Deeya stooped behind the bushes and found the pot in which she had secretly planted a seed. She was eager to find out whether the magical seed had sprouted and flowered overnight. But sadly, there was no sign of a shoot germinating in the pot. Di, as she was fondly called by her grandma, returned to her room, disappointed.

On her study table lay a walnut shell she had collected before planting the seed. The walnut shell was broken into two parts, and made as a bed with cotton wool and a piece of cloth like a tiny blanket. She had prepared it so that the new born Thumbelina could snug peacefully inside it. The two shells would be placed on the flower pot when the buds would flower and the baby would come out into the world.

She had two pieces of the shell; she pondered whether she should throw one away. Then a brilliant thought struck her mind. She would keep both the shells just in case Thumbelina came with a twin sister …like aunt Nita and her twin babies!

She would find a new name for her Thumbelina. That old name alluded to a body organ- a thumb, and was not good enough for a sweet girl. Nita aunty had a book of names for children; of course she could borrow it.

She did not want Thumbelina to be cold in the dark, so the next night she had placed one of the halved shells under the rose bush, right beside the pot. Some nocturnal creature might as well spend the night in the warmth of the tiny cloth that lay around that shell. Then she went to bed.

The next morning she rushed to look under the bushes before the school bus arrived. The shell was empty. And the tiny blanket was unruffled; it did not show any signs of having been inhabited. She heaved a deep sigh of disappointment and entered the bus. This routine occurred for a few more days.

But grandma had told her Di the story of Thumbelina. Grandma had also told her that characters of a story appeared only to those children who believed in their existence. Otherwise the magical beings did not show themselves to the non-believers. Di had sincerely believed in Thumbelina; she was a real person, a fairy from the heavens and not a fictional story.

Deeya wondered at the possibilities of why Thumbelina failed to appear before her. She could have come to Di in her dreams and talked about her problems. But lately Di’s dreams had been vague and she did not recall those dreamy sequences after waking up.

Maybe Thumbelina was judging her conviction; but Di was ready for anything to prove her integrity. She was mentally preparing herself for this audition by Thumbelina.

The days at school were tiresome. She wondered whether the seed sprouted. She decided not to look into the pot as a routine because her best friend Radha told her something to the effect that if one was too obsessed with anything it would be hard to obtain the desired result. This must be it, she thought.

The mid-term exams ended and from the next day the two-week vacations would start.

At home mom was dressed up and ready with the luggage. They were leaving for Aunt Nita’s twin children’s rice feeding ceremony. Deeya was excited. The ceremony would be in the village. How lovely it would be!

Aunt lived in her ancestral home with a large family and it was always exciting to meet the family. Di loved to stroll beside the large pond, feed the fishes and see them rise above the water to catch muribhujiya,the fluffed rice.  Another of her passion was to climb the trees and pluck the tangy mangoes.

But best of all, grandma would also be there with a treasure of her village lores. In the evenings, a big cot was usually placed in the open verandah and the children crept inside the mosquito net to hear grandma’s stories. The stars above twinkled at them and the fireflies tried to peep in. The children preferred to sleep there the whole night if not for their mothers who came and carried their respective children inside to their dull and stuffy rooms…

Deeya had a dream. In her dreams, Di saw a tiny fairy dancing with her tiny prince in a beautiful garden with flowers, and the birds, bees and butterflies were singing for them. Di was happy that Thumbelina had not come to her flower pot because then she would be sad and lonely: the tiny fairy would be separated from her fairy prince.

That evening, Grandma told them the story of “the golden fish.” The next morning, Di walked to the pond. The big fish in the pond was golden and looked exactly like the golden fish of grandma’s story!

“Get up. Punditji will be here any minute. Take a bath and get ready, he won’t wait.”

Mother’s repeated call was ignored, and we pretended to be in a deep sleep. Thus, she would drag us out of bed. The water would be cold but we had to bathe early and get ready when the pundit arrived to recite our fortune forecast for the year. Actually this ritual happened thrice in a year, the other times we had the priest to recite the chart was in the first day of Shrawan, Shrawan-sankranti, and first of Magh, Makar-sankranti, but in this one in Baishak, we had to swallow the bitter neem leaf wrapped carefully inside a small ball of mashed banana.

I remembered once I had tried to chew the banana- ball out of curiosity to find out the nectar that lay in the depths, which mom claimed kept us healthy. I thought, “What would it taste like?”…It tasted like poison! The bitterness was terrible and lasted in my mouth for a lifetime. This experience made me dread the moment when this leaf was served by Punditji.

