Stone Soup Pictures

Resurrection, perhaps?

2011-05-26T12:10:00.000+05:30

This blog has remained dormant for some time now. I had written about my trip to Jaipur, but never had the heart to post them online--it all seemed pointless, and I was getting tired of sounding vacuous to myself.

But, I have to keep the blog alive. Hence this post.

I am in the process of completing two screenplays for Resh Marhatta, called Roots and Yatra respectively. They will most likely go into production sometime in July, and finish principal shooting by the end of September. It feels good to know that two movies will be shot and completed simultaneously, and possibly be out in the theaters within the year. Simosh Sunuwar will direct both of these movies being shot in the US.

After that, I will start work on a script based on Soham Dhakal's idea.

And I am trying to get published in a book form--a collection of short stories. Fingers crossed that it will happen within the year. That would be real nice. But getting published is a long, laborious process, so you never know.

See you around.

Sugar Heart...

2011-01-18T14:49:00.000+05:30

Sugar Heart BP Thyroid...

I saw the "Sugar Heart" part first, in beautiful red type. I pondered it for a while, before seeing the rest. While it was only Sugar Heart, in the heart of Old Delhi, it had a different meaning. Then I saw a man in the next shop: the caricature ofthe obese Indian sweetmeats shopkeeper. Sugar Heart BP Thyroid...

(10 AM) Breakfast: 2pcs Tibetan bread, butter tea, omlette.
1st drink: A glass of water at the Gurudwara Sahib near the metro station
2nd drink: Fruit juice from a Sardarji's stall in Chandani Chowk
Lunch: Beef Biryani and Kadahi Chicken
3rd Drink: Vegetable Juice

time now: 2:30 PM

Delhi is positively hot right now. I desperately need a place to pee, and perhaps to sit and sip on something cold, preferably something that is not a non-alcoholic apple beer from Kashmir.

The highlight of the day so far has been seeing a patch of sunlight through a door and straying in. A man was sunning himself in what is now a courtyard, but was once a house of magnificance beyong words. It was built by Aurengjeb, the old man living there told me. I believe him: the brass gate, the alabaster pillars some standing and some fallen, a pool carved of alabaster, a raised dias of alabaster, delicate lattice over windows that were once the screen between the jenana and the main courtyard--the workmanship, the aesthetic, the very architectural life of the place belied its erstwhile glory.

The alabaster pool, the old man told me, used to be filled with the sacred threads of the Hindus vanquished by Aurengjeb, being forcefully converted to Islam. Apaprently, the women of his harem, his concubines and his consorts sat behind the lattice purdah and, as Aurengjeb fed hte "newly converted" muslims, said:

"hinduon ko sataya jaa rahaa hai...
"pakorey barsaya jaa rahaa hai"

Next was the Jame Masjid. Photo will be posted later.
A kid was hagglign with an old man over the price of mango toffees: mango juice reduced and cut into cubes. Before I could communicate to the old man that I would buy the candy for the kid, the kid was gone. So, I had to eat the candies. Um, yum, yum.

Boys on roofs were kite-fighting and training their piegons, but I got yelled at by an old man for taking pictures of the roofs. So much for tehjeeb.

Just outside the Chandani Chowk metro station is a tent-house for the homeless, called "Begharon ka Ghar," home for the homeless. They were being given food when I got there. An enthusiastic man over-heaped a hungry man's plate. The supervisor yelled: "Where will you put the vegetables? In your ass?" "Terey gaand mein rakhkhega sabji?"

A man had dolls made of fine rubber and silk, Rs 20 each pair, barely 3" tall. They would jump in the air, kiss each other, come closer, go apart, sleep, awake, dance. I was mesmerized. Magnetc, definitely, and some sort of remote switch. But all for only INRS 20. Awsome. He wouldn't tell anyone how the dolls worked. He just sat there, legs folded, immobile. I tried to video-tape it, but he stopped the game. He wouldn't explain anything unless someone bought a pair of dolls.

Someone bout a pair. The trick was very simple: he had the finest black thread running through the heads of the dolls, which then had to be hungon a line. Tugging the line a little made them dance. Simple wire-fu. Made me wonder if this was an old art form, or if he had invented itwith the thinbnest, strong nylon available. Because, it was impossible to see the thread, in broad daylight, albeit in the shade. Nevertheless, I was very impressed.

I have to get hte cyber to break a Rs 500 note. Lets see if this works. I think I owe about Rs 20.

Majnu ka Tila

2011-01-18T09:37:00.000+05:30

हम मजनू का टीलामें ठहेरे हुए हैं . वोंग्दें हाउस नामका तिबेटी होटल में हैं . परसों जयपुर को रवाना होंगे . रस्ते से ब्लॉग्गिंग करेंगे शायद . आज का दिन फोटो भी लेंगे बहुत सारे , खाना के होंगे ज्यादातर . माफ़ कीजियेगा अगर आपको बहुत भूख लगे .

I am in Delhi, Majnu ka Tila, the New Tibetan Refugee Colony, on my way to Jaipur. I think I will spend the day eating. Last night's meal was also fantastic: lungs, garlic beef, shyakpa, tingmo, rice. When I started eating, I was wondering if we [Suvani, Pranab, Self] hadn't ordered too much. We hadn't. Pigged out royally. Just typing about it now is making me hungry, so I must go and attend to the animal need.

Delhi is warm! The taxi driver last night was bundled up in a shawl, shivering, sick--he admitted--and laughing on the phone with his friend that he had been sentenced to death--मरवा दिया, यार!--because he had to drive out for an hour and half from the airport. But the air outside was balmy, if anything. It was the fog, or the smog, or the smoke belched out by massive power-station kilns along the road that made the city look less warm than it really is. Right now, it is sunny outside. The Jamuna is but a dirty ditch behind the hotel, and my fingers aren't shivering as I type. A big and much appreciated difference between Delhi and Kathmandu.

I did not want to blog about this trip--what is the point in writing about every little thing that happens to ME! and every little thing I see and everything that gladdens and saddens me?

But, I do know there are a couple of people who still wish I would post more frequently on this blog. So--Kasnatscheewa, Maden, Furber, Whyte, Dang, Moitra--if you are reading, this is for you.

Pranab Raj Lohani gets his ball and chain

2010-11-19T14:22:00.000+05:30

Notorious Play-Baboon of Kathmandu, San Francisco and New York City, Mr. Pranab Raj Lohani, is finally settling down, breaking many a heart around the globe.

All y'all in Kathmandu that know of this hunk of hirsute virility are invited. Much fun will be had, and those of you mountain goats unable to make it here will be much missed. Because much fun will be had. By those of us here. Hell yeah!

Come to Patan this weekend!

2010-10-27T11:30:00.000+05:30

Planet Nepal festival organized by Alliance Francaise काठमांडू.

awesomeness galore!

http://www.photocircle.com.np/?p=319

New Addiction

2010-09-07T13:20:00.000+05:30

Pulling out nose hair. The more painful, the better. Makes me cry bitter tears? Awesome.

It is actually quite addicting.

Eenjwaay.

A line of "dialogue"

2010-09-02T15:53:00.000+05:30

This is a line I found in one of my scripts, a teenage romance type. In it, a McLovin character says to his friend:

"Stop it! It is time to shave that beard off the face your heart, remember? Now let it fly, boy!"

I think that one sentence will be translated as:

"चुप! अब तेरो दिलको अनुहारबाट ट्रेजेडीको दाह्री खौरने बेला भयो, बिर्सीस? ल, अब उड़ाईदे (चंगा) !"

I really want this movie to be made. It is full of masala. It is young and fun. Really, really hope it gets made soon enough.

Hari Bansha-- a new joke

2010-08-31T17:05:00.000+05:30

Bhushan just told us an urban legend, outrageously funny about Haribansha Acharya. He is one half of the MaHa comedy duo.

Apparently, there was a time when he couldn't go to people's funerals, because whenever he showed up, regardless of the gravity of the situation, people laughed uncontrollably.

NT and I laughed uncontrollably when we heard that.

Innit?

2010-08-31T13:49:00.000+05:30

Some kind soul compiled and translated few "Check Please" skits from Goodness Gracious Me.

YouTube - Goodness Gracious Me - Check Please

I think this is how most men feel in the inside when they meet a new woman.

Nepalnews coverage

2010-08-28T15:34:00.001+05:30

Briefly, the news about Kohi ... Mero became the headline news on www.nepalnews.com
http://www.nepalnews.com/main/index.php/news-archive/8-news-in-brief/8714-kohi-mero-released.html

Kohi ... Mero response

2010-08-28T13:21:00.000+05:30

कोही ... मेरो फिल्मको समीक्षा / समालोचना आउन थालेको छ . अहिले सम्मा सबै रीव्यु नराम्रै छन . सबैले फिल्मको कथा नै नराम्रो छ भनेका छन .

Kohi... Mero premiered yesterday. I inadvertently spent the entire day outside the box-office at Jai Nepal: I was waiting for a friend, it was raining, he was waiting for somebody else not very far from the theater, etc. I was also keeping an eye on the ticket sales by checking how many seats had sold in each section.

I met Akhtar Husain, a semi-precious stones and jewelry seller from Ajmer, Rajasthan. He foisted a ring unto me and made my wallet lighter by NRs 560, and will be coming to Jai Nepal at 6 PM today to sell me a Pukhraj, which is a yellow stone [yellow sapphire]: basically, a piece of silicon crystal latticed with a metal oxide. He says I'll have to pay some 3.5K for it. Why? I don't know. But it is Ramdan, a month when Muslims are supposed to do good, and expect Allah to be generous to them.

Kohi Mero releasing on Friday, 27 August

2010-08-23T16:06:00.000+05:30

कोही मेरो भन्ने चलचित्र बल्ल रिलीज हुँदै छ | खूब धुक-चुक भएको थियो--रिलीज होला, नहोला पत्तो थिएन | अब चाहीं पक्का भए जस्तो छ | म मेरा साथिहरुसंग यही शनिबार बेलुका जय नेपाल जांदी छू फिलिम हेर्न | ठुलो कबीला होला जस्तो छाँट काँट छ | आजै बीस जना पुगे | शनिबार सम्म पुग्लन अर्को बीस | चालीस जना भए पछि त हलै थर्काऊने हो |

Kohi...Mero is releasing this Friday, with a press show at 8 AM--a very bad idea, all of my journalist friends say, because nobody wants to come to Jai Nepal at 8 AM on Friday just because it is a free show. Most people work extra hard on Thursday nights to get the magazine/weekend edition out the next morning, so it is unreasonable to expect they will come. But, that is what the producers have decided.

There is also a press meet tonight [Monday night] in Baneshwor. I haven't been able to convince *any* of my journalist friends to come--they are calling it a non-event.

The true event will be on Saturday, at 6PM, at Jai Nepal. I am trying hard to get some 30-40 tickets for the movie. Going the inside route. So far, they've pulled the red-tape on the program: only after Wednesday may I make reservations. But I don't see why it should be a problem, as I am trying for two days before.

In which case, it will be awesome funtimes. I had initially thought of buying the tickets myself, but now I know I can't afford all the tickets. So, if you are interested in joining me and my crazy friends from Budhanilkantha and from my Kathmandu life as a writer, write to me at prawinadhikari@gmail.com and I will include you on the list.

Keep it a secret, though.

Big grin.

2010-08-14T17:13:00.000+05:30

In costume to play Yamraj. Annapurna House Cultural Program. 1993. Class 6 in Budhanilkantha. Janai is real. Mustache is fake.

Classic Akutagawa

2010-08-12T13:10:00.000+05:30

Re-reading an Akutagawa classic, I came across these lines:

"After she ran away, he took up my sword, and my bow and arrows. With a single stroke he cut one of my bonds. I remember his mumbling, "My fate is next." Then he disappeared from the grove. All was silent after that. No, I heard someone crying. Untying the rest of my bonds, I listened carefully, and I noticed that it was my own crying. (Long silence.)"

*I listened carefully, and I noticed that it was my own crying.* A Samurai in guilt and suffering.

Food Network Show visits Whitman's Prentiss Dining Hall

2010-08-05T13:55:00.000+05:30

Food Network Show visits Whitman's Prentiss Dining Hall

Chef Chemin used to allow poor international students to "steal" potatoes, onions, tomatoes, cilantro, chili from Prentiss. Four potatoes, two tomatoes, one onion--curry! Many a beer-fueled culinary session benefited from his bonhomie towards the internationals.

Now--he appears to have coached someone to break the world record for--wait for it--peeling onions! Sweet Walla Walla Sweets!

The Book Bench: The New “Emma”: Clueless in Bollywood : The New Yorker

2010-08-02T22:41:00.000+05:30

The Book Bench: The New “Emma”: Clueless in Bollywood : The New Yorker

Wash your face every moning

2010-08-01T20:41:00.000+05:30

Now I know why I was growing a mustache a month back:

"The warriors of old cultivated mustaches, for as proof that a man had been slain in battle, his ears and nose would be cut off and brought to the enemy's camp. So that there would be no mistake as to whether the person was a man or a woman, the mustache was also cut off with the nose. At such a time the head was thrown away if it had no mustache, for it might be mistaken for that of a woman. Therefore, growing a mustache was one of the disciplines of a samurai so that his head would not be thrown away upon his death.

'Tsunetomo said, "If one washes his face with water every

morning, if he is slain his complexion will not change. " '

Badger Underwear

2010-08-01T20:29:00.000+05:30

Another gem from The Way:

"When one departs for the front, he should carry rice in a bag. His underwear should be made from the skin of a badger. This way he will not have lice. In a long campaign, lice are troublesome."

Sage advice. Now for a PETA approved line of The Victor's Secret...

Way of the Samurai nuggets of wisdom

2010-07-30T18:41:00.000+05:30

The Way of the Samurai holds many very interesting stories that are both puzzling and deeply moving. Then there are gems of the grotesque, like this one:

"If you cut a face lengthwise, urinate on it, and trample on it with straw sandals, it is said that the skin will come off. This was heard by the priest Gyojaku when he was in Kyoto. It is information to be treasured."

Google Ads

2010-07-23T23:39:00.000+05:30

Next time you open an email in your Gmail account, pay attention to the sidebar with Google ads.

Now open a different email. Another. Another. Thirteen more, keeping an eye on the side bar each time.

Eyeball monitization. Tailored messages. Google's algorithm for making you buy shit.

Beautiful engineering. Scary thought.

Enjoy!

Inception

2010-07-19T14:39:00.000+05:30

Christopher Nolan's Inception has been reviewed by A.O. Scott in the New York Times and David Denby in The New Yorker. After reading the reviews, my first thought was: This is Murakami! This is End of the World and the Hard-boiled Wonderland

The book is one of my all-time-favorites. I'm waiting to see the movie.

Limited Space -- Unlimited Creativity

2010-07-12T06:36:00.000+05:30

http://chau.blogsite.org/

Chau Dang's initials are LTD. Specialty is making puns. In one of her comic panels, the girl says: "I miss you like crazy." The boy replies: "I wish you were loco." Loco--crazy, here. I think we once counted up to 5 layers of pun-making in one of her facebook status posts. She a craaaaaaazy lady. Also, she is just about 5' tall, which makes her dangerous.

I need to get a blogroll going. Will do that soon enough, I promise. In the meanwhile, enjoy LTD space.

Bite Magazine profiles NTGK photos

2010-07-10T20:32:00.000+05:30

Photos by NTGK. *Some* captions by Prawin Adhikari, not all.

http://www.bitemagazine.net/2010/07/05/the-khumbu-attracts-visitors-from-around-the-globe/

Enjoy!

Came back from Kakani after three days of holed-in writing. It rained incessantly, and I got a total of six leech-bites. Even then didn't quite finish what I had gone there for.

Tired as hell now. Was so hungry at one point I was going cross-eyed. Definitely screwed up my lower back.

Bheja Fry

2010-07-03T11:19:00.002+05:30

The Hindi movie Bheja Fry is a remake--as far as I know of its provenance--of a French stage play adapted for the screen, much later made into a Hindi adaptation. The Hindi adaptation is extremely adeptly done, very economical in its exercise--adapting the plot, the characters, the language, the setting, etc--and therefore very resonant.

This The New Yorker article [unfortunately, requires a subscription to read, therefore no link included], describes Steve Carell playing one of the handful of idiots at a dinner party, for schmucks.

Jokes, as people tell and enjoy them, are perhaps among humanity's most profound mysteries. Not just in their usefulness [or lack thereof] to the species, but in their mechanics. Many have attempted to essentialize The Joke, but I am sure each attempt has failed.

But, there always seems to be an element of cruelty involved. Either towards oneself, or towards someone else. Things that are cruel towards others are funny [Yo Mama jokes, Sardaiji jokes, blonde jokes, practical jokes, Three Stooges, Benny Hill, Monty Python].

Things that punish oneself are more endearing, because they draw the Universe to the Personal [Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Monty Python, Kamal Hasan, Jim Carrey, Steve Carell]. Of course, it must appear that one doesn't know of this self-punishment, if this to be successful.

[Watch Kamal Hasan in Sadmaa for a wonderful performance where he is cruel to himself, with the full knowledge of what he is doing for the benefit of a demented, infantile Sridevi... Or, Jackie Chan in Little Big Warrior... This is the stuff Heroes are made of, when they make you laugh while knowingly sacrificing or imperiling their wellbeing]

This "Dinner Party" set up is always a mix of the two types: Schmucks think they are at the party because they are Winners; Winners bring Schmucks to the parties to reinforce their self-perception that they are Winners.

The winning formula: the guileless Schmuck proves to the Winner that the Winner is really the Schmuck, and that the Schmuck is much more of a Winner than the Winner could ever dream of becoming.

I have a notion that this formula works better in a hierarchy obsessed society that insists upon calling itself a meritocracy, like the USA. There, everyone is supposed to be an equal: but this applies only to the realm of the laws of the land, as derived from Enlightenment sources. Social life, however, revolves around Grecian ideals of super-humanism, Heroes [part-divine, proof seen in physical perfection and oversized ambitions matched by oversized achievements], the Olympian and the Nymph [the Jock and the Cheerleader] as archetypal aspirations.

The vast majority, however, is composed of people without the physical or social achievements that conform to the Grecian ideals of physical prowess or beauty or heroic achievements. Therefore the Schmuck. Not the perfect racial Anglo-Saxon, but the deformed Yid with thick glasses or the Gook or Chink with its excited jabber about gadgets and comic-books.

So, these types come to a clash: the product of Enlightenment--the tolerant, self-abusing Schmuck whose wealth is vast and internal--butts heads with the Grecian ideal. If you take that formula and make it into a thriller, you have Hugh Jackman, Ewan McGregor and Michelle Williams in Deception. If you make a post-Aptovian comedy, you get, I am guessing, Dinner with the Schmucks.

Motorbike Thievery

2010-06-24T10:06:00.003+05:30

There is an ostentatious house to the east of my house in Gongabu that is always full of one kind of racket or the other. Rumor is, it is a police-protected gambling den. That wouldn't be very surprising. Thisarea is full of the nouveau-riche, real-estate and overseas-employment agencies. Along Chakrapath, there are plenty of dance bars and brothels. What is so surprising if the ugly hodge-podge of architectural styles across the street is an all-night gambling den?

A few days ago, somebody opened the gate of that house, coasted a motorbike out of the gate, closed the gate, disappeared. Imagine that!

It had to be someone who had access to the place, who knew what went on in there. The person must have pushed the motorbike some distance before riding it away. Broad daylight.

