Why Stars Fall (A Short Story for Children)

Ajay Pradhan | July 29, 2015

Kori, the six-year-old first-grader, looked up into the sky from her bedroom window at night. She was mesmerized by the stars.

She wondered why some stars twinkled more than others. She wondered when she grew up and became taller if she could reach out to some and touch them with her hands. She wondered if she could pick the bright ones she particularly liked and put them on her bedside table. She wondered what it would be like to turn off the lights in her room and use the starlight to read the picture book that her Mommy bought for her today. She loved books. She loved stars. Maybe she could pin a nice one on her curly dark hair.

She had heard that some stars fall and she wondered why. She wondered what would happen to the fallen stars or where they would go. She didn’t like that some stars fall. She liked them all up in the sky, so that she could look at them at night and maybe someday pick some and keep for herself in her room. But she also took delight in the hope that maybe one of them would fall at her backyard so she could go and get it.

“Kori, sweetheart, you’re supposed to be in bed,” Mom, who had just peeked in from the door, said.

Kori turned her head to her Mom and then back at the stars in the sky. The sky looked so beautiful with those stars.

“Mommy,” Kori asked, “Why do stars fall?”

Mom said, “They don’t fall. They come down from the sky to visit their loved ones on the earth.”

Kori kept looking at the sky and said, “I get it. The sky is the heaven.”

“Yes, it is, darling,” Mom said.

Kori said, “The stars must be the people who leave the earth to go to heaven.”

“You are right, honey,” Mom said.

“You see the brightest one up there?” said Kori, almost in whispers, “I hope that one comes down from the heaven to see me. That must be daddy.”

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Beneath the Mahua Tree

CHAPTER 1

By Ajay Pradhan | January 16, 2010 | June 17, 2015

The time seemed to stand still in Chandra Nagar. Not much had changed in the last eighteen years. The golden waves of rice paddies and wheat fields, the mango and litchi orchards, the dusty roads, and dust-covered roadside tea stalls and grocery shops all looked just the same as they did eighteen years ago. Roads were still bare; no gravel covers, let alone asphalt. Still ox-carts plied the roads, which seemed to move barely half-a-mile an hour.

Ujjwal stopped his Toyota SUV in the middle of the dusty and bumpy road that connected Chandra Nagar with Lalbandi, an East-Way Highway town approximately twelve kilometer away. He had driven on the highway from Kathmandu to Lalbandi. From there, he took a small feeder road that went through a number of sleepy villages—Raniganj, Ishwarpur, Bela, Babarganj, Manoharpur, and finally to Chandra Nagar, a sleepy village of six-thousand people. This village in Sarlahi District, Janakpur Zone still did not have electricity, running water or paved roads. It seemed time had slipped by silently, as had the attention of the government and political leaders.

It was late afternoon and the sun was dipping, turning the horizon golden and amber. Before going to his old family farmhouse, Ujjwal first wanted to go to a place that held special memories for him, which brought him to this farming community.

Ujjwal was thirty-seven years old. When he was a little boy, Ujjwal spent some of his winter vacations with his parents and siblings in the village to escape the cold winter weather of Kathmandu where they lived in a large house. He returned to Chandra Nagar for the first time in eighteen years. He told his family in Kathmandu he wanted to visit the village where he spent part of his childhood.

He stopped the vehicle, but kept the engine running, not intending to get off. His old family farmhouse stood at a short distance away from the dusty road. An old two-story farmhouse with a large terrace, tall pillars, with terracotta exterior walls that was peeling off and faded. Moss covered part of the exterior walls, and plants sprouted from several places. In its heydays, the building was one of the only handful brick-and-mortar buildings that had the aura of a village mansion. The building was surrounded by large granaries, harvest yard, milling yard, guard houses, watch tower, stables, cattle shed, and tractor and tool shed in front and two other smaller thatched-roof buildings, outhouses, a courtyard, water well in the courtyard, and servants’ quarter at the rear.

He peered through his vehicle window, with floods of memories starting go overcome his mind. The last time he was in Chandra Nagar was when he was nineteen. He was the son of a landlord who owned large farm properties in the village. During rice-planting season, more than a hundred farm workers came to his family farms to work in exchange of grains and some cash. His family employed more than a dozen people on a regular basis—cooks, cleaners, security guards, gardeners, milkmen, shepherds, orchard hands, masseuse, handymen, drivers, gofers, farm workers, farm managers. They were all at the disposal of the family, most from morning till night and many for twenty-four hours a day.

He turned his head in the opposite direction of the farmhouse. He looked at the row of roadside shops, tea stalls, kiosks. Visitors in motor vehicles were not an everyday sight for the local villagers. People were gawking at him and his dust-coated vehicle. A small throng of gleeful children, many of whom without shoes, surrounded the vehicle with curiosity and anticipation as if the man in the vehicle would give them a magic show or offer them candies. He looked at the children smilingly. He did have a box of candies on the seat next to him.

Children were delighted beyond their imagination when Ujjwal offered them each a candy from the vehicle window. They smiled at him approvingly.

It had been eighteen years, and he had been away from Nepal for the most part of those eighteen years, yet he didn’t have to ask for direction to Mahua Pokhari, the place that was the destination of his visit. He knew it was not far down the road. He revved up his engine, and honked the horn. The children backed away. He drove forward.

About ten minutes later, Ujjwal parked his SUV on the roadside. He looked at the small rolling hill with Mahua trees. a short distance away from Mahua Pokhari, a small lake surrounded by Mahua trees and expansive rolling grassy knolls and banks, just outside the village. He gazed at the trees, still seated in his vehicle seat, his emotions turning tender, his eyes turning moist. When it appeared that he was not going to get off the vehicle, he took a deep breath, opened the door of the SUV and descended to the ground. He closed the vehicle door, looked down to the ground, and he slowly bent his knees, his palms touched the earth, on which he had not set foot for the last eighteen years. Then he walked up the knoll towards the Madhuca trees with sweet-tasting flowers, which the locals called Mahua, until the Mahua Pokhari, the small lake, came into view. Instantly, a warm, fuzzy feeling overcame him.

He took another deep breath and surveyed the large pond from where he stood, looking at the water, the trees, the waterfowls. He walked across looking at Mahua trees until he found the one he recognized. He slowly circled the tree … then he spotted it. There it was; faint, but still quite there… his name and the name of the girl he hardly forgot for one single day of the last eighteen years, carved into the tree trunk: Ujjal + Rupa. He remembered that day very vividly—she had carved his name first, then he had carved hers. Then each had carved a cross-line to add a plus sign in between.

He ran his fingertips across the carving, looked at it for a while. He felt as thought Rupa was standing there beside him. His lips trembled. He closed his eyes. A whisper came out of his mouth: “Rupa”.

But, of course, Rupa was not there with him on this day. He stood there alone for a while, his eyes starting to get moist as his memories started to slowly carry him back to his past. He looked around as he felt his knees starting to swoon. He spotted a wooden bench nearby facing the waters. It was quickly getting dark, and the water reflected the moon in the sky. He picked up a pebble and threw it at the reflection. The ripples dispersed the silver reflection. When the ripples grew still, the reflection of the silver moon started regaining its shape in the water. His mind drifted back in time and opened the floodgates of tender memories from eighteen years ago. He lost himself from his present and found himself in his past.

~

Her name was Rupmatiya and Ujjwal called her Rupa. She called him Ujjal Babu. She spoke broken Nepali, his language; and he spoke broken Maithili variant, her language.

It was during a winter vacation eighteen years ago, few months before he was to go to a college in the U.S., that Ujjwal met her in the village.

He had first seen her at Malangawa, the district headquarters of Sarlahi approximately eight kilometers southwest of the village. Malangawa was the largest and one of the few municipalities in a district full of villages of farming communities.

Ujjwal was walking down the street with a friend. The main street lined with shops and vendor stalls on either side made for the town center. People were ambling on the street. On the street side, vendors set up stalls selling fruits, roasted peanuts, fresh cut sugarcane and fresh-squeezed sugarcane juice, deep-fried donuts, salted snacks, and loud colored cloying confectionary. There were tea stalls in front of fabric and garment stores that had brightly colored women’s dresses and children’s outfits on display out in the open. Random dogs, cows and oxen with bell around their neck staked their claim to any spot on the street they liked. Bullock carts pulled by oxen with bells clanging around their neck shared the roads with people. Mule carts waited on the street side for passengers. Sounds of animal calls filled the air—cows mooed, bulls bellowed, oxen lowed, horses neighed, pigs grunted, calved bleated, donkeys brayed, goats bleated, dogs barked, chickens clucked, cocks crowed, ducks quacked, pigeons cooed, crows cawed. From a distant, a loudspeaker blared a romantic Bollywood song. The air was dry and dusty.  

