Kathmandu - Part 1 - The Negatives

Something I wrote during the Unofficial Blockade (Nakabandi) time and had become quite popular, positively and negatively. Do have a read and decide for yourself.
- A city where people are patient staying in line for 48 hrs for 3 ltrs of petrol but are impatient enough to overtake from the wrong side of the road risking their lives.
- A city where people are always in a hurry, enough to risk their lives in traffic, but again never reach anywhere in time.
- A city where the domestic airport is 100 times better than the international airport. (At least now)
- A city where a cc of ad space in a newspaper costs 3500 and a sq ft of land costs about 2500. (Both are irrationally costly)
- A city where Land Rovers roll but the roads are so bad that even a Land Rover's ground clearance is not enough.
- A city where the speed breakers are taller than the footpath (if there is one).
- A city where people buy the best baby food for their babies but don't mind riding them on the front of a bike without helmet.
- A city where people pay Rs. 500/- per liter of petrol in black but fight for a rupee with the local vegetable vendor.
- A city where when waterlogged you can literally raft on the roads (with shit floating by the side)
- A city with more museums than public toilets.
- A city where cow slaughter is banned but no one cares about the stray cows on the roads.
- A city where people shout about "Ek Desh Ek Pradesh" but never think about going out of Kathmandu or even realize that the country extends beyond the borders of Kathmandu.
- A city where people look for mineral water after having road side pani puri. (This one's the funniest for me)
- A city where media houses survive by blackmailing the corporate sector
- A city (rather country) where the President and Finance Minister is 7th-8th standard pass (I doubt that too)
- A city where wearing a helmet with a stylish mountain bike is a must but not necessary if it's an old classic style (budo) cycle. Head injuries happen only when riding a mountain bike.
- A city (rather country) where a corrupt politician after serving his term is grandly welcomed with garlands and is also given a huge compensation by the government.
- A city that produces thousands of doctors and nurses every year but still people die of simple diseases like diarrhea just a few kms away from Kathmandu.
- A city that lies in one of the most earthquake prone areas but still has multi-storeyed buildings everywhere.
- A city where there is traffic jam even when vehicles are moving and even when the vehicles are 'not' moving.
- A city (country) where people think INDIA is bad but everything "Made in India" is good and CHINA is good but everything "Made in China" is bad.
- A city (country) where the development of the nation is exponentially inversely proportional to the number of international development agencies present.
- A city where men mind doing their own dishes but don't mind doing other's dishes when they reach the US.

The Cookie Jar

Going through the kitchen cabinet, I once found a Horlicks (glass) bottle which is about 20 years old. It's still there in my house and practically being used by my mom to stores stuffs like biscuits, dalmot, legumes and what not. It's an antique piece but not practically has an antique value because it's still being used.

My father's an environmentalist. Probably the first environmental engineer in Nepal. He always tells a story about two dictionaries, one which he owned during his school days which didn't have the word #ENVIRONMENT in it and another one which is a more recent one which has the sacred word listed. All he's trying to say is that when he chose Environment as his subject of interest during his masters in the US of A, people here in Nepal didn't know people were studying it as a subject. And yes the way he tells it is much more interesting.

So what's the relation between my mom, the Horlicks bottle and the Environmentalist, my dad?

Well my Dad read all the fat books, came back to Nepal and made quite a few reforms in the environmental section which not only me but the whole of Nepal should be thankful for. Like the green sticker on cars, the Environmental Protection Act and the Environmental Protection Rules, which were the first set of policies developed in the field of Environment in Nepal. And then the latest being the Okharpauwa landfill site project. Yes I want the world to know that my DAD did all these great things.

Now coming back to my mom and the Horlicks bottle. My mom used that Horlicks bottle for 20 years. And one fine day it just dawned upon me as to how many "Plastic jars" were avoided by that one single Horlicks bottle? We as new age kids always criticized our moms and aunts and grandmas about how they were old fashioned and how they kept everything safe for future use? We thought it was cheap? But now I'm no more ashamed of it as I myself have also grown to be a conservationist and I finally realize that it actually STARTS FROM YOUR HOME.

