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Madhesh blues

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  The Constitution of Nepal has ensured reservation to deprived groups, women, Madhesis, indigenous people and the needy ones. How many Chepangs, Rautes, Muslims, Musahars, Rajbanshis have benefited? In the autumn of 2006, after the spring revolution in Nepal, this writer was in Saptari’s Nepal-India border region; the landscape was smoky, virtually due to haze or sometimes like an isolated barren village portrayed in some 16th century fairy tales, symbolic though truest, chaotic and restive, scary and barren because seemingly life seemed not to exist. People smoked some ‘bidi’ [local cigarette] or rolled ‘khaini’ to keep themselves awake from the burning heat of day time, or even if they were yawning or taking naps, they inhaled khaini. Small Mithila single storied chalets were fuming early morning and early evening. I tried to go inside with my head bowed down, it was more occupied with smoke rather than human presence with dozens of people inside, and the ladies became more atte...
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The Tunnel is Mine

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  (By Dipendra Gautam, the poem was written by me in 1880 before reincarnation) Every morning since I owned a Volkswagen I would commute the same route Follow the same tunnel Fallow my time thinking of my big head and dimming the incoming light Falter the savvy apartheid Furlough is what I would expect dawn to dusk It was the year 1840. ** In the spring of 1840 Savvy breezes tantalize me Spring has sprung I did not care about all the flowers I did not care about all the birds who sang for me In my backyard, stayed a robin redbreast Her sonnets blasé me She yells at me to go out I loved my Volkswagen Lambo, Ferrari, and many more were to follow The tunnel was mine! Cause, every day everyone was passing through it I sat down in an ominous morning 'CHANGE' remained a daydream throughout the tea break Cause, my Volkswagen was the first to pass-through Straight through to the tunnel ** There came another spring Bloomed and faded Seasons and seasonings Beacons and the birds Music and...
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Home

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As I peddled through the bumpy, gravelly road disfigured by potholes, towards the northern fringes of the plains, my bike stumbled upon an enigma. As the sun went down and the wind gushed through, a fragrance from the lush paddy fields wafted in the air.  My bike, which was perfect for my height and weighed only one-tenth of my weight, was branded ‘Chaudhary’s’ on its back. There’s more imagination to cycling than one imagines, there’s more freedom to it than just the air that one feels against their face. The thriftiness of the two-wheeler comes with its own cheap thrills.  ** I would often stop for a couple of Bhakka , steamed snack prepared with fresh rice flour—a typical eastern Nepal delicacy, at one local shop. I would then walk towards the bridge, take a seat in the open green grass and then return with the golden dusk facing against me. It was a routine that kept me connected to my roots. But there was something atypical about this particular day. I had to wait longer ...
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