Thanks to the open political scene in the country, the runway was the place where we all stood staring at the clouds to open up. I say this because certain places used to be out of bounds area in the days gone by and in the name of freedom, suddenly everyplace is accessible and every action doable. To spur up the otherwise dull atmosphere, a stray dog began running across the sloped runway and soon two more joined the party. A policeman guarding the airport got some order from his senior and started his efforts to drive them away. The dogs ran but aimlessly, almost in circles. They would not get out of the little outlet in the otherwise fenced runway of the uniquely built Lukla airport. He picked up a stone and started hitting the dogs. A couple of his hits missed the dogs before one hit right on its back. The dog made a very loud squeaking noise and managed to draw everyone’s attention. Almost instantaneously, the Russians thronged into the heart of runway. It did not make sense at first before they almost attempted to bring the policeman down by overpowering him. A girl screamed right on his face “Isn’t non- violence something that your country preaches’. Being a good nepali, he just shied away. I am not quite sure whether he understood whatever was said to him but he just kept mum, even dared to smile. Or could it be that he disagreed with the question. Whatever the case be, the trip to mountains had started in somewhat memorable note.

It was perfect - as it later turned out.

After having a breakfast began the walk. It was magnificent. One could invariably be reminded of ‘far from the maddening crowd’ and the feeling that for the next couple of days I could dedicate my life to my own self was too overwhelming. The breath of fresh air and clean open environment was a harsh reminder of the fact that life in the city, in most ways, had very little to offer even though one always harped about ‘development’. I walked watching hundreds of trekkers pass by, some en route and some on their way back, who hardly failed to say ‘Namaste’ once the distance got closer. And with each group of trekkers were a group of porters who walked almost silently carrying huge luggage on a doko. One could only imagine the strength of their shoulders and the neck for often times the sheer size of it all appeared almost too much to carry even for a taxi back in the city.

For a moment, and I must admit it, it just did not feel nice. While the tourists walked around savoring the beauty of the hills and the air, along walked a group of people who as if had no right to enjoy the place they were so fortunate to have been born. To cut it short I just felt as if I was being an audience to modern day slavery. But then, I am sure what you are thinking, this was something that gave us our means to livelihood and the whole thing was not by design but by our own doing. If only we were not this poor – that was precisely the feeling that I had in me then. I walked on.

We rested for a night in a place called Phakding which rested along on the bank of one of the tributaries of ‘sapta-koshi’. There were a couple of Australian couples, a retired army general from Indian army with his grandchildren and a group of Slovak students at the big dinner table in the restaurant of the hotel. We all had managed to introduce each other while we all waited for dinner sipping 400 rupees per bottle beers.
And as we got to know each other better, soon everyone began sharing their travel experiences which seemed to cover almost two thirds of the globe. And the funny part of the whole conversation, well at least to me it appeared funny, was that except for four of us Nepalese in that room everyone had already been to this place before. The Australians, as they told us, have been here almost six times and they had succeeded in bringing 25-30 people residing in the suburban area of Perth over the last twelve years. It was almost as if the realization dawned upon us that Himalaya is not just some numerical value of 8848. And while Jim began explaining the trail over the spread out map on the table, we realized two things. Nepal is not just the two ends of Mahendra highway and there was much more to know about this country.

Next morning we walked up to Namche bazar. The place somehow took me by surprise for I had this picture in my mind that Namche lay atop a hill from where you could see Everest. Rather it lay on the slopes of a hill like almost like a baby in a mother’s cuddle. A heavy duty meal and a light snap, we readied ourselves for a walk in the trail encircling the Namche. After couple of hours we found ourselves in one of the most beautiful places that I have ever been to, the Khumjung village.

The village of Khumjung nestled in the lap of divine Khumbila Mountain, as I learned, was also referred as Edmund village. The village with its picturesque settings was perfect, to say the least. As my colleague travelling put it, if any Nepali were to be directly air dropped in this particular village and were told that this was one particular place in Switzerland, chances were there that the person would tend to think along the same lines. It had almost everything that any human habitat would look for. One had to, almost forcibly, take a pause and think for a moment that here was a place completely inaccessible by roads and yet had each and everything that one could think of vis-à-vis development. And yet there are n numbers of places in the country accessible through every possible means (highways/airports) and yet life continues at its basic minimum. There was a lesson to be learnt although I am not sure what exactly. ‘Commitment’, for one, seemed to cross my mind.

