Part 5 Sachita: When all was said and done
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Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.

What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.

- T.S Elliot


At the door of death
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Good looks is no excuse for bad behavior. Wealth is no excuse for extravagance, nor power for arrogance, nor pedigree for contempt. His parents sat at the bedside of my creator agonizing over what had happened. Why did this have to happen? Why their innocent son? Weren't there enough bad people in Kathmandu? Why not that gangster Chakre Milan? Or that butcher Prachande? Was this punishment for their past sins? Chance, by definition, happens for no rhyme nor reason. The universe was the cataclysmic result of an equilibrium disturbed by happenstance. Life formed when a stroke of lightning chanced upon a nitrous compound minding its own business. As they watched their only child breathing through a ventilator, they felt the air sucked out of their lungs, their mortally wounded souls gasped for breath, their numb minds struggled to overcome the horrific calamity that had befallen them.

My creator's dad was always aware of the power of his good looks. As a child he knew what kind of face to make and when. Faced with an angry mother or aunt, he would put up a crest-fallen look, sometimes with a sheepish smile that would solicit a round of cheek-pinching and cries of "Cho-chweet" from his elders. Or he would clench his jaw and have a far -away and determined look in his eyes when reprimanded by an older male relative like his father, who showed up, usually at night, once every couple of months, or his maternal uncles who visited his mom every now and then. Concerned about the emotional damage they had inflicted on him, and unable to put up with that martyred look on his face, his father or uncles would offer to play ball or badminton with him, as a way of making up for the scolding. His ability to manipulate his elders with his looks and their apparent susceptibility to it instilled in him a lopsided understanding of rewards and punishments; of right and wrong; of responsibility and recklessness.

As he grew older, he was able to factor in gender, age, culture and relationship contexts and slowly mastered the art of making faces. He knew the affect his crooked smile had on a first date, it usually scared the hell out of his date; yet that same angular smile, when flashed a few dates later, could drive any woman mad with lust. The look of sincerity and the boyish smile opened office doors and closed business deals during the day. It also opened bedroom doors (and lingerie) at night. His looks hide his true self, his wife said of him.

"He has the face of an angel and the soul of the devil" she would say.

Yet, we all use our assets to our advantage when we can. The runner seduces by winning races, the body builder by flexing his muscles. The actor draws attention to himself by his acting, the writer by his stories, the poet by his poetry, the singer by his songs, the musician by his music, the politician by his speeches, the joker by his jokes, the 'nice-guy' by his nice words. What then is wrong with a handsome man showing off his looks to the world and using them to fulfill his desires? Humans by nature are philanderers; it's morality that has caged, controlled and regulated our sexual desires. If it wasn't immoral to sleep with anyone you desired, if it didn't hurt anyone you loved, if it was logistically and financially possible to sleep with as many people as you might want, who in their right minds would suppress that urge between their legs?

Stop. Ceteris non paribus, but all other things don't remain equal, our lives don't operate in a vacuum. Immoral it might be. Hurtful it surely will be to those who love you the most. Logistical problems, yes, probably. Financial problems, possibly. Guilt, most certainly. Divorce, most likely. Dishonor, yes, this was Nepal after all.

How different was he from a pig who woke up only to eat, f*c*k and go back to sleep? Realization was a long time coming, but when it entered the cabin in Bir Hospital, it hit him hard in the head and the chest. His son was his 'aha, gotcha' answer to death. You can take my life away from me, he had told death, but my progeny will live on. You might leave me with unfulfilled dreams but my children will live my dreams. Now death was trying to out-manipulate the great manipulator, as his wife thought of him, by taking his son way first. He wasn't going to give in so easily. We was willing to beg, borrow, steal, do anything to let his son live. He promised he would never cheat on his wife again or come home drunk. He knew how much those things hurt his son. Never again, he promised the powers that be, will I indulge in my vices; I will give everything up, if only you will let my son live. I will put a plug on all my desires, never do anything to hurt anyone, love my wife, go to Pashupati daily, give all my property to charity, just let my son live.

***

My creator's mom married his dad soon after he returned to Nepal after completing a pilot training course in the United States. He joined the Royal Nepal Army air wing, the 11th Battalion, where his assignments included flying members of the Royal family. He left the Army to join Royal Nepal Airlines where he eventually became a Captain and after a couple of years left to found and fly the planes of Air Makalu.

He had cheated on his then fiance when he was in the US. I will stop after marriage he told himself. Stop he did for a few years. When he joined RNAC, he was only twenty-four and stunningly handsome. It first happened on a night-stop in Lukla. Rita Aunty was the air-hostess on the Twin-Otter flight from Kathmandu and Gaurav Uncle the co-pilot. Gaurav Uncle retired to bed early that evening after drinks and dinner. Rita Aunty and his dad stayed on and talked in the porch of Khumbu Hotel. They talked amongst other things about ghosts and shamans. Rita aunty then told him she felt afraid to sleep alone in her room and asked him if he could give her company. Not even I, the outspoken chip, can, or wish to, get into further details.

