Nepal's National Psyché Sees India to the North

By Ajay Pradhan | December 27, 2009

"The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed--and hence clamorous to be led to safety--by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary." -- H.L. Mencken

Mencken, the celebrated American essayist, journalist, satirist and acerbic critic of American life and culture, who died in 1956 at the age of 75, likely had a premonition about Nepal's current politicians when he wrote the above quote.

Nepal's contemporary politics is fast becoming a fairy tale of nightmare. Everyone has a tale to tell. In every tale, the hobgoblin is the country's southern neighbor that often creates trouble for Nepal.

For every trouble in every tale, our index finger automatically points to India--as though India is to our north and our index finger is the compass needle.

India is our southern neighbor and friend that we can't live without. But it is also a neighbor we love to hate with passion.

Such is the image of India, permanently etched in our national psyché--an image of a friendly but troublesome creature, just like the hobgoblins in the Seelie court of popular folktales. Such is our indelible national psyché.

Our fairytale political "leaders" from every political Seelie courts (read: political parties of every stripe and color) have done everything possible to create this national psyché. The purpose is simple. It is to keep the populace alarmed about a perceived threat from India, keep it clamorous for being shielded from the mostly imaginary threat.

I say imaginary, not because there is no threat at all, but because the significance of internal threat that ignites within Nepal is potentially more lethal for Nepal's integrity than of external threat from India that does exist.

It is the Nepali political leaders that mortgage the country's dignity and run to New Delhi whenever the going gets tough for them. Providing dignified leadership has become all but a big farce. There is no leadership to speak of. There is a vacuum of leadership.

Why else are the politicians treating the Constituent Assembly, which we had to wait for nearly 60 long years to get after first promised by King Tribhuvan, being treated as though it were merely a regular legislature?

It's too bad that the political leaders were too shortsighted to saddle the CA with the twin burden of governing and re-writing a new Constitution, when the CA should have been elected with the sole mandate of writing the Constitution, leaving the task of governing the country for a separate, interim political mechanism. It is worse that the politicians and the purveyors of democracy and people's interest are shackling the feet of the CA and preventing it from moving forward.

The lack of political vision, statesmanship, pragmatic strategy, and perpetual ineptness in governing and apathy for common concerns can only be hidden from people's eyes by baiting common Nepalis on a perceived threat from India. This is the purpose why the inept political leaders who have ruled Nepal throw wool in the eyes of the common citizens by blaming India for Nepal's every foible. By doing so, they each must share the blame for surrendering country's dignity and accepting India as their master.

And, what do we, the people, do about this? Do we show outrage towards our inept politicians who have hidden agenda? No. We do nothing to keep our leaders accountable.

Instead, we let our index finger automatically point towards India, when we should be pointing it to our own leaders within Nepal.

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मनको दैलो (कथा)

भाग १ - स्टारबक्समा घटस्थापना
अजय प्रधान | सेप्टेम्बर १९, २००९

"तिम्रो मनको दैलो खोली राख है, म आउन लागेँ, म आउन लागेँ..." भुन्टे आफ्नो मन पर्ने नेपाली पप् गाना गुनगुनाउँदै भेन्कुभरको रब्सन स्ट्रीटमा हिँड्दै थियो। एक्कासी जमुना सँग जम्का भेट भो।

"ए भुन्टे, कस्को मन्को दैलो खोलिराख है भन्दै गुनगुनाउँदै हिँडिराको? आफुलाई सुगम पोखरेल नै ठान्या हो कि कसो?"

"ओहो, जमुना दिज्जु, नमस्ते। सञ्चै हजुरलाई?"

"मोरा, तँलाई मैले मलाई जमुना नभन भनेर भन्या होइन? मलाई जेनी भन्नु भनेर कत्ती भन्नु, अनी एस्तो बाटो साटो मा अरुले सुन्ने गरी दिज्जु सिज्जु पनि भन्नु पर्दैन। जेनी जमर्कट्टेल भने पुग्छ।"

"सरी दिज्जु, माफ पाउँ। अनी साँच्चि, आज त घटस्थापना। हजुरलाई दसैंको शुभकामना छ है।"

"हो त साँच्चि। ल भुन्टे तलाई पनि दसैं को शुभकामना। अनी साँच्चि तँ कहाँ जान लाको अहिले? हिँड् जाम एकेक कप तात्तातो कफि खाम स्टारबक्समा। मरिलानु के छ र? कि कसो? भन्।"

एकछिन पछी स्टारबक्समा कफीको घुट्को लाउँदै दुई जना गफ मा मस्त भए।

"साँच्ची आरएनएसीबिसीको दसैं पार्टी छ रे नि अक्टोबर ३ मा, तँ जान्छस कि जान्नस?"

"हजुरले एनसिएसबीसी भन्नु भा होला। अब जानै पर्ला नि हैन र? नेपालमा भए घरमा खसी बोका काटिन्थ्यो। टिका टालो गरिन्थ्यो। शीर मा पहेँलो जमरा लगाइन्थ्यो। अब यो बिदेशमा तेइ पार्टी सार्टी त हो। अरु के नै गरिन्छ र? बरु तपाईं हरुको अरु के छ प्रोग्राम? घरमा खसिको मासु खाने, तास सास खेल्ने कार्यक्रम छैन दसैंको?" भुन्टेले जमुनाको दिमागमा पम्पु दिन भ्याइ हालेछ।

गुणराज बस्ताकोटी लाई सबैले सानै देखिन् किन हो कुन्नी भुन्टे भनेर चिन्थे। भुन्टे र जमुना को चिन्जान धादिङ देखिकै हो। साइनोमा भुन्टे जमुनाको फुपुबजैको नाती हो। पोखरामा हुर्किएर काठमाडौंमा पढेर क्यानाडामा युनिभर्सिटीमा पढ्न भनेर आइपुगेको। हाल युबिसी मा एन्थ्रोपोलोजीमा बिए गर्दै थिए, अनी रब्सन मा एउटा जापानिज सुशी रेस्टुराँ मा पार्ट टाईम काम पनि गर्थे। जापानी भाषा को नाम मा फुटी कौडी केइ बोल्न आउँदैनथ्यो। तैपनी अनुहार हेर्दा जापानी र नेपाली मा तेत्ती सार्है भिन्नता नदेख्या हुनाले रेस्टुराँ मालिकले धन्य काम दि हालेछ।

"खै के भनुम, भुन्टे। तेरो भिना लाई एक छीन फुर्सद भ पो। तैपनी तँ आईज न नवमीको दिनमा। सँगै बसी रमाइलो गरुम्ला। अब नेपालमा जस्तो घरमा खसी काट्ने त तेस्तै हो, गार्चा ब्रदर्स बाट खसिको मासु ल्याम्ला। खुब झोल हालेर खसिको मासु र च्युरा अनी काँक्राको अचार खाउँला, हुन्न?" जमुना पनि के कम थिई र, तुरुन्तै प्रोग्राम बनाइ हाली। मन मनै हिन्दी सिनेमाको डायलग दिँदै थिईन्, "तु भी क्या याद रखेगा किस सेठानीसे पाला पडा था।" धादिङ्को हुनेखानेकी छोरी न ठहरी।

तेत्तिकै मा रिचमोन्ड बस्ने दीर्घ कटुवाल स्टारबक्स भित्र छिरे। आँखा जुध्न पा छैन, भुन्टेले दुबै हात जोड्दै भने, "अहो जर्साप, नमस्कार।" मानौ रुक्माङ्गद कटुवाल नै नेपाल बाट क्यानाडाको पहिलो राजदूत भएर आँखा सामु प्रकट भा जस्तो।

"ह्या तँ पनि, काँ को जर्साप सर्साप नि अब? न उडा न धेरै," दीर्घले भने। "अनी भन् के छ, सबै ठीकठाक? नमस्कार है जमर्कट्टेल भाउजु। धेरै भो हजुरको दर्शन नपाको।"

"ल भैगो जर्साप न सहि, तर नेपालको साँचिको जर्साप चाँहीँ कुन्नी कताको राजदूत हुने रे,तपाइँ क्यानाडाको महामहिम राजदूत हुन परेन?" भुन्टेले भने। खाँटी नेपालीको छोरो न ठहर्यो, अर्कालाई उडाउन पायो भने किन बाँकी राख्थे र?

"के दशैँ को शुरु मै एस्तो नचाहिँदो गफ दिया भुन्टे? क्यानाडाको राजदूतमा त कुन्नी को भोजराज हो कि मोजराज लाई मनोनयन गरी सकेछन माकुनेको सरकार ले," जमुनाले भनिन् । "नमस्ते है दीर्घ बाबु। तेइ त धेरै भो तपाईंलाई नदेख्या। अनी जहान परिवारलाई आरामै?"