Yesterday, while I was watching the football game between the USA and Algeria on one channel and England and Slovania on the other channel [good for you, USA, that you got through, but a pox on you for creating and maintaining that unholy suspense over Slovania's fate...], a woman shrieked across the street.

"This man is robbing us!" she shouted from a window. "A thief! A thief! We're being robbed!"

There were people on the street outside, since it was a cool evening. They caught the thief. Nobody was bothered by the fact that the house was a gambling den, where dozens of people of unsavory character gathered each day, each night, where it would not be reasonable to expect people to remember every face.

The thief had come with a helmet in his bag. He had lurked inside the house, put on the helmet, opened the gate. At that point, he was discovered.

He was beaten to a pulp. Police was called, but only three policemen showed up to control a crowd of dozens. When a mob catches a lone man, everybody in the mob feels much stronger than he would normally care to show. Some men were feeling particularly powerful, particularly in the right. They slapped the thief left and right, kicked him, punched him, pulled his hair. One man, especially once others started to restrain him, became more and more bold in his assaults. If nobody had bothered to assuage his anger, perhaps he wouldn't have had any anger or force to spare.

The gamblers were saying to the police: "Leave him with us. We're responsible if we kill him, but we'll make sure we get our lost motorbike from him. Don't worry, we won't kill him."

If you'd heard that, you would've been shocked at their hubris. It seemed they thought the police were merely ornamental, while they were the dispensers of justice.

What should really happen is that the gamblers should be put in jail--not for gambling, for I have nothing against it--but for openly defying the law, for bribing the police for protection, and for saying that they would "be responsible if the thief dies" while they beat him up for interrogation.

Trying out new features

2010-06-24T09:40:00.002+05:30

I'm testing Blogger's claim that I can email myself something, and it will automatically appear on my blog.

Today--Thursday, 24th June, 2010--if you have the time and the inclination, come to Nepal-India Library under the [R]NAC building inNew Road. Satish Sharma, a photographer, curator, photography-writer will be talking about a book on grandmothers. I *might* read, although I really don't want to. We shall see.

---

*I cleaned up the line breaks after the fact....

Mendocino Avenue

2010-06-22T11:05:00.000+05:30

I decided to post the Mendocino Avenue story here. Enjoy.

Or, not.

---

Mendocino Avenue

There was nothing remarkable about the night. The streets were quiet but businesses were bustling, people spilled out of bars to light their smokes and restaurants were closing shop. A man I had worked with for a week hurried past, not noticing me, or ignoring me, eating out of a Styrofoam cup the food he must’ve got at the end of his shift. There had been a light rain in the evening, and with a cloud cover, the streets were still wet. Basu and I had just reached Ross Street when a homeless man staggered towards me.

“It’s you,” he pointed a finger at me. I remembered the guy. He had asked me for food a few days back. His name was Jack, a very ordinary and inconsequential name, but one that I remembered. I had just left the Indian restaurant where I worked as a server. I had a box in my hands. It was the evening’s meal that I got for working a full shift. It had been a lousy evening all around and I had already started considering leaving the job. It was raining outside. The stress at work had spoiled my appetite earlier, but being out in the streets made me hungry. I couldn’t wait to eat. I crouched under the awnings of a dress shop and ate the rice and greasy curry. There was nowhere to throw the box. I had to walk with exaggerated care because of the rain. It must have been the way I held the box that caught Jack’s attention. “You got some food to spare, bro?” he asked me.

“Sorry, man. That was my dinner,” I said.

“I don’t need much, bro. Help a man out. I haven’t eaten today.”

“Hey,” I said, looking him squarely in the eyes and spreading my arms out, shoulders ready to shrug, but a tempered indifference to show, “hey, if I had anything, I’d share it with you.” He didn’t believe me. I had to be careful with the box because it still had curry sauce in it, which I was in a habit of spilling on my clothes. Even the empty box must have smelled good.

“Just a bite will do,” he said. “Show some love, man.”

“Like I said,” I said, “I got nothing for you.” The rain was in my scalp and under the collar of my shirt. I turned and walked away. On the corner of Seventh and Mendocino I found a trash bin. I could hear somebody run after me. It was Jack, but I didn’t know his name then.

“You fucking throw away food? I could’ve eaten that food. You throw away your leftovers instead of giving them to me?” He was very angry.

“There was nothing in the box,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. He was large, hungry and upset.

“How the fuck can you do that?” he said. “I told you I was hungry.” His curled fists hung down his sides. The rain hung from his chin. “You didn’t want to give me food because you know I went to jail.”

“No, I didn’t know you went to jail,” I said. I wondered how the evening would end.

“You think you can kick my ass,” he sized me up with his eyes.

“No, I don’t, man,” I said. “I’m not looking for trouble. There was nothing in the box,” I pointed to the trash.

“Do you want me to dig it out and show it to you?”

“I don’t eat trash, fucking bitch!” he said.

“I’m not saying you do,” I said. “I’m saying there never was anything in the box.” He looked around, defeated.

“You probably think you can smash my head on this,” he patted the round, dull gleam of a parking meter.

“No, I don’t. I don’t think like that,” I said.

“You probably think you can kick my head in.”

I turned and walked away. But I couldn’t cross the street without the signal. Jack called after me.

“I’m sorry, man,” he said. “It’s just I’m hungry, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I said. “If you’d asked when I still had some food, I’d have given it to you.”

“Fuck this rain,” he said. “I’m Jack.”

“Good,” I said. I wanted to cross the street and get home. “Good to meet you, Jack.” The lights changed. I leaped over a puddle and crossed the street. I thought about him once in the week after that night, when I was eating under the awning of another business on the way home, and I was startled by a shadow sleeping farther inside. Otherwise, there was no occasion to remember a homeless man hungry for food and talk.

Jack was standing before us. He was blocking the way, although the sidewalk was wide enough and the streets were empty. I looked at Basu, and he was already looking at me. I sidestepped Jack and kept walking. Upon reaching Fourth Street, Basu looked into The Sweet Spot. It’s a decent enough place where it is possible to catch, most of the time, live music that doesn’t immediately turn you off. But we walked on to the brewery instead. They also had a band. I don’t remember what kind of music they played.

After a couple of beers at the bar, Basu rolled a cigarette and I rolled a small one for myself. A very drunk girl stood at the door and looked at us. Then she came, hesitatingly at first, but with a bounce after she caught our eyes.

“Do you have a cigarette?” she asked. She showed a crumpled dollar bill to Basu.

“No, I don’t have cigarettes,” he said. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, looked at us again for longer than was necessary. “I have a dollar,” she said.

“I don’t have cigarettes, but I can roll you one,” Basu said. He took out a pouch of Baly Shag and rolled her a cigarette. He didn’t take the money.

“I’ve never seen anyone roll a cigarette that quick,” she said and set her glass of beer on the sidewalk.

“Do they let you do that?” I pointed to her glass.

“I do it all the time,” she giggled. She was drunker than was good for her.

“Is this one giving you trouble?” A guy with a tight head of curly hair approached us and stood by her side.

“He rolled me a cigarette,” she pointed to Basu. He stepped forward with a dollar bill in his fist.

“Where you guys from?” the girl asked as we smoked.

“I’m from Nepal,” I said. Basu said he lives here. “Really?” they asked. “Nepal?”

“What’re you guys doing here, then?” the guy asked. Why would anyone choose to be in California if he could be living in Nepal? “I really want to see that part of the world, you know,” he said. “Tibet and India and the Himalayas.”

“California is nice too,” I said.

“I’m sure it’s nothing like Nepal,” he said. “You guys are so spiritual,” he said without searching for a word. I looked at him and nodded. I am an atheist, but he doesn’t need to know. “You’re probably really in touch with the land and mountains and everything.”

“Some of the most beautiful mountains I’ve hiked are in Oregon,” I said. I went to college in eastern Washington. I was traumatized by the flat drabness of barren fields in late summer when I first reached Walla Walla. Over the next four years, I fell in love with the wheat fields as they changed colors from the hoary shine of frost to a lap of green turning gold with the seasons. What people doesn’t find its land the most beautiful?

Basu must have found the talk about Nepali spiritualism hollow. He disengaged from the conversation and smoked his cigarette.

“But, still, wow,” the guy said. “Nepal. What a trip. I’m going there as soon as I got enough money. We traveled through eastern Europe,” he pointed to the girl, “and it was amazing. I like the east. You people are different than the people out here. And it doesn’t get any more west than California.” He punctuated west with air quotes.

“No, it doesn’t” I agreed with him. We went inside and found a table together. The girl saw somebody and teetered away. A waitress cleared the table and asked if she could get us anything. We asked for more of whatever it was we had been drinking. The guy sat and talked about the Dalai Lama and incense and meditation, but left us after our beers arrived. I was drinking a dark beer called Damnation: a bit too sweet, but not as filling as you’d expect, and the highest alcohol content among their brews. I wanted to get drunk, and soon enough, I was drunk.

We ran into Jack again on our way back home. He was begging for quarters outside the gas station on Mendocino. He could barely walk. He looked at me and yelled, “It’s you!”

I kept walking. He caught up and grabbed my arm. I pushed him. There was a smell of decay around him. He had that sickly sweet smell of someone slowly fermenting to waste. The top of a red and blue tattoo peeked from under his collar. There was drool on his beard and snot under his nose. The white of his eyes was a solid yellow, and his pale blue eyes had no light in them.

“I know you,” he pointed a finger at me. I turned and kept walking. I had told Basu the story about the empty container of food. I told Basu in Nepali who Jack was. “Are you talking about me?” Jack followed us. People played ping-pong outside The Belvedere. Their voices carried to us. “What is it to you?” I turned and asked Jack.

“You better just fuck off, Jack,” I said. “Jack off, Jack,” I said. I was happy with how clever I could be. Basu didn’t laugh, but I couldn’t help it. I repeated the insult and laughed.

Jack lunged at me. But he was a lot drunker than I was, and the laughter and the unbridled joy of hurting another man had made me alert. He never reached me. His leg buckled and he fell forward. His hands didn’t break his fall. Instead, he fell on his right shoulder and the side of his face. I walked away again, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

It was a nice enough night. It could have been warmer—it was May, after all. But the sky was clear and stars that weren’t drowned out by the city’s lights shone in their places in the sky. I had barely walked ten paces before Jack punched the back of my head. He didn’t connect well, but it hurt. I jumped in fright. He threw a fist at me and once more hit the sidewalk. I kicked him as hard as I could.

He groaned and tried to pick himself up. I kicked him again, silently, but as hard as I could land, on the back of his head, which hit the sidewalk and bounced. His whole body dragged a couple of inches. I kicked him again, this time aiming just under his armpit. I felt Basu watching me. I stepped back from Jack and looked at him. He moved, got on all fours, sat up.

Then I turned and walked away. We didn’t speak a word until we were sitting on the porch smoking cigarettes. Even then, it wasn’t Jack we talked about. It was a nice enough night and there was a lot to do the next day. I still hadn’t found a dependable, steady job.

The next day I was called for an interview in San Anselmo. The interview didn’t last long. I got the job. I told them it would be a good idea if I could work out of Santa Rosa instead of taking the bus every day. That’d cost me four hours on the bus and ten dollars for the fare. We agreed that two days a week was enough commuting.

Summer was here, and everything seemed to be going reasonably well, and better still, there was no ominous swell over the horizon. I called home and talked with people who mattered to me in Kathmandu. Soon I’ll start writing again, I told myself.

Basu and I were walking towards downtown Santa Rosa a few days after the incident with Jack when I saw him again. Somebody had patched him up, but he was already on the streets. He had on a new coat and his shoes looked clean. I stopped and stared at him as we passed. He looked back, but didn’t seem to see me. If he did recognize me, he chose not to show it. I couldn’t have cared less.

Around mid-May, Basu left for the east coast to walk at graduation and collect his diploma. I tried to resist going to the bar on my own. But after a couple of days, I was in the neighborhood, and it seemed natural to go in for a pint or two. Once I was spending money it didn’t make any sense to walk out sober.

I saw Jack on my way back again. He was sitting on a bench on Mendocino and Ross, trying to smoke a butt. His hands shook, and there was hardly any tobacco in the unlit stub. “Jack,” I waved my hand. “It’s me.” I lit a cigarette. He looked at me vacantly. He spat and wiped his mouth. He was missing teeth and his mouth was scabbed.

“You remember me, Jack?” I asked. I sat down and smoked the cigarette. I lit another and left it on the bench. I left Jack there, alone with his silence and a May night just as pretty as any.

End

Truly Free...

2010-06-22T10:33:00.000+05:30

I have been downloading e-books from truly-free.org which allows you to download up to 5 e-books over a 2-week period. Which, I think, encourages people to actually read, as opposed to downloading and hoarding hundreds of thousands of pages of great literature without ever being bothered to read anything.

So, I have been spending [wasting] time culling PDFs from the text files of the few e-books I have downloaded so far: Raymond Chandler's pulp novels [to help me better write/envision screenplays]; the stories by Akutagawa [to recommend to a friend]; collected fictions of JL Borges [never any harm is losing yourself to a Borges]; and, John Cheever's stories [to better learn lyric for fiction and screen].

JL Borges regularly writes these astoundingly entertaining, intriguing, frustrating novels that he never wrote: He reviews non-existent work by fictitious authors who would, if they did write, create works of literature that at once combined unfathomably profound insight and scholarship with sharp wit or grave melancholy. His enduring preoccupation is with indicating--for capturing would dim the allure of it--the outer edge of the writer's capacities through feats of imagination, not in merely constructing worlds, but laying the foundations for other worlds, by stripping away the mystery that envelopes our dim notions about the foundations of language, geometry, logic, grammar...

Here is one great example: The Approach to al-Mu'tasim

----

Far less successful, of course, but after reading this story, I remembered a bit from my short story "The Face of Carolyn Flint," written hastily at (15) 915 Mendocino Ave., where I also wrote a few unwritten stories of mine:

-----

Now that I look back at it, all of it seems strange: how, after almost a year, I had allowed myself to become familiar with a woman overnight; and I don’t just mean physically, but in every way. It made me lightheaded. I read and wrote a bit through the day, did laundry and waited. The evening light, caught by a thin mist and spread evenly over colors slowly seeping into the trees that lined the streets, seemed theatrically pointed at my evening. It felt just right to finish a couple of beers before Carolynn met me at the brew pub, so I got there an hour early. I had my notebook with me, into which I variously doodled and wrote ideas to be developed into short stories, perhaps out of a guilt that I had failed to apply myself to what I thought of as my calling: writing.

I had a good half-hour with the notebook, actually: in the span of twenty minutes, I wrote seven ideas, each with a beginning, a middle, and an end, like I had learned in workshops with Katrina and Scott. I misplaced the notebook a month later, after writing only the first of the stories, and as I was tipsy writing the fourth idea onwards, I don’t remember them. I have written three of the stories since. The first, which was my return to writing after almost eighteen months, was about a homeless man with whom I had a brief altercation. He wanted me to fight him, so, naturally, I tried to kill him in a story*. It felt good to write the story then, although I think it’ll benefit from some excising, especially the end. Sometimes it is too tempting to give the ending of a story a monolithic finality. That’s what that story suffered from.

Another story was about a man who wakes up deep inside a cave with his left eye missing. I know it sounds like a cheap trick, what after Gregor Samsa, but I didn’t see it that way, because the cave was wildly different from anything I’d ever encountered, in books or in my own mind. It was going to be about the human body’s relation to the mystical. In it I was going to explore lives lived entirely through the hands, or the mouth, or the eyes. It was difficult to write, I ran out of mysteries—not because there aren’t enough, but because there are too few that I understand, even fewer which I can explain.

The third story was the best of the lot—it was going to be about so many things, it made my head hurt to think about it. It was going to be a political thriller and an investigation into the moral values of a small Nepali village. It started with a death to which the narrator kept returning. A canoe overturned in Marshyangdi, an umbrella as the murder weapon, political intrigue just before the resurgence of democracy in 1990. It was going to be wonderful, the best to come out of my mind, my masterpiece if you will, playful and grave by turns, grand and esoteric. Of course, it never fully materialized; this story—the fruit of a few minutes’ search while I waited for a woman of whom I knew nothing, except her face and body and a name and a four-line story—got lost in its own confused voice. So, I sat at the bar, scribbling ideas into my notebook, waiting for Carolynn. An Ethiopian man, I forget his name, sat next to me. We had talked before, about politics, most likely, and now he was describing a basketball game he’d seen on TV. The place was getting noisier. A woman outside knocked on the window and waved. It was somebody’s birthday, a crowd of twenty-something started to sing, so I raised my glass at the end of the cheer. I swiveled on the stool to check if Carolynn had come in through the back door, but she was nowhere to be seen.

----

*This story I did write, was published in Republica. It is called Mendocino Avenue.

When Screen-writing is fun..

2010-06-17T17:20:00.001+05:30

Alok Nembang is cutting another trailer for Kohi ... Mero

Which means, it is possible there will be another trailer for KM in the theaters soon... would be nice if there were on this Saturday evening at Jai Nepal ;)

BTW--why is there never a sad, winking emoticon? A ;-(

There must be some poor bastard who winks when his heart is shattered to a million pieces!

In any case, a few lines from a never-sold TV pilot by John August:

"Carl presses against his chest, where his heart should be beating. It isn’t anymore.

"With a GASP, the old man collapses halfway into the grave he was digging. Just like that, he’s dead. "

Jane Espenson

2010-06-17T15:54:00.000+05:30

Jane Espenson writes for television, in Hollywoo-woo, CA. She is also a dissector of jokes.

See The Dangling Kitten

Two jokes her, for a quickie:

"I will go to the animal shelter and get you a kitty cat. I will let you fall in love with that kitty cat; and then on some dark cold night, I will steal away into your home, and punch you in the face."

and

"Monday is for Meeting. Tuesday is for Talking. Wednesday is for Wishing. Thursday is for Touching. Friday for some reason was torn out."

Reading Espenson's dissection of these jokes ups the funny.

Prison pillow with a crayon face

2010-06-17T13:35:00.000+05:30

Here's Scott Adam's article in the WSJ:

An LOL line:

"Let's talk about morality. Can you justify owning stock in companies that are treating the Earth like a prison pillow with a crayon face? Of course you can, but it takes some mental gymnastics. I'm here to help."

For a second I thought: "hmm, pillow, crayon, possibly a happy face." And then the image hit home.

Then it became a ROFLMAO line

Running A Muck

2010-06-15T12:44:00.000+05:30

Running amuck / amok is by now a familiar phrase. But, digging into the roots of the phrase in Hobson-Jobson yields a pair of fascinating stories.

The compilers think the word has a Javanese origin. But, when they get to talking about the word's history in India, these are the two incidents they mention:

(Imagine the drama inherent)

""In one of these (Histories if the Rajputs), the eldest son of the Raja of Marwar ran a-muck at the court of Shah Jahan, failing in his blow at the Emperor, but killing five courtiers of eminence before he himself fell.

"Again, in the 18th century, Bijai Singh, also of Marwar, bore strong resentment against the Talpura prince of Hyderabad, Bijar Khan, who had sent to demand from the Rajput tribute anda bride. A Bhatti and a Chondawat offered their services for vengeance, and set out for Sind as envoys. Whilst Bijar Khan read their credentials, muttering, 'No mention of the bride!' the Chondawat buried a dagger in his heart, exclaiming 'This for the bride!' 'And this for the tribute!' cried the Bhatti, repeating the blow. The pair then plied their daggers left and right, and 26 persons were slain before the envoys were hacked to pieces."