Ujjwal was practically a tourist in Malangawa and he was walking curiously. His eyes darted from one place to another. His attention was not on the street but on the stores and vendor stalls. Suddenly he saw a large white oxen lolling in front of him. He quickly moved to the side, to avoid hitting it. Instead of hitting the bull, he bumped into somebody on the side.

A sharp-tongued cute young woman, an ocher colored shawl draped around her head, snapped at him in the local Maithili language, “Oi Babu, why don’t you look where you are walking? Don’t bump into my sister like that, I’m telling you. I just know you Babus very well. You just pretend not to see and then purposely bump into pretty girls. Be very careful next time, Babu; otherwise, let me tell you, my slipper will slam on your smooth face.”

“Oh, sorry, I’m so very sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Ujjwal barely managed to speak in broken Maithili to the girl who snapped at him. Then he looked at the girl he bumped into, and he felt as though she must he easily the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her beauty was such that her sight made his heart skip a beat. She was looking at him straight in his eyes. The only makeup she had on was the dark gajal eyeliner that enhanced the exquisitely beautiful set of eyes. Together with her large beautiful eyes, her full rosy lips appeared to put a smile on her face that seemed shy yet friendly. Her nose was cute and straight adorned with a diamond stud. Her skin was smooth and complexion was lightly dusky. Her hair was lightly wavy and tied in a bun in the back, with a few tresses falling down her forehead. She had a maroon, aqua and emerald colored bindi tika on her forehead, a pair of similar colored earrings, and a nose stud. She had an aqua colored shawl covering her head.

“Oi Babu, what are you gawking at my sister for like that? You want to eat her up or what? Haven’t you ever seen ladies before?” The girl snapped at him again with feigned petulance.

“Bela chal…let’s go. Why are you insolent? Don’t make a scene. It’s not his fault,” said the beautiful girl, a little nervous, also in Maithili, to her sharp-tongued sister, pulling at her arm. She looked at him rather apologetically. It looked as though the easily irritable and tetchy sister often made her edgy and embarrassed in front of strangers.

Then they walked away, the cute sharp-tongued girl still showing feigned annoyance at Ujjwal for bumping into her pretty sister, “What do these city boys think of themselves, prince of the village kingdom?” Obviously, she wasn’t quite done yet.

Back in Chandra Nagar, that night, Ujjwal couldn’t sleep much that night. The strikingly beautiful face of the girl he bumped into at Malangawa kept coming into his mind. He decided to go to Malangawa tomorrow again, hoping he sees the girl again. The girl was nowhere to be seen.

But two days later he saw her in Chandra Nagar at a store, with a gaunt-looking man. The sight of her just melted him, filling his heart with a profound and urgent desire to get to know her, find out who she was, where she lived. But before he could approach her, the gaunt-looking man said to him, “Namaskar, Ujjal Babu,”

Ujjwal turned to him, but his wasn’t a familiar face. He asked, “I’m sorry, but how do you know me?”

“I don’t expect you to remember me, but I know you, of course. I’m Ramdhan Thakur. I’m known you since you were a little boy. I am the headmaster of the school here.”

“Namaste, Ramdhan masterji, it’s nice to meet you. Thank you for saying hello.”

“Pleasure is all mine, Sir. My whole family is indebted to your father, Raghubar Babuji. Such a big heart he has. The benefactor of the school. If it wasn’t for his generosity, we would now be out in the streets.” He said, pointing to the beautiful girl, “Your father was very kind to Rupmatiya’s parents, too. Bless their soul. Rupi is my sister’s daughter, but since they passed away, she is like my own daughter now. Rupi, say Namaste to Ujjal Babu. He is Raghubar Babuji’s son.”

Rupmatiya looked at him and silently greeted with folded hands. Ujjwal greeted him the same way.

“Please give my regards to Raghubar Babuji. I have been meaning to come pay my respects to him. Maybe I will come tomorrow.”

“I’m sure father would be happy to see you.” And I’d be happy to meet your niece again, he thought.

“How long are you planning to visit here this time, Sir? I hope you are not going back to Nepal soon.” Village folks still used the name Nepal for Kathmandu, distinguishing it from Madhes, the low-lying flat Terai belt in southern Nepal.

“I’ll be here for about six weeks, but I’ll be in and out of here, traveling to visit other places here and in India. And, please don’t call me Sir,” Ujjwal said. “You are the school headmaster and I’m like your son.”

 “Where do you live, Ramdhan ji?” Ujjwal had to know.

“We live right here in the village, Sir. Just behind the Health Post in Lodhawa. Not far at all from Kamad.”

It was the custom to give direction with reference to the village landmarks. The health post was the village’s only health post and dispensary. Lodhawa was one of the half-a-dozen settlements in Chandra Nagar. It wasn’t much far from Ujjwal’s expansive farmhouse, which was in Kamad settlement but his family’s landholdings were spread far and wide in Chandra Nagar and other nearby villages of Babarganj, Mohanpur, Brahmapur, Noukailawa and Bhaktipur.

“Oh, really…,” said Ujjwal, then adds, looking at Rupmatiya, “I have to stop by at the dispensary around eleven in the morning tomorrow. I have to pick up some medication.” He didn’t have any medication to pick up. Rupmatiya was looking him attentively.

~

Then that weekend he saw her again at the weekly open market in the local haat bazaar near Mahua Pokhari. She was with her sister again.

It was late afternoon. He was walking through the crowd. The locals were greeting him in Maithili with respect: “Namaskar, Ujjal Babu… Ujjal Babu, it’s good to see you, how are you?”

That night, at dinner, his family noticed Ujjwal was somewhat lost in thought and asked him if everything was alright. Sleep was hard to come by. Ujjwal sat up in the dark and looked out the window at the night sky. Stars dotted the night sky. The crescent moon appeared rather close tonight.

As he sat looking at the night sky, Chandar, the maid servant’s ten year old son came to his room with a glass of hot buffalo milk as every other night. “Ujjal Bhaiya, memsaab said to drink it.”

“Chander, do you know Ramdhan masterji?”

“The school headmaster? Of course, I know him.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Yes, of course. He lives in Lodhawa, just behind the Health Post.”

“Do you know his family?”

“Yes, why, Ujjal Bhaiya?”

“Nothing, just asking. Go now,” Ujjwal gave a cagey answer.

As Chander was leaving the room, Ujjwal said, “Wait. Here, take this.” He took ten rupee note from his wallet and handed it to Chander. “For bringing me nice and hot milk.”

“Thank you, Sir. You are very kind,” said Chander as he left.

The next day, Ujjwal went to the Health Post just before eleven and walked around, hoping that somehow Rupa would understand his wish to see her and come out of the house. He waited, walking back and forth, until it was one o’clock in the sunny afternoon. There was no sight of Rupa.

The girl saw her. Her sister whispered to her again, then walked straight up to him and said, “I told my sister that I think you’re following us and she says she doesn’t think so. Now you tell me, what is it? Are you or are you not?”

“What if I say I am?”

“Look, Babu. I don’t know who you are, but if you are following my sister, then at least she ought to know your name. What do you think?”

“Tell her my name is Ujjwal.”

“Why don’t you tell her that yourself? But not today. We’ll be here next weekend. Next week is the biannual village fair. Right here.”

“I’ll be here,” said Ujjwal, smiling.

Next weekend, Ujjwal went to the Mahuwa Pokhari fair. Of course, the only reason he went to the fair was not really to do any shopping; there were servants to do that chore. But he wanted to meet with the girl.

At the fair, he looked around, noticing the many things that were not typically seen in Kathmandu. He thought that the village life was unsophisticated, yet people were seemed to be free of worries and enjoy their life fully.

The fair was not only for sellers and buyers, but also for young men and women to see and be seen, for children to get their parents to get them treats and toys, for people just to come and walk through the crowd, smell the air, feel the twice-weekly vibrancy that was not present on other days, and just enjoy.

Ujjwal was there with his cousins and friends not really to buy anything, yet, being a curious man that he was, he was observing and absorbing intently the things that picked his interest. He noticed that fruit, vegetable and meat vendors sold by local traditional units that made no sense to him. Butchers slaughtered and skinned goats on the spot, hanging the slaughtered and cleaned animals by their hind legs by stakes. Vendors brought in their produce by large wicker baskets balanced on their head. Bargaining was a skill people acquired from childhood. Sellers set the price of goods twice as higher as they expected to sell them for. Buyers started by offering half the price of what they expected to buy the goods for. Occasionally when Ujjwal bought, he did not know how to bargain. He was a sought-after prospect for vendors and they cajoled him to buy their goods.

