दिदी

12 Apr

म तिमीलाई दिदी भन्दिन।
म तिमीलाई तिमी पनि भन्दिन थिएँ होला,
तर मैले तिमीलाई तँ भन्दा तिमीले तरेको आँखा, मेरो तातिएको गाला र आमाबाट ख्वाएको गाली मैले बिर्सेकी छैन।
नाबिर्सेको हो कि घरि-घरि सुनेको कथा को फोटो दिमागमा बसेको हो,
तर तिमी भोटोको तुनामा गुलियो लप्सीको पाउँ बाधेर, साचेर राख्थ्यौ रे,
आफू ज्ञानी भएर मलाई गाली ख्वाएको जस्तै तितौरा पनि ख्वौथ्यौ रे।

तिमी आमा को high-quality photocopy
तिमीलाई कहिल्यै नदेखेका, बाटोमा हिडेका आमाको स्कूलका साथी तिमी कसकी छोरी भनि चिन्छन्।
बाबाको रिस नखको टुप्पो मै बोकी हिडेकी छौ।
म भने किच्चक खच्चड,
आमाको स्वभाव र बाबाको जिद्धिपनको खिचडी
तिमी र म जस्तै यो स्वभाव र जिद्धिपन पनि तेल र पानी
तर कुन कता सुरु हुन्छ र कता  सिद्धिन्छ  म आफै पनि भन्न सक्दिन
तिमी नातेदारहरुको “छोरी भनेको एस्तो हुनु पर्छ” को उदाहरण
म भने आमाको फुल्फुलियेकी, बाबाको हुन नसकेकी ज्ञानी छोरी
मात्र दुई वर्षको फरक  हामी बिच
“होइन,” तिमी भन्छौ, ” बीस महिना”
हुन त बीस महिनामा बिहे, पास्नी र बर्तमान सबैको भोज गर्न भ्यायिन्छ रे
तर खै बीस महिना मै के सिकीछौ, लाग्छ म भन्दा एक जुनी नै बेसी बचेकीछौ।
सानोमा काध-काध मिलाएर “झिपी निम पासा” खेल्ने हामी
कार्तिके कौसीमा काध-काध मिलाएर बाटोका मान्छेको कुरा काट्ने गर्थ्यौ
तर आज म एक्लै टंकी मुनि क्षितिज तिर नजर दुलाएर बसेकी छु,
बाटो देखेकी छैन,
तिमी पनि संगै बसेकी छैनौ।
अस्ति मैले तिम्रो आँखामा कहिल्यै नदेखेको रोमान्स देखें।
अचम्म लग्यो,
तिम्रो देख नबोल्ने बानी र मेरो आफै वरिपरि घुम्ने यो संसार बीच कहिले कता तिम्रो आफ्नै कथा बनिसकेछ, पत्तै पाइन
तिम्रो कथामा मा म सहयोगी पात्रा सम्म पनि भाकी छैन
म भने आफूमा तिमीले गर्दा भाकी म र हुन नसकेकी तिमी पाउछु।

हिजोको कुरा हो,
Bike चलाउन अझै नसिकेकी म लामखुट्टे जुत्ता मुनिको जमिन अझै रुचाउछु
तिमी रातीको अध्यारोमा पनि टाढाबाटै मेरो हिडाइ चिनछौ,
Bike रोक्छौ
म चुप-चाप चाडछु
पाँच मिनेटको शान्ति पछि घर पुग्छौ
र घर मान्छेले बनेकोछ।

The Little White Dog.

6 Feb

Today was a day of oscillations and rotations. After going around and, back and forth Patan in search of a gift for my friend’s girlfriend, I was headed home, walking through Pulchowk. In front of the digital clock of Everest Bank, I saw a small white pup trying to cross the road. Just as I was thinking of crossing the road with the pup to let it get across, a car hit the pup right on its face and the left front leg. The pup yowled as I screamed along. The vehicle simply moved on without a pause.

