Dark Knight's Weblog

Have you ever been questioned, “Do you speak English?” (of course in English)

I was at ATM waiting for my plastic money to turn into paper money. Inside ATM, 2 foreigner, of course whites, were busy playing with ATM machine but the money wasn’t coming out. At last they gave up and came outside. In english of course, I asked them, “what happened?” One of then replied that though the money didn’t come out, their balance statement showed that they had in fact withdrawn the amount. And they were visibly stressed.

Suddenly other guy asked me, “Do you speak English?” with hope of getting some support. And I found it very offending. What was he thinking? Only he can speak English? All right, may be i can’t speak with their accent, and I have my own accent but after few conversation, how he dared to ask me that question?

And what I did was: I showed him blank face, and said in Nepali, “K bhaneko?” which means “what are you saying?” And I used my hand to tell them i don’t understand them at all. And first guy who was talking to me was surprised. He again tried to engage me in conversation, I asked one of passerby to tell him in ENGLISH that I don’t understand any word of English. He told him what i asked him to say. I entered inside the ATM, withdrew my money and came out.

Those foreigners were now trying to explain their situation to other guy. When I came out, the first foreigner with whom i was talking threw me very surprised look. I just smiled and walked away.

I had one friend at School. Lets call him Suman. He was very friendly and easy going guy, but there was one problem. He was into drugs, not hard-core of course. He used to take tabs, marijuana and cough-syrups. One day he admitted to me that sometimes he visits sex-workers. We were in class 9 at that time. All I could do was: asked him to use protection. Then because of his behavior, he left the school. Later I heard that he’s into hard-core drugs i.e. using syringe.

And after 6 years (that is few days ago) I met him, again. We had one interaction program on state of  HIV in Nepal and our responsibility to stop it and he was there as a participant. I assumed he was there with someone. I talked to him, had chit-chat and i was busy in my own work. Today also he was in our awareness group. I couldn’t hold my curiosity to know which organizations does he represent. So I checked it and came to know that he represents group of PLHAs. I asked one of my colleagues whether anyone can be part of such group to which she replied that in 99% of cases, to be employee of organization of PLHAs, one has to be HIV positive. And I felt bad…..very bad.

I am not sure whether he’s HIV infected or not. But reading all the signs from school days, I am sure he might be HIV positive. I couldn’t ask him this question, I just had casual talks with him….. but…..

But despite this: I am happy. Happy that he’s working hard to support people living with HIV and AIDS, bring awareness in society. And i am happy, am also being part of this campaign.

Lets keep our promise and Stop AIDS.

Breaking News- Nick and I just had a fight.

Well not physical of course. We were out to buy shoes for me. At shoe shop, I asked his opinion and he stayed neutral. He told me that he didn’t have any opinion. So I got one converse-alike-sneakers. Later as we were on our way to theater, he told me that he doesn’t like my shoe at all. The shoe is out-dated and even the color doesn’t suit me. He reasoned that though he didn’t want to influence me with his fashion style, he couldn’t hold his opinion anymore. He simly said- I made wrong choice, at least with this shoe. I was furious. When I needed opinion, he stood there like statue of liberty and suddenly after 2 hours he became fashion police.

This was not enough we again had another horn locking session. We were late for drama and I lied to our friend for being late. After drama was over and we were returning home I told him how i was feeling about lying and he became angry. He told me we made our choices and lied, now there’s no point crying over it. In reciprocate i too got angry. Afterall i was just telling him my feeling.

We both are not calling or texting. May be waiting for other party to call for truce.

Seeing long posts of unknown Nepali writers might have confused you guys. After all what Dark Knight is doing?

Well, am just trying to bring Nepali writers to you guys, so that you guys too can read them, appriciate them or hate them. I know long posts are boring and very few might read them, but still am giving shot. Just trying to bring Nepali writers to lights.

Apart from this, am also busy in one social cause event. To mark World AIDS DAY 2008, something is going to happen here, a big one. Am busy in this. If i explain this here, everyone will know me so just a guessing game for now

Shankar Lamichhane is another great Nepali Essayist. He wrote with a lyrical, musical tempo, unrestrained by the ponderous language that often mars the essays of his elders, peers or followers. Often regarded as foremost essayist of Nepali Literature, below is one of his translated essay. If you have time, read him. You will surely enjoy

Plus: If i get my hands on other Nepali writers i adore, i will try to put his/her work here.

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“What work does your father do, dear?”
“He does god’s work.”

My five-year-old daughter gives a simple answer to the question her teacher puts to her. Those who don’t have any knowledge about my personal life or who don’t know me through my writings would immediately envision a priest. My daughter has seen, in truth, a variety of statues of many gods in my shop. How could she know the vast difference between doing god’s work and selling statues
of the gods?

