Dahal on weeklong Rolpa ‘revenge’ tour

KATHMANDU, NOV 11 - After the ruling parties snubbed the meeting of the Political Committee that he had called, UCPN (Maoist) Chairman Pushpa Kamal Dahal embarked on a weeklong visit of Rolpa on Monday, pushing the stalled constitution drafting process to the brink by crippling cross-party negotiations.

Maoist leaders read the move as Dahal’s tit-for-tat response to ruling parties and a hint of the slim chances of agreement on the contentious issues of constitution-writing. According to Dahal’s secretariat, he will spend one week in mid-western districts, a heartland of the Maoist insurgency that lasted over a decade.

If there had been a positive gesture from the ruling parties, he could have cancelled the visit but there are no signs of rapprochement, Maoist leaders said. Two days ago, Dahal, as the Political Committee (PC) chairman, called its meeting, promising “closed and focussed talks” on the outstanding issues. The ruling Nepali Congress and the CPN-UML refused to attend the meet saying that the body is not mandated to discuss issues of constitution writing.

Feeling “insulted”, Dahal decided to move out instead. Leaders close to him say Dahal will not attend the PC meeting and cross-party dialogue as the ruling parties “did not recognise” the committee formed to facilitate the remaining tasks of the peace process.

“The [Maoist] chairman is of the view that there is no meaning of talks as the ruling parties refused to attend the PC meeting,” said Dahal’s press assistant Shiva Khakurel. He claimed that Dahal notified the top leaders of other parties about his visit.

Dahal has often said it is impossible to reach consensus at the crowded PDCC. He suggests discussing the disputes at the Political Committee in an arrangement whereby an informal agreement reached at the PC could be formalised by the PDCC later.

Ruling party leaders said Dahal’s visit is a mark of his lack of commitment to promulgate a new constitution by January 22. “He wants to prolong the process by rendering the PDCC ineffective,” said UML Secretary Pradeep Gyawali. “He fears that the PDCC can forward our proposal [to the CA] any time. He does not even fully trust Baburam Bhattarai [PDCC chairman].” The PDCC is set to resume its business on Tuesday but there has been no agreement on the approach to the disputed issues. After pressure, Bhattarai has called a meeting of the PDCC to discuss the proposal tabled by the NC and the UML together with some fringe parties.

Leaders charge that the PDCC will merely be a platform for parties to express views and it will not produce any positive results. Bhattarai announced the meeting after consultation with PM Sushil Koirala, Maoist Chairman Dahal and UML Chairman KP Oli. “We won’t let the NC and the UML send their proposal to the CA at any cost,” said Maoist leader Shakti Basnet.

Despite gaping differences, some leaders are working to find common ground on the contentious issues. UML senior leader Madhav Kumar Nepal, UCPN (M) Vice-chairman Narayan Kaji Shrestha and NC leader Krishna Prasad Sitaula are working to explore a compromise.

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The summer of '99

I still remember the moment when I met her for the first time. Though, to be honest, I do not exactly remember many other things that had happened around that time. For instance, I do not remember the mathematical equations and formulas which we had to memorise during our school days. Many definitions of Physics never came to my mind when I had to recall them. Even when they came, they came with a certain degree of haphazardness, skewing the overall sense of the term. However, she remains vivid in my memory till date. Not only her, but also many other auxiliary things that come associated with her. Her dark hair, which more often than not emanated a fresh smell of shampoo, which she must have applied before she came to the school, her deep-seated eyes, long face, a mole on the left cheek, which must have been congenital, and a dimple, which settled on the cheeks every time she smiled, or even made an attempt to smile, are still fresh in my memory. At times I wonder if perhaps this might have been the reason why I was unable to memorise the equations and formulas, for my mind, during those times, was fully occupied with stuff related to the girl. Back then, I seriously believed that the reason behind it was that there was no further space left in my brain, for the space meant for memory was already overwhelmed with the girl. I might have been naïve to think that way, but then everybody is naïve during school days. I just might have been a little more.