Book vendors displayed books and magazines on their stalls, mostly offering paperback Hindi romance novels and magazines, and random newspapers.

There were street magicians, snake charmers, snake oil dealers, palmists, barbers, and stalls that sold cosmetic and fake jewelry and glass bangles. There was a dance troupe showing a variety of dance shows. The entire artistes were eunuchs.  

Nearer to the Mahua Pokhari, a nomadic Sufi singer couple sat under a Mahua tree, performing romantic songs. The man played able and the woman played harmonium—they just had those two musical instruments. A crowd of listeners surrounde d the singers. Happy listeners were tossing coins on a rug spread out in front of the singers.

Ujjwal and his friends joined the crowd. The singers were preparing to start a duet. There in the crowd, Ujjwal found himself standing right next to Rupa and next to her was her audacious sister Bela.

Her mere presence beside him sent a sweet sensation through his body—it was the kind of pleasure that he had never experienced before. His mind was now no longer on the singers.

All of a sudden, Ujjwal heard a whisper: “Rupa, see, he’s following you here, too.”

Rupa turned to her sister who nudged her with her arm. Then she turned towards Ujjwal.

Ujjwal’s and Rupa’s eyes met. She quickly lowered her eyes, then stole a shy glance at him. She gave her a hesitant smile. She pulled her shawl around her head a little tight.

“Oi, Babu, Why are you looking at her like that? She’s not the singer. Stop looking at her like that and stop following her. Singers are over there,” Bela said to him, but she kept her voice low.

Ujjwal hesitated, but whispered back, smiling softly, “I’m not following her… but God is kind to me today.”

“God is always kind,” Rupa spoke to him for the first time.

That was the moment of bliss for him. He didn’t plan, all of a sudden he suddenly found himself introducing himself, “Hello, I’m Ujjwal. May I know your name?”

She gave him a shy and cagey look, paused, then said: “Rupmatiya.”

“As beautiful as you are.”

“They are about to sing now,” she whispered back.

As the Sufi singers sang, there they stood, side by side, listening and feeling the presence of each other.

Man:

A hundred stormy seas

A hundred-thousand miles

Shall I gladly cross, my love

To come see your smile

Woman:

No tall promises I need

Nor do I want a big deed

All I beseech you, my dear

Is take my hand and lead

Man:

A thousand different hamlets

A thousand miles apart

Will look for you in each, my dear

Until my life does depart

Woman:

For hundred years shall I wait

Look for you from morning until late

At the door of my father’s house

Until you come brighten my fate

Man:

A hundred stormy seas, my love

A hundred-thousand miles

Shall I gladly cross, my love

Just to come see your smile

Woman:

Sing to me this our own ballad

Until I turn hundred years old

And I’ll sing you a duet of love

That for thousand cows cannot be sold

Man and Woman:

Will cross a hundred stormy seas

Will travel a hundred-thousand miles, my love

And come back to this Mahua Tree

And beneath it, will sing again our ballad of love

 So mesmerized by the melodious ballad the Sufi couple filled the air of Mahua Pokhari’s air with and so overcome was he by the sweet sensations that the presence of Rupa next to him gave him, he didn’t listen to a man call him from behind Rupa as the song ended.

~

Rupa and her sister Bela were barely one year apart. Bela was born when Rupa was eleven months old. They looked alike and often it was hard for friends and relatives to tell them apart. As they grew up, the one difference that set them apart was their demeanor. Rupa was docile and quiet. Bela, on the other hand, was quite gutsy, talkative and often combative. But her combativeness was often feigned, just to show the world that she was made of tough skin and anyone rather not mess up with her or her older but docile sister.

Bela was younger of the two, but she was the one who turned out to be the one to protect her older sister. It started quite young when their mother died and father became meek in the presence of his new bride that he brought home when it had not even been six months since the first wife, the girls’ mother, had died. The girls could never figure out whether it was their father or grandmother who was more eager to see a new bride in the home so that a male heir could be borne to perpetuate the name of the family. What would the girls do? They couldn’t carry the family name. They’d get married and go away to their husband’s home one day. When Rupa was born, the father and the grandmother were hoping for a boy. They were disappointed when the dai, the nursemaid, announced the birth of a baby girl, a Laxmi, in the family. Neither father nor the grandmother much cared if the Laxmi, the goddess of wealth, really graced the home; all they were expecting was the birth of a baby boy who could perpetuate the family name.

The stepmother soon gave birth to a boy, within six months of being married. The father thought for about five minutes that his new wife must have been already pregnant even before he chose her as his bride. But, he didn’t care much. All he wanted was a baby boy in the house, to make his mother happy. His mother didn’t care much, either. She was happy with the baby boy.

With the arrival of the baby boy in the house; the neglect of the two girls started almost right away. The father often started getting angry with them. The stepmother was too busy taking care of her baby boy to take care of the young girls. They were only six and five years old, but the stepmother already started ordering them to do small household chores. The girls’ uncle, Ramdhan, their mother’s brother, would bring them gifts of alphabet books, drawing papers and crayons. But, the stepmother would say, what would the girls do by studying? They have to go away to their husband’s home one day. Better start learning household chores early on. I learned when I was all but five years old. I learned to carry big-big pots and pans, feed the goats, clean the house. These girls need to learn, I’m telling you.

One day Ramdhan and his wife came to visit with their nieces, the little girls. They were both running fever and lying in bed hungry. That day, the uncle and aunt told the girls’ father that they were taking the girls to their home. They’ll take care of them. They will raise them. The father readily said yes. The father, the stepmother and the grandmother all heaved a collective sigh of relief. Good riddance. The girls are only a burden, the stepmother thought as did the father and the grandmother.

Their mother died while giving birth to her third baby, a baby boy that also died at birth. Rupa was just five years old and Bela was four. Rupa’s father married within six months. The father’s new bride no different from the proverbial stepmother,                     

~

“Dhut, you don’t even know that much? We don’t use kilogram-silogram here in the village. Let me teach you. We measure weights in our traditional way—Tola, Chhatak, Pav, Seer, Paseri and Maund. Five Tola makes one Chhatak. Four Chhatak makes one Pav. Four Pav makes one Seer. Five Seer makes one Paseri, which is short for Paanch Seer or five Seer. Ten Seer makes one Daseri, which is short for Das Seer or ten Seer. Four Daseri makes one Maund,” Rupa paused and saw him gazing at her face and lost in his own thoughts. “Are you still with me?”

Ujjwal’s attention was focused more on her eyes than on what she was teaching him. “Of course, everything is clear to me now, teacher,” he lied, grinning.

“Mamaji says these measurements were in use even before the rule of Akbar in India.”

The villager’ subsistence and commercial activities included raising goats, pigs, and poultry. Those who could afford also raised cattle, including cows, bullocks and buffalo. Large landholders also grew a variety of cash crops, including tobacco, cotton, and jute. They also had large fruit orchards that produced different varieties of tropical and subtropical fruits like mangoes, litchi, and jackfruits. Some of the landholders had fishfarming in their private ponds. They kept pets like dogs and cats. They grew rice, wheat, lentils, oilseeds, potato, onion, and tobacco. They also made alcohol from the corolla of Mahua tree flower. The Mahua trees surrounding the Mahua Pokhari were the source of the Mahua flowers they needed to make alcohol. 

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The Letter from Ibadan

By Ajay Pradhan | June 30, 2014

Kwame stood in his porch, sifting a pile of mail in front of the mailbox. He hadn’t bothered to check the over-stuffed mailbox in over a week. Why bother? Mailbox was always full of junk and unwanted mail—grocery flyers, vendor ads, dream-home lottery campaigns trying to sell dreams, invitation to become a Jehova’s witness, charity call letters, phone and utility bills and, of course, credit card collection notices. He’d rather ignore them; even better, toss them all in the rubbish bin.

Kwame pulled his house robe tighter around him. A rainy day in London turned the air nippy, even in June. The sun had taken a vacation this weekend, leaving the grey sky at the mercy of heavy, threatening clouds. Despite the raw weather, Kwame was in no hurry to get back into the house. He savored these moments of solitude. These were the moments when he could listen to himself, listened to his own heartbeats, and escaped from the world’s cacophony.

A lanky man in his middle age, Kwame lived in his two-storey red brick duplex in the town of Whitton in the London Borough of Richmond upon Thames. He preferred to live in this mostly middle and upper-middle class southwest borough of London for its large open spaces and expansive parklands and the uncluttered, clean-looking leafy residential neighborhoods with no crime that was rampant in central London. The world famous Kew Garden was in this borough.