Childhood is astonishing: our feelings at that age are as pure as flowing water. Age and our experiences block this flow. I remember, at my daughter’s age I took my mother’s money from the storage box, and poured it all into the offering plate at the singing of devotional hymns. How could it be that everyone would always put money in the offering plate, warm their hands on the sacred flame and place their hands on their eyes; but I would never get permission to offer money, or find a chance to? Am I alone not a person? I’m going to take all the money in my mother’s box and pour it onto the offering plate..

The sudden explosion of silence amid the singing of devotional hymns was just as piercing as my voice became later on at home, as I received a beating.

And probably, an even more piercing wail echoed in my mother’s heart for a long period, at least until the bills and coins I had poured onto the offering plate were recouped. Today, isn’t the ages-ago faith that I displayed towards god recouped by my occupation of living off of the two-paisa profit earned from god’s statues?

Now that I have crossed my mother’s age at that time I can try to feel her seriousness or upset at the matter. She was a schoolteacher who had lost a husband and was suffering from tuberculosis. From the money she earned by teaching at a middle school she bought food, clothes, curatives and medicines for herself and her son, and when all these assets that she had saved from all exigencies were offered away all at once.! What a huge problem presented itself before her! At a time when an invitation to her own death came with each cough, her heart must have pinched at anxiety about how her five year-old son would cross the vast ocean of being. (In the same way that I sometimes feel a pinch now).

If god exists at all, he must have suffered more at my mother’s pain than rejoiced at my offering; that is, if god is touched by such things as pain and suffering.

I know, in my daughter’s words lies the truth as she knows it. And truth, Daughter, is what you are capable of knowing.

The first time my mother did not allow me to eat from her plate I was very hurt. The first time my mother made a separate bed for me I cried and cried. Today I know how much goodwill and affection those acts contained; would I be alive now if not for them?

Another thing, Daughter: the truth is something that keeps developing, that keeps changing. (Somewhere I’ve read that though each snowflake has a hexagonal shape, none of their designs have ever been the same until today). Even though the truth is the same each time, it is separate. When I offered him money, god was formless to me. Today, each time I sell a statue, god takes on a form. Before selling him, I buy him. I try to discover which period his style belongs to. I measure his beauty. I describe him. And I weigh him in the profits received. For me, Buddha does not remain just Buddha, the Buddha who started a religion that said that there was no God and who was himself transformed into a god, who created the five panchasheela perfections and who got trapped in shila stones. I recognize Buddha only in the form of the inch-and-a-half Buddha and the nine-inch Buddha and the sixteen-inch Buddha and the earth-touching Buddha and the bronze Buddha and the crowned Buddha. I recognize Buddha only in the buying price of fourteen and selling price of twenty. There is no falsehood, now, in what I am claiming.

I don’t know what kind of truth it will be, the truth that you will discover twenty, twenty-five years from now, when I will be finished and you will reach the age I am now. You may, may not think back to your own life’s events when your child does anything, just as I suddenly remember my life’s events. You may, may not remember your father now and then, the way that I remember my mother. But this much is certain-a part of me will live in you even after my end, just as my ancestors are asleep in me, and I sometimes nudge them awake, and they sometimes nudge me awake.. I remember when my mother’s diary got into my hands, ten or twelve years after her death. Each sentence and each word in it awoke with a start, and carrying the memento of my mother’s ailments and pains from years ago, they came to shelter inside me. And probably they spawned in me the same intensity that she had suffered. I cannot remember today whether there was, was not any new style or technique or artistry in her writing, but there was one quality that I remember till today-there was an intensity of experience in it. She did not write the diary for others, and so there was no unnecessary description. Neither had she written it for me, because there was no advice. (Why she wrote it I cannot understand. It could be that the diary was a complaint about the injustice she had borne, made out to a formless future. If that is the case, it is a grand, successful literary composition. Otherwise what is the value of literature?)

I burned that diary. There was no better reader for it than I, and I was afraid that it would be denigrated at the hands of others.

Sometimes I think that I should not have burned the diary. That matter is as though.let’s say it sometimes comes to mind all of a sudden: what if I had never come to Kathmandu from Kashi? There are many possibilities in the thing called ‘what if’. What if I didn’t write? My feelings would certainly not die; but their expression would not become pointed. And I probably wouldn’t measure many things that I have done or that others have done. Life would be a wholesale market, and small, delicate events would not appear before my eyes, suddenly taking on meaning. I would take out a balance sheet of successes and failures and my life would be different in each fiscal year.

It’s just that none of this happened.
It’s just that I didn’t (or couldn’t) do that.

Today even nonsensical things touch me. Even questions placed to others, and answers given my others, touch me.

And..

Because I get touched so easily, I feel hopeful that at least I experience tremors here and there. Somewhere there is a heartbeat left, and perhaps this being is ‘god’s work’ that has remained dead in me? The heartbeat of true desire towards life..