He was logging a lot of flying hours those days. Whether it was Baglung or Bangkok, Singapore or Surket, Lukla or London, he was constantly away from home. What started with Rita Aunty continued with countless other Gita, Sita, Mita, Nita aunties over the years.

His unsuspecting wife found out when one of the air-hostess, heart-broken and out to seek revenge, called to spill the beans. He had apparently left this air-hostess for another younger and prettier one.

His wife angry as she was, had no desire to cheat on him. She could not see herself with another man in her heart of hearts. She made friends with other men, with a deep sense of pain, only to seek his attention. She never slept with anyone. Yet, he called her a slut for merely speaking to and being friendly with people of the opposite sex. She took to drinking and gambling as a way of easing the pain. She was the only woman amongst the circle of cross-legged men playing Paplu at an old dilapidated durbar in Narayanchaur. She became the best Paplu player in Kathmandu and soon what started as a game, a past-time, a break from the pain of a cheating husband became an addiction. She could not live without booze, cards and Pan Parag, a habit she had acquired from her fellow gamblers.

He hated her. A fish thinks the world is wet. His was convinced she was sleeping around with her gambling partners. Sexual desire comes naturally to all -- young and old, men and women. She too had desires, but she never acted on them, perhaps secretly hoping that her husband would someday return to her and things would be like they were in the good old days. She did not deny his charges of cheating because she wanted him to feel the pain she had felt when she learned of all the women he had been around with. "See how it hurts" she would tell him only to be slapped by his drunken hands.

"Your mother is a whore" he yelled into the closed door of my creator's room once. A lie told a thousand times becomes the truth. My creator, angry at her for her gambling and boozing habits not to mention her large circle of male friends eventually and reluctantly believed his father.

***

When Suvit visited my creator in the ICU, he had been going back and forth between different states of consciousness where he sometimes saw his parents and the white walls of the hospital and at other times saw a dreamy and colorful world. One world was cold and painful. It smelled anti-septic and germicidal. The other one was warm and smelled of berries and fruits. The sun was always shining on lush green pastures in this world. Tall trees and beautiful flowers grew on vast meadows with meandering rivers. His parents loved each other and the three of them held hands and went on a picnic alongside one such river. His mother was young and beautiful, without dark circles around her eyes and Pan Parag stains on her teeth. His dad was as radiant and warm as the sun and his breath did not smell of alcohol. He and his dad played badminton and Frisbee while his mother laid out fresh chicken sandwiches and lemonade.

Suvit was deeply saddened by the sight of his best friend at the door of death. He was never really angry with him for more than a few days after the incident with his sister but when you storm out like that, it's hard to undo what you did and go back. His throat was not big enough to swallow his pride. He knew his sister well enough to know she had been the initiator. He never wanted his sister with anyone. He was protective of her because as a young man he didn't know what else to be when it came to her. Perhaps that's why she chose to fall in love with his best friend. Perhaps she saw her own dada in his best friend. He knew how deeply she admired him. If there was any man worthy of his sister, it was his best friend lying in the hospital bed.

Suvit's heart was otherwise as cold as the polar icecaps. Confronted with the sight of his childhood friend drifting between various states of consciousness, he felt a burning sensation in his chest. The flames in his chest brought the ice age in his heart to an end. He hugged his best-friends mother and the flood gates opened. They both wept for ten long minutes.

***

Near-death studies have shown that people often hear a voice telling them to come back. Sometimes it is their own voice or sometimes it is the voice of a loved one. My creator not only heard the voices of his loved ones but also read their thoughts while chatting with Jogi Parmanand in the Valley of Flowers. If there could be a world where he had loving parents who did not fight, if there could be a world where his dad did not cheat on his mom and she did not gamble and drink, where he could chat and spend time with his good friend and let bygones be bygones, where he could have a guilt-free relationship with the love of his life, then all the flowers in the Valley, all the happiness in the lake, all the warmth in the meadows, all the wisdom in Jogi Parmaned could not hold him back from that world. He was coming back to live the life he deserved.

Three months after the accident, my creator was discharged from hospital. He is resting at home. I will be de-programmed and re-formatted first thing tomorrow morning. The world is not ready for an invention like me yet. Other people's minds are best left unread my creator and Suvit have concluded. Light would not be light without darkness. Good cannot be good without evil. Dark and evil thoughts we must all have, for they are borne out of our frustrations and come naturally to us. Such dark and deep thoughts eventually prove futile and result in good and pure thoughts. Purity of thought comes not from an unblemished source, a fountain of purity, but from a rational rejection of the impure thoughts that run through our minds.

My creator and his friend will have ample opportunities to tell the world of their experiment. They will become the high priests of biophysics in due time. I wish them the very best. My time is up and I must now go. There is no Valley of Flowers or Lake of Happiness that awaits me. I go back into the vast expanse of nothingness that I was born of. I have seen the inside of the human mind and learned of it's infinite potential. Someday I or someone like me will be born again out of that very potential.

My creator let out a gentle snore. He plans to get married next month. I hope somebody gives him Snorex as a wedding present.

Rest well, my liege, rest well.

***

The End.