I was a mediocre student--one who never failed, but also one who never achieved the dazzling heights. I was always in the middle, squeezed in between the brilliant and the dumb ones. Neither smart, nor dull. It was in the summer of 1999 that she came to our school as a new enrollment in the eighth grade. Our class teacher introduced her to the rest of the class as she stood idle while her fingers played with the edge of her skirt as she lowered her gaze to the floor. The teacher further said that she was originally from Darjeeling and that she had come to town with her parents, following her father’s transfer. ‘Niharika’ was the name the teacher uttered when he introduced her. Until then, I was sitting with my eyes staring down, my fingers covering my forehead. And as soon as I heard the teacher utter her name, which I found exotic, I looked up and threw a glance at her. She was beautiful. I kept looking at her until she

walked across several benches and came and sat in the row next to mine. And after all these years, I remember every single thing that happened between us after the day she first came to our class.

She was a little introverted, a little reticent like me, and it did not surprise me that she had few friends in the class. She talked only when spoken to or when she had to speak out of obligation. She was not the type who would approach people and talk with them just for the sake of talking or befriending a stranger. As she used to sit in front of my row, I had the privilege of observing her activities in class. As I myself was her replica, in being an introvert, we did not speak for the first two weeks. It was she who first found a reason to speak with me. Her ball-point pen betrayed her in the middle of a lecture and out of desperation, or so it seemed, she turned around, toward me, and gestured to ask if I had an extra pen. I rummaged through the pockets of my school bag, found one and gave it to her. Almost immediately, I realised that the pen was not in good condition and that it spilled ink occasionally. She was already scribbling in her copy, and as it was already too late, I dropped the idea about warning her about the pen’s condition. And it was only after the teacher had left the class that she turned back and showed her fingers, laced with blue ink. I feared that

she might be angry; but surprisingly, she had a smile planted on her face. With the next teacher already inside the class, all I could manage was a stifled apology.

“I am extremely sorry. I couldn’t tell you about the pen’s condition earlier,” I made a formal apology after the class was over.

“Oh, never mind. Looks like Holi has arrived earlier,” she quipped.

I didn’t know that she, an introvert, had such a sense of humour. Only then did I come to know

that the place she was staying at was near my place and that she, too, walked the same path I treaded on my way to school.

“We live in my father’s quarters, provided by the office,” she said. Her father worked in an INGO in town.

Then onwards, we came to the school and returned together. Our camaraderie, which I loved, had slowly started to grab our schoolmates’ attention, fueling jealousy in some, and amazement in others. My friends, especially the boys, teased me, which of course I ignored. We talked little while at school, aware of the people around us, for we did not want to be an everyday-topic. However, while we two were alone, like when we went to or returned from school, we opened up. She talked about her childhood days in Darjeeling and her friends over there. She even recounted one tale about how she went for a week of vacation with her family to Rajasthan when all the academic institutions were closed because of the Gorkhaland movement in the hills of Darjeeling.

“To be honest, I don’t even know what the Gorkhaland movement is for,” she said. I too didn’t know what it was for then. All I knew was that the people of Darjeeling were demanding a separate state.

And one day, while we were returning from school early in the afternoon, as it was a Friday, I asked her, almost casually, if she was interested in going for a movie with me. To my surprise, she readily agreed. And, without even changing our school uniform, we went for a movie, a recently released Bollywood romantic flick. And the only thing I remember today is not the film or its plot, but the fact that she had, for the first time, held my hands, in the darkness inside the cinema hall. The other thing I now remember is how we emerged from the hall, our hands still clasped tight, our faces blushed. I also remember a light peck, my first kiss, which she left on my cheeks, later in the day when we were heading home.

And after all these years, as I stand in front of the window of my house, looking at the rain, I recollect all those memories of those two years. Soon after completing the tenth grade, she left the town along with her family, as her father was transferred to another town, leaving me and our slowly growing companionship behind. The bud was snapped even before it had developed into a flower. The day she left town, it rained--not heavy, but a continuous drizzle throughout the day. Misty eyed, I watched her depart, from the balcony. And even to this day, whenever it drizzles, or when I listen to the dying sound of a van’s engine, I remember that rainy day when she disappeared from town. And later on, from my life. 

