Altering the silence, pigeons coo from the roof struts as a policeman on duty outside the Metropolitan Police Range Office across the Hanuman Dhoka takes slow steps to and fro before the giant Kal Bhairav Idol. [break]
And outside the Kumari Chhen, a night market vendor hurries his cart towards Kasthamandap as darkness deepens amidst the splendor the Mallas have left behind.
Subel Bhandari
“Those are the demonstrators. Get them,” a shout erupts out of nowhere and two bricks whirl by. “Beat the hell out of those f______ bastards and kick them hard. We should not leave them today.”
Two children run for their lives towards New Road as the bricks miss them by an inch. Four leaps and three more bricks fly by. One hits the ankle of the boy lagging behind. He falls and shouts out in anguish.
Another brick flies by, missing the grounded boy’s head by a hair as two others, apparently the stoners, spring towards the distressed boy. “Hit him hard,” says one to the other.
On reaching him, one exclaims, “He is hurt. There’s a little blood.” But the other kid doesn’t care much. He pulls out a plastic from his pocket and inhales deeply from it then kicks the hurt boy’s butt. The boy cries out in pain and buries his face in his palms.
A microbus carrying dance restaurant workers speeds from New Road and darts towards Pyafal. The loud Bollywood tune and laughter from the microbus attract the children. The hurt one exclaims, “Looks like the bitches have earned a lot today.” Everyone laughs. The microbus soon disappears into thin air and the silence fetters back.
As the night deepens, the wind temperature drops significantly and the children abandon their ‘police-demonstrator’ game. They huddle together, every so often kicking each other in the butt and smiling. “We have to sleep outside tonight,” says one observing the thick vapor in their breath.
Subel Bhandari
“Look, the vapor I exhale is the longest,” says another in a reaffirming stance as the children crisscross their vapor and stroll towards the temple opposite Basantapur Durbar. All four climb the stairs to the temple.
On reaching the top, one begins to sing as others collect scattered paper boards to sleep on. The hurt one then gets a little plastic out of his worn pants and begins to inhale from it. Two others stretch out and follow suit. One of them blurts out (to the singing boy), “Shut up, will you?”
Soon, the four snuggle up to each other and sleep, or perhaps surrender to the hallucinations from the glue they’ve been sniffing. Two stray dogs appear, sniff around and settle next to the children and together they all call it a day.
Basantapur is immersed in an anchoring silence, a disturbing one that stands testimony to these children who seek shelter in a land major deities like Ganesh, Kumar and Kumari are worshipped in their manifestations of children.
Just five hours prior to the ‘police-demonstrator’ game in the neighborhood of Gods, teenagers, lovers and hangers-on, home returnees, pot heads, beggars, tourists and vendors, people from all walks of life came together as hundreds shopped, sipped tea and enjoyed the delicacies of the night market as innocent eyes observed it all.
Subel Bhandari
For the children, the dumped leftovers of the night market end up heir dinner, the discarded cigarette butts their amusement, and their everyday encounter with the plastic life regime earning them a few coins which afford them cigarettes and the life-threatening glue that supposedly damps their hunger pangs and wards off cold.
Elsewhere, dreams and flesh circumambulate the vertical lifestyle which towers upon the subalterns as wholesale promises continue to be manufactured in a society where crocodile empathies and political ethos choke the masses.
In the midst of all this Kathmandu cacophony, the children, or to be more politically-correct, the street-children, have nothing but each other to narrate their experiences of intimidating silence, hunger and hallucination as their relationship to the street binds them together.
Once in a while, the children cross that line and can be seen getting a little too close to the passer-by, only to be shooed off and sometimes even beaten until bloody. Disillusioned, the deep-seated eyes seek their realms.
“People call us khate and regard us as pickpockets. We are exploited by everyone. Sometimes, the people who hire us don’t pay and sometimes underpay for all the work we do. Life is hard on the street. No one loves us,” the children say.
Identifying himself to be a 12 years-old, Anil Nepal (name changed), one of our stoner boys who stinks of the glue he sniffs says, “I ran away from my home in Birat Chowk in the East because my father kept beating me relentlessly. And even in the welfare centre where I used to stay, me and my friends got thrashed for no reason. So we quit.”
A few of Anil’s friends don’t even remember their names, and some like Anil assume their age, while others don’t understand why they exist in the first place as their memories of homes and family have been washed away like footprints on the seashore.
Children like Anil are a stark reminder of our society’s failure, as economic drawbacks, family disruption, migration and displacement continue to escalate in post-conflict Nepal.
Subel Bhandari
Result. The country is pushed further down the poverty yardstick and an entire generation is left footloose on the street. They don’t have a past; they cannot relate to the present and their future is uncertain.
Child welfare organizations and the government are not ignorant about this neglected lot, but there has not been any significant change in street children’s lives, situation and the ever-increasing numbers.
Children like Anil, on the excuse of which the country has mushroomed garden variety organizations and rummaged funds, are yet to be recognized and given their due inalienable rights and the guarantee of basic necessities such as food, clothing and shelter.
The children’s glue-shone eyes are lost in the headcount as controversial and contradicting facts and figures disseminated by numerous organizations and local associations dissolve in one’s mind in much the same way the glue the children are getting addicted to does.
When morning breaks, these grim images and sounds are preceded by stories, apparently larger-than-life as boys and girls go rag-picking, begging and working as conductors or collecting leftovers in party palaces.
But when the night divides the day, freedom, dignity and to live life as one would desire is an issue, even for these children, for whom the biggest problem is the way society perceives them.
But there is hope.
Sunil Thapa (name changed), 15, has been living on and off the streets for seven years now. Like Anil, Sunil sports the smell of dendrite yet claims it is an occasional affair, “I smoke three cigarettes a day but I have largely reduced the intake of dendrite. I do it occasionally with friends when we go out partying.”
Last Dashain, Thapa says he went back home to his family in Hetauda. He had run away from home with his friends at the tender age of eight as his peers had promised him a better life and job opportunities.
But, on reaching Kathmandu, he was left alone with no support. His street life thus began and he learned of life’s hardships early.
While on the streets, Sunil learned survival tricks, including sniffing glue, the after-effects of which can still be seen in his slow apprehension of things. But things are changing for good.
Today, Sunil is learning to be a mechanic under the residential, social empowerment and self-reliance program operated by one of the child welfare organizations in the capital where he has been engaged for the past three years.
Subel Bhandari
There, Thapa says, “I was offered food, shelter and education. I studied till grade four, but after that I didn’t feel like studying and instead chose to join the mechanic training.”
Thapa says he understands that if empowered, he can uplift his life and make his own decisions without having to rely on an organization or individual forever.
He also understands that with this empowerment he will earn respect and will not be labeled a “khate”.
“I want to go back to my family and my village and earn a livelihood,” he says, forcing a smile as his deep eyes span the Basantapur spread out in front of him.
arpan@myrepublica.com
