Views of a Nepali Economist

.
A few years ago, the Pahade-Madhesi riots were everywhere in Nepal. People in the hills were beating up the "madhesi" people. People in the terai were beating up "pahade" people. Quite a few people died in those riots. I was not in Nepal, but I did not like what was happening in Nepal. However, there was not much I could do. So, I wrote the following story. Bear in mind that it is over three years old.

A much shorter version of this story was published in The Kathmandu Post last year.


There was nothing special about this day. The sun rose like any other day. The birds chirped on their way to finding the early worms just like any other day.

Children stood at the bus-stops in the nippy morning, arms folded as if to conceal themselves away from the cold, legs shuddering because of the icy morning breeze, hands clasped together as if that would make them warmer, shirts nicely tucked, sweaters over the shirts washed, and hair neatly combed, just like any other day.

****************************************************************

“Dude, they should have thought before doing so, no?” Kapil asks non-chalantly.

“I don’t know man” I reply with frustration after being asked the same question every single day of his school life.

“But it’s a girl’s name—Resham—no?” Kapil asks the same question again, the umpteenth time he’s done so.

“I don’t know” I answer for the umpteenth time.

“But then again, ‘Reshma’ is a girl’s name. So ‘Resham’ could be a boy’s name, because ‘Reshma’ is a girl’s name. No?” Kapil goes in circles trying to find a logical sense in my name.

“Seriously, I don’t care anymore. Everyone’s used to my name. So I don’t care anymore if it’s a boy or a girl name. Let’s go; I’m hungry” I change the topic.

“Where do you want to go? Let’s go to that chatpate-walah.” Kapil proposes.

“Didn’t we just go there yesterday” I ask.

“Yeah. So? He makes good chatpate.”

“Let’s eat samosas today. I’ve had enough chatpate yesterday.”

“Come on, man. Let’s go for chatpate, and I’ll buy you some panipuri.”

“No, man. Let’s eat samosas today, and we’ll eat chatpate tomorrow again. Is that okay?”

“Works for me” Kapil sighs.

**************************************************************

“Shivnaraine’s Samosa Pasal” the sign says. It’s more like a hut with some hay straws acting as walls, the floor is pure mud. To be honest, I don’t think there’s even a floor; the floor is just the ground on which the meek structure for his “pasal” was built. The roof is thatched, and the rain pours inside if it’s the monsoon season.

We stoop underneath the doorway to get into the pasal. For some unknown reason, Shivnaraine’s Samosa Pasal has a door that is only five feet tall. Every single person walking into the pasal has to stoop to get in.

Shivnaraine is a thin man. He must be around five feet eight, and close to fifty-five kilos. Because of his thin build-up, he looks taller than he actually is; people often mistaken him for being six feet tall. Thin arms, thin legs, sunken cheek, short crew-cut grey hair, dark skin, and two missing teeth on the inner bottom right side of his mouth. That’s Shivnaraine. Nobody knows what his last name is.

“Nepali kahilinus hajur. Shivnaraine Nepali kahilinus” is how he answers every time someone asks him for his last name.

Despite his seemingly unending poverty, he always looks happy. He haggles with customers who don’t want to pay three rupees for a samosa. “Samosa ma aalu matra halyo bhane quality bhayena bhanne. Ani badaam, bhatmaas, kaaju, kismis halyo bhane pheri mahango bhayo bhanera bhani-liney. Ta ma ke garum?” he yells at customers who refused to pay the full price. Yet, if that very customer came to his pasal the next day, he would serve him with a smile.

“O Shivnaraine Nepali, dui plate samosa yaha…jhattai la jhattai” Kapil barks orders at Shivnaraine as soon as we stoop and enter the pasal.

“Basdai garnus Kapil babu” Shivnaraine stretches his mouth wide open with a smile.

“So, how did you do in Optional Maths?” Kapil turns to me.

“Not bad. Could not figure out the answer to three of the coordinate geometry questions at the end.” I say.

“So you didn’t do them?”

“I did. But I’m sure I just bluffed. I’m not getting any marks for those three questions.”

“Yeah, I got all the coordinate geometry problems right. I could not do some trigonometry problems.”

“That’s because you focused too much on coordinate and not on trig.”

“That’s true”

We see Shivnaraine walking towards us with two plates of samosas. His smile grows wider and wider with each step he takes towards us.