Mother dear collects all milk plastics pouches, rinses it with water and keeps it safe. I realized that they could be donated to the Municipal office and they would reuse or recycle it. Mom usually uses newspapers as shelf coverings in kitchen cabinets. Easy to use, cheap and environmentally safe. She washes vegetables in a seperate bucket and then uses that water to water the plants outside. She collects all #POLYTHENE bags, the most dangerous of them all, and barters it with a vegetable vendor for some chillies or corriander. She diligently uses the compost bin to throw away all the organic waste. She collects each and every piece of plastic carefully to know if it can be recycled and collected by the "kabaadi wala". All in all, practically my mom has been helping the environment in so many ways. And when I compare, it's almost equal or sometimes even more than what my old man does.

I've always been familiar with the three R's of environmentalism. #Reduce, #Reuse, #Recycle. But refusing to use plastics, refusing to give in to social pressure or status demands, refusing to move away from what you believe is what is important. And hence today I add one more R. #REFUSE.

My Brutal Empathy ???

Yes, that's the most circulated picture over internet at the moment. But you'll ask me who's the child in the picture below it?
Well that's my SON. I morphed my son's face on the picture just to actually feel it. It HURT but still I wanted to feel it. I wanted to feel the pain. Though I will never be able to feel the real pain of his parents (i.e., if they are alive).
And the reason I come up with this post is to vent out my frustration and anger towards what the world is going through.
Recently I had a discussion with an Indian friend who was hell bent towards the destruction of Pakistan because he thinks it's wise enough to think likewise when Pakistanis think about the "Barbaadi of India". My bottomline to him was nothing but an old adage that says, "an eye for an eye will make the whole world blind".
Coming back to the picture, it's been framed on my mind since the day the previous picture of a Syrian refugee child swept at a shore surfaced. And then after about a year from that incident, this picture appears. And this time I couldn't take it anymore.
All I thought then and now was I could see my own son's face superimposed on that victim's face. Later the news spread that one of his brothers actually died and he survived. I worry about where this kid must be staying, where his parent's must be, what is he going to do now? Will he grow up to be more angry than the ones who did this to him? Is his anger going to fuel a negative spiral of war and hatred further? Or is there a way to subside his anger and instead make him an angel of peace?
The question remains and it troubles me. And still I fear, should it happen to my world and my family and my loved ones be the victim.
Bottom line: Hate breeds hate. It's got to STOP. Hope this post helps to spread the message, and change their thoughts, even if it's a few like my Indian friend.

Technicality of Profanity

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this story are absolutely personal and doesn’t necessary motivate anyone in the audience to practice what I say in the next 10 or so minutes.

Bottom line: Please don’t try this at home and become a foul mouthed son of a bitch.

But yes I’d surely appreciate if it is able to change the mindset of some people.

Hello everyone. I’m Kashyap Shakya and am here to tell you a story about the “Technicality of Profanity”.