Dishwares made of sal leaves and stitched by tiny bamboo picks would be decorated on a table. The biggest container was filled with rice grains and the array of smaller ones contained items like: four different types of lentils, haldi powder, potatoes, ginger, and salt. On a tray was a bottle of ghee, bananas, in another was packed a white dhoti, an umbrella, topi and an envelope with dakshina money. There was a container with red tika, some stalks of dubo grass and some flowers. These were waiting for the Punditji’s auspicious hands to receive when the recital ended and the presentation of the bitter neem would be culminated.

Then mother would put tika on the holy forehead and would give him the gifts along and the envelope containing the money. He would not linger anymore and rushed to the other houses and yajamans for his routine on the first day of the Bikram Sambat calendar, carrying a bundle loaded with our gifts. Father conspicuously would be away and returned after this ceremony was over. Actually he was not much into rituals but mother was adamant and believed this neem would keep us healthy and fit the whole year through. He would laugh at her but she would not budge.

The best part of this day was the new clothes we were given to wear and the food that mother prepared, and when all the family members gathered: uncles, aunts, cousins and friends, came to our house and celebrated Nepali New Year together.

The details of such events had been clearly imprinted in a child’s memory.

 

The paved streets were slippery. The rain had washed the dust and the dead leaves away, but the drains were blocked by plastic bags and litters; it needed extra skills to walk unscathed. But aren’t children agile? They can hop, skip and jump at the same time and still balance their steps. A girl was walking confidently, carrying a school bag. A boy came from the opposite lane on a bicycle and skid on one of the decomposed leaves. He fell on the ground; the girl laughed. The boy turned red with embarrassment when the girl extended her hand to lift him from disgrace, but he declined. They went on their separate ways.

A few days later the girl was in the market, she saw the boy and smiled at him. He didn’t know how to respond but the smile was contagious. It’s was the prelude to a friendship that might take them far.

The cherry blossoms heralded the advent of spring. A fragrance had enveloped the atmosphere of the park. A teenage couple was sitting on a bench, below the blossoming tree. They seemed engrossed in serious talk. Their hands were locked into each other’s. The girl’s eyes were wet and the boy looked anxious. What was the problem?

Probably the girl’s father had been transferred to another city and the girl’s family would leave the town. The friendship that had started hundreds of days ago was endangered. With a sincere promise to be in touch with each other, they separate. Hotmailing, facebooking, and twittering keep the friendship blooming. Their profile pictures kept them updated about their appearances. The picture depicted a handsome boy, and the girl is now a pretty maiden. But they are far from each other. In fact continents away.

One possible situation that could have occurred in their lives is that since, both of them had finished their education and had lucrative jobs they decided to meet, they liked what they saw, fell in love, married and lived happily ever after.

But their story did not happen this way. The alternate story was that the girl Tina, lived in USA and got the best education that a successful father could bestow on his only child, whereas the boy Sanjay lived in the original town in his old house. He had been living with his mother who was single and worked hard to educate her son. When mother got ill and was unable to work, it became the responsibility of Sanjay to earn the bread for his mother and himself and buy the so- very expensive medicines for mom. That was the end of his school days. He worked hard but couldn’t save his mom’s life, as he could not collect the required amount of money for her operation.

But he did not fail to update his profile pictures on facebook. His school friend, Akash took Sanjay’s pictures from his Sony cyber-shot and Sanjay uploaded them borrowing Akash’s HP laptop.

He was still connected to Tina.

Seven years passed. Tina had an urge to meet her friend Sanjay. This strange feeling of incompleteness;  a void in her life that the crowds in American malls and clubs had failed to satisfy her, called out to her every night, to go back.

One day she actually returned back to the streets that were still wet and slippery. She walked excitedly in the lane, carrying a dainty box wrapped with ribbons in her hands. A boy entered the lane from the opposite direction in an inebriated condition, dwindling and unsteadily riding an old rusty bike. He skid on a leaf and fell down, the girl was terrified, she continued to glare at the figure of a boy trying to stand up, but he is too drunk. Seeing her, the boy cursed the bike and the wet streets calling, “lift me up like you tried doing… many years back…” she looked on but her hands did not reach out. She turned away. Leaving the dainty box on a wooden bench in the park, disillusioned and hurt she booked the next flight back to USA!