“babuharu ko padhai wadhai sakiyechha ki aaja ko lagi?” He asks as he puts the two plates on our table. He pulls the red “gamchha” that’s been around his neck all day, and wipes our table. He lifts one of our plates and wipes the portion of the table underneath, and does the same for another plate. I wonder how many times throughout the day he’s cleaned tables with that gamchha, and I ask myself why does he keep that filthy cloth around his neck.

“Aru kehi khaane ho babuharu? Resham babu, laalmohan khaane ho ki?” he turns to me and asks.

“Aaja nakhaau holaa. Dui ota coke lyayi deu baru” I say.

“Ekaichhin ma bhayi halchha hajur” he says and leaves. He turns back midway through, and asks Kapil, “Kapil babu khaanu hunchha laalmohan?”

“Aaja khaadina hola” Kapil replies swiftly.

Shivnaraine turns back, and goes to fetch our samosas and coke.
*******************************************************************

I look outside from my window. It’s a sunny afternoon in the winter. Usually, I see Jeevan uncle drinking his usual afternoon tea from the street tea vendor Ramu. It’s like a ritual to both of them; Jeevan uncle drinking tea and having long, unending conversations with Ramu.

But today, Ramu is all by himself in the street making some tea.

“Resham babu…Jeevan sir lai kehi bhayi liyechha ki? Aaja ta cheeya khaana nai aaunu bhayi liyeko chhaina” Ramu yells towards my window from the street, asking me whether something happened to Jeevan uncle because he missed a morning tea appointment with him.

“Hoina Ramu. Jeevan uncle Birganj jaanu bhayeko chha.” I yell back at him from my window.

“Tyahi ta bhanchhu ma pani….aaja kina Jeevan sir cheeya khaana aaunu bhayena bhanera. Ta Birganj gayi linu bhayechha…..haina ta? Bijinis ma gayi linu bhayeko?” Ramu yells towards me again, with another question.

“Business ma gayeko hoina. Madhesi Mukti ko manchhe haru le Jeevan uncle ko bhai lai kidnap gareko chha re. Paisa magdai chhan re. Tyahi bhayera bhai lai chhuta-oona gayeko” I tell him the truth.

“Badaa naramro bhayi liyechha ta….madhesi haru le tyaso bhaye Jeevan sir ko bhai lai kidnip gari liyechhan” He repeats the things I said to him.

That’s one of his habits. Some people scold him for that. I’m indifferent.

Ramu is well-built, around five feet six, and seventy-five kilos. He is a keen businessman and takes his tea-vendor job seriously. He keeps himself clean, always has oiled and combed hair, a pencil-line mustache, and ironed shirt and pants. If I didn’t know he was a street tea-vendor, I would have guessed him to be a “thekdar” on a construction company. He is loud, boisterous, cheerful and cunning—all at the same time. I’ve seen him selling a cup of tea to a homeless man for one rupee, and to an office manager for seven rupees. It’s that nature of his business that fascinates me.

Ramu stands for a while doing nothing. I have known him for a while now, so I know that means he’s thinking. After standing there and wondering for a few minutes, he turns to me.

“Resham babu le cheeya khaayi linu bhayo ta aaja?” he asks.

“Ma diuso tira tyati cheeya khaanna” I answer back.

“Aba aaja Jeevan sir hunu hunna….tyahi bhayera aayi linus ek glass cheeya ko laagi….tapai ko laagi aaja mufat ma” he yells at me again.

“La ma aayi halchhu” I yell back.

I can’t refuse the tea offer. He makes a fine tea. I put on my flip-flops and walk out the door towards Ramu’s tea-cart.

“Eeskool kasto bhayi rahechha ta babu hajur ko?” Ramu begins a casual conversation.

“Thikai chha. Jaanch chali raheko chha ahile.” I answer casually.

As we keep chatting casually, we both see Kapil walking towards us.

“Kapil babu cheeya khanu hunchha?” Ramu asks him from a distance.

“Hunchha. Ek cup.” Kapil replies.

“Dui rupiya matra linchhu Kapil babu sanga ma” Ramu lets Kapil know his price.

“Hunchha” Kapil agrees. He then turns to me, and says, “Did you find out about Jeevan uncle?”

“Yeah, he’s in Birganj” I reply.