Rite of passage

Dahal Sir’s class after lunch break was the usual boring affair. He was reading a passage from Bhawani Bhichu’s Mero Sano Sathi in his usual drab monotonous voice and almost half of the eighth graders were falling asleep. Among those in the class who were still awake, a few were gossiping, while Ravi and Sanjiv, seated in the back, were both peering into their copybooks and chuckling at something.

The lines read: “Through the peephole the boy saw the maid spreading herself under the moonlight as her nightgown sprawled along the bed sheet .....” All of sudden, both boys felt a hard smack on the back of their skulls. For a moment, everything turned dark and when their eye sights cleared, the stern figure of Dahal Sir stood in front of them.

“What the hell are you two supposedly doing?” he yelled.

Both boys were nervous. Ravi stammered and said, “Sorry, Sir.”

He received another hard blow to his face. “Give me what you are reading,” Dahal Sir said. As both the boys hesitated, Dahal Sir snatched the book from them, tearing the cover of Raat ki Urvashi.

A pin-drop silence fell over the class. Even those who were feeling drowsy till then were now at full attention. Everyone was facing the blackboard, but their eyes kept glancing towards the boys, who were both standing with their heads bowed low; their faces had turned completely crimson with utter embarrassment. The overbearing silence made them feel as if they had been put in a torture rack and there was no way out.

Twisting both of the boys’ ears Dahal Sir yelled again, “Both of you guys will be expelled. Let’s go to the principal’s room.”

With pain and fear, both of them cried, “Please Sir. This won’t happen again. We are sorry. Don’t take us to the principal’s room.”

It was around a week back that the erotic work by the notorious writer who used the pen name KP had been introduced into the classroom. It was first brought into the class by Mukesh, the oldest among the kids and bit of a pervert. The graphic paperback with the racy illustrations, available only in shady corners of Ratnapark, really captured the imagination of the adolescent boys. The lines, words and images in the book simply overwhelmed them. They couldn’t decide whether the things they were reading were immoral, sinful or normal. The only idea of sex they had had before was a foggy idea based on the vague descriptions given to them during their biology class by an embarrassed Mrs Amatya. What they had learned in class so far was based simply on routine pedantic biological discourse and nothing more. But now after perusing the nitty gritty details of carnal pleasure, the gratuitous curiosity among the boys had reached fever pitch. They felt a shock and awe that rattled their very moral foundations. By the time Sanjiv and Ravi were caught, the lewd book had already been lasciviously read by almost all the boys in the class.

Sanjiv had always been a well-disciplined student who was good at studies. He was a pale, lanky boy with an awkward husky voice, thanks to the onset of early puberty. He came from a prominent business family and had a good reputation. Ravi, on the other hand, was a mischievous kid with a chubby face, and he wasn’t all that good at studies. His father had abandoned the family when he was just a kid; he had suffered through hardship and was brought up by his mother, who worked as a clerk in a government bank.   Both the students had never had any record of transgressions and had always abided by the rules and regulations. But now, standing in the principal’s room, both boys were shaking with absolute fear. Principal Lal Kaji Sir was a very stern man. Boys used to be scared of even venturing near him. Putting his glasses down and pursing his lips, Principal Lal Kaji shook his head with complete disdain. “How disgusting. You boys were reading porn in class. I will call your parents. You both will be immediately expelled,” he said.

The news reached Mr Bhojraj Basnet, father of Sanjiv, like a firestorm. He was in the middle of a board meeting when a call from his son’s school interrupted him. Fearing something bad might have happened he rushed to the school.  Upon discovering the real reason for the call, he became extremely agitated. He could not believe that his son could soil his image in such an ignominious fashion. Seeing his own flesh and blood standing with his head bowed down, he felt utter embarrassment and was at a loss for words. Right in front of the principal and all the teaching staff, he slapped his son real hard. Tears fell from Sanjiv’s eyes, while his father scolded him at the top of his voice: “You have tarnished the image of our family! I am ashamed to even call you my son!” His father’s harsh words made Sanjiv cry inconsolably, while Ravi stood near the door, visibly shaken.