"चाइन्जोसो, त्यो के अरे, ज्वाँईँ खोज्ने कहिले कहिले, दाईजो थुपार्न नि हतार भन्या जस्तो, क्यानाडामा राजदूताबास खोल्ने कहिले कहिले, राजदूत नियुक्त गर्न नि हतार। तेस्मा नि क्यानाडाको सर्खार ले मान्नु नि पर्‍यो नि।" प्वाक्क पछाडि बाट एकजना विद्वानले बोले।

तिनै जना छक्क परि एकै पल्ट पछाडि फर्केर हेरे।

पाल्पाली टोपी लगाएका करीब ६५ बर्ष उमेरको एकजना नेपाली बन्धु ङिच्छ हाँस्दै अघी बढ्छ। "नमस्कार है, यहाँ हरुले मलाई चिन्नु हुन्न, म छबिलाल रुपाखेति, भर्खरै एक महिना भो नेपाल बाट ल्यान्ड गरेको क्यानाडा मा। म प्रकाश रुपाखेतिको बुवा।"

"ए बुवा, नमस्कार। हजुरनै हो प्रकाशजीको बुवा? वहाँ को बुवा नेपाल बाट आई पुग्नु भा छ भनेर सुन्या त थिएँ," भुन्टेले दुबै हात जोडी नमस्कार गरे।

जमर्कट्टेल भाउजु कसैले नसुन्ने गरी बर्बराउन थालिन्, "के खान यो उमेरमा क्यानाडा आको होला। के के नै पाईन्छ भनेर आको होला। यहाँ ६ महिना बसे पछी गोराहरुको दलाइमा परेपछी चेत पाउँछ बुढाले।"

बुढाले सुनिहाले, अनी भने, "अब के गर्नु त नानी, नेपाल को ताल माल तेइ हो। सप्पैले थाहा पाकै कुरो हो। बस्न नसक्किने भइगो। दिनको १० घण्टा बत्ती आउँदैन, धारा बाट पानी आउँदैन। स्टोभ बाल्न मट्टितेल पाउदैन। सवारीको लागि पेट्रोल पाउँदैन। जता गयो उतै फोहोरै फोहोर छ। ईमर्जेन्सी जान पर्‍यो भने बाटो बन्द गर्छन् राजनीति गर्ने भनाउँदा हरुले। कसैलाई हाछ्युँ मात्र आउनु पर्छ टायर् बल्न सुरु हुन्छ, मानौ सप्पैको नाखाँ स्पार्क प्लगै जोड्या जस्तो। दिउँसै लुट्छन, पिट्छन, ज्यानको ठेगान छैन। अराजकताले पराकास्ठ नाघेकोछ। माओवादीले घर जग्गा लुटेर लिन्छु भन्छन। कांग्रेस भित्र नाताबाद गोताबाद छ। सप्पै राजनीति गर्ने हरु लाई नयाँ नेपाल न पुरनो नेपाल, सप्पै कुराले फापेको छ। हामी जस्ता निर्धा जनतालाई लाई कसैको वास्ता छैन। त्यसै भएर बरु यहीँ ठीक भनेर छोरा बुहारी ले बोलाए, अनी आको नि। अब तपाईं नै भन्नुस्, मैले चाइन्जोसो के अरे ठीक गरेकी बेठिक।"

बुढा बाले अमिताभ बच्चनले बोल्ने डायलग भन्दा नि लामो भाषण देको सुनेर जमुनाले रातो मुख पार्दै बेक्कार बर्बराएछु भनेर सोची। "हजुरले एकदम ठीक गर्नु भो। बस्नुस् न बुवा। ए दीर्घ बाबु, तपाईं नि बस्नुस् न। चिया कफि खाने होइन? अनी बुवा, म चैँ जेनी जमर्कट्टेल। उ भाई चैँ गुणराज बस्ताकोटी। अनी वाहाँ चैँ दीर्घ कटुवाल।"

"अनी म चैँ प्रडीप महर्जन।" बुढा बा को पछाडि बाट एकजना अग्लो युवक अघी सर्दै भन्छ। "सबैलाई महापर्व बरा डशै को सुभकामना छ है।"

"ओहो प्रदीपजी, नेपाल बाट कहिले फर्किनु भो? कोसेली के ल्याउनु भो हाम्लाई?" जमुनाले भनिन्।

"लौ जमर्कतेल भाउजु, नेपाल बात फर्केको डुई मेना भेसक्यो। ल्याको कोसेली सप्पै सकी सक्यो।"

तेत्तिकैमा भुन्टेको सेलफोन को घन्टी बज्छ। खल्ती बाट फोन झिकेर भुन्टे लामो राग तान्दै बोल्छ, "हेल्ल्ल्लो"।

"ए भुन्टे, माधव बोल्या म। खुब छोइला, ऐला र म:म: खान मन लाइरछ यार। जुम हिँड काठमाडौं क्याफे। मलाई बाटो मा पिकअप गर त। जर्साप र कार्कीलाई नि भनुम्ला आइजो भनेर," उता बाट आवाज आउँछ। माधव थापा भुन्टेको नेपाल देखी को साथी। धेरै बर्ष पछी फेरी दुइजनाको भेट भेन्कूवरमा पोहोर साल भएको हो।

"के हो चिट्ठै पर्या जस्तो छ नि, मार्साप। म त टाट छु, भन्देको छु अहिलेइ। तेरो मेज्मानी हो भने आउँला। जर्साप नि यही छ स्टार्बक्स्मा म सँगै। यहाँ पुरै नेपाल नै उर्लेको छ। भोजै ख्वाउने बिचार छ भने ल्याउँला जन्ती नै।" माधवले कहिले कहीँ ट्युशन पढाउने हुनाले भुन्टे उस्लाई मार्साप भन्थे।

"तेरो जिम्मा मेरो भो। अरुको त तेस्तै हो। आफ्नो मेज्मानी आँफै गर्ने भए ल्याए हुन्छ जन्ती नै। को को छन्?" माधवले उताबाट फोनमा सोधे।

"जमुना दिज्जु, आइ मीन, जेनी दिज्जु, प्रदीप महर्जनजी, अनी प्रकाशजीको बुवा पनि हुनुहुन्छ। अनी जर्साप त भनी हालेँ।" भुन्टेले स्टेटिस्टिक्स क्यानाडाको इम्मिग्रेन्ट पपुलेशन सर्भेको रिपोर्ट नै बुझाई दिए।

"प्रकाशेको बुवा रे? तँ दाँत फुक्ल्या बुढाहरु सँग कैले देखी हेङ्ग आउट गर्न थालिस ए?" अली उदेक मान्दै माधवले भने। मन साफ भए पनि बोली भने अली छुद्र थियो माधवको।

"काँ को हेङ्ग आउट, यहीँ भर्खर भेट भाको। कफि खाँदै स्टार्बक्समा घटस्थापना मनाइरको।"

"बाहुन बुढो छोइला ऐला खाने भाट्टिमा के छिर्ला र, जातै जाला बुढाको, म:म: ले जिब्रो छुने त परै जाओस, हात मात्र छुँदा पनि काशी गएर स्नान् गर्नु पर्ला बुढालाई।" माधवको छुद्रपन अझै सक्या थिएन। "अनी तेरी दिज्जु पनि के आइस्सेला र। बरु महर्जने लाई डोर्याएर ल्याए हुन्छ। नेवारको छोरो हो। छोइला ऐला खान जातैले दिएको।"

"सुन, म एक छिन्मा हिँडुम्ला। अहिले फोन राखेँ," भन्दै भुन्टेले फोन बन्द गरे। अनी सबैतिर हेरी को को जान इछुक छन् भनेर बुझे। प्रदीप महर्जन र दीर्घ कटुवाल भुन्टे सँगै काठमाडौं क्याफे जाने मा परे। रुपाखेति बाजे र जमर्कट्टेल भाउजु चैँ क्याफे नजाने तर भुन्टेको थोत्रो कारमा घर सम्म राइड लिनेमा परे।

तेस्पछी हाम्रो नेपाली को जत्था स्टार्बक्सबाट पलायन भए।

क्रमश:

नोट्: यो कथा र यस्का पात्रहरु सबै काल्पनिक हुन्। यो व्यङात्मक कथा हो, त्यसैले कृपया कथाको बिषयवस्तुबाट कुनै अन्यथा नलिनु होला। यो कथा मेरो नेपाली भाषा मा लेख्ने पहिलो प्रयास हो। कृपया र्‍हश्व दीर्घ मिलाई पढ्नु होला। बडा दसैंको उपलक्छ्यमा पाठकलाई हार्दिक शुभकामना।

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Changes at Humanature Journal

Change is the only constant. Humanature Journal (HNJ) has undergone changes. The obvious change, as you can see, is the facelift--with a new, more attractive template. The other change is perhaps more important. The HNJ has been split into two: HNJ for Creative Writing and Readings (HNJ - CWR) and a new HNJ of Envronmental Policy and Sustainability (HNJ - EPS).