A progressive at heart and a keen observer of politics and public policy at all levels of government, until not long ago the only thing conservative about Kwame was his clothes. Even his clothes were now less conservative. It was only in recent years that he started wearing faded jeans. As a young boy in the outskirts of Lagos, Nigeria where he was born and raised, he grew up being told jeans were for the hippies of America. Now in them, he felt liberated from his own social past that was defined by conservatism. Study hard and become a lawyer or join the army or the government. Wear proper clothes. No jeans and definitely no faded jeans; others would think we're poor and can't afford nice terry cotton clothes. No movies and no music; they corrupt young men like you. No going out with girls. Oh, do not marry girls from another tribe—no, Kwame, no; do not marry a girl that is too attractive and who wears short blouses and shorter skirts; marry a homely girl that we will find for you, and raise kids with her. Attractive girls attract other men and the good family name will be ruined. Some conservative family influence had worked on him, others hadn’t. He became a lawyer and married someone his family selected for him.

In Whitton, his was a routine life, which reflected the color of the sky this weekend. His career had flourished. He had become an associate and was on path to becoming a partner, a coveted position, in the law firm where he began his legal career in London fourteen years ago. He built a career practicing anti-trust laws, helping small and mid-sized technology companies going after large multi-national conglomerates. Sometimes he felt that multi-national conglomerates were out to suck blood out of the poor and the voiceless by stifling competition in the marketplace. He believed that those big, greedy companies had to be reined in. He earned a good living, but his philanthropic heart made him donate quite a bit of it to charities in Nigeria. This was one of the sources of frequent conflict in the family. And a reason for missed credit card payments. He was good at what he did at work, but not so much with money at home.

He had voted for Liberal Democrats in all the municipal elections since he settled down in Whitton and was disheartened when they lost to the Conservatives in the last two elections of 2010 and 2014. He often wondered if he should not himself run for a public office. A black lawyer turned politician in a white upper-middle class suburbia of London? Good luck. He relished the thought but dismissed it every time it crossed his mind. Not because he believed it was far-fetched or impossible, but because he had become accustomed to the predictability of his grey life. Politics brought uncertainty in life—something he didn’t have the courage for. Instead of admitting to himself it was the lack of courage, he told himself it was the lack of appetite for it. Regardless, he had resigned to a life of routine and predictability. He feared unpredictability, sacrificed happiness for it and settled for routine.

But this day was not going to be routine for Kwame Odhiambo, a naturalized British citizen, born and raised in Lagos, Nigeria.

“Good morning, Mr. Odhiambo.” Kwame’s trance was broken by Mrs. Robinson, who was waving at him from the sidewalk at the end of his driveway, one hand holding an umbrella. Despite his repeated exhortation to the contrary, the elderly next door neighbor with proper English accent, always addressed him by his surname. He waved back at her, his hand full of flyers and envelopes, “Good morning.”

“You haven’t seen Django, have you?” The gregarious lady owned a terrier which always liked to roam around, without leash and with no owner holding it. He replied, “No, I’m sorry I haven’t.” She said, “Last time he wandered off all the way to the Bushy Park. Ob boy, what am I to do with Django! It’s not like I have good knees anymore. Anyway, have a good day.” Bushy Park was one of London’s largest Royal Parks. He felt for the lady, but it wasn’t like Django wandered around rarely; it was an everyday routine. The dog would of course return on his own. “Oh, almost forgot why I came here for. I’ve got a letter for you that I think the postman misdelivered to my place.” She handed him a purple envelope and left.

Kwame took a cursory glance at the envelope and was about to throw it away like other pieces of junk mail. But he stopped himself; it didn’t look like a piece of junk mail. He looked at it and checked the address. The postal address was his, but the envelope wasn’t addressed to anyone in specific. There was no sender’s name or address, either. He looked at the stamp and noted that it was postmarked in Ibadan, Nigeria. His heart skipped a beat. Of over 1.3 million people in Nigeria’s third largest city after Lagos and Kano, there was only one person he knew who lived there. He looked at the handwriting on the envelope, recognized it in a heartbeat, and there was little doubt who the letter had come from.

He tore open the envelope and retrieved a matching light purple letter.

Are you coming to Nigeria? I saw in dream that you were coming to Lagos. I’m in Ibadan for now, but will be going to Lagos for two months before leaving for Prague for graduate studies at the end of August. Are you coming?- Nziri

His heart was pounding. It was a brief letter. It had been three years. A flood of memories engulfed him in a flash. Until now, there was no communication in the last three years and very little of it since she left London straight for Ibadan for a good job five years ago. Since she got married three years ago to a man she met in Ibadan, he resisted his urge to communicate with her. The self-imposed silence suffocated him at times, but he dared not do anything that would or could be seen as interference in the newly begun chapter of her life. He wished her nothing but the best. The one comfort he derived was the occasional opportunity to read her poetry in an online Oxford Nigerian journal he subscribed to and to which he himself, an Oxford alumnus and a former visiting professor, contributed occasionally. The journal became the platform for occasional allegories, expressed in the form of reader comments he sometimes left or his feeble attempts at poetry that he posted, through which he expressed his feelings. The journal was his only means of knowing that she’s okay and telling that he’s okay, too. As long as he could continue this unique communication, he decided he could keep peace with himself and his past.

He had met Nziri Akintola Moyo at Oxford seven years ago. Nziri was a young student from Lagos, Nigeria’s large seaside metropolis they both came from. She was a public policy student at Oxford; he was a full-time lawyer practicing anti-trust law in London but was also a part-time visiting lecturer in law. Every Thursday he commuted from London to Oxford to teach a three-hour class at the Law School, housed in the Marshall Building. She lived in Martha Hall, an on-campus student dormitory. She was one of his students.

Nziri had sharp facial features, aquiline nose like the Romans, piercing brown eyes, radiant light skin tone, gentle curves other women envied and men admired and even fantasized about. She spoke English as if she was born and raised in England. She grew up speaking both English, Nigeria’s official language retained from the colonial era, and Yoruba, the native tongue of the Yoruba people in Western Nigeria and Benin. When she read prose, it sounded as if she was reading poetry.

They became close, not because they were both from Nigeria, but because they shared something in common—their love for poetry. After the first week of classes, Nziri walked up to Kwame in the class and calmly said, “If you think I’m in your class because I’m interested in anti-trust law or because I’m impressed by your successful law career, you’re mistaken.”

He gave her an incredulous look, not knowing what to say or whether to say anything at all. He was dumbfounded. He felt insulted and he felt a pang of anger. How dare she say something like that, a student to a professor? But he was speechless, his throat went dry. He felt threatened.

“Now, don’t feel threatened.” She said to the startled Kwame, as if she got her fingers on his secretly throbbing pulse. “I’m here for a reason. I’m in your class, not because I have a desire to excel in your class and pursue a career in anti-trust law. I’m here because I’ve read your poetry. In the Oxford Nigerian Journal.”

He let his breath out, which he was holding without knowing. He still didn’t know what to say.

“Do you have any voice? Or have you lost it?”

“Look, I don’t… I was… I mean I’m not sure what exactly it is you are saying,” he said, finally, at least haltingly.

“Professor, what I am saying is that I want to have coffee with you. And talk about poetry. Today. Now.”

“Look, I have to catch the train back to London.” Still feeling threatened, he wanted to avoid her. He wished she'd leave him alone.

[To be continued…]

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THE CONVERSATION (a short fiction)

Ajay Pradhan | April 8, 2011

I woke up earlier than usual today. Normally I sleep in on Saturdays. It was still pre-dawn and even the early birds hadn’t come out of their nest yet to wake the neighbourhood up.

I pulled myself up from my bed, went to the kitchen and made some coffee from the high-Himalayan Nepali Jalpa Gold organic coffee beans that I had recently brought from my trip to Nepal. While the coffee was brewing, I sat down in the living room, mindlessly flipping through TV channels, trying to find something interesting to entertain myself with.

Nothing was, of course, interesting—most channels were still finishing up the graveyard hour mindless infomercials: the Magic Bullet chopper, Topsy Turvy Tomato Planter, Ginsu Knives, and, of course, the George Foreman Grill and the overly promising Bosley Hair Transplant. Maybe I should try out the last one some day. But, who cares about it anymore, I thought. I’m married and my wife is still a little too crazy about me, with thinning hair and all. So, as quickly as the thought of calling Dr. Bosely crept into my brain cells, it vanished.

It was still too early in the morning for the weekend newspapers to be delivered. I yawned, as if bored with myself and with the soft darkness that still hadn’t given way to the early morning sun.