By the time we returned back to hotel in Namche it was almost pitch dark. The day had certainly been an eye opener in many ways. With a plan of sipping our morning coffee at the Everest View hotel, we all headed to our respective $10 / night rooms.

The thirty six hours experience had already turned out be the one to carry along for a long time. Also begging was a prospect of even more exciting tomorrow.

Unedited version of the article published in the Sunday edition of the Kathmandu Post, 29th June.

I sat in my place. The table was laden with potatoes, bread, and rice. Everyone was in frenzy, rushed to reach their own destinations. I took my place. My father had bread and potatoes in one hand and a coat in the other, as he sprinted out the door. My sister walked round and round the table, reciting formulas and passages. My mother made frantic trips to the kitchen and back, asking me again and again if I needed something. I was ironing my crème school uniform and reading a textbook, while gulping down sips of water and helpings of rice.

My sister grabbed her bag and I snatched mine. My mother ran out to the door to say goodbye. My sister and I walked the miles to school. We took each step carefully, avoiding puddles and mud that would stain our pristine uniforms. I didn’t think it was sensible for our school to have all crème uniforms that dirtied so easily.

Around me, women in red saris mingled on the thresholds of temples. The sun had risen, but fog still covered everything. The cool winter air whipped around my bare arms. Shivering, I donned my sweater. I squinted up at the mountains. Tall and brave. They protected me, like the brothers I never had. I felt a leathery hand on my ankle. I screamed and looked down. An old beggar woman had caught hold of my ankle and was asking for money. I reached in my pocket and found a rupee. Usually, we are taught not to give beggars any money, because, once you do so, they will not stop following you. But, this woman was different. She wasn’t a cheat like most beggars. I saw truth in her eyes. I leaned over and very discreetly pressed the money into her open hand, so none of the others would run over and start begging as well. That woman smiled, a bunch of her teeth were missing. I rushed to catch up with my sister, and turned back to have one last look at that old beggar woman.

My sister pointed out other crème figures walking ahead of us. We ran to catch up with our friends. A corner of the gate was visible in the fog. I could see part of the grand sign that read “MAHENDRA BHAWAN SCHOOL FOR GIRLS.” My friends and I entered through the gate, and waited to be called inside. The courtyard was peaceful and quiet. The dull sound of chatter and the chirping of birds were overshadowed by the drunken fog. The bell rang out, piercing the silence. I smiled and stepped inside the warm building.

Namaste!

We would like to invite you to a cocktail party at the Tian Rui Chinese Restaurant & Bar at Thapathali, Kathmandu from 6:30pm onwards on Wednesday, June 11, 2008.

Please find the direction to the restaurant attached with this email.

On behalf of Bhaskar Bhattarai, Bimal Koirala, Kundan Khanal, Lava Kafle, Raj B Thakuri, Sharad Pokharel and Subodh Gurung

Yours Truly,

This email composed by Vishnu Kshettri was sent to whole set of teams that were during part of corporate life involved directly/indirectly in some of the projects.

Extremely sorry to say, for many of friends and team members we got :

Your message did not reach some or all of the intended recipients.

Subject: Wednesday to live for!
Sent: 6/10/2008 8:28 PM

The following recipient(s) cannot be reached

and we feel sorry for typing wrong email address and for not being to call unofficially or verbally. We were negligent there. We will improve next time so nobody from organization misses such parties.

Anyway, it was a big fun with many new games played. Many Proposals and rejection offers were heard. Many were crying to release the pain and many more were laughing to release the excitement of the party. As soon as Thakur Gyawali entered the party scene, it started getting hotter. Other missing teams started jumping in who had to finish their jobs before joining the party. There was a huge hullabaloo. All started peeking in to see what happened inside the circle.Raj Thakuri won the game and got chance to propose to a Princess by becoming a Knight. Hitesh Karki became the Knight and proposed to another Princess by kneeling before her. We were mesmerized by this new play seen first time in the history of get-together and parties. It continued as the night slipped by and the moon started to shower its charismatic spell on party-makers.

It was a great opportunity to bind diverse teams into one place at one time and to recognize many faces previously unknown.

Many did not make to Party even though they received invitations.