A new Humanature Journal of Environmental Policy and Sustainability has been launched for my blogs and article posts related to the environment. For those posts, please visit one of the following sites:

http://humanaturejournal.blogspot.com/
http://humanaturejournal.wordpress.com/

All environment-related posts will soon be removed from this original HNJ. This original Humanature Journal from now on will be called the Humanature Journal of Creative Writing and Reading and will contain my amature work of fiction and non-fiction (stories, poems, book reviews, travelogs, etc.) and critical commentary on contemporary public affairs of political nature.

The new Humanature Journal - EPS will reflect my professional side and this Humanature Journal - CWR will continue to portray my nonprofessional side.

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Summer Reading

Here's my summer reading list. Reviews will follow later.

June 20, 2009

1. The Kite Runner (Novel) - Khaled Hosseini (2003) - Hosseini's first novel. Made into a movie (2007).
2. A Thousand Splendid Suns (Novel) - Khaled Hosseini (2007) - Hosseini's second novel. Made into a movie (2008).
3. An Atlas of Impossible Longing (Novel) Anuradha Roy (2009) - Roy's first novel. A good writer.
4. The Namesake (Novel) - Jhumpa Lahiri (2003). Made into a movie (2006).
5. Unaccustomed Earth (Collection of short stories) - Jhumpa Lahiri (2008).
6. Interpreter of Maladies (Collection of short stories)- Jhumpa Lahiri (2000) - Pulitzer Prize-winning collection of short stories. Lahiri's first book.
7. The Storyteller's Daughter (Memoir) - Saira Shah (2003).
8. Norwegian Wood (Novel) - Haruki Murakami (1987; English translation).
9. Kafka on the Shore (Novel) - Haruki Murakami (2005; English translation).
10. Avenger (Novel) - Frederick Forsyth (2004).
11. The Afghan (Novel) - Frederick Forsyth (2006)
12. The Phantom of Manhattan (Novel) - Frederick Forsyth (1999). A decidedly significant departure into love and romance from Forsyth's usual international thriller genre.
13. Double Cross (Novel) - James Patterson (2007). The Alex Cross series.
14. The Brethren (Novel) - John Grisham (2000). An unveiled reference to the conservatives' fear-mongering about national security as the basis, logic and argument for increased military spending.
15. Blindness (Novel) - Jose Saramago (1997; English trnslation). A difficult book to read, by the Portuguese Nobel Prize-winning author. He writes without punctuation. His paragraphs are easily half-a-page to a page long. I actually found one paragraph that was four-page long. He writes dialogues as narratives without the use of "quotation marks," making it hard to know who's saying what. His characters have no name. He refers to them as the doctor or the girl with dark glasses, etc. Have only read half the book so far, but will surely finish it (I think).
16. Banquo's Ghosts (Novel) - Rich Lowry and Keith Korman (2008). Full of conservative sniping inserted into the text that is supposed to be a thriller, but not badly written.
17. The Last Dickens (Novel) - Matthew Pearl (2009)
18. Dante's Numbers (Novel) - David Hewson (2008)
19. By the Light of the Moon (Novel) - Dean Koontz (2002). Read first six chapters. Too cryptic and eccentric for my taste. Abandoned it. Will need coaxing to read Koontz again.
20. Guru of Love (Novel) - Samrat Upadhyay (2003). Have read initial chapters. On hold.
21. Arresting God in Kathmandu (Collection of short stories) - Samrat Upadhyay (2001). Have read some stories; on hold.
22. The Scream - Rohinton Mistry (2008). A very short, illustrated story.
23. When My Name Was Keoko (Novel) - Linda Sue Park (2002). This is a young adult (which I no longer am) book. I've only read the first few chapters and it seems like a nice story of a Korean family when Korea was under occupation of Japan from 1910 to 1945 and every Korean was expected, actually required, to abandon his or her Korean name for a Japanese one. I found this book in my neighbor's paper recycling bin, in an immaculate condition, last week. I found some nice music notations, too, in that bin. Now don't go about thinking that I snoop around people's recycling bins; the book was there and the environmentalist in me found it irresistible. Why send a book to the recycler when somebody can enjoy reading it?
24. An Equal Music (Novel) - Vikram Seth (1999).
25. Maile Dekheko Nepal (Nepali translation of Vignettes of Nepal, a travelogue) - Harka Gurung (2007).
26. Love (Novel) - Toni Morrison (2003). Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winner.

Any recommendation?

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Jamarkattel Bhauju Arrive au Canada : un Conte

Par Ajay Pradhan Le 14 mai 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.

Je ne peux pas croire que c'est déjà le Nouvel an népalais aujourd'hui. Bonne année. Il a eu l'air seulement hier qu'elle est arrivée à Vancouver, Canada, mais cela avait déjà été trois mois depuis qu'elle a quitté le Népal. Son nom était Jamuna Jamarkattel. Elle est venue de Dhading Besi, le siège social de district de District Dhading au Népal. Elle avait 36 ans, mariés avec trois enfants. Le nom de son mari était Ghanshyam Krishna qui avait 47 ans. Jamuna était la deuxième femme de Ghanshyam. À part son cercle proche d'amis et de famille, personne ne savait ce qui est arrivé à sa première femme; il ne dirait personne d'elle. Leurs enfants étaient Hari, 11, Sushma, 8 et Leonardo, 5. Pourquoi le nom du petit fils était Léo était en soi une petite histoire intéressante. Je vous en dirai un peu plus tard.

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.

Oh, à propos, j'ai oublié de mentionner mon nom. Je suis Rohit et quand les gens me demandent mon nom, je leur dis avec le style, "je suis Bhattarai … Rohit Bhattarai." Vous voyez, comme dans les films de Bond. Mais n'y arrivons pas trop; cette histoire n'est pas de moi, cette histoire est du Jamarkattels, surtout Jamuna Jamarkattel. À Vancouver, tous les Népalais ont appelé son Jamarkattel Bhauju. Elle ne l'a pas aimé trop.

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.

Trois semaines après son arrivée au Canada avec trois enfants et un mari henpecked dans le remorquage, un après-midi indolent elle a changé leur nom. Hari est devenu Harry et Sushma a reçu un nouveau nom, Susan. Petit Léo est resté Léo. Jamuna ne devait pas changer le petit son nom; il avait déjà un nom Occidental. Type fortuné. Après qu'elle a été faite en rebaptisant leurs enfants, au moins en tenue décontractée, elle s'est décidée pour son propre nom. Elle a pensé pendant la longue période de temps mais un nom approprié n'est pas venu à son esprit. Elle a voulu changer son nom Jamuna à un nom anglais court et simple.

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."

Après le fait de penser depuis environ 15 minutes, elle a décidé de s'appeler Jimmy. Elle savait que Jimmy était un nom anglais et il lui a eu l'air d'un nom agréable. Mais Harry, son garçon plus vieux, a vite averti, "Muwa, je crois qu'est le nom d'un garçon. Le garçon du d'à côté que je joue avec, son nom est Jimmy." A dès que Harry l'appel son Muwa, elle lui a dit, "Appelez-vous-moi la Maman ou la Maman, pas Muwa, bien ? Ici au Canada, nous devons ressembler aux Canadiens, n'est ce pas ? Ce n'est pas Dhading, Chhora juste ? Oops, je veux dire, le fils."

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.

Après le fait de penser davantage pour une longue partie de l'heure et du fait de rater de trouver un agréable, s'approprier le nom anglais, elle a dit à son fils, "Harry, allez me reçoivent un journal ou un magazine de Sally Aunty en haut. Dites-elle que j'ai demandé, bien ?" Sally était leur propriétaire du Pendjab, dont le nom réel était Salvinder Kaur Dhaliwal. Le Jamarkattels avait loué une suite en sous-sol de deux chambres à coucher dans la résidence de Dhaliwal dans la région de Newton de 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.

Sally était celui qui a provoqué Jamarkattel Bhauju pour angliciser leur nom. "Regardez Jamna Ben, si vous ne recevez pas de nom anglais na, vous ne recevrez pas d'emploi, n'est ce pas ?" Sally a fait peser. Évidemment, Sally saurait; elle savait tout. Enfin, elle est venue au Canada de Patiala, Punjab il y a 12 ans. La famille de Dhaliwal entière avait des noms anglais. Le nom du mari de Sally était Dave, pour Devinder Singh Dhaliwal. Dave et Sally avaient deux enfants de leur propre. Leur fils Narinder était connu par son nom anglais, Ned. Je ne savais pas que Ned était un nom anglais, mais que sais-je ? Je suis venu au Canada seulement il y a deux ans moi-même, faire les études à l'Université de Simon Fraser. Et je ne suis pas même un immigrant terrien ici, vous voyez. Je suis simplement un étudiant et comme clueless comme une poupée en papier.

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.