Bored with stolid TV channels and having nothing else to do, I walked into the little room hidden away from the living room. It was my study—a place to nurse my daily need for some solace from all the ills of the world—the wars, corruption, incompetent governments, greedy corporate world, and the consumer-fleecing telecom companies— and for my prized moments of pensive isolation. It afforded me some energy to make feeble attempts at writing, which I have now long been convinced is not my forte.  

A desk occupied one corner of the study, with its side against the wall, just under the sill of the tall and wide window that overlooked the bluff and the bay beyond. I sat in the chair behind the desk, leaning my body against the comfortable backrest of the chair, causing it to lean far back nearly against the custom-made book racks that covered the entire wall behind me, floor-to-ceiling, one end of the wall to the other. The side wall, opposite from the windows, was also covered with matching book racks, full of books—fictions and non-fictions. Directly in front of me, near the door, was a plush couch. Two chairs occupied the space directly in front of the desk, as if I were to receive co-workers or visitors in the office at my work, my day job.

The aroma of coffee wafted from the kitchen, which I had forgotten about. I made my way to the kitchen, giving a quick glance at the wall clock on my way out of the study. It was 4:25 am, way too early for normal, sensible people to wake up on a Saturday morning. The rest of the neighbourhood was sleeping as I returned to the study with a steaming mug of coffee. I looked out the window as I walked around the desk to reach my chair. A distant light glimmered in the dark waters in the bay—a steam ship.

I took in the aroma of the coffee, taking long whiff, but without drinking, making sure that I took full pleasure of both aroma and taste. Sitting down, I realized that I had begun to write something last night, but had stopped without even completing the very first sentence. Procrastination marked much of what I did, especially my writing.

I glanced over the unfinished first sentence: “Jyoti was beautiful and intelligent, but was one of those girls who didn’t…..”

I read the incomplete sentence, took a deep breath, and tried to think of how to complete it. My mind wasn’t quite alert. I took a sip of coffee. I grabbed the pen, still trying to figure out what it is exactly that I wanted to write. I took another sip of coffee, and looked out the window, in the distant darkness, not looking at anything, but only thinking and thinking.

“Stop thinking, and finish what you wanted to write.” A soft female voice jolted me from my deep directionless thought. I rapidly looked around to see who just spoke. There was no one else at home today; my wife and our three children had gone to my in-laws’ for the weekend. I thought to myself, I must have just been imagining.

“I said, stop thinking already. Go ahead, complete the sentence. I want to know what you have on your mind,” the female voice said again.

I was quite alert now, thinking there was an intruder in the house. I looked around but saw no one in the room. I stood from the chair and walked to the living room. No one there, either. I looked out the window, just in case there was somebody looking up at the window from the backyard lawn. It was all very quiet, with no one to be seen.

I returned to my desk and sat on the chair, silently laughing silly at myself for imagining things. Lazily, I grabbed my pen and pulled my notebook closer, thinking of writing from where I had left off last night. As soon as I looked at the notebook, I jumped up, disbelieving what I was seeing.

There on the notebook were the two sentences that I had just heard.

My hands were pressed down on the desk top. My knuckles were ashen white.

What’s happening here, I mumbled to myself. The room was silent.

Looking at the words written on the notebook, I pulled it slowly towards me.

“Hey, don’t get too close. And, don’t get any cute ideas.”

Not knowing what was going on, I blurted out, “What’s going on? Who’s speaking? Somebody using a remote microphone?” I’ll admit I was somewhat unnerved now, a bit shaken, even scared.

No answer. No sound.

“Charlie, Mr. Man, I’ve waited all night long for you to come back and finish writing whatever it is on your mind.”

“Huh? Who’s this? Why do you call me Charlie?” I said, with faint voice, apprehension and incredulity written all over my face.

No answer.

“Charlie, Charlie! C’mon.”

“Whoever it is, can’t you hear? I’m asking who you are.”

“If you’re not going to write, I think I’m going to go back to sleep,” the voice said.

I was a little irritated that my repeated questions were being ignored, but was curious. I asked again, “Who is it? Somebody spying me through a remote camera?”

No response.

I began to look around, under the desk, in the book racks, to see if there was a hidden camera or a speaker. Nothing was out of ordinary.

The voice had stopped. I lifted the mug and took a sip of coffee. It had gone tepid. I stood up, went to the kitchen, poured the tepid coffee in the sink. I quickly rinsed the mug with tap water and filled it up with steaming hot coffee from the coffee maker. I have the habit of rinsing mug even though I’m just going for a refill.

I came back to the study and sat down at my desk. I leaned back and closed my eyes, wondering if the voice would call me again; actually, waiting and hoping it would.

I was feeling lonely. My wife had gone to her parents’ house, her Maiti, yesterday with our three little children for the weekend. I was invited to join them at a family picnic in the afternoon today.

I grabbed the pen, pulled the notebook closer, and completed the sentence: “Jyoti was beautiful and intelligent, but was one of those girls who didn’t care much about her future.”

“No, you’re wrong. Of course, I do.” The voice came back again immediately. “But thanks for completing the sentence. Welcome back, Charlie.”

“Who is it? Who are you?” I said, with my husky voice.

Silence.

“Hey, who the heck is this? Why are you doing this? Staying silent when I ask something. Speaking up when I’m least expecting,” I said again, raising my voice a little.

More silence.

I was a little irritated, a little disappointed that the person, whoever it was, wasn’t interested in engaging in a conversation with me.

I was surprised that I felt resentful and insulted that my questions were being ignored at somebody’s will, somebody who seemed to be playing some kind of mind games with me, remotely through some technology that I had no knowledge of.

In a huff and wanting to avenge the silent treatment that I was receiving by ignoring the voice that had stopped, I grabbed the pen to write again and looked at the paper, just to be completely shocked out of my socks. The sentence that had been spoken earlier was there on the lined page of the notebook, in neat royal blue ink: “No, you’re wrong. Of course, I do. But thanks for completing the sentence. Welcome back, Charlie.”

My hands were trembling, my teeth chattering. Sweat broke out of my forehead and my palms became moist. I felt fainting spell, but before I fell over the desk or to the ground, I grabbed hold of the desk and sat down slowly and firmly in the chair and gathered my thoughts. I paused, staring at the words on the notebook that I had not written. After a long pause, a thought came to my mind: maybe, just maybe, whoever was speaking to me before cannot hear my voice but can see me or read my sentences.

I rubbed dry my moist palms on my pajama thighs, grabbed the pen again, and apprehensively wrote on the notebook: “I must be crazy to be doing this, but I have to ask, who are you?”

“Jyoti, of course.” I saw the words appear on the notebook.

“Jyoti who?” I wrote down quickly.

“Don’t act innocent. You created me.”

“I don’t even know you. What’s your last name?”

“I’m sure you know me; I think what you know is somewhere in the back of your mind. Or maybe you’re right, you just don’t know me yet beyond my first name, but I’m sure soon enough you will know me. Why’re you asking my last name? You haven’t given me one yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“You started it all. Now you give me a last name, if you want.”

“Okay, how about Hammerschmidt? Jyoti Hammerschmidt? You just seem to know how to keep hammering your demands at me.” I asked with a soft voice.

She didn’t reply.

I wrote on the notebook, “How about Jyoti Hammerschmidt?”

“I don’t like that name,” pat came the reply, all written in ink on the notebook, below my own sentence.

I took a little pause to think and then wrote: “Are you deaf?”

This time the answer took a little longer to come: “You are mean and insensitive.”

“Why? I’ve been called many things, but not mean or insensitive,” I wrote.

“You are my creator, my author. I’m your character. You are determined to portray me as a deaf. And, if I am really deaf, why do you have to remind me of my deafness by asking if I’m deaf?. That’s hurtful.”

I read her lines and felt strangely stupid. I wrote, “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Tell me about you,” I wrote down.

“It’s all in your head. You just need to find me there.”

“What do you look like exactly?”

“What do I know, my creator? You tell me. But first give me a nice last name, so I don’t have to feel stupid every time somebody reads about me and asks what my last name is. But I’m not going to be a Hammerschmidt or a Nailschmidt. Give me a nice Nepali name.”

“Jyoti Tuladhar. Like it?”

“I kind of like it, thank you. Hi, I’m Jyoti Tuladhar. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Charlie….,” She trailed off, and wrote again, “By the way, what’s your last name?”

“Brown. Call me Charlie Brown.”

“That sounds like a cartoon character.”

“How would you know? You’re just my creation, a figment of imagination.”

“I’m a story character. Charlie Brown is a cartoon character. I know that, because I dwell in your brain. I go wherever you go. I see whatever you see.”