Vishnu and Prashanta Shrestha had booked the place on Tuesday to make plenty of time and room for us.

The Chinese Cuisines were superb lest we are not used to the food quality of Chinese daily. The International Standard place, beautiful garden, and the rooftop with all are seen below in photographs that are not Edited at all.

Please right click photo, Save and put a comment on which photo you liked or disliked based on the photo number. If some volunteer is available, please put nice caption alongside.

It was a lucky day for Nepalese as the former King Gyanendra at last left his big Narayanhiti Palace making room for federal republic. The pictures below show eve of the moment when there will not be another such sunset, and the Statute of the First Shah Ruler of Kathmandu will never again witness his inheritors staying in Narayanhiti palace. “Narayan” is Hindu God’s name and “hiti” means water spout.

She laughed, amused by the falling white flakes. I put my warm hands around her cold pink cheeks. Little snowflakes clung to her lashes. She toddled away stumbling every few steps, and falling face first into the snow. It was silent, excepting her squeals of delight. A blanket of peace covered the city, drowning out everyone and everything, except for her and me. She dragged me over and pulled me down next to her, on the ground. Together we worked hard, building and sculpting, until we had shaped the most beautiful snow baby.

Hot cocoa sat, steaming, on the table. The smell was comfortable, like a wool blanket in winter. I took a deep breath, inhaling the warmth and the chocolate. I raised the mug to my lips and drank. I smiled, as she brought two small hands and grasped her own cup. Suddenly, her cup fell with a clatter to the ground spilling hot chocolate everywhere. Tears hung on the edges of her eyelids, ready to fall. I offered my own cup of cocoa. She giggled, happy again.

Snow melted in the warm weather. She took her little tricycle and wheeled it up to the sidewalk. I stood on the lawn, squinting in the sunlight. She climbed onto the seat of the tricycle and placed her two feet carefully on the two pedals. I watched her, as she pedaled back and forth, and back and forth.

Brightly colored marigolds and tulips were in bloom in the garden. Our favorite garden. We ran around on the lawn, laughing and trying to catch each other. The grass was wet with drops of dew. The sun had just begun poking out of the clouds, and the sky was fiery. Cool air whistled about us as we walked back inside, hand in hand.

It was a summer day. The late afternoon heat crept up on me. I sat on the deck, trying to focus on my book. She was sitting beside me beading a necklace. The necklace fell out of her hands and the beads scattered around the deck. As we both bent to pick them up, we collided and fell over in giggles. The beads and book lay forgotten.

One day in late August, she begged for me to take her on a walk. I was bored, so I agree to walk around the block. We saw the neighbors’ dogs, but that day they didn’t bark. That day it was too hot. We walked past the red brick wall and by the old oak tree. The old man on Hillcrest waved hello. He stood with his gardening tools, perfecting his beautiful flower patch. We kept walking, past the cherry trees and around the pea green house. The blue house on the corner came into view.

The leaves fell, like rubies, topaz, and lapis lazuli on my front lawn. Flip-flops were replaced with sneakers and rakes took the place of lounge chairs. For me, it was another year of school. For her, it was kindergarten. Mornings on the big kids’ bus and maybe even homework. She was excited and ready. Ready for new friends and a real school. Ready to announce to everyone that she was a kindergartner. Ready to grow up. A strand of chocolate hair. Two bright eyes. A little salt and a little pepper. My sister.

He offered a firm hand for me to place my small one. Slowly, he helped me take small steps to the destination. The destination. Far away, away from him. Keep going, he said, don’t stop. It hurt. I wanted to stop. I wanted him to lift me up and away from the cold, hard ground. The rough concrete that scabbed my knees. He shook his head, no. I had to keep going. I fell from time to time. He hoisted me up and brushed off my already dirty tights. I hobbled a few steps, clumsy in my summer shoes, away from him. He cheered. I laughed. I did it.

The words shone at me. Unknown and almost mystical. Waiting to be discovered. The frustration hit me. I couldn’t read the words. I wanted to read them. The frustration was elevating. The letters pounded in my ears, loud and unfriendly. I couldn’t handle it anymore. It was like a volcano waiting to erupt inside of me. I threw down the book and screamed. Calm down, he said. You can do it, he told me. I sat down for yet another try. The words seemed less intimidating, like old friends. I saw them and understood them. I heard my voice clearly enunciating the sounds. I understood. He smiled, I knew you could, he whispered. He knew I could.

