Saturday, August 30, 2014

दुई कथा

आज तपाइँहरु को समक्ष्य दुईवटा कथाहरु लिएर आएको छु! यी कथाहरुको कथाकार हुनुहुन्छ "सदिक्ष्या मिश्र", कथालाई वहाले मा पोस्ट गर्नु भएको छ |

पहिलो कथा : Heart and the anatomy of how to break it
For a short while, Deeva almost believed she could be Superwoman. She was flying high, and he was her red cape. All that an eleven year old girl ever wants in life is that she has her mother to teach her all kinds of ways to do her hair for school, and her father to tell him of her tales from school in the evening. Such was her life, when she was eleven. But then, all a father wants in life is a bottle of whiskey in the morning to wake up and a bottle of vodka in the evening to sleep. Well, at least hers did.

Daddy was a word used with caution. She wouldn’t know what version of daddy she might get every morning. One day he was a normal daddy, shaving his beard in the mirror, making jokes with her every now and then. And the next day daddy was barely able to walk a straight line, cursing everyone he saw and everything he fell over. Mommy knew Deeva shouldn’t have to see this, but what could she do? A home without a father is barely a home.

With all that happened around the house, Deeva still loved her father very much. He was the proud King of Deeva’s wonderland, and she, a princess of poise and everything beautiful. He would smile at her, sometimes with affection, and sometimes with bloodshot, liquored and hazy eyes. Nevertheless, she cherished his smiles, his strong arms that lifted her up to the ceiling, his beautiful, beautiful name that Deeva herself had anointed – Daddy.

She could see that mommy would always look solemn every time daddy returned home with that god awful smell all over him. She could hear them fight almost every night in the other room, when they thought she’d gone to sleep. She understood that daddy had a bad habit, and mommy hated it, but she also loved her daddy and she knew that someone she truly loved could not be wrong.

On a rainy Wednesday night, mommy was busy looking out the window, waiting for father to come home. Deeva was watching TV; mommy was too occupied to tell her to go study. It must have been almost eleven when finally mommy ran downstairs to open the doors for him, and Deeva cheerfully waited till they both returned upstairs. Mommy came upstairs soon, with a bitter look on her face. So it is the drunken daddy tonight, Deeva thought. Daddy wobbled himself to the room, placed himself to the nearest sofa from the door and mumbled something incoherent.

 Mommy paid no attention and swiftly went to the kitchen to ready the dinner for daddy. He stared at the ceiling for a while, and mumbled something again, this time a little louder. Mommy made no effort to acknowledge him. Deeva, getting a little worried, peered into the kitchen. Mommy was curled up in a chair, her face buried in her shawl. Daddy mumbled something once more, and struggled around the sofa. Drunken as was the man, he had no clue of the direction he was moving to, and fell head first to the ground. A startled Deeva ran to her father’s rescue and helped him sit up.

The next thing she knew was a swift thunder and when her eyes opened she was on the floor, with a throbbing pain on her right cheek. Mommy was stood on her side, with a strange look in her eyes Deeva hadn’t seen before. When realisation dawned upon Deeva that the painful thunder was none but a father’s crude thank you to a daughter across her baby face, she broke into a loud cry. Mommy picked her up promptly and took her to the next room. Deeva wasn’t aware of much of what happened next, but in almost twenty minutes, mommy was dragging a big suitcase in her hands and with the other she held Deeva. Daddy was unconscious, lying on the same floor that she’d tried to help him off of. He looked nothing like a King but more of a pauper, sad and sorry. Mommy took the suitcase and her daughter and made her way out into the night, leaving the safety of a home with a daddy, and it seemed to Deeva that they wouldn’t be coming back soon.

She stole a look at mommy with her tear stricken face and saw that the night had failed to hide from her face a flicker of sadness, a little hint of fear and a whole lot of relief. Deeva knew not what they were heading to, but she no longer thought well of the bottles that daddy brought home.


दोस्रो कथा : Windows are the sores to my eyes
I’ve heard lots of praise about windows – being subjected to all the glory with that one saying with eyes being window to the soul and whatnot. Well, no. I don’t buy it. Windows are evil. Windows are hateful things and I loathe them, especially the fifty five windows that surround the fifty feet of my home. It’s so dark tonight, yet I can see through each one of them, making me the prying spy into my neighbours’ lives. If I look closely enough, I can see that old man on the fourth floor of that gigantic house right opposite my window smoking his Surya. And if his wife isn’t too careful with her bathroom window, I might just see her do some unmentionable activities. Sigh. These windows show me everything, everything except the one thing that I actually want to see tonight – stars.

Even in this load shedding laden night, I look out into the outlines of my neighbours’ windows and feel somehow violated. Sure, it’s me looking at them, but a piece of my privacy is lost into this as well. The more I ponder about the vicinity of my windows and theirs, the more I feel suffocated; it’s like they’re closing in on me slowly, slamming onwards, imprinting visions on my mind that I’d much rather forget. No, I don’t want to see Mrs. Shrestha pour milk on her lemon tea, and I don’t want to count the eight holes on Mr. Khaniya’s blue underwear. I just want to shut all my windows tight. But I can’t do that because then I’d literally suffocate.

Sometimes I wonder why my parents bothered with getting windows in our house. There are times when I am just being myself, prancing around my room that I dread drawing the curtains and finding a pair of judging eyes paying guest to my personal cirque du soleil. I’m scared of changing in my room on windy days because I know that pervert on the second floor right opposite my house is just lurking there on his window, waiting to catch a glimpse.

I find it funny that with all the things we are so careful of, we just can’t be a little wary of our windows. For instance there’s this girl right next to my house who is extremely careful about dimming her lights and locking her door before she gets on the phone with her boyfriend. Yet when she is all oohey-gooey romantically staring at the stars from her window saying, “I love you too Jaanu”, her mother is listening to her conversations from the next window.

You see, my neighbourhood is the worst kept secret, where everyone is closed off, but their secrets are open. And I feel like the world’s biggest hypocrite, hating windows and walls and yet I’m the civil engineer who’s building their walls so people have a fake sense of privacy. I’m the engineer who’s building their windows so their privacy is public’s business.


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