I approached the still wailing pup. It was holding up its left front leg and didn’t seem to be able to put it down or walk. Never having faced such a situation, I didn’t know what to do. I carried it aside and to a near-by store, bought a packet of biscuits that it refused to eat. It still was not putting its feet down. I felt around its leg for broken bones and though no expert, I could feel none. I called up my friend to ask for a vet in the vicinity. I was directed towards the one near the Central Zoo.

I picked up my furry little friend and walked towards the vet, where they were nice enough to just charge me for the painkiller administered and no doctor’s fees. They suggested I either take the dog back home or back where I found it. Struggling between my want to keep a pet and my parents’, specially my dad’s unwillingness to let me do so, and fueled by the pup’s relatively healthy outlook, I took him back to Pulchowk.

Along the way, I met people who recognized the dog and informed me about how it walked about too much, which made me realize that it would not have liked my place very much with very little space to walk about. I have been accused of caring too much. I was glad that I had cared just enough this time ‘round.

Somewhere in Pulchowk, this dog that liked to walk started to struggle in my arms. I let him down at the stupa and watched him wobble away to surer steps, trusting that it would be okay. I am not religious but I could not help finding something utterly poetic about this end of my journey with the little white dog.

नेपाल

19 Dec

यो शिर्षकमा लेख्न खोज्ने
न म पहिलो
न त अन्तिम नै

तर राष्ट्रबाध मलाई डाक्टरले दिएको दबाई
जबर्जस्ती दबाई दबाई गर्नु पर्ने गृहकार्य
खल्ती खाली हुँदा लिनु पारेको सापटीको सोच
र एक ठाउँमा माग्दा नपुगेर दश वटा निबन्ध संग्रहमा गरिएको खोज
एउटा वाक्य यता बाट, अर्को वाक्य ऊता बाट गर्दै पस्किएको चोरीको चामलको खिचरीको भोज
त्यो खिचरीमा रखियेको धनिया,
मैले मेरो भन्न सक्ने त्यसमा भएको एक मात्र तत्व,
सफा कागजमा कागले छेरेको जस्तो मेरो डाक्टरे हस्तलिपी

स्कुलमा भन्थ्ये, तिम्रो राष्ट्रको ईतिहास धनी छ,
गर्व गर
तर स्कुलमै कसैले कनेखुसीको भाषामा भनेको एउटो कुरोको प्रतिध्वनी म अझै सुन्छु,
ईतिहास बिजयीको कथा हो
ईतिहास बिजयीको कथा हो
मैले उठाउन नपरेको खुकुरी,
रच्न नपरेको रणनिती,
दिन नपरेको बलिदान,
साथ निभाउन नपरेको महापुरुष र महानरीको माफ पाउ,
मैले गर्व गर्न सकिन।

बुद्ध नेपाली भनी धिप्पी गरेको क्षणभारमै
आफु भन्दा फरक सबैलाई गाली दिने
यो राक्षसी प्रबिधीको माफ पाउ,
तिमीले जिद्धी गर्दा पनि मैले गर्व गर्न सकिन

आफ्नो राष्ट्रता अनुभव गर्न
अरुलाई सानो देखाउन पर्ने
तिम्रो “देशभक्ती”को माफ पाउ,
मैले गर्व गर्न सकिन

अन्यौलै-अन्यौलमा जन्मेको यो कबिता जस्तै,
मेरा जन्मी नसकेका सन्तानको नेपालीत्व दिन नसक्ने मेरो यो गर्भको माफ पाउ,
मैले गर्व गर्न सकिन

Road-trip Movie

5 Dec

I had walked to a hill-top,

Alone,

At mid-day

And was watching as you drove off,

With the rest of them,

In a red convertible

The vehicle of a good road-trip movie,

All laughter and tears,

Character development

Of which I wasn’t a part of.

I stood and watched.

Squinted until you were

A red dot,

That disappeared ‘round the corner.

The imaginary sweat on my back

Was cold, sticky and clingy.

When I told you

That This was how I felt

The tears on your cheeks

Were as profuse

Hot, sticky and clingy.

They say birds of a feather flock together

But do the feathers change colours?