Oh, désolé, je fais une digression. Dont parlions-nous ? Oh, vraiment, le Dhaliwals. Bien, le Dhaliwals avait aussi une fille et son nom était Charlene. Elle n'avait pas de nom du Pendjab parce qu'elle est née au Canada. Maintenant je ne comprends pas pourquoi le Panjabi a dû recevoir un nom anglais c'est au moins d'une petite façon un dérivé de leur nom original du Pendjab, comme Dave pour Devinder, Ned pour Narinder, Robby pour Ravinder, Sally pour Salvinder, et cetera. Il vous fait estimer qu'ils veulent tenir à leur nom original et sont gentils de la réalisation inconfortable d'une pause propre de cela. Par conséquent, ils trouvent des noms anglais innovateurs comme Ned. Un peu trop innovateur pour mon goût, pour être honnête. Ce n'est aucune de mes affaires, mais je veux dire, il ne serait pas juste plus facile de recevoir des noms anglais droits comme Michael, Guillaume, Robert, Peter, Thomas comme la plupart des immigrants chinois au Canada font ? Comme Michael Chang, Guillaume Cheng, Robert Chung, Peter Chow, Thomas Chiu. En tout cas, rentrons à notre histoire du 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.

Où étaient nous de nouveau ? Oh, vraiment, Jamarkattel Bhauju avait envoyé à son fils pour aller chercher un magazine de la propriétaire en haut. Deux minutes après le fait de parcourir les pages d'une vieille édition de trois ans du magazine Cosmopolite Harry apporté de Sally Dhaliwal en haut, Jamarkattel Bhauju a trouvé son nouveau nom, Jenny. Aussitôt qu'elle a légué à ce nom, elle a senti un grand sens de relief avec l'identité toute nouvelle. Elle a même pensé au changement de son nom de famille à quelque chose de plus prononçable pour khaires local, comme Jenny Jamar Cotel ou, encore mieux, juste Jenny Cotel ou quelque chose comme ça. Mais elle a été pas trop sûre si cela ne provoquerait pas un problème juridique pour la famille. Ainsi elle a calmement décidé de garder le nom de famille.

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.

À partir de ce jour sur, elle se présenterait à quelqu'un elle s'est rencontrée, "je suis Jenny Jamarkattel; quel est votre bon nom ?" Chaque fois que les Népalais de Passage vivant au Canada ont appelé son Jamarkattel Bhauju, elle n'a jamais manqué de leur rappeler d'appeler sa Jenny Bhauju ou mieux toujours, simplement Jenny. Mais le nom "Jamarkattel Bhauju" lui est resté fidèle comme le 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.

Jenny, Harry, Susan et Léo Jamarkattel. Le seul dans la famille de Jamarkattel est parti pour arriver un nom anglais était Ghanshyam Krishna Jamarkattel, le mari henpecked de Jenny Jamarkattel. Quand elle a pris la décision rapide pour angliciser leur nom, Ghanshyam Dai n'était pas à la maison. Mais elle a choisi un nom anglais pour lui en tout cas. Il était allé assister à un séminaire de recherche d'emploi à une des agences de recherche d'emploi à Surrey, financé par le département gouvernemental fédéral, le Développement de Ressources Humain le Canada ou simplement 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.

Dave lui avait dit il y a quelques jours d'oublier du séminaire de recherche d'emploi et aller juste reçoivent un entraînement de garde sécurité. "Ghanshyam Bhai, tushi escurty guard ka teraining le lo, bien ? Yeh séminar weminar se kuchh banta nai, right ?" Allez juste reçoivent l'entraînement de garde sécurité; ces séminaires inutiles ne vous feront pas du bien, Dave lui a dit. Bien, maintenant vous voyez où Jamarkattel Bhauju a reçu l'habitude d'ajouter les mots "bien" et directement à la fin de chaque autre 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.

Ghanshyam Jamarkattel a été démoralisé selon la suggestion de Dave de l'entraînement de garde sécurité. Dans Dhading, il était un directeur d'assistant et d'enseignant scolaire. Aucune voie n'était il allant devenir un garde sécurité, il a pensé à lui, mais n'a dit rien à 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?”

Le soir où Ghanshyam Dai est allé à la maison du séminaire de recherche d'emploi, Jamarkattel Bhauju a questionné son mari, “Kris, pourquoi sont vous en retard ? Vous savez que nous devons aller au dîner de gala de Nouvel an à la maison de Chaturvedi Daju ce soir, n'est ce pas ?”

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

Ghanshyam Dai a été troublé, “Haina ke bhanchhau, kollai Kris bhanya ?” Qu'appelez-vous 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.

“Timlai bhanya ni, aru kallai bhannu ?” Évidemment, je vous appelle Kris, que d'autre l'appellerais-je ? “J'ai changé votre nom. J'ai changé Hari et le nom de Sushma, aussi. Sally a dit si nous ne recevons pas de nom anglais nous ne recevrons jamais d'emploi ici au Canada,” a déclaré Jamarkattel Bhauju à son mari.

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

“Mais pourquoi Kris ? Pourquoi pas quelque chose d'autre ?” Ghanshyam Dai a demandé.

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

“Il vient de votre deuxième prénom Krishna, vous ne comprenez pas même si beaucoup ?”

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.

Ghanshyam Dai a été pas trop excité. Il a aimé son propre nom népalais d'accord, mais il a décidé de ne pas faire un argument avec sa femme têtue. Il savait qu'il ne gagnerait jamais d'argument avec elle.

“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.

“Regarde, quand nous allons au dîner de gala ce soir, ne vous présentez pas à quelqu'un comme Ghanshyam Krishna. Dites-eux que vous êtes Kris Jamarkattel,” Jamarkattel Bhauju est pré-prévenu son mari.

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.

Jamarkattel Bhauju savait que le Chaturvedis m'avait aussi invité au parti. Donc elle m'avait déjà appelé l'après-midi pour demander un trajet pour la famille au parti. Ils n'avaient pas encore obtenu de permis de conduire. “Rohit Babu, allez-vous chez le parti à la maison de Chaturbedi Daju ce soir ?” J'ai dit sûr, pourquoi non.

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.

Le soir, quand je suis allé à la suite en sous-sol du Jamarkattels leur donner un trajet au parti, j'ai vu Jamarkattel Bhauju tous prêts pour le parti, chargé de trois tonnes de bijouterie d'or sur son corps et une livre d'inventent sur son visage. Elle s'était trempée avec un litre de parfum qui a senti comme le parfum de marque de magasin dollar. L'odeur a été suspendue lourd où qu'elle soit allée.

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.

Elle était radieuse. Elle m'a vite accueilli avec Namaste cordial avec les deux ses mains et s'est assurée que j'ai remarqué ses joncs d'or sur ses avant-bras. Elle a répété ce rite avec chacun au parti, juste s'assurer que chacun a remarqué sa lourde bijouterie d'or sur son cou, ses oreilles, ses bras et même autour de sa taille et épaules. Je ne sais pas même que tous ceux on appelle la bijouterie. Quand quelqu'un a montré une appréciation pour sa bijouterie, elle ajouterait vite avec un visage radieux, “Mero Buwa le disya. Le coucou ani yo kan ko jhumka chai mero hajur le mero janmadin la maman kindisya.” Mon Papa me les a donnés; et ces boucles d'oreille - mon mari les a acheté pour moi sur mon anniversaire.

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.”

Elle appelait rarement son mari “Hajur” déférent à la maison. À la maison, elle l'appelait toujours “Timi” ou “Ghane” ou “Ghanshyam”. Elle dirait “Ghane, allez le font; Ghanshyam vont me l'apportent. Ghanshyam, allez propres la salle de bains.” Mais quand d'autres étaient autour de, elle a fait un point pour montrer le respect traditionnel, “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.

Elle appelait rarement son mari "Hajur" déférent à la maison. À la maison, elle l'appelait toujours "Timi" ou "Ghane" ou "Ghanshyam". Effectivement, Ghanshyam Dai était un homme mince et fin. Howver, Jamarkattel Bhauju était une différente histoire entièrement. Elle a aimé manger. Elle a aimé des aliments profondément faits frire et a aimé les sucreries. Elle a aimé jilebis et lalmohan. Jenny Jamarkattel quatre-pieds-onze avait un derrière cela était aussi large qu'un tronc d'arbre de Banian.

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.

Au Népal son père était un politicien local et un député du président du Comité de District Dhading de Rashtriya Prajatantra le Parti. Il a possédé de grands morceaux de terrain et était assez élégant pour faire de l'argent de ses connexions politiques pendant que les gens RPP étaient près d'ancien Roi Gyanendra. Quand les Maoïstes ont accédé au pouvoir, les choses changées pour son père. Il a tout de suite échangé la fidélité et est vite devenu un supporter dévoué de Prachanda et de Baburam Bhattarai. Malgré cela, la famille Jamarkattel avait une brosse sérieuse avec les groupes vigilante Maoïstes. Dans une certaine mesure, c'était une raison pour les décisions de Jamuna Jamarkattel de s'appeler il arrête au Népal.

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.