How is that for heroism and old-world honor?

Further down the history of the word, which speculates if the notion might have a Malayalam root, itself deriving from 'amokshya' in Sanskrit, they dismiss the suggestion of an Arabic root for the word, saying: "But this is etymology of the kind that scorns history."

I think their attitude, as reflected by this sentence, is proof of their veneration of the Word as capable of being potent bearers of events and influences from ages long past. I like their attitude.

Duart Barbosa's A Description of the Coasts of E. Africa and Malabar in the beginning of the 16th century apparently also has this story:

"There are among them (Javanese) who if they fall ill of any severe illness vow to God that if they remain in good health they will of their own accord seek another more honourable death for his service, and as soon as they get well, they take a dagger in their hands, and go out into the streets and kill as many persons as they meet, both men, women, and children, in such wise that they go like mad dogs, killing until they are killed. These are called Amuco. And as soon as they see them begin this work, they cry out, saying Amuco, Amuco, in order that people may take care of themselves, and they kill them with dagger and spear thrusts."

Damn, I say!

For Whitman Folks

2010-06-15T12:22:00.000+05:30

Imagine my surprise when Yukta wrote to say she is in Kathmandu, indefinitely!

So, anybody else from Wallytown headed this way, let us know, and we could have a little reunion of our own.

Nit-picking Democracy

2010-06-13T09:45:00.000+05:30

I bet most of y'all in Nepal haven't given these data a close look:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Results_of_the_Nepalese_Constituent_Assembly_election,_2008

Although this is a Wikipedia page, the same results can be found at the Election Commission's website. Understandably, the site is shit.

Still, a closer look at the numbers can be quite instructive. For instance: I was stumped by how it was possible for the average of two numbers to be larger than the larger of the two numbers. how is (a/2+b/2) <>

If you look at what political parties are included in the MKN government, and tally their FPTP votes, you can begin to appreciate that this is actually the *true majority*, and not the faction led by the Maoists. NC and UML are an unholy political union--they have nothing to distinguish from each other anymore, they are entrenched, and will fight simply for possession over reform. But, it is undeniable that together, they share 44.42 of the FPTP votes, and 41.47% of proportional representation votes.

It would be more instructive to include the various Terai parties to this calculation, but the data here don't suffice: Sadbhavana Party has broken up into 3 groups, MPRF significantly into two factions, etc.

Election observers like EC and JCF should look at the number of total votes cast under the FPTP and proportional systems, because there is huge evidence within that of the massive irregularity that must have taken place: (Prop - FPTP) = 0.04(Prop) Or, 432,958 people who cast the vote for the proportional system didn't cast the vote for the FPTP system.

That is a huge number of people! You had to cast your FPTP votes first, then only were you given your second ballot for the proportional representation vote. Either over 4% of the voters were totally disillusioned with the system and didn't cast their FPTP votes, or, the proportional representation ballot boxes were stuffed.

Look closely at the difference between the FPTP and proportional votes for the top five political parties.

NC, UML and Terai Madhesh Loktantrik Party (TMLP) have more FPTP votes than they have proportional votes. These were the status-quo parties, TMLP being a shadow of NC and UML. It was a popular sentiment at that time that people would give their old leaders from NC and UML their direct vote, but would give their proportional rep vote to the new, revolutionary parties: UNCP-Maoist, and MPRF (Forum).

No Comments

2010-06-11T23:23:00.001+05:30

Icing... Perhaps we can substitute with Nepal Ice??

2010-06-11T10:06:00.000+05:30

http://brosicingbros.com/

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/09/business/media/09adco.html?hpw

This is a dumbass drinking game, for dumbasses, with the shittiest tasting beverage known to the girlie boys: Smirnoff Ice. Gives you acidity and doesn't quite get you drunk. Too sweet.

But, I think Kathmandu could use a drinking game of this sort of popular appeal. Would be nice to get 'iced" with Nepal Ice bottles. I would let those poor bastards Ice me all day long.

Can you imagine getting ice cold beer through the hot pre-monsoon menopausal weather that we are having, owing solely to the stupidity of your friends?

A hot evening here...

2010-06-10T22:49:00.000+05:30

Tonight was very hard... is very hard... I am awake, as is half the neighborhood. Pukku--the two-year old little girl next door--is awake and actively asking questions. It is 11 pm. This girl sits at the window and waits for fruits and vegetables vendors to ask: "O Bhaiyya! Kasari ho? 40-50 ma milayera dinus na! O Bhaiyya! Kasari ho?" There is one man in particular, in his 50s, who grins at her and asks her to ask him again. The girl is barely 2 years old! But she sits at the window asking: "How much is it? Why don't you sell it for 40 rupees?"

It is so hot that she can't fall asleep. She is asking questions to her parents in her clear, loud voice, and I can hear it.

Two owls, beautiful birds, elusive during the day but active in the night, have taken up their back-and forth calling, loud and unfriendly screeches. One of them often makes the open window-pane by my pillow its perch from where to wait for sewage rats to emerge. Sometimes I hear if swoosh down to the ground. There follows a piercing squeak, a crunch of bones, and a telling silence: dinner, death. Death, dinner.

It is so hot, the owls can't keep their vigilante perch in peace.

The neck sweats more than any other part of the body, and that is a disturbing, sickly sensation: it is the feeling of blood trying to desperately cool down. I moved in the bed to find the water bottle and settling back, almost jumped up in surprise: the outline of heat I'd left on the bed was a pool of fire, an unwelcome surprise.

There is a cloud cover over Kathmandu. Instead of bringing rain, it is just increasing the steamy discomfort.

Monsoon, soon

2010-06-09T21:36:00.000+05:30

Or not.

There are times when we yearn a sky full of stars. These are not such days. These days I wish the sky were covered with slumbering thick rainclouds. Quick lightning and the roar of thunder, rain spearing aslant on the panes, anything to wet the soil, anything to cool the air. Storms. Storms that rob chunks of daytime, fill them with chaos, force me to stand by the window to look out, see replicated in the floss of over-brimming sewage the innocence of water hitting water to make ripples...

Rain. Lots of it. Lots and lots of it. That is what I want.

Yesterday's was a strange sky for this time of the year. It was beautiful without the terror; it was pretty. I remember thinking: "These clouds remind me of the function of the sky: to carry beauty." But that is merely a pretty a thought, or a thought about prettiness, not beauty.

Then I thought: to each season its own sky, and to each season its own surprises. Which, really, means nothing.

Then a phrase entered my head: "A well seasoned man."

A well-seasoned man? I sensed a story there. An elaborate short story about a man, caught in particular circumstances, a political and moral animal that is thrown particular political and moral problems, bones to gnaw.

But, I wanted the story to start with a non-story, a red-herring, a schlock-piece, about an abused wife who murders her husband and calls his two lovers--her friends--to eat the flesh. But, she has to postpone the dinner because she can't find the right kind of cardamom to--ahem--season her husband's flesh. Because she wants to serve--!--a well-seasoned man.

I know that sounds dumb. But, I am reserving judgment because I haven't seen the actual story that will follow this terrible attempt to make a very bad pun. I have a feeling the story that will follow will adequately engage this vignette to make it both relevant and interesting.

Get Inspired

2010-06-06T13:16:00.001+05:30

How does one know when one is doing 'it" right?
That is the incomparable Roberto Bolano, on what it means to write.

A Weathered People

2010-06-04T14:27:00.001+05:30

http://nepalitimes.com.np/issue/2010/06/4/June5EnvironmentDay/17142

Bill Murry in Zombieland

2010-06-03T22:26:00.000+05:30

I am watching Zombieland as I write this post. It is a zombie movie: that isn't giving away anything, right?

It is full of funny moments. Then it takes a strange turn: escaping the zombies that have taken over the US of A, the heroes reach LA. There, they decide that Bill Murry's mansion is the only place worth crashing in.

Watch the movie, if only for Bill Murry, who may or may not be a zombie.

He plays himself.

Loadshedding and Mustache

2010-06-03T13:08:00.003+05:30

Loadshedding, mustache and a webcam make an explosive combination:

Here's how much drama is leeched out of the picture by the absence of loadshedding:

One man you wouldn't want to meet after your night out. The other you'd send out to buy a bottle of water. One mustache menaces, the other just makes the man look like an idiot.

wah wah! wah wah!

2010-06-01T16:57:00.000+05:30

"maine is fikr mein kati kai raatein kai din...

mere sheron mein tera naam na aaye lekin...

jab teri saans meri saanso mein ras gholti hai

shayari such bolti hai"

Getting Home

2010-05-31T21:19:00.000+05:30

Prachanda--the filmmaker, not the Pinocchio ex-PM--is sweating watermelons as he tries to finish his script. I am excited from what I have read, and I am sure he will do a good job. It is his first, so I think he should just go ahead and jump into the cauldron.

But this post is about what I did after returning home in the evening. I searched the Google engine for Koena Mitra's new nose-job. Why? I don't know.

Jwagal Puppies: part two

2010-05-30T21:50:00.000+05:30

I cursed the two pups--one all brown coat, the other with white spots, perhaps three months old at most--that ran across the alley which forks towards Bagmati from Jwagal Chowk. I was waiting for a plate of momo to be re-heated. Cart by the street. Would you care about tapeworm when you haven't eaten anything since 10, and it is already 6 in the evening, and there is no money in your wallet?

And just then, a man screamed, stopped a car twenty feet away from him with the sheer urgency of gesticulating palms. I didn't know why the man had screamed. I thought he was picking a fight with the driver of the blue car.

When I saw why, I screamed and thrust my palms out, fingers splayed to maximize the non-pigmented surface: among evolution's earliest contributions to primate/hominid communication, as some evolutionary biologists say.

The pup with white and brown spots had run under the car.

No, the car hadn't yet run it over. The pup wasn't tall enough to be grazed by the bottom of the car, but it was so scared to have run under the still humming machine that it was trying to run towards the front- left wheel.

Stop! Don't move! Of course, there isn't a satisfactory way of communicating with a three-months old pup, even with the evolutionary advantage of non-pigmented palms. The petrified driver, on the other hand, didn't want to be a baby-killer quite yet, I am sure.

I got down on my knees, and then my hands, to talk to the frightened pup. But I only succeeded in scaring it away--towards the other front wheel. Instinctively, I reached with my hand, thinking I could grab the pups nape and pull it out to safety. It got even more scared. The driver rolled his window down. What was I going to say to the pup?

This would easily have been the third instance of canine infantile death in as many days at the same spot. But, the pup got scared of me and kept backing up, until it backed right out from under the car.

It was still trembling, surrounded by well-meaning aliens who spoke gibberish and kept flashing their palms at it. It was an animal of the sort that makes women coo. I wish a certain woman had been at hand to witness my heroics, for that would have won me her heart over a hundred times. Instead, I had sawdust on my cheeks from pressing against the road.

The pup ran to its companion, who, oblivious of the grand drama right behind him, was raising one leg to mark a gate as his dominion. The relieved pup ran to its companion and immediately started sniffing at the urine sprinkled over cement and grass, added a bit of its own, and proceeded to sniff the other one's butt.

That must have felt like home to that little bastard. In that instance, I actually envied it the simple pleasures of its life. So little it took to bring normalcy to its life. Sniff a familiar butt.

I guess, we are all trying to do the same, in ways that vary in their degrees of complexity.

Sniff a familiar butt.

YCL Rising

2010-05-29T17:21:00.000+05:30

http://www.myrepublica.com/portal/index.php?action=news_details&news_id=19237

All of this is in "retaliation" for the paper having published news implicating Ram Bahadur Thapa "Badal," a hard-liner Maoist leader very close to Prachanda, for having a doctor kidnapped. The doctor himself was a very active Maoist intellectual, appointed to his post as chief of the BP Koirala Memorial Cancer Hospital during the Maoist tenure in government. The Party has kept eerily mum on the entire incident, not even asking for formal investigations or anything.

What I have been told by a journalist is that when Republica/Nagarik staff journalists ask well-placed Maoist sources about the whereabouts or condition of the doctor, the Maoist sources are quick to assure that the doctor is safe, and that this drama will end soon. More than one source [9 separate sources, is what I was told] corroborate the story.

The real questions now:

a] Did the YCL cadres who torched the van know that the driver had hidden the child under the seat?

b] How the fuck does it matter if they didn't know there was a child in the van? They still tried to burn a man alive, didn't they?

c] Did they know that the driver would escape unharmed? If so, is it still not an attempted murder? Who can correctly predict the outcome of an event like this?

d] What does the Maoist Party have to say about this?

e] Who are they trying to fool? It is either that Nagarik Daily is trying to propagate a lie about the Party (specifically, Badal and Chitawan YCL) , or that the Party has been caught with its pants down, fighting its own appointees over extorted/embezzled money, and now tries to terrorize journalists/wage earning drivers. What sort of an argument must they present to be not considered criminals?

Hamal dai!

2010-05-29T16:44:00.000+05:30

Ranibari, a short walk from where I live, is a popular low-budget action venue for Nepali movies. They use the place to proxy for a jungle. There is a small temple, picnic-sheds [typically Nepali, these, with corrugated iron roofs], water, relatively quiet. And, it is the most accessible "jungle" inside the city limits:barely 300 meters behind Hotel Shangrila.

In this photo, Rajesh Hamal--the Last Nepali Action Hero--is wearing a ridiculous wig. Right under his palm is a dude who isn't listening to the AD's order to hide behind a tree while the shot is being taken.

Nepali movies are the most popular in a] Kathmandu, and b] the Terai belt. Kathmandu is the ethno-cultural-linguistic melting pot of the nation. Of the close-to-3.5 million citizens of the valley, perhaps around a hundred thousand watch Nepali movies in the theaters. But, the core audience is still the population of the Terai--Pahadi and Madheshi alike.

What must it feel to a child growing up somewhere like Itahari--a big source of revenue for Nepali movies--to see the exact same forest in dozens of Nepali movies each year? It isn't even a forest. It is a clearing ringed by some two dozen trees. All the actions happen towards the northern end of the clearing, as the temple and the picnic sheds occupy the southern end. The distance between the northern edge and the temple is perhaps less than 100 meters. This, and a place in Chobhar, provide the physical location and atmosphere for more than half of Nepali movies' action sequences. I wonder how it will be remembered by people just discovering cinema? There must be kids out there who run off to the cinema to watch their first movies, still. I wonder if they will dream about Ranibari's inadequate forests long after they grow up?

What the Fuck!

2010-05-29T08:51:00.000+05:30

I hope all the top leaders of the three political parties--UML, NC and UNCP-Maoist--have a ripe pineapple shoved up the length of their rectum... what is the plural? Recta, apparently [not rectii]. Well, up their recta. Preferably using a bronze cast of a pineapple at lest 13 inches tall and 7 inches in diameter. With the serrated frond intact on top. Preferably re-using the same bronze cast on each of them, as they sit in stockades ringed to show each other their faces. With large mirrors positioned behind each political posterior, so everyone can watch everybody else enjoy the pleasures, face and culo.

Motherfuckers, each of them. I hope, when they are laid out at Aryaghat to be burned, just before the funereal fire is shoved into their face, a shit-eating bird of some kind flies right above them and shits right into their slightly open mouths. I hope they contract the most scaly-itchy-stinky venereal diseases without ever once getting laid. I hope that each time they go out to make a speech full of lies and arrogance, a foot-long worm worms its way out of their ass. I hope the day comes in their lives when they will no longer remember what they look or sound like, and start plotting to overthrow the government of that smirking bastard the other side of the mirror.

Why?

Because what they have done last night is wrong, wrong, wrong.

CA-- imminent death

2010-05-28T22:25:00.000+05:30

In about 80 minutes, the Constituent Assembly is set to expire. It can be granted another lease of life, but the constitutional grounds on which that eventuality would have to be based are muddled at best.

I am pretty sure nothing will happen, no matter what the fate of the CA. There won't be any grand theatrics. The Maoists--forever the more theatrically aspirant and attuned--attempted the last grand theatrical gesture four weeks ago. They were not expecting contra-diction, but they found plenty. So, no such thing anytime soon.

Instead, it is the Limbuwan groups--for they too are fractioned--that have made the most dramatic declarations, and the most drastic preparations.

About theatrics and the fertility of the mind when it feels the urge to grapple for symbols: When the Maoists [YCL] were spending entire days dancing on the streets, it seemed they borrowed wildly from disparate traditions: revolutionary exhortation and symbols given the pointed wit and nimble feet of traditional styles of expression: dohori, jhyaure. Oldest forms, freshest expressions. Retaining the roots, decorating the surface.

**[I read the above paragraph and realized that I have used the colon three times in a sentence. Sorry. I am about to fall asleep, and have no strength to improve that sentence. Clearly, it is an idea that would lead to a more nuanced expression, but not from me, not right now :-) ]

Ina telling contrasting, the Peace Rally could think of only one song: Rato ra Chandra Surya, Jangi Nishana Hamro... a song the YCL can't be blamed for equating to the RNA. It had no fresh expression of patriotism or nationalism, because it hadn't spent the time imagining one. To them, Nepal is still just Nepal. Not the "New Nepal" it is to a very large part of the population. Nor the "Not-Nepal" that it is to a few, including myself.

Forgot to write what I really wanted to add here: 3 hours before the CA was set to expire, most of the women CA members--and Sunil Babu Pant, our GLBTQ(Third Gender) representative at the CA--were chanting slogans, warning the political parties to not keep the CA a prisoner to their petty squabbles.

Reason: It is extremely unlikely that an assembly of representatives elected under a political status-quo would include as many women among the body. If, for some reason, this CA goes kaput and is thrown out of the window, there is no guarantee that all the legal achievements made so far as concern the gender question in Nepal won't also be thrown out with the poop-chunked bathwater that is the past couple of years. So I was proud of them ladies, although what they were doing was decidedly ill-timed. Theirs was a most appreciable contrary view: that makes them my kindred, if only for the hour.

As this happening, the Maoist female CA members were in their seats, not joining their voice with that of their co-gender colleagues. Because, for them, I guess, the Party is above all other reasoning. Eventually, they left the assembly, filed in as a group, with note-cards filled with slogans.

These slogans had to do with two main demands: "Institute Civilian Supremacy" and "Prime Minister--Resign!"

That was a let down. Whereas, on one side were people concerned with protecting what has already been achieved and pressuring the leaders to write a constitution that moves closer to half than to a third, a greater revolutionary leap on the gender question rather than falling back, the other side showed how it enthusiastically limited its function to supporting the Party's dictat. No more. Mules, not Women. Sad.

Toothy Grin

2010-05-26T21:39:00.000+05:30

Today, around 3 PM, a pup died in Jwagal. Something or somebody broke the dog's leg a couple of days back, I was told by a shopkeeper who had seen it limp about in the morning. When I left work around 6:30 to head home, I saw it lying near a closed gate. Dead. It couldn't have been more than six months old. Black, street mongrel. A female.

The heat had already started shrinking its snout and puffing out its belly: it looked almost in bliss, a full belly and recalled lips showing a row of teeth in a yet friendly grin.

One more day, and the gums will become exposed. Then the sharp teeth with look more sinister.

But, a dead animal just seems like the more perfected, finest crafted thing devoid only of--what else--life.

bleh

2010-05-22T12:07:00.000+05:30

"koi koi shaam bhi aaisi maajh hoti hai ki koi lamha de kar nahi jati hai"

Gulzar, in Urdu. Talking about how din and raat are such beautiful words, and beautiful ideas, whereas dusk and dawn are bastards of their union that nobody but the poet cares for. But, sometimes, even a dusk or a dawn acts selfish and stingy, and leaves nothing for the poet.

Wah, wah!

I had thought there would be a lot to write about as May 28th approaches, but there is nothing in my mind. Newspaper headlines have been hijacked by the Unity Life pyramid scheme busting, and all negotiations are taking place behind closed doors. The division in civic life that the Maoist protests had provoked--on one side placing Maoist sympathizers who thought the party's resolve to make a final push was worth supporting, and putting across the aisle those who disagreed for various reasons, including a fundamental disagreement about the method--that division is no longer as distinct, as the pitch of confrontation isn't as sharp.

There have been very few interactions/debates/op-eds about the ins and outs of the constitution regarding the life of the CA and provisions in the Interim Constitution under which the term of the CA may be increased. I think the reason behind it is that the language being used by politicians: it is, as if, the constitution to them is basically a formal document with no real world relevance, and everything can be based upon informal negotiations between the top leaders of a few political parties.

The most ridiculous of the bunch--predictably--is Prachanda of UCPN-M: he finds it okay to suggest that the CA will merely be "inactive" after May 28, until a political consensus is reached to "activate" it. No need to pursue any legal recourse as provided by the Interim Constitution.

That is the problem: the political class--regardless of how well washed their shirts or well-shod their feet--seem to imagine that political activism is always superior to the law of the land. From this attitude stems the willingness to not only protect but also foster armed criminal groups with petty political ambitions. They become adept at defending their views no matter how incongruous to another set of accepted rules, or no matter how contradictory to something they might have fought for at an earlier date, because they forget that it is important to keep a semblance of respect for some unbendable rules. Constitutional norms, for instance. Or any other set of rules that regulates civilized dialog.

Genesis: Crumb

2010-05-16T14:51:00.000+05:30

Huyen Pham! Blessed be ye! Your seeds be numerous like the sands of the sea and the stars of the sky!

Thanks for the book, Huyen.

Know Your [Suspended] Rights!

2010-05-11T16:11:00.000+05:30

At present, none of the political parties are talking about extending the tenure of the CA, pursuant of Article 148, which they ought to be doing, before they start talking about any other issue. The average citizen--como moi--should be worried about this. Because, the language in the IC seems to imply that a State of Emergency means the expiration of the CA, and that the expiratoion of the CA mandates a State of Emergency. In my opinion, the political parties were either short-sighted when they wrote these clauses--not very likely at all; or, they were calculative and in consensus when they afreed to keep the fate of the CA vague.

It might have been a populist measure--to admit at the onset, even before the IC was written, that the CA might fail its mandate must have seemed too risky, inviting ready trouble from the most voluble group at that point: The People!

But, what happens when, in less than three weeks, a State of Emergency is imposed? This is a foregone conclusion by now: the constitutional crisis my last just a few minutes, symbolically, or it might last much longer, but it is a near certainty that it will happen.

Article 143(7) directly addresses the fundamental rights of the people, as they might be suspended under a State of Emergency, or as they may never be infringed upo, even in a State of Emergency. It is a long, clumsy article that goes:

Article 143(7) During the time of the Proclamation or Order of State of Emergency made *by the Presint on reh recommendation of the Council of Ministers* pursuant to clause 143(1), the fundamental rights provided in Part 3 [Articles 12 to 32] may be suspended as long as the Proclamation or Order is in operation.

Provided that clauses (1), (2) of Article 12 and sub-clauses (c) and (d) of clause (3), Articles 13 and 14, clause (2) and (3) of Article 15, Articles 16, 17, 18, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 26, 29, 30 and 31 and the right to constitutional remedy related to Article 32 and the right to Haebeas Corpus shall not be suspended.

So, the list, simplified:

These rights will remain.

Article 12(1)(2)(3.c.d) || Article 13 || Article 14 || Article15(2)(3) || Article 16 || Article 17 || Article 18 || Article 20 || Article 21 || Article 22 || Article 23 || Article 24 || Article 26 || Article 29 || Article 30 || Article 31 || Article 32 [Constitutional Remedy and Haebus Corpus ]

These fundamental rights will disappear:

Article 12(3.d.e.f)

--Freedom to form unions and associations

--Freedom to move and reside in part of Nepal, and

--Freedom to engage in any occupation or be engaged in employment, industry or trade

*There is no provision in Article 143(7) which addresses the part after *however* that comes after the above mentioned rights. These 5 conditionals are ripe to interpretation.

Article 15(1), another right tossed out of the window, reads thus:

"Article 15(1) There shall be no prior censorship [or enforced cessation]* of publication and broadcasting or printing of any news item, editorial, article or feature or other reading or audio-visual material by any means including electronic publication, broadcasting and the press.

"Provided that nothing shall be deemed to prevent making of laws to impose reasonable restrictions on any act which may undermine the sovereignty or integrity of Nepal, or which may jeopardise the harmonious relations subsisting [existing?]* among the peoples of various castes, tribes or communities; or on any act of sedition, defamation, contempt of court or incitement to criminal offence; or on any act which may be contrary to decent public behaviour or morality."

Article 15(4), another right deniable in a State of Emergency:

Article 15(4) No means of communication including the press, electronic broadcasting and telephone shall be obstructed except in accordance with law.

In a State of Emergency, citizens will not have the right to property

Article 19: Right to Property

Article 19(1) Every citizen shall, subject to existing laws, have the right too acquire, own, sell and otherwise dispose of property.

Article 19(2) The state shall not, except in public interest, acquire, or create any encumbrance on the property of any person.

Provided that this clause shall not be applicable to property acquired through illegal means.

Article 19(3) Compensation shall be provided for any property requisitioned, acquired or encumbered by the State in implementing scientific land reform programmes or in the public interest in accordance with the law. The amuont and basis of compensation, and relevant procedure shall be as prescribed by law.

*Do you see how it would be very profitable to be the party with the Council of Ministers when the State of Emergency applies? Comprehensive land reform is political gold. If you could implement it by suspending this right, your party would be God for the next few generations. I hope at least one of the parties out there shows hte galls to take this route.

Article 25 may be suspended in a State of Emergency.

Article 25: Right Against Preventive Detention

Article 25(1) No person shall be held under preventive detention unless there is sufficient ground to believe in the existince of an immediate threat to the sovereignty nad integrity of, or the law and order situation in, Nepal.

Article 25(2) If an authority detains a person under preventive detention contrary to law or in bad faith, the person is entitled to compensation under law.

Articles 27 and 28 may be suspended under a State of Emergency.

Article 27(1) Every citizen shall have the right to demand or obtain information on any matters of concern to himself or herself or to the public.

Provided that nothing in this Article shall be deemed to compel any person to provide information on any matter about which confidentiality is to be maintained according to law.

Article 28: Right to Privacy

Article 28 Except in circumstance provided by law, privacy in relation to the person, and to their residences, property, documents, records, statistics and correspondence, and their reputation are inviolable.

Interim Constitution, again

2010-05-11T16:07:00.000+05:30

Once more, the time has come to turn to the happiest book of the land: The Interim Constitution of Nepal, 2007 [As Ammended by the First to Sixth Ammendmends]

In less than 20 days, the tenure of the CA will expire, as provided by Article 64 of the Interim Constitution [IC]:

"Unless otherwise dissolved earlier by a resolution passed by the Constituent Assembly, the term of the COnstituent Assembly shall be two years from the date of its first meeting.

"Provided that the term of the Constituent Assembly may be extended for up to six months by a resolution of the Constituent Assembly, in the event that the task of drafting the Constitution is not completed due to the proclamation of a State of Emergency in the country."

There is no other legal provision provided by the IC to extend the tenure of the CA--it can not be done through a simple majority or two-thirds vote in the CA at any time. There is simply no law under which a bill to extend the tenure can be presented.

Which implies that, upon the expiration of the CA's tenure, the country *must* go into a State of Emergency.

Unless, a bill to amend the IC is tabled at the CA. Article 148 provides for amendments of the IC:

Article 148(1) A Bill regarding amendment or repeal of any Article of the Constitution may be presented in the Legislature-Parliament

148(2) The Bill shall be deemed passed if the Bill so presented at the Legislature-Parliament is aproved by at least two-thirds majority of the total existing members. [414 CA members]*

Article 70, provides for how the new constituion will be written:

70(1) The CA shall, in order to pass a Bill relating to the Constituiton, vote on the Preamble and each Article of such a Bill introduced before it.

70(2) To vote according to clause (1), at least two-thirds of the total members of the CA must be present and must pass the motion unanimously.

70(3) In a unanimous decision pursuant to clause (2), regarding the Preamble or any Article of the Bill relating to the Constitution, is not reached, the leaders of the parliamentary party of the political parties represented in the CA shall consult each other to achieve consensus on such matters.

70(4) The consulation to be carried out pursiant to clause (3) must bbe completed within a maximum of fifteen days from the date on which the unanimous decision could not be reached.

70(5) If consultation is carried out pursuant to clause (4), fresh voting on the Preamble or any Article of such Bill shall be carried out within seven days from the date of the completion of such consultation.

70(6) If a unanimous decosion is not reached as provided in clause (2) even after carrying out voting pursuant to clause (5), there shall be a further vote on such Preamble or Article on which a unanimous decision could not be reached; and if at least two-thirds of the total members of the CA are present at such a meeting adn at least two-thirds of the attending members vote in favor, such a Preamble or Article shall be deemed to have been passed.*

*[I edited the language towards the end of this sentence, because the translation of the IC published by UNDP is rather unclean and confusing compared to the original Nepali.]

This clause is the only way to break deadlocks in the CA if dialog fails.

This would require 4/9 of the total number of CA members, which is to say, 4/9[240 {direct elected}+355{proportional representation}+26{nominated}] = 4/9[621] = 276 CA Members.

The numbers here for the direct elected, proportional representation and nominated members are according to the amended Article 63(3)a, b and c.

A Year of Denying the Madhav

2010-05-10T23:56:00.000+05:30

Navel-gazing, for sure. But, now that time has come to start yelling at Madhav Kumar Nepal to make way for consensus and a government lead by a different political force that everyone can agree upon/with, here is an article that was published around this time last year:

Below is "Does Integrity Count?" as it appeared in TKP. My name was spelled "Pravin Adhikari" instead of Prawin Adhikari, which is a bit annoying. But, at least the article wasn't censored as much as I thought--or as much as Rahul thought--it would be.
---

Integrity Doesn't Count?

Like a mangy old dog curling to sniff at itself, New Nepal has gone full-circle to please the crusty Old Nepal. To put it differently: Old Nepal must have very good smelling testicles that New Nepal obligingly licks them so. To put it differently: The snout is but a distant appendage to the anus; New Nepal is but a thin wash over Old Nepal. To put it differently: The cannibalistic, opportunistic, greedy snake is choking on its own tail. To put is differently: Pox on you, Old and New, for you have shown yourself to be One, seamless, shameless.

Corruption, nepotism, despotism, opportunism, ineptitude, greed, duplicity: these were among the reasons why Nepal had to change. These were probably the reasons the Maoists gave against the establishment when they waged their war. Of course, they colored their rhetoric red, for long the favorite of the class in the business of gain through murder, be they feudal or revolutionary. They set up the effigies of enemies always behind a safe red line--India, America, King--, but they killed teachers, farmers, and salary men. They lied to, threatened, coerced and cajoled the most vulnerable among peopel to gain power. They declared New Nepal, but greedy as any other political hooligans, they declared it solely theirs. From their seat in Baluwatar, which got its first cosmetic upgrade in ages, in an age defined by impermanent alliances, what did the Maoists give the country? Browse through news items since first May, and you find the answer: Corruption, nepotism, despotism, opportunism, ineptitude, greed, and duplicity. When this fact was pointed out to Prachanda, he gleefully replied: We learned it from the old parliamentarian parties.

Bijayababu's head was split open by riot-police lathi two years ago. On Thursday he worried if he hadn't been a "foot soldier" to a manipulated manifesto. A young man, whose ideals were, in a manner of speaking, spilled before his generation to consider, he has had to commit the grave sin of doubting his moment of true heroism. New Nepal was not a political achievement! It most definitely was not a Maoist achievement. New Nepal was a cultural achievement. It was the permission people granted themselves to imagine the extent of their capabilities, not tethered to a slogan or a moustache or a flag or a fist, but to a future contemplated, a future desired. A year ago when Nepal was declared a republic, there mushroomed so many "Naya Nepal" buses and rickshaws and chhang-rilas. Today they have disappeared, either behind a thick curtain of grime which is the criminal reward of passing time, or have been re-appropriated by neighborhood deities and soft-drinks. In the past year, New Nepal the political achievement has reverted to sniffing at its own rear end, while New Nepal the cultural achievement has disintegrated, doubting itself, harassed by the knowledge that it has to evolve to suit the new conditions.

Let us be coy no more--three paragraphs is enough foreplay for even the driest mind. Let us call Old Nepal by its real name: Madhav Nepal. He was the head of his party when he lost popular elections. To put it differently: people didn't choose him as their representative. His party removed another person, an intellectual and leader of the so-called Civil Society, to include Old Nepal as a member of the Constitutional Assembly. Yet, he asks to be made the Prime Minister. It is perfectly constitutional: after all, he is a member of the assembly, and that is all he needs to contest. Neither is it unethical: just as representatives of the people chose the President, representatives of the people can choose Madhav Nepal as the next Prime Minister. But, to individuals unnaturally proud of their vote and citizenship--not dumb nationalism conjoined to politics of heritage, but the simple fact that they are enfranchised citizens--this is an unimaginable mockery of the idea of citizenship. The people before whom he begged for the basic currency of democracy--the vote--denied him the opportunity to represent. Now he gets to lead the nation?

Why should this vex me so much? I am not a political commentator. I write the most mindless, inconsequential fluff; breezy Sunday read it should be. It vexes me for two reasons: first, because I think I know why New Nepal is smacking its tongue on the dried feces it has lapped up from the anus of Old Nepal. Second, it vexes me that I am reduced by helplessness to write such over-insistent, vulgar images to drive home a point.

The answer, which I claimed I know, I think, is in Bijayababu's question. To put his question differently: Why must the average citizen always have to doubt his leaders? No matter if they be Congressi cronies or mustached Maoist, or the so-called Civil Society Leader, why does duplicity have a greater currency in a political career than does integrity? How is it a greater, advantageous talent to appear a different person to each different group, but a gauche, debilitating disadvantage to appear unchanging in intent, unbuckling or un-supplicating as the case maybe, before different superiors–voters, donors? No, it is criminal to call Prachanda a "seasoned rhetorician" when the unambiguous, accurate, layman term is "liar." And it is wrong, what Prachanda claims--that words spoken by a statesman in a past date have no relevance to present circumstances. It is especially wrong if the same statesman seeks to profit from the gains made through those earlier, divergent pronouncements, whatever may be the "delta" in the circumstances since. That asks the voter to forgive duplicity as a weapon against democracy.

Whereas, an individual's integrity is the best remedy to most political problems: Corruption, nepotism, despotism, opportunism, ineptitude, greed, and duplicity. A culture that rewards personal integrity actively, punitively discourages these social maladies. To say you stand for one thing and to have the courage to defend it should be a quality worth rewarding. Integrity requires, above all, a lack of duplicity. This is not a play on words: this is a character necessity. If Prachanda is not actively lying to people who did not raise violent arms under his leadership, then he is actively lying to those who fought for him. This is a binary condition: he is either fighting for a nation where democracy will be fostered, or he is conducting the next phase of Prachandapath. One group is being lied to. And the second group shouldn't tolerate it. Similarly, no group should tolerate the idea that in a nascent democracy it should take less than a year for the political establishment to make a mockery of the idea of Vote. Let us, as citizens and not political cadres, as foot-soldiers to our own ideas and not the ideology of scheming politicians, stop forgiving the lies our leaders tell us. Let each citizen show some integrity, some spine, instead of nodding as yes-people to each manipulative bastard blown in by the dust-storm. Otherwise, too-soon, too-soon, we will get used to that taste in our mouths, and you know very well what taste I am referring to.

A Not-Elite Conversation

2010-05-10T22:41:00.001+05:30

"Hey—are you an elite? Like, a Kathmandu elite?"

"What? God, no! I mean—can you imagine being one of those?"

"Yeah, I know, right?"

"It's okay. They behave like that only because they are ignorant. Because, you know, they can't be more critical about their class conditions, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I know, right? It's like, they haven't read the right books. Otherwise they'd be totally conscious."

"Exactly! Like they haven't, you know, read theories and stuff. Like, the right books, exactly, the right book. If you read the right stuff, it totally changes your life. That is what I find. At least."

"Yeah. Me too."

"But, God! Can you imagine being one of those?"

(both laugh derisively)

Land: How Much Reform Is Enough Reform?

2010-05-10T17:21:00.001+05:30

The High Level Commission for Land Reform, chaired by Ghanendra Basnet has submitted its report to the Prime Minister. It recommends measures that are inadequate, and in fact regressive compared to the failed land reform that was attempted during Sher Bahadur Deuba's first tenure as Prime Minister.

The only "revolutionary" suggestion here is that the government shouldn't provide compensation to landowners for land exceeding the old limit [70 ropanis in the mid-hills] while implementing the new ceiling on the amount of land allowed per household. This reduces the budget required to implement the recommendations--this is obvious. More importantly, it helps in reducing the gap between the rich and the poor. It takes away significant amount of wealth from the already rich, and injects the poor with a significant amount of new wealth.

If a farmer [most likely, though, an absentee landlord] who had 70 ropanis of land will lose 15 ropanis without compensation. That is approximately 21.5% of land value gone without compensation. But this calculation means nothing: the old reform wasn't really implemented at all.

The report says that 125,000 new hectares of land will be freed through the proposed reforms. The amount of land required for the estimated 1,407,100 families of squatters [sukumbasi], marginal farmers [owning parcels too small for meaningful farming] and non-landowning [bhumiheen] farmers is at 421, 770 hectares.

Even after the reform, three-quarters of the farmers/squatters who need land will be left without land.

What sort of a reform seeks to leave 3 out of 4 citizens, for whose sake the reform is being implemented, without any reward?

Instead of aiming for a more or less equitable distribution of land, it recommends giving non-landowning farmers a minimum of 10 ropanis in the mid-hills and 5 Kattha in the Terai. Somebody who has been working the land of absentee landowners will likely see the parcels they have been working reduce [to 55 ropanis] with an addition of 10 ropanis to their own land.

Let us assume Annapurna Nepali worked on a 70 ropani parcel for an absentee landowner. She would have been entitled to the produce of 35 of those ropanis. After the reform, her share reduces to 27.5 ropanis, but, with new land she owns now, it goes up to 37.5 ropanis. That is a 7% increase in her income. Good for her. Also, she gains this from a *reduced* amount of effort spent: from 70 ropanis, she is working only 65. That is a reduction of approximately 7% of labor, assuming the size of a land parcel corresponds to effort required. I know this is not scientific at all, and it doesn't hold true for other figures.

If she were working 45 ropanis previously, and got 22.5 ropanis worth of produce, she could work 55 ropanis now, and get 32.5 ropanis worth of produce. That is a 44% gain in income from a 22% *increase* in labor.

If she were working 20 ropanis of land and previously recieved 10 ropanis worth of produce, she could now work 30 ropanis and get 20 ropanis worth. That is a 50% increase in labor that returns a 100% increase in income.

Let us assume Annapurna Nepali worked a 10 ropani parcel of land--much closer to the average size of land owned by mid-hill farmers. She would be entitled to the produce from 5 ropanis, but with the new gains, she will have the produce from 15 ropanis, after working 20 ropanis. Her labor doubles, her gains become three-folds.

Although, if her new possessions approach that of her old landowner, she might no longer want to work the absentee landowner's parcel. Why would she?

Assuming that land costs Rs 30,000/- per ropani in a village in the mid-hills, the absentee landlord stands to lose, in one go,Rs 30,000/- per ropani over the 70 ropani limit, while Annapurna stands to gain Rs 300,000/- worth of new property.

This is no mean gesture. It will empower the poorest, while impressing into the landowning class that the state is capable of enforcing measures aimed at equality.

This can then translate to other spheres of culture: more empowered women means less tolerance of discrimination based on gender. More empowered dalits means less tolerance of discrimination based on castes.

More empowered indigenous farmer in the Terai means less tolerance towards ethnic discrimination by Pahadi zamindars, etcetera.

According to the report, a very large fraction of agricultural land in Nepal is owned by absentee landowners, while a very large fraction of agricultural workers are non-landowning or squatters, or own insignificant parcels of land.

This dissonance between ownership and labor leads to inefficiency of production. Available capital is not put to work at its prime capacity.

Where is the most obvious flaw in this report?

In its apparent lack of assessment of land by its quality.

A family of 5--close to the national average--would need at least 5 ropanis of very good, spring-fed paddy [abbal] to grow enough rice to feed it through the year. If it is non-irrigated land that relies upon rain alone, the family needs more than 10 ropanis for rice alone. Forget about how much land is needed if the family is to survive on maize corn, or millet, or wheat, etc. Each is a different scenario.

I can think of at least one reason this reform might fail: sale of newly acquired land by rural families who see it as an opportunity to move to urban centres. Often times, the single largest purse of money sought by small rural farmers is not to add capital to their farming operations, but to leave the country to go work in the UAE or similar labor purgatory. Out of ambition and necessity, the next generation of children from these families tend to grow up in small urban centres, gaining formal education while losing out on traditional training in farming [almanac] knowledge. If this happens, the parcels of land owned by small farmers might change hands rapidly, aggregating in the hands of a few farmers with the means to purchase easily available land, and agricultural land newly begotten might soon change into residential land once remittance money starts flowing in.

The report has recommendations for zoning laws to regulate and enforce optimal utilization of various grades of land. But that is yet another set of laws to create and enforce.

Eavesdropping

2010-05-08T21:48:00.000+05:30

Yesterday, inside Sajha Prakashan's compound, as I tried to find the latrine, I heard two comments.

1] A YCL cadre asked another: "How big is their crowd?"

Response: "It looks big. Almost as big as ours was on May Day."

2] A young man was busy splitting a bamboo cane into two: perhaps that was one of the reasons why the Maoists were using dry bamboo. It can be found easily at construction sites, and, being dry and light, they don't break bones but slap the flesh hard enough to leave welts. And they are easy to split vertically: one stick can become two in a few seconds.

In any case, the young man splitting one cane into two said to his companion: "Look at those [Nepali] flags! If they are carrying flags on bamboo sticks, how can they call it a peace rally?"

Today, at a rally to address the YCL cadre brought to Kathmandu, Prachanda told them that this was a temporary interruption in the party's "andolan" or movement. To the opposition [NC, UML, people at the peace rally yesterday], he said: "If you think that the past six days were anything else but a simple trailer, you are mistaken. The actual movie is yet to start!"

Prachanda said yesterday's rally was composed of "hired goons mobilized by the government."

I have a feeling that those YCL cadres and other Maoists who saw the rally don't quite believe that.

------

Grim Addendum: More people died in the past week from being struck by lightning than from reasons directly related to the protests/andolan.

Rally

2010-05-08T14:00:00.000+05:30

Madankrishna Shrestha has the most impressive rhetorical skills among speechmakers in Nepal. Here is how his speech at Basantapur started:

"I see among us those who save lives--I see doctors. I see among us those with a vision to build a better furute--I see engineers. I see among us those who strive to transform Nepal into a nation where the rule of law flourishes--I see advocates and legal professionals. I see among us those who create doctors and engineers and advocates of the future--I see teachers. I see among us those who make the stuff that makes life better--I see entrepreneurs, industrialists, professionals. I see laobrers, I see farmers. I see a multitude hungering for the freedom to work and make an honest living."

I have paraphrased; I have edited and slightly and enhanced, but the effect of the speech is not betrayed. He also knew how to build the audience's reaction: he asked rhetorical questions to get the audience to raise their hands. "Who wants peace? Who is tired of the bandhs?" When thousands of pairs of hands were raised [and almost everybody raised both hands] in response, it made for a very heartening sight.

For, the unpigmented human palm is designed to signal intent over great distances.

The state hijacked the Peace Rally through a vote of thanks in the cabinet of ministers. Similarly, Nepali Congress, through its directive to the government to

invalidate the regional offices of UNHRC, has overstepped its office.

The meeting in Basantapur was not supposed to turn into a rally, for that was a guaranteed method for attracting confrontation with the YCL. The authorities had been told that there wasn't to be a rally, so they were unprepared. But, the mass was large--numerous. Hydra-headed, jubilient, eager. It circled around Tundikhel, and made a turn that proved a mistake.

YCL cadres are camped in the City Hall, the Exhibition Hall across the street, and Sajha Prakashan down the street. Within a distance of 100 meters, there must be a couple of thousand YCL cadres camped in for the long seige of the city. They were prepared, with bricks broken into fist-sized missiles piled on the sidewalk, bamboo canes and strips.

Riot police stopped the Peace Rally twice, but didn't succeed in containing it: mostly because the people at the front of the rally were earnest about their peaceful intentions. They had passed through a throng of YCL protesters earlier, and were given peaceful passage. On the surface, it seemed there was no threat.

But that was the surface. When a group used to facing no

opposition realizes there is an opposing voice, it sits unseasy.

The YCL allowed the Peace rally to pass first, but then cut into the line, cutting off one group from another. Then our revolutionary brethren came out into the street, with their sticks and stones and red flags.

The Peace Rally carried the Nepali flag--not something I agree with. This wasn't about nationalism or partriotism; this was about peace, about putting an end to bandhs, forever.

Across the fence of riot police shields were red flags printed the hammer and sickle inside a white outline of Nepal's borders.

YCL cadres were carrying rocks in their hands, holding sticks high above their heads. I had a change of clothes, a notebook, a water bottle and a laptop in my backpack. Not an even match.

Dr. Niroj Banepali, a beautiful man, smaller than my two fists together but never wavering in his belief, appeared next to me. He had a large grin on his face. Those carrying sticks and stones looked at us as if we had transgressed against a sacred formula by smiling at each other, laughing so close to their spray of angry spit. When it looked like some on our side of the fence were directly taunting some on the other side of the fence, we turned around to talk to a couple of blood-thirsty peace-marchers.

"We are here for peace. We can't react to them. We can't force them to give us passage. We have to ask them, shame them into it."

"Let's sit," I said after a few moments. Banepali was already sitting. I sat down. Some more people sat. A dozen. Soon, twenty. If the number would reach a hundred, the thousands behind us would sit, or that was the hope.

No. There were three on the ground, sitting as if that meant anything: a middle-aged man with white hair and a head with a craggy scar on his crown, Dr. Niroj Banepali, and this man.

That is when comedy of a certain kind entered my life: I needed desperately to urinate. I stood from the street and strayed into the midst of onlookers, quietly watching the procession, expressionless and uninterested. Only when I was well in their midst did I see the half-bricks and stones around their feet, and sticks in their hands. They were carrying red hammer and sickle flags.

"Khai, khai--alikati bato paam ta!" I started saying. Excuse me, could I pass? Of course, they weren't paying any attention to me: they were looking at the rally ahead of them, now stepping out to the pavement, now injecting into the crowd to form a layer few bodies thick. I saw an opening in the wall to my left. I thought--let's go into this compound, chances are, I can pee against a tree, feel relieved.

Wrong. No trees, but lots and lots of YCL and other Maoist cadres. There were children in the compound, who were helping by ferrying freshly split bamboo sticks to the street. Some chose to stand on the top of the roof of Sajha Prakashan, while a young woman--I wouldn't put her age at 18 or above... closer perhaps to 16--yelled at them for "sitting on your knees, while you should be out there."

"What is it?" A man asked me politely, perhaps bewildered that someone, carrying a backpack, had strayed into the party's camp.

"Is there a place where I can urinate?" I asked. I saw the line of jute-sacks lined sewage that had been converted into an open latrine by removing alternative sewer covers. This left concrete platforms perhaps 24 inches wide, with 24 inches wide gap on both sides. On this you'd squat, rely upon the notion that it is the face that people can identify, and therefore is attached to shame, and do your business.

I raised a flap, urinated, went to the water tap that was, miraculously, always running although in a slow trickle, washed my hand alongside a man who was filling up a plastic bottle. Half-dozen men returned from the street to go into what must be the toilets in the building.

One man was using a thin kitchen knife to split a tall bamboo--something that must have propped up the tarpaulin flap over the cooking fire. A boy ran to the street with the bamboo sticks.

I paused to watch the confrontation happening outside the compound. People around me ran frantically back and forth, collecting sticks, stones, bricks. The peace rally seemed to have been hijacked by a few who were intent on a confrontation: later, [today, Saturday the 8th of May], there were news about the rally being "infiltrated" by some who supported other political parties [NC, UML] and were looking for a fight.

I walked out of the compound and into the "peace" side of the rally. Didn't care to stick around any more.

I walked to Kupondole, somewhat disappointed that the rally had lost its dignity so quickly.

An hour or so after I exited that road, police fired 12 shells of teargas into the crowd to disperse it. It seemed, by that point, the YCL and Maoists had been overwhelmed by the not-so-peaceful protesters.

Later, in the evening, Prachanda said the Maoist Party had decide to end the bandhs because the government conspired to "make the people fight each other," and because the party was sensitive towards the suffering the bandhs were causing to the people.

I wish they had been honest about the reason. They created the need for the confrontation, not just in Kathmandu, but across the country. They miscalculated their popularity among the people, and actually lost a lot of popularity during and because of these bandhs.

But, at least for the time being, the bandhs are over.

What is it that I am doing today? Why?

2010-05-07T06:05:00.000+05:30

I am opposing the bandh, as has been enforced by the Maoist party, with the YCL as the disciplinary force.

Foremost, because the Maoist party had pledged not to hold any bandhs. They broke that pledge.

Everyone in this country knows how necessary and important the forced closure of the country is in nudging public opinion to one or the other side of the indecision fence. Why give up such an effective political weapon?

Then, after having given it up in a public pledge, why be so mercurially amnesiac?

Second, because of the violence inherent in this particular campaign. The intimidation started long before the protests, through a very impressive press campaign: Newspapers across the country reported on, and carried photographs of YCL cadres and other citizens not always voluntarily present at the training camps learning to use khukuri and lathi. It is ridiculous for the Maoists to insist their campaign was a peaceful one, if the seedbed of the campaign was soaked with intimidation well before they took to the streets.

Third, because an "indefinite" strike amounts to political blackmail, unless this is a revolution aimed at changing the entire state, as was done in 1990 and 2006. I am sure even the most fervent supporter of these bandhs will hesitate before equating 2006 and the present event. Unless they clearly articulate that NC, UML and other partners in the ruling coalition stand against the spirit of the achievement made in 2006, or that the events of 2006 were simply a blip along the assured forward march of the People's Revolution [Maoist], it is a reaction out of proportion to the import of their present agenda: of removing MKN as the prime minister, and replacing him with PKD.

Fourth, because the mechanics is faulty: politics is a conversation that should start with one's neighbors [because it is with them that we share physical security and immediate resources], should radiate to encompass entire citizenry [because with them we share economic security and sovereignty as identifiable nation], extend to entire human species and beyond [because with them we share morality and aesthetic], and return to the neighbor once more, so that, after becoming physically and economically secure individuals with an identity, moral and aesthetic stance, we may learn to be just towards each other while sharing resources.

To bring people away from where they ought to be having the most important political debates--their neighborhood--to where they are absolute outsiders and transgressors--neighborhoods of Kathmandu--is to separate the body from the social person; this renders an individual into a mere tool, to be directed and used, not to be engaged in a conversation.

Mediation in conflict-ridden neighborhoods has to, and have always, come from local leaders, despite their ideological differences. When YCL cadres have been trucked in as instantaneous response to retaliation by locals, a lot of stones have been thrown at each other, scores have been injured.

For what? At the end, the YCL cadre from Taplejung will have no effect on the Youth Force or Tarun Dal unaffiliated youth across the divide, whereas a YCL cadre from the neighborhood can better carry both entreaties and threats across the divide.

No Flag

2010-05-06T22:11:00.000+05:30

No flag to show. No slogans, no chants. Few demands: Integrity in civic life. End of violence and intimidation. No ideology save the individual's safety and freedom.

That is all. For the moment.

Election Day, 2008

2010-05-06T18:34:00.000+05:30

I am always accused of belonging to the other ideological group, always the other. Therefore, I am re-posting this essay here. Samudaya seems no longer functional. In the original post, NTGK has a photo of a woman voting. This is how it went down for me at the elections

Alston--if you really think I am pro any big party, this should shed some light on my political being.

----
Elections Day

by Prawin | April 2008

elections_uml_women.jpg

(Photo by Nayantara; Women at UML candidate Raghu G Pant's last campaign rally in Lalitpur before the election)

April 8, 2008 — Some said there was no way there’d be elections. Some said elections would happen, without too many incidents, although there’d be some, but more would come, in a month or two, things are uncertain. Some said Army would take over: Maoists said the army was stockpiling weapons for that. Some Royalists said the army would take over, everybody was waiting and watching, everybody was preparing to leave the country on a moment’s notice: if it comes to that, you know, if Maoists win, although they won’t, there is no way.

I told anyone who cared to ask me that I hoped the elections would be peaceful. I hoped the parties, and YCL, would behave. Let the people decide.

On Monday, my parents left to vote in Abu Khaireni, my birthplace. I am not on the voters list there. I didn’t think I was on the list here, at Gongabu, either, but I was. Until I knew that, I was sure I wasn’t registered. I said—everybody is equally a thief, all parties. I said—I won’t vote. I am not satisfied with how the parties are behaving, how they project as if the peace that, hopefully, will be restored in the country after a peaceful election is their benevolent gift to the people, rather than something the people have earned through their patient practice of democracy.

More despairing was what I saw among those whom I idolized—the people. I have realized over the days leading to the election that the people, too, are as much thieves—chorharu—as are the political parties. More reason not to vote. I felt like a cliché—America-returned, liberal-arts-degreed, nitpicking over everything about the elections, doubly-fatalist, looking for an argument with everyone with a contrary view. I turned down opportunities to be an election observer: on election day I would sit and write fiction to earn wage, work on what needed completing. I worried about what I would write for Samudaya, the only place where I wanted to express my opinions on the events of the day. It would validate my rants in the past, I thought, if I could tell Samudaya how I lived this momentous day.

I awoke to my brother’s frustrated shouts. He started yelling at his six year old son and Bhauju because he couldn’t locate the chit that contained his name and roll number corresponding to his information on page 27 in the voting list. I tried to sleep through it, him banging the daraj open and shut, opening drawers and flipping the mattress over, laboring because he has a large belly. He yelled at Bhauju, who was in the kitchen upstairs, and he sent his son, Abhi, to fetch her.

“How would I know?” Bhauju said. “You took it somewhere the other day. How would I know where you put it?”

“When?” asked dai. “When did I take it?”

“How would I know?” Bhauju answered. Back and forth. Pitch and volume rising, dai acting as if his world would end, as if, without that chit Bhimsen Das Pradhan would surely lose to Yogesh Bhattarai or Hitman Shakya.

It was six-thirty in the morning. Voting wouldn’t begin for another thirty minutes. Voting was to happen four minutes away from home, and he had a volunteer’s pass. He was Bhimsen Das Pradhan’s party representative inside the polling station. Nobody would stop him from voting. I called my father in Khaireni. From the bustle in the background, I could tell that he was already at Shri Ram Shah HS School, where, I imagined, the polls were happening, as they always did. I could be wrong—they tell me Khaireni now has a population of close to forty thousand people. When I last left it, it wasn’t a quarter as crowded, as constructed, as plotted and watered and sold by a lakh-a hand. “Look in the black bag in my daraj, ” he said.

“Look in the black bag in Ba’s daraj ,” I said to dai, who had found what he was looking for, something that had been right under his nose all morning, through all that yelling and accusing his kid and wife.

“Your name is also in the list,” he told me. “Come, vote.”

“All are thieves,” I said. He left. I didn’t even want to watch any of the news channels: all full of politicians lying left and right, talking in one befuddling tongue. If one were to believe them, the elections was simply an exercise in wresting legitimacy from the people to stamp approval on sheet after sheet of secret arrangements among the three major parties.

But there was no electricity, therefore no television for distraction. Abhi also went next door to play with their year-old baby. I went to check my mail, read news, and I thought I would see how the election was faring. Dai was standing with other representatives, handing out business-card-sized profile of Bhimsen Das Pradhan. Very much illegal, to hand out campaign material on election morning, but I guess business cards didn’t count. I told him I was going to watch the election.

“You should vote,” everybody said. “Page number 27, your name is on page 27,” dai said.

Okay, then, I thought. “Go to the party’s table and get a chit made,” dai said.

The chit listed your name and a serial number between one and thousand, identified which line you’d stand in to vote. The same information would be with the officers appointed by Election Commission.

“I don’t want any help from any political party,” I said. “If I can prove I am Prawin Adhikari, I should be able to vote.” I had my Washington state identification in my wallet: I wanted to see if they’d take that. Unless someone present at the polling station—at the desk where Congress, UML, Maoists, Independents put their heads together and colluded—could challenge my identity and prove that I was not the Prawin Adhikari I said I was, my right to vote in that particular polling station was guaranteed by laws drawn up under the interim constitution. I said this much to dai and his friends.

“Doesn’t work that way,” they said.

“Doesn’t work the way guaranteed to me by the election commission?” I said.

“Here the representatives have agreed to a different agreement.”

“Whose representatives?” I said. “Did you ask me? Did you let me know about your decision through public media?” Sarwajanik sanchar madhyam. Anger pushed my words closer to Sanskrit than the coarse Tahanunle Nepali I speak. They laughed. Fuckers, I thought. “Everybody is a thief,” I shouted in disgust, throwing my fist in the air, not as a gesture of anger but of disgusted dismissal. I huffed and returned home, confident they didn’t deserve my vote.

But I wanted to vote in the proportionals: the only way some of the people with agreeable ideas on democracy, with which I am familiar through sarwajanik sanchar madhyam, could be placed in the debate that will shape the constitution of the country. I was so angry that it made me want to defecate, but I let it deposit, constipate, just out of spite. Fuckers, I fumed on the roof, watching schools of middle-aged women dressed as if for teej make their way through Town Planning, their mouth moving in tandem, dhoti-ends fanning faces.

Dai brought Sujan home: Sujan is a year older than me, but is a Mama by relation, someone I grew up with in Khaireni. We knocked on doors to watch Mahabharat as kids, read the book together after watching Bhimsen tear apart Dushashan. “Youth like you,” he said, “If youth like you won’t vote what hope is there?”

They are all thieves, I said. But, it was futile not to vote. I would regret this opportunity to belong again after a long absence, a period in which so much has happened. I would have no moral authority to point my fingers and direct my anger at the chor politicians at a later date if I didn’t put them in debt to me, if I didn’t put my mark on the constitution of this country. I know very strongly that I will leave Nepal at the first decent opportunity I get, and I know that I will choose to be a citizen of my professional world—fiction, cinema—over any country. But, I wanted to vote, my first, if you don’t count student association elections at Whitman.

“Come with me,” dai said as he was returning to the polling station.

“I’ll come on my own,” I told him. I didn’t want help from any political party.

Isn’t this illegal, I thought, when I saw UML and Maoist flags right outside the polling station. By law, they are required to be at least a hundred meters from the polling station: they weren’t that far even from the polling booth inside Navodit High School grounds. I looked at the face of Hitman Shakya, large, keeping with the tradition of his party, no doubt, adorning walls and aggrandizing. Party cadres were busy finding the names of people who wanted their help locating themselves on the voting list. I took long, what I thought were authoritative, strides to the polling station. The policemen stopped me right at the gate.

“Where is your chit?” they asked.

“What chit?” I asked. I knew what chit they wanted me to show—but that was a game prepared and agreed to by the parties, that only people with chits issued by one of their desks would gain entry into the polling station. I didn’t care for that.

“Look here,” I said to the policemen, “as a citizen of this country, I have every right to go in and vote. I know exactly where my name is in the list. It is illegal for you to stop me.”

“I don’t know any of that,” they said. “Can’t let you in without a chit.”

“What chit? I don’t want to have anything to do with the parties. You can’t stop me from voting. You have no right to turn me back. Only election officers can tell me if I can’t vote, not you, definitely not the parties.”

“Jabarjasti nagarnus,” they said. “Don’t try to bully us. Mildaina.”

I was bullying them? I knew there was no point in engaging in a yelling match with them. Some Nagarik Samaj gathered around me. “There is agreement in place,” they told me. “We aren’t affiliated with parties either, but parties have decided. Don’t ask me under what ain.”

Dai heard the shouts, I guess. He appeared at my elbow. He put a hand on his chest and another on my shoulder. “This is my brother,” he told the policemen. “Wait, wait here.”

I put a foot on the gate—a school’s gate constructed to file children through. There were people watching from rooftops. Four extremely slow-moving lines inching into the shade under a colorful tent, events inside of which the rooftop citizenry certainly couldn’t see. But an election must make a wonderful spectacle, even in its placidness. A policeman put his foot across the gate from the inside. People worked their way around us. Dai came with the chit—nothing but my name and the line in which I was to stand (ka), but a sanction from one of the parties, I think the Maoist desk, sufficient to convince the policeman that I was decent enough to vote. I didn’t enter immediately. I wrote in a notebook first: At 9:45 AM, I was denied entry into the polling station without a chit issued by a political party. I did it more to show the people around me that I was angry at them, the entire lot of unscrupulous fuckers that they were.

Bhimsen Das Pradhan came around wishing luck to everyone. “Isn’t this illegal?” I asked him. He didn’t respond, moved on down the line, up and down all four lines, like a tick sucking at the entire length of a particularly windy snake. Another Nagarik Samaj man came to my side. “No. Not illegal. Election Commission laws allow candidate to come with one assistant. If he had brought many, would be illegal.”

“Sure,” I said. “But how is this not voter-influencing?”

“Those that are doing are doing everything,” somebody said. Garne le sabai garya chhan. Ke legal ke illegal.

It is okay. Important thing is not to fight inside the polling station. Sanctity of the process. Nagarik Samaj tried to talk to me. Sanctity my black ass, I thought, everyone is a thief. Sabjana chor. I wrote in my note book: At 10 AM Bhimsen Das Pradhan tried to influence voters in queue at a polling station. I have to record this, I thought, I’ll show these fuckers.

“Uncle,” a small voice called from behind and pulled at my pant pocket. Abhi and Bhauju were also in line. Since she was in the female line (kha), Abhi had come to stand with me. “Is your name on the list?” I asked him. “No,” he said shyly. The man behind me showed Abhi a picture on his cellphone: Abhi riding his bike, its left training wheel broken and pointing upwards. Abhi hid his head inside my shirt, talked to my belly. We tried to fit inside the shade of a faded black umbrella held high by an elderly man in front of us.

Gongabu is an area that has grown very rapidly not only in the past few years but also over the past eighteen years: it is more directly a product of political change than anything else like, say, the real estate market. As UML and Nepali Congress diverted the nation’s wealth to a crust of the petty bourgeoisie within their folds, they bought small patches of land in small installments and built small houses, often financing it with money got from selling agricultural land elsewhere. Around late nineties, when the corruption of the parties was at its height, large, ostentatiously decorated houses mushroomed, sometimes with the national flag and guards inside, or, very often, homes of people who ran overseas employment consultancies. As Maoist violence increased, their targets poured in, building another crop of small houses or renting flats from those already there. As security deteriorated outside the valley, constructed around Gongabu area grew faster than at most other areas in the valley. After April Revolution, Maoist activists descended to live as neighbors to those they had flayed, forced to flee. YCL and Maobadi-Pidit sharing the scarce water and micro-bus seats available to them. All of them at the polling station. Rarely an indigenous Newar in queue, not a single person of Terai origins. Most voters born elsewhere.

An elderly lady came to the front of the line waving a chit. The heads at the desk huddled, looked up at the lady. Is that really your name, they asked, can we see your chit? This can’t be you, they said.

“Maybe the people writing the name in that book made that mistake,” she said.

“No, no,” the heads said. “You can go back out,” one of the heads told her.

“Wait,” I said to the lady. “You don’t have to leave. These people have no right to tell you whether or not you can vote.”

“That name she gave us,” one of the representatives said, “she is our friend’s mother. This lady isn’t she.”

“Can’t they have the same names?” I asked.

“Maybe,” they said. “Maybe not. But our friend’s mother has already voted.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t vote,” I told the lady. If she wanted, she could petition the head of the election officials at the station. If that officer was convinced that her grievance was genuine, the officer would give her a ballot, which would then be sealed in a special envelop. Her vote wouldn’t be counted unless the difference between total number of votes cast came to be so close as to make hers the decisive vote.

“Go back and ask for another vote,” one of the heads said.

“That isn’t proper,” I said. It would be proper for her to petition to the election officials. Anything else was wrong.

“I don’t want to stand in line again,” the lady said. “You can come straight to the front,” the heads said. I looked around. Everyone sought the smallest patch of shade they could find. Maheshwor Shrestha was carrying water to those in queue. The elderly lady walked out. Fuckers, I murmured, looking at the huddled heads of the party representatives. They had intimidated the guard at the front of the queue—he was handing over the chits of queued voters, for the heads to consult their copy of the voters list and pronounce whether or not a person could vote.

“These people have no right to tell anyone who can or can’t vote,” I said to people close to me. The guard asked me for my chit. I waved it under his nose. “I don’t have to show it to these people,” I said. “I know I can vote. I’ll show it only to an election officer.”

Another man was stopped by the heads. He had given his name as Shyam Piya. Problem was, Shyam Piya died of cancer about a year ago. I know because Shyam Piya was a neighbor, a Newar with roots in Bandipur, Tanhun. “You should come this way,” one of the heads called the man, but I heard later it was the same man who had given Shyam Piya the Proxy his chit. Maoists. I heard.

“Page 27,” I told the election officer when it was my turn. “I am Prawin Adhikari.” Prawin Adhikari bhanne ma nai hum.

The man confused himself by looking at the roll number, turned to a later page and couldn’t find my name. “Twenty seven,” I said, poking at the list. The man looked up, I looked down at him. On page 27 I could see my father’s name. “That’s my father,” I told the man. He took my chit and tried to put a red mark on it. His pen didn’t write. He scratched at the paper furiously, the red didn’t stick.

I moved one step up the line. Blue ink of vote seeped under the cuticle of the left thumb, dark crescent under the nail. Marked me. The third man tore off a light blue ballot sheet and asked me to put my thumb print on the stub.

“Thumb print?” I laughed. Ajhai pani aauntha chhap nai ho?

The man looked up. Perhaps nobody else had questioned him about that. “What’s the use of this?” I was annoyed that I had to roll my thumb in ink for no reason. I’ve hated it every single time I’ve had to do it. Anywhere. It seems too personal a mark to put anywhere. The only function of thumb prints should be to increase the intrigue in a crime scene.

“This is proof that you took a ballot,” the man said.

“Yeah, maybe, but it is no proof it was I that took the ballot,” I said. I meant—how does a thumb print warn you if somebody drops a proxy vote? What is there to stop anyone from dropping a proxy vote in my name? So it is proof that you gave a ballot away, but what does it really signify in the democratic process?

“But this is proof you took a ballot,” the man repeated, irritated that I had broken his rhythm of tearing off ballots from a pad. Smirk on my face, I must have tarnished the sheen of dignity he had been wearing all morning. I folded the ballot once, twice, three times as I waited for the person before me to finish stamping his ballot with a swastika stamp.

When it was my turn to cast a vote, I leaned over the light blue ballot, put my stamp on it secretively, deliberately, lightly, afraid of how delicate an idea I was dealing with. It didn’t ink well—too faint for comfort. I needn’t have worried—surely there would be heads huddled together and a head would speak for my faint swastika. But it was my first vote, and I needed it to be strongly imprinted, forceful and righteous. I inked the stamp again, leaned as close to my earlier stamp as I could, and placed it ring on ring, arms of the swastika superimposing. I looked at it again—there was no ink in the ink pad; the second swastika was just a tad off, created the illusion of a shadow under the first stamp. “It won’t count if you stamp it twice,” someone in the queue yelled. “I know that,” I yelled back. “The stamp doesn’t stamp.”

I folded my ballot. A strange thought occurred to me: since the ballot is vertical, instinct leads people to fold it in half. In fact, in a lot of places election officials were instructed to give people the ballot already folded. The tree and the sun were placed such that if the ballot were folded in half, and if the stamp had had too much ink on it, it would transfer a mirror image onto the signs of other parties in boxes at the very end of the column; a stamp on the sickle-hammer, on the third column, wouldn’t, because its column was shorter by two boxes, just short enough.

For the pink ballot, I inked my thumb without any protest, stamped the ink pad with force a few times before leaning over my ballot. I cast my vote and wondered if my blue ballot would be more important than my pink one: my gut feeling was that the pink would count for more.

I picked up Abhi and told an election observer to keep her eyes wide open. She had beautiful brown eyes. I had just cast my first vote ever, and possibly—I hope there is no reprisal in my lifetime of the events that led to this election, or of a similar election—the most important vote I’ll ever cast.

I checked the time as I walked past the guard. 10:45 AM. A man in his early twenties seemed agitated, itching for a fight. “Congressi boys want something to go wrong there,” he pointed towards the booth. “They just want a reason.” “And what will they do?” I asked him. What? Fight? Stab, shoot, burn? Do what? Why? He didn’t answer. Fucker, I muttered.

At home, Bhauju made vegetable momos. The Dhakals who live downstairs also voted or tried to, all proxies. Aarati forgot what name she was supposed to use, and was caught out. Maoists gave them chits to vote, waited for them to come out and asked them if they had voted Maoist. UML was doing the same. “Congress not so much, but they’re doing it too.” Because Congress hadn’t bothered to set up a party booth. The trick was to have representatives constantly walk back and forth between the party’s booth and the representatives’ table inside the polling station. Within the first hours of polling, a clear pattern emerged of those absent for various reasons—those registered in two places, therefore gone to their village of origin [like my parents]; overseas working or studying [millions, throughout the country]; deceased [Shyam Piya]; late to the station. Representatives noted these names, went outside, sent someone fresh inside with a new chit. It was agreed upon by all parties. Those chors, fuckers!

“Did they get the ink on your flesh?” Someone wanted to see my thumb. If it had been just on the nail, I could scrape it, buff it, get it clean, put a coat of varnish on it, go back, take care not to let the ink get under the skin. Vote again. And again. Everybody is a thief. Fuckers.

Again and again people asked me which party I had voted for. “It is a secret ballot,” I said.

“What harm is there in telling us?” they said. I remember how people waved their ballots in front of a loudly cheering crowd when they voted for the first time, in 2048. They didn’t understand why a vote like this needs to be a secret ballot, and why some other votes need to be transparent. I gave them my view on democracy:

“Every person has one vote. Every person has the right to use that vote to decide. Every person has an equally sacred right to refrain from using that vote. And lastly, every person has the duty to refrain from asking others about their votes.” People should not tell others, while the elections are going on, how they had voted, or how anyone should vote. That is against the spirit of democracy, I said. Prajatantrik maryada biparit kura ho. People laughed at me or called me rude for not telling them how I had voted. Hamlai bhanda ke hunthyo ra?

Throughout the day rumors and facts filtered through TV channels: so many bombs, so many booth captures. A majority of booth captures involved Maoists. In the evening, Ananta was smug and overconfident, gloating about how everybody had told them about their surprise at how little violence the Maoists had used in the process. I found it revolting that Maoists were taking pride in the fact that they hadn’t spilled blood: implied, I think, was a declaration that they are still capable of killing if they need to, but out of some sense of nobility they refrained. On his sides, UML and Congress politicians cried foul before a TV audience, said there were rampant abuses by Maoists—voter intimidation, booth capturing, banning other parties from sending their representatives into the polling stations at places like Rolpa. A table filled only with Maoist heads, colluding, no doubt, to ensure their ten thousand martyrs got to cast their votes. Comrades made useful in their afterlife, too; surely martyrs don’t mind that.

I suppose it will be a few weeks before everyone—people, parties, king—settles to a new reality as directed by the mandate of the people. Everybody has the Maoists as the focus of their talks now, amazed at how little bloodshed they created: more Maoists have died in the past three days than have cadres of any other party. But this patronizing and spoiling the brat forgets Terai and its complications. All incidents of real violence came from the Terai.

One thing is for sure: this has been among the most successful elections in the history of the country. People have voted in larger numbers this time than in any other election. I am sure most of them voted today. I am sure my parents voted from Gongabu and from Khaireni. No one will be so foolish as to say that all votes are genuine—millions and millions of them are proxy votes. If my parents could register me to vote, there is no reason to imagine our Nepali brothers working in countries from Korea to Kuwait weren’t registered.

Party representatives have prior agreement, important thing is to keep elections peaceful, small irregularity is always happening, in the interest of greater good must overlook minor incidents. New Nepal means looking forward, always forward, no matter little dispute here and there.

Fuckers!

Violence is here

2010-05-06T13:13:00.000+05:30

Like I had said in an earlier post: the "peaceful" but forced closure of the city was not a sustainable proposition. There have been numerous counter-protests, with no specific [apparent] leadership, and no other articulated demand than to be able to resume basic commerce. People want to work, earn, and buy basic necessities.

The Maoists are very hypocritical: whenever large number of Maoist cadres need to be transported from one point in the city to another, they have been using trucks. However, when they found a water tanker on the streets, they vandalized it, beat up the driver. Irony is, they have contracted most of the water tankers in the city to carry drinking water for their cadres. They had declared from the podium, on May 1, that water tankers would be allowed to operate.

In Birgunj, the counter-protest has taken a religious tint, but it is really thinly veiled ethnic fissure: Hindubadis are fighting Maobadis. I refuse to believe it is about the religion. It is about Hills versus Plains, and it is about Higher-caste Hindus versus Lower-caste Hindus. It is a spillover from across the border.

The farther you go from Kathmandu, the more pronouncedly political are the clashes: In Humla, Nepalgunj, Parbat, the strife is between Maoists and one other party, either UML or NC.

In the streets of Kathmandu, they are between YCL members from outside the city, and city-dwellers. The problem is, once the lathi-wielding YCLs leave, local YCLs will have to live in the neighborhoods where they are forcibly closing shops, and in some cases, injuring locals to the point of putting them in hospital.

Prachanda met with the Indian ambassador, a shady character named Rakesh Sood.

Maoist leaders have been openly enjoying going around town in cars, while nobody else is allowed the privilege. If these hypocrites are ever to be trusted to hold the interest of the people in their hearts, the people are deserving morons.

I hope tomorrow's protest at Basantapur will be uneventful. Most likely, it will be. I just hope there will be people in good numbers there tomorrow.

Disappointed

2010-05-06T08:02:00.000+05:30

Tomorrow's march is perhaps the first declaration of a class war since 2006, from the other direction: bourgeoisies on the proletariat. It has less to do with opposing the Maoist's forced closure of the country, and more to do with defending one's slice of civic life, and defending the right of others to enjoy their slice of civic life.

And it puts professionals, business people and other civic society types at direct confrontation with the Maoist multitude. This is very unfortunate. It is plain to see to anyone that the Maoists have been keeping hostage the futures of their own base also. But, there is a promised payoff: the new constitution will be more proletariat friendly. Land distribution is a foundational issue. Gender is, too. As is secularism. As is the question of redressing unequal land and water treaties made with India. Nepal can't achieve any modicum of stability or peace without re-imagining the state and the nation to find a more effective and urgent method of wealth re-distribution. Historically, there has been alienation of a part of the citizenry, based on their geographical and ethnic distance from the center. These are issues that all parts of the society should be interested in, not just the revolutionary red horde. Tomorrow's march from Basantapur should respond to these ideas, if it wants to have any relevance whatsoever.

Because, if we don't remember these things and insist only upon our right to open shops and factories or be able to go to our jobs, we will have forgotten what it is that separates the Maoist protesters from us, and what keeps the two groups yoked together.

The yoke should be no less than a recognized, instilled notion of equality and justice for all people on earth: your fellow citizens simply happen to be a special sub-set of that number. They deserve exactly the same kinds and amount of freedoms that you would ask for yourself--or if your conception of the self is that of a moral person--the kinds and amount of freedoms that you would recognize as the right of another person, and would defend with your life.

What separates us is our willingness to recognize the rule of law, the absolute imperative for integrity in civic life, the recognition that when we march tomorrow, we don't march merely to defend our rights, but also to defend the rights of others.

Friday: Counter-Revolution Starts

2010-05-05T19:05:00.000+05:30

Finally! The Chamber of Commerce and an umbrella organization representing professionals [and semi-professionals like me, I guess] is organizing a rally against the Maoist closure of the country.

If you are in Kathmandu, and if you agree with the sentiment being represented, you want to be at Basantapur. This is how the SMS that is beign circulated reads:

"FNCCI, Nepal Chamber of Commerce, PAPAD & other non-political organizations are goign to organize a peace rally to oppose the Bandh on May 7th, Friday from Basantapur at 9 AM. Please join the rally with your family to show strength and solidarity. Forward this SMS to all your friends and like minded people."

If you don't like what is happening in the country, show up at Basantapur on Friday.

If you believe, like I do, that most of the Maoist demands/designs are legitimate and necessary for the country, still show up to tell them to fuck off the streets. They should be in the CA, not in the streets.

Maoist Protests, day 5

2010-05-05T10:07:00.000+05:30

Today is day 5! Astonishing, really, how long it has held together. Prachanda says it will reach fever pitch over couple of days, but I don't believe him. I think the high-point was May 1, Saturday. The movement is coming undone: entrepreneurs forced to supply water to the protesters are supplying them with dirty water pumped up from the banks of Bagmati and Bishnumati. For those who don't understand the implications, consider this: Both rivers are stand-still cesspools. Within ten kilometers of their origin, they both enter city limits; all fresh water has been diverted by that point, and passes through humans to re-enter the rivers as effulgence.

Maoist "supporters" who had been given the choice between paying Rs. 1,000/- per household or joining the ranks of the protesters have started returning, sometimes undertaking journeys as long as 150 KM [to Chitawan] in order to return home.

Prachanda appealed to the ethnic Newars and citizens of Kathmandu to join the protests, but some neighborhoods have started organizing retaliatory groups. Around Sanepa, they have declared neighborhoods "Maoist-prohibited zones," going so far as to stop tankers carrying drinking water from passing through the streets. I doubt if anyone is offering protesters drinking water or sanitary facilities out of spontaneous support for the cause.

Maoist rhetoric is becoming less and less precise: it is no longer possible to tell exactly why these protests are happening. It is clear that a "prince" is missing from the picture, someone who could bend the wills of lesser minions and forge a strong unity. GPK seems to have done that the last time the Maoists declared an "indefinite" strike. This time around, it seems aimed only at toppling the government, establishing Prachanda as the next PM, not including any other political party in the government.

How this will help the Maoists draft and pass a constitution that is favorable to them is opaque to me. Unless, through some authoritarian act, the Maoists draft a constitution all on their own and pass it without requiring the President--who is the protector of the Interim Constitution, and whose mandate is to ensure that the next constitution gets written under existing laws--to sign it off.

Because, whenever the Maoists go to the CA to pass even the phrasing of the prologue to the constitution, they will need broad support from many other parties.

Most other parties do not believe the Maoist party is a democratic party. It has never agreed to make the fundamental gesture of making YCL into a civilian organization, instead of the semi-militant organization that it is now.

It has never agreed to stop its donation drives, which are very thinly-disguised extortion schemes. If the party were to be billed for the expenses it has legitimately accrued over the past week by putting its cadres up in various avenues, I am sure it would add up to a mind-boggling amount.

That, is also a measure of their extortion of private citizens, and their looting of the state coffers.

I think the most instructive "un-gluing" of the party and the people happened in Pokhara, where Maoists beat up sand-mine workers who support the Maoist party for working during the bandh. The workers then beat the Maoists right back. If the Party can't sell this "revolution" to its basest of the base, there is something fundamentally wrong with its PR operation. Or, of its sense of purpose. They are not coming forward with their true intention: to be in power when shit starts rolling downhill, and to force a particular character into the new constitution.

Which is what frustrates me more than anything else. For anyone who gives it any thought, most of the stuff the Party will want in the constitution is exactly what Nepal needs. But the likes of Prachanda can't stop there: they will try to make it an opportunity to cement themselves into it.

Which, in this day and age, is very dumb. Very self-destructive.

It is far more profitable for any political group to build self-redundancy into any articulation of a vision for public service, but then go on to earn the sort of merit that allows people to imagine that the political group is indispensable.

Something like what the "Civil Society" managed during the revolution of 2006.

Violence

2010-05-04T15:50:00.000+05:30

No matter how much the Maoist party try to avoid violence during their protests, it isn't a sustainable proposition: if you add hundreds of thousands of people to Kathmandu, and at the exact same time also cut off all means that bring food into the valley, something is going to give at some point. On one hand, their rural cadres need to return home as soon as possible because it has started raining, and therefore is the perfect time to sow maize corn; on the other hand, hundreds of thousands of laborers in Kathmandu are dismayed that their livelihood has been temporarily held hostage by the Maoists.

Last night, in Gongabu, Maoist demonstrators tried to capture and burn a motorcycle that had ventured out at 6:30 PM. At its rally in Khula Manch, the Maoist leadership had said it would "grant" the people the freedom to go out to shop for essentials between 6 PM and 8 PM. The motorcycle owner must have been operating under the impression that he was free to ride out between 6 PM and 8 PM. The police had to intervene. 5 rounds of warning shots were fired into the air.

Today, there have been three separate incidents where Newars of certain enclaves around the city have beaten up men, specifying the reason: they are YCL members. This is purely hatred, mob becoming a vigilante mob. In the evening, thousands of YCL cadres will return to their designated dormitories, passing through the area where the incidents have occurred [serious enough injuries were sustained that at least one person had to be taken to the Neuro-Hospital in Maharajgunj], and confrontations are very much possible.

You can't have a "revolution" whose most salient feature is a stalemate. And, for a party that has unabashedly used violence to get its way, it is hypocritical to insist that it will refrain from violence.

There must be rancor among the ranks because a lot have chosen to abandon the revolution to tend to their farming necessities. There is no support from Kathmandu inhabitants: this fact is very easily read in the vacant and incurious gaze that meets the protesters each evening as locals crowd around shops, waiting to open them or for them to open.

The leaders had better reach an agreement quickly. It is specially beneficial for the Maoists, because, if there is violence on a large scale from the locals towards the Maoists, the leaders will lose face.

At a time like this...

2010-05-02T15:01:00.000+05:30

This page will download you the .pdf of "A Land of Our Own" a collection of interviews witl Dalit members of Nepal's uncertain Constitutional Assembly, edited by Suvash Darnal of previously the Jagaran Media Center, and lately of Samata Foundation, and edited by me.

Since LSE has put it online, I am assuming there are no copyright infringement issues here.

Interesting time, part II

2010-05-01T19:08:00.000+05:30

May 1. Of course, the Maoists are doing their annual "show of power" activities: red shirts, nylon red flags, raised fists, thinly veiled threats.

Watching Prachanda's speech, I was struck by the dissonance between his party's massive, impressive ability to mobilize--coerce, force, cajole--such a large number of people into following the party directive, and the utter, utter lack of anything of substance in his speech. It seemed to me that Madhav Kumar Nepal held the cards close to his vest, late into the day, not revealing whether he had given in to the demands being made by the Maoists, or if he had buckled under the pressure and resigned.

Prachanda, in his speech, tried to dig in for the long haul, to prepare his cadres to stay in Kathmandu on borrowed [extorted] space and rations. I think he did one thing particularly sinister: he sliced Kathmandu's demography into those who should most readily help him--the ethnic, downtrodden Newars. This recognizes the fact that most of Kathmandu's population is not born here, is not Newar, and is not sympathetic to the large red hordes at their gates.

MKN, on the other hand, went through a lengthy, apologetic speech that hints at his own capacity for authoritarianism, and refused to bow before Maoist pressure. The government's side made a huuuuge mistake by doing the following:

1] Controlling access to the event where the PM made the speech. This was evident from the fact that all TV channels showed the same streaming video, with the NTV logo prominent.

2] Being flanked by choice meat: BK Gachhadhar and Sujata Koirala aren't democracy-friendly branding.

3] Insisting that it is the duty of the security forces and bureaucrats to ensure smooth running of the state no matter how grave the threat. This is attitude of a dictator firmly digging in his heels, preparing for the long haul.

Tomorrow is bound to be less peaceful than today, regardless of Maoist rhetoric. After all, a stalemate doesn't lead to victory. Not both forces can be perpetually restrained. It is one thing to control a May 1 rally, another to control a demonstration that will force closures of industries, markets, schools. The YCL is bound to begin by burning a vehicle or two, which will then force the state's security forces to retaliate by use of force, which will then bring into play the petrol bombs and socket bombs and explosive gels being brought into the city.

When will the first pillar of smoke rise tomorrow?

Two photos

2010-05-01T16:07:00.000+05:30

Update

http://www.planetnepal.org.np/?p=603

Itahari bazaarai ma...

2010-04-30T13:56:00.001+05:30

Oh timro hamro maya basyo

Itahari bazaarai ma...

I passed out while writing the previous post, two nights ago. Much has happened since--mostly, the filling of a vast and empty vessel--my ignorance about this area. I can't get into the specifics, for lack of time, what what, but, here are a few points:

There is a real and intense friction between groups, ethnic and political, of which the poorest are the perpetual victims;

There is a really good chance that the best beef/veal to be got for good money in Kolkata actually comes from the Koshi Tappu Wildlife Reserve.

I am not kidding. One half of my mind thought: WTF? How can that be allowed?

The other half thought: sweeet... grass-fed, wild beeves, fit for the gods...

There is no real consensus among responsible scientists about how many species of birds there are in Nepal, of how many of each. Those who flaunt numbers around are usually not scientifically trained, and don't have any stake in serious scholarship.

The Warden is the King.

The King has courtiers. Some of these courtiers keep herds of cattle inside the reserve, thus depleting grass and grazing/roaming area. This forces wildlife towards artificially created and managed grasslands where improved varieties are available: farms, with wheat and rice. This leads to a direct confrontation between the small farmer and the smaller animal: Arna, deers, boars. This leads to the punitive trapping of wild animals.

In one method, farmers put small hooks in the ears of corns: wheat, for instance. Fishing hooks, with barbs. Cheap, but efficient. Deer strays away from the reserve, discovers rewarding pastures in a wheat field, nibbles on some fresh wheat grass and corn, bites into a barb. Deer panics, moves the barb around in its tongue, throat--but the barb doesn't give. It digs in deeper, or moves further down he digestive tract. Deer is in pain. Barb creates an infection, or deer bleeds internally to death, slowly, slowly. Undeserved.

Why fishing hooks? Because they are the cheapest. One costs no more than a couple of rupees.

Another method: odorless, tasteless poison. Undetectable to the animals.

There are tons of birds here: Koshi Tappu is renowned the world over as a bird sanctuary. It is a protected wetland. Therefore, some birds here eat fish: commarants, storks, kingfishers, whatnot. There are also quite a few indigenous and other type of people who are dependent entirely upon the wetlands and their produce of fish, ferns and snails for survival.

Protected birds from all over the word come and eat the fish in the rivers. They also eat the fish that people grow in their ponds.

What do the fishermen do to scare off the exotic fowls? Reportedly, [what an ugly word this is... I am sure this is my first use of the word, ever], they play Kantipur FM, really loud, right through the night.

India--more specifically, Bihar Government--is the villain.

Nepal allowed India a 199 year lease to manage Koshi from the point where it enters the Terai through a narrow breach in the Chure range. Because of that, much madnes has followed. The one point I understand now runs thus:

Koshi silts up too much, too fast. It silt up with sand so fine it would be the envy of tropical islands, but is of no commercial use whatsoever [unless you wanted to make glass]. There are 56 gates on Koshi Barrage, of which only 4 are open at any time, meaning there is an effort to dam-up and slow-down the flow of water. This resistance/shring up of the water's kinetic energy assists in silting of sand. This means India leaves the fine sand behind, but takes the water to feed its canals. When water level rises, more sand is brought--not red clay, but white sand. This forces the water to cut under the already sandy banks, so that Koshi breaks out of its path and

displaces thousands with every flood.

So, India is the villain--especially because, under the 199 year lease, India is responsible for the maintainance of the banks, the spurs and all other engineering structures responsible for keeping Koshi in check.

I have been told that the three terribly woesome rivers of Nepal are that way because India dammed them to better control them. Indians think of the rivers as engineering problems, which is a bit dumb. "There is no telling what will happen with wind, water, or fire," said one man. Sounds too folksy to take seriously, but no amount of science can compensate for the complexity of these phenomena: how do you fully account for all variables around these elements? The folksy statement is clearly more scientifically cautious than the "everything is an engineering problem" attitude of the Indian state.

More later, dudes.

Spur number 2688.

Laxmi Kali Hatti, 3 months

hehehe

2010-04-27T21:12:00.000+05:30

I am in Hotel Tirupati in Itahari, where I can get scant wi-fi signal in the room. All equipment/amenities that require power are dead, except for the rickety fan above me. There is a fridge, but it is woefully empty save a bottle of water, about which I have been cautioned by restaurant staff downstairs: the bottle in the fridge costs Rs 40, whereas a bottle of water is Rs 25 at the restaurant.

There is a chaudhavin ka chaand in the sky. New leaves are growing in the trees n the mountains around Dharan, while gulmohor trees sughtones, and tried hidig them in the folds of a mattress, because I thtand in a fiery blaze all around the city. I was knocked senseless by shock when I realized that the colors on the trees reminded me of--what?--the pouch of Tang we'd been given by a man ho lived in a room in our house. his was at least 20 years ago. There had been an enormous hailstorm that afternoon. I have never since seen hailstones that size. I had collected many a handful of the icy stones, mostly because I had reasoned to myself that I could keep the ice longer if I could keep in the folds of a couple of mattresses.

I am very tired, all of a sudden...

Off to Koshi

2010-04-27T07:49:00.000+05:30

It is going to be veerryy interesting to see how we fare in the Terai, so close to the Maoist "indefinite" strike. But, nevertheless, NTGK, Bhushan Shilpakar and Prawin Adhikari are headed Biratnagar way, most likely to stay in Inaruwa/Itahari, sweltering in the sun, no doubt, and come back with at least 8/10 interviews for the Planet Nepal project...

Koshi Tappu, the river Koshi, the heat and glare... mosquitoes, waterborne diseases, riding motorbikes through the day... not really looking forward to any of it...

Back on Friday, except, unless, if, but, you know, who knows, after all, the indefinite strike, so, whatever...

Jivan Mrityu

2010-04-21T17:27:00.000+05:30

DVDs of Jivan Mrityu are out. Subtitled in English.

Imja: A Photograph

2010-04-21T09:50:00.000+05:30

Chhori and Dad.

Frozen blankness: Imja lake.

Mountain behind: Island Peak.

Photo by: NayanTara Gurung Kakshapati

Kathmandu

2010-04-19T09:56:00.000+05:30

NT and Chhori are stuck in Lukla, but I am back in Kathmandu.

Day 1: KTM-Lukla-Monjo

Day 2: Monjo-Namche

Day 3: Namche-Thamo-Thame

Day 4: Thame

Day 5: Thame-Syangboche-Khumjung

Day 6: Khumjung-Tyangboche

Day 7: Tyangpoche-Pangboche

Day 8: Pangboche

Day 9: Pangboche-Shomare-Dingboche

Day 10: Dingboche-Chhukung

Day 11: Chhukung-Imja Tso-Dingboche-Pangboche

Day 12: Pangboche-Tyangboche-Namche

Day 13: Namche-Phakding

Day 14: Phakding-Lukla

Day 15: Lukla-Ktm

Highest point: Imja Tso, at 5,010 above sea level, which probably means we got to about 5,020 meters above sea level.

Lowest: Possibly Ghat or Phakding, at around 2,600 meters above sea level.

Number of showers taken: 2 [Day 6: Tyangboche, Rs 250 for an inadequate bucket of lukewarm water, Day 15: Phakding, long, rewarding hot shower costing no additional rupiyah]

Number of times the bowels were evacuated: 5: Monjo, Tyangboche, Pangboche, Pangboche, Phakding.

Most difficult climb: Up to Namche, since it was the second day of the trek. Climb up to Tyangboche wasn't as difficult as it was made out to be. Climb to Syangboche, after four hours of walking from Thame, in the high heat of noon, nearly martyred the party.

After crossing 4,500 meters, the air got perceptibly thinner. Breathing became difficult, but there were no other effects of altitude. Walking up to the lake was hard, but I knew it was going to be hard, what with lungs the pair like mine, so I sucked air with every step, and had fun.

The lake was frozen white. The glacier was almost a kilometer to the east. It snowed lightly on day 8, and fairly thickish on Day 9.

Almost thirty interviews--patience started to thin around the 12th interview. On day 11, NTGK and I were locked in a room by three angry community leaders. They asked me on whose authority I had come to do this "research." I leaned forward, said: "pheri bhannus ta?" My instantaneous rendition of "come again?"

Then I said--"Ma ta yeuta swatantra nagarik ko haisiyat ma, aafnai authority ma aayeko." I am here as a free citizen, on my own damned authority.

Most shattering words listened to, in Jagjit Singh's voice:

"Ghalib-e-khasta ke bagair kaun sa kaam band hai?

Roiye jaar-jaar kya, kijiye hai-hai kyun?"

Tastiest dal-bhat: at Thamo

Prettiest vale: just before reaching Thamo. Dyamn. Laligurans, danfe, little kids. Water-driven maney. Dyamn.

Yak steak: 1. Tough, Sinewy. Smelled of piss: hormones, age.

Momos eaten: 2 plates. Milinge and Lukla. Buffalos are slaughtered 2 days south of Lukla; men carry entire thighs, weighing up to 30 kilos each, on their shoulders, and take them north, sometimes all the way to EBC, taking three, four days to carry the load, in the noon sun. Surprisingly, the meat is better than you'd find in momos in Kathmandu. Go figure.

Bengalis with monkey-caps and raincoat to shield from the wind: perhaps half-dozen. Why?

Most pleasant walk: the road built by Pasang Sherpa, from Khumjung to Namche, the most beautiful and frightening ravines, valleys that plunge to the netherworlds, rise above misty ridges.

Age, as guessed by various people: 35, 45, possibly 50

Twice, people asked Saprina--AKA chhori--was my daughter. At Lukla, a lady asked if I was with Saprina [budha-budhi]. I pulled a solemn face and said: "No, she is my daughter [chhori]." The lady started to stammer and apologize. Sherpa people. They made me feel so much older.

more as I settle down.

Dingboche

2010-04-13T16:41:00.000+05:30

Tonight at Dingboche, tomorrow hike to Imja, return to Chhukung. Day after at Tyengboche. Then to Namche. Then Lukla. Tomorrow the toughest walk, followed by the walk from Namche to Lukla, although most of it is downhill.

Altitude today: 4,400 meters from sea level. Mid day tomorrow: 5,010! Woo hoo! Apetite is strong, piss is regular, dreams are syrupy. Man is dandy.

Walking uphill reminds me that the landscape is slowly sculpting my body: my buttocks already feel more taut. Some will be happy to hear that, no doubt.

It snowed this morning! Hell yeah! Hope to have a snowed-out New Year.

Happy New Year to you all!

Khumjung

2010-04-09T15:50:00.001+05:30

Maden--no photos, because I have no camera with me, and NTGK is taking all the pictures. But, once internet isn't as expensive, I'll post some pictures. There will be a set of before-after pictures, but my hope of losing weight now seems foolish. I have a grand appetite, and walk like a well-fed sloth, so I am afraid I might return with a bigger belly, not a smaller one.

After Namche, we walked to Thame--a very beautiful walk along Bhotekoshi, with a couple of valleys so achingly beautiful it makes you want to start potato farming and raising yaks. Laligurans is in full bloom here, entire trees--not shrubs as in the mid-hills, but large trees-are resplendent in pink and white. There is a small metal bridge over Bhotekoshi just before reaching Thame--the rocks are sculpted into graceful curves and crannies.

We stayed at Appa Sherpa's tea-house, met the man himself, interviewed him. At one point, he poured hot water into my water bottle. Yeah. That happened.

Went up to the monastery in Thame, where who should we end up talking to but Appa Sherpa's Thawa brother Nawang Rapta... the monastery is building a six-room hotel to supplement its meager income. NTGK took a portrait of Nawang Rapta under the skylights in the still-under-construction space, and it is my favorite so far.

From Thame we walked back towards Namche, climbed up to the ridiculously small village of Syangboche, stopped for a talk, three cups of tea and one and half rings of canned pineapple-in-syrup at Nepal's only Yak Breeding Center, which--hold your breath--some politician apparently wants to convert into a high-altitude golf course.

If anyone knows that politician, please punch him on the nose on my behalf. If you look at the complete picture, domestic Yak is poised to become an extinct species. Of course, there is no such thing as a wild species of Yak.

Today at Khumjung, a most picturesque village all of green roofs [except the monastery--which has red roofs and ancient pines guarding it], and where the famous Hillary School is located. Tomorrow to Tyangboche.

Here, internet is Rs 15/min.

Namche!

2010-04-06T12:22:00.000+05:30

From Lukla, we walked to Monju, a pleasant walk along Dudhkoshi. This morning, started from Monjo around 8 AM, was in Namche at 11 AM. It was difficult for about an hour, but that was it. I looked at my feet, remembered that one foot usually goes ahead of the other, and repeated the process. At the hotel in Namche--Camp de Base--my face was streaked with white lines of dry salt and sweat. One spotty old banana was Rs 40, but never more welcome.

Internet is too expensive for me to be expansive :)

2010-04-02T11:56:00.000+05:30

http://www.guernicamag.com/features/1649/the_fault_is_mine/

"Octavio Paz, the Nobel Prize-winning Mexican writer, begins his essay “Translation: Literature and Letters” with the sentence: “When we learn to speak, we are learning to translate.” He states that children translate the unknown into a language that slowly becomes familiar to them, and that all of us are continually engaged in the translation of thoughts into language. Then he develops an even more suggestive notion: no written or spoken text is “original” at all, since language, what ever else it may be, is a translation of the nonverbal world, and each linguistic sign and phrase translates another sign and phrase. And this means, in an absolutely utopian sense, that the most human of phenomena—the acquisition and use of language—is, according to Paz, actually an ongoing, endless process of translation; and by extension, the most creative use of language—that is, literature is also a process of translation: not the transmutation of the text into another language but the transformation and concretization of the content of the writer’s imagination into a literary artifact. As many observers, including John Felstiner and Yves Bonnefoy, have suggested, the translator who struggles to re-create a writer’s words in the words of a foreign language in fact continues the original struggle of the writer to transpose nonverbal realities into language. In short, as they move from the workings of the imagination to the written word, authors engage in a process that is parallel to what translators do as we move from one language to another."

Wonderful stuff.

All I have to say to this is: "Sure. But only if the original is worth its salt."

How smart people kill time

2010-04-01T23:30:00.000+05:30

http://xkcd.com/

Chau Dang likes to post links to this website, but I had never before bothered to follow the links and read the comic strips there. I did today, addicted, although I have much, much better stuff to do. I mean urgent work that can't wait.

Procrastination? I wouldn't call it that!

use commands like "prev" or "next" to navigate ... or go with "random" ... but make sure to hover your mouse pointer above the panels for the little extra bit of reward...

What I will be busy with next...

2010-04-01T09:18:00.001+05:30

Planet Nepal

http://www.planetnepal.org.np/wordpress/?page_id=349

Pyaala

2010-03-30T00:37:00.000+05:30

From you library, Maden?

2010-03-26T18:43:00.000+05:30

This is the latest on the Kohi... Mero front: a poster! In 2010, Love will find you.

Yeah. That's exactly what is going to happen. But only if you buy tickets and watch it in the theaters. That will be the biggest reason why *I* will go to watch it, day after day. I will stand outside with over-sized glasses, pretending to hide from the masses, but not really, only casually mentioning to every pretty woman in the audience that I just might be the person with his name on the poster... Yup. That is the plan.

Utsav--I was in your institution's library, waiting for Vijay Khadgi. There was time to kill, so I thought checking my mail was a good idea. NTGK was frantically reworking the questions to ask the experts, and I had an assignment to finish, although I didn't quite know how to tackle it [a commercial website's front-page... I couldn't think of a way of finishing it]. So, I thought I'd post a cheeky little message to you. So I did, calling the blog post "Blogging from ICI***"

As a joke, I wrote: I am posting from ICI*** library's "research" computer stations, misusing the resources. It took people in your office less than five minutes to hunt me down with a print-out of the posting, green high-lights over the offensive words, phrases that made the institution look bad, I guess. It was scary--either they were monitoring all traffic from the library [I had been answering some rather personal emails], or they have some way of knowing whenever ICI*** gets mentioned on the web.

"I guess, as an institution you can't afford to have a sense of humor," I said to the person who'd accosted me with the printout. He was huffing in anger, as if the sky had come crashing down on his head. There was a long "hehehehehe" after the sentence that mentioned "misuse," but nobody was hehehe'ing with me, it seems.

So I had to deleted the post. I am surprised you got an alert about the post and the authorities didn't rain down upon you with all of their wrath.

It is a nice place, ICI***, but a tad too sensitive, it seems. Very helpful people, of course. But, surely, they aren't infallible in what they do. I wonder how well they take criticism of the scholarship they produce, if they can't let a chappal-padkaoing freelance writer hehehehe from their library computers.

So you be careful, too, Maden! You are deep in the draconian lair!

hehehehehe...

Photos by Deepak Shah

2010-03-23T09:32:00.001+05:30

Kalakar took these pictures in Bandipur... Prasanna and I had been imbibing, and it wasn't easy following Deepak over all those rocks, scrambling through scratchy brambles, walking with a sweaty pair of feet in thin chappals, but the reward was fitting: rocks shaped by sun and wind and rain, two valleys sweeping to giant, distant ranges, nothing but the breeze to listen to, a hawk so meditative and playful that it reduced the entire text of Johnathan Livingstone Seagull to a punctuation mark.

I must have sucked my stomach in for the photos.

Kohi ... Mero

2010-03-19T22:11:00.000+05:30

www.kohimero.com

Expect a music release party soon, which is to say, a party for me, and for you, the music to be available in the market... there are a few very melodious songs in the movie. I near frightened Moitra yesterday, trying to sing a song from the movie, my ineptitude compounded by the fact that I had forgotten both the words and the tune...

It is possible I will get to see the final edit of the movie soon [before the background score is put in, and before the final, final version is prepared], because it might be able to use a few more lines of writing, and I still have to do the English subtitles, anyway. That is going to be a weird ride: translating into English the dialogues I originally wrote in Nepali [which the actors improved, no doubt]. It will become painfully apparent to me how terribly or how well I write dialogue.

When work is play

2010-03-19T20:51:00.000+05:30

That false adage about finding something you love to do so it never feels like work...

No matter how much I love what I do, there are days when it does feel like work, especially when the bitch [that is, my professed art and craft and cloak of self-definition] don't give me no lovin' right back. These have been just such days.

In case you are in Kathmandu on the 21st, come to QC in Jawlakhel for the Tavern Tales... or, it might be at the Indian Embassy Library, at Sundhara. Best thing to do while there--wander out and keep a sharp eye out for second-hand fiction books...

I picked up The Friendly Brook and Other Stories by R. Kipling from there for Rs 60. By far the most rewarding collection of short fiction I have read in years. He proves to me the utility behind the longevity of a writer's career, the importance of speech and sound in enfolding a multitude of ideas into one expression, and the need for a mind that is expansive but acute, as a preparation for a career writing fiction.

Maia R. Lee is an painter/poet preparing for a solo exhibition in about two months. She gave me A Clockwork Orange to read. I had always only browsed through the book, reading no more than a few pages at a time, loving instead the Kubrick movie, never feeling anything on the page really tug at the mind. I have to say the most interesting bit about this edition of the novel was not the novel itself, but the introduction by Anthony Burgess where he details his choices. Sometimes--with Kipling, for instance--the work is much larger than the writer, the mind is the basis and not the flourish. Other times, the mind is the flourish and the work is subservient to it. That is what it felt like, reading the novel. A very good read, no doubt, but nothing like reading Kipling.

Many readers of the book seem to think that Burgess achieves something quite grand by the way of a linguistic experiment in the book. I would invite these readers to search the stories by Kipling for real writerly work done with language--the living, actual, spoken language, what we call dialects, and see how much more can be achieved with a just pair of ears and some affection for the vessel and table called language.

Khadgadevi's Temple

2010-03-17T22:17:00.000+05:30

Deepak took this photo in Bandipur.

We'd just spent the afternoon scrambling over rain-sculpted, razor-sharp rocks, following goat-trails over a ridge, admiring Prasanna's sunglasses.

Back!

2010-03-17T09:47:00.000+05:30

I am back!

I plan on not telling anyone about the renaissance of my poor blog. Mostly because there is not much to write about these days--I have tired of writing about Kathmandu, or my work [and lack thereof]; and I am working towards yet another movie script that can't be discussed. A man who sits at his desk all day and has nothing new to say--not very exciting read, is it?

But,

I can talk about Dalan, the tele-serial by Nabin Subba and Aahuti and Jagaran Media, for which I am engaged in writing English subtitles. The work is in turns tedious and heart-rending. I haven't finished much of it, and I can't post clips from Dalan here, but the more I think of the work, the more I have been consumed by the notion that a novelization would be a great idea. It could go episodically, perhaps start as short stories by a handful of writers who take an an episode and make it into a short story.

I doubt if you, who've come to this blog, have seen Dalan. However, there are over 400 "Dalan Film Clubs" around the world now. Once the tele-serial gets translated, it should reach more people. But, a chapter-by-chapter novelization would reach even more people, I think, from it being available as text.

In any case, here I am now.

Dashain Gift

2009-09-13T19:44:00.002+05:30

My nephew Abhi's early Dashain gift for me: an exercise book, 36 pages, in which to write a movie script if my computer crashes.

Got to love the little devil.

Dashain Gift

2009-09-13T19:44:00.001+05:30

My nephew Abhi's early Dashain gift for me: an exercise book, 36 pages, in which to write a movie script if my computer crashes.

Got to love the little devil.

Turn, Return

2009-09-09T20:42:00.001+05:30

I finished translating the book [Sambidhan ma Dalit] this afternoon. Need to proofread it, and won't have the time to copy edit it, although it could really, really use some good copy editing.

Hi Ken! Thanks for the tip regarding ears and filthy swimming pools. I don't think I will be entering a body of water anytime the rest of my life. If I ever go deep-sea diving, it will have to be in a vessel, and not like you at all.

I am taking the train back to Raxaul tomorrow. Two-tier AC, no less, courtesy Elena, for I am broke, broke, broke. And the old disease of ATMs tricking me over the weekends has caught up with me. In a puff of smoke, the money Yagya had put into my account disappeared through the sieve of international banking laws...

But, renewed. Energized. Want to make money now. Screw art. Screw writing for the sake of writing. I would cross the border with a brick of cocaine if I could find one, just to start making money.

I am going to start making TV ads for chewing tobacco. Or toilet plungers. Or nylon wigs for middle-aged bureaucrats. Or hashish chewing-gum for nuns in Darjeeling. Or grain alcohol for pregnant women. Anything that will make me money.

My ear is bleeding

2009-09-05T11:50:00.001+05:30

Two weeks ago, it started discharging, following a swim at the Tollygunj Club, which, I must say, maintains a filthy pool of water.

It started drying up and was pretty much done by yesterday.

This morning, it discharged blood.

I have lost hearing. This was inevitable, but it was supposed to come some thirty years from now, not last night.

Crows and a flower

2009-08-28T14:32:00.001+05:30

More photos... I should be working. Instead, I am drinking jaljeera, eating two-week stale cucumber, and stalking crows.

more photos

2009-08-28T13:52:00.001+05:30

I have prepared some photos today. Early in the morning, I spent some time on photoshop making posters of myself. Which I plan to put on a couple of t-shirts. Fuck Che. Wear Prawin. I'll put up the posters later.

Photos

2009-08-25T17:28:00.001+05:30

Since my computer is broken, I have inherited Elena's computer for the meanwhile. I have been fooling around with Photoshop to distract myself and made a few posters, etc, mostly of Elena. But, here are a few photographs that haven't been manipulated with much, although they aren't exactly as in camera. Also, obviously, one is a posterized picture. I wish I had more graphic skills.

2009-08-23T14:31:00.001+05:30

Tumi amako bhalobasho? Ekhono?”

“Lau, lau, lau!” He is a bit distracted, the script AD, but he tries his best. Although the lights have been set up for a while now, the artist for this scene can’t speak Bangla very well, and the AD’s job is to prep her within the hour. He did not write the dialogues. He will not call the shots. They have given him a somewhat impressive title: Monitor! The manager of Cocoon, an upscale boutique from where Aparna Sen will pick up an artifact sometime in the afternoon of the following day, a Wednesday, mistakes the novice artist for a well known face. She elbows Monitor for space across the table and volunteers to make the Bangla into Roman for the foreign artist, her eager face lapping up the shine of Elena’s radiant makeup that borders on the garish. Men in the unit surreptitiously leave their posts to check if the artist procured by the producer really stands up to the mark, the production value of the movie.

They seem to approve, because some of them suddenly grin like idiots, rapidly flick their tongues over dry lips and search the room for other pairs of eyes that might be labouring under the burden of similar thought. I am standing in a corner, waving my arms to check where I cast a shadow, checking if I can see the camera in any of the many mirrors artfully arranged around the boutique. It is an upscale sort of a place where cleverly disguised crap sells for artwork just inexpensive enough for those devoid of actual interest in art to hang and stuff and strew their living quarters with a semblance of culture. Driftwood dragged out of the sea is painted to look old, carved to look weathered; terracotta and gilt sculptures are pressed with grime and pasted into the crannies of the wood to make the whole structure organic. Lamps have been built into the sculptures, so that a seated Buddha smiles to one half of the room while casting his unkind gloom in another direction. Two men from the unit stoop to examine tin boxes for breath-mint, printed with pinup posters from the fifties in America and arranged over a faux-antique table. The manager raises an eyebrow. Her assistant, who has by now twice sprayed a jasmine scented room-freshener into my eye, transports his Babu potbelly to the table and unceremoniously removes the entire tray of glorious, nubile, buxom, sylphine ghosts from a distant land.

“Okay, okay,” says the artist, playing with her hair, eager to show how quickly she can learn the lines. “So, I say ‘love, love, love’ and run towards him?” She asks questions in Hindi and English, but the mustachioed AD answers only in Bangla. Cocoon’s manager bristles in her chair, eager to partake and please, but in her turn snubbed by those in the film fraternity. I can’t suppress a grin that flashes all too conspicuously across the room. Love, love, love! And hug the hero, a fat Bengali with too much cigarette in his breath, and be too eager to marry him. Of course, he is going to be distracted by the fleeting shape of his true love passing outside the shop window. One scene, with some six lines, to be shot from three different angles, and we are done in two hours. “You will manage,” says Devroop, first-time producer with a brown briefcase never an inch away from his body. “She will manage,” he comes over to mention to me. Perhaps he senses my skepticism. Love, love, love! Tumi amako bhalobasho? Ekhono? Do you love me, still?

The short reading progresses to a shorter rehearsal. The artist can’t remember all the nuanced consonants. The manager of the store tails her for a minute, reminding, mouthing, illustrating: “Like in rat!” Monitor stands behind the director, another potbellied man in plastic sandals, wearing the universal Kolkata scowl of someone with a digestive disorder, forever on guard against being found out at fraud as sincere artistic intellectual. Everything functions smoothly without his involvement, anyway. Two rehearsals reveal the need for prompts, cues, spoon-feeding by Monitor. The fans are shooed away from light sources and reflective surfaces, and other fans are switched off to create silence on the set. The manager quietly protests against switching off the air-conditioners, although the erratic hum of the machine is a cause for concern for the sound engineer. “Sound? Camera? ” “Rolling!”

Before the director says action, Elena runs on her toes towards Rahul, a swanlike imitation of what she must think of as cinematic elegance. She wants to be in a Bollywood movie eventually, one scene or two sufficing to round off her dream, perhaps a dance, but nothing item-like. Something with mehendi and flowers and running around trees, not a bit in a bar. “No, no,” says the director patiently before turning to the Monitor to ask what the artist’s name might be. “Action is meaning dialogue. Love, love love!” “Okay, okay, okay,” says Elena. After he nods at the cameraman, the sound-engineer, and the hero, the director barks: “Action!”

It is a Tuesday afternoon, and surely it is a Tuesday afternoon in Kathmandu, too, where, at one or two temples, Alok Nembang must have just finished bowing his head in a silent prayer. He is starting his second movie after Sano Sansar. Some people in the industry claim Sano Sansar did very well, and some people claim Sano Sansar didn’t do quite as well as it was expected to do. None of that matters now, I am sure, as Alok prepares to make similar adjustments in Kathmandu as I am watching in a boutique in Kolkata. Although, I doubt if any of his artists will have to be coached in the dialect being used, or reminded that “Action!” comes before action. I find myself wondering about where the pujas are being held for Alok’s movie. Perhaps one is at the temple of Karyabinayak, after which deity Alok has named his company. Perhaps another is a choice of the producers at Music Dot Com. I don’t know.

But the magic of cinema is the same here or there. A Bihari man wearing a bright blue shirt has found his way into the boutique. People in the unit mistake him for one of their own. He sidles over to my side. “That lady is the heroine of the film?” he asks. He drips with lust and leer. “No,” I tell him, “She is doing just one scene.” “She is not Indian,” he declares. “I don’t think so,” I say. “So she is not the heroine?” he asks. “I don’t think so.” But he clearly doesn’t believe me. He edges closer and closer towards Elena, until his toe softly knocks against a light-stand. He smiles at everyone who notices his intrusion and retreats to my side. “She will be a hit heroine,” he says. Elena looks at me across the room and smiles again. This makes the Bihari bristle. He shrinks. I smile at him. He doesn’t smile again. Monitor starts prompting Elena: “Love, love, love!”

Trouble in Kolkata!

2009-08-17T11:09:00.001+05:30

I was trying to check out the subtitles in Sano Sansar [there are a few typos...] when my computer froze. I tried to re-start it, and it just died!

I hadn't backed up two days' worth of translations that I had completed. I am a day behind schedule now, and I an already on a very tight schedule. I am panicking now, because it seems like there is a hardware malfunction. Or a virus might have got to it, although that is very unlikely, since I haven't been online since leaving Kathmandu, and have shared a USB with another computer that has a pretty good Norton AVP.

I have already wasted a day, and I can't aford to waste another day, but the technician is not here yet. I don't know when he will get here. I don't even have a phone to coordinate with him. Kinda tragic it is.

On the other hand, Alok Nembang's movie starts shooting tomorrow.

Point, no point, and Kolkata

2009-08-09T16:11:00.001+05:30

I was listening to my father talk to a group of journalists at a function organized by "Paila," an NGO interested in diverse activities, where he told the journalists that they ought to write clearly enough that the first sentence in their articles should contain their thesis or argument.

I disagree, but from a privileged position: I have a column where I specifically refrain from doing that. I attempt to write lyrically. There can't be a flow to the sentences unless the images in consecutive sentences are in harmony. If that harmony is sustained/ruptured through a design, the images form a specific argument of their own.

For this reason, I consider long descriptions as what one might call "thesis." The choices that go in constructing a description aren't without calculation, and therefore they present a specif stance on a problem: sociological, aesthetic, rhetorical. I don't want to put the thesis in the first sentence because I am not writing a college paper or a report for an NGO. I don't want to explain anything to the people in specific words, because guiding the thoughts of a reader is more satisfying.

On a separate note: As soon as I get done with my obligations for QC, I am going to leave for Kolkata. I will translate "Sanbidhan ma Dalit" by Subhash Darnal, try to write some movie scenes, and keep writing for the Kathmandu Post column.

Signatures

2009-08-08T21:46:00.001+05:30

Here are a few signatures. Enjoy!

Jhalanath Khanal -- UML

Girija Prasad Koirala -- Nepali Congress

Prachanda -- NCP Maoist