By Sweta Gyanu Baniya
“Sahuni, give me some hot tongba.” He smiles.
“Go ! Go! The Gorkhas are here; we need to please them,” Ama orders me.
You were the only one in the crowd. No one else will or can take your place, Gorkha Dai! You were the true representation of my imagination that along with my sisters, I had cherished.
While Ama serves tongba alongside hot water, I look out through a small hole on the wall curtain of our bhatti and get a glimpse of yours.
Some topics were forbidden here. Yet, girls and sisters did those, while all were alone and together. Pleasure was all I got from them. Our secretly spent moments in ‘guff-gaff ’ that weren’t held at other places were something I always yearned for. Those whispers and the giggles it brought making our faces red and hot, eventually tickling us to bite the tip of our tongues—all happened there. I was 18 then. Gorkha Dai, we talked about you. We talked a lot about you, about your ways, your appearance and your strengths. Everyone had booked their own Gorkha in their dreams. I did it too.
I am nervous. I am happy. I am excited. I can’t think what I should do. But then, I am assigned to welcome you, please you, and serve you drink.
My heart was palpitating, my feet trembling and hands shaking while serving you. The one I dreamt of always was in front of my eyes. You looked so real, just the way I had envisioned. You were mine; only mine, Gorkha Dai! Your killing smile, the peculiar style you smoked in, your dimpled cheeks, your short hair…A strange sensation ran through my body as our fingers met, while serving you tongba. Softly with my palms, I felt the long, slender rifle that you had placed beside you. With gooseflesh all over the body, I felt you for the first time in my life.
“Dolma, aren’t you making us warm by serving us hot tongba with your pretty hands?”
“We are tired Dolma; come and sit beside us, will you?”
“Dolma, please sing us a song and show us your dance.”
“What’s wrong with you, Dolma? Why are you silent today?”
“Just thinking how to serve all your needs! Sometimes I want to cut myself into pieces and spread in front of you all.”
They all laugh aloud. I laugh too.
This is today. I am 26.
The smell of your body mixed with your sweat, cigarette, tongba and gunpowder I felt for the first time still drives me crazy. The way you rested inside our small hut, seeking asylum, brought tears to my eyes. You wanted some peace, didn’t you? You wanted some love, didn’t you? When you looked at me for the first time, I was already yours.
“What do you know about war, Dolma? War makes people crazy.”
“So, are you a crazy man?” I tease, while my eyes gaze at things, far away.
By the time I spoke, I was already in your arms. Tight arms pressed me hard against your bosom. My heartbeat surpassed all records. I was feeling a free flow of blood in my veins. It was hot. Slowly, I could feel your tongue over my left ear…your fingers running over my arms. It was blissful; truly blissful. But our eyes were twinkling with tears.
“I am fed up of war; make me warm today Dolma; make me warm. End all my anxieties, pain and sufferings.”
Soon, sounds of running boots, grenades and gunshots were heard. There was a knock at the door.
“Sir, we need to go back.”
“This is war, Dolma. I got to go. Stay well, Dolma… I don’t know when I am dying.”
Voraciously printing kisses here and there…over my cheeks, eyes, forehead…just everywhere, you went away, leaving mere memories.
‘Out of love or lust?’ I sometimes question myself.
While you hugged me for the last time, I felt your slender rifle with my hands for the last time. You were with me, even when you were gone. Eyes of yours held a promise to return. I sat on the chair you had sat on to feel the warmth of your body. I ate on the plate you once ate chiura and bhutan from, twisting your tongue.
I ate your leftovers, hiding it from Ama. I wanted to taste you, Gorkha Dai! I wanted to keep you inside me forever. Your P-cap is safe in my closet, your memories inside me. You forgot your cap in hurry that day, and I forgot as well because at one moment, I was feeling blissful with your touch and in the meantime, it was the most painful one; my dream of getting you had just ended. Ah, it was damn painful.
Good that you ignited this fire in me that day; the embers still remain.
Dolma serves interest of others now, even of those who do not care and want Dolma’s everything that she has saved for you.
“Dolma, sing us a song; come on.”