Jamuna Jamarkattel avait pris la décision pour monter le signe d'émigration et quitter le Népal quand une nuit il y a environ trois ans certains truands armés qui se sont appelés les membres YCL sont venus à sa maison dans Dhading et ont demandé "la donation" liquide pour la protection de sa famille et propriété. Ils ont précisé que si le Jamarkattels ne donnerait pas de donation, leur sécurité serait menacée. Elle était assez élégante pour comprendre la menace, à la différence de son mari qui a au début à tort cru qu'il était tout une menace vide. Il a été convaincu vite quand un des musclemen l'a frappé dans l'oeil avec son poing. Ils le sont prévenus, "la fois suivante, ce sera une balle, pas un poing." Dans trois jours, ils leur ont donné dix mille roupies. Au cours de ces trois jours, Jamuna Jamarkattel a dit à son mari qu'ils allaient demander la loterie de Visa DV pour l'Amérique. Ils ont jugé pour la loterie de Visa DV depuis deux ans de suite, mais rien n'est arrivé. Alors elle a rencontré le Bélier 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.

Chaturvedi était son cousin lointain et il était de Benighat. Il avait demandé le Visa Local Permanent canadien et lui avait conseillé de juger pour cela au lieu de saisir l'occasion sur le Visa DV américain. C'est même Chaturvedi qui les avait invités au parti du Nouvel an népalais à Vancouver. Avec l'aide de Chaturvedi, les Jamarkattels envoyés dans leur application de Kathmandu au Canadien Commandent haut à New Delhi. À leur surprise totale on leur a accordé le Visa PR pendant un an. Pour Jamuna Jamarkattel, qui était sa vengeance la plus grande sur l'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.”

Au cours de deux mois après qu'ils ont reçu le Visa PR canadien, ils sont arrivés à Vancouver comme les plus nouveaux immigrants terriens avec leurs yeux mis sous verre comme le donuts de Tim Horton et la tête, eh bien, capiteux avec les rêves hauts. Chaturvedi jee les a trouvés la suite en sous-sol dans la résidence Dhaliwal à Surrey. Jamarkattel Bhauju est vite venu sous l'influence de Sally Dhaliwal. “Nous n'achetons pas de choses bon marché. Nous n'allons pas à BalMart. Les gens seulement bon marché vont à BalMart. Nous allons au centre Vancouver pour les courses.”

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

“Quel est BalMart ?” Jamarkattel Bhauju avait demandé à Sally.

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

“Jyu ne sait pas BalMart ? Chacun sait BalMart,” malgré avoir vécu au Canada depuis 12 ans, Sally avait toujours l'accent de Patiala épais.

Oh, I see, you mean Wal-Mart?”

Oh, je vois, vous voulez dire le Wal-marché ? "

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

“Jyaaa … c'est que je veux dire,” Sally met l'accentuation sur l'affirmation.

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.”

Le point de Sally Dhaliwal n'a pas été perdu sur Jamarkattel Bhauju. Elle n'était pas d'une famille bon marché dans Dhading. Son père était un politicien, enfin. Ainsi la chaque fois le thème de courses s'est levé dans n'importe quelle réunion népalaise, elle dirait, “nous ne faisons pas des achats dans le Wal-marché, nous allons à la Rue Robson pour toutes nos courses.”

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.

Un jour récemment, Jamarkattel Bhauju était parti au centre Vancouver. Elle est entrée dans Holt dans le vent, très haut de gamme Renfrew la mode le magasin dans la Rue Alberni. Elle a regardé sans acheter autour de dans le magasin sous les yeux sévères, attentifs d'une dame des ventes. Il était comme dans cette scène dans le film la Jolie Femme, dans qui Julia Roberts inopportunément habillée entre dans un magasin très haut de gamme et une dame des ventes désapprobatrice lui demande de partir.

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.

Elle a vérifié le prix d'un chandail et elle a haleté quand elle a vu le prix, $199.99 . Elle a vérifié le prix du sac à main de cuir d'une dame sophistiquée et ses lèvres ont tremblé quand elle a vu le prix, $149.99 . Elle a aperçu un châle Pashmina et sa gorge a appliqué le régime sec quand ses yeux ont lu le prix rapidement, $249.99 . Elle a vu un manteau noir d'hiver qu'elle voulait toujours pour elle. La sueur s'est cassée de son front quand elle a vu le prix, $399.99 . Elle a tiré sur ses trois enfants et est vite sortie du magasin. Depuis, elle a seulement fait des achats au Wal-marché avec l'argent qu'elle a mis en sécurité à l'intérieur de son bustier dans les rouleaux nets.

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.”

Vous devez tous vous demander comment je suis au courant de tout cela. Bien, vous voyez, je loue la suite d'un chambre à coucher de l'autre côté de la suite louée par le Jamarkattels. Ghanshyam Dai vient souvent à ma suite pour partager “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.

Pendant un tel "dukha sukha ka kura haru" la séance, Kris Jamarkattel, notre Ghanshyam Dai, s'est confié à moi comment ils ont légué au nom de leur petit fils Leonardo. Il y a six ans, quand ils visitaient Kathmandu de Dhading, Jaya le cinéma de Chitraghar Népalais redirigeait le film Titanesque. Jamarkattel Bhauju avait entendu de bonnes révisions du film de ses amis. Ainsi un soir d'elle est allée avec son mari voir le film. Elle a tout à fait apprécié le film, bien que Ghanshyam Dai ait dormi par cela.

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.

Quand le film a fini, Jamuna Devi Jamarkattel se sentait moelleux et assez amoureux. Elle ne pouvait pas attendre pour arriver à l'endroit où ils restaient pour la nuit. Elle ne pouvait pas se débarrasser de son esprit de la scène du film dans lequel Leonardo DiCaprio rend l'amour humide à Kate Winslet dans un landau dans une pièce isolée sur le navire, Titanesque. Quand le Jamarkattels est arrivé à la maison, Jamuna a eu faim, si vous savez que je veux dire et tiré son mari dans la chambre à coucher plutôt vite.

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.

Il y a deux semaines plus tard, quand Jamarkattel Jamuna a appris qu'elle était enceinte, elle a roucoulé dans l'oreille de son mari, “Hajur, sunsyo na, si c'est une fille, nous appellerons sa Kate et si c'est un garçon nous l'appellerons Leonardo.” C'était une des occasions rares quand Jamuna Jamarkattel a appelé Ghanshyam Krishna Jamarkattel “Hajur” même lorsque d'autres n'étaient pas autour de. Ghanshyam a eu d'autres noms dans l'idée, mais a décidé de ne pas se disputer.

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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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Désaveu : Cette histoire est un produit d'imagination. C'est complètement fictif. N'importe quelle ressemblance de n'importe quel caractère et de nom dans l'histoire avec quelqu'un est purement de coïncidence.

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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.

--
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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Lethal Injection and the Lone Fatalist: A Short Story

Note: PG13 - This story may not be a suitable reading for children under 13 years of age. Parental discretion advised.

By Ajay Pradhan | April 8, 2009

It was his fateful day. His mind was filled with ambivalence, his heart with conflicting emotions. One thing he didn't want to admit was he was engulfed with some degree of fear and trepidation. In some way, he was ready, although reluctantly, for the justice he was going to get that day. It was Monday, April 6, 2009. It was 9:30 am. Whether it was going to be a salvation or a condemnation, he didn't know, nor did he want too much to care.

He had committed no crime. He had only made mistakes; plenty of them. Yet he was there, resigned to face verdict and justice at the same time. Only, to him it seemed like injustice. They were going to give him the dreaded intravenous injection.

The previous night, he had told a friend about what he was going to be put through in the morning. He had needed someone to lean on to, someone to reassure him of his innocence, no matter what the verdict was going to be and no matter the severity of punishment. When he told her, she hadn't believed it first. She simply said nonchalantly, "You need to de-stress yourself. This is supposed to be your break." He felt her response was impersonal and that she was preoccupied with something in her mind. To him, she seemed too busy to pay him the attention that he so desired.

A break from perpetual penance is what he thought she had told him to strive for. By nature, the self-deprecating man that he was, he had lived many years of his life in a shell full of penance, pensive moments and a sense of resignation. "You think I'm joking?" he had persisted. He had merely wished she'd show some concern, if nothing much else. He didn't seem to realize but she did care about him a lot more than he thought she did. He had merely focused on the surface and sought some words of comfort, rather than making an effort to appreciate the deep concern she had for him. If he had known about it, he didn't want to admit.

He often wondered if the reason why he often felt a void deep inside him is that he often dwelt on instant gratification than on substance. Instant gratification, after all, doesn't last. Substance does. He hadn't always been like that. He had grown up in a nurturing home full of love. It wasn't a life of opulence, but it was a comfortable middle class home. When he was an infant, an astrologer had told his parents he was destined to hold a royal scepter some day. That to his parents meant he was going to reach uncommon pinnacle of achievements in his life.

"Life! What life?" He thought to himself. He never took astrology seriously and had no special regard for astrologers. He had always thought astrology and palm-reading was for people who believed in fatalism and karma. "What your fate has in store for you, you'll only get that," say all astrologers to the gullibles and the ones who cared to pay attention. He couldn't care any less for such pessimism in life. He believed in making strides with one's own actions based on one's own choices enhanced or constrained by a set of conditions. Political scientists probably summarized that into rational choice theory.

