A story of warmth.
The cold nights of Poush have a distinct sense of dread to them. Every year, this time around, I find it difficult to breathe in the sharp air; the air poses no warmth whatsoever and as it passes through my lungs I quiver. Mornings, I feel strangely depressed, finding it difficult to leave the warmth of my bed. My chores call me to their needs, and I gather what’s left of my motivation. Such winter days take a toll on my body over its span. I couldn’t wish more for the days to be shorter.
Sometimes I feel as though I have been left alone in Kathmandu to rot. You may wonder, ‘left alone?’. For I am afraid I have been the victim of a bad company, the acquaintances I had, have now left this city. What do I need acquaintances for? I know each street and alleyways around the nooks and corners of this city. I know each of the trees that grow below the bridges beside the Bagmati. Some, I have even named, there’s one below the Patan bridge which I call by the name of Jerusha. It is true I am not a stranger to Jerusha for she knows me more than a human could ever have. The flowers that grow out of her hair, as they gently fall into the river; they dance along the flow of the current. Jerusha with her pink, wets the riverbank with love and comfort; in her pink, I have always found warmth. The buildings, too, are familiar to me. When I pass by the street, they seem to tease me with their glossy eyes, reflecting glare from the sun, yawning with their windows open and curtains raised, “Hello! I say to them”, “It’s warm up here”, they say. “How lucky are these buildings to receive warmth in the horrid winter”, I say to myself. This winter was no different to me than the twenty winters before me. With time a human body grows accustomed to living in the extreme, yet the mind yearns for comfort. Perhaps that is why I promised myself to find a new acquaintance and befriend them this winter.
It was half past six as I sat for my breakfast. “Sir, your tea”, said the lady from the local tea shop. As I faced her, I took hold of the warm cup in a gentle manner.
“Thank you”, I said, smiling. In an attempt to comfort myself from the silence that lived after the exchange, I queried, “Didi! 15 rupees, right?”
“Yes bhai, 15 rupees”. The lady wasn’t facing me anymore, she had other customers to attend to. The next five minutes I kept silent as I sipped my tea, taking in the warmth. I said to myself, the next person I talk to, I will surely make an acquaintance of. When I left the tea shop, the sun had just come out, and the vehicles had started to surface on the asphalt. The empty seat on many a scooter felt as though it were for me.
Hidden beneath the clouds, the sun was shy in the afternoon. By then I had found my way to the busy street of Boudha. People seemed occupied with their rituals around the amenities of the stupa. The children were playing a game of tag; laughing and giggling as they attempted to ace the game. “I touched you already”, said one of the boys, panting to catch his breath.
“No, you didn’t!”, said another, running away, “I am way faster than you”.
“Don’t play jhelii”, yelled one of the girls, from beside a burning diyos., “I saw you being tagged”.
“Liar! Liar!”, yelled the boy back. I stood there, smiling; with memories of my Apu and Ravi who were the first of my friends. The passing of time found its way to weather our friendship, as I was left alone in this city when Apu and Ravi went abroad for study. Having finished my thought process, I lapsed out from the silence. I remembered how I wished terribly that I made a friend.
“You saw him cheat”, cried the little girl, as she pulled my sweater, “Tell him that!” Her innocent eyes burned with hope that I would do her justice. Before I could start speaking the other boy rushed in, “No, I didn’t cheat”. “I touched his jacket”, exclaimed the boy. In the entirety of the day, I had most out of the conversation from a couple of children. I was unsure of who was right, as the surroundings of Boudha was captivating in itself, distracting me from my thought process countless times.
“I am sorry”, I said looking at the doe eyes of the kids, “I couldn’t tell”. They went with a frown in their face to play a new game of tag. The exchange in itself had made me a little more human than I was in the morning.
The evening came sooner; the sun was out from the clouds, glowing red as it was about to leave. I found myself in the banks of Pashupati hoping I would find comfort in the gathering of families praying for the peace of the dead. The rituals of the evening have always found a way to offer warmth to me, freeing me of my worries. People had gathered around wearing shawls, some faintly crying, some wailing. There is something indescribably moving in the nature of Pashupatinath, suddenly with the coming of night she reveals herself in all her glory, rhyming with cries and in return offering peace, as she blossoms out with the countless dagbattis and kriyas, covered in garlands of flower on her bank.
A little distance away, leaning against the railing over the river of Bagmati, a woman was standing with her elbows on the rail; she seemed to be engrossed in looking at the burning of a cadaver. I went to stand beside her, “Someone you know?”, I faintly expressed.
“Huh?” she looked at me in disbelief, “Someone I knew!”.
“Yes, ofcourse!”, I replied. “How did you know them?”
“That’s my friend”, she replied, pondering at the river below. A brief moment of silence followed the exchange. The bells chimed in unison welcoming the head pandit onto the bank of the river. The ringing was accompanied with the choirs from the Shiva temple.
“And I have lost mine”, I said to the lady beside me, glancing at her wet eyes.
Her eyes would moisten the warmth in her face, as the stream of tears poured below. The river was burning red from the reflections of the countless pyre and in its ripples my face mirrored. The ripples moved along, coming to a halt as they reached the bank. The calmness was disturbed as the tears of the girl found its way into the river. I gently extended my arm, offering her a hug and in the warm embrace I hope she found a home. But how beautiful people can be when they are sad! How much their hearts wait to be filled with love. There was so much joy in her embrace, so much home in her heart towards me. Oh, how comforting can someone be when they see others sad! And I? I had found a home too.
*jhelli- (informal)to cheat in a game; used by kids
*diyos- a small clay molding to hold fire
*dagbattis- a ceremonial burning of cotton, based on principle of lantern
*kriya- an act of mourning the dead
*dagbattis- a ceremonial fire for the dead
*pandit- a priest in Hindu culture