Inside the prinicpal’s office Lal Kaji Sir and Mr Basnet started to have a grave conversation.

“This is a very serious issue Basnetji. Our school’s regulations clearly state that your son will have to be expelled,” Lal Kaji Sir said.

“I understand your dilemma, Lal Sir. But you have to understand that I am a prominent businessman with a wholesome image. If the media even get a whiff of what has happened, this will bring my entire family into disrepute. Why don’t you put all the blame on the other kid and let my son off the hook?” Mr Basnet said.

“Well, I can’t help in that regard at all. Action should be taken on both boys,” said the principal.

“Well, Sir. In that case let me remind you that my company donates a huge sum to your school. I know you are a practical man and if you expel my son, you will have to say goodbye to all the money,” Mr Basnet threatened. “And believe me, I am not bluffing.”

Mr Basnet’s warning regarding the repercussions of expelling Sanjiv made the principal think hard. Forgoing the considerable donation would place the entire school in a financial fix. After some thoughtful deliberation, Lal Sir finally conceded, “ Considering the facts, sure Mr Basnet, we will let your son go this time. But he will have to put in extra class hours. And also, please make sure he doesn’t fall into bad company.”

Relieved by the Lal Kaji Sir’s forthcoming attitude, Mr Bhojraj spoke in a sombre tone, “Sure, Principal Sir. I am really thankful to you. I will make sure that my son will comply with everything. And I will make sure he won’t be friends with that other kid.”

“Don’t worry. We will expel Ravi. Our school should set an example so that boys don’t commit similar transgressions in the future,” Lal Kaji Sir said, with a malicious twinkle in his eyes.

In the following week, Ravi was expelled from school while Sanjiv remained absent for a week. When Sanjiv later resumed school again, other students hardly spoke to him. Going to school became a nightmare, as he remained a solitary figure. The psychological toll of being ostracised by his peers, together with his pent-up feelings of guilt began to affect his studies. In the mid-term exams, he failed both Nepali and Maths. As a result, he was forced to visit his teachers’ home every Saturday for extra tuition classes while other children enjoyed their holiday. Sanjiv hated it and wished he could get away from everything and even thought about running away from his home. But he loved his mom dearly and couldn’t even fathom the pain something like that would inflict on her. So grudgingly he obeyed everything.

During one of the tuition classes at Dahal Sir’s home, Sanjiv was finding it very difficult to keep his attention on the topic of arcane grammatical rules for forming a portmanteau of Nepali words. Meanwhile, Dahal Sir, ever since learning that Sanjiv came from a well to do family, had become apparently obsequious towards him.

“Let’s take a break, kid. Go and rest in the living room while I work on a few things I have to do,” Dahal Sir said unctuously.

Feeling relieved, Sanjiv loitered into the next room, which was well-carpeted. It had a TV in one corner and a large bookcase near the wall. Spotting a children’s folktale section, he pulled a paperback from the shelf, and a sheaf of papers fell onto the floor. As he stooped and picked them up, he came upon lines written in Dahal Sir’s handwriting, which read: “Under the darkness, the maid started to caress her master....” A chill went up Sanjiv’s spine. Hurriedly he sifted through the pages and saw the trademark KP inked at the bottom. Holding the chunk of paper, he finally comprehended the phony world—all the while completing his rite of passage.

AU to send medical support teams to fight Ebola

ADDIS ABABA: The African Union is to send medical support teams to the West African countries affected by Ebola for a six-month mission.

An Ebola outbreak that began in Guinea has since spread to Liberia, Sierra Leone, Nigeria and Senegal, killing more than 2,000 people. The hardest hit of those countries desperately need more health care and humanitarian workers to respond to the crisis.