“If you’re suggesting I’ve been thinking about you for a very long time, you’re wrong. You just came into my mind last night, when I was all by myself, lonely, and bored to do anything else. You know what, you don’t even exist,” I wrote. I took a pause and added, “Actually, I might just throw this paper that I’m writing on in my waste paper basket. Heck, I may even feed it through the shredder. And then that’ll be the end of it all. You will cease to exist for me.”

“How cruel.” The two words appeared on the paper, below mine. I noted that the ink was bleeding.

“Are you crying?” I wrote.

“What’s it to you if I’m crying? You are heartless.”

“Look, I’m sorry. But, I haven’t even written beyond the first sentence and I don’t know what to write. I don’t think I want to write even.”

“Of course, you will write, I know that. You’re a writer. It’s in your blood. You’re a wordsmith.”

“Heck with wordsmith, swordsmith. I’m not a good writer. I can’t think of writing anything interesting. Besides, you’re disturbing me,” I wrote.

“Why don’t you write something romantic? A romantic short story, maybe?”

“I hate romantic stories and novels. The only romance I like is the one with my wife.”

“Hmm, Charlie, by the way, how old are you?” Jyoti wrote.

“What does it matter? I’m married, with three kids.”

“How old?”

“Eight, five and three.”

“Silly, I meant your age, not your children’s. But, thanks for letting me in on their age. And, don’t worry, I’m not going to ask your wife’s age.”

“I’m 36, but what does it matter?”

“And how old am I?” Jyoti wrote.

"God, what’s with this age thing? Why are you asking? I don’t know. And I don’t want to know. I don’t care.”

“You’re my creator, you’re a writer. You invented me. Don’t forget.”

“You’re 28, okay! No, I take that back, you’re a 12 year-old kid. Not even a teenager. You’re so immature.”

“I rather like your first thought. I like 28.”

“Fine, 28 or 48, for that matter. What does it matter?”

“Why are you upset? I’m just trying to have a conversation here,” Jyoti wrote.

“Hey, why did you call me Charlie in the first place? I don’t think I ever told you my name. In fact, that’s not even my name.”

“Look at the cover of the notebook. It says ‘Charlie’s Notebook’”

I looked. “It’s just a brand, silly.”

“Then what’s your name?”

“You can keep calling me Charlie Brown.”

“No, please, I want to know.”

“I’m Samrat Upadhyay.”

“I saw that name on the cover of a book you were reading last night. I don’t think you’re the author of that book.”

“What’s the basis of you opinion?” I felt stung at being told the bitter truth.

“If you were the author of that book, you wouldn’t be reading it, Sir.”

“Alright, you got me there. My name is Deepak Sthapit.”

“I think that’s a cute name.”

“Why, thank you,” I wrote.

“At least you could say you’re pleased to meet me. How impolite.”

“Pleased to meet you. Happy?”

“Yes. I want to giggle and laugh, but don’t know how.”

“What do you mean you don’t know how? Just giggle and laugh, like everyone else.”

“Emotions are hard to show on paper, if you didn’t know.”

“Am I a writer or are you a writer?” I wrote.

“You tell me.”

“You know what, you do think like a writer.”

“But I’m not. It’s you who are the writer.” She wrote.

“So, who are you? I mean, what are you?”

“I’m just your story’s character.”

“But, what do you do? Tell me about your life,” I wrote.

“I thought you were going to write about that. Remember, your first sentence of the story was ‘Jyoti was beautiful and intelligent, but was one of those girls who didn’t…..’”

All of a sudden, I broke free from my conversational reverie with the character of my own story. I read and re-read my first line.

“Do you want me to write the story then?” I asked with a soft voice.

Silence.

I wrote down the question, “Do you want me to write the story?”

“No, let’s just keep talking. I’m not interested in your story,” Jyoti replied on the notebook.

“I’ll warn you, I’m not much of a conversationalist.”

“You just have to be intelligent, talk intelligent. That’s all I want in you.”

“What do you mean you want that in me? It’s not like I’m your friend or boyfriend,” I wrote down.

“But you can be my friend or even boyfriend, can’t you? Maybe we can go out on a date, tonight. Do you want to go on a date with me?” Jyoti asked.

“Wait, wait, wait. Wait a minute here. Stop this nonsense. I’m married. I’m a happily married man, with three kids. Thank you for asking. But no thank you. I love my wife.”

“I was just testing you… and teasing you,” Jyoti wrote.

“Oh, is that right, huh? You know what, if you test me and tease me like that again, you’ll end up in the paper shredder or in my fireplace.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to test you or tease you anymore. Once is enough. But, you know what, you could use some sense of humor, if you ask me.”

“I don’t need your opinion,” I blurted, and wrote, “But, I hope you’re not judgmental, Jyoti. Hey, thanks for the conversation. But I have to run. Just realized it’s already 9 am and I have to go meet my wife at my in-laws’ We have a family picnic today. I’m getting late” I lied. I was invited at my in-laws’, but I didn’t have to get there until after 1 pm.

“Deepak, you just called me by my name for the first time. And I loved it. Before you go, can I just ask you one question?”

“Sure, Jyoti. What is it you want to know?”

“Before we began to have this conversation, what were you going to write really? What kind of story did you have in mind?”

I thought about Jyoti’s question for a good few minutes, and wrote: “Why don’t we leave that for our next conversation? I’m late already.”

I closed the notebook and ran from the room. In my haste, I bumped my toe on the doorway. I flinched with pain. Just at that time, my alarm went off and I woke from dream.

Snoopy, my puppy dog, was licking my toe, trying to wake me up for his breakfast. It was 9 am.

[The End]

Note: 

I wrote this short fiction four years ago. It was submitted to The Malahat Review , a literary journal published from Victoria, Canada, for Far Horizons Award for Fiction in 2011, but did not win the award. 

(http://www.malahatreview.ca/contests/contests_info.html)

It was later published in NCSBC Newsmagazine as "Conversation with Jyotika".

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The Fog House (A Short Story)

By Ajay Pradhan | January 10, 2010

The early October morning air in Begnas Park was crisp and foggy. The park landscape was a riot of autumn colors. Trees were starting to shed the colorful leaves to the ground. The understory bushes were still thick and covered the ground and bottom of tall sal, sissoo and pine trees. The ground vegetation was moist with a thin coat of autumnal frost. The fallen leaves rustled and wafted in the gentle morning breeze. The morning atmosphere was filled with chirping of sparrows and tweets of other birds, intercepted by distant bleating of goats and sheep and blunt chiseling and pecking sounds of woodpeckers. Adding to this mix of nature's mellifluous music was the rustling sound of torrent of water flowing in the deep ravine nearby.

A few early Saturday morning joggers and others who came to enjoy a morning walk in the park were going about their daily ritual. They were mostly unaware of a group of cops who were congregating near the edge of the ravine, largely shielded by a thicket of tall shrubs.

Peter Serchan and his fiancée Zoë Rosenthal were among the early morning joggers. Unlike most of the brisk walkers who had warm jackets on, Peter and Zoë had lycra-spandex body suit on, defying the nippy morning weather. Peter was a forester by profession and Zoë an anthropologist. They had met while they both went to Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut.

Peter's family was from the village of Kusma. He was born in Hong Kong thirty-three years ago, spent first eight years of his life in the British Gorkha cantonment in Hong Kong, where his father was a soldier. His father took an early retirement from the British Gorkha Brigade, earned a reasonably comfortable pension, and returned to Nepal with the family that included Peter's father, mother, an older brother and a younger sister. In Nepal, the family mostly lived in Pokhara, but Peter and his siblings later went to Kathmandu to go to college.

Peter was born into an extended family of soldiers. Almost all male members of the Serchan clan joined British Gorkha. Peter’s brother Nirmal joined the brigade right after finishing college. Peter’s sister Kirti married a British Gorkha soldier and was already raising two future soldiers. Peter's father expected him to follow the family tradition, but Peter cut a rather different personality and had a distinctly different ambition. From an early age, he found that he enjoyed the nature, the wildlife, the forests, the rivers. He knew that when he grew up, he'd want to pursue a career dealing with the nature.

Peter’s parents grudgingly accepted his decision not to go into army. His uncles and aunts, however, openly questioned his wisdom and taunted him for being weak hearted to shy away from the family tradition. When he announced to the family that he was going to study forestry in the U.S., they laughed at him, chortling and hissing and hurling insults at him: “And what exactly do you think you’re going to do after you get the degree, go into the jungle and cut trees with American axe? You’re ruining the reputation for bravery of our martial race.”

