Landing In Nepal

I had met Zuze maybe three times before this trip. There are no actual names in this story- my friends don’t seem to care about the real stuff. So, as I was saying, it was Zuze’s wedding we were all attending in Nepal. He was marrying his childhood sweetheart- whose name evades me right now. The wedding was to be in Kathmandu- a three day event, after which some of us were going to go exploring other parts of the country for a week.

There were many people flying down from many places for this wedding- Calcutta, Assam, Bombay, Bangalore and Chennai to be precise. Everyone in their late 20s mostly, some married, some not. And everyone knew everyone else- besides me. I was the new entry. We were seven of us flying down from Bombay. We met at the airport and took our connecting flight to Delhi.

Delhi airport. Had a layover of about three hours. Time to kill and what better way to do that than to stuff our faces with food.

One hour later. The announcement. Over the airport intercom.

“An unidentified blue bag has been found near the Subway counter. Could the owner please come collect it.” Heads whip up, Tuktuk and I are scrambling to the counter, and in Mission Impossible fashion I land knees first in front of my bag.

Tuktuk, the beautiful boy of our group, who had courteously offered to carry one of my bags happened to leave it for over half an hour unattended, outside the Subway counter while we munched on our food in the waiting room, blissfully unaware of the missing luggage. That’s till the blasted announcement.

“You idiot! You left my bag here!” While I’m on the floor, busy spewing expletives at the beautiful boy, three suspiciously official looking men surround us. They might have waited a while, hoping for some acknowledgement of their presence. I gave none because I seemed to think it was imperative I shower all my attention on the beautiful boy.

“Uh-mm! Madam, bag me kya hai?”

Now I look up, taking in their batons, their rifles and their badges, in that order. I stammer that it just has clothes, nothing else. They didn’t seem to give two hoots about my pretty-girl-in-distress look.

“Madam, bag ko kholo.”

“Because of you, they think I have a bomb in the bag!” My voice rings loud and clear, I turn to Tuktuk and I see the boy prancing like a young gazelle.

“Don’t say bomb, don’t say bomb!” he wails.

A few feet away, the remaining five of our traveling party seemed to be having a whale of a time, cokes in hand. I was given to understand later that a boy doing the fire dance around a squatting, screaming woman with her head in her bag isn’t an everyday phenomenon at the airport. We seem to have hiked sales that day at the Subway station.

Coming back to the story, it turns out the official looking men were official men. They saw skirts and spaghetti tops spilling out of the bag, realized that we were indeed two stupid commuters wasting their time and they sent us on our way, terse warning in toe.

All well that ends well, they say. Despite the bomb scare, the rest of the journey was pretty uneventful. I had only two pieces of hand luggage and I hung on to them for dear life till the airhostess kindly, yet firmly took them from me and deposited them in the overhead bin. We made it to Kathmandu after a five hour journey from Delhi, I got my bags out and then had my laugh for the day because no international journey could be complete without bags being lost in transit. Only this time, it was the checked-in baggage of every passenger on our flight.

There was nothing else we could do. We were asked to come back the next day, and hopefully the airport authorities would have located the missing bags by then. By the time we got out of the airport and made it to our hotel, it had been three hours since we had landed. An evening meal and cold shower later, we found ourselves on the terrace of our hotel, taking in the sight of Kathmandu for the first time without any distraction, barring the beers that were yet to be opened.

We had finally landed in Nepal.

One Step Back

It felt like home. At last. He caressed the guitar like the body of his lover; the touch slight, the anticipation real, the tremor mounting as he awaited her response. It had been so long, too long. Why had he left it, and what for? What had he achieved so great it warranted his giving up playing?

He clenched his fist and let the emotion wash over him. Those days of obliviousness of the big, bad world. Just khadi kurtas, torn jeans, guitar and the gang. The man of the hour, the master of his world, those hours of fame.... everyday for four years. And then came the promise.

"I shouldn't have done it. I shouldn't have given in. I should have listened to Aditya and opted out of it."

He cursed softly. It was too late. Surya was dead, Mridul in another country, Gem still refused to talk about it.