The answer to this will be given by the future, perhaps..

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Translated by Manju Shree Thapa

Bhairav Aryal, is one of my very favorite Nepali essayist. He was a satirist who commented on the absurdities of modern Nepal. While i was cruising through endless ocean of web, i stumbled upon one of his translated essay. I always wanted to scream we too have great writers to the world. Yes, it’s translated version not original, but still i want to share to you. If you got time, read it. The essay below, written during the years after the royal takeover of 1960, speaks well of the bungling of the Partyless Panchayat years.

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In today’s world, a son has greater worries than the unemployed; a journalist is in a greater rush than a taxi car. On top of that, if someone takes up journalism in order to stave off the daily hassles of being a son, you can imagine how patchy his life gets. And I am the kind of journalist who must serve journalism all day on the basis of a rickety cycle, and enjoy the nectar of filial life in the early evening, scraping out the pot for storing grains. That’s why my mind keeps spinning all night and all day-as if a cinema reel were flickering on the screen of my brain. One second I’m thinking of the disarmament speeches of world leaders, another second I’m thinking about the boiled rice rations that I must gather by this evening. One moment it’s the Geneva Convention, and the next moment it’s the divorce of the mothers of sons and daughters.

This incident is still fresh and warm, just from the day before yesterday. I had finished reporting on the meeting of the All Nepal Family Problems Solution Meeting, and was heading home when I thought I heard a baby crying at the edge of the Kamalpokhari pond. For a while I thought it was just my cycle squeaking, so I ignored the noise, but then I saw that a young woman was solving the problem of family. I carried along, telling myself, \’Why keep digging once you know it’s a useless root, and not ginger,’ but to her misfortune, or to my misfortune, the tube of my cycle burst just then, so loudly you would think that a bomb had detonated on my head. She frantically tossed her bundle into the brushes and looked at me. As soon as our eyes met, I recognised her. She had led a delegation to the International Forward Ladies’ Conference last year, and only a few days ago, she had given a talk on the edge of the Ranipokhari pond, vowing to dedicate her life to taking care of children by remaining unmarried all her life. There was no question that a journalist like I would recognise her.

You surely know, many things that a journalist sees he cannot write about, and many things that he writes about he cannot see. If he could write everything he sees, then the papers would be full of shoving and crushing and anger and jealousy and poison, et cetera. If he could see everything he writes about, then the world of man would be like the world of the gods: all progress, development, friendship and idealism. So why should a modern journalist pay attention to her bravery in solving her problem? The age demands wife and children planning; just because the method is different, how can it be called a crime? It could be that she’s come up with a means of her own, to suit the times.

When I reached a little further, I saw a policeman scolding a loiterer. I dragged my cycle along, my legs trembling from fear that he might scold me too, but then, how would he dare catch a gentleman who rides cycles? Indeed, I had found a main news item, and I even thought up its title-\’Confrontation Between Police and Robber.’ Whether or not the man was a robber was for the police to figure out. I’m just a journalist, all I need is news.

In the end it doesn’t matter, because these days, in every country, intelligence reports are Bramha’s words for the government, and the papers and radio news are Bramha’s words for the citizens. Intelligence agents and reporters have become so skilled at concealing what has happened, writing about what hasn’t happened, coloring the white and twisting the straight, that in reality, world politics is in their hands.

A friend of mine used to say in jest-at the border of two countries, there were barracks on each side. One day, an intelligence agent and a reporter were walking towards the border on their side of the divide. Just then, a uniformed soldier from the other side ran across the border with something in his hands. The intelligence agent immediately called headquarters, and the reporter called the office. \’A soldier from such-and-such country entered our territory.’ A police Jeep arrived immediately. The journalist at once reported, \’The police have also arrived.’ The news was true enough. In no time at all, the morning editions of newspapers beat up a fuss-\’Border encroachment by a soldier of such-and-such country.’ The intelligence report was proved by the newspaper report. Politicians rushed to release statements, the parties rushed to hold an emergency meeting and passed a proposal of protest. Editors rushed to write editorials. The radios rushed to review the editorials. Allied nations stirred into action, learned folks like us got a chance to sit around at restaurants talking about all of this while chewing on meatballs. In the end, investigations showed that the soldier had been suffering from dystentry, and had to take a dump as he was heading out for morning duty, but the toilets were all crammed full, so he grabbed a mug of water and ran off to sit down wherever he could find a spot. Now you tell me how important intelligence agents and reporters are. That’s why I decided to make news out of the encounter between the loiterer and the police.

