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Category: Novella

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Memoirs from Gorkha – In and Out of Humanity (Part 2)

6.  After our little adventure, I went back to Kathmandu with no intention of returning back to Gorkha. I had to continue with my studies and I didn’t think twice of staying back to get a position in the wormhole to supposedly help the earthquake survivors. I was qualified enough and could demand a hefty salary. But it was bullocks, I thought. Why do something half-heartedly when I could go back home and lounge in middle-aged rigmarole of gossips in the cafes. It was an easy decision. So one fine sunny day, as I and my precious little Sherpa was dawdling in a café, the earth shook like mother earth was having sex with a couple of Nepali gigolos. In a paroxysm of fear, we ran into the streets and stooped ourselves in the middle of the poorly done asphalt for safety. After the quake subsided, I knew that Kathmandu would again go on vacation for another month or so. I sighed at my misery. I was ready for college and here was fate, trying to knock me down with boredom in this godly city. The ennui was unbearable and I signed up for Gorkha again. (more…)

Memoirs from Gorkha – In and Out of Humanity (Part I)

1. We had travelled for five hours through the marooned highway, along the perennial Trishuli, and through a dilapidated Bailey bridge into the district of Gorkha. Having made our entry late into the night, we were accommodated into Hotel Regent where an affable concierge along with a ten year old employee of some sort took us to our respective rooms. I was to share my room with a young adult whose appearance was that of a blue blood and had remained reticent throughout the journey. I didn’t feel like chatting up much with anybody, for I knew nobody, yet I had trusted these strangers to take me into their custody. There were seven such young adults. I entered the room with a rusty candelabra as the lights were out, picked out a bed in the nook, threw my impoverished rucksack on the cemented floor, and crashed on the straw mattress for a much needed sleep. One of my friends had hooked me up with this group who were to travel to the district of Gorkha and provide some sort of comfort to the earthquake survivors. The ‘Gorkha Earthquake’, as it would be called later on in the ensuing days, had created destruction of ridiculous proportions in many parts of Nepal. Two days after the immense tremble of the earth, leaving behind uncomfortable teasing quakes and all sorts of demolitions, I managed to find my breath and left my relatively well-off neighborhood in the city of Kathmandu whose centuries old temples and monuments were pervasively in ruins; and took off randomly to whichever part of the country I could manage to get into. For some uncanny reason I ended up in the district of Gorkha; an ancient kingdom where my paternal lineage could be traced back on whose glorious past had my forefathers served. I wasn’t into this kind of identity crap, but little did I know that it would one day haunt my conscience. So, with much resistance from my parents and having taste for some adventures, I had arrived at the heart of chaos. I woke up to a rattling sound from inside of the adjoining wall.  My roommate had just finished his bathroom chores and had flushed the toilet when a noise blew up, putting him into frenzy as he ran outside of the room, panting and shouting, ‘Bhuichaloo’. I cursed him and went back to sleep. When…

On Freedom, Suicide and Other Things

3. The clock stroke four and not long after, there commenced a minor hustle-bustle at the café. Gradually, other members of the society began to appear and then the café was engulfed with assertions, witticisms, complains, admirations and ridiculous reasoning’s. Though it was a daily routine, it appeared sprightlier than ever. The next day would always transcend the previous day when it came to the general clamour and mood of the members. It was always a majestic sight to those who knew who they were and what they were conversing about, the ludicrous jeering and sally tongues would amuse the bystanders and observers while the owner of the café would rather discreetly shy away from the company. He always thought that they were too intelligent and sharp tongued for him. Anyways, he was well entertained through the busy evening when the rush hour would cease as emaciated officials, nonchalant pedestrians, young folks, rebellious teenage girls and retired old bureaucrats would give the café a visit. Though all this, Rita, who had conspired rather thoughtfully about her being acquainted with the society was more than amused. She was gleaming. She didn’t speak but listened to the raconteurs, rather attentively and admired their oddities with her shimmering teeth and juicy pink lips as it stretched beyond her rosy cheeks, evincing her adorable pointed nose and narrow nostrils. Throughout the evening, her countenance assumed a wide and taut smile. All she did was, ordered more coffee, smoothed her folds, spiffed her round shoulders and have a hearty laugh which would always turn out to be more voluble than she had planned. Time to time, she observed Mr. Floyd who turned out to be rather soft spoken today, almost a chivalrous knight of the former centuries, galvanised yet inhibited. He had managed to acquire a seat at the nook, just adjacent to the back door. He didn’t speak much. She thought, maybe he was not in the mood or was also enjoying the conversations. It was true, the latter assumption that had passed her thought. He had suddenly decided to listen to his fellow brothers and clever ladies of the society.  For him, the society was a woman and to sway her away, he needed to keep his quiet sometimes yet at the same time make her feel that no love was lost. But suddenly, a paroxysm of silence had clutched him that he…