He shook himself out of deep thoughts and reflections as he walked. His whole life had flashed by within a matter of minutes. That fateful morning, as he was led into a room with a narrow bed little larger than a gurney, he was forced to rethink his take on fatalism. If the dreaded injection was the punishment that was in his fate, it was surely not because of a crime he had committed for he had done no such thing in his life. "It must have been in my fate all along," he thought to himself, a little surprised at his conversion. Otherwise, why was he going to be get it?

He looked around. The room had medical equipment and instruments that looked cold and menacing. A burly man and a diminutive woman came towards him. They seemed such an odd pair. The man was huge and looked as though he was determined to carry out his task briskly. The woman was petit and seemed harmless, even caring. The man spoke with an air of authority. The woman was cordial and polite in her manners.

The woman asked him to undress waist up and lie down in bed. He paused for an awkward moment as she looked at him. The burly man had disappeared somewhere. "Go ahead, undress," she repeated. Once the shirt came off, the woman asked if he was comfortable that way or wanted her to bring him a robe. As he wasn't comfortable, she brought him a robe.

As he lay in bed, the woman cleaned at least a dozen or so spots all over his chest; shaved off what scant chest hair he had on those spots and put a sticky electrode patch on each spot. When she hooked a wire to each electrode, for a fleeting moment he felt as though he was being prepared for electrocution. Her warm hands and a reassuring smile on her face calmed him down. "No, she's not electrocuting me," he convinced himself.

The burly man came back and grabbed his arm with his cold hands. The man ordered him to clench his fist as the man tied a rubber band around his arm. The man looked at him with his cold eyes. The man's expressionless face showed not a hint of sympathy or emotion. The man found his vein on the arm, looked him in the eyes as if to tell him, "Here you go, you deserved it."

He lay in bed, his heart beginning to thump against his chest. He looked up at the woman, as if to plead with her to save him from the burly man who seemed anxious to finish him off. She whispered, "It's going to be alright. You'll feel the pain and discomfort, but we'll do it as painlessly and quickly as possible." Even when the burly man was poking intravenous needle into his vein, the woman seemed to understand the fear that consumed his otherwise calm face.

Once the burly man secured the needle in his vein with two layers of plastic bandage, he declared with an authoritative voice, "I'm going to start the injection." It was an automatic syringe attached to the intravenous needle by a clear plastic tubing. The burly man turned on the switch and the syringe began to pump in, injecting into his body the chemical that would do the trick.

At first, he felt no pain, no discomfort. But quickly, he felt sharp tingles all over his body as if somebody poked a thousand needles into his body. He labored to turn his head to the side where the automatic syringe setup was kept. The syringe had injected half the chemical already. His head began to throb with pain, his breathing became labored, his body began to sweat, he was soon gasping for air. His heart now started pounding against his chest. He thought, that was it, the end was near, just a few moments away.

His whole life flashed before his eyes. He began to moan in pain. His fate was sealed, he thought as fear began to engulf him. As always in times of distress, without consciously realizing he began to call out his mother, "Ma, Maaaa..." His body began to writhe, his muscles began to twitch, he threw his head back as he sensed the end just moments away. "It'll soon be over. And you won't feel the pain," the woman standing over him said calmly. "Of course, it was soon going to be over; I'll be dead, I'll be gone," he wanted to scream. He panicked as the chemical being injected into his vein was making its final impact. His whole body was in fire, his heart was racing as if he had been running on a steeply inclined treadmill with increasing speed. He thought only a few final gasps of breathing remained in his body, but he still mumbled for mercy. Mercy from the punishment for a crime he had not committed. Only, his fate had been sealed from the time he was born.

At that moment, his began to think of all the astrologers who insisted on fatalism. No matter what you do, if it is not in your fate, you won't be able to achieve anything, he heard himself mumbling. He hadn't done anything to deserve the ultimate punishment he was getting, yet he was getting it nevertheless. In what appeared to him to be his final moments, he became a believer in fatalism, determinism, predestination. He became a fatalist who subjugated all events or actions to fate or inevitable predetermination. In his mind, free human will had no role anymore. He had become a defeatist.

Then came the final moment. His twitching body became still, his moans stopped. Lights went dark in his world. The injection had taken its effect. They had finally made him make a penance for a crme he hadn't committed. He had met his fate. There was no need for logic or for justification. He was gone.

After about 15 minutes, the woman standing by his bed placed her warm hand on his cold arm. "Hello," she whispered. Magically his eyes opened. "Where am I? In heaven or hell?" he awoke to the reality.

"You're in hospital bed. We just gave you persantine intravenous injection. You have just completed the first half of the cardiolite/persantine myoview test," the woman, who was a nurse, said to him.

"A what test? You mean, I'm alive?" he wanted reassurance.

"Of course, you're alive and well. It's also called a stress test."

"Then what was that all about... the death sentence by lethal injection?"

"It was no lethal injection. It was just a chemical with radioactive isotope injected into your body. It increases heart rate as if you were under physical stress and the radioactive chemical infuses through tiny arteries of your heart so that when your heart is scanned with a camera we could tell if there is any blockage in your arteries during times of stress," the nurse described to him, handing him a face towel to wipe off his perspiration.

"I thought I had died, I thought that burly man put me to death for a crime I hadn't committed."

"Oh, that burly man is cardiac diagnostic specialist," the nurse clarified, giggling.

"I'm sorry, I thought he was my hangman."

"Haha, don't worry. The next part of the test is going to be easier on you. You're free to go and eat and drink anything. Come back in an hour at 11:30 am and go to the nuclear imaging room. Somebody will take pictures of your heart and send the report to your doctor."

"Nurse, am I sick?"

"No, you're not. It is a diagnostic procedure just to see if you are at risk. Your doctor ordered this stress test."

"Thank you, nurse," he smiled at her and walked towards the door. He paused and turned toward the nurse, "Nurse, are you a fatalist?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you believe in fate?"

"Gosh I don't know how to answer that."

"Do you treat someone believing that the treatment won't work because revovery is not in the fate of the patient?"

"Oh, gosh, of course, not. There is no such thing as fate. All consequences are the result of our actions."

His face brightened, "Thank you, nurse."

"You're very welcome. But, why did you ask me that question?"

"Because for a moment of distress while I was in bed I had turned into a fatalist. I have never believed in fatalism, but for a brief time today I was compelled to give in, surrender, you know."

"Surrender to what, to who?"

"To all the astrologers. To the fatalists. To predestination. I thought I was a lone fighter trying hard not to believe in fate and karma."

"Well, I can assure you, you're not alone. I'm with you. I don't believe in fatalism."

"It's funny... when the injection had its effect on me, I thought I was being given capital punishment for a crime I didn't commit. I thought even when the distress forced me to become a fatalist, I thought I was a lone fatalist," he said to the nurse.

"I hope you're not a fatalist now," the nurse looked into his eyes.

"No, nurse, I'm not. I didn't receive the lethal injection, but surely the fatalism did," he smiled, thanked the nurse again and departed from the room.

He was hungry. He hadn't eaten breakfast. As he walked towards the small cafeteria in the hospital, he was still a little wobbly in his knees due to the fatigue the chemical had caused.

"Are you okay?" A young woman in the hallway who spotted his unsteady steps asked him.

He looked at her. She reminded him of his friend who he had talked with about his stress test the previous night.

"I'll be fine, thank you," he said, his eyes moist all of a sudden. He thought, at least a stranger cared enough to stop and ask if he was ok. The world was still a beautiful place.

"You sure I can't do anything to help you?" the attractive young woman said.

"I'm sure I'm going to be alright, but thank you."

"You're welcome... and have a great day," the young woman smiled at him and walked away.

He turned around, looked at her walking away until she vanished around a corner... and then he whispered, "God bless you. You're kind ... you're considerate."

He stood there for a long moment, dabbed his moist eyes with his shirt sleeve and walked toward the cafeteria.

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A Small Step

By Ajay Pradhan | March 27, 2009

She walks across
a busy street
crowded with pigeons
not knowing
that a pair of protective eyes
watching her
intent to sweep her up,
lift up,
fly her to a place
set on cloud.
Is he her god of salvation?
Or her god from heaven?
Once across the street
she turns around
pauses
with a smile
on her face
she raises her hand
to the man looking
down upon her.
It isn't her god
of salvation,
nor is he
her god from heaven.
For her, it is
more than any god,
it is her father who
lets her cross
the street
for the first time,
under his watchful eyes,
with a sense of pride
in his heart,
that he just let his little girl
take a small step to
learning
the paths of her life.

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Fiction: As the Life Turns - Part 4

By Ajay Pradhan | February 1, 2009

[Coming soon...]