While growing up in Pokhara and on their family vacations to their ancestral home in Kusma, Peter usually gave his parents their share of scare. The year after the family returned from Hong Kong, an adventurous nine-year old Peter got lost in the nearby forest in Kusma for nearly fifteen hours. On another occasion, a young Peter was gored by a wild buffalo on their trip to Chitwan. Luckily, Peter survived with only a few minor injuries. He learned swimming even before he came to Nepal. But he once nearly drowned in Phewa Lake when one of his legs got snagged in the strong tendrils of underwater vegetation. None of these incidents ever dissuaded him from exploring outdoor activities.

His other passion was music. He played acoustic guitar. Zoë taught him to play piano when they were at Yale. Peter met Zoë at a dinner party at the house of an ethnobotany professor during his undergraduate years. That professor, who conducted field research in Pokhara area, had encouraged Peter to apply to Yale. Peter was intelligent, cut a handsome figure, had a clean-cut appearance, a shy smile, and was a little shy and quiet—the traits that Zoë found rather cute and attractive.

Zoë, who was two years younger than Peter, was from Connecticut, the daughter of a German immigrant father who worked at the U.N. Headquarters in New York City and a Greek-American mother who taught South Asian culture and history at Columbia University in the same city.

That evening at their professor’s house, in a crowd of over two dozen graduate and undergraduate students, research associates and professors, Zoë struck a conversation with Peter and gave him her phone number. Almost a month after the dinner when Peter still hadn’t called her, she thought he wasn’t interested in her. But she just had to take the initiative just one more time. She called him and they set a date to go out. Even though their first date went quite awkward, the mutual attraction was quite unmistakable. Soon they fell in love and that summer, they purchased air tickets to visit Nepal. They haven’t looked back since. That was nine years ago. They were planning for a spring wedding five months later in March of next year. They had already mailed wedding invitations to friends and families. Simple ceremonies were planned in Connecticut as well as Pokhara. Everything was going great for them.

Peter and Zoë both worked for UNDP Headquarters in New York. They frequently went to Nepal for vacation. That Saturday morning at Begnas Park was their last morning of their vacation in Pokhara before their departure to Kathmandu by an evening flight that day. They were to leave Kathmandu for their journey back to New York two days later. Little did they know that their travel plans were going to be ruined and their future was to take a different direction than planned.

[To be continued...]

Note: This is a work of fiction. The characters are all fictitious and some of the setting is imagined. Please visit again for the next part of this short story.

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Jamarkattel Bhauju Arrives in Canada: A Short Story

Note: Some readers may find this story politically incorrect and out of taste. This story is intented to be a humor and written with no intention of offense to anyone. If political incorrectness offends you, please do not read further.

By Ajay Pradhan | April 14, 2009

I can’t believe it’s already Nepali New Year today. Happy New Year. It seemed like only yesterday that she arrived in Vancouver, Canada, but it had already been three months since she left Nepal. Her name was Jamuna Jamarkattel. She came from Dhading Besi, the district headquarters of Dhading District in Nepal. She was 36 years old, married with three children. Her husband's name was Ghanshyam Krishna who was 47 years old. Jamuna was Ghanshyam's second wife. Except for his close circle of friends and family, nobody knew what happened to his first wife; he would rather not tell anyone about her. Their children were Hari, 11, Sushma, 8, and Leonardo, 5. Why the little son's name was Leo was in itself an interesting little story. I'll tell you about that a little later.

Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention my name. I'm Rohit and when people ask me my name, I tell them with style, "I'm Bhattarai … Rohit Bhattarai." You see, just like in the Bond movies. But let's not get too much into that; this story is not about me, this story is about the Jamarkattels, especially Jamuna Jamarkattel. In Vancouver, all Nepalis called her Jamarkattel Bhauju. She didn't like it too much.

Three weeks after her arrival in Canada with three children and a henpecked husband in tow, one lazy afternoon she changed their name. Hari became Harry and Sushma got a new name, Susan. Little Leo stayed Leo. Jamuna didn't have to change the little one's name; he already had a Western name. Lucky dude. After she was done renaming their children, at least informally, she decided on her own name. She thought for quite a while but an appropriate name didn't come to her mind. She wanted to change her name Jamuna to a short and simple English name.

After thinking for about 15 minutes, she decided to call herself Jimmy. She knew Jimmy was an English name and it sounded like a nice name to her. But Harry, her older boy, quickly cautioned her, "Muwa, I think that is a boy's name. The boy from the next door that I play with, his name is Jimmy." No sooner did Harry call her Muwa, she told him, "Call me Mommy or Mom, not Muwa, OK? Here in Canada, we have to be like Canadians, right? This is not Dhading, right Chhora? Oops, I mean, son."

After thinking further for a long part of the hour and failing to come up with a nice, appropriate English name, she said to her son, "Harry, go get me a newspaper or magazine from Sally Aunty upstairs. Tell her I asked, OK?" Sally was their Punjabi landlady, whose real name was Salvinder Kaur Dhaliwal. The Jamarkattels had rented a two-bedroom basement suite in the Dhaliwal residence in Newton area of Surrey.

Sally was the one who instigated Jamarkattel Bhauju to anglicize their name. "Look Jamna Ben, if you don't get English name na, you won't get a job, right?" Sally weighed in. Of course, Sally would know; she knew everything. After all, she came to Canada from Patiala, Punjab 12 years ago. The entire Dhaliwal family had English names. Sally's husband's name was Dave, for Devinder Singh Dhaliwal. Dave and Sally had two children of their own. Their son Narinder was known by his English name, Ned. I didn't know Ned was an English name, but what do I know? I came to Canada only two years ago myself, to study at Simon Fraser University. And I'm not even a landed immigrant here, you see. I'm merely a student and as clueless as a paper doll.

Oh, sorry, I digress. What were we talking about? Oh, yeah, the Dhaliwals. OK, the Dhaliwals also had a daughter and her name was Charlene. She didn't have a Punjabi name because she was born in Canada. Now I don't understand why the Punjabis had to get an English name that's at least in some little way a derivative of their original Punjabi name, like Dave for Devinder, Ned for Narinder, Robby for Ravinder, Sally for Salvinder, and so on. It makes you feel they want to hang on to their original name and are kind of uncomfortable making a clean break from it. As a result, they come up with innovative English names like Ned. A little too innovative for my taste, to be honest. That’s none of my business, but I mean, wouldn't it just be easier to get straight English names like Michael, William, Robert, Peter, Thomas like most Chinese immigrants in Canada do? Like Michael Chang, William Cheng, Robert Chung, Peter Chow, Thomas Chiu. Anyway, let's get back to our story of the Jamarkattels.

Where were we again? Oh, yeah, Jamarkattel Bhauju had sent her son to fetch a magazine from the landlady upstairs. Two minutes after browsing the pages of a three-year old edition of the Cosmopolitan magazine Harry brought from Sally Dhaliwal upstairs, Jamarkattel Bhauju found her new name, Jenny. As soon as she settled on that name, she felt a great sense of relief with the new-found identity. She even thought about changing her surname to something more pronounceable for the local khaires, like Jenny Jamar Cotel or, even better, just Jenny Cotel or something like that. But she wasn’t too sure if that would not cause some legal problem for the family. So, she quietly decided to keep the family name.

From that day on, she would introduce herself to anyone she met, "I am Jenny Jamarkattel; what is your good name?" Whenever the Non-Resident Nepalis living in Canada called her Jamarkattel Bhauju, she never failed to remind them to call her Jenny Bhauju or better still, simply Jenny. But the moniker "Jamarkattel Bhauju" stuck to her like Velcro.

Jenny, Harry, Susan, and Leo Jamarkattel. The only one in the Jamarkattel family left to get an English name was Ghanshyam Krishna Jamarkattel, the henpecked husband of Jenny Jamarkattel. When she made rapid decision to anglicize their name, Ghanshyam Dai was not home. But she chose an English name for him anyway. He had gone out to attend a job search seminar at one of the job search agencies in Surrey, funded by the federal government department, the Human Resources Development Canada or simply HRDC.

Dave had told him a few days ago to forget about the job search seminar and just go get a security guard training. "Ghanshyam Bhai, tushi escurty guard ka teraining le lo, OK? Yeh seminar weminar se kuchh banta nai, right?" Just go get security guard training; these useless seminars won't do you any good, Dave told him. Well, now you see where Jamarkattel Bhauju got the habit of adding the words “OK” and "right" at the end of every other sentence.

Ghanshyam Jamarkattel was disheartened by Dave’s suggestion about the security guard training. In Dhading, he was a school teacher and assistant headmaster. No way was he going to become a security guard, he thought to himself, but didn’t say anything to Dave.