So once upon a time in 1998 I went to pursue engineering at Kamla Nehru Institute of Technology (KNIT) a.k.a. “Kala Naag In Trousers”. The story starts from the very parody name of the institute. I along with other two “baklols” joined the institute about a month late as we were state nominated students from Sikkim.
The first scene going around the college to complete the formalities of admission were some groups of students moving around predominantly in white shirt and grey pants, very short hair fully oiled with head held low (which was actually called the third button meaning you’re supposed to stare at the third button of your shirt at all times).
And in some places you could see people doing the sit ups and in some places you could see some students literally worshiping a tree.
A while later my dad, who’d done his engineering from Patna, explained to me that this was all part of 'Ragging'.
Anyways we got admitted and unfortunately we were put up in the 3^rd year hostel. Now being a fresher and putting up in the 3^rd year hostel is like admitting a 3 year old to a ghost house. Because the 3^rd year is the most notorious and the most jinxed phase of engineering.
So then things went on and for the first time we entered the first year hostel and again there was the mandatory regular ragging going on with seniors all around. You could see people running around with underwears on top of their pants. They called it the Phantom.
But in a few days what actually got my attention was the swearing and the cursing that was going around. And everyone taking it so lightly. You could hear words like Madarchod, bahanchod, saala Bakchod, bhosadike, teri maa ki … and all sorts of obscenities that you could think of.
And the first time anyone said those words to me, I was ENRAGED, PISSED OFF AND REALLY REALLY ANGRY. To the extent that I was almost on the verge of a fist fight with a senior, who was a local there. I was 1000’s of miles away from home and that could have landed me in a serious serious problem. I could have been bashed up to a pulp. But somehow I kept my calm.
During this time there were a few seniors who were observing me. They were from the northern part of UP, now called the Uttarakhand. They came to me and told me to come to their room. The rest of the guys around me went silent. That was actually a ROOM CALL. A room call meant there was something drastic going to happen. During room calls some guys were made to strip butt naked, some were made to eat a condom and some were made to sit in mid air for hours.
Now this was tension. But anyways I went to their room. There were 3 or 4 in the room. It was hot like hell. Like around 49 degrees. The room smelt of sweat mixed with really rotten socks mixed with some alcohol mixed with some dead rat mixed with some puke and what not.
So one of the seniors started off with something like, “tereko bahut ghussa ata hai, nai? Tere ko gaali nahin pachti?" And then he made me swear to the rotating ceiling fan for almost 15 minutes with the worst words I could come up with. I tried my best. And after being disappointed, one of them gave me a demo of how it is done. This time I was not enraged because we were swearing at the fan.
And now came the major turning point. The senior comes and tries to calm me down and gives me a FUNDA. A mantra I’ve carried from then on.
He tells me, “dekh beta, ye ek technical college hai. Yahan pe jo hota hai sab technical hai. Aur jo gaali chalta hai yahan, who bhi technical hai.” Now I was a bit confused. And then he starts explaining to me what is so technical about everything in an engineering college.
Literally there was the technical intro, technical aarti, technical namaz and everything else was technical.
So he explains to me about the technicality of the GAALI. He tells me, "see if someone calls you a madarchod, then he actually means your technical mother, if someone calls you behenchod then he’s actually referring to your technical sister, if he calls you betichod, he’s referring to your technical daughter and so on.
And who were these technical people? Technical mother = female senior from the college, technical sister = your female batchmates, technical beti = your female junior, technical father = your male senior.
I was hit so hard by this philosophy. Yes philosophy. From generations to generations the students had evolved to make up this ecosystem in such a way that balance was maintained perfectly irrespective of caste, creed, age, seniority, geography etc. That was the perfect route to HARMONY.
I was so so relieved. It was like cutting the thread of a gas filled balloon and letting it go. Or like having a bottle of soda and burping loud. It was so satisfying to understand that. The veil that was shadowing my perception was completely fallen and now I could see clearly. My clouded mind was cleared. And then I lived for four years happily ever after swearing and cursing.
I literally became one of the best foul mouthed son of a bitch throughout my four years to the extent that even the locals would feel competition in front of me.
The basic moral still didn’t come right away. I realized quite later that if only the whole world or even just our nation for a while, considered this philosophy of looking at things from a different perspective and different dimension, would it help to bring at least some amount of peace in the society? Like someone comes and says Fuck you and you say Thank you. And I’ve carried that in my mind all along and have learnt to take such things lightly. Nowadays I’m enraged by not the swearing and the cursing but other unjust and anti-social activities happening around me.
And I’d just like to add on to this story. Being brought up in a Newari family, swearing with words like Mampaga is very common. Like we use it in our home without any reservations. Sometimes my mom shows a bit of dissatisfaction but again it’s ok. And I’ve been notoriously famous for teaching such words to all my cousin’s kids. You can imagine 3 year olds going around shouting Mampaga when guests are there. Honestly, it’s very very cute.
And I’ve been trying to teach the same to my two year old. But god’s punishment comes in different ways. He JUST DOESN’T SAY IT. And I’m so disappointed. I would like to capture a video of him saying Mampaga and show it to him when he grows up but NO. He just wouldn’t say it. And finally I’d like to say that my crusade is still on hoping that my prodigal son will spell out that magic word one of these days and I’ll capture it and flaunt it out on facebook.

