Pratik Mainali

Pratik is a high school graduate from Trinity International College, Dilli Bazaar, Kathmandu.

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Published On: March 1, 2018 09:37 AM NPT By: Pratik Mainali

Jhapa Diaries

The heavens roar thunderously above, the trees bend here and there with a colossal crashing sound, the water of the damp earth gushes into the rooms as they overflow from a gutter, the rainwater poke at the roof, the wind rocks the house, the windows rattle as the finger-like branches snap at it fiercely, villagers shout frantically as they run to their houses, animals cry as the water barges into their shelter, the clouds scuttle unbearably low in the pink and purple sky. The weather is tumultuous and everything feels heavy.

I sleep comfortably in my warm bed, covered with thick blankets, as my head sinks on the pillow, I cannot help but wonder how cold it must be outside, and I contain a shudder at the thought of this. The villagers are, I can safely assume, from the manner of their yells, fighting in the mud, splashing and yelling, celebrating the rain. Wild and free they are fulfilling their rage to live as shamelessly and carelessly as possible. Poverty gives them a freedom to behave in any way they desire and they thoroughly utilize that freedom.

Meanwhile, I can feel my cheeks burning with fever. I am sick, horribly sick-intolerably sick. Physically, that is, but mentally I am as sharp as a knife. I am aware of everything that goes around me. It’s a curse, you see. I am a very paranoid person, have always been, thus I make a mental note of everything that goes around me. While others idle away, I sit down and think and thin and think. Thinking is the only thing I’m good at. My body is rigid because of my uncomfortable posture and thus every time I take a long breathe my back crackles. It maybe has something to do with the wooden shaft pressing on my back. Outside, the weather has calmed down just enough for me to hear the muffled chirping of the birds and the crisp croaking of the frogs. Thank god today’s a holiday, for if it wasn’t my day would’ve gone horribly.

A beggar died on the street today. His rigid body is probably being washed up this moment. I don’t think people mind. To them, he’s like the tree or a rock. He exists and has little value for them. But I’m sure they settle his body when he starts to smell.

I never knew what his name was or what he did, the beggar. But he used to smile at me, whenever I went to the bazaar, and stretch his hands towards me. Tucked in a muddish rag, his face was painted black, and he smelled heavily of alcohol. I shrank from him in revolt, the way you shrink from a disgusting animal, but he kept smiling until at length my cold dead heart melted and I produced a Rs10 note and handed to him. He grabbed my hands and thanked me. I ran away. I washed my hands later.

The beggar had a thin frame, head covered with a thick mop of hair on his head, deep blue eyes, red swollen cheeks covered with bushy grey beard, pale lips, nervous bony hands.A pipe hung over his mouth from which smoke occasionally puffed out. But that was before he got sick. Lately, his eyes had gained a sunken outline, the skin of his cheeks stretched, pale lips,he looked 10 years older than he actually was. He looked like a skeleton.

I can hear the villagers screaming, their voice filled with terror. I throw the blanket away and run to the balcony. look down craning my neck. My eyes widen in disbelief. Down below was a vast bed of water, heaving, and bursting. At length, I discovered they weren’t surprised by the rise of water level. They were pointing at something else. I put my glasses on and looked at the direction. The beggar’s lifeless body was floating above the water. It looked like his hands were moving in the water. He looked almost alive.

jhapa, diaries,

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