The Walk

One evening in the November of 2014, I walked home from Basantapur with a friend. The moment we passed Jana Bahal, his eyes twinkled with memories. These were the very streets, he played in as a child, he’d said. The roads he first stepped on, the area where he first went to buy pau with ek suka. He was full of stories till we reached Balkumari, where his childhood home was located. I remember walking inside a dark tiny galli right behind the Balkumari temple to see his old home.

Upon reaching there, I noticed that the eyes that were twinkling with memories a while ago was now staring silently at a big white washed building which had its doors and windows closed. The house that was home to 32 members once was now standing aloof to all the houses aligned; the place where his family shared joys and laughter was now the quietest and darkest one in the chowk. Both of us were teary eyed as we walked down towards Thamel crossing Asan and Jyatha. For someone who hadn’t moved out of the place from where she had grown up, I was finding it difficult to imagine how he must have been feeling. His memories no longer matching with the reality or worse, were in total contrast.

But five months after our walk, a big earthquake took place. He told me that although his house looked alright from the outside, it wasn’t the same from the inside. Of course, nobody had lived in it for years. But the walls had cracked so badly that all the members from his large extended family decided to tear it down. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Almost eleven months after the earthquake, a few evenings ago, we walked home again from Basantapur. And this time, instead of talking about our memories of the long stretch to Asan, we speculated each building that we passed by, wondering how many years they will have before they would face the same fate as his house. Those houses behind the kurta pasal, bhada pasal bag pasal, some with French windows and others with traditional Newari ones, what would become of them when more concrete buildings will appear in the neighborhood. With tekas placed in front of each houses, we wondered what will happen to them after a few years.

As we reached Balkumari, we decided to visit his house again. Right after the galli finished, we came across a pit that was dug up for a foundation. I remembered that there were small shops at that spot when we’d last visited. “Another concrete building will come up here” he said with a bitter tone.  This time this once a large house was not only the quietest and the darkest but also the shortest one in the chowk. I looked at this house that once awed me (I went back home to tell mother about it) and wondered what had been lost and what had been gone. It now was reduced to two floored building and seemed lost among other houses in that chowk.

As we moved out of the chowk, into the stretch that would take me home, my friend looked sullen. “I couldn’t save my house,” he told me as we walked away from his memories. Unlike last time, I knew what he was talking about. In my own case, I haven’t really succeeded in convincing my mama not to tear our house. Although he has been postponing the process despite the protest from my maiju, I still wonder if I can save what’s left of it.

Soon we reached Asan and my friend pointed out a half destroyed building that used to be home to Annapurna Seed Store. “Look that house is gone.” I then looked at a home by our side and said “That might go too. I love the window of that house.” We both looked up to see a darkness, of what we could make out of the window that was there. “And that will definitely go,” he pointed out to a long sattal near Annapurna Temple. “But that’s a sattal. At least they might retain the windows”, I told him.

While our last walk after Asan was full of silence with him gulping down his memories; this time it was full of pointing out random chowks, gallis and homes and giving it a timeline of when it will disappear. I told him how all the houses hidden inside the dark gallis have already gone down, leaving a large open space behind the outer layers of houses now. When we reached Tyauda, we looked at what once used to be a long wooden window, now a part of its gone after the house was divided into three.

Along the way, until we reached my home at Thamel, we talked about how we don’t know what to do, how to do or just where to start from regarding the current context of tearing the old houses in the name of modernization and now, security. We lamented over the fact that we are hopeless and we felt helplessness.  And that we haven’t been able to do anything about it, even on a personal level. Because how can you save a city if you cannot save your own home.

बा

घरमा बसिराख्दाको कुरा हो,
उहाँलाई पर्खिराख्दाको कुरा हो,
घरको फोन एक्कासि बजेपछि,
मन फुर्किन्छ।
फोनमा अपरिचित स्वर सुन्दा,
“यो उहाँको घर हो?” भनि उताबाट प्रश्न अाउँदा,
मनमा चिसो पस्छ।

“हो” भनेँ मैले,
“को?” भन्यो फोनले,
“छोरी। तर बुवा त काठमाण्डोैँमा हुनुहुन्न”
…
…
…

“हेलो?”
“नानी तिम्रो बुवालाई अस्पतालमा राखिएको छ,
उहाँ बेहोस हुनुहुन्छ, तुरुन्तै आऊ”
भनेको सुन्दा मन झल्ल्याँस हुन्छ।

