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Missing the larger point
By Biswas



American academia has been buzzing of late with the debate between the Creationists, the proponents of the Intelligent Design theory, originally espoused by English clergyman William Paley, and the adherents of the Darwinian Evolution.



As modern biology is unable, the creationists argue, to explain many complex processes that sustain life, the highly complex mechanism of blood clotting and the protein-directing traffic system of eukaryotic cells in humans, or the psychological basis of dream, for example, only God, an intelligent creator, can design and regulate such superhuman processes. Therefore, in addition to Darwinian evolution, Intelligent Design theory should also be taught in schools.



On the other hand, the evolutionists butt in, the most complex biological phenomena maybe readily explained if they can be divided into simpler sub-stages. The process of clotting, for instance, is comparatively simpler in jawless fishes as it involves fewer steps. Evolutionists believe science and religion don’t go together hence all efforts to mix the two up are inadvisable as they can only mislead young minds. Here is my take.



One night, a cockroach zoomed inches past my nose and lodged on the curtain beside. I was aware that roaches have fractured vision and seldom fly unless in desperation. But I didn’t know their frail looking antennas are in fact quite resilient and that they sit on fabrics with firm grip. My casual effort to pull it off from the curtain with one of its antennas went in vain. Neither did the antenna break and nor was I able to detach the insect from the curtain (Of course, I didn’t yank it with all my might). Maybe, their antennas have evolved over time and have got stronger as predators kept tugging at them. Or, an intelligent creator might have designed them strong.



Without the intrigue of knowing how the insect would respond, I would never have pulled its antenna. And I could only imagine how it would react before I did.



I believe the most important function of school education is to make the students more intrigued about the subject at hand and imbue in them a sense of imagination about it. Such educational material that allow learners to think for themselves, rather then make them second-hand recipients of pre-ordained set of theories, would ensure that the students would decide for themselves what is worth believing and what is not.

   [ posted by Biswas @ 04:18 PM ] | Viewed: 1826 times [ Feedback]

Nude Kathmandu
By Biswas



The hottest tourist spot for the rich and the famous this year is the southeastern European country of Croatia. Tourists are enamoured by the breathtaking scenery of its paradise islands like Hvar and Dalmatian—but, apparently, the biggest draw are the nudist beaches offshore these isles. Landlocked, we are oceans away from any nudist beach, nevertheless, we can take some solace from the fact that the bare-all sands can well be dispensed with in Kathmandu, the nude capital of the world.



No matter where you are in Kathmandu, if you fail to notice nudity, you are either blind or a nudist yourself, or better, an alien or one among the Maoist-driven coterie who have descended into the capital. With much hullabaloo about the hankie-shorts and kerchief-pants in the newspapers recently, I will go no further to elucidate the small-is-beautiful dress mentality of Kathmanduees.



Lest you think nudity is all about shedding, again, I am afraid you are wrong — at least in Kathmandu. It seems that the newly varnished Great Walls of Kathmandu appal the theatre owners no ends: until they have clothed, papered rather — talk about fashion! — these walls over with oversized educational posters with perfect A’s they can’t have a good night’s snore.



Even then, you might pitch in, when the capital is flanked by gun-trotting hucksters on all sides, how can I assert that Kathmandu is as bare as Ronaldo’s pate? Point noted. But again, grant the men in green one genie wish and I will stick my neck out and predict that the rejoinder will be: Less clothes, fewer arms. The government, I am reliably informed, after its ingenious ‘back-seat’ public trust building campaign, is butting heads together again for an ordinance on nudity, a few lines of which was leaked: Reliable intelligence from Iraq tells us that some uncivil members of the society may be planning suicide attacks in Kathmandu. Hence this ordinance forbids wearing all kinds of clothes with no exception, which otherwise maybe used to conceal weapons. The offender will be summarily incarcerated if found garbed.



Kathmandu’s denuded roads sans greenery; the skin-shedding weather; the bare or be bared troupe of politicians—all hint at our nudist haute couture.