"We grew up, that's what happened." He laughed bitterly. "We grew up in one fuckin' day." He drew blood. He absently looked at the lone drop on the white carpet and then at the string he had run his finger on.

Each drop seered through him. He stumbled back and fell against the wooden chair. Like the splatter of an inkpen on a Monday morning shirt, red drew a pattern on his otherwise bland shirt- dark, real and final. He felt the heat on his face, the warmth on his eyelid as the drop trickled down his nose.

The man fell limp in a second. They scrambled out, skipped the stairs, in a hurry to resume their boring existence with blood on their hands.

He looked at Surya. He looked at the unconscious man beside him. Someone uttered a wail. Mridul clutched his hand, then moved forward. She calmly took out her phone. "Mein Jamshed College se bol raheein hoon. Mere dost ko kuch logon ne mar dala. Ek aur aadmi zakhmi hai. Science Wing, Classroom 27."

Gem fell on her knees, grabbed Surya's shirt in her hands and let the anguish engulf her as she felt his lifeless body. "Aaaaaaaaaaah!! Aaaaaaah!" Sobs racked her frame and she let her head drop on the chest that had been her sanctuary, her safe haven till five minutes ago.

The stranger groaned. Mridul moved to towards him as if in a daze, put his head on her lap and pressed down on the gaping wound with her jacket.

He stood watching. Aditya had told him. If only. If only he had stayed away, stayed in class. Not rounded them up. Not convinced them to make up his audience for the new song.

The riots had started two days ago. In the melting pot of culture that Bombay was, anger and hate had been slowly brewing…simmering, and had now scalded those had tried vainly to reduce the flame. Maharashtra seemed to jar against the frame of the country, metamorphosing 'us' into 'you and me'.

College was different. Emphatically, vainly they denied it. Not college, not our college. Maharashtrians vs North Indians! Now, that was laughable. Liberals, free-thinkers, philosophers, modernists, those are how distinctions were made. Faint lines are drawn between free trade supporters and protectionists, between Pink Floyd and Beatles fans- lines easily drawn and easily erased. Not this time though. This time dots were connected discreetly between groups.

“Dragging Amitabh into the mess is a hoot man!” Surya laughed as he read the day’s headlines. “Seriously! Bollywood practically revolves around the man, but of course the man needs to do MORE for the fuckin’ state!”

“I don’t know, u know.” Gem was scribbling with chalk on the blackboard already filled with physics lecture notes. “I mean I agree with you, but there are tons of people who would disagree. Heard someone today say Maharashtrians should be given preference for certain jobs atleast. Quota system of some sorts.”

“Right of course! Then why have soldiers fight for the country? Why not have Gujarati soldiers for Gujarat, Bengali soldiers for West Bengal, Tamil soldiers for Tamil Nadu?” Mridul quivered with emotion. “Stupid shit. Can’t believe people are beating each other over this crap.”

Fly by me with all you got
I ain’t gonna leave you just yet
Took the strength of David to see me through
Took the mind of the Devil to get me back
You said you cared, you said you loved me
I ain’t gonna leave you just yet

He barely heard them at all. Needed to complete his song. “This verse needs to fit better.” He was muttering to himself.

“He’s lost again!” Surya threw a piece of chalk at him.

“Hey, piece of shit,” he was laughing now.

“Your half Maharashtrian aren’t you? Any two cents worth? Or is music all you choose to talk about?”

Things hadn’t been going too good on that front. There had been an ugly debate over the issue just last night over dinner. As usual conversation steered towards the day’s news and dad who usually busied himself with eating and throwing compliments in mom’s direction, this time calmly stated Raj Thackeray was right in supporting his people. He was flabbergasted. “Hell no. No way dad supported that mad man.” “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dad looked up, the rice ball still balancing on his fingers. “Well, he’s a leader. He’ll do what’s best for his people, that’s all,” he said shrugging his shoulders. “But he’s segregating dad! Creating unnecessary animosity, all for popularity, for bloody MNS votes!” Dad laughed, in that patronizing way he does when he’s about to embark on a long speech. “Of course he’s doing it for the votes! I’m not denying that at all. But if you keep that aside for the time-being, his decision to focus on the Marathi manus.....

