Narcissistic Opinions: /peri pat eh tic/ noun

There were days longing for something I didn’t understand properly. I don’t think I do now as well. I don’t even know what I was searching for – something along the frame of utter senselessness of existing, of being someone or something.

Along the shores of Dar es Salaam, there is a strange ennui. I can feel it in my bones that it is different. Very different than that of Kathmandu. I didn’t know that ennui’s could be different. It all seemed the same. Suffering, that I can understand. It can come in various shape or fervor. I am used to it. I understand it even though I don’t need to. But I have vanities of my own. It is relative. When a group of convicts passed the work site of a Nazi concentration camp, they were envied upon by the Jews. Because they probably had toothbrush, a comfortable bed with mattresses and knew the whereabouts of their family and relatives. They knew who were dead and who were alive. Such is suffering. But ennui,  I do not understand.  It never ceases to amaze me, the weariness of which comes in different flavors and knowledge. This is a new revelation.

I was subject to some unsavory scrutiny by a stranger yesterday. He judged me based on my voice and the facial features. I don’t know why, but I didn’t like it then I normally should. Not that he adjudicated entirely wrong but he did it so improperly and with a vehemence. I should have been used to it now. But something violent stirred in me too. Perhaps alcohol on an empty stomach. I pacified the passion within me with some instant meditation – a bat was flying over our heads and I tried to catch a glimpse of its features while on flight. I put on a poker face and somewhat took in remarks with some sense of dignity. For most part I managed to ignore but I had to say something to make him think of his flawed ways. And when I was about to commence on this noble act, I suddenly felt that that I’d rather should not. I should give him more confidence my being passive. I should play the long game. I should make him suffer more. He was somewhat full of aversion towards my kind – which he also misjudged. And not trying to correct him would be his punishment. His continuous and mindless hatred, an uneasy soul and mind was my revenge.

A rich and mighty Persian once walked in his garden with one of his servants. The servant cried that he had just encountered Death, who had threatened him. He begged his master to give him his fastest horse so that he could make haste and flee to Teheran, which he could reach that same evening. The master consented and the servant galloped off on the horse. On returning to his house the master himself met Death, and questioned him, “Why did you terrify and threaten my servant?” “I did not threaten him; I only showed surprise in still finding him here when I planned to meet him tonight in Teheran, said Death

Freedom is a curse, decried Sartre. I look at the blue horizon where ocean blue meets the sky blue. I am free to do so – to think about my emotions deeply, to translate it into something I could feed off, to listen to it and not act on it, to remain in a perpetual gloom because of misinterpreting it or simply to stare into it without a thought. To interpret Sartre would be too easy to understand him. Because when we writes, everyone understands it differently. So that’s easy. I wouldn’t want to understand him in my own way. But he doesn’t provide an answer too. He’s a thug. He’s a messiah. Who cares. It’s one’s choice to do so, that he agrees too. I think I will stick with Carmona here: “ Once thrown into the world, man is responsible for everything he does…The most priceless possession a person has is his power of choice; it is also life’s greatest shackle”.

END. 

 

Moving on and on and on

As I take an evening walk along the boardwalk in Slipway, I catch sight of Dar es Salaam flickering across Msasani Bay whose vast expanse, unruffled and modest in its ways, sends a mildly cool breeze towards me for my delight. In the minutes that pass by, I am lost in my own agonies as I absentmindedly gape at the sunset over the tranquil ocean. I meditate with the panorama; the turquoise blue ocean slowly swallows the sun. It is a pretty and romantic sight, but I sit cross-legged, alone, in an iron bench, and I am full of myself.   

As he finds me musing against the reddening evening sky, Vlad, nimbly walks along the parapet like a cat and jumps on me jubilantly like a child who just won in hide and seek. I feel my heart losing its grip for a moment and laugh off at my startled reaction. We grab a cigarette and amuse ourselves in the serenity of dusk, sharing how our weeks were spent since the last time we met.