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Fiction: As the Life Turns - Part 3

By Ajay Pradhan | January 25, 2009

In December 1998 Ashay was an undergraduate student at Duke University in Durham, North Carolina. He studied public policy with a major in international relations at Duke’s Sanford Institute of Public Policy and a minor in environmental policy at Nicholas School of the Environment. Global politics and policy intrigued him, especially those related to how powerful countries manipulated international relations, dominating less powerful countries for resources and influence, in the name of security.

On December 14, Ashay finished his final exams of the semester. He had one last semester to complete before his graduation in May of the next year. After the last exam, he rushed out of the Sanford Institute building and walked towards Towerview Road and briskly headed east along a forested stretch of the road towards Union Drive. He had a meeting scheduled in 30 minutes with Professor Henry Jacobsen and his undergraduate advisor Professor Robert Ascher in the Political Science Department at Perkins Library building, which was located in the beautifully landscaped quad just next to the awe-inspiring Duke Chapel, the centerpiece of Duke’s beautiful campus with Gothic architecture-dominated buildings.

As he turned the corner on Union Drive, his friends Colin Dunn and his girlfriend Cynthia McBride called out at him as they crossed the street towards him.

“Hey guys,” Ashay waved at them.

“Ash, how’s it going? You done with your exams? Neha says you’re going to New York with her tomorrow. What’s the deal?” Colin said.

“Yeah, that’s right. I don’t know what the mission is all about yet, but Bob offered us a chance to participate in a delegation to India, Pakistan and Nepal through CFR.”

“Bob who? Ascher? And CFR?”

“Yes, Ascher. CFR, the Council on Foreign Relations.”

“Sounds cool. Good for you. When do you leave New York?”

“We’re leaving New York on the 18th. I’m looking forward to the trip.”

“I’m sure you are. You have to tell us everything about the trip when you’re back,” Cynthia said. “Hey, Ash, wanna go to the Hideaway tonight? A bunch of us are going there for couple of drinks.” Hideaway was an on-campus pub and dance club, a popular student hangout, sort of hidden under a concrete driveway structure, not too far from the Chapel.

“I’d love to, but I’m not sure yet. I’m not quite done packing for tomorrow yet. If I come, I won’t be able to do late night. What time are you guys planning to be there at anyway?”

“That’s alright. Just come on over for a while. We plan to be there around 7. You got a ride to the airport tomorrow? Let me know if you need a ride,” Colin asked.

“Thanks, Colin, but Bob’s dropping us off at RDU.” RDU was short for Raleigh-Durham International Airport on Interstate-40, about 12 miles from Durham towards Raleigh, just about 25 minutes drive away. “Alright, guys, I've got a meeting with Bob in 15 minutes. I gotta run. See you later at the Hideaway, hopefully.”

“See ya.” Cynthia and Colin waved bye and walked on.

Ashay walked up north on Union Drive towards the Chapel. He reached Perkins within 5 minutes and he still had 10 minutes left for the meeting. Ashay had been assisting Ascher in his research on international conflict for the last 18 months. Ascher and Jacobsen recently offered Ashay and Neharika Kulkarni, a fourth-year political science undergraduate student, an opportunity to participate as assistant in an international delegation led by the New York City-based Council on Foreign Relations to India, Pakistan, and Nepal with a brief stopover meeting at International Institute of Strategic Studies (IISS) in Singapore. Neharika was Jacobsen’s research assistant. She was the daughter of a high-ranking Defense Ministry officer in New Delhi.

Ashay didn’t yet have full details of the delegation or the mission. All he knew was that he and Neharika were to be part of a delegation that’ll go to India, Pakistan and Nepal on regional security relations fact-finding mission in the Indian subcontinent. Ascher had told him it should be interesting and had something to do about regional security intelligence agencies of India and Pakistan. How does Nepal figure into it, Ashay had asked Ascher. Because both Indian and Pakistani agencies RAW and ISI are suspected of having used Nepal as a safe haven playground against each other, Ascher had told him. He jumped on the opportunity to go. The mere mention of Nepal was sufficient for him to accept the offer. The details could wait.

The delegation was to be officially jointly led by a career diplomat named J. William Middleton from the U.S. Department of State and his counterpart in Pentagon, Retd. Col. Howard G. Brooks. The delegation was to have two yet unidentified intelligence officers from the CIA, one State Department official, one Pentagon specialist, three CFR staff officials, and one other student. That student, a Pakistani national, was an undergraduate student at Columbia University. The next day Ashay and Neharika were to catch a 12:30 PM flight to New York City to participate in a preparatory meeting at the CFR Headquarters.

Arriving near Perkins, under the Duke Chapel, Ashay surveyed the beautifully landscaped green lawns in front of him. He took a deep breath and thought what it’d be like to be with him mother in Kathmandu in just a few days. When he found out about the mission two weeks ago, he immediately called his mother in Kathmandu. She was thrilled. He hadn’t really done any shopping to give his mom and family any gifts yet. He made sure that he’d do shopping in New York before his departure for Nepal. In New York, he’ll be staying at a hotel near the CFR Headquarters, but he had promised to visit a cousin and her family in Elmhurst area in Queens. His cousin had asked him to stay at her house, but citing intensive program at CFR, Ashay said he’d better stayed closer to the CFR office, but he had added jokingly, “Invite me for a Nepali dinner, and I’ll surely come. It’s been a while.”

When Ashay arrived at Jacobsen’s office, Neharika was already waiting there. “Hey, just in time, kiddo,” Neharika called him kiddo when she was in her lighter moods. They shared the same birthday, born the same year. He was born at 4 AM and she at 3 AM. She was technically an hour older than him.

“Henry and Bob both in?” Ashay asked.

“Kathy says Henry’s on the phone. He should be done soon. Bob’s not in yet; should be here any minute, I hope.” Kathy was Jacobsen’s secretary.

Kathy came out and said, “Hi Ash and Neha, you wanna come in and wait until Bob arrives? Henry’s still on the phone.”

Soon, Jacobsen emerged from his office. “Come on in guys, Bob’s on the way. How are you guys?”

“Hi Henry,” both Neharika and Ashay spoke at the same time. “I’m good, thanks. How are you?”

“Not bad. Not bad at all. So, you guys excited about the trip?” Jacobsen asked. Ascher walked in at the same time. “Alright, Bob’s here.”

“Hey folks,” Bob said, taking his coat off and settling down in a chair.

“Hi Bob,” everyone said.

Bob said, “I wanted us to meet before your departure tomorrow. As you know, we’re doing this for CFR, not for the government. Even though the delegation will be led by the government, you two will be a part of the CFR mission. You know CFR is an independent, non-partisan organization that works closely with government policymakers, especially those who deal with foreign policies. You will report to CFR. The CFR delegation will be led by its Senior Director. But, of course, you are fully expected to cooperate with the government delegation and comply with their requirements.”

“What’s the mission?” Ashay asked.

“Our mission is academic and is more closely associated with that of CFR. The government’s mission is anybody’s guess,” Jacobsen replied.

“But what’s our mission?” Neharika asked.

“Overall, we want to know the modalities of how the intelligence agencies of India and Pakistan are working. Specifically, we want to know if either or both of these countries have used or are using Nepal as a base against each other. And we want to know if anybody in the Nepal Government are helping either or both of the rival agencies.”

“Why? Why do we want to know?” Ashay looked at Jacobsen and then at Ascher. “And what are two undergraduate students to do with all this?”

“Smart question, Ash,” Ascher said. “Our interest is in understanding regional relations and rivalries and their implications and see if all this follows an established model. As for the second part of your question, there are two things here. One, government agencies in any of the countries involved would be less resistant to allow student researchers access to information. As academic researchers, you will have more success getting at information than any government officials would. Two, you each know the languages and the system of government in India and Nepal.”

“What about Pakistan?” Neharika asked.

“Tom Parkins of Columbia has selected one of his students who happens to be a native of Pakistan. He says the young man is a smart fellow,” Jacobsen responded.

“Tom Parkins? Professor Thomas Parkins?” Ashay asked.

“Yes, him.”

“So, what’s CFR’s role in this?” Ashay asked again.

“They have similar interest as ours. They want to understand the trilateral political, diplomatic and military relations between India, Pakistan and Nepal and how the relationship shapes the works of intelligence operatives. They want to know if these complex relationships based on regional rivalry can be understood with an established model,” Ascher said.

“What about the government? Why are the State Department, Pentagon and CIA involved?” Ashay asked.

“That is a tough question. CFR has advised us not to try to be too inquisitive about the purpose of their mission. But we can certainly speculate. Of course, the State Department wants to create a presence of influence in the Indian sub-continent. The State and Pentagon’s interest is because India and Pakistan’s bilateral relation is a hot button issue. The Kashmir issue is a volatile one. And, of course, the CIA wants to maintain a credible level of intelligence not only over the two countries, but over the entire region, Afghanistan included, especially because of the radical Taliban government there. The official government delegation will be led by a diplomat named Bill Middleton. I hear he's an old Nepal and India hand. They say he's had diplomatic tenures in all three countries, Nepal, India and Pakistan when he was younger” Jacobsen said, as he removed his eyeglasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief.

