Life Has More Cockroaches

Dear,

What do you expect me to write now? Now that I am free to write, I have nothing to tell you that is new to you. Silence is what I can give you. However if you are successful to observe, It has everything in it. The ecstasy that only you can get in a climax of a meditation, calmness in your soul that is all I can talk about. I am not very vocal in expressing my emotions. My emotions don’t count. I am not the central character today. You are. Still I want to tell you this: my expression is of silence. Silence is my way. I have no words. I have poor vocabulary and I am a highly self-opinionated, uncommon man and verily, I don’t want you to be lost in my words. The central theme should be clear to you as well as to me: life has more cockroaches than what you and I think, is it not?

Yesterdays!!!

Do you not remember? We, as responsible was we were, we made mistakes, we grew in life from those. And from the mistakes, we learnt our lessons, but did we ever stop experimenting with our lives? Did any yelling and shouting have to do with anything? Did cockroaches ever stop growing in our apartments? Was it our fault really? Are we supposed to suffer from those unwanted cockroach growth? Did we deserve any of that bullshit?

I am not asking any questions to you, I would not dare because it will scare you more. It is rhetoric. I am giving you answers in these questions. Yes buddy! Life has more cockroaches that what we expect. I know you are best equipped to deal with it. Trust is something that I learnt from you. You trust easily. So trust one more time, this hour will pass, just sit in inner silence, don’t worry about tomorrow. It will be bliss today, and forever.

The Old Man

The old man was dying. He no longer had that charm that he was famous for. He was no longer dominating, was hardly breathing and suffering in his bed that was prepared for his last days. Suffering from Asthma and diabetes, he was in his last stage.

All his life, he remained very firm, confident, and determined. He did lot of things that he was proud of. He lived in Mahabharat range for couple decade looking after a herd of hundreds of cows and buffaloes, milking them, making ghee and selling them. He bought many land and sold those. He grew up in the country, lived most of his childhood in the woods, eating just milk and raw flour, fighting with wild animals, partly because he wanted it and partly he did not know any better things to do. When his brothers wanted to be priest, teachers and clergy men, he enjoyed living in the Mahabharat range, in the snows, talking with wild animals and naked people, still uncivilized living in caves, who were feeding on wild animals and could not speak like other human beings.

He became politician later in his life. At that time, he brought running water to his village. People lived up in the hills and they had to go fetch the water in a river, down in the valley which would take an hour or two. Beside that running water, the village had nothing but a bunch of egoistic primitive creatures who made fun of each other, calling each other funny names and spent their time in total ignorance of the world that was beyond their village’s horizons. He helped poor people by providing food, houses and lands. He gave justice to people with minor or major household issue. Majority of people called him a righteous, just and honest but very aggressive person.

He won the village elections many times to become a mayor. He did many wonderful things for that society who never fully appreciated his sacrifice for them. But he was not afraid, he insulted who were against it, he thrashed them who tried to be cocky, he overthrew those who misused power, he made his path to success anyhow. People feared him, respected him because he was man of integrity and tremendous courage.

He lived his life with passion, very righteously. He married, he had sons and daughters, and they were married too. He moved to a better place. He changed his lifestyle. He quit politics later in his life because he knew at some point that politics is something that can corrupt someone’s value and morals completely. He said “politics is the worst thing that can happen to a good man.”

All his life, he lived with challenges, and overcame them. Not only was he a good speaker, he was very effective healer. He loved people, and he loved jokes about people. He loved scaring evil people and he was very successful. He liked punishing bad people. He respected very few people in his life. In his time, he was himself a symbol of justice and law. Any issues in the village, big or small, people would come knocking his door for justice and he gave his verdict. People respected his authority.

But now he was dying. He had been sick for a week now. His younger son, some of his close nephews, and some of the villagers came to see him. Doctors had already told him that he would not live very long. His eyes were weak, he had become very thin. His son who was living with him asked him if he wanted to go to hospital but he was stubborn. He wanted to die at home. He hated hospitals and the smell of dying people. All his strength was lost; he was suffering from breathing problems. He never accepted his defeat, but this time he knew he was dying.

