Flash Fiction: Kathmandu Sojourn

They were sitting across from me in the living room. A map spread before us, a Lonely Planet guide on my hand. I slouched over the table and gave a dope on my summer holidays. Coffee in the china cups had cooled, leaving a thin edge of froth. Perhaps, it evaporated, or had I dozed off? Sugar cubes and condensed milk stood untouched.

"Kathmandu?" Christine's eyes were pulled to her ears. "I'd always wanted to see the Taj Mahal."

"The Himalayas are pretty cold, aren't they?" Susan rendered her excitement, "Are you going to the Everest? I suppose they have installed cable cars."

In the evening, when I was consumed with the packing, the ladies showed up. They had been googling, they knew where Nepal was.

"Martha, it's preposterous. The Maoists are all over the country." I was moved by Christine's solicitude. I could not help smiling at her. She added, "You are putting your family in a danger. I'm concerned for the boys. The bombs and guns, I think, would certainly terrify them. Make sure you don't get hit by bullets."

"What if you meet a Maoist?" Susan was quite skeptic. "And if they kidnap you?"

Flying to Kathmandu was not a simple affair for my friends. In the city, there were sanctuaries within sanctuaries, layers of protections from the outside, cushions to reality like poorly produced instant coffee and imported war-ration milk.

Moreover, the mundane business: Sometime walking from Lazimpat to Kupondole, the six miles journey, during the general strike, in the pouring rain, I would reach my hotel room only to find neither water nor electricity. Everyday there was eight hours of power cut in the country, where the figures said it was second to Brazil in water resources. Kathmandu had so much going for it with its spectacular setting, subtle atmosphere, several rivers running through it, superb artworks and such more. This could have been the world's most alluring place.

The sound of the horn blends perfectly into the natural ambiance of Kathmandu. Many different tunes can be heard on the streets, producing symphony that can be interpreted as irrationally as the noise actually is. The horn is obviously an expression of impatience. A vehicle halts for a moment to disgorge a passenger unmindful of the traffic behind. There goes the horn. But what good is this shrill sound when the trouble spot is at least 100 meters, as if on a cue others pick up from the first honk ended. The result is unbridled cacophony. The horn is also used as an expression of annoyance, interpreted as 'why on earth did you pull out in front of me', accompanied by animated gestures and a flood of choicest expletives. Though there was no malice involved, the ego has been dented. The retaliation is noisy.

In my inbox, however, I found my friends' best wishes for my safety in Nepal and I treasured their messages.

"Keep warm," urged Susan. Perspiring in the scorching heat, I assured her that I was doing so.

"Don't get typhoid, and don't let the rhinoceros or the terrorist get you," wrote Christine from America. "I hope you're mellowing out in Tibet."

In Kathmandu, though I was in a group of people coming from a variety of backgrounds, ethnic groups, religious denominations and places of origin, I was treated as someone different. By tradition, it schemed; and regardless of the level of income or wealth, I was duty-bound to pay more for mostly everything. I paid more for traveling by plane, or staying at a hotel, eating in a restaurant, or for shopping spree. I went to the shows or the botanical gardens, and by merely showing my face, I incurred at least a ten-fold increase in the amount I paid to get in. However, it was not for a higher class of product or a more luxurious service, it was just me paying more for the same.

True indeed, I got more attention while walking down a road, or visiting a temple or going by bus. As to why they engendered this interest lurched me into the muddle. At the Immigration Department, the officer smiled at me like the rest of the denizens.

"It's more of a pain to work in tandem with people from other parts of the world,'' he said. “I usually get callous comments."

He told me his story: Once a white man asked me whether I had been to Langtang. I said no. He smirked and said, “Yes, you can't afford to go there.”

Whenever I leave or enter the hotel, the stout man at the reception flashes a smug smile. I asked him. "Why do you appear a cynic?"

"I'm not, madam," he said, clearing his throat. "I sit at the front desk the entire day, giving or storing keys and handling the phone calls. But I'm an MBA."

I return to my home.

"Now I think going to Kathmandu was not your mistake," Susan said to me over the phone. I'm coming to you to see the Dalai Lama's photos tomorrow. Will you be home?"She knew where the Dalia Lama lived, but thought Dharmashala was in Kathmandu.

"Yes," I said with much ado. Nepal, India, what’s the difference - I heard her thoughts - after all they are the same country.

And there was Christine in my room.

"I've come to know there is a Buddha boy," she was fervid. She knew about the boy who was meditating without food and water for months, thanks to a program in the Discovery Channel. "Did you go to the Virgin Goddess?" And she knew about the tradition of worshiping a girl, kept alive for more than a century. Thanks to the Google.

I nodded, recollecting the incident when a pigeon had dropped its dirt on me as I entered the Kumari's shrine.

I had forgotten to carry an umbrella.