"I hear he even speaks a bit of Nepali and Hindi," Ascher added, looking at the two young students.

“OK, what’s our deliverable?” Ashay asked.

“A detailed term paper. Both of you are to write a term paper each. That’s going to be your senior thesis. And I know you won't disappoint us.”

“And why’s CFR paying for all this?” Neharika asked.

“Because they want to use your term paper as chapters of a book on foreign policy that they’re planning to bring out. It’s an opportunity of a life time. Take full advantage of it,” Ascher encouraged.

“We will,” both Ashay and Neharika said, both truly grateful. “And thanks for selecting us for this mission.”

“Your main contact at CFR is Bill Prescott, the Senior Director and his assistant Jane Middleton,” Ascher informed them. “I’ll give you a ride to the airport tomorrow. CFR will have you picked up at La Guardia tomorrow. Jane Middleton will give you all the details about travel documents, stipends, expenses, etc. It’s fully paid by CFR.”

“If you have any question, call, email Bob or myself anytime. Good luck,” Jacobsen ended the meeting.

As Ashay and Neharika rose, Ascher looked at their backpacks and winked at them, “You guys do have a more decent bag, don’t you? And I hope you both have some decent clothing, too.”

* * *

As they walked out of the meeting, Ashay asked Neharika, “Neha, wanna go to the Hideaway for a drink or two tonight?”

“You asking me out on a date?,” giggled Neharika.

“A date at the Hideaway? Jeez, gosh, no. If I wanted to take you out on a date, I’d take you to a decent restaurant on 9th Street or on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill,” smiled Ashay. “But, know what, yes, OK, I’m asking you out. Wanna go?” 9th Street was a downtown Durham street dotted with restaurants and Franklin Street was a lively street with restaurants in the nearby Chapel Hill, the home to Duke's basketball rival, the UNC-Chapel Hill.

“Come on, Ash. Be serious. We both have packing to do. And I don’t wanna wake up groggy in the morning.” Both kept walking.

“Colin and Cynthia asked if I wanted to go. A bunch of people are going, I think. Just thought I’d enjoy more if you joined.”

“Joined there or went with you?” Neharika quizzed, giggling.

“OK, if you went with me.”

She stopped walking, turned towards him, looked him in the eyes, paused for a moment, then placed her soft hand on his forearm, and whispered, “Of course, I’ll go with you, kiddo.”

He looked at her without saying anything for an awkward moment, then gazed into her eyes, and whispered back, “Will pick you up just before 7?”

“Sure.” She had a soft smile on her face, and a sparkle in her eyes.

* * *

That evening, Neharika wore a beautiful light green-hued flowery blouse, a Cashmere cardigan, a nice pair of jeans, and a pair of trendy green and purple sequoined high heels that she had picked up at a shoe store in Karol Bagh when she was in New Delhi the last time. She dabbed Chanel No. 5 perfume on her wrists, her napes, and on her chest, and put on a pair of cute earrings. She put on lipstick, lined her eyes with eyeliner, curled her lashes with mascara, and blended in just a hint of blush on her cheeks. She hooked a gold chain around her neck, with a heart-shaped gold pendant. She let her hair down, held a coat in her hand, and waited for Ashay.

Ashay arrived 5 minutes before 7. “You look beautiful.” He gave her a hug, and opened the passenger side door for her.

“Why, thank you, you knight in shining armor,” joked Neharika.

“Off we go to the Hideaway, the best ever destination for a date,” Ashay joked, too.

The Hideaway was already crowded when they arrived. Cynthia, Colin, Rebecca Matthews, Rebecca Chang, Steve Ma, Maria Ricaldez, Abubaker Odhiambo, Jayant Desai, Chris Barnett, Suresh Wadhwa, and Kiran Parekh were all there. More were still coming in. They were all friends of Ashay and Neharika's.

Ashay and Neharika met with everyone. “Neha, what can I get you?” Ashay asked.

“What are you having? Or, whatever you’re having. Except beer,” said Neharika.

“Well, I was going to get a beer for myself. You want some martinis? How about a Cosmo?”

“Sure.”

At the bar, Ashay ordered a honey brown lager for himself and a Cosmo for Neharika.

They stayed there for about an hour, chatting with friends, enjoying the company and drinks and dancing. Then around 8 pm Ashay whispered into Neharika's ear, "I hope you're hungry, cuz I am. Do you want to go somewhere and eat something?"

"I'm starving," whispered Neharika.

Soon they left the club, saying good bye to their friends. Their friends wished them a pleasant journey ahead and bid them farewell. Ashay drove towards 9th Street, with Neharika by his side. They had dinner at Ravena's, a local restaurant. Around 9:30 PM, they left the restaurant and Ashay drove Neharika home.

“Thanks for a lovely evening, Ash.”

“My pleasure, Neha.”

She stepped towards her apartment building, then stopped, paused, turned around, saw him looking at her, and she walked back.

“Good night, kiddo,” she gave him a hug.

“Good night," he hugged her back. "Go now. See you tomorrow.”

He waited until she was inside her apartment building, and then drove off.

* * *

The next day, Professor Ascher dropped Ashay and Neharika at the RDU Airport at 11:00 AM. “Make the most of your trip, guys, and have fun,” Ascher gave them a bear hug. “Remember, I selected the best students for this unique opportunity that CFR can ever get from anywhere. Good luck. Have a safe and enjoyable journey, Ash and Neha.”

“Thanks, Bob, thanks for all this,” Neharika said. Ashay added, ” Take care, Bob. See you in January. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.”

The flight from RDU to La Guardia Airport in New York was only an hour and 35 minutes. They were going to be in New York just after 2 PM and they were scheduled to be picked up for transfer to the CFR Headquarters on East 68th Street near Park Avenue.

Arriving in front of the CFR Headquarters at the Harold Pratt House on East 68th Street in the Upper East Side of Manhattan in New York City, Neharika nudged at Ashay, “This is it. We’re on.”

“Yes, we are indeed,” Ashay said, looking at the imposing building in front of him.

Once Ashay and Neharika were inside, an office assistant ushered them into a room where they were greeted by an attractive young woman, “Hi, You must be Neharika Kulkarni and Ashay Shrestha. I’m Jane Middleton. Welcome to CFR. I’m a research associate here. I’ll be sort of your CFR host while you’re here and on the trip. Anytime you have a question, let me know,” she handed them her business card.

Ashay looked at her business card. It read, Jennifer R.L. Middleton, Research Associate, Council on Foreign Relations, The Harold Pratt House, 58 E. 68th Street, New York, NY 10065.

Ashay looked at the attractive young woman who he thought couldn’t be any older than him. He thought to himself, I think I’ve seen her somewhere before. But he couldn’t recall where or when it was that he had seen her before, if he ever did.

“Lets go to the meeting room. I’ll introduce you to some other people,” Jane led them to another room where there were five other people already seated. “Hi everyone, meet Neharika Kulkarni and Ashay Shrestha, both from Duke. They have just arrived. Ashay and Neharika, meet John Dunsmore, Steve Cabot, Karen McNulty, Ravindran Shankaran and Parvez Ashraf.”

After the exchange of pleasantries, they all settled down for a meeting. Jane continued, ”John, Steve, Karen and Ravin are CFR staff members, they are all Senior Fellow. Parvez is an undergraduate student at Columbia. Karen, Ravin and Parvez will be joining the delegation. By the way, all of us are from New York, except Ravin, who’s from our Washington, DC office. We’ll have our full meeting tomorrow at 9:00 AM. The delegation leaders and other participants are going to be in tomorrow’s meeting. Today, it’s going to be quick. I’ll give you all the materials for you to read and familiarize. I’ll give you the trip itinerary and program and a list of contacts in India, Pakistan, Nepal and Singapore. All your travel documentation is ready. There are some forms that you’ll need to sign, just travel insurance-related formality. After the meeting, I’ll take Ravin, Ashay and Neharika to hotel; I’ve booked three rooms for you guys. It’s not too far, but it’s too cold to walk, especially with your suitcases. We’ll all meet at Malone’s at 6:30 for dinner.” Malone’s was a popular restaurant just three blocks north on Park Avenue and 71st Street. The hotel Ashay, Neharika and Shankaran were booked into was located three blocks further up north on Park and 74th.

Ashay was listening, but more looking than listening. The more he looked at Jane, the more he tried to remember where and when he had seen her.

After the brief meeting, Jane Middleton drove Ashay, Neharika and Shankaran with their luggage to the hotel. As they arrived at the hotel, Ashay's cell phone rang. It was his cousin. She wanted him to come to her house for finner, but since he had to go to dinner with the CFR group, they quickly made a plan for him to visit her house after dinner. She and her husband were going to pick him up at the hotel after dinner.

As he entered the hotel room, Ashay thought about Jane Middleton and tried to remember where he had seen her before.

[End of Part 3]

Note: I welcome your comments. Be critical if you want, or praise if you wish. Please excuse spelling errors. I've yet to run a spell check on it.

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