“Not only that. More.” Kapil says nervously.

“More what?” I ask.

“His brother, Kiran uncle….the Madhesi Mukti people killed him.” Kapil gives me the news.

“Kina maari liyechhan ta Kiran sir lai madhesi haru le?” Ramu asks Kapil.

“Khai…thaha bhayena…” Kapil answers him.

“Badaa naramro bhayechha” Ramu shakes his head, and keeps stirring the tea-pot.

Not knowing what to say next, both Kapil and I keep staring at the tea-pot. Ramu keeps stirring the pot, occasionally halting to add sugar. He lets the tea boil until it reaches the top of the pan, then he lifts it in the air and stirs it at the same time with the spoon. Eventually the tea is ready. He pours it into two glasses, and hands it to Kapil and me. We finish our tea, with occasional chat in between the sips.

Kapil reaches into his pocket and hands Ramu a two-rupee note. We both then thank him and walk away. After a few steps, Kapil turns to Ramu and asks, “Resham sanga chahi khoi paisa liyeko?”

“Resham babu le tapai aaunu bhanda agaadi nai paisa tiri saknu bhayi liyeko thiyo” Ramu tells Kapil.

Kapil says “A ho?” and we both walk towards my house.
*****************************************************************
It is late afternoon, early evening, and the birds are flying back towards their nests. People too. Some are walking, some pedaling, and some driving. The city street fills with people, each one marching towards his/her own nest. The sun sets in the horizon behind that hill, all orangey and reddish and yellowish…beautiful colors. The entire scene, from the city street to the panoramic hills creates a beautiful picture, almost like a landscape art.

I watch outside through my windows, biology book in hand, coffee cup in the other hand, a notebook on my lap, pencils and pens all around me. I can see Ramu, outside in the street, still making that delicious tea, for people of different occupation and social status.

That’s what he does, every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month and every year. He pulls his tea-trolley to that particular spot in the street across from my house, and makes tea for thousands of people walking that busy street.

The phone in the living room rings twice before my father, who until then is watching CNN on television gets off of the sofa and picks the phone up.

“Oh! Really. That is very sad, indeed.” I can hear him say from across the room.

He listens for a while to the person on the other end of the line, and lets another “Oh! Really. That is very sad, indeed.”

I walk out of my room, and enter the living room. My father is still on the phone, his face bearing a sense of loss and grief. Finally, he puts the phone down.

“The madhesis got Jeevan also” he turns to me and says.

“What do you mean they got Jeevan uncle?” I ask anxiously.

“They killed him too, just like they killed Kiran.” My father told me with sadness in his voice.

“But, Jeevan uncle was there to pay the kidnappers and free Kiran uncle. Weren’t they supposed to take the money and free Kiran uncle?”

“That was what was supposed to happen. But Jeevan did not go to Birganj with money.”

“I thought he went there with money to free Kiran uncle” I cannot understand what was happening.

“The Madhesi Mukti people asked for fifteen lakhs. Jeevan makes only 7000 rupees a month. How’s he supposed to get fifteen lakhs in a day to free his brother?” my father’s voice starts shuddering, as if almost crying.

“So, why did he go there then?” I wanted clarifications to Jeevan uncle’s visit to Birganj. If he did not have the money, what was he thinking going there.

“One of the Madhesi Mukti leaders is Jeevan’s good friend. They went to school together, gave their SLC together, and were even roommates when they were studying B.Com. in Mahendra Morang Campus in Biratnagar.”

“And Jeevan uncle thought he would help him free Kiran uncle” I understand what Jeevan uncle was thinking.

“Yes. When Jeevan’s college roommate tried to talk to the Madhesi Mukti people, they killed him, too.”

“You mean Jeevan uncle’s Madhesi Mukti friend was also killed? Why would the Madhesi Mukti people kill one of their own?” I ask.

“Yes. Poor fellow. He was only trying to help his college roommate.” My father sighs.

“Yeah” I whisper.

Both of us stand in that living room floor drenched in our own personal thoughts. Neither of us moves for the next few minutes. Finally, I grow tired of just standing there and saying nothing. So I leave the living room and enter my room. I have a big exam tomorrow. I have always had hard times memorizing biology stuff.