He had gone to the bushes in Ifakara to work in timber company. He sure is glad to be back in civilization again. He feels that he is now ready to explore rest of East Africa before he sets his sights in Brazil where he wants to settle down. I just arrived in Africa and it’s too soon for me to dream of a lofty retirement plan. As the night falls on us, we grab a quick supper and lick ourselves pistachio flavored ice-creams.

‘Do you want to share ice-cream with me?’ a young lady coquettishly extends her arms.

‘No’ Vlad replies curtly.

‘You can buy these over there’ I point at the parlor. We suddenly realized that we did a ‘Dumb and Dumber’ on her and we chuckle our way out of the Italian African complex and into the side of the road where bajajis were parked.

For expats in Masaki, the streets are full of mischief. One is always alert and careful. One always knows someone who was mugged, robbed or set-up in a bizarre affair involving fake cops. Vlad wants to take a walk to my apartment, but I insist we take a bajaji.

‘Thapa’ he admonishes me ‘You are always careful’. I shrug it off. I don’t want to engage in a conversation involving street safety at the moment. Having received hours of security briefing and completed three mandatory courses in security before I commenced work, I knew that my safety basically depended on me even though I had some special privileges granted through virtue of my employment. I just didn’t want to depend on it. I am my responsibility, I was resolute.   

‘You see, I always walk angry’ Vlad explained, ‘I walk with a loose gait, arms flailing like I am about to pounce on someone. No one dares to mess with me’. It somehow made sense. I let out a cackle.

A new sense of comfort engulfed me that I was going to share a couple of days with this confident man. He wanted to save some dough and I was more than happy that I got a fun-loving companion to share the apartment with. We drove through the humid night as the wind stroked against our friendly countenance and welcomed us to its warmth. Its June- supposedly a winter season. As we take a right from Sandvik street to Chole Road, a cloud of dust raised by a convoy of garbage trucks covers us. This stretch of road never fails to remind me of Kathmandu. The city I have a complicated relationship with – a bad romance. The dust makes me miss home. Whenever I pass through this dusty road a feeling of nostalgia arises within me like these dust particles are my friends and family while it swarms me with its jollity and warmth. Typically, I find myself homesick, but I manage to keep my cool about it. However, such dusty roads which has been a part of my life for such a long-time downs me into a melancholic and terrified state.

I imagine the globe. I can see home hunkered below snow-capped, rough mountains; girdled loftily by lush green hills and then I see myself, standing small and humbled in mighty Africa.

I land in Mwanza, a colonial styled port city on the shores of Lake Victoria. The sight of the largest freshwater lake took me back to my childhood days where the grass was green, and the boys were pretty.

When I was in boarding school and I took geography as an optional subject- well, it was either geography or optional math. We had to give a test to qualify as a student of optional math. During Dashain holidays, my father sat me on my butt for a whole month and taught me about law of sines and cosines, and trigonometry functions. I have never seen a man who loves mathematics so much. I always lacked aptitude for mathematics. So, when I went back to school, I deliberated a plan to fail. I looked at the question sheet and never had I ever felt so powerful in my entire life before. I felt like Hercules, the mighty and brave and of course sometimes vain. I knew how to answer all these questions- math! I used to merely pass in this subject but now I had the power to fail. Not to succeed but to fail and to do it deliberately and with confidence.

My father was pissed and it sure was fun to see him pissed at the time. He sometimes brings up the topic and we always share a good laugh together- So, the ink finished huh? So, geography took me to places, to capitals, cities, lakes, jungles and calculating time by looking at my friend Sashi’s shadow. And here I was flying across the lake, reliving a speck of memory in a 12-seater Cesena, ruminating how far I had come from those delightful boarding school days. I can feel the air making love to the aircraft in its own sensual undulations.