Whenever they said I looked like him, I stuck out my chest in pride. I look like Daddy, I shouted as I ran around the house. I sat on his lap. He examined the laughing face that so resembled his and frowned at the sweet and sticky purple juice stains that seemed to be permanently on my chin. His face lit up when I ran to my room to fetch the little composition book. The composition book in which I learned. He spent hours on end teaching me and I spent hours on end learning. He taught me reading and math and everything else. I giggled when he drew a huge smiley face over my calculations. Good job, he said and tousled my hair.

I sat on the porch, the porch that always seemed to have some random object lying lazily around on it. That day it was a worn excerpt from the business section of the Sunday paper. I sat, staring at the laces of my new pink sneakers. The laces didn’t make the perfect bow that my cousin’s laces made. They came together in ugly knots like tangled hair that hadn’t been combed for weeks. The screen door creaked open. I looked behind me. He was there. His hands reached down, and patiently undid the knots. He showed me how to make the beautiful bow with my laces. I jumped up, ecstatic. I made the bow, I shouted.

Years went by. Summers went by. I grew out of the summer shoes. I had grown up. I had grown up under his shadow. The shadow that guided my every step. He leaned against the periwinkle stairs and laughed. I walked by myself now, I didn’t need that firm hand. But under his laughter I could see the tears. They flowed from the maple eyes that wished. That wished I needed his firm hands again. That wished I was a baby again.

I was running as fast as I could, but the yak kept gaining on me. All of a sudden, I found myself in my lodge room. I jumped on the bed, only to discover to my horror that the yak had made it to the room as well. With all its fury, the yak jumped on me. That is when I woke up from the vivid nightmare with cold sweat all over my body. Perfectly horizontal on the bed, my head felt fine. I couldn’t put a finger on it, but I knew that there was something that was not right with my body. I decided to get up for a quick trip to the latrine. As soon as I left the bed, the entire room started spinning around me. I could hardly stand or walk straight. That is when it began– my night in hell.

It was the night before we were supposed to head for the base camp- we were in Gorak Shep, at an altitude of 5190 meters (approximately 17000 feet). Gorak Shep is the last stop before getting to Everest Base Camp or Kala Pathar. Lying in the foot of the beautiful Mount Pumori, it is a frozen lakebed with nothing but sand, ice and stones for miles around. There is a not a spec of vegetation - not a single weed or needle of grass. As if that were not enough, it is structured as a valley, so if you were to get sick with AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) over here (which is very likely when you are 5190 meters high with no vegetation and have had very little time to acclimatize), you would have to climb up and cross about five or six hills before you could start to actually descend.

Earlier that day, one of my friends had asked one of the locals what “Gorak Shep” meant. Gorak is the Himalayan black crow. It is larger and more agile than normal city crows and has a noticable gliding fashion– quite like that of an eagle. The word “Shep”, in the local language, means “to die”. Legend has it that a Gorak from Tibet flew over to Nepal and as soon as it reached this place, it dropped dead. So apparently this was a place where even the crow, a symbol of immortality in our culture, could not survive. This was also where what the route that the Dalai Lama dubbed “the steps to heaven” ended, implying that this was the beginning of heaven. Oh, it was heaven- alright: it was scenic, it was calm, and it was beautiful. It was hell.

Still earlier that day, while ascending from Lobuche to Gorak Shep, I had noticed quite a few people sick with AMS being escorted down to Lobuche. Now that I projected back, I realized that this route must have been the one where I had seen the most number of people descending due to AMS. I also remembered hearing about this guy from Dingboche (which is at a height of about 4300 meters, mind you) getting sick with AMS at Gorak Shep! All of this combined was in no way helping my psychological state.

I somehow made it to the latrine and back and lay myself down on the bed. I tried closing my eyes, but as soon as I shut them, I felt dizzy as hell, nauseaous and felt like throwing up. So I opened my eyes back again. It was dark. I lit my flashlight and looked at my friend over on the next bunk — he seemed to be sleeping soundly. As much as I wanted to help it, my mind started to recollect on the alleged symptoms of AMS: headache (I’d always had a mild one), dizziness (oh, boy!), vivid nightmares (remember the yak?), insomnia, loss of appetite, nausea, vomitting and so on. The words “pulmonary edema and cerebral edema” started to ring around my brain. The number “12″ kept coming back to me — 12 hours: that is how long it takes for a person to go from mild AMS to coma or death.

