Kathmandu was not quite the city I’d imagined it to be...
Jane Wilson-Howarth’s novel, weaves an introspective tale of self-realisation and cultural exploration with an epic travel narrative, connecting Cambridge countryside to Nepal.
By Jane Wilson-Howarth Publisher: Speaking Tiger Publishing Pvt. Ltd. Pages: 296 Price: Rs 399
Sonia
The man sitting beside me on the bus turned around with an uncertain smile. Was I talking to myself again? This Wreck-Raj Dickshit (could that really be his name?) had met me off the plane. He had saved me. I had completely lost my nerve when I saw that seething mass of people outside the terminal building. It felt as if most of them were looking at me. Everything was so strange and scary that I wanted to get straight back on the plane. Suddenly I needed bland, grey, anonymous, familiar old England.
My fine-boned, graceful, self-assured, cultured and unbelievably handsome saviour stood out from the mass of heaving bodies. He rescued and then guided me through the smelly oppressive throng. He wore a dark, perfectly pressed English-style suit, tasteful tie, a colourful little cloth hat, sunglasses and a carefully shaped moustache. He looked about twenty- five E NC MA RO but he may have been older; I often
underestimate the age of short men. Quickly, we escaped all the pushing and shoving and reached the sanctuary of a disintegrating taxi in a litter-strewn car park.
I was thankful that we hadn’t needed to spend long in Kathmandu. It was busy and congested — not at all as I’d imagined. It was not a good place to unwind. We did a cursory look around a couple of temples and then caught a bus that WreckRaj said would take us to somewhere that sounded like “Poke-her-err”. This was Nepal’s second city and he had arranged to meet a colleague for a short time. We’d relax there overnight, he said. Then there would be an onward journey — so it would be perhaps twenty hours travelling in all.
I settled myself on the bus. The seats were quite sticky. I was quite sticky as well but this trip was going to be my stepping stone back to my old life. No, not my old life — I was heading for a better life. Once I’d recovered my self-respect at this Nepalese Teacher Training College, I’d go exploring. I was going to find out about my dad’s ancestors. My greatgrandfather and also a great-great-greatgrandfather had
both lived in the subcontinent — during two different wars.
Unexpectedly, that foreign phrase, “Cutty budge hay”, came into my head. It was something my great-grandfather used to say. He called it his mantra and it had been adopted into our otherwise dull, suburban family vocabulary. He’d been in north India during the Second World War and was convinced the words had kept him safe. He believed that they were connected to some kind of mysterious force. I was sure they Sometimes, you do not write your story, it writes you. You don’t choose your story, it chooses you. But would you believe it if someone told you, ‘This is Not Your Story’? Would you have the courage to rewrite it? Shaurya, a CA student. This is his story of following his dreams. Miraya, an interior designer. This is her story of believing in love. Anubhav, an aspiring entrepreneur. This is his story of giving life another chance. would keep me safe too.
Surely those magical words and the ancient amulet will protect me from dysentery and cholera, rape and robbery, malaria and mugging. Maybe, somehow, I’ll use them to get my life back.
I checked the duty- free package at my feet. I rummaged in my bag for my phone. I pulled out my smog mask, my rehydrating spray, migraine pills, guidebook and a slightly used tissue. Several other things fell on the floor, including, embarrassingly, my diazepam tablets and sleeping pills.
Our heads collided as we both leaned down to pick up my stuff.
“Oh, err sorry…Mr…” I felt terribly insecure about how I should address my guide. Had I misheard his name? Or was Wreck some kind of Nepalese title? Would it be all right to call him something like Raji? I certainly couldn’t bring myself to call him Mr Dickshit.
Finally, my hand closed around my phone. A couple of ‘good luck’ texts had come up. That was nice. I replied. I wanted my texts to communicate how exotic our clapped- out bus was, but I’m sure I failed to inspire. I haven’t inspired anyone for years.
Rekraj
What a strange task has been allotted to me. My bigshot cousin from Kathmandu suggested this duty. He said that mixing with foreigners would be good for me — an education — as well as politically advantageous.
He had opined thus but I have no interest in foreigners. The young ones are shallow and uncultivated. They understand nothing about Nepal and they are ignorant about our heritage. They think our culture is ganja and gongs — and sex also. These foreigners have no knowledge of duty and loyalty and honour and how everyone must give to the poor. They think of themselves only. They do not care about the
gods or their families. They do not respect the wisdom of old people. How will mixing with them enhance my reputation?
Nevertheless, I go to meet this memsahib at Tribhuvan International Airport. There is a great press of people. So many people. I check if my moustache is neat, and smooth down my hair with spit. I also rub my shoes on the backs of my trousers to polish away the dust. I step forward a little nervously, clear my throat and say, “Missus Swine, Madam, please?”
She turns towards my voice but looks over my head. She is lost and frightened, like a child. I know I must help her but she turns back towards the building.
I repeat louder, “Missus Swine, Madam? Yes? It is your goodself, please?”
She spins around. Finally, she sees me.
“Yes, I am Sonia Swayne.” She smiles uncertainly as I salute her.
“Welcome, welcome. You, Madam, are most welcome to Nepal!” Now the policeman with bad teeth and a baton for beating people allows me to step forward. I want to greet her properly although it makes me feel shy and uncomfortable when she reaches out to shake me by the hand.
“I, Madam, am Rekraj Dickshit — at your service.” I bow, as is correct in such circumstances. She is more beautiful than her photograph. “Come, let us go, Madam.” I lead her away from all the illmannered unwashed people. “The car is backside please. This way come, Madam.”
I see then that she is a mature lady but nice and fat. She has a small, small scar on her forehead. She is pleasing to look at, and polite. It is obvious that she has been ill, and that the scar is new. Frequently, she pulls her hair over it. She seems ashamed. She wants to hide it. It is my idea that her
husband is a violent drunkard and she is running from him. I feel sorry for her. I find it difficult to avoid her gaze because her eyes are bright and the colour of a mountain lake. I have to be careful not to look at her shapely breasts. — Excerpted with permission from Snowfed Waters, Speaking Tiger Publishing Pvt. Ltd.