FOOD

Dhauli Nepali: Rice, lentils, spinach.
Reporter: How will you get it?
Dhauli Nepali: Exchange it for clothes.

That's Dhauli Nepali talking to my colleague Bijaya Adhikari.

Dhauli, a resident of Doti in far-western Nepal, hadn't had a proper meal in days when this video was taken by another colleague Deep Rayamaji. On this particular day, Dhauli had just been sitting around, not knowing what she could possibly cook to feed her family. There was no food.

The story arrived at my desk for repackaging on the evening of June 14th, 2010. So, my job is to subtitle the sound bite, write a script, do the voice-over and set it as package for the English bulletin. And Sanim Singh rushes to my rescue, if the program 'Purple' for some reason stops responding to me.

Doing the story was like deja vu.

Eight years ago, fresh footage had arrived from war-ravaged Rukum, about the victims of the Maoist insurgency. My job was to pick out as many stories as possible from the raw footage.

I had picked then eight-year-old Devendra Pandey to begin my story. His father had been shot by the police, alleging him of being a Maoist informant. I started the story with the child talking about his father and then choking up. I choked along with him and ended up taking longer to do the story and consequently wrote a piece on The Kathmandu Post, about the "Children of a lesser God".

The tears, the tight chest and a throbbing temple, all came back as soon as Dhauli Nepali started talking. Thankful for the silence and solitude of the "Subtitling room", I let my tears fall, and replayed the story for myself till I felt soaked in it.

Dhauli's is among the families that haven't had a proper meal for days. And she has children. The local produce (rice) only suffices the district for about three months. (Much of the land here is barren.) Rest of the months are a struggle to find food. The UN World Food Program has been distributing four kgs of rice and half a kg of lentil to the families in this region in exchange for a day's labour, to build road, school and irrigation canals. But that does not provide a long-term solution. The government has been criticized far too often for its "ration distribution" program, which has not done anything significant in all these years to help these people.

My tears shed in an airconditioned office in Kathmandu is of no significance to the people in Doti. They continue to suffer.

There's something about the way Dhauli, numbed by hunger, looks at the camera and then looks back at the reporter that continues to haunt me and makes me want to do something to take away her hunger. Yet, what?

I have never felt so helpless.

again

and the dream was back last night
amid the clanking next door
in between nasal greetings
and the roaring of engines
once more
i tossed and turned
my faceburied in sheets
eyes wide shut
and bled you to death

Last summer

Suvarnabhumi airport has started taking on a new shade. The gray feels like a dungeon. The reflecter glass windows make me feel like a prisoner. Of course, we hate, hate transits. The only redeeming factors, are when you meet people - interesting ones, who make interesting conversations, and then disappear. Then there are strangers to observe, their language that goes above your head. But those are not what transits mean to me anymore.

So, I walked into the grey ladies room again, when I arrived, gathering whatever it is that you need to do things you don't want to, but know that you have to. The heat went right up to my temples, making me want to run out of the cubicles. It tugged on my face, my throat and on my limbs. But I needed myself to stand there and face it. I had to confront the heat. I had to take my time to spend some more time sitting on the toilet seat and and know that nothing would go wrong this time.

Bangkok is not yet over. But it will be, tomorrow morning. Till then, i'll go book myself a 6 hour room in Louis Tavern, saunter in the duty free, swing my legs over the seats in the lounge and try to read a book borrowed from a fellow-passenger, called SOLD, which tells the story of a little girl sold to sex slavery.

And I will think of possibilities. I will also think of you, who I left behind forever, last summer.

a line

last summer

there was a line from Manila

"how are you?"


there was no voice over the telephone

but a conversation had begun

lost

it's time again

to lift a hand

so you know where i am in the crowd

Rain stories

The raindrops sound rather large and swift. They fall on the corrugated tin roof of the guard house in my neighbour's compound. They beat down on the leaves, on the bamboo shoots that grow outside my room. They take me so many places.

Each sound is new and old at the same time. Each smell it kicks-up from what it falls on, is old and new. Rain is relief- connecting my now to then.

I always fall short of words when it rains, as though nothing I say would describe it aptly. The only things I can do about it are, listen, touch and gaze.

When it rains, it's always you Im thinking of.

in my head

there's a man in my head.

he has a face
lined with features
that define me.

his eyes are shy.
his voice reflects his eyes.
his hands move like regret,
letting go of everything they touch.

there's a man in my head,
whose smile
still makes up
for days that aren't.