Sleepless, I lay there in the dark: thinking. My only wish was that I be able to spend the next four or five hours pass without getting any sicker. To hell with Base Camp: as soon as morning hit, I would descend to Lobuche. Around 2 AM, our trekking guide came knocking. Surprised, I answered. I was even more surprised to see him all dressed up.

“Good Morning, sir!”

“Good Morning? It is 2 AM!”

“What? I thought it was 5 AM! I have this terrible headache and I can’t get any sleep. I woke up and it just felt like 5 AM. Sorry, sir, please go back to sleep.”

Even the trekking guide, for whom traversing these altitudes was all in a day’s work — could not get any sleep!! I did manage to get some sleep, though — sometime during the twilight hours.

The next morning, my headache had somewhat subsided, but I was still dizzy. I asked both my friends how they were doing. Apparently, they both could not get any sleep either– both had terrible headaches and were dizzy beyond belief. My friend who seemed to be sleeping soundly was only trying to do so. If anything, their conditions were worse than mine. We had to reconsider whether we wanted to go on to the base camp or to descend to Lobuche. We decided to get some breakfast and see what our body told us.

With a weak and dizzy body and no appetite whatsoever, getting that bowl of porridge in through my mouth and down to my stomach that morning was as tough as anything. After breakfast, we all felt somewhat better, though not all that much. We reached a consensus: we had come this far, it would be disappointing not to reach the base camp. We would therefore make our way towards the base camp (5300 meters). If, on the way, any of us got any sicker, we would head back right away. In any case, once we were back from the base camp or from the middle, there was no way in hell that we would be spending the night in Gorak Shep. With what energy we had left, we would descend to Lobuche even if it was the last thing we did.

With what I can only explain as God’s grace, all of us made it to the base camp and back. As planned, we mustered up all our energy and made it back down to Lobuche (4950 meters). Boy, was I glad to get out of Gorak Shep!!

aashishkoirala.wordpress.com

 Please follow PICTURES (Hope Readers pardon the tenacity of this author for ugly pics and Typo if any) from Bottom Up:When The Dead Spirits rise in Cemetry of Waltham, MA United States of America. Please put cursor of your mouse over the pictures to read the details. You may ask:Why Bottom Up? Because we cannot always follow the same old Dictum taught to us by our Fellows.If we do so, we will land in Hell and the Spirit could not have surfaced from the graves at bottom shown here only for the bloggers, readers, and well-wishers of http://www.everestuncensored.org. When I type this address wrong, where it takes me, I have never tested. I should and I must because I have just risen from graves in my soul. I was handcuffed, gagged, and suffocated in my old grave. God gave me chance to re-surface in the wonderland United States and the Best City, The Mother of Industrial Revolution in United States.Even  I heard that D2Hawkeye was born in this Historical City. You may ask how? It is the place that creates Ideas in one’s mind. Gautam Buddha did not get his Knowledge in Nepal, nor did Jesus in Israel.Even Krsna had to leave Mathura to become God. So, Waltham has that Entreprenueer supportive Climate and so Does Cambridge, and Bsoton. On the Whole,Massachsetts, proud of world’s renowned MIT,Harvard, NorthEastern, Brandeis, Bowdoin, Bently, Boston..is motherland of Industry, brains, ideas, philospohy, and Implementation abilities.I being a Ghost was astonished to get such details from the graveyard where I rose into existence and started travelling the city in what way it affects my future residence, in Auburn Cemetry, or to Roselien, or to nepal’s Pashupati Arya Ghat(where I wait for people being turned into ashes after their death).

I needed a body to do something, so I sneaked into one of the bodies travelling in my premises on south of Brandeis University and the FlichtBurg North Station Railway line. You will see my grave where I emerged into a human being unknown to him at bottomost screenshot of this Page. More Story, details of those Bottom Up Pictures in Next Episode in bottom up way. Fellas.