On the other hand, the red-brigade is hell-bent on equating peace with nudity, as is the case in Croatia. The country reeled under a bitter civil war after its independence from former Yugoslavia in 1991. But for the last ten years peace has returned which has in turn boosted the countries’ tourism. Now many a tourists come here to bask in the beaches under the Mediterranean sun. Hence, our comrades contend that peace is directly proportional to nudity. Violence is the only means, they say, to preserve our well-draped culture. Well, they do have a point! The more the peace, the less people seem to wear.

   [ posted by Biswas @ 04:17 PM ] | Viewed: 2398 times [ Feedback]

Wrong Number

By Biswas

As he ambles into a bus by the roadside at Gaushala, Aman notices a plump lady in cream salvars seated beside the door. He heads for an empty seat at the back after a brief glance at the woman.

"70 Maoists gunned down by the army!" a paperboy climbs abroad, shouting at the top of his voice. Aman peers at the reams of paper clasped in the boyâ??s dirty hands. The boy, in turn, looks at him expectantly, but Aman turns his eyes away.

As the bus sets into motion, he snaffles out a dog-eared, musty tome form his bag. He fingers it open, conveniently removes the bookmarker, and with a slight grimace, shoves the plastic marker into the latter pages. Through the narrow window slit, a zephyr swishes through his jet-black hair.

Presently, a hardy, middle-aged man with a well-manicured moustache takes the seat by him. The stranger is clad in spic white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his arms; gray pants, immaculately buckled up at the waist; in leather shoes, black and shining; a Citizen quartz of the same hue on his left-wrist: Amanâ??s eyes frequently shuttle between the straw coloured pages and the stranger. In time, the book lays unattended on his lap, his attention completely taken up by the stout man sitting by him.

Eventually, he bangs the book shut and turns his head towards the window. The fast receding rows of houses, derelict shops and dingy garages by the wayside divert his attention. The stranger has now engrossed himself in a popular Nepali tabloid.

When the bus reaches Koteswor, the man gets off, and nonchalantly crosses the road, not even bothering to check the traffic on either side. Aman gazes out of the window at the departing figure, until the man mingles in the crowd.

A sudden thrust brings his senses back.

As he reaches into his bag again, his eyes fall upon the scrawls on the white cover draping the seat immediately in front. The doodles are indecipherable for the most part, but on a closer look, Aman is able to make out a phone number and an e-mail address.

It is another 20 minutes before the bus reaches Lagankhel, its final stop. He hands his fare and alights. After a short walk, Aman enters a three-story cemented building, the last in the cul-de-sac. During the holidays, his office has had a fresh coat of paint. He sees that the fences are higher, and the main gate is now blacker and bigger. Keenly eyeing the developments around, he disappears into the complex.

After five hours, instead of the usual seven, he remerges. Aman scurries towards the station, and is soon onboard a bus, on his way back home. Nothing to divert his attention this time, he does away with another chapter en route, before hopping out at Gaushala.

Though the evening dusk is afar, he treads ahead, with his loping strides, homebound.

The front door is locked. The computer in his room, still onâ??the screensaver showing colourful underwater fish. But the keys are next door, with dear old aunt Rose whoâ??s always eager to lend a neighbourly hand. Sitting on the porch, he runs his fingers over the pages of the half-read book for a while and then puts it aside.

The garden up front is in full bloom. He smells the flowers â??purple, white, yellow, pink, crimson, and peacock blueâ??on each plant by turn. He does not know the names of most of these, Aman is suddenly aware! He pauses.

Though the main gate, he slinks out of the compound and greets his mother, who is rounding the last bend that leads upto the house.

"What a coincidence, mummy! We are home at the same time."

She unlocks the door with the keys from aunt Rose. Aman scampers up the steps to his room on the third floor, following a short mother-son tête-à-tête on the porch. Before long, he is pattering away at the keyboard with his modest typing speed. When the rattle ends, he palms his eyes, and heaves a sigh: â??Your message has been sent,â?? the screen reads.

He shuts the computer down and descends to the kitchen on the second floor, where a cup of tea and some biscuits await. Quickly doing away with the snack, he crosses over to the living room. Aman nestles himself in the settee by the phone.

He dials. The phone on the other side blares outâ??tring! trring!trrring! Once, twice, thrice...

"Hello!"