This is a rewrite of an earlier post called “Drift”, two posts down.

पाइला

13 Mar

म सार्है नारिबदी भए रे,
मैले मेरी आमा जस्तो सहन जानिन रे,
मेरा सहपाठी जस्तो चुप लगेर बस्न सिकिन रे,
स्त्री भएर भलाद्मी स्त्री हुन सकिन रे.

भरे बेलुकी को खाना को लागि चामल केलाए झैँ,
मेरा यी त्रुतिहरु केलाई दिने उनि पनि स्त्री.
मलाई उनलाई सोध्न मन लग्यो,
“के तपाईलाई बाकसहरु मन पर्छ?”

म सानै देखि अग्लो,
हरेक वर्ष नयाँ लुगा-जुत्ता किनी दिन कठिन भएको परिस्तिथिमा,
बाबा जिस्किदै भन्नुहुन्थ्यो,
“तलाई रति एउटा बाकसमा सुताउने, अनि बढ्दैनस कि.”
परिवर्तन देखि त्रसित यी स्त्रीलाई पनि म
“नारिबदी” भनि ठुल-ठुला अच्यरमा लेखिएका,
एउटा मान्छे अट्ने बाकस उपहार स्वरुप दिन चाहन्थ्ये,
जसमा उनि म लगायत नारिबाद को अपराध गर्ने सम्पूर्ण नारी-पुरुषलाई थुन्न सक्थिन.

तर मेरी आमा,
एउटा प्लास्टिक को पोका सम्म पनि नफाली,
त्यसमा माटो भरी नयाँ जीवन उमार्ने मेरी आमाले
मलाई आफ्नो शक्ति संरच्यण गर्न सिकाएकि छिन्.
उनि भन्छिन, “जिद्धि-मुर्खहरु सित बहस नगर.”
तसर्थ मा मौन रहे,
र शायद मेरो मौनता मा ति स्त्री ले आफ्नो जीत देखिन,
र उनको मनागदंते जीतमा मैले मानब सभ्यता को हार.

केहि दिनहरु,
जब आकाश बदलिन्छ,
मेरो झ्याल बाहिरको दृश्य एउटा पुरानो सेपिया-टोन तस्बिर जस्तो देखिन्छ,
र त्यो तस्बिरका अग्ला रुख हरु हावा सित को आफ्नो प्रेम-संगीतको तालमा नाचछन् ,
म सोचमग्न रहन्छु,
त्यो सोच जत्तिकै प्राचिन यस मनास्थ्तीलाई म कसरी चुनौती दॆऊ?
मेरो शारीरिक रचनाले दिएको मेरो अस्तित्वको परिभाषालाई म कसरी प्रश्न गरू?
म मानव भन्न अगाडी, मलाई मा अबला नारी भएंरा आभास दिलाउने यस समाजलाई मा कसरी बुझु?
चिडियाखानामा खोर अगाडीको जानकारी पात्रोमा बैज्ञानिक नाम दिए झैँ
हरेक आत्मसम्मान नागुमयेकी नारीलाई नारिबादमा बढ्ने
र हरेक नारी को सम्मान गर्ने पुरुषलाई जोइतिङ्ग्रे भन्ने यास सभ्यताको म के अर्थ लगाऊ?

केहि दिनहरु,
यी सोचहरुलाई आवाज दिदा,
मेरो आवाज कुहिरो लागेको हिउदे बिहानीमा स्टार्ट हुन नमानिरहेको गाडीबाट निस्केको सेतो मुस्लो जस्तो यो कोलाहाल मा बिलाउछ.
म ठुला हिमाल-पहाड बीचको उपत्यकामा हिडिरहेको एक यात्री जस्तो सानो र महत्व्बिहीन महसुस गर्छु.
मेरो गन्तब्य,
रात्रीमा टिमटिमाउदै गरेको  तारा जस्तो सुनौलो भविष्यको मेरो आशा निकै टाढा पाऊछु.
मेरा जुत्ता फलामका छन्,
र मा उभ्भिएको धर्ति एउटा ठुलो चुम्बक हो.
विषालु काडायुक्त व्रिच्य बीचको यो बाटो साघुरो र घुमाउरो छ
सकुशल अगाडी बढ्ने हो भने मा यी जुत्ता खोल्न सक्दिन,
तर यो अन्यौलमा जब मा पछाडी फर्किन्छु,
मेरी साठी वर्षे हजुरआमा हिड्दै हुनु हुन्छ,
उनलाई अगाडी बढाउने हो भने, मैले पाइला सार्नै पर्छ.