          नयाँ ठाउँ, नचिनेका मान्छे, नौलो बातावरण, शुरुमा हामीलाई गाह्रो पर्‍यो। नेपालमा जस्तो होटेलमा खानलाई यहाँ महँगो पर्ने। फेरी नेपालबाट सिमित पैसा मात्र लिएर आएका हामीजस्ता विद्यार्थीले होटेलमा खान सक्ने कुरै आएन।  Backpackers मा भान्छा एउटा मात्र थियो। सबै आगन्तुकले एउटै भान्छामा पालो पालो गरेर खाना बनाउनु पर्ने भएकाले, भान्छा बिहान बेलुकी ब्यस्त हुन्थ्यो। पालो कुरेर बस्नु पर्ने हुन्थ्यो। सुरु सुरुका दिनहरुमा चाउचाउ उमालेर बिहान बेलुकिको खाना टारियो। चाँडो पाक्ने, सस्तो अनि पकाउन कुनै सिप नचहिने चाउचाउ सुरुमा त वरदान साबित नै  भयो तर कती दिन? आफुलाई त चाउचाउ मन नपर्ने अनि हरेक दिन भात नभई नहुने भएकोले भातको नियाँस्रो लाग्न थाल्यो। त्यस्पछि पनि खानामा अझै केही दिन सुधार आएन मात्रा प्रगति उसिनेको अन्डा र मैले ल्याएको दाल्मोठ चिउरा अनी पसलबाट ल्याएको सस्तो खाले चिप्स सम्म मात्र पुग्यो।

          मलाई त चार दिन खाना खान नपाएको चार महिना खाना नखाएको जस्तो हुन थाल्यो। फेरी ज्यानमा कुनै तागत नै नभएको अनुभव गर्न थाले। त्यहाँ माथि कोठा र काम खोज्ने टेन्सनले गर्दा झनै कमजोरी ल्याउने भयो। दिउसोभरी म र आकाश एकतिर र सन्तोष र प्रभात एकतिर गएर कोठा खोज्ने निधो भयो। पत्रिकामा दिएको नयाँ घरको ठेगानामा पुग्न फेरी त्यतिकै मुस्किल। कुन बस चढेर जानुपर्ने हो अनी कुन स्टप झर्नु पर्ने हो भन्ने पत्ता लगाउन पनि गाह्रो। घर पत्ता लगाउन गाह्रो पर्ने हुनाले हामी धेरै जसो घर हेर्ने ठाउमा  ढिला पुग्थ्यौँ। हामी पुग्दा घरको एजेन्ट फर्किसकेको  हुन्थ्यो। एक हप्ता कोठा खोज्दा पनि कोठाको केही टुङ्गो लागेन।

           एक दिन आकाश र म  दिनहु जस्तो कोठा खोज्ने  असफल  नित्य काम सकेर  Backpackers  फर्किसकेका थियौ। तर सन्तोष र प्रभात राती अबेरसम्म फर्केनन्। राती १०-११ बजेसम्म पनि उनिहरु नफर्कदा हामिलाई पिर पर्न थालिसकेको थियो। पछि उनिहरु आएपछि थाहा पायौँ उनिहरु त निकै पहिले देखी नै अडिलेड आएर रेस्टुराँ ब्यवसाय गरेर बस्नुभएका दिपक बिष्ट दाईकहाँ गएर आएका रहेछन। अरु धेरै नेपालीहरु पनि भेट भएछ अनि कोठा खोज्न सहयोग गर्ने आश्वासन पनि पाएछन। कुरा त खुशीकै रहेछ, राम्रै काम गरेछन साथीहरुले। उनिहरु खुशी हुँदै सुनाउदै गए हामीले त त्यहाँ टन्न दाल भात तरकारी मासु पनि खायौ। यो कुराले चाँही मलाई मनमा कता कता डाहा उत्पन्न भयो। हत्तेरिका आफु पनि जान पाएको भए भनेर। घरमा ममिले पकाएको दाल भात तरकारीको द्रिष्य दिमागमा फनफनि घुम्न थाल्यो।