Father closed the windows and all the blinds that faced the streets. Have the children in bed before it gets dark, was the order today. Dinner was prepared early; everyone was off for the day before the evening news came on Radio Nepal. It was Ghode jatra the festival of horses. Local myth had it that on this day Mata Bhardakali rode a white horse and searched each nook and corner and vanquished the demons that created havoc to the people in the vicinity and thus she guarded Putalisadak, the butterfly town of Kathmandu for the whole year, from all evil spirits. However, the brilliance of the goddess was so great that that whoever confronted her or had a glimpse of her magnificence would be blinded by the light and would not be able to survive a moment after. So father was scared that his children would sight the Rudra swaroop of the goddess. We had dinner early and were tucked into bed. It was quiet, but a strange feeling of fear and confusion. What if someone had to go to the toilet at midnite, or someone got sick and had to be taken to the hospital… I lay in bed a long time with such thoughts governing my head. I could hear some sounds outside, maybe it was the white horse, the sounds seemed like those of the hooves and trotting of horses, then there were other sounds, maybe there was a battle between the goddess and the demon, my body was wet, my quilt was smothered in sweat. I dared to peep around me; my sisters were in a sound sleep. I stretched my arms around my elder sister sleeping beside me and then with a prayer to the goddess to forgive me my amnesia I fell asleep. I woke with a startle as mother called out for us to be ready for school. I was relieved I did not die even after hearing the sounds of the horses last night. The goddess must have heard my prayers and I thanked her for saving me despite my trespasses.

I have a face, my identity. But, one day, I decided to borrow my mother’s face for a few days. My face is on her skull and hers on mine. I run my fingers through my new face. My new skin feels different, “the bobbi-brown effect is surely better”. I look into the mirror and speculate. Trying to live though for a few days with a new look. I walk the streets, up to the market. I meet my friends calling out an informal “Hi,” they are taken aback, instead of their usual hieee, they reciprocate my greetings with folded hands into a namaste, not a hello…amazing…I steal glances around me, but nobody is aware of what has happened. At the corner of the road, I meet my aunt, she comes near and calls, “ didi you look great, you are walking so fast, I had to run to get to you, seems your knee problem has been cured with the rub I gave you?” I nod with a grin and fragmented sentences; “ bye… see you later… in a hurry,” I walk on. I realize it’s hard to live with a different face though it’s my own mother’s but I do need my identity, my face to live my own life!

It’s Holi today. Quietly, I climb the stairs to the terrace, to fill the balloons with colored water before anyone wakes up. I am early and it is still dark. The crows, cawing to each other, fly towards the east to search for worms. The sky, mountains, trees, and rooftops are covered in the grey blanket of dusk. The Koel calls out that the bay berry is ripe. From a distance, behind the mountains a shimmer of majenta peeps out; the rays reach in all directions. I realize this is the first splash of Holi: the sun is playing with the sky and the snow capped himals. Then splashes of red reach the rooftops, and cover the green trees. Suddenly, I am wet with the golden rays of the sun sprinkled over my body. I am excited, though my plans have failed. I had wished to be the first one to celebrate Holi but nature was ready for me, long before I had woken up.

 

The world is on a mission to thwart my new year resolution, “eat less, walk more, be light and healthy” this year 2012.

 

The conspiracy, initiated by the skies,

 

cloaked the sun behind a white sheet.

the new day became dark.

 

A drizzle had begun

 

at noon the slippery trail wasn’t fit for my morning walk!

 

I slept for a few hours more…

 

Another assault I encountered from those invites

 

overpowered my study from four directions

 

parties dinner, lunch, birthday, new year celebrations

 

cakes and pastries, momos and tandoris.

 

Then suddenly,

 

every morsel was nectar, a challenge to indulge.

 

Why does food taste so good in times like these…I wonder…

 

I’m now in a dilemma like in all the years bygone…

 

To resist the temptations or stand with conviction in my resolution…

 

The calendar marches towards February…11 months more for a new year to begin

 

and find for myself a new resolution for year 2013.

 

2012, a new year, a new dawn, the day saw stars in the sky, hope the nights will be sunny,

With a resolution, not to repeat the mistakes of 2011

I start my day: the same cup of tea and oats… at noon

Missed the morning walk… slept happily

On the cold new year!

half o’life

have we lived…

the other half

submerged

under the oceans

of currents,

and tidal waves!

O night!
a speck of light
could you borrow
from those radiant stars?