Every night people came and sat in his room. For a week, he told them to go to their own houses to sleep because his son and couple nephews who were close to him were taking care of him. Villagers themselves did not want to spend the nights waiting for someone to die. They did it anyway because It was just a ritual, a help and a way of sharing encouragement and sympathy to the family.

After nine days in his own room he wanted to shift to a comfortable room, in the ground floor, thinking that the ritual performing would be easier after he dies. His skin had become little dark. He called his son and said: “Let’s not take the medicines anymore; they are giving me more problems. I am not going to revive, just a matter of few days...”

His son became very sad because his father had never given up hopes before. The old man was very accurate in predicting deaths. If people got very old and sick, they called him instead of doctors and asked him if his time has come to an end. He would tell them accurately when to shift the dying one to the proper place for their last breaths. Therefore, it saddened his sons and other family members.

His son then called the neighbors to come and stay for that night. From that night he started only drinking liquid, he could not even swallow anything properly. Anything he ate went down flowing from his lips to his chest and to the bed sheet. He smiled at his own weakness, perhaps he was remembering his encounter with a bear one day, long time ago, where he had to dual-fight in the Mahabharat range. It was a very weak smile… but it had his life written on it. The neighbors became little paranoid. They thought he started losing his senses. There were little whispers in the back of the room which was full of people.

The night went well, without him saying any words. He could not sleep all night; just put his head on the pillow and breathed heavily. People thought the old man was not dying, because he had not lost charms of his face yet. He could still speak in a clear voice.

“For a few weeks, nothing is going to happen” they said.

His son had not gone to his job for a week now to stay with his father in his last hours. He too did not sleep all night but in the day time, he took turns with his cousins and took naps here and there.

Eleventh day, and the number of people started growing in the house. People knew that he was sick. They came to see him from different places. His relatives, sisters, well wishers, his colleagues, his friends, whoever knew of his condition came to visit him.

They came to him and touched his hands and asked “Mailaba! Do you recognize me…? You will be okay in few days …don’t worry…”

He looked at them with disdain, a strange look that would make people think that they had said something very childish, because in those groups there were not many people that he liked. He said only this- “I know you all perfectly well.”

That day, he wanted to be alone with his younger son. He asked time and again to the villagers that were looking after him to leave the room vacant for a while for some fresh air. It was obvious that he was trying to talk something important to his son. People were therefore interested. They went outside the room but their ears were still inside.

One fat neighbor said “May be the old man is going to tell him of his old treasures that he had been hiding….”

Another said “Perhaps he is hatching plans not to give his older son his share of his legal share of his property. I heard that he hates his older son…”

“Well, he is probably afraid of his sin that he committed in his youth and going to confess to his son….”

Another got involved “I have heard that he does not speak to his older son… may be he does not even want his older son to perform the ritual after his death…”

“Have you seen the younger daughter is law, people are talking that she is a witch…she told me other day that my cow looked very strong and healthy and now my cow is sick, not even letting me to milk ….I can’t stop thinking it is because of her….”

“Who was that girl who was feeding him juice a while ago…, one smelly neighbor who was there for the first time said, “She has exceptionally large boobs…”

“….feed the old man your milk ….the old man is weak…”

A long laughter followed. Outside the room, people started to smoke and talk loudly.

One of his grandsons who was going to the room was listening to all this. Hesitantly, he walked through the crowd to go inside the room.

The old man was talking to his younger son and two other nephews in very low voice.

“Hey babu, you go away! They said to the kid, “kids are not supposed to be here.”

“Let him come” the old man said.

The boy touched his grandfather’s soft hand. It was warm. The old man had very long, smooth and beautiful fingers. The boy rubbed it very gently between his own hands like he used to. For few minutes both were lost in memories.

The boy used to pull and stretch the skin of his grandfather’s back hand, which was not very responsive and used to start counting the seconds in his watch to see how it will go back to its original position. And the old man loved it. The boy loved to massage his grandfather’s feet.

The kid used to say- “grandpa! Do you want your feet messaged today?”

“No, go do your homework!”

“I have finished doing homework… do u want oil or just with bare hands?”