A curl of red dust whisked at my face as soon as I landed in Kibondo. The land is flat like a flat screen television. A somewhat familiar smell of earth prances around my nose. I immediately feel at home for some reason. The people are kind and welcoming. I travel around Kigoma, and the red soil always finds my feet. I share laughs with the locals and fool around with children as they smile and tease, scurrying off to the nooks and crannies in gangways, jumping off alleys and taking photos with me. They have their own poses; hands flailing in the air, Natraj like stances and funny faces cramming through my phone cameras. I hadn’t shaved in week and my tousled dark hair sagged in the air. I was probably reeking like a hippy in Kathmandu and I even wore a white Thamel trouser.

‘They are following you around because they think you look like Jesus Christ’, a bantu man announced and then gave a hearty laugh. I assumed a friendly smile, bowed down to the children and slapped a Namaste. They ran nimbly and giggling bare feet to tell their friends that I was in town.

Five months pass easily. I am excited. I learn a lot. I am nervous, which is good because I am on my toes. I saw the countryside, met different people and observed their culture and way of thinking, circadian and otherwise. I feel I know Tanzania more now. It is a beautiful country and I think of exploring more. But I am worn-out.

I feel my mojo slowly burning down and my appetite for life whisking away in the drudgery of routine work. I absolutely love my work, but we all know that love is never enough. Love is simply not sustainable. One needs more than love to live a satisfying life- an unequivocal passion of something else. Sometimes such passions are simple, sometimes they are extravagant. Sometimes it is just there warming one’s heart, sometimes, one has to force it down the throat. I feel my passions are almost empty. ‘Do something, something more, you fucktard’, I tell myself. I feel myself turning into a mechanical sort of being. Wake up. Cigarette. Milk. Granola. Work. Coffee. Rice. Miskaki. Work. Coffee. Cigarette. Work. Home. Xbox. Sleep. Repeat.

I’m a highway star. I am high maintenance.

I marvel at the starry night. The stars conceal the darkness of the night. I want to pluck a star and keep it in my pocket for luck. I am running out of coffee. Maybe I should cut back on coffee. It keeps me impatient most of the time. I head into Shoppers to get some tea leaves for a change. People throng the billing counter with steel carts full of grocery products. Before I know, I am one of them. But I am zoned out today. I observe more. I am more aware. I am relaxed and lazed. I can see a woman has cart full of nothing but canned food. An old man with Rastafari vibe is gazing at dairy products. The freezer next to him is full of ice cream. I want ice cream.

In another isle, I check out cheap gin and alcohol. I take some time observing the hues in of alcohol in wonderful bottles. I like how alcohol bottles are shaped. The ones with rum mostly take my breath away. But I don’t prefer rum. It’s too macho for me. I grab a gin that says- a delicate blend of 12 natural ingredients giving smooth, refreshing taste with a hint of citrus.I desperately want some smooth and refreshing in my life now. Citrus is vitamin C. It fights cancer. Suddenly, a little girl taps my leg. I look at her inquiringly. She asks me if I could grab her a Kilimanjaro six-pack from the top shelf. I am not sure if I should. She looks barely ten years old. I wonder what will follow if I do. She thanks me and jogs playfully towards her father who is buying some apples. He takes the beer and simply puts it in the cart. I am disappointed. I was expecting at least some element of surprise or some sort of telling-off. I carry on with my shopping then come back home to realize I’ve got more grocery than I need. I feel guilty. Not of the money spent but of the food that I will consume unnecessarily- most of them frozen, oily and good for nothing ones. I light a cigarette to take notes of my decadence.

Seneca is in my head.

Difficulties strengthen the mind as labor does body. I hastily begin to skim through Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. The book has been my guide for right thinking for some time now. I like the idea of right amount of stoicism. And after an hour later, there was light. In a paroxysm of stoic ideas, I brought a reconditioned bicycle. Now such troubled thoughts are spent on the motions of bicycle pedals. It’s wonderful that most of our emotional and mental agonies and all sorts of wretchedness of the mind are solved by simple solutions. All I needed was a bicycle. To sweat it out and begin anew each day as I blast Pink Floyd through the streets of Dar es Salaam. 