Also check out the video of my talk at StoryYellers at https://youtu.be/_dr1ViIO1bQ

Image Source: Internet

The Elephant Tooth

“What? You’ve got ivory products? Isn’t it illegal to own them?” he asked. “Yes it is brother, but it’s been with our family for quite some time. Since the time when dealing in ivory products were legal”, she said. “Wow”, he gasped. Puja understanding the amazement of her cousin and his taste in antique stuffs offered to provide him a piece of an artifact to which he was absolutely obliged. He wanted to pay but she refused. For her it was just one small piece among hundreds lying around. That night he couldn’t sleep. The artifact made up of genuine ivory. The excitement of owning something rare and illegal gripped him with excitement. That whole night he dreamt about everything ivory. From statues, to sculptures of naked women to even a whole life sized elephant made up of ivory. The dreams were unrealistic and the situations in which he got those artifacts made no sense with the real life scenarios. In one of his dreams he was literally riding an elephant made up of ivory, like some god, with people around bowing down to him. That must have been the feeling of superiority of owning something rare being reflected that ways. So two days after that Puja called him and told him that she’d finally got the piece after going through all the stuffs. Some were pretty big enough and had a huge price in the market. She didn’t want to give those not because of the price but because that could land her and her family in trouble. So she had chosen one piece she liked very much and thought he would value much. And in the evening when they both met, she carefully took out a small piece of paper in which the ivory piece was wrapped quite carelessly. She opened it. He actually couldn’t make out what it was. It struck him only when he took it in his hands and watched carefully for almost five to seven minutes. His face changed. Seemed like he was angry, or sad or just plain unhappy or dissatisfied. He actually couldn’t tell. Puja, knowing her cousin well, asked him, “What’s wrong dai? You didn’t like it? Is it too small? If so I can get you something bigger”. To which he replied, “No sis. Absolutely not. I will definitely accept this piece and I love it. But I hate it even more. I love it simply because it’s ivory. But I now I hate it even more and will hate every other piece of ivory item from now on.” Puja was surprised and obviously confused. “What do you mean, Ka-dai?” “Puja do you realize what this is?”

“Yes I do realize. It’s a GANESH”, she said casually.

P.S. This is a short story based on my real life experience but slightly dramatized. And the image used in this blog is the actual Ivory Ganesh, I'm talking about.

Bhaiya Moongfali...

Life in KNIT was wierd and the people... WIERDER. This guy was one of them. Wierd but someone who you'd never forget till you lived.

The first wierd things about the place Sultanpur, and the people started off with their names.

The places were named like Kudebhaar (a hill of garbage), ganda naala (dirty drain), thandi galli (cold street) which was the name of the red light area and so on.

And the people were named like Jaalim (the guy who brought milk), Dildar (the dhobi), Jhagdu (the rickshaw guy) and of course Majnu (the walking talking supermarket, the postman, the 007).

The walking talking supermarket - This guy used to come with a bag full of goodies (biscuits, bhujia and the lots) and knock on every door.

The Postman - He was one of the only MALE species allowed within the Red Walls of the Girls Hostel. And it was obvious that he was used to smuggle contraband (such as greeting cards and small gifts) across the border.

007 - Since he was the only guy who could enter without any id's within the Red Walls, guys used to ask him a lot of questions. And sometimes he even exaggerated enough to add to people's excitement. He'd learnt the way of the boys.

But all in all a simple man with a simple soul who made a living selling simple stuffs to people who'd later become very very complicated. And he continued to do so till one day his good soul left his not so good mortal body.

I wish him all the best and hope that he'll be born an even better person in his new life.

Fatherhood

Yes it's selfish enough to be not mentioning it as "Parenthood" instead of fatherhood because it's a joint effort of me the 'newly born father' and the 'newly born mother' - my wife.

But it's again very personal enough to be writing about fatherhood than a mixed generalized view that is parenthood. I honestly cannot feel the motherhood because as I look at it, it feels much greater than my own tiny efforts starting from the very conception to giving birth to bringing up a child, starting from the very day my wife's pregnancy test came positive.

So what's this fatherhood all about?

Well the first thought that struck me holding my son for the first time was "now a father is born". I was more scared about grooming myself as a good father than my son growing up to be a good person because ultimately my son's well being is resultant of how good I succeed as a father.

