With piles of stories piling up in sajha I could not self control myself either. Here is my fictional story. It is called Obscured World.
Obscured World.
Why are nights so dark, people so dazed, and world -- she keeps on rotating.
This is a story of one person, rather four people with his wife and two children. Not of their life, but in middle of their life, discovering and learning. It was 2 months ago when sun was shining, weather was warm and breeze was in its constant motion. Time could have been around two in the afternoon. Also, it was the exact moment when postman had arrived. Sushil?s house was a big enough house, two floors, with a big garden. Venturing inside house?s main gate, postman brought himself right outside his inner house gate. Uniformed man had knocked three loud knocks before Sushil had brought himself dragging and screaming to open it. When the precious door, decorated with hand crafted designs were few inches apart from him, he faced the man. He was standing across him. His eyes rolled, first at opponent?s face, and then at his hands. He was holding an envelope firmly; also he looked very prepared to hand it over. Bewildered him, not a usual thing for a postman to arrive at his marbled doorsteps; he questioned himself, what could it be. Wanting to make sure, he questioned the uniform man.
?Dai, what kind of materials could it be??
?Well, it?s from seas away, might be something important? the wandering man replied.
After such discourse on the envelope, they soon hypnotized themselves in a brief discussion over the political. Sushil at one point told the man same exact thing thousand?s of fathers in Nepal were saying-- education of their children was being hampered. He also concluded that if he had a chance he would leave Nepal and go to gorgeous America. Postman agreed. Of course America, even postman wanted to go there.
After shutting the door and waiving goodbye to his minute friend he went inside. He was wearing a pair of pajamas, the same one he had slept with last night. While walking, he began tearing the envelope. In an instant he saw it. The thoughts that had killed his brain were coming alive. Excited! Excited! He jumped. He yelled.
?Nita, Come here! Come here!?
Running down the pretty steps she arrived. She herself was dressed in Sari which she always hated. Nothing was more sophisticated for her than putting on that long-long piece of junk cloth. She hated it
.
?What?s wrong? I was talking to Reshma on the phone. Why are you shouting at your lungs? Can you not give me a second to breathe? Oh my god! I cannot even breathe in this house.?
Interrupting her never ending sentence he said quickly, ?No! Look at this,? lowering his excited voice, yet still drowned in excitement.
?I do not understand you tell me what it is.? she said.
?We won the lottery; this is the result for it?
Amazed she looked at the papers to make sure, flipping every existing sheet. It was indeed true. Drowned Sushil took her with him in the la la land where exicitement had no boundaries. It was confirmed by them two, today there should be a party. Both then hurriedly busied themselves in the telephone.
DV was not any gold mine they were hunting down, it was just a thing done in intimacy. But at last they were the one?s who had won it. Unimaginable dreams were finally imaginable. Traveling towards the land of white people and tall buildings was ultimately true.
After much paper works they had finally finished what they needed to. Embassy?s required period of two weeks had passed; and the necessary papers from overseas had finally arrived. Passport was also delivered. Mr. Sushil, head of household could not have looked any better with his glasses in the shinny passport. He was going to America! He knew the work was hard out there, but he also was sure his 50 years old body could make it. Although, many people would just congratulate him without questioning, some who he considered twit would ask -- why he was traveling so far. His reply to them was subtle and poignant, ?Only for my kids.? Such an answer was truly a tear jerker and maybe true; but in between it looked incomplete. At last, who wouldn?t like America, media had hyped it so much -- sexy girls, clean streets, enough water, good house, friendly people, and what not!
A day remained. Tomorrow plane was flying. Wow! No cameras could have captured their looks; really. Mishra ji was picking them at Houston?s Intercontinental Airport. Mishra ji is one of those characters among many who help publicize America. He has been sending 10,000 rupees monthly to his Ama. Gossip was also at large in Kathmandu. Mishra ji was said to have bought 12 Ropani Jagga behind Bir Hospital. He was every Nepali?s living idol; but exception applied even here, he was a nightmare among Nepali?s in U.S.A. Yes a nightmare. He works two jobs. Early in the morning he wakes up at 4:30, because he has to be at the station around 5:00 o? clock. The gas station he works is a busy one, tires anyone. He fills the cooler, sweeps the floor, cleans the dirty bathroom and brightens the lot Then he switches at 4 0 clock in the afternoon to reach another oneat 5 o clock. There he gets off at 12. Not much work as the first one, but this gas station has a lazy male who leaves everything behind. Mishra ji takes responsible again. Then when he gets back home, earliest is 1, which is passed midnight. He repeats same business 6 days a week. Loss of sleep and gain of pain is his profit.