बाटो भरि मनमा अनेक कुरा खेल्न थाल्दछ,
“कहाँ गएका होलान् बाउ,
के भए होला उनलाई,
लडे कि,
घाऊ भाछ कि,”
कति सोच आउन थाल्दछ।
अस्पतालमा पुग्दा
वार्डमा नभई
मुर्दाघरमा लग्दा
छाँगाबाट खसे झैँ हुन्छ,

“धरहरामा पुरिनु भाको थियो,
बचाउन सकिएन।”
भनेर पुलिसले भन्दा,
खुट्टाले भुईँ छोड्दो हुन,
चितवन गएका बाउको,
घर फर्किने तीन दिन अघि
प्रहरीले यसरी लास थम्याउँदा,
दिमागले काम गर्न छोड्दो हुन।
“उनको झोला यो” भनेर हरियो ब्याग हातमा थम्याउँदा,
ब्याग भित्र नोटकापीमा “अाज छोरीको जन्मदिनमा उसलाई चकित पार्छु,
निउ रोडमा गएर उपहार किन्छु”
भन्ने वाक्य पढ्दा मात्र मन भक्कानिदो हुन।

 

 

Homage – II

When I walked home that night, after a street movie in Maru, with a friend. When it was dark and we had the long road from Indra Chowk to Ason and then from Ason to Jyatha, all over to ourselves. When it was silent. When it was far away from the usual hurdle of a market place. I felt belonged. Listening to his story, I felt home. Because each house we passed had a soul. There were noises coming from the rooms inside the chowks with dark galli. The noise of TV running, children crying, mothers shouting, fathers laughing.

The big square in the middle of Ason was empty. But you could hear the breathing of people who had gone home after a long day of business. The shops with wooden doors were closed. But you could smell the masalas, the dried fishes and the rice grains they stored inside. Although the houses with intricate windows and detailed walls were standing still, you could feel life in them.

Today, as I stood over a slightly more crowded Ason, a chill ran through my soul. Few of the shops were closed. And unlike that night, the houses weren’t beaming under the moonlight. It was still bright day when I decided to go to Ason to check out the shops. The houses, now felt empty, stripped off their soul. The windows were opened and you could see a dark room inside. The shops were shut down but this time, you couldn’t smell anything but terror. The chowks are now silent. The TV has been unplugged. The family has moved somewhere else, most probably, the big community of tent in Tundikhel. The houses are standing still, but their walls have cracked and wooden beams have broken down.

While during other times, I would get scared to barge into an unknown chowk in fear of invading privacy, I was scared today to do the same in fear of the building collapsing.

The earthquake took many things from us. Family and friends. Homes. Heritage sites. And our favorite gallies and chowks and houses that reminded why Kathmandu was still beautiful, despite the chaos in the first place.

Homage – I

I grew up in concrete house. My home, located in Thamel, used to be made up of mud and bricks and timber like most of the houses in older part of Kathmandu but since we had a large family consisting of my grandparents and their five sons-three daughters, it was decided to demolish the house to build a new one made up of concrete, right after I was born. After all, four of my uncles would get married in the future and each of them would have kids.

My mamaghar, on the other hand, was made up of bricks and mud and timber with a jasatapata roof. As a kid, I was told not to jump around the house and dance because the dust would fall off from the floor I would be staying. That sometimes made me think that maybe, new concrete buildings were better than the old traditional brick houses. But of course I would forget about the thought, the moment I would sit in the falcha with Maa, basking the sun and listening to her friends’ gossips. Located in Bhaktapur, I still think, mamaghar is the only private house with its own falcha. A real falcha where old women would come to bask the sun in the winter as it faced south and children would come to watch processions of Gai Jatra.

Coming to think about it, that falcha was the reason why I started to fall in love with traditional structures, mostly homes. Mamaghar meant sanctuary. A place where I would shut the world down. A place where no one could reach me, and I would be all by myself, pampered with love. It was like a farmhouse – where you would go to live in every other vacation for few days. To lay down and forget about the world, your school work, friends, exams. Because it was old (the house was still standing after the 1934 earthquake and was mildly renovated before the 1987 one of which I was totally unaware of till now), at one point, I started becoming scared that Baa will one day decide to demolish the house in favor of a concrete ones. When I expressed by worry, he assured me that it won’t be the case, as the municipality won’t allow it.