“Lost in thought and lost in time while the seeds of life and the seeds of change were planted. Outside the rain fell dark and slow, while I pondered on this dangerous and irresistible pastime. I took a heavenly ride through our silence. I know the moment had arrived, for killing the past and coming back to life”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Graduates

Dalli Maya sat on the handrails of a steel parapet which provided enclosure to the café. The café was on a cul-de-sac with alleys wrung in all directions. She wore a red ribbon around her braids as rings of her hair shone colorfully in the languid September sun.

Goloman assuming a meek countenance produced smoke ringlets which slowly drifted and grew as it moved towards an emaciated cat and suddenly garlanding the fascinated creature made it purr gently and in wonder.

Dalli passing the blunt to Goloman coughed, laughed and unveiled her plans happily and readily. It had been a week since they had graduated from the university and they felt like king and queen of the world. They had passed the dreariness of university with a sense of self-righteousness and languor. Now with a step into the unknown and another into the past, they found the company of each other more exciting and it gave them tranquility and confidence.

They were in the summer of their lives and they were young, carefree, loving and not cynical enough. They spoke with each other with their eyes, smiling, pondering and embracing the moment of time which would never return even though it was filled in love, friendship and innocence. Suddenly, they had admitted each other into their confidence and shared their hidden thoughts, desires and outlaid brilliant plans for future.

In the eternal day they became nutty professor with penchant for feet. An evil environmentalist lawyer. A real estate mogul in love with hooker. A gigolo. A pimp. A millionaire coder who promoted peace among worlds. An assassin politician who pursued rapists. A filmmaker with hot troupes. In the sublime moment of happiness, they were engulfed in incoherent and rash conversations leading to raillery, jokes and denunciations of all sorts, clanking their steel voices in clashes of inane excitement, furor and nonchalance; and when an unrestraint feverishness led them astray their joviality ended up in such a passionate sequence of kisses, which like a storm that gradually engendered a violent spiral of libidinal desires and carnal appetites for which they were readily thrown out of the café.

This full time fun suddenly changed in matter of months.

Dalli Maya’s happiness knew no limits when her father having been elected the new mayor of municipality obtained for his daughter the position of social mobilizer in office. She spent her days fooling around the municipal building chatting with all sorts of people with all sorts of bearings. In the meantime, she was enamored with Goloman having lost her hymen to his whimsical and youthful tenderness. Both were occupied in an ecstasy of lust, friendship and uncommitted courtship. Dalli Maya upon her wont of regularly reflecting on life found the affair most soothing to her nerves.

It was just as she had imagined life. A job that appealed for her lack of ambition and a man who didn’t want anything to do with her after sex. A life so sluggish that it could only be possible in Kathmandu. She felt reborn as the dull enthusiasm of university life was left behind. There will now be no homework or examinations. She didn’t have to bonk classes or perceive the piercing scrutiny of teachers. She would no more be upset in the labeling of bhaalu by her classmates. She could now breathe properly in the new dreariness of adult life.

It was stirring and undemanding. She would make a couple of runs to the ward meetings, pretending to note down concerns. She reported these concerns to the supervisor, a third class gazetted officer. He had a fleshy and sad nose. He would continue to nod comatosely till she ceased addressing him and then sighing like a smacked child he would reply in an undertone, ‘Okay. Dhanyabad’ leaving Dalli Maya to join her party of gossipers and idlers in municipal canteen where she would laze and fritter away office hours.

Goloman wrapped up his assignment and texted Dalli Maya to meet her at Hotel Chalise where he had booked a room for evening. He was interning at a nongovernmental, human rights organization. He was to write a brief in English on the case of Ganga Maya Adhikari, a woman in hunger strike for her teenage son killed during the Maoist Insurgency. He felt disgust and indignant for the case where the poor widow had to endure the death of her husband during the course of such hunger strike. He thought that the case was a sham. A political game of hide and seek. A never-ending search for justice that would never meet its end. A political bargain. A ruin of an innocent family. A public platform for civil society organizations to bring in dollars. And most appallingly, a symbol of transitional justice.