The African Union is sending at least 100 people, including doctors, nurses and others to support efforts to contain the outbreak. The European Union promised 5 million euros ($6.4 million) to fund the mission following an emergency meeting of the continental bloc on Monday. It was not clear when the first teams would arrive, but they will work in Liberia, Sierra Leone and Guinea. -

SURFACE TENSION

Low-pressure weather systems are a familiar feature of the winter climate in the northern Atlantic. While they often drive wind, rain, and other unpleasantness against Europe’s rocky western margin, this is typically on a “mostly harmless” basis. Early in the evening of 31 January 1953, the weather in northern Europe was damp, chilly, and blustery. These unremarkable seasonal conditions disguised the fact that a storm of extreme severity was massing nearby, and that an ill-fated assortment of meteorological, geophysical, and human factors would soon coalesce into an almost unprecedented watery catastrophe.

The storm scudded past the northern tip of Scotland and took an unusual southerly detour, shifting towards a low-lying soft European overbelly of prime agricultural, industrial, and residential land. The various people, communities, and countries in its path differed in their readiness and in their responses to the looming crisis, yet the next 24 hours were about to teach them all some enduring lessons. In a world that remains awash with extreme weather events—and with increasing numbers of people living in vulnerable coastal areas—the story of this particular storm system’s collision with humanity remains much-studied by emergency planners, and much-remembered in the three countries it so fatally struck.

WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

In 1744, a young geographer living in Spanish-colonial Peru with his wife and children decided the time had come to move the family back to his native France. Jean Godin des Odonais had come to Peru in 1735 as a part of a small scientific expedition and had ended up staying much longer than expected. He’d married a young woman from a local aristocratic family and now the couple had two children and a third on the way. But news from France eventually brought word of Godin’s father’s death, meaning that there was an inheritance to sort out. It was time to return.

Making travel arrangements from such a distance, however, was going to be a challenge. Perhaps, Godin reasoned, he and his family could travel to the colony of French Guiana at the other end of the Amazon River, then find places on a ship back to France. In order to establish whether this was plausible, Godin decided to travel ahead to French Guiana and make inquiries.

From its headwaters in Peru, the Amazon goes downhill. From this point, virtually everything for Jean and Isabel Godin did the same. Left behind, Isabel spent years waiting for word from her husband. Eventually, due to an improbable series of mishaps and misery, Isabel ended up stranded alone in the middle of the Amazonian rainforest, hopelessly lost and so far into starvation that her chances of survival were vanishingly small.

MAY HAVE SETTLED

It was early in the morning on the 1st of May 1832 in New York City. The ordinarily gentle horse-drawn traffic of the up-and-coming metropolis seemed a bit more dense than usual, and as the morning progressed the avenues and boulevards became increasingly crowded. At 9:00 AM, almost as if on cue, thousands of doors on thousands of buildings burst open to vomit humans, furniture, and other sundries out into the bright morning sun. Within moments the streets of New York were a jangling amorphous pandemonium.

English author Frances Trollope happened to be in New York City to witness this peculiar spectacle:

On the 1st of May the city of New York has the appearance of sending off a population flying from the plague, or of a town which had surrendered on condition of carrying away all their goods and chattels. Rich furniture and ragged furniture, carts, wagons, and drays, ropes, canvas, and straw, packers, porters, and draymen, white, yellow, and black, occupy the streets from east to west, from north to south, on this day.

All over New York, tenants along with their belongings abandoned their abodes to criss-cross the city in mass migration to fresh dwellings. This was Moving Day. Owing to a quirk in New York law, nearly all rental contracts expired every year on May 1st at 9:00 AM, resulting in the simultaneous relocation of a multitude of persons and property. For over a century, from colonial times until shortly after the Second World War, it was the custom for the city to spend every May 1st as a scarcely navigable morass of humans, carts, and livestock.

We here at Damn Interesting headquarters (i.e., my residence) have recently performed our own interpretation of Moving Day, having spent an exhausting morning, noon, and night shuttling furniture, appliances, and corrugated cardboard cubes from one structure to another. The preceding packing and subsequent reorganizing have unavoidably disrupted our normally abnormal posting schedule. Next week, however, our jangling amorphous pandemonium will be over, and we shall be back to posting new articles.