A Concert Ticket

Parshu Shrestha                              

It was a dog day. I was coming back home with my daughter from school. She was holding my left hand with her right hand. I was carrying her school bag.

The mid-afternoon sun was scorching my skin. My whole body was soaked in sweat. I had forgotten to take my umbrella that day because of the rush while going to school in the morning. My two-class-studying daughter’s forehead was also covered in sweat that was trickling down her forehead along her nose.

I was dragging my daughter along with me since her steps were smaller than mine and she was apparently lagging behind me.

It was a Tuesday, the market day. Every Tuesday and Saturday, a huge crowd of sellers and buyers gathered at that place. As we were walking through the market, my eyes fell on the slices of water melon and pineapple displayed by a vendor on a cart. My mouth became watery. My eyes, instead of showing the way to my legs, were glued to the red and light-yellow slices of the fruits. And I was afraid that my daughter would see and ask me for them.

“Baba,” my daughter said to me, “let me enjoy water melon.”

She dragged me to the cart. The vendor, the owner of the cart, looked at us hopefully.

“How much does it cost?” I asked him showing a slice of water melon with my right index finger.

“Twenty rupees,” replied the vendor, “How many do you need?”
Some flies flew off the water melon slices. They must be unhygienic, I thought. I lost my interest in buying them.

“Let’s not buy them now,” I tried to persuade my daughter, “I’ll buy the whole of water melon and pineapple for you next time.” My daughter pouted. She stiffened her body and did not move for a while when I tried to drag her away. The idea of melon slices being unhygienic had saved from my extra expenditure.

“Hello, sir!”
I was almost startled when a husky voice sounded near my left ear. I turned to the direction and saw Sharmaji smiling with all his rotted vampire teeth. He took my right hand in his both and shook it vigorously.

“How are you, sir?” asked he in a slipper tone.

“I am fine,” I said, “And you?”

“Let me say I am fine, too,” he grinned at me again after spitting a little betel juice from the quid he was munching in his mouth. His whole mouth was red in color.

“It’s so nice to meet you here; I was thinking of coming to your house,” Sharmaji said.

“Why, comrade?” I asked him curiously.

“Actually, I thought I would not miss a friend like you.” Again he grinned, this time showing even his dark-blue gums.

Sharmaji, a hulk with dusky skin, fuzzy hair and untidy dress-up, searched something in his pants’ right pocket with his right hand, and took out a wad of red paper-bills. Avoiding him and running away was impossible.

“Our comrades are going to organize a grand musical concert in front of the municipality building tomorrow for charity to the party. So, I expect you to buy one ticket. You can also buy more if you want.”

I was about to speak, but before he could start Sharmaji handed me a ticket. “Here is the most suitable ticket for you,” said he, “It costs just one thousand rupees.”

“One thousand rupees!” I happened to shriek. I felt my face hot. Don’t know with excitement or anger.

“Why?” he said without hesitation, “It’s not so expensive for a guy like you who earns so well. After all, this is for a benevolent cause.”

I could not speak for a while for I was too outraged and was searching words for avoiding the man and his ticket. I might have looked stunned while I was lost in my thought with the receipt in my hands.

Being an educated man, I joined teaching immediately after my master’s graduation in English literature. Working for ten hours a day and preparing the lesson plans for the next day’s lesson, until every midnight, was often hectic for a dutiful husband and loving father. Yet, the daily expenditure was mostly unmanageable for me. So, the concert ticket was an unimaginable lavish luxury for me.

“Hello, sir!” comrade Sharmaji shouted at my face, “What are you thinking about?”
His high voice startled me a bit. He might have guessed my mood of hesitation.

“Don’t worry, sir.”

He produced another wad of tickets from another pocket of his pants and said,

“You can instead buy a five-hundred-rupee ticket.”

“I’m sorry,” I tried to avoid him, “I have neither money nor time to watch your concert.”

“But tomorrow is Saturday. You will be free, won’t you?”

“I am busier on Saturdays.”
I forced myself away from him and tugged my daughter behind me.

But Sharmaji would not give up so early and let me go. He showed me the artists’ name-list in an attempt to lure me.

“Even tickets at three hundred rupees are available,” he said taking out another wad of tickets from his shirt’s pocket, as his last effort, “That sum of money you can lose sometimes for nothing. Why do you hesitate to spend it for a good cause?”

I did not want to answer him anymore. He might have seen me smiling though I was burning inside with anger. I dragged my daughter behind me as fast as I could.


(Parshu Shrestha (1981) teaches English at SOS Hermann Gmeiner Secondary School Itahari and VishwaAdarsha College, Itahari, Sunsari. He is fond of writing stories.)