Then he realizes 'what if pumkin'.....my discerment of this man is 'Sir Issac Newton discovered Gravity after a falling apple from a tree hammers his head....this lousy Nepali could have discovered Gravity epoch before Newton if he had not argued with god and thought mathematically.........the acron fell right on his nose, what the hell he thought then.......hahahahaha

I m sitting in the foyer, on the chair in slightly odd position....my legs are flying high on the fence....otherwise vulgar in a sense. The night is maturing like a median in her puberty.....pitch dark yet mellow n ripened. The bulbs and tubes, incandiscent glowing like the fireflies delivers u of kneejerking frission....the delight of the happening night. Its raining here....and i see the rain drops twinkling in the lamp, like a shooting stars they disappear in the dark. The tiny droplets of rain, bullied by the buzzing gush land on my screen...then they enliven into the crystals of rainbows.....hue of colours intimidating the momentary lust. The chilly north escorting the unespected rush bites on my birthday suites....the tiny hairs stand on anticipatation...millions of goose bumps mushrooming around....the feelings so intense it combusts the lone heart charring into the pyre of sombar shadow in a smudge. Then she dances, the entity of my love....magical ether who touched me just few sunrises back....i feast on her curves n cascading falls....rising peaks and buldging rolles...like an Arabian dunes and the pacific waves...seamlessly rippling in her own beauty. The gaze flows as far as it may....dissolves into itself...evolves and flies....like billions of barnacles....zillions of floaters....just to thaw into nothingness. She stares at me.....from faraway...extends her hope....dreadfully aware of the moment.........Sunna Nee the dream that came n the dream that went.......she stood.....she clung she cleave like the clapper....i resonated, i echoed into utopic persona.....the buddha in her love, the karmic nirvana.

There is this sexy, inviting, appealing n beautiful thing called time. She got married to a rough known as space and had notorously unpredictable child....infinity. He got married to a great great great grandfather of time of time. The probability. Before big bang there was no question of time and space. If time and space did not exist, nothing would ever but this probability was there. Its this probability that bigbanged.....now, these are non physical quantities say if u will. Only non physical quantities have negatives....what is the negative of time n space...infinity and probability....i know god is still working on it....and he is utterly confused......if Albert Eainstine was still alive, I m sure he would have proven his own E=MC squired totally screwed. Sthipen Hawkins should talk to god on his work or Cantor must leave his grave.....waiting for universal one bullet that will shoot time, space, probability N infinity....nauscience in my little mind.

I pretended not to see her, I presented not to hear her but I was all there with her just doing that. She opened her small plastic back pack with lots of cutleries, gas stoves, gas cylinders, sauce-pan, spoons, chopsticks, forks, cups, jugs and just everything that we have in our standard kitchen. She seems to be fully involved and consumed in what she innocently is doing. She took a basket and few pieces of white papers squarely cut for bills and went shopping. Her shopping list, potatoes, cucumber, tomatoes, chilies, greens and some rice. She returns sooner than she left from the door fully satisfied with her groceries. She settles down and starts washing dishes exactly like her mother in the kitchen. Scrubber with a dab of detergent neatly doing her dishes, her small hands and fingers dancing around.....she stacks her dishes and starts cooking for all of us. There goes her rice, there she prepares curry, there she has salads but all in ghost forms. Finally, she kneels and starts serving her talent. This is for papa, this is for mama, this if for bua, this is for banga, this is for sisik, this is for chhana, this is for chhua.......then she comes around with second servings, water, salt....the meal is done to its full grace. This is the first time I as a papa played cooking game (Bhara-kuti) with my daughter (Yumma Shongbhen Rai) and I fully enjoyed the moment. It was of-course, a very touching moment for me to see her milestone, learning and sharing her day to today life activities. It is but heaven.