I can see my father from my room, still standing there in the living room floor, shaking his head to himself from time to time, not saying a word, staring at the ceiling now, and staring at the floor the next moment.
**************************************************************

I am flying in the air. But it’s not a plane. I am on a kite, flying and soaring high in the sky, alongside the birds flocking towards their unknown destination. I say to myself “how am I able to fly on a kite?” The human weight ratio should not allow me to do that. Am I defying gravity? Wow! That would be so cool!”

“Hey! Wake up? Did you hear what happened?” I hear Kapil say to me.

Kapil’s heavy-handed body shake wakes me up from my high-flying dream. I notice I am drenched in sweat.

“Why is it so hot in Poush?” I ask myself, and realizing Kapil’s presence I ask him, “Why? What happened?”

“Look out the window?” Kapil signals with his index finger.

I stand up from my bed, put on my flip-flops, let a long yawn with both my hands stretched as far back as I can from my chest, and look out from the window.

“What?” I ask Kapil after I don’t see anything.

“Don’t you see? Ramu is not there.” Kapil says.

“So? He must have gone home. What time is it? Nine o’clock?”

“No, it’s not nine o’clock. It’s only seven o’clock.”

“So? He could have gone home.”

“No, he always goes home after eight o’clock”

“Just tell me what you’re trying to say. I don’t have time for this quiz session.” I tell Kapil.

“Okay, here it goes. Now don’t quote me on this because I wasn’t here when it happened. But there was an anti-Madhesi riot at around six this evening. The rioters marched just in front of your house, and saw Ramu selling tea. So they beat him up, and he had to be taken to the hospital.” Kapil explains.

“So, he’s okay now, then?” I ask.

“Here’s the news. My dad just went to see him in the hospital, and he says Ramu’s dead because the rioters beat him on his head with cricket bats and stones.”

“Are you serious? They killed him?” I cannot believe Ramu’s dead.

“Yeah, man. This whole madhesi and pahade thing is starting to boil up. Pahade people have been beating madhesis here, and madhesis have been beating pahade people in the terai towns. It’s all in the news right now.” Kapil gives further details.

“Man, it sucks! That’s bad, man.” I can’t help showing my frustration.

“Also, you know what?” Kapil asks me again. I cannot wait to hear more details. But Ramu’s already dead. What more could Kapil tell me about Ramu.

“What” I ask.

“Those pahade rioters also attacked and burned the samosa pasal”

“What? Shivnaraine’s Samosa Pasal?” I cannot fathom my favorite hang-out place being destroyed and burned.

“Yeah, man. I just got the news from one of the guys who were eating there. The rioters did not even ask anyone inside to vacate the place. People were eating inside the pasal, and the rioters were hurling flames in the thatch roof at the same time. The whole place burned down.” Kapil now gives more details.

“How did all this happen so quickly? How long have I been sleeping? Six months?” I cannot believe the rapid turnout of events.

Just this morning we ate samosas at Shivnaraine’s and this evening I drank Ramu’s tea. And now Ramu is dead, and Shivnaraine’s place is destroyed.

“Did they do anything to Shivnaraine?” I ask with the realization that Shivnaraine could as well have suffered the same fate as Ramu.

“I don’t know. Let’s go check” Kapil suggests.

“That’s a good idea” I say and put on my shoes.
*************************************************************

Kapil and I walk quietly along the road. I don’t know what he’s thinking. But I’m thinking nothing. I don’t know what to think. It’s around eight o’clock now, and the streets are starting to get quieter. There’s only a bunch of people still negotiating and buying vegetables from the street vendors in the vegetable market. It’s not really a market, though. It’s a group of people selling vegetables along a busy city street.

“This should not happen to anyone, man.” I finally utter a sentence.

“What should not be happening?” Kapil doesn’t understand.

“This. Now, what’s that poor Shivnaraine supposed to do? How about Ramu? He’s not even alive anymore.”

“Shit happens” Kapil answers briefly.

“Yeah, but why does it happen always to the poor guys?” I ask with frustration.

“It didn’t happen to them because they’re poor. It happened to them because they were madhesis in a pahade neighborhood. That’s all. Wrong people at the wrong place at the wrong time” Kapil tries to bring sense into the discussion.

“You’re right.” I concur.

We reach Shivnaraine’s Samosa Pasal. The whole place is burned down to the ground. But I see Shivnaraine making samosas and puris in a two-stove oven that burns kerosene. The gentle breeze lifts the ash from the ground and pushes it gently towards the people eating on makeshift brick benches around the kerosene stove. Shivnaraine is busy serving five or six people around him.