"Aman! Thatâ??s you, isnâ??t it? Is this a joke? Come down at once! Rose auntie is here."

"Ya, mom," he slams the receiver back.

Aman makes his way down with leaden steps, all the while shaking his head: How gruesome did aunt Rose look yesterday!


(Originally published in The Kathmandu Post on May 29,2005)

   [ posted by Biswas @ 11:16 AM ] | Viewed: 1934 times [ Feedback]

Homecoming
By Biswas



- It's been ten years since she left for the States. It's been such a long time, it seems. I hope she hasn't changed. I haven't - not for her, that is!
And now, that the day I've been waiting for over such a long time has arrived, I'm justifiably nervous. She'll be here, yet again!

She's said she would call me at the first opportunity she gets. But this wait is getting intolerably long. Each passing moment is draining me, sapping my vitality away. My adrenalin level has gone haywire. My heart is pounding and skipping beats for the love of my life.

This darn telephone! Why doesn't it ring now? A thousand wrong numbers yesterday, the constant whirrs driving me crazy. And today, like the lull before a storm, it's making my wait excruciating.

But what will I say when she calls? Will even a single word come out of my mouth? Or, will she blabber on endlessly, like she used to, and I solicitously listen? But surely, she must've changed after Mallika…

Those were the days! The days I eagerly waited for her calls. It seemed forever, before the phone rang, always startling me by its sudden, shrill buzz. I'm no less zealous as I await her call today. But how much has she changed?

Does she still love homemade chocolate-caramel ice cream? Does she twitch her nose when nervous, like she used to? Does she peal into laughter at the slightest prompting? More important, oh yes, it is all that matters: Does she still love me?

She can't blame me for all that went wrong, for sure! She's the most culpable, not even her parents. Where was her infallible resoluteness that I was such a big fan of when she needed it the most?

But, try as I might to believe otherwise, things have changed. Laxmi and little Sakshi are as much a part of my life now as she is. She must have similar feelings for Mridush and little Manav. The milieu of the French Quarters in Louisiana must have had some impact on her as well.

But why is she coming alone? Why is her family not accompanying her? Perhaps, Mallika…

She must be going through the customs. Any minute now! If only she had let me receive her outside the airport. Why would she not allow me to be the first one to see her on her homecoming?

But I couldn't question her—not many can. She has good reasons for everything she does, and amazingly, she is invariably right…

Finally! At last, she calls, ending my daylong anguish. Oh God, so excruciating! Never did I realize I would take it so badly. But now that she has arrived, I have no qualms whatsoever. I feel the same boyish verve that a teenager has on his first date. Life seems beautiful again. She's asked me to dine with her – Gee! Now that sounds exciting!

What more could I ask for? The stars twinkling tonight with their majestic radiance, just to welcome her home, it seems, under which two of us recline alongside on her lawn, celebrating together, after ages, with a bottle of champagne handy by the side.

Those piercing, seductive eyes, cutting through my senses! The flowing jet-black hair suddenly cut short at the nape, now entwined with the new-mown grass. That indomitable persona, well carried by her sylphlike figure! Her soft, chirpy drawl: I'm going numb.

She misses her family, she says: What must Mridush be doing? She has never left Mridush alone with Manav, a handful for both of them to manage.

I understand, I say, nodding my head now and again, like a sympathetic listener.

She takes her drinks well, she tells me. I admit she looks very calm for someone who has downed a bottle of champagne and a slew of whisky shots. But I'm drunk; I can feel it, down to my bones – blotto!

I got to head home, I tell her. Slinking out on the family during a weekend – Laxmi might find that very unusual. No chance of making it up to her today; too late.

I'm sorry about Mallika, I say. Such a lovely girl she must have been. And I am sorry, indeed! I feel for her. Too bad I can't stay. I wish I could…No…I got to go home.

She is overjoyed to be back, finally! She says so, now peacefully amidst the garden flowers. She wants to drive me home. How ironic…!

Her eyes look peaceful, and her face perfectly calm. A stream of blood trickles down her forehead into the warm, tarred surface. No, it doesn't hurt. Her endearing smile wipes away all pain; always does when I'm with her.