By the time he reached the scene of romantic delight, he inured the perjury, injustice and dark politics of the case. Crafting his way through an almost asphyxiation of a microbus ride, sandy streets, cappuccino colored potholes, ugly concrete houses made from ringgit labor and sparse Gulhomar trees, he completely forgot the day spent in smothering empathy and helpless agony.

He laid on the monochrome bedsheet and lit a fag. Uniformly drawing deep breaths, he scrolled through Instagram feed liking photos of his friends, cousins and strangers.

Hiking. Hashtags. Beards. Beer. Selfies. Self-Proclaimed Celebrities. Ubiquitous love emojis.

The room reeked of rainwater, unemptied ashtray and semi-gloss enamel. The attached bathroom wafted in smell of urine and lavender scented Odonil.

After a subtle and coded knock, the door hinges produced a protracted squeaky sound. Dalli Maya appeared all smiles. It was the last day of the month and she had received her first salary. Twenty-four thousand seven hundred and fifty rupees. Her happiness knew no bounds and the first thing she did was buy an expensive, ultra-thin, dotted condom pack for Goloman. She giggled at the mischief which seemed to turn him on. They made instant love, skipping tender caresses followed by kisses and foreplay which usually lasted at least half an hour. This sudden violence lasted almost a full minute.

‘I have to be home by seven’ Goloman mentioned nonchalantly. Then almost irate at the thought of guests at home, he added brusquely, ‘There’s a Shradha supper.

‘It’s almost winter and its dark so early. My mother phones me based on the darkness in the sky’ she lamented, looking through the aluminum mosquito nets of the windows.

Goloman looked pensively at Dalli Maya. Her bony spine disappeared somewhere along a soft bulge of her derriere. Four dark brown moles besotted her cervices. There were some more on her arms. A couple of dark ringlets extended to her nape. It appeared brittle and looked as if it could break easily off from her body with only a few sensual kisses. He felt a small nausea building in his chest. Her body was his edifice and he worshipped it. For an atheist a naked human body offers some degree of faith in the omnipotent.

‘Why can’t our ancestors leave us alone?’ Goloman murmured gaping at her body. She turned around gently. Her dark nipples seemed to greet him somberly. He had a broad smile building on her unsurprised countenance. Her teeth evinced cigarette stains on the fore. She shrugged spiritedly and with a lopsided grin, questioning his obsession with culture and dogmas. An inkling of such cultural transgression and he just cannot leave it alone, she thought. It had been dragging for a while now, unabated and now unrestrained and now it seemed to her that it would never stop.

‘Why can’t you just show up, smile, make small talks and be calm about it?’ Dalli Maya asked, suppressing her exasperation.

‘How can I? My relatives are such great people. They talk nonsense. They are full of concessions and wits which is just a droll and nothing more. I would say mildly amusing but I won’t give much credit either. That’s all they seem to care about, commentators and judges of our society. They talk like they can develop our country in a day’ Goloman replied.

He could hear them chortling with their jeers and repartees.

‘Boo, boo, baaa’ she made funny faces trying to distract him from unwise thoughts.

Dalli Maya didn’t know when she had fallen for Goloman. It wasn’t either love at first sight nor did they gradually allure each other. They never fell in love. They grew into one. Perhaps out of necessity, like siblings or couples who espouse through arrange marriage. Dalli Maya didn’t see a future with him but she perceived that he was certainly monogamous.

Goloman lay prostrate with his hirsute limbs. She thought it appeared thick and delicious. She wanted to make love one more time before she left for home. The strawberry flavored rubber united with sweetness of sex sweat unified their thoughts, anguish and cheers as the dark blue hues of the evening caroused with laughter of bugs, mosquitoes and frogs.