In the evening when Ghanshyam Dai came home from the job search seminar, Jamarkattel Bhauju quizzed her husband, “Kris, why are you late? You know we have to go to New Year’s dinner party at Chaturvedi Daju’s house tonight, right?”

Ghanshyam Dai was confused, “Haina ke bhanchhau, kollai Kris bhanya?” Who are you calling Kris?

“Timlai bhanya ni, aru kallai bhannu?” Of course, I’m calling you Kris, who else would I call that? “I changed your name. I changed Hari and Sushma’s name, too. Sally said if we don’t get English name we will never get a job here in Canada,” Jamarkattel Bhauju declared to her husband.

“But why Kris? Why not something else?” Ghanshyam Dai asked.

“It comes from your middle name Krishna, you don’t even understand that much?”

Ghanshyam Dai wasn’t too excited. He liked his own Nepali name alright, but he decided not to make an argument with his headstrong wife. He knew he would never win an argument with her.

“Look, when we go to the dinner party tonight, don’t introduce yourself to anyone as Ghanshyam Krishna. Tell them you’re Kris Jamarkattel,” Jamarkattel Bhauju pre-warned her husband.

Jamarkattel Bhauju knew the Chaturvedis had also invited me to the party. So she had already called me in the afternoon to ask for a ride for the family to the party. They hadn’t yet obtained driver’s license. “Rohit Babu, are you going to the party at Chaturbedi Daju’s house tonight?” I said sure, why not.

In the evening, when I went to the Jamarkattels’ basement suite to give them a ride to the party, I saw Jamarkattel Bhauju all ready for the party, loaded with three tons of gold jewelry on her body and one pound of make up on her face. She had doused herself with a liter of perfume that smelled like dollar store brand perfume. The smell hung heavy wherever she went.

She was beaming. She quickly greeted me with a hearty Namaste with both her hands, and made sure that I noticed her gold bangles on her forearms. She repeated that ritual with everyone at the party, just to make sure that everyone noticed her heavy gold jewelry on her neck, her ears, her arms, and even around her waist and shoulders. I don’t even know what all those jewelry are called. When anyone showed some appreciation for her jewelry, she’d quickly add with a beaming face, “Mero Buwa le disya. Ani yo kan ko jhumka chai mero hajur le mero janmadin ma kindisya.” My Dad gave them to me; and these earrings--my husband bought them for me on my birthday.

She rarely called her husband the deferential “Hajur” at home. At home, she always called him “Timi” or “Ghane” or “Ghanshyam”. She’d say “Ghane, go do this; Ghanshyam go bring me that. Ghanshyam, go clean the bathroom.” But when others were around, she made it a point to show the traditional respect, “Hajur, sunsyo na. Eh hajur, sunsya ho ki haina? Hajur, bhuja khaisyo na. Achel hajur dublara kasto sinka jasto bhaisya chha.”

Indeed, Ghanshyam Dai was a lean and thin man. Howver, Jamarkattel Bhauju was a different story altogether. She loved to eat. She loved deep fried food and had a sweet tooth. She loved jilebis and lalmohan. The four-feet-eleven Jenny Jamarkattel had a behind that was as wide as a Banyan tree trunk.

In Nepal her father was a local politician and a deputy chairman of the Dhading District Committee of Rashtriya Prajatantra Party. He owned large pieces of land and was smart enough to make money from his political connections while the RPP folks were close to the former King Gyanendra. When the Maoists came to power, things changed for her father. He immediately switched allegiance and quickly became a staunch supporter of Prachanda and Baburam Bhattarai. Despite that, the Jamarkattel family had a serious brush with the Maoist vigilante groups. To some extent, that was a reason for Jamuna Jamarkattel’s decisions to call it quits in Nepal.

Jamuna Jamarkattel had made the decision to ride the wave of emigration and leave Nepal when one night about three years ago some armed hoodlums who called themselves YCL members came to her house in Dhading and demanded cash “donation” for the protection of her family and property. They made it clear that if the Jamarkattels wouldn’t give donation, their security would be at risk. She was smart enough to understand the threat, unlike her husband who at first mistakenly thought it was all an empty threat. He was convinced quickly when one of the musclemen punched him in the eye with his fist. They warned him, “next time, it’ll be a bullet, not a fist.” In three days, they gave them ten thousand rupees. Within those three days, Jamuna Jamarkattel told her husband that they were going to apply for DV Visa lottery for America. They tried for the DV Visa lottery for two straight years, but nothing happened. Then she met Ram Prakash Chaturvedi.

Chaturvedi was her distant cousin and he was from Benighat. He had applied for Canadian Permanent Resident Visa and had advised her to try for it instead of taking a chance on the US DV Visa. It is the same Chaturvedi who had invited them to the Nepali New Year’s party in Vancouver. With help from Chaturvedi, the Jamarkattels sent in their application from Kathmandu to Canadian High Commission in New Delhi. To their utter surprise they were granted PR Visa within one year. For Jamuna Jamarkattel, that was her biggest revenge on the YCLs.

Within two months after they got Canadian PR Visa, they arrived in Vancouver as the newest landed immigrants with their eyes glazed as Tim Horton’s donuts and head, well, heady with lofty dreams. Chaturvedi jee found them the basement suite in the Dhaliwal residence in Surrey. Jamarkattel Bhauju quickly came under the influence of Sally Dhaliwal. “We don’t buy cheap things. We don’t go to BalMart. Only cheap people go to BalMart. We go to downtown Vancouver for shopping.”

“What’s BalMart?” Jamarkattel Bhauju had asked Sally.

“Jyu don’t know BalMart? Everybody knows BalMart,” despite having lived in Canada for 12 years, Sally still had the thick Patiala accent.

“Oh, I see, you mean Wal-Mart?”

“Jyaaa… that’s what I mean,” Sally put emphasis on the affirmative.

Sally Dhaliwal’s point wasn’t lost on Jamarkattel Bhauju. She wasn’t from a cheap family in Dhading. Her father was a politician, after all. So, every time the topic of shopping came up in any Nepali gathering, she’d say, “we don’t shop in Wal-Mart, we go to Robson Street for all our shopping.”

One day recently, Jamarkattel Bhauju had gone to downtown Vancouver. She entered the trendy, high-end Holt Renfrew fashion store on Alberni Street. She browsed around in the store under the stern, watchful eyes of a sales lady. It was just like in that scene in the movie Pretty Woman, in which the inappropriately dressed Julia Roberts enters a high-end store and a disapproving sales lady asks her to leave.

She checked the price of a sweater and she gasped when she saw the price, $199.99. She checked out the price of a fancy lady’s leather handbag and her lips trembled when she saw the price, $149.99. She spotted a Pashmina shawl and her throat went dry when her eyes scanned the price, $249.99. She saw a black winter coat that she had always wanted for herself. Sweat broke out of her forehead when she saw the price, $399.99. She tugged on her three children and quickly got out of the store. Since then, she only shopped at Wal-Mart with cash she tucked away inside her bra in neat rolls.

You must all be wondering how I know about all this. Well, you see, I rent the one-bedroom suite on the other side of the suite rented by the Jamarkattels. Ghanshyam Dai often comes to my suite to share “dukha sukha ka kura haru.”

During one such “dukha sukha ka kura haru” session, Kris Jamarkattel, our Ghanshyam Dai, confided in me how they settled on the name of their little son Leonardo. Six years ago, when they were visiting Kathmandu from Dhading, Jaya Nepal Chitraghar cinema was re-running the movie Titanic. Jamarkattel Bhauju had heard good reviews of the movie from her friends. So, one evening off she went with her husband to see the movie. She thoroughly enjoyed the movie, even though Ghanshyam Dai slept through it.

When the movie ended, Jamuna Devi Jamarkattel was feeling mellow and rather amorous. She couldn’t wait to get to the place where they were staying for the night. She couldn’t shake off from her mind the scene from the movie in which Leonardo DiCaprio makes steamy love to Kate Winslet in a buggy in one isolated room on the ship, Titanic. When the Jamarkattels reached home, Jamuna was hungry, if you know what I mean, and pulled her husband into the bedroom rather quickly.

Two weeks later, when Jamuna Jamarkattel found out she was pregnant, she cooed into her husband’s ear, “Hajur, sunsyo na, if it is a girl, we’ll call her Kate and if it’s a boy we'll name him Leonardo.” That was one of the rare occasions when Jamuna Jamarkattel called Ghanshyam Krishna Jamarkattel “Hajur” even when others were not around. Ghanshyam had other names in mind, but decided not to argue.

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Disclaimer: This story is a product of imagination. It is completely fictional. Any resemblance of any character and name in the story with anyone is purely coincidental.

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