The joy was not in messaging, the joy was to listen to his grandfather. Every night, all the family members and the guests, many of whom were not even invited and many of whom never stopped coming to stay overnight, would be in the old man’s rooms after dinner and they would talk. The old man would tell jokes, and stories of his life.

“Hey! Are you messaging my feet or just shaking your body to fool me?” the old man would ask. And people looking at them would laugh.

And the kid would blush, and lifting his both feet in his shoulder, would say “when you die, I will carry you like this...”

People would scold the boy but the old man and the kid enjoyed the jokes very much.

His mother would come and say “Babu, can you take the trash out?”

The boy would say- “I don’t feel like doing it.”

And the old man would add, “Yeah that’s right, I and he are very lazy, we don’t like to work, we just want to eat delicious food and sleep…nothing else.”

Both would laugh at her. They were two jokers, one soul.

Sometime the kid would ask the grandfather- “Grandpa, can I have a dollar?”

He would reply- “just you dollar? You got five”

But today, the boy could not speak. His grandfather was really dying. The boy was not sure what to say. He was hesitant to say anything because he had never been in that situation before. He stood there, stiff like a pole, watching his grandfather’s watery hazel eyes. The old man also could not say anything either. Nothing more had to be said … everything was expressed through their eyes; there was a synchronism with a very silent melancholy in both their hearts.

“What kind of grown up kid is this? Even at this time, he stays there without word. Ask your grandpa if he want to tell you anything…” one of his uncles said.

He heard someone outside the room said “stupid kid… why is he there? He will be scared. Let him out…”

The boy was silent and still not sure what to say. The old man was still smiling at his grandson, with pain but with very cautious bright hazel eyes. He also knew that it will be the last time. His son and nephews started cleaning the room a little bit. With courage, the boy sat near the old man to offer him some water to drink.

“Do you want to say …” The boy had tears in his eyes and there was a lump in his throat.

The old man whispered- “I am going…. we were pilgrims, just met in the rest area, under a tree shed, we enjoyed it when we were together… you have a different journey now…. …I am going back tomorrow… we will meet someday again…You and I don’t cry. Go now!”

The boy knew his grandpa never lied but still could not believe his grandpa was dying. He went outside, to upstairs where he could be alone.

That night the old man told his son to call his close relatives to see them for the last time. The neighbors now thought the old man was out of his senses. All night his face glowed like a moon and he was very silent. His son was scared and called some experienced people in the village to check on his health progress. People came and checked his wrist and said he will be okay for couple of weeks. His son was still worried. That night there were lots of people watching for him. The room was full.

The old man’s daughters and some daughter in laws who were serving and preparing food for the guests and relative who had come to see him were also tired.

“How long are we going to feed the whole village?”

“People are asking for certain food, certain vegetables as if they are ordering in a five star hotel…..”

“I am tired of the smelly shoes of these relatives; I think they have not washed those socks for years…”

“I wish the old man dies soon… we love him but it is very painful for him as well….he will get salvation from the suffering…” a big mouth relative said.

“There is no privacy in this house, we can even change our clothes …people are everywhere…”

The sick room where the old man was taken was also full of gossips all night. The boy was tired and was deprived of his bed because he had to share his bed to some relative who was snoring loudly. So he went to check his grandfather again. People were talking about the whole world.

“Oh did you hear about Clinton? He has accepted that …Shame on him, he is the ruler of this world….”

“Do you think there will be peace in Bosnia...?”

“What the hell with the moist, they killed 25 policemen yesterday in Rolpa and the government is doing nothing… “

“This is kaliyug, now the end is near; the time is now for the messiah to come save us….”

“What do you think about the sex tape of Aishworya rai? I think it is fake…I don’t like her acting anyway…”

“I hate Girija, he can’t be prime minister now. He is an Indian poppet….”

“….It is hard to pass time, let’s play card to spend the rest of the night…”

. They were laughing, and arguing and throwing their hands in the air. The son and his two close nephews did not know what to tell the villager and relatives. The old man who was closing his eyes to ease his pain a little bit, was so annoyed that he raised his head a little and said “Don’t be so loud. Go to your houses.”

The crowd in the room kept their silence for few minutes and they started again.

