Drowsy City

Drowsy City

Bhaskar trudges along New Road. It is twelve in the noon and shutters of the shops have just started to open. Shopkeepers are seen lighting incense to purify their shops. In cafés, floors are being mopped, and a whiff of strong disinfectant penetrated every passer by’s nose.

His torn white pajamas and a blue checked shirt looking as if they’ve been freshly rolled in mud, Bhaskar finally arrives at his destination, Durbar square. He thoroughly studies the place, and its surroundings. Having finally decided a place, where it was reasonably clean, he seats himself down perspiring and breathing heavily. His lungs are not the same anymore, and walking with 88 kilos of body for over thirty minutes was not easy. He takes out a bowl, places it in front of him.

“That spot belongs to Tara…if you sit there, he’ll pull your eyes out.” Came a corrosive voice from the dumping area. Bhaskar had not seen the one-eyed old beggar, who was camouflaged within the garbage piles, with a rotting molar protruding out of his mouth.

“Who’s Tara?” Bhaskar asked him indifferently.

The old man started chucking, which turned in to convulsive coughing. “You’ll find out soon enough” he said with a hoarse voice, and continued coughing.

Bhaskar dislikes Tara already, without meeting him. He slowly got on his feet and heads in search for a new place to sit with his bowl - hopefully a place with no begging politics.

“You’re new at this job, aren’t you?” The old beggar pried.

Bhaskar ignores him, and continues walking. Fifteen minutes of search later, he finds a place in Hanuman Dhoka, the monkey-god temple. At first he thought the area was beggar free, but when he was about to sit down he spotted a white bearded beggar near the temple door, fast asleep. What a comforting sight…He thinks longingly. But he is too tiered to walk any longer so he lowers his half aligned bottom on the floor with a deep thankful sigh and places the bowl in front. Leaning his head against the wall, he then falls asleep.

Couple of hours later he wakes up stretching. There’s some money in his bowl! He quickly counts the money - there is fifty six rupees. He puts it all in his pocket except some coins, which he picks up, and heads for the tea stall. The lady at the stall is spooning out freshly fried doughnuts.

“Oy Didi! how much for a doughnut and a glass of tea?” He asked her. Didi actually means elder sister, but Nepalis generally use this term to address any woman of their age.

“Seven rupees” she replied in her rough western-Nepali accent.

He hands her the money.

After tea, he dozes off again, this time he lies down on the floor, resting his head on a cloth bundle he was carrying. After couple more hours he wakes up refreshed and rejuvenated. He looks at his bowl; people have given him twenties and tens! He eagerly counts them. Hundred and thirty! He did not know begging was so profitable! And all this time he has been wasting his time slaving away, trying out various jobs and starting businesses which had failed miserably, leaving him with heavy loans! He looks at the sky and decides it’s time to go. He takes the agonizing walk back through New Road one more time.

After about an hour, he rings a bell to a building and waits, panting and sweating.
The door swings open. A cool breeze from the air-conditioned interior touches his face. Bhaskar closes his eyes .

“What do you want!” An obnoxious woman barked at him.

He refuses to open his eyes and continues inhaling and exhaling deeply, the cool air.

“Are you leaving my doorstep this second? Or shall I get the stick!”

He opens his eyes “Please don‘t get angry, I‘ve got your money.” He appealed, and takes out a pile of notes. “Look!” He said with a pathetic look.

“How much ?” She demanded sternly.

“One hundred and thirty.”

“Where did you get the filthy money from!”

Bhaskar was not prepared for this at all. He’d reckoned, once the woman gets her money she will not care where it came from. He has to quickly make up something in his head.

“I got a job…Door to door service it is! And I get to keep the tips” He said and mentally pats himself on his back.

“Selling what!”

He scratches his beard and tries hard to think of something, while she suspiciously inspects the bundle he’s carrying.

“What is that you’re carrying?” She investigated pointing at the bundle.

“My uniform.” He answered quickly.

She makes a face “What kind of uniform is that!”

He had enough. Bhaskar barged inside, pushing her to the side.

“ How dare you!” she screamed.

“Look! I’ve got a job, now stop bugging me!” Bhaskar yelled back at his wife, and slams the bedroom door shut.

“Wake me up when dinner’s ready!” He screamed from inside.

End