Nirmala !

If I were a priest, I’d pray to the gods
For they seem only to listen to men
Who banter and applaud
Cheap nudity.
Manly gusto.
Tore up labia.
Bloodied justice.

I lament! I lament-
Birth. Caste. Boobs. Country
I am –
In mercy from wedding makers
In anguish from son seekers
In between dicks and dishes
Under duress, naked esteem.

If I were a priest, I’d pray to the gods
To give birth to men
Who love strangers as much as they love themselves.

Nausea

Wednesday 12:30

The Self-Taught Man came in to the café expecting me. I was scheming a public suicide in a short fiction I was working on. He came in through the sliding door, almost in rapture. His aquiline nose never ceases to fascinate me. Today the nose seemed slightly sad. He expected to die sooner because of his nose. ‘I inhale too much dust. I am surely getting an asthma in my early forties. Hear-Hear Kathmandu. Our love will kill us.’. He was convinced. I never doubted him. In fact, I never doubted him at all.

Friday, 3:00

It’s late afternoon and I am dizzy. Saala. I just had an Espresso. Double Shot. I smoke too much. The waiter waved a glossy pink slip. A thousand rupees. Eight hundred for Surya Lights. These cafes charge too much for cigarettes. I merely recalled my new habit, recording expenses in a mobile app. It’s futile. What would I do if I had an inkling of my expense pattern? Why, I know what I spend on? Last week, I had bought a little book on Chinese poetry. I thought it was cute. Today, I got myself a shirt from one of a footpath dealer because it was cheap. I didn’t need it. My mother always harangues on the virtues of making a pilgrimage to Pashupatinath. I made it along with her. I was broke by the time a fourth sadhu brandished his parched palm towards us. She screwed her eyes. I grinned nervously.

I pick myself up languidly. A guilt similar to post-jerking engulfs me whenever I am leaving cafes. It’s the same morbid lament. The deed is done. I have an urge to run away. It’s mildly disgusting now. The Self-Taught Man caught up with me as I was leaving the vicinity of the sin. The motorbike didn’t start. I check the dashboard. It’s empty. I slap my forehead. I go back the cafe. He is resolute. He is awake. I am tired. He’s about a song now. Cotton Eye Joe. He’s memorized the lyrics. I try to keep up, but I jumble up the words. I keep telling myself that he’s a freak.

Saturday 10:00

I get mail. Invitation to sit for an interview at an NGO. I look for their contact pages. I don’t recognize anyone. To get a real job is all about knowing people in Kathmandu. I will be skipping the interview then. I haven’t done anything substantial today. I feel sad. I think of Dali. Talent and hard work. I lack both.  At the age of six he wanted to be a cook. At seven he wanted to be Napoleon. In mid-twenties, I still haven’t figured out if I like mo:mo or mo:mocha more. I light a cigarette and smoke nervously. Should my mother wake up, she would reproach me not with fanged words but with monstrous faces. The bland breeze of the night calms me down.

Sunday 10:00

The June breeze is as lazy as me.

Monday 8:00

My little niece tells me that I am boring. She doesn’t know what sort of porn I watch incognito.

Tuesday 2:00

It’s deadline day. I merely finish the story on time. I send it to my editor. He promptly rejects it stating that it’s obscene. I reply that his self-righteousness is what’s obscene. He’s artless. Maybe that’s why he’s an editor instead of a writer. I am fuming. Some beautiful girls eyeball me. I bonhomie enough for one of them to blow me.

Wednesday 10:00

I apologize to the editor. ‘It was a paroxysm of rage and to tell you the truth I was a little bit drunk’ I entreat.  Damn it! A cliché. Nevertheless, he buys it. I wonder if he gets such responses a lot. He’s a nice lad. He offers me coffee and biscuits. His office is huge. The loft even has a window overseeing the city. It should be nice to be an editor. I promise to come up with a social critique of commercialization in medical sector by the end of the week. He consents. He’s such a sweet lad. I am good at chakari.