Drift

1 Mar

Some days, I feel us drifting apart, like two weary travelers that have walked the same path for a very long time but seen things so differently that the only choice we have is to part ways.

I picture myself pausing in my uphill climb and turning back to watch the vehicle you are in, with the rest of them, ride off into the distance and disappear behind a curve, dust and smoke in its wake.

Letter to an A-hole

20 Feb

Despised asshole on the bus,

You make me wish I had not accepted the food that you offered; I would not have felt indebted to you. But unlike you, I am not one to judge a book by its cover. So, although you claimed to look like a “fataha”, I gave you a chance to prove yourself wrong. And now since I have taken your food, let me educate you, in payment.

Despite your incoherence, we gleaned that you had studied education. But the conversation that followed proved that my “SLC-pass” mother is more educated than you will ever be, between your unwillingness to listen and your haste to only preach of things that contradict every preceding statement you make. You spew so much shit; I am confused as to where your asshole really is.

You warned the men among us, who were past their twenties, to get married very late, lest they get entrapped like you have. You went on to explain to either get married in your teens, “when you have the heart to”, or to marry very late, and for either you didn’t have any good explanations. I expect your heart was your hormones when you claim to have “misguidedly” fallen for your wife, whom you proceed to bash as a serial-watching good-for-nothing who tells you to do your own laundry, after all that is her job. Why else would you marry a woman except to wake up early in the morning before anybody else in the home does, clean your house, worship your gods, do the grocery shopping, cook you food and do your laundry? We should all pelt stones at her if she does not bring you tea or let you fuck her whenever you feel like it? Gods forbid she has her own thoughts! Or desires! Not being born with a cock between her legs robs her of all her rights. And no, you don’t blame her dad because screw science! It was from her mother’s womb that she sprouted out of. Now who is the culprit? A woman!

And if you are thinking how similar our thoughts are, stop. Stop, for the very little that is good in you. But I guess my sarcasm is not an arrow sharp enough to penetrate through your bubble of thickheaded-ness. My mother tells me we should not waste our breath on stupid people and I have no suspicions as to your stupidity. How else is one to explain statements like

  1. “I am a bad person, but the path I take is not bad” (in defense of the party you claim to support; I doubt you even know the principles you are claiming to support and you call yourself a once-upon-a-time journalist! If you did, or appreciated, you would not be talking the way you do) or
  2. “I will never sit behind a woman’s scooter” (I hope one day, you are dying and the only person offering to help you is your woman on a scooter as I am guessing you would have no friends) or
  3. “’Women’ from villages can adapt in cities but a city ‘Woman’ can never adapt to life in a village” (of course, People will try to live in better conditions. That is the idea behind development. And why does the culprit have to be a woman again, you sexist bastard?) 

But sometimes, you have to speak, only so that the stupidity does not spread. 

Disgusting bigot, you should have taken that exit when your phone rang. But no, you, like the poop that keeps coming back up even when you have flushed the toilet, had to butt in and prove how shitty your thought-process really is.  You are threatened by logic, and that too from a younger woman. Your nonsense claws and chaffs on reason like nails on a blackboard and produces only noise that makes my skin crawl.

You come from a beautiful place where hills roll. I was half-expecting the trees to shake off the fresh snow like a woman fresh out of shower. It is sad to me that you, whose eyes feast on such beauty every day, do not see the beauty in a woman’s thought.

You are a man stranded in open sea, who is clutching onto all things heavy and wrong. There is only one place you can go that way.

They taught me in school to spread love. But with no love whatsoever,

Stranger on a bus.