Leaving on a Jet Plane

Toronto: 2nd July 2017 - Sunday

The coffee cup was holding my attention. I was in the revolving restaurant on the 21st floor, sipping coffee. My regular hangout, when I am alone. The layout and the theme of that part of the restaurant were changed. But again, the coffee cup was interesting. Not the shape, I was interested in. But the curved text which seemed to me like some calligrapher had written, made me wind back. Zooming in the memory lane, I was rewinding fast. It’s been almost 7 years I left Nepal. And the reason for leaving my country may seem trifling. But for me, it had hit my inner self hard.

I will never forget that day. It is embossed in my grey matters. It was the day when I was walking to my office when it happened. It was day one, 20 December 2009, of the three day strike. The then opposition party, the Unified Nepal Communist Party had called a three day strike (bandh) all over Nepal, for establishing the so called “Civil Supremacy” in the country, against the reinstating of the army chief by the President. It was interesting to hear that the party was not there when I visited Nepal in January 2014. Remains of it were there in the form of three extremist groups (of the many others) fighting for three different autonomous states in Nepal. Anyways, the result of this strike was that public and private transport came to a standstill. Vehicular movement for ambulance, so called press, so called diplomatic missions, so called human rights activists and THE United Nations, and other powerful: you know who, were not restricted. Besides, anyone who plies his/her vehicle got it shattered and many a times the passengers also get good beating. This was the common notion of a strike in Nepal, and no one ever tried to deviate from this interpretation. I was also not an exception to ride my way to work on my Pulsar. I resorted walking to my office as every person does when there is a bandh.

It only takes 35 minutes to reach my office. It was some kind of fun, walking. You cross people and they pass on a smile that was a representation of something like – “Have a nice walk”. You return the smile with an answer within – “Thanks, you have a nice trudge as well”. Children play cricket in the middle of road. Nice pitch they get. 22 yards seemed too less for a cricket pitch during those times. Some kids get hold to play football with the party workers who are on guard to enforce the bandh. Many revolutionists in their late teen, holding laathis in their hand. Anyone violating the rules (their rules I mean) of the bandh, were threatened, thrashed. For many it was a narrow escape by only listening to the complementary mouthful of M-words.  (In Nepal M words corresponds to the customary F word's).  Nice way to take guard of your sentinel, isn’t it? In the main squares you will find top leaders of that party giving provocative speech to tussle the government and instigate the security personnel. Prime Minister and Home Minister were the ones who were attached to the majority of instantly interesting and humorous but very derogatory adjectives.  Party people will dance on revolutionary songs being played on huge speakers. Along with them bunch of blind supporters from public will also dance shaggily on the tune. Nice way to entertain people and get hold of things though. And the railings of the side road also get beaten up. Never knew why? Tires are burnt on the middle of the road. Black fumes from them make the blue sky black. Stones are pelted on the security personnel every now and then to incite them. Most of the time it leads to scuffling and firing of tear gas. Many enjoy basking in the sun listening to the audio (music, slogans, and confrontational speeches) and eating badaam, makai, chana, bhattmaas. Nice profit to the street vendors, I guess. Some play Baghchal – an indigenous game of Nepal, by sketching the lines for the board on the road. This is how the scene goes overall.

On my way to office there was a bridge about 70 meters long and about 2 meters wide, over the Bagmati river in a place called Sankhamool. Only motor bikes and pedestrians were allowed. No cars, no buses, no trucks. It couldn’t. I heard recently that the bridge collapsed last year after the pillars loose the foothold because of the sand smuggling [Diving into the depth of the river and scooping out sand and selling]. On the way you think of the country, your past, your present and murky future seeing the current trend of dirty politics. The political situation had already started triggering in me to migrate to other country. I always thought that there will be a good morning after a long war. But the hope was going grim, at least in my prime lifetime.

I was in the middle of the bridge, and saw a funeral was underway underneath the bridge. I paused to see the incineration of the dead body from the height. Closed my eyes, paid my respect to the departed soul, and started ambling again. The river Bagmati is thought to be a sacred river (in reality it is used as the main sewerage of the capital of Nepal), so funeral and memorial services sermon near the banks of Bagmati. And below that bridge were constructions like shades, cemented sitting area, platforms for incineration, to facilitate these proceedings.

I paced up a little and saw that three people draped all white were in front of me. But surrounding them, I realized there were about eight to nine guys encircling them moving along with them. I understood the reason for the man-made barricade. Those dressed in white were on their way to the banks of the river underneath the bridge to perform some strict routines of the 13-day ritual for their departed ones. I dropped my pace a little and followed them. The person’s performing the 13-day ritual is believed not be touched by others for one or the other religious reasons. Respect the custom, is what I thought of this strict discipline. Suddenly to my surprise, a young guy of the barricade group raised a long stick and targeted my left ankle. My reflex raised my foot in protection, and my back arched in submissively to take the strike. Then in a harsh voice he asked me to stop. I stopped, astonished!!  I regained my senses after about 10 seconds or so. The distance between me and them was obvious now. Now I felt pity on my state. I am in my own country, and a young lad about 10 years younger to me, threatens me for no obvious reasons. Because of the strict "should not be touched" rule, I always had my intentions clear of following them, and not trying to cross or even go near, until they diverted after the bridge ended. Why that animal behavior? I don't know. I was at loss.

I was upset. Reached my office. Shared this incident with my colleagues. Some laughed. Some felt pity for the situation. Then I decided. Not anymore. No hopes remains now. The politicians are becoming hooligans and someone when it is nothing political behaves animal. Where is this heading to? I can’t be an animal. I decided to migrate, only with the reason that if I am suppressed in others country at least I have a reason to justify “You are not in your own country, take it easy man”. If I live in my OWN country, I have nothing to justify.

I sensed something was trickling my left cheek. I sighed. My left shoulder reached my cheek. It reached again. I looked through the sky. It was blue. A jet was flying high. Saw the coffee cup again, which contained the last dregs in it. Saw the same text written on other cups as well. Asked the waiter, about the significance of the text. He justified it by pointing the plane and significance of the view. I realized I was sitting in a lounge specially meant for the sights of Jet passing by. I Smiled. Read the calligraphic text on the coffee cup “Leaving on a Jet Plane”, pondered for a while, and grabbed my wallet to pay my bill.


(c) All Rights Reserved: Roshan Upadhyay