Friday 1:00

Having spent half my day, walking from one room to another, I questioned myself, in the dreariness of the afternoon, ‘Why does it even matter?’ In the sanctity of my house, I seemed to have collapsed under the influence of an ennui so dreadful that I only realized in the evening, the condition of my mental faculties.

At dusk, I observed a fly banging itself on the glass window. The fly flew voraciously towards the pane and having banged itself on the hard, polished surface; it repeated itself. ‘It is rather foolish of the fly’ I reckoned but thereafter soon grasping how I had been banging myself into an invisible window in the form of employment, I was aghast of the similarity between myself and this fly. We were the same. Well, at least, I got bored of the meaningless, incessant banging and got myself out my situation. At least I had the privilege of leaving my window pane on a whim. Then I realized that the poor fly will kill itself and in a paroxysm of sympathy, I drew the window, letting the poor creature fly off to wherever it fancied.

At bedtime, I list my inspirations.

Hemingway. Ganeshman. Kathmandu. Lalitpur. Bhaktapur. Girija. Oli. Prachanda. Nima Rumba. Underside. Cruentus. Tashi dai. Bhimsen Thapa. Maldini. Dostoevsky. Apple. Freud. Woody Allen. Camus. Tolstoy. Star Wars. Peanut Butter. Guevara. Napoleon. Corleone. Manjushree Thapa. We didn’t start the fire? I sigh. I am tired of all these influences. I am a mere scumbag.

Saturday 2:00

I am sleep deprived. I am in desperate need of a routined life. Well, I left my job which somewhat scheduled my time and now I can feel my entrails revolting against my mental faculties. This bohemian life of a story teller is rather repulsive. All I had to do was dispatch diplomatic mails. Here I am trying to get published and I can’t even write a decent paragraph. The office does want me back and I could use some dough. I am almost broke. The Self-Taught Man thinks it’s disgraceful to ask for money with one’s parents. I could use some filial reproaches. They are nuts in the most loveable way. The whole nation has gone nuts anyways. Well, history has it that the bewildered sati of Bhimsen Thapa cursed the country from the burning pyre. If one thinks about it, Kathmandu was probably cursed by a hundred thousand satis. I think I am cursed three times already. I am cursed for being a man. I am cursed for being a resident of Kathmandu. I am cursed for my mere birth in a so-called high caste. The whole of the country is excommunicating people like me for the sake of positive discrimination. The sins of the fathers do remain with us younglings. I should go back to sending mails.

Everyone told me that I shouldn’t quit my job until I had obtained another appointment. Friends. Cousins. Parents. Strangers. When one feels reduced and the learning curve is on all time low, how can one endure the tyranny of monotony, politics and unyielding gossips at offices? When I go to work, I don’t want to think that I am going to office. I want to feel that I am going to work. And how I worked when I did so. The slow gratification from working, I guess, that’s what life all about is, waking up each morning hoping to add to the foundations of yesterday’s work.

Now I can’t even find a decent job. The Self-Taught Man asserts that our nation literally leaped from thirteenth century to twenty first century in the last twenty years only. The Chinese want to invest in high tech infrastructures. The Americans sense that discourses about rights are redundant. The Europeans don’t want to empower women anymore. Nepalese people think that thy have received enough trainings. The Indians now know that Buddha was born in Nepal. I can’t relate to my country anymore.

Sunday 9:00

I run my fingers through a Kantipur Dainik. The title reads, Balla Underpass. It’s a sin to be a Nepali. Why can’t the heading be ‘Ae hajur kholyo hai underpass’. Such cynical and partisan reporting is killing a whole generation in Nepal. Well, worse than killing. We don’t die. We live to die daily devoid of hope and love. The journalists who feed on the people’s hopelessness and lovelessness are equal to rapists. Both lack compassion.