He knew he was clutching at straws. Guilt gnawed at him and threatened to leave a permanent scar. It was so many years ago, and it felt like yesterday.

"Goddammit. It's over. This is me now. A new man, a new life." His jawline jutted out, like it always does when he grinds his teeth in resolve. He rang the bell, little knowing that the whimsical hand of fate had brought him back to history's doorstep.

“Ma, an uncle has come. He says he wants to meet you”. The pattering of footsteps and he sees shiny black shoes of a ten year old disappear into the dark interiors of the house. Impatiently, he taps his feet. This shouldn’t take more than half an hour. He had the money, he needed the place for exactly six months and then he was a free man.

Footsteps again, heavier, lazier, and then a searing pain. The pain of seeing a familiar face you intended to forget. The pain of many years of anguish and denial being sucked into a single glance.

Gem’s hand stopped in midair. Her crumpled pallu still in her hand, two inches from her forehead, from the beads of sweat she had intended to wipe away. They now luxuriously traced a path down her temple. Two feet away, another halt in motion, this time just off the ground, because his foot had to abruptly stop its impatient dance. It stood there, as though waiting for a cue, balancing precariously on its heel, toes itching to touch the ground again. How long did the clock tick before child comes between two adults struggling to forget?

“Ma, can I go to play? I’ve finished my homework. I promise, right hand swear!”

Tugging of the pallu, and the spell is broken. Shock reroutes into maternal duty.

“Come back in half an hour ok? Dinner will be ready”.

“I didn’t know. I was told there was a vacant room in plot number 27. You have a son.” Toes touch the ground, pallu reaches face.

“Yes, Neil. He’s 8.” She gestures, he follows her inside.

The smell of old wood, garnished with the whiff of brewing curry plays havoc with his mind. God, it had been so long since he’d been back. Back to the neighborhood he had once known so well.

“You need a place to rent? When did you come back? How long are you..?” So many questions…so many questions. Where to begin?

“I’m a guest lecturer at National College. I teach Anthropology. I’m in India for 6 months, working on my thesis. I was looking for a place to rent…..” Again a pause.

“How are you Gem?"

“As I should be. Neil keeps me occupied. I meet the others, not as often as I would like. Ajit and Kavita are bankers now. Aditya works with Times Of India. I haven't met Mridul in 5 years.”

“Where's your husband?”

“Neil’s father. He died. 8 years ago.”

8 years ago. 8 years ago. 8 years ago. A hollow echo reverberates inside him. An echo that had its roots 8 years ago when the walls of a classroom shook as a bullet found a better home in someone's pulsating heart.
(...still a work in progesss)

Rite Of Passage Into Africa

 “I think I’m going to go to Africa.”

The heads of my two girlfriends jerked up and that was the end of our study session that day.

It was the last month of the semester- December 2006 to be precise and while everyone else in my batch still had one more semester to complete their final year, this was my last term. The most meticulous planner of the century was graduating a semester early.

So when December came around and I still had no job in hand…and none in the bush, I considered it a sign, did some introspection and decided I should give up looking for a job and travel for some time. Like three months in Africa. It would make for the perfect coming of age experience.

My girlfriends recovered fast after their initial shock. After all, three years of staying with a mentally deranged person like me, and shock value greatly dissipates.
Three months of waitressing later, tickets, visa and immunization shots in place, I was plane-bound to Uganda on the 29th of March 2007.

I had done my senior thesis on the role of students in microfinance, and figured Uganda would be a good place to volunteer with a grassroot level microfinance institution (MFI). A kind professor in college suggested I stay with his family while I was in Kampala. I jumped at the offer.

I reach Uganda- hot, tired, sweaty yet superbly excited. I was here! I was here! I was staying with the Muhairwe family. They came to pick me up- really wonderful people. They introduced me to their friends and colleagues and told them I was interested in working with an MFI. They set me up with the Uganda Agency For Development and thus I began my one month stint with them. I worked with microfinance clients, visited their homes in the outskirts of the city, picked up some of the local language, met cattle raisers and local teachers and weavers and pig owners- all MFI clients and all happy to have a muzungu in their midst. Muzungu is the local word for ‘foreigner’ and because my skin color was lighter than that of Africans and most Indians there, and I was sporting a really short hair cut, most people took me for a Spanish or Central American damsel. They were clearly excited to see me. Foreigners mean money. Unfortunately for them, there were no gold coins, or even copper ones flowing out of my pockets.