Without pleasing them, I can’t sell anything. Without selling, I cannot survive.
“Memathume pretana rodiri, risaraga paitane lori; Maya piriti thenu sira mathi,” I sing. They dance.
Gorkha Dai, do you also dance when you are drunk? When war frustrates you and killing makes you sad, does dancing make you feel alive? How much I would love to sing a song for you and dance! What a day it would be to dance, your hands holding my waist, your eyes locked in mine; just two of us, our movement in harmony! Ah, this drives me crazy.
“Why you stopped? Keep on singing Dolma; we love your voice.”
For a moment, the small dark room becomes smoky. Smell of tongba mixed with the strong odor of bhutan and sukuti comes from everywhere. Laughter echoes from every corner. They pay; I make them laugh. They pay for the drink I serve, the food I provide them with ‘love’. They seek more service. I readily provide them. They love me indeed, but with love so transient. Without my presence, no one comes here. They come to eat out of my hand, because they fi nd it tasty. They spend a few hours, pay for it and return to sleep with their respective wives. No one, not a single one, dares to love Dolma.
Dolma, the forbidden one!
Hence, I sell everything.
“I love you so much,” one says in a drunken state. He approaches me. But he says, he can only love me inside my bhatti—never outside—because he is married.
I reject his love. Because, I love my Gorkha Dai.
Ah! My dreams! My Gorkha Dai, you were different. I made you different in the way you loved me. You loved me more than the Gorkhas of other girls. The well-built body, slightly tilted hat, green-stripped combat cloth running from top to bottom, strangely strong body, robust arms, nameplate stuck on the right part of your chest, and the clean black polished shoes, where I could see my face. This is you, Gorkha Dai; this is you in my imagination, dreams and secret love of my life.
You are the one who will take me to the land of dreams, give me immense love and father my cute children. The one who will tell me stories of lands and people I have never seen…about wars, guns, bombs…
You are the one to bring home a golden bulaki for my pierced nose and dhungris for my ears and many bideshi toys for our children.
You were the one, the only one I dreamt of sharing my whole life with. You did not demand Dolma, did you? You do not need Dolma, do you? But your eyes had promised me that day to return to me, to write to me, not to forget me.
“Dolma, what has happened to you today? Are you ill?” asks one.
“No,” I say. I lie again.
Many Gorkhas and non-Gorkhas come here. I hear them. I hear their stories.
I feel. I feel. I still feel you in their war stories, in their frustration, in their love and hate for war.
Nobody knows tomorrow their nights would not be this romantic. I am fed up, serving everyone’s need, seeing everyone as my Gorkha. I don’t know why, I live in a surrealistic world. My Gorkha is gone. You were not real. Had you been real, had your kisses of love been real, I would have been your bride. I would have put on red and golden sari that I had bought for our marriage, Gorkha Dai, along with this naugedi Ama gifted me before she died. These are the dhungris Ama made for my marriage. But did she ever know that her daughter was most undesirable? I wonder how I would look when I became your bride. How would I die of shyness, when you would put dark red sindoor in the thin line that parts my hair, making me yours forever? What a blissful day that day would be, when you would be my budha! But Dolma remained unmarried, while her friends have taken out four babies.
They have been waiting for me for the last two hours. I am not confused about moving out anymore. Now, I must move out. I must move on.
“I am sorry. I am late,” I say.
“Your name has been registered. Commander will be angry if we are late. We need to move fast; else, our shatrus can find us any moment,” he says.
I give a faint smile.
“But from where did you find this P-cap to wear, Dolma? You got to leave it behind; you can be mistaken for a shatru,” he tells me, while we move towards the dark jungle.
***
[Sweta Gyanu Baniya is Assistant Professor of Rhetoric, Professional & Technical Writing at Virginia Tech University. She received her Doctorate degree (PhD) in Rhetoric and Composition from the Department of English at Purdue University, West Lafayette, IN, USA. She writes verses, fictions and monologues. Her writings express psychological realities and emotions of a woman through stream of consciousness technique. Her articles and stories have been published in leading newspapers and magazines of Nepal. ]