“The old man’s domination has not yet gone. He is not going to die for at least a week….” Someone outside the room whispered.

Someone in the crowd saw the grandchild peeking from the door to see his grandfather.

“Hey Kid! Go to bed,” someone yelled at the boy.

The boy went upstairs in the room, tried to sleep but he doubted he would see his grandpa next morning.

Feb 9th 2010

The Unwritten Story

The Unwritten Story

I have to write a story.

It has been long since I wrote any stories. I kept making excuses to myself, sympathizing my poor brain on unsuccessful defending of my incapability to write anything at all. I really have to write. That is what I love. All these years, I kept saying to myself, - it comes naturally to me, literature is my life. But all my creativity has died. I have become a slave of my high self-opinion.

Days, weeks, months and years passed but I could not produce anything. All the plots appeared strongly at first and later became weak and feeble, and disappeared completely from my brain. Lots of stories revolved in the brain and knocked each other out. The characters started arguing and fighting after sitting in silence for a while, waiting for my action. And again their patience did not last long. The brain was silent one hour and then there was a volcano of thoughts and imaginations. People were created, God was created, dialogues were spoken, verses were read, but nothing was written. Yes, nothing was recorded. Everything faded away like evaporation of water. I got tired, then recharged, and tired again. This continued for years.

Until the end of last year, I was busy with school. Yeah… school. It was tough. I thought of writing stories but could not. One day, I was driving to school and something knocked on the door in my brain. Suddenly I was talking to a man who had a great mustache. I call him the mustachioed. His mustache was very beautiful, long and wild, almost covering all his lips. He was knocking and peeking his long nose through the door. I would tell him- “not now, time is not yet”. He would not agree.

He would say- “Let the mustachioed take control”.

I was very stubborn myself, I told him to back off. I liked stories on princess better than a mustachioed. The mustache man did not go away. He waited in front of the door silently but his presence was strong. I tried to ignore him, to talk to another beautiful girl but he kept peeking his long nose through the door. He was silent but he was strong. Every time I look towards the door, he was waiting silently, with hopeful eyes smoothing his mustache. He really wanted to be in my story. I tried to leave him behind. I was trying to drive as soon as I can, but soon a cop stopped me to a with his rainbow lights.

“Sir, do you know why I stopped you?”

“I liked your sunglass but I don’t want you here right now”-I said.

“What…”?

“I am talking to Mr. mustachioed right now, can you go away? This mustachioed was following me for a while. He was irritating me”.

“Oh! Yeah? I did not see any one. There is no car behind you and she does not have a mustache sir. What are you talking about?”

“Oh…. I thought for a while. “This one is real”. The mustachioed smiled and disappeared. I was going to school with my friend. The cop was real. He wrote me an amazing ticket for speeding 20 miles over the limit and left happily.

“What were you babbling, were you nervous?” -She asked.

“Well, yeah something like that…” –I covered up. I was not aware that she was with me. The mustachioed never came back.

I imagined stories in my head and that was not the first time. I forgot myself sometime. School time was not good for writing. I never dreamt when I was going to school, I spent whole nights awake. So it was not hard for me to create a story. I spent nights silently, not even with thoughts; and all day, I was with bald men or mustachioed or princess or cops. There were so many stories in my head, but I never wrote a story.

After graduation, I was free. I didn’t have to memorize anything non-sense.

“The journey has now begun”- I thought.

I had lots of time. I started a story that was bothering my head for a while. I was looking for a good title first but before I found the title, my parents came to visit me for my graduation and I could not focus.

My mother had really missed me for five years. Every time, I was about to write story, she cooked something with so much spices and smoke, even the mustachioed would disappear. I kept my response to minimum but she never stopped talking. For a month that I was with her, she was always talking about something. She talked about neighbors’ and their son and daughter in laws, her parents, brothers and their children’s. She talked about cows and dogs in the neighborhood, about her diseases, and her neighbors’ diseases, her clothes and her relative clothes, her jewelries and her relatives’ jewelries. I could sense she missed me so much.

One day she was tired, I was just about to type the title of so awaited story, she said- “You are old enough now, don’t you think you should get married?”

“No.”