“Shivnaraine, what happened here?” I unashamedly ask even after seeing the whole hut being burned down to the ground.

Shivnaraine looks at me, and then at Kapil and gives his big smile.

“Arree Resham babu and Kapil babu. Aaayi linus, ke khaanu hunchha? Samosa?” he asks us as if nothing has happened.

“Hunchha. Dui plate samosa banau na ta” I say.

“Pasal ta saaf bhayechha ni?” Kapil asks Shivnaraine.

“Ke garne hajur. Yo sab pahade madhesi bhanera jhagada suru bhayi liyechha ni. Ta kuchh pahade log haru aayera sabai gharai jalayi diyo.” Shivnaraine says with a bigger smile, as if he enjoyed the whole burning down thing.

“Pheri aayera kutla tyo manchhe haru le bhanerra darr lageko chhaina?” I ask him.

“Darr lagera ke garne hajur? Yaha yo sabai manchhe haru lai khaajaa banayera khwayena bhane ta mero ghar ma bachha haru lai pheri kasle palchha hajaur? Mero kamayi bhaneko yahi ho saab.” He explains in the simplest of tone.

“Tyo ta ho” I concur.

“Tara aba ta pasal nai chhaina ni. Ke garchhau?” Kapil asks Shivnaraine of his future plans.

“Yo ta jhan badhiya bhayo ni Kapil babu. Pasal jalera ta jhan badhiya bhayi liyechha yaha” Shivnaraine says with a smile.

“Pasal jalera jhan kasari ramro bhayo ra?” Kapil cannot understand.

“Aba baahira khula hawa ma tato tato samosa puri khaye pachhi pasina wasina pani aaudaina nit a saab hawa le garda. Ta jhan bijinis lai jhan ramro bhayechha aba” Shivnaraine keeps smiling.

“Haha. Sacho bhaneko ki jiskiyera bhaneko?” Kapil cannot seem to understand Shivnaraine’s logic.

“Ma tapai haru lai jhooth kina bolu saab. Aba ta jhan local municipality lai tax pani tirnu pardaina saab. Pasal nai nabhaye pachhi ke ko tax? Hoina ra saab?” He smiles again.

“Khoi timro kura timi nai jaana” Kapil doesn’t see the humor in Shivnaraine’s words.

“Saab haru lai coke pani lyayi diu ki, saab?” Shivnaraine looks at both of us and asks.

“Hunchha. Ek ek ota.” I say.

“Ekaichhin ma aauchha saab” he says and leaves to get our cokes.

Kapil keeps looking at Shivnaraine, not knowing how a man can stay smiling with his whole business burnt down to ashes. I keep staring at the different people eating around the burning stove. Shivnaraine is right; I don’t see any one of them sweating because of the hot food. They all seem happy and smiling in the gentle breeze that is blowing in the area.

Shivnaraine Nepali, still smiling even after everything he has is ruined to dust, still smiling with blood clots hanging in his right earlobe, a big cut in his forehead with dry blood covering the wound, the thumb in his left hand wrapped with a piece of cloth and a small bamboo twig because he probably broke it in the shuffle with the rioters, and still serving his customers with a limp in his left leg.

I stare at the sky. It’s a beautiful night. I can even count every single star in the sky if I want; the sky is that clear. I see the ash from the ground being raised into the air gently by the soft breeze. I see the moon, big and bright. I have always loved the dark spot on the moon. It’s that imperfection in its perfect surface that makes the moon beautiful. I compare the bright moon to the dark Shivnaraine. The dark spot on the white moon makes it beautiful. The smiling white teeth of the dark-skinned Shivnaraine makes him a good and humble human being. I say to myself, “they’re both the same, and, yet, they’re not”.

***************************************************

There was nothing special about this day. The sun rose like any other day. The birds chirped on their way to finding the early worms just like any other day.

Children stood at the bus-stops in the nippy morning, arms folded as if to conceal themselves away from the cold, legs shuddering because of the icy morning breeze, hands clasped together as if that would make them warmer, shirts nicely tucked, sweaters over the shirts washed, and hair neatly combed, just like any other day.

*************************THE END********************

Labels: riots, shivnaraine, story