Didn't I tell you she's seldom wrong? She's taking me home, she says: Mallika's home.

(Originally published in The Kathmandu Post)

   [ posted by Biswas @ 11:45 PM ] | Viewed: 1697 times [ Feedback]

Crime & punishment
By Biswas

- As the morning sun streaks in through the dingy window and glows his face red, Dinesh stirs in his bed, throws a quick glance at the table clock with his red eyes, reluctantly pulls himself to feet, walks across the room, and digs in the pocket of the trouser hanging at the back of the door.

It is Thursday.

Having relieved a stick of Marlboro Lights out of his trouser pocket, Dinesh presently sits on the edge of his single bed, and lights the cigarette. As the smoke twirls into a shapeless existence overhead, he heaves a deep sigh.

Shama! Once he had loved her so much. He still does. Not much has changed.

How beautiful she looked yesterday--her dark brown beady eyes glowing, as always, with infallible certitude. The greeting card was as lovely, ending with "lots of love" and her characteristic signature, underlined abruptly and with a little star at the end. The t-shirt presented to him on his last birthday, maroon, a huge white star patched at the back; the mauve shirt, she had bought at New Road with twinkling stars dotting the night sky: Yes, she loved stars.

"Think optimistic, Dinesh. It shouldn?t be that hard," she would prod him. Forever encouraging, she would always come up with the right words at the wrong times, and make him feel better instantly. He was morose and prone to depression, she always calm and cheerful.

When he failed the B.Sc. second year exam last year, it was Shama who helped him get over the disappointment. "Look Dinesh, though you didn?t pass, you?ve secured 27. Twenty-seven! The two stands for you and I, and seven, why! It?s the lucky number. You?re sure to pass the next time." Often, even these uninspiring comments placated his turbulent thoughts.

And she could be devilish too, when needed. That loafer, no-good Sanjay, always bullying him around, got exactly what he deserved--a dollop of chewing gum stretching thin as he got up from his seat in the chemistry class. Sanjay had been at his wit?s end. Nobody suspected Shama.Or the time she came trundling down the stairs of the practical building on spotting his name in the byline.

"This is you, yes? Too good, yaar! Too good!" She made sure the article was pasted on the message board the next day. Most of his classmates had read it: Insomnia and my health.

These were unforgettable events, holding together their tenuous relationship.

Presently, he finishes his cigarette, and throws the stub out of the window, into the rose bed in the garden, well manicured by the finicky landlord, always particular about his flowers and vegetables. He loves red roses?such beautiful flowers!He wipes his forehead clean as he paces around the shabby room. Not even the end of Falgun in Kathmandu, and it is already so hot. If only there was a fan in the room! He had not been aware of its absence until yesterday. How curious!

Yesterday, Dinesh cleaned up his room after a month, wiped every nook and cranny spick and span. Never realizing his room could be so dirty, he could hardly believe his eyes when out of every corner materialized heaps after heaps of dirt.

At dusk on Wednesday, the festivities started: Two quarters of Royal Stag--the stupid shopkeeper didn?t have a half-liter bottle--the now addictive Marlboro Lights, two full packs for the special day, and a full chicken tandoori from his favorite restaurant called The Livewire. To his surprise, he had washed down the full Livewire tandoori with half-liter of Royal Stag--funny, how it sounded like Royal Stab!--and fagged out a pack-and-a-half of Lights.

That was then. Yesterday. Or was it today? The days had merged, the boundaries blurred. Staring at the ceiling the whole night--cursing the shopkeeper, that bastard!--he had been thinking...

A new day, his eyes pierce past the haze of smoke, riveted at the same ceiling, the absent fan, and the present tether, in place to garrote an animal today!

Dinesh gets up on the table, conveniently placed in the middle of the room yesterday; noose in hand, he can just see the red roses--and hear the gates open.He abruptly unties the knots, jumps off the table and swings open the door to find Shama, newspaper in hand, bustling with excitement: "Too good yaar, too good! Crime and Punishment. Ahem! As the morning sun streaks in...
The End

( Originally published in The Kathmandu Post)

   [ posted by Biswas @ 07:44 AM ] | Viewed: 1484 times [ Feedback]