          कोठा खोज्ने काममा कुनै प्रगति नभएपछि मैले पहिला अडिलेडमा नै बसेर आफ्नो अध्ययन सकी नेपाल फर्केको र फेरी अडिलेड आउन प्रयासरत मेरो एक जना साथीलाई फोन गरेर यहाँ अरु को को नेपाली छन् भनी पत्ता लगाउन खोजे। त्यसको एक दुई दिनमा नै मलाई प्रमोद अर्याल दाइले फोन गर्नु भयो। साथीले हामीलाई सहयोग गर्न  भनी वहाँलाई ईमेल गरिदिएछ। त्यतिखेर म र आकाश घर खोज्ने काममा नै ब्यस्त थियौ। वहाँ हामीलाई कोठा खोज्दै गरेको ठाउमा नै भेट्न आउनुभयो र वहाँको घर लानुभयो। आफ्ना समस्याहरु वहाँलाई बताउन पाउदा निकै राहत महसुस गर्‍यौ हामीले। केही बेरको गफगाफ पछि खाना तयार भयो। हामीले भात नखाएको एक हप्ता भन्दा बढी भईसकेको थियो। अगाडि दाल भात तरकारी राखिदा म हराएकी प्रेमिकासँग मिलन हुँदा जस्तै दङदास थिए। खाना खाने कार्य सुरु भयो तर बिदेशमा आएपछि त हातले मुछेर खाना खानु राम्रो नहोला भनेर चम्चाले खाना खान थाले। तर हातले दाल भात तरकारी मुछेर खाँदाको मजा चम्चाले खाँदामा कहाँ? दाईले एकछिनपछि खाना खान सुरु गर्नु भयो। दाल भात तरकारी प्लेटमा राखेर मजाले हातैले मुछेर खान थाल्नुभयो। हत्तेरिका दाईले सुरु गरेको देखेको भए म र  भात को बिचमा पनि त्यो चम्चा कदापी आउने थिएन। के गर्नु खान सुरु गरेपछि बिचमा चम्चा फालेर हात हाल्न पनि नमिल्ने। जे होश त्यो दिन निकै रमाइलो भयो। वहाँलाई भेटेपछी हामीलाई निकै सजिलो महशुस भयो। दाई र भाउजुले हामीलाई हामीहरु बसेकै ठाउमा पुर्‍याइदिनुभयो।

          त्यसको एक दुई दिनमै दिपक बिष्ट दाईबाट हामीलाई पनि खाना खान  निम्तो भयो। त्यसो त अडिलेडमा अरु पनि नेपाली रेस्टुरेन्टहरु नभएका हैनन तर आजकल पनि  हरेक नयाँ नेपालीलाई बोलाएर पारिवारिक बातावरणमा नेपाली खान पस्कने उदारता देखाउनमा भने दिपक दाई नै सिपालु हुनुहुन्छ। वहाँकोमा खाना खाएपछि हामीलाई पनि हाम्रो  Backpackers को भान्छामा खाना पकाएर खाने जोश चल्यो। चामल  तरकारी र आवश्यक मसला किनेर ल्यायौ। अष्ट्रेलिया आएको लगभग १२-१५ दिनपछि  हाम्रो  Backpackers को  भान्छामा पनि खाना पाक्यो। हामीले सुरुदेखी नै खाना बनाएर खान सक्थ्यौ। तर आफ्नो स्थाई ठेगाना नहुन्जेल खाना पकाउने झन्झट बेहोर्न चाहेनौ। त्यो भिडम्भाड भान्छामा खान  बनाउन सजिलो पनि त थिएन। फेरी खाना बनाउन चहिने चामल, नुन , तेल, बेसार, मसला , प्याज, आलु , तरकारी आदिको ब्यवस्था पनि त गर्नु पर्‍यो।

          पछि स्थाई घर पाएपछि हामीले नयाँ घरमा मिलेर पालो गरेर खाना बनाएर खान थाल्यौ। म , आकाश र सन्तोष खाना पकाउने अनी किनमेल गर्नेतर्फ थियौ भने भाडा माझ्ने जिम्मेवारि प्रभातले सम्हालेको थियो। तर यो कुराले पछी सम्म निरन्तरता पाएन। गठबन्धन सरकार केही दिनमा नै ढल्यो। कहिले खाना आधा काँचो आधा पाकेको हुने, कहिले गिलो हुने अनी कहिले डढ्ने भयो भन्दै आकाशले आफु खाना नै नखाने घोषणा गर्‍यो। अर्को दिन अष्ट्रेलियामा आएपछी त यहाँकै रहन  सहन सिक्नुपर्छ, यहिको जस्तो कर्न फ्लेक्स, पाउरोटी , पास्ता, नुडलस आदी पो खान सिक्नुपर्छ, भात त नेपालमