Bishwambhar Chanchal
We stopped at the quadrivial, and examined the roads cutting across, from all directions. It was eight in the morning. We thought that it was time for people to be walking thickly. But a few people were seen walking on foot. Equally faint was the number of vehicles and motorcycles. Possibly, people confined themselves indoor, freezing themselves like snow in the cold weather. To thaw them, warm sun should shine for long on their backs. It was however not sure, whether the sun would shine. The fog had just covered Kathmandu city, like someone with a foul-smelling mouth reeking of last night’s domestic ale, covering the entire room with his breath. It was difficult to predict when the fog would clear, and the warm sun would shine on the courtyards of the settlers of Kathmandu. Moreover, like a tile resting upon another, and a slab resting upon another, houses in Kathmandu had their backs sheltered by the backs of other houses. But the backs of the people inside those houses had little chance to thaw, for there was equally faint chance for the warm sun to spill over them.
“Leave these trivial talks. Tell where we should go now,” I initiated the talk. Chandra Prasad replied with a smile, “For us, necessities are transforming into newer necessities. There is no question where we should go. Let’s go wherever you wish!”
“If it’s so, let’s ask Birkhe. Come on Birkhe; tell where we should go.” Birkha Bahadur answers my question with a shagging head, “I can’t tell where we should go.”
“Why do you hold your head low? How long should we bow our heads, when we are doomed to do so all the time? Come; let’s decide upon a direction now,” Chandra Prasad said.
“Where should we go?” Birkha Bahadur asked amid confusion.
“Come, let’s start. We will ultimately reach somewhere,” said Chandra Prasad abruptly. But Birkha Bahadur delivered a rejoinder, “Going should have a goal.”
“Goal? What on earth are you talking about? Goal goes with those who carry on their walks with a decided objective,” I replied. “What goal do the goalless like us have? Absence of goal is our goal, after all!”
“Saying so won’t work,” Birkha Bahadur spoke again, “How high had our parents dreamt about us?”
“Did you talk of hope once again? Fie to you!” I interrupted, “Hope belongs to one who lives with expectations. How can it belong to those who live in hopelessness?”
“In fact! If we could make our Arun River flow uphill, we could make our hills and ridges lush with crops, couldn’t we?” said Birkha Bahadur, showing more seriousness in his tone this time. “Factories would be established, and people could get job,” he added.
Gagan Tamang, who had been speechlessly contemplating hitherto, displayed a hilarious laughter. In the meantime, an old bus with a tag that read ‘pollution-free’ stopped near us, discharging a thick puff of black smoke. Partially opening one pane of the rear door, the conductor shouted in a high pitch, “Come on board the bus. You can reach anywhere by this bus: New Buspark, Old Buspark, Chabahil, Sahid Gate, Old Baneshwar, New Baneshwar, Thankot, Kalantisthan, Koteshwor… Come, get in!” He named the places in such a way as that he sounded like a student delivering his lesson in front of his teacher.
“Friends, see this bus! It’s open for any place, like all of us!” articulately said Gagan Tamang, the one who had laughed out just a moment ago. We all laughed out hilariously, because Gagan’s feelings had affected all of us.
A couple of people got off the bus. A few got in too. By then, people’s come-and-go had fairly increased around the quadruvial. We had no reason to keep standing around. However, what could we do? We had no meaning in the place we wanted to go. We continued standing there, as though there were some people that we were waiting for. However, we did not know when our waiting was ending.
“It’s worthless to keep standing here. Come; let’s take this road to the east. We will reach wherever the road takes us,” I said, after a long pause. Birka Bahadur said with distress, “No, let’s take west. Come what comes, we will reach at least a place in the west. Let’s keep moving. Who knows, we might find something, somewhere!”
“No, let’s take north. We can at least avail the cold Himalayan wind,” Gagan Tamang overtook.
Chandra Prasad could not agree with Gagan’s proposal, and said, “Let’s go south. We can find green and fertile plains there.”
“If so, we won’t go anywhere. Let’s keep waiting here,” I gave the ultimate ruling. Others seconded too, and we continued standing there.
One after another, people poured out into the street, and the crowd thickened. Vehicles, motorcycles and bicycles started moving in rows. Some rickshaws and carts too came out to bar the way. It seemed that the people were in a hurry to reach their offices to put their signatures and hurry back to their homes. We gazed at the scenes with interest, gossiping at times of a male, and then of a female. We didn’t however have the power to quench the hunger inside our bellies. So, I volunteered to ask Gagan Tamang, “Gagan! Do you have some of the last evening’s parched rice left in your room?”
“The only things left with us now are our days. Everything else has exhausted,” said he impertinently. “It’s all these days, left for us to eat now.”
“We could do that, if only we could chew these days,” said Birkha Bahadur in a similar lisp. Those days, we chewed many things, expecting that it would bring home many more things to chew in future. For the moment, we had mere days and hopelessness left to chew.
“What should we do then, if we have nothing to chew? Should we die?”
To my rather irritating question, Chandra Bahadur showed the way out, ”Why should we die? Let’s rather raise slogans against the government.”
“That sounds good. Let’s do that. At least then, the police can come and take us,” Gagan Tamang said with excitement, “and we will be fed. If not food, we can eat at lot of kicks. What matters, after all is eating – be it anything for that matter.”
After that, we started raising slogans, standing by the side of the quadrivial.
One – long live!
Others – the revolution!
Two – burglar government
Others – leave the nation!
One – no right
Others – to kill the people!
One – no right
Others – to sell the nation!
One – long live
Others – the revolution
One – down with
Others – our government!
Gradually, a crowd of people gathered at the quadrivial. The vehicles obstructed the ways. This city, that always saw disturbances and no practical work, found a lot of business with our slogans. Throng upon throng gathered. Police officers with their clubs rushed in too. But what a surprise! The police officers kept just standing by our side, while some of them busied managing the jammed traffic. We had not looted anyone; nor had we vandalized anything anywhere. We had only availed the fundamental rights guaranteed by our constitution. The police could not therefore think of arresting, confining, and beating us. We were trapped in-between. We could neither eat food, nor police-beating. What we merely ate was the chill of a cold day, some heat of the sun, and various reeks of the breaths of the people standing around.
The police did not show any interest of arresting, no matter how high we raised our slogans. Now, the intestines inside our bellies had been revolting out of hunger, and we had no much energy left for slogans. So, I said to my friends, “Stop shouting now! The police won’t listen. Are they really deaf!”
“What’s this? If the government is deaf, it is obvious that police, one of its wings, is deaf too.” This time, Birkha Bahadur said something we all could agree on. He added, “Else, why doesn’t anything happen, even if there are piercing cries? A mere forest-cry!”
Frustrated, we now charged upon the police and one of us shouted, “Police the thief!”
Others said, “Leave the country”
This slogan alerted the police to some extent. As some of them were angrily approaching us with their clubs ready, one from among the audience shouted at the police, “Leave them! In democracy, where has it been written that you can arrest, beat, detain or suppress armless protestors?”
“So, you know everything? Should we catch and entrap you too?” a policeman bellowed.
“Come and do so, if you can. We shall see too…” shouted the agitated mass. Following this, the police pouring upon us, halted back angrily, and started behaving decently. One of them said to the rest of his men, “Come; let’s go. Let these insane shout as much as they like. If they embark on vandalism, we shall bring them to term.”
The police clumsily walked out of that place, and meekly stood a little farther. People thinned too, gradually. Now, a few pedestrians, and some vehicles were left at the quadrivial. We were at loss, and started staring at the roads all around. We had no place to reach, and no work to accomplish. Yet, we were trying to go somewhere, and get something. For this reason, we were vacantly gazing at the farthest visible fringe of the straight or the bent roads that stretched in all directions.
“Oops! How long can we live in this uncertain hope?” Birkha Bahadur gave voice to the same concern.
“What should we do then? Should we break our crowns?” Chandra Prasad angrily said.
“Will these people allow us to break our heads?” said Birkha Bahadur, expressing a new tension.
“Try breaking it, and see whether they will,” said Gagan Tamang, jocularly. Birkha Bahadur gave it a real try. He rushed in a great speed, and bumped his head against the wall of a neighboring house. He quivered, stuck again, and quivered again. The other three of us rushed to stop him. A man standing nearby said in the meantime, “Brothers, is this man mad?”
“Indeed he is. A few moments back, he was talking with others like a sane man. God knows what fits struck him, and lo, there he goes and strikes his head…”said one more, professing to know everything.
“What if it is? He is mad, and equally mad are you, and he, and all! Are you satisfied now?” said an otherwise jocular Gagan Tamang, and rushed to get hold of that man’s throat.
“God, I am killed!” shouted the man, and with a struggle, freed himself from Gagan Tamang’s hold. Seeing this, the rest of the people took us for insane people and ran away with care. Birkha Bahadur laughed out, even if blood was oozing out of his wound. Chandra Prasad laughed, and so did Gagan Tamang. I joined them too. This time, the laughter prevailed for a long time inside the circumference of the quadrivial, where only four of us stood, and waited for one more day… for one more time.
[Bishwambhar Chanchal is a senior storywriter, who writes for both adults and children. He has several anthologies of story in Nepali, while The War is Breaking is a collection of his stories in English. He was also the Chairperson of Nepalese Society for Children’s Literature. He lives in Kathmandu with his family.]