I hadn’t even had time to write a report on the speeches given by various intellectuals and representatives at this morning’s Firewood-and-Dung Distribution Meet. As soon as I got home, I settled down on the trunk to write, thinking ‘I’ll cough up all this nonsense all at once.’ I ordered the mother of my son-’Alright, I don’t have any time to eat any rice-shice, just bring me a chillum of sour tobacco leaves.’ My sleeping son, representing his mother, replied-’Mother axed the chillum and burned it, Father!’ I looked with amazement at the mother’s face, only to see her make a face and say, through her nose, ‘I couldn’t find any firewood anywhere, so..’ I shut up and started to write about the speeches and proposals made at the Firewood-and-Dung Distribution Meet.

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Translated by: Manju Shree Thapa

P.S. I wrote some of her introduction, as i couldn’t find better words to describe his style

There’s drama festival going on in Gurukul, Kathmandu. 9 countries are participating in the festival. I watched two drama Bimar and Bade Bhaisaheb and Dead Tree Gives no Shelter.

First one was two different dramas. In first, a man get sick. Different people comes with different suggestions and he gets sick of all those suggestions. It was comic drama. Second Bade Bhaisaheb was psychological drama. There are two brothers, elder one always fails exams while younger one keeps getting good scores. Finally elder one realises that now he cannot control his young brother anymore.

Second was more post-modern drama. Pranab Mukherjee who believes in alternative theater was the director and sole performer of this drama. He relates story of a tribal woman with war, famine, undevelopment, human rights, equality, happiness and many more aspects.

I am looking forward for Karnal Dakkhin Bagdo Chha (Karnali river flows south), a nepali drama. My colleagues have strongly recommended me this drama. Karnali, western part of Nepal is heavily depended on it’s southern part for everything be it food or whatever you can think of. Literacy is very very low, development is very sluggish over there and timely and again, they face famine. This is the story how people of Karnali are facing such problem. Hopefully i will get the tickets.

For more info on this drama:

http://nepalthroughthelens.blogspot.com/2008/09/karnali-express-through-drama.html

Watch some scenes: http://revver.com/video/1177278/karnali-3/

Apart from this, Nick (you know about whom i am talking to, i decided to call him Nick ) and I are having very great time. We meet everyday and talk endlessly. Am very happy

I know people get confused about their orientation so they try to find out about themselves in many way. Here’s one simple, eight question, yes or no quiz to determine without a doubt your sexual orientation.

Question 1:

Are you a man who owns more than 3 pairs of shoes or a woman who wears Birkenstocks whenever possible? Yes = 1 point

Question 2:

Are you a male who has dyed or highlighted his hair or a woman who hasn’t? Yes = 1 point.

Question 3:

Do you know what a carburetor is? Male: No = 1 point; Female: Yes = 1 point

Question 4:

My father was distant and emotionally abusive. Yes = 1 point

Question 5:

My mother is controlling. Yes = 1 point

Question 6:

Have you ever worked in construction? Male: No=1 point; Female: Yes =1 point

Question 7:

Knows what color “taupe” is? Male: Yes = 1 point; Female: No = 1 point

Question 8:

Have you been keeping score on this test? Yes = 1 point

Scoring:

Disregard the first seven questions. If you answered “yes” to question 8 then you are gay or lesbian. I mean, come on, if you need a blog quiz to tell you your sexual orientation then you really are in denial.

Funny right?? I come across this test and found it funny, so posting for you guys as well

Imagine a scene:

You are sharing bed with your boyfriend’s friend and your eyes are slowly closing dreaming how good it would have been to share bed with own boyfriend. Suddenly, a hand makes way towards your stomach and slowly downwards.

What your reactions would be?

Well, what I did was: I thought why Hilary lost to Obama and what her political future would be.

I couldn’t react and said him to stop. I just hoped my body won’t succumb to his action and react back.

And Hilary did help me

The wonderful experience has struck me again. There’s phrase: whatever happens, happens for good. Now I strongly believe this.

Yes, I remember mentioning about him making advances towards me, or didn’t I? Well he got guts, I must say. Otherwise why would be dare to say those precious 3 little words?

We both were wrestling or at least virtually. I had his documents and he wanted it back. I denied him and he threw himself at me. And he got me and suddenly whispered: I love you. I was surprised and was suddenly nervous. He then kissed me and left for home without saying anything.

I was trembling and shocked. I didn’t say anything, nothing at all. For whole night I just thought about the whole thing. There he is, who loves me, wants to make me happy and what I need anymore?

I called him next day and talked as if nothing has happened. When I met him that day, I felt differently. I felt happy to see him, again listen to his stories and his silly expressions. I knew he would be there for me always and would make me happy. So while having dinner that night, I kissed him and told him how I felt. He was so excited and happy and so was I.

He’s younger than me, 3 years to be precise but he’s mature. There are so many sides of him, sometimes very childlike sometime like my guardian. Ohh, he’s great: that’s the conclusion

By the way I will call him, HIM. How about that?