“I and you father wants you to get married to a nice girl and settle down”.

“Okay”.

“Okay is that all you can say? We don’t want you to force you to marriage. You can choose from so many girls we have been looking for you. You can bring her here, we are not of traditional family, we will not keep the girl with us in Nepal.”

I laughed. Silence followed. My story was stuck somewhere.

“You want to die alone when you get old?” she started again.

“Everyone dies alone”. My story was completely dead by now.

“But it is painful to die when you are alone- no one caring for you when you are sick.”

“Don’t worry”.

“We will soon be old and die. I have so many diseases…, even grandmother wants to see you married before she dies…, what do you want.....I let you think for a month, you can reply me after a month before we return so that we can prepare….why don’t you come back to home once…?

“I don’t look back mom. I said- “past is not for me. By the way, have you brought pictures of the girls too?”

She smiled. I knew she had pictures too but she was too embarrassed to show it to me because she knew I would make fun of her.

“Well, I said, “You gave me one month, I won’t take that long. I will answer you now. I give you both, one year to think about this. Think about it and tell me what marriage has done to you. What good has it served to you both, and what would you have missed if you were not married to each other? What difference has it make to you’?

There was a long silence.

Besides, my mother is not philosophical; she was just representing my father. My father kept silence during all the conversation. My mother was not silent because she did not know the value of silence. My father was silent, just did not want to lose in a debate with his son. It is hard for him. The debate was open for my mom but my story plot was already closed.

Now when my parents returned to their country, I had so many materials already, yet nothing was written. My boss was panicking that I was on vacation over a week. I had to go back to the same job that I hated with my every cell in my body.

But my writer’s instinct liked the job. I was so free to ponder my mind on characters when I was driving. Only thing was: I could not write when I was driving. My mind kept bursting in pain. Doing this job, not only I have hated it, I have started hating dogs. Every time I knocked on customer’s door, their buffalo sized dogs barked at me like crazy.

“She won’t bite you. The customer said.

“I look like a thief, don’t worry” I said.

“No, her eyes enlarged. “Why were you so late? It over forty five minutes, I hope the pizzas are hot otherwise…” now she started to complain.

“Oh because you ordered your pizza and perhaps started making love with your dog and forgot everything,” mustachioed whispered me to tell her that but I did not. I said-“Madam I am standing for more than twenty minutes in cold, it is snowing outside and I can’t feel my fingers. I knocked on the door and rang the door bell and you cell phone is dead.”

“Wow, really? She acted like she remembered. “I am sorry”.

“Its okay. Twenty three seventy one please”

“Here it is”- she gave me twenty four. “I know your job is hard. I used to do that long time back. I thought it was great at first but I hated it when I knew you have to go to apartments, and you don’t know the access codes…. and all rich people are greedy, they don’t tip you. Poor people tip well. But I will pray for you ….I am a Christian…if you believe in Jesus…”

Mustachioed wants to listen to the story but I don’t. “She is a hypocrite”- the mustache man said to me. “It is fun to listen to her.”

She closed the door in my face. I looked at her house- a huge castle. It was beautiful, and she thinks she is poor. In the driveway there were two new hummers. “Probably her servants are poor too”- my mustachioed made the old joke.

When I was returning back to store, I thought may be that would be a nice story. It had been always nice to write about rich but foolish people. So I waited until the midnight, having prepared some exaggerated version of this encounter in my mind to write a story that night. That night I went home after work. It was midnight, and I was starving. I opened my apartment’s door to find out nobody there. Just darkness…My cousins were supposed to cook as we agreed but they were too lazy. Both were asleep soundly. I washed the dishes, cooked the food, and washed the dished again. All that time, the mustachioed, the poor lady with the castle, my mom, all are all laughing loudly inside my head. “I am writing today, this is the day” I thought.

But with my dinner, I ate the story too. I postponed again and went to bed thoughtlessly.

Next day I had a job interview with a lady for a food company.

“Are you Spanish?” She asked.

“Is it not illegal to ask that? I thought you were equal opportunity employer.” I said.

“we are but there is a reason….She asked- “it seems that you are the best candidate for the position but you do not speak Spanish where 90 percent of all my employees speak nothing but Spanish”.