Sushil and his family, for them America looked fine for the first two days. When they first got off the big continental plane all they saw was big house and better organized city. As they were traveling to Mishra ji?s apartment all they could witness was clean road and green trees on both sides. It looked splendid. After crossing many red, green and yellow lights they finally came to the place where they were residing. As they got off the car, he saw beer bottles lying down in the floor. Mishra ji, with loud voice blamed the Mexicans. ?This should be these damn Mexicans, all the illegal money they earn, they spend it on drinking.? Illegal isn?t any strange word to Mishra ji, it was only recently he was granted Political Asylum. For years he had been working illegally, and still works with cash in gas station.
When Sushil saw those glasses of beers on the floor, he held his wife tightly, and looked at his children and then gazed at the surroundings. He seemed dazed. Was it the right place, he argued within. The day passed and turned into night.
He was also visited by surrounding Nepalese, who in coincidence also happened to work in gas stations, malls, and restaurants; all owned by our neighbors. He was thoroughly tortured about American way. ?Ah!? he breathed, when he was told the stories. He was indirectly referred to Indians as being his best companion and secret enemy. So many stories were told. He was introduced to Hispanics, Blacks and racism in America. Mishra ji even said, ?All blacks are god damn thugs and crooks.? He had reason to say that, one time he himself was robbed at his station. The biggest Ahed came for a car, the realization of getting a car. ?You should move as soon as possible from this Apartment and get your own? he was told by Mishra ji?s closest friends. Living in an own apartment was no small deal, he pondered about the things to fill the empty spaces, things to buy, things to join. He did not bring a sofa set, a bed, any TV set or any huge dollars from Nepal. All he had was some training certificate he received in an Insurance company, and things to shelter his and his family?s body. Cash he had was not more than $1000 dollars. He realized zero was where he stood.
Many days past. The more days he spent in America, double the times he missed Nepal. One day he said to Mishra ji, ?I use to be so free in Nepal, after 3 o clock I had nothing to do but read papers.? He was telling the truth, nothing worried him in Nepal. He had everything he wanted, status, language, connection, servants, and wealth. Here, all is gone. A poor Hispanice guy who crosses the border by swimming finds himself better than Sushil. He was a mess, a physical, mental and social. They even complained about his body odor. He was sure of nothing, he barely talked English. He always backed at registers when shopping at K-mart or Wall mart. Language was one of his fears. Dependency had climbed its height on him. All the single, big and small things were done by Mishra ji. Mishra ji was responsible for an electrical line to the phone line. Sushil was just afraid. Staring at such an instant change, living in an empty apartment, sleeping in a floor, watching the TV that was not set on any rack, after a week he asked himself for the final time, did I make the right decision. Sushil had degraded himself on plenty of ways. The manhood of him also had flowed away when he was surviving on his wife?s earnings. Sushil gave up the job that he was doing at neighboring Indian restaurant few days ago, the reason was ? he was asked to dish wash. Tears had rolled from his eyes, a man who never made a tea was asked to wash the dishes. He cried and cried
Between many dark nights, there was one very dark night when he confronted with Nita. They were lying on the floor. Silence was presence. Children had fallen asleep. He looked at her in a peculiar manner. His emotions was not descriptive, but was present. Never had he looked at her this way. This was different than any other looks she received form him, she would recognize the look for sex hungry creature, she would have also recognized for the look of a ?chiya banau? man, and all other ones. But his look was a different look. Sushil on the other hand himself wondered, all his life he had suppressed this beautiful life and today she was the one that was feeding him. Doing all she can. He was much more ashamed thinking this. As for her, nervousness had poured on her eyes, she asked in a bit rude manner to him, ?what are you looking at ?? He said, ?Nothing? with a dull face, turned around and fell asleep. After such a turn around, for one time in her life she felt stronger and brave. She seemed to grasp his guilt, his shamefulness. So she smiled, turned around and slept; feeling like a real living individual, for once in 20 years.
Sun rose bright next morning. Maybe Sushil had hoped for the better tomorrow, but when he woke up everything seemed same. His wife had gone to work; children were still lying down and he himself still in \ world of depressed souls. He did not think for a second, he shifted and picked up the telephone. Sushil was dialing Mishra ji again in a hope to find another job. This time he was ready to clean dishes too.
