Nineteen years had passed, and I had still preserved my token of good luck – that five-Rupee note!
Leaving the city of screams, virtues, sex and fashion wasn’t easy. A city where millions held their dreams, where I, one in millions, brewed all my broken bits. Leaving Mumbai was not at all easy. Mumbai, where I bullied all traffic rules zooming my secondhand I-10, Mumbai where I strayed wearing sloppy shorts and singlet, Mumbai where I whistled at a guy before he did. Oh, Mumbai!
The elevated narrow walkways of Bandra yelled at me for my unannounced betrayal. Titoos, my regular adda, stopped playing my favorite “Coming back to life,” my anklet got knotted with my chappals, and the beads scattered as my taxi honked outside the international airport.
Making me more gullible, my flight was delayed, too, enticing me to stop. But what could I do? What could I do when the robust Himalaya – and its eccentric escapade with its flawless nirvana in the form of nature, its sacred little monks sermonizing faith and love for one another, its psychedelic hallucination – all called me, beckoned me much more than Mumbai stopped me.
Captivated in my thoughts, tough reality hit me with an uneven landing. Without a phone call to my folks, I arrived in Kathmandu. How would I ever explain to them the perplexity I was sandwiched between? Did I belong to Mumbai much more than I did to them in Kathmandu? All the time at the Globe seemed not sufficient to cajole me. I wanted to test the disorder of my decision. I didn’t want to surrender my last resort of escaping so easily. What if the pubs, lanes, and people in Kathmandu didn’t mesmerize me as Mumbai did? One day of exploring, and if I didn’t like the City, I would pack my basics and elope yet again on a jet plane, with my journey being a fluid mystery to all.
I held on to my baggage. In haste, I passed through the counters of various airlines to spot the exit. Settling my bags and making peace with my thoughts, a range of signboards of popular and not so popular hotels held my attention. Deserting all that, I called for a cab. In a jiffy, a cabbie dressed in Cat shoes and a fake Nike t-shirt appeared, and without permission, started pulling my luggage from my hands, leading me to his taxi.
Gulping my guilt and flushing my fear of getting caught, I asked the cabbie to drop me at Freak Street instead of Bafal Road where my folks owned a leisurely country house – the same place where my Mom grew oranges, white carnations, and red strawberries. The beautiful home had a clean white pond with green, golden fish in blue water, and a big brown St. Bernard whom I had named Whisky out of love for the masculine alcohol.
The taxi driver left me marooned just at the opening of Freak Street. With disappointment, I asked him why he wasn’t taking me inside.
“Road banda chha,” he said, rather casually. The road is closed.
“Kina?” I asked, using the little knowledge I still had of my native language. Why?
“Aaja Nepalko bichitra chala chha, sadak durghatnama manis maros ya kukur, bato banda bhaihalchha,” he growled. Today’s Nepal suffers from abnormalities. In a road accident, it doesn’t matter if a dog dies or a human being: they shut the road anyway.
Now that’s bizarre! Not adding another syllable to infuriate him further, I strolled, only to locate a femininely decked-up rickshaw. I strapped my rucksack even more securely, had a few sips of now-warm Diet Coke and sat down to swallow the high-on-spirit Hippie hangout.
As the rickshaw took a few jumps through the bumps, I detected dingy dance bars. One that particularly wedged my attention had a signage that said “007 is upstairs. Nasha, Shower Dance Bar.”
I also scrutinized Hippies from rich countries, who were young, not so young, and even old. They came to Nepal just to eat, drink, sleep, make love, smoke charas, and take dope. My eyes were also fixed on skinny and stout Nepali boys speeding their modified bikes, a few middle-aged women selling local cigarettes and rolling papers in corners. Finally, my eyes captured a store on the left of the street. It was called Masala Beads. I paid 50 Rupees to the chap and marched in where I sneaked a quick look at the whacky pictures of Bob Marley and Jim Morrison, and witty slogans saying “Surya Asta, Nepal Masta!”
Masala Beads. The variety of its stylish and funky wares fascinated me much more than I imagined. Wanting to spare some dough for my vague plan, I curtailed my greedy desire on necessities rather than luxuries. Nagging the seller to show me the store’s priciest imitations, I awkwardly singled out the cheapest white anklet with some beads.
Now that my anklet was replaced, the deceptions I carried from Mumbai for Kathmandu were fading. Trusting the seller, giving the city another benefit of a doubt, I leisurely walked to OR2K, the place the rickshaw peddler had mentioned. Merely a mile away, I managed the curvaceous stairs of OR2K. Half past five, nearly 10 hours in Kathmandu after leaving Mumbai, and I hadn’t had a single morsel of food. Hungry that I was, I ordered a king-size pizza and lemon ice tea at the counter.
Untying my converse, I stole a sight of a couple. The British boy, dressed in a casual American Eagles t-shirt, was engrossed in kissing his girlfriend. Totally engaged, he merely raised his head to kiss her. The girl couldn’t care less. She didn’t even look at him. The pretty French girl with cornrows, his seeming soul mate, was actually engaged in efficiently filling their stuff in a Rizla wrapper. To my naked eyes, this was neither friendship nor true love. A bond that conveniently hanged without a precise name stretched between love, lust and friendship.
Still solving the anonymity of anonymous passion between them, I lazily adjusted myself in a vacant place. Heedlessly dressed, a waiter, who was carrying more than he could handle, noisily placed my order on the wooden table. My first bite of the much awaited pizza, and I already felt I was in Italy. Greedily hogging on the pizza and sipping the chilled iced tea, my eyes gluttonously rolled on other plates and halted on a tempting freshly baked dessert.
“Excuse me, if you don’t mind me asking, what is it that you’re eating?” inquired a shameless, curious me
“I guess it’s a cake called Kiss. You could try some,” said the loner, fidgeting with his Apple iPod. He was clumsily clothed in comfy checked shorts with a spotless white t-shirt.
“Actually, I don’t mind taking a bite” I smiled my favorite grin.
We kind of bonded just over a bite of the fancy cake, and I unwound my secret journey to the stranger.
Only when I started knowing him more, I realized he wasn’t a stranger. He was just like me, he who refused barriers, he who considered the conventional monogamous family as obsolete or square, he who believed in freedom, he who surrendered himself to fate, he who wrote his own ten commandments – just like I wanted to.
Blatantly, I fought like hell for two things with the stranger. He thought I shouldn’t betray Kathmandu just like I denounced Mumbai, and he also thought, being a thorough British gentleman, he should pay the bill. I surrendered to his second wish, still lingering on the first commandment. But dude, he paid my bills too!
As he put on his floaters and walked by, the whole ambience turned serene with a soothing noise of “Coming back to life.” I hummed my favorite song, to which the stranger smiled. The diner, the stranger, my song, and our smile all simply walked me to my destiny at 100mph.
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