“What about English”? I asked.

“They know English but they don’t want to speak it. They will just speak Spanish”.

“Really... Why?”

“They think they will be dominated. They think that is a way to discourage racism”.

“Why are you encouraging them, are you one of those too?”

“No sir, we value diversity” She told me.

“So why are you clinging stupidly to your Spanish thing?” I could not stop myself. “English is already my second language. You didn’t mention anything about your extra language clause in the posting of the job details”.

“Well not all things are mentioned on the details. That why we have interviews” she clarified hurridly. I could see her eyes blink rapidly with anger.

“I drove three hours from my place just to come here to listen to you say this. Wow bitch! You are one fat and ugly racist” my white cop with the black sunglasses told her from my head, “You look illegal to me. Perhaps you came from swimming in the Mexican border or maybe you were sold by an illegal Mexican hooker to this country…” But I calmed my racist people. They were ready but I told them that time was not yet.

After that week I was not working many hours, so I thought it was good time to start writing. But few job interviews followed. I prepared for the interview. I practiced every possible question. I conversed with myself. I rehearsed the whole interview hundreds of times differently in my head before I went to an interview. Neither my story grew nor did I get any job.

They never asked me anything. People didn’t like me because, for some- my name was too foreign, for some- my face was too brown; some thought I was an enemy of Indian people. Some people didn’t want to offer me job. Some wanted to make fun of me and for that purposes only kept calling me for interviews. Although I knew, I went. And in going to such waste of time, I killed a lot of stories.

Time kept racing and I kept forgetting what I had to write.

As I thought I was free from pressure, I wanted to write. As I sat in front of the computer I started thinking. “Now I have to write just for the sake of writing and I don’t know what to write. Without success, I have been thinking of a plot. My bills are due this week. Credit companies are bothering me everyday increasing my interest rates. My car needs to be repaired, the engine light is on. I have recent break up with my girl friend and I don’t know what to do. I have not cleaned my closet forever. I have to ask some of my professors to write me a recommendation letter. I have not followed on some interviews that were conducted normally. I have not answered a voice message about my absence to the church this week. I have not done laundry for a long time. Valentine is coming up and I have prepared nothing. Few girls are probably expecting something but how can I tell that I am not good with women and children? I have not called my mom to know she has found out about marriage. There are lots of things to do before writing I have to find a job very soon or I have to go back to my country to marry a girl that my parent chose for me. My interviews are not going well because they all ask about my rights to work is US. And no matter how I perfectly explain them with a proof, they try to find some fault in it. People have lost faith in people. I have to call my cousin in New York just to tell her that I might need her help. I keep not trying to remember what happened but the white lady in the lab yesterday humiliated me. So I am little unstable because humiliation is very dangerous thing. I try keeping my little ego inside the closet but such humiliation can bring war. She canceled a scheduled interview at the first place after knowing that I didn’t speak like her. After I responded strongly, she called me again, after a week for an interview. It was nothing like an interview, a typing test is what they called it. And she tells me- Oh you typed just 6000 date entry words per hour, we need someone who can do 8000. You are not eligible for interview. Let me show you the way out.”

The big black lady that I was writing a story on was really unhappy- “you are a white trash! A little unprofessional, so called supervisor of this lab, go to hell for such lies and humiliation. This part was silently expressed in my defeated smile. I only said this to her- “I don’t want to be here anyway”.

I keep trying to forget all this but it comes interrupting every time I sit to write something. I kept trying to philosophize things and sympathize myself that someday will eventually come, when I will be in no hypertension of my mind. But that never happened. Lots of things happened, lots of thoughts came by my mind and I kept watching my thoughts. Should I stay here or go back to my country? Do I want to go to graduate school? Am I liked by American people? Am I okay? For how long do I have to do the keep the buffalo’s size dogs barking? For how long am I going to put the mustachioed man in prison? For how long can I keep silence? Is it okay for me to eat meat? Is God watching over. I have to write a story but things kept interrupting.

I was trying to introduce the mustachioed and his story but today also the weather made me depressed.

The story was never written.

8th Feb 2010