The Masochist Men & Sycophantic Women

Chapter One Through a common friend of Goloman, a chance meeting happened with a rather eccentric social circle who indulged themselves in discoursing and philosophising about the nature of their thoughts and nothing more.  Goloman who himself had his idiosyncrasies and was somewhat considered a peculiar little fellow by his compatriots, divested himself from the natural, abhorrent social circle of men and now he was gleeful that he had found in this world what he thought were extinct, a congregation of enlightened men and women.  This flock of capricious people appealed to his very soul. What more, they accepted Goloman as their own. They met, ate, conversed and dispersed. They were ordinary people with extraordinary ambitions. It was apparent at the onset, to Goloman, that, they were never going to attain anything in life except what was ordinarily achieved. Goloman, who was a pseudo recluse, had met his perfect social circle. It consisted of masochistic men and sycophantic women.  They went late to bed, woke up early in the morning for their office, spent a dull day at work and then met at Café Devkota,  conversed fancifully and whimsically, engaged themselves in a vehement and rueful discussions at times, paid their bills and went home to watch the 8 PM news.  This was too good to be true for Goloman. There were about a dozen of them but most of them managed to squeeze past the rush to manage a meet with their fellow anomalous characters. Within short amount of time Goloman was already on the pulpit and his influence burgeoned with time. It was apparent that he had begun to be a no match for anyone which owed much of it to him being a recluse. He wasn’t a typical loner for; he liked the company of people very much. In fact, he was always among people of all sorts, loquacious men, quiet women, fervent grandfathers, wayward children. He gratified himself in company of people but ironically he was very much a recluse.  It was so because he rarely conversed with anyone but himself. He observed it all and took such frivolous part of life to his heart.  He’d read Blake by the age of fifteen and by adolescence, he had already completed Sartre.  It is rare nowadays to find people who read, especially people who are autodidact and willing to go lengths to comprehend even a speck of…

vs. The People

1 The town of N____ was a small and peculiar place. About seven miles from Kathmandu, the small town was nothing sort of lively or murky. It was peculiar place because nothing significant ever occurred there as the town lived in boredom, and as it was prone to happen, it lived very much in peace.  It was a small town with a bazar where people gathered every evening and like the town, basked in dull apparition of the descending fat old sun. The days trudged their way through the wrecked dreams of the people and the people were old, furrowed and grey. All their children had moved away in the pursuit of a modern life or to say, the western life, and only the middle aged and their old gaping fathers and grumpy mothers existed in this limbo. The bazar was the only place holding the people from insanity and the tediousness of life, as people amassed in the tea shops and taverns and gratified in each other’s company, amusing themselves, sallying their way through the lassitude of their daily life. The women were indulged in gossips, moping though time, and resenting for their blunt husbands while the men evinced their judgement through drunken brawls. The night usually ended in such a carousel that the boulevards were full of lamentation, remorse, rage, and vomit. But when the day commenced, it was all sluggish and lifeless. Like the town itself suffered from bipolar disorder. It was a small town, about two hundred brick houses, pitched and slated rooftops, two storied with a mezzanine and mostly hueless or withered. The east nook consisted of wild copses and groves through which a deep muddy road passed and into the city. It was so much covered with mud that people trudged their way and slogged their belongings though this narrow field of bureaucratic misdemeanour in which the town whole heartedly gratified. The culture of silence weighed upon the travellers more than the gratified townsmen as they cursed and resented this filthy predicament unlike the hundreds of pigs wallowing in this festivity of filth. It was nothing extraordinary that all the pigs would come up every noon when the sun would be over the head and the little children, amused and overwhelmed, would join in as their dutiful errand and ramble into the groves, spirited and lively, bonding with some and fuming with others over…