When Maa passed away, mom was first diagnosed with cancer and my cousin moved to Australia, mama would joke about how they would leave the place and move somewhere else near to mom. Maiju would also agree with him. Despite knowing it to be a joke, I would immediately ask them to give me the house. “I would turn the buigal and chota into apartment while maata will be an art gallery and I would combine chelli and falcha and turn them into a nice café”. I used to share my plans and they would all laugh at 15-year-old me. Later on, I started a casual reminder on how I don’t want new concrete buildings in place of our old mud and brick house.

There was something about the place. The chowk. The warmth of rooms with tall windows where you could sit and stare at people passing by. And sit in the falcha and remember your childhood days. There was something about the orange-colored brick paved road. Brick houses with wooden windows of all kinds. About the pond in middle of the square. I found solace in this view. I found home. So I didn’t want a concrete neighborhood here. I wanted old men with wrinkled faces singing bhajan every evening at the falcha in front of our house. I wanted old women basking the sun and gossiping. I wanted to sit in the windows and write about how I feel calm and in peace.

The last time I was there, for Bisket Jatra, Maiju cautiously told me that maybe they should demolish the place. It was an old house that now shook every time a jeep drove through. And she was afraid. I told her that it was the last time I was saying no. If they built a concrete house, I will never step in ever again. Twenty five days after that threat, top two floors of our neighbors came crashing down after the earthquake. The walls then got cracked and made a hole. A week later, my beloved house was given red card. “It’s better if you don’t live here” the engineers said.

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Day Five

As I write this, I am left wondering about so many things. My closest friends are on field, volunteering, helping out those who need. My work is halted but is sure to resume from next week. I am waiting for a call from a former colleague in case they need me. I haven’t told my mother about this yet. She might not let me but I know I will have to move.

I don’t know what I really feel right now. I have known since I was in Grade X, that a massive disaster like this would come eventually. It was meant to be. Nepal, being in center of two gigantic plate, has always been prone to earthquake. The movement of the plate has resulted in the Himalayas. We have been cursed and blessed with it. And I was prepared for it since then. Seven years ago, I prayed for the earthquake right around this time of the month. The SLC exams were going on and I, being the one to hate exams, wished there was an earthquake and we didn’t have to give exams. Knowing that the massive earthquake took place around every 100 years with give and take of twenty years, I just wished it happened a bit earlier. But it didn’t. Since then, I had been wishing for the same, at the same time for it’s the exam season. But it never happened.

But of course this was inevitable. So I started preparing myself mentally. I would imagine being stranded from my family because I usually hangout at the other side of the city (or in this case, valley). I would usually find myself, in this imagination, to be in Tudhikhel at a camp with my family. In my ideal world, you had to register in the camp, and you had your own small community there. I would take the position of a mobilizing and utilize the people to rebuild my city from the rubble. In my imagination, all but the old Kathmandu is gone. Ten months ago, I found myself imagining losing my whole family and relatives at the same time.  And that left me devastated. I found myself weeping the whole night that day. And trying to find ways to cope with the loss I never had.

The reality is of course different. My family, relatives and house are still intact. I am living in a room I have called my own since last year though we were living downstairs for few days. My friends and their families are okay. Some have cracks in their houses but at least the house is standing. Kathmandu is in rubble of course but instead of the new one, it’s the old ones that have been effected the most. Many temples in the Durbar Squares of the valley are gone  and so are the old houses with wooden windows and tiled roofs. I find myself staring at the wall because of not being able to move out for last four days. And when I finally went out of the house today, I found things are far more disorganized than I would have wanted. Nobody knows who are staying in the camps and how many are there. There is no person for contact who could communicate, motivate and mobilize the people from the camp. Also all the volunteering activities and relief distribution activities are scattered.

Of course, this is only day five and things will get better. That’s what my friends are telling me. People will consolidate and everything will be coordinated. And I know it will be. The former colleague I wrote above is currently collecting all the information and statistics about the disaster and its aftermath so that it will be helpful to those wanting to help. I know around four groups working separately but are aware about each other’s existence through social media. So maybe the consolidation is not that far.

I just wish to be more useful than giving ideas and writing my thoughts. But that’s the only thing I am good at. And the only thing I can do now.