The beginning of fatherhood starts with some so called 'sacrifices'. Late night football matches, movies, loud music, parties and so on. You may think you have to sacrifice these the day you get married but you can fight for it with your wife. But now, not with your child.

But the interesting part is the love of doing the diapers and the milk bottles for all that you've sacrificed and that's why I don't feel like it's sacrifice. I'd do that again and again and again any given day. It's difficult to explain to someone who's not a father yet. ABSOLUTELY NOT POSSIBLE.

Then comes the personality change part. Now you're no more who you were. You are a changed person. And it takes a keen eye to realize that. I mean the eyes of a third person. Only THEY can come and tell you that you've changed. Then there may be a weird instance when YOU realize that you've changed. Once in a while you'll realize yourself dancing alone in the room to amaze the little one and you don't feel stupid at all.

Then comes the insecurity part. I realized that I was getting jealous when my son showed some affection towards someone else. Even my wife and his mom. It's obvious for a son or any child to be more close to the mum than the pop. But no matter what it makes you spit green. And you do make those futile attempts, sometimes escalating to the level of kidnapping your own child and keeping him away from his mum, so that he is closer to you. But the bottom line is "It doesn't work".

The obsession part. I realized that I have pictures of me and my son or just my son everywhere. The mobile wallpaper, FB profile picture, the desktop wallpaper and even the windows profile picture and the social media posts. My gallery is just filled up with my son's pictures and I don't get tired looking at them again and again.

The fear of growing. Since I have just one kid and the second one may not be a possibility, I fear that he's growing so fast. What am I gonna do when he's all grown and not at all cute and when he's not spelling out new words everyday or nagging me to wrestle with him every night before sleep? If only God could keep him the way he is right now. But that's not going to happen.

So, well this write up will never end because there are new things happening that are worth mentioning even while I'm typing. But at least I want people to know about it through my experiences about what it's like to be a parent. It's AMAZING.

And I've got my own things planned out throughout his growth. Just hope that he'll enjoy accompanying me and my wife (nearly forgot) in these adventures to come.

Only when you become a FATHER can you call yourself a COMPLETE MAN.

Art of Giving

Each of this silver vessel was given to me, my brother and my sister as birthday gifts by our parents. The thought behind it was that of my mom.
On my last birthday, the 36th, I was fumbling with my gift to open it up. To my surprise it was this silver vessel.
The significance of this silver vessel is that during the times of Buddha, the great one along with his disciples used to go around town asking for alms with such a bowl (not necessarily of silver) and would come back and consume whatever was put in it. They never begged or demanded for anything and never rejected anything given to them.
And with the spread of the Buddhist philosophy, the believers have been using this bowl, named as 'Patra' or 'Golpa' to give alms to the monks.
Now after having explained about what this bowl technically stands for, I come back to the day I got it as a gift from my parents. After I opened it up and had this bowl in my hand it just enlightened upon me that this was one of the greatest gifts that my mom had ever given me. Birthdays gifts usually consist of materialistic stuffs which people like to consume for themselves. But this wasn't something I could consume. Even the consumption of this gift meant 'giving to others'. Whenever I would take it out, it would be for the purpose of giving and it would benefit someone else. It could be a monk or a normal human being.
And one would definitely ask, why does it have to be of silver and so costly? It's another revelation for me. It gave me a sense of understanding that even the most precious of materialistic things can transcend their cosmetic purpose and be used for something more worthwhile. Definitely I'm never going to remake it into a jewellery item or sell it for money. It will only pass on from generation to generation along with the 'Sanskar' of the 'Art of Giving'.
And though I'd been thinking about putting these thoughts of mine into words, today seemed to be the most appropriate. The day of the "Pancha Mahadaan" when everyone in Lalitpur come out of their homes and give five things of basic needs to whoever comes to their door.
My mom proudly took this out today morning and I could feel the excitement in her face that she'd be GIVING today with this silver bowl. And to add to it, her grandson, Arahanta will be accompanying her. And though I won't be there to do the honors, I'm at least happy that the 'Sanskar' is being passed on.
Lastly I thank my late grandmom and my family to have not only maintained and practiced her teachings but also to have enhanced it to a great level in continuing with this culture of the "Art of Giving".

Bhawatu Sabba Mangalam