wowza have i been neglectful of this blog. mostly, i've been trying to stave off the panic of leaving nepal (in about three weeks!) with no job lined up-- both through sheer force of will, and the more practical measure of applying for lots and lots of jobs. i'm trying to remember, though, that i'm plenty young. even if i don't score a job that's both interesting to me and a more conventional/financially secure career move, i can go farm, and get some hands on experience to continue a career in food security and food systems, or i'll give this freelance journalism thing a shot.
i was thinking about the latter option when i saw that one of my favorite feminist blogs was having a short fiction contest where the only constraints were a 500-word limit and a female main character. i figured this was a perfect opportunity to a) get writing and b) get used to putting my writing out to be judged. i would work up a few pieces, ask some friends for comments, and submit the best. i had written one and started a second, when i went to check the deadline and saw that they had closed the contest early, due to overwhelming response. bummer
then i thought, wait a sec, the first piece was set in nepal. i already wrote the thing, and i can still practice getting used to putting it out there (admittedly to a much kinder audience)....
ANYWAY. it's after the jump. it's set sometime in the early 2000s in ktm, and it's (supposed to be) riffing on the theme of privilege.
She hugged her satchel to her hip as she sidled past a boy with a runny nose and soot-smudged cheeks.
“Please, one, ma’am” he said, holding out a stack of garish postcards, emblazoned with images of the Hindu holy family, Shiva and Parvati, and their elephant headed-son, Ganesh.
“Chhaidaina, bhai,” she replied, in Nepali. Not needed, little brother.
“Please, ma’am”
“Chhaidaina. Jaum” Go.
The air conditioning hit her face like a benediction as she crossed the threshold of the café, slick and clean like an airport terminal. She scanned the room. He wasn’t there yet, so she moved to the back and sat down, pulling out a thick sheaf of work papers. The other patrons were mostly foreigners, plugging away at their laptops, with a smattering of well-heeled Nepalis—one young couple, discreetly holding hands under the table in the corner. A teenager sat by himself at the table opposite fiddling with a pencil. A student, to judge by his thin exercise book and neatly pressed collared shirt.
The price of coffee made her wince-- twice as much as any other place in town, but worth it for electricity and internet at one of the few places open during a bandh, political protests that shut down transportation and all the smaller shops. Personally, she found bandhs a welcome relief from the smog and traffic that otherwise dominated Kathmandu. She ignored the waiter’s demeanor, both deferential and slightly lecherous, long since inured to the perceptions of foreign women’s sexual openness. It still wasn’t as bad as one colleague at the UN agency where she worked. Studied abroad, but seems to want to use his English as a romantic, rather than professional advantage, she thought ruefully, glancing back at her notes.
Through the window, she saw a tourist, jaunty in fancy trekking gear, buying a devotional image from the boy. The ongoing conflict in the hills hadn’t deterred tourists, thronging below, a jumble of brightly colored harem pants, dreadlocks, and oversized cameras, dodging offers of hash and prostitutes from the margins of the narrow streets. Her own work didn’t take her out of her office much, so she didn’t know what to make of the occasional headline across the English language daily, or her colleagues’ whispered debates. It would pass, she imagined, like other political upheavals here.
He was late. She felt silly, but she had had hopes when she spotted him across the crowded bar, through the smoke, like some noir cliché. A relief from all the familiar faces, weekend after weekend…
“Bhai, timro jhola…”
The student glanced at her as she spoke, his dark brown eyes wide with surprise. He hesitated, still looking at her, picked up his forgotten bag with a nod, and went, leaving his pencil abandoned on the table.
Still not here. She sighed, and watched the student go down the stairs and out to the street below, where he placed his bag on the uneven pavement and walked off.
A flash of light from below. The world exploded.
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