I had decided before my trip that when in Uganda, I would do as the Ugandans do. I watched local news, attended a local wedding, went for my first mass, traveled in public transportation, made local friends and hung out in local joints. I picked up bits and pieces of the local language, handled pickpocketers with ease and was just as comfortable with banana dishes for breakfast, lunch and dinner as I would have been with dal and rice at home.

After one month in UGAFODE, I got wind of a microfinance rating agency looking for interns. They would pay in Euros and I could do with some money at that point. How I hated that job.

I sat pouring over balance sheets seeing which MFIs broke even, which had long term goals, which ones should be rated against what criteria. Besides this, I was also given a lot of administrative and filing work to do- the quintessence of being an intern. I spent a month doing what I did until one day, I got talking with a radio journalist, Anita Mago, while waiting at the Licensing Department for Motor Vehicles. She told me about how she had adopted a village in the district of Masaka and she was trying to implement the Millennium Goals there.

Now, while I wouldn’t recommend you believe everything strangers tell you, being an economics graduate who had been heavily involved in developmental studies, the mention of Millennium Goals made me go weak in my knees. I had to stay in touch with this lady.

We met a few times again and decided I would accompany her the next time she returned to Masaka. Two weeks later, I said sayonara to my employees, packed my bags and was on my way to a remote village. I spent a week there working with Anita, helping her with her interviews and documentation. She was my mentor, friend, translator, everything mixed into one. We stayed in less than modest accommodation- there was no running water, there was no fan, I shat in a 6 feet deep pit latrine everyday and popped a malaria tablet a day to keep the illness at bay.

But Masaka was an eye opening experience. The village school had holes in the wall for windows but no money for the windows, plants were dying of disease here while thriving in the neighboring village. Why? Because there was no communication between the two on the benefits of plant grafting. Water to cook, clean and drink came from stagnant water so entrenched in filth that I was astounded as to how virulent the immunity systems of the villagers must be. Many of them had never seen a movie in their life. On our last day, after a village meeting, we set up a projector screen, waited till the sun went down at seven and played The God Must Be Crazy for everyone to watch. What an experience that was! The old, the young- man, woman and child, everyone sat glued to the screen, most of them experiencing cinema for the first time in their life.

It had barely been two days since my return to Kampala when I got the opportunity to travel almost immediately to Mbarara, a small town close to the capital. My host family knew someone there who was working with MFI clients and was willing to take me around. I spent another week and a half there, this time with many more views and opinions because I was still riding the wave from my Masaka trip. I learned that cooperative banks were set up without any concept of checking versus savings accounts. People put all their money into a single fund which could be accessed by the head accountant alone. As expected, in one case the head accountant withdrew all the money and ran away.

I don’t pride myself on my banking knowledge at all, but when I suggested that there be two accounts per person, one personal and the other cooperative, such that the later required two signatures- that of the account holder and head accountant, people looked at me like I’d cracked the biggest puzzle of all. I, on the other hand, had simply told them about a system we take for granted in the city.

Despite all this however, if there’s one thing I learned during my stay in Uganda and particularly outside the city, it’s the power of resilience. I was surprised how in any environment, no matter how reprehensible to live in, people were making it work everyday. They found ways of being enterprising and resourceful with whatever little they had. One way or the other, they scrounged for food and shelter and managed- albeit just barely. But they did this, day after day after day.

On a personal level, there is so much I learnt about another culture and myself during my three months in Uganda, that I consider my time there a rite of passage. Ripe out of college, brimming with dreams, ideals and expectations, I see now in retrospect, what a fertile ground Uganda had been for my personal development. I was accepted into a new cultural fabric with such ease and warmth, that it humbles me till date. Mostly though, my short stint in Africa ignited the fire in my belly to go on another exploration quest. Which I hope to do soon. Now, talking about belly, how about that rice and dal?