The girl lifted her chin and gave me a frosty look. I tackled it with a look of calm dignity. I was simply dripping with the warm liquid of divine affection. I could see a quiet pleasure spreading across her face.
The thing is, women are attracted to me. They fling themselves at my feet with a look of reverent worship. In my society, they pour out their sorrow.
In me, they find a sympathetic listener. They find a twin soul. They cling to me with helpless desperation. My limpid stream of words, drip down their throbbing ears and calm their burning curiosity. They gaze at me with that aching look. I look at them and they melt like dew under the morning sun.
An impenetrable rock in the hands of other men, they become clay in mine. Come pottering to Naxal in a Friday evening, you’ll see women hanging on my arm, like leaves in a branch. One will have her head on my shoulder, Another on my lap. One will be holding my leg, other stroking my mop of hair.
'Mainali Fiction Honour' to Sagar
Paints a rather flattering picture, doesn’t it?
When I tear myself away from women, their eyes swim with sudden tears, and a distant faraway look comes to their eyes. They grope the thin air and plunge into melancholy reflections. They break down on each other's arms and sob quietly. They bite their lips wondering where they’d slipped. But the truth is it wasn’t their fault.
Hard though it might be to believe, Ghanashyam Bista is just another human being. And being a normal human being, he is constrained by his duties to mankind. Humanity longs to open his tap of wisdom and soak itself with his pattering wisdom. It doesn’t suit him that he throws his time thoughtlessly in the company of women.
The whole humanity yearns for him to grace them with his presence and bring sunshine in their drab lives. If you see a girl around Naxal with a dreamy look in her eyes, rubbing her hands coyly, know that she’s conjuring up images of Ghanashyam Bista. And if you see a girl walking with a drooping neck and a depressed countenance, muttering moodily to herself, occasionally patting herself in the cheeks a little too loudly, know that the dreaded word “No” had just rolled out of Bistas lips.
A woman is a simple creature. She wishes Ghanashyam would acknowledge her presence, and dart her a tender look, maybe even bestow her a generous smile. But unfortunately, he is occupied with deep questions on the mystery of life. It's dashed complicated, this game of love.
Now, let us float back to the story.
The girl threw herself at my arms, and said 'sorry', Ghanashyam, please don’t leave me”. I told her it was ok and I wouldn’t.
She melted into me. I stroked her hair. She stirred softly.
Detaching myself from her arms, I gracefully felt my collar, plopped my hat on my head, opened the door, and looking over my shoulder said, “BYE”, before trotting away into the aid of humanity.
That’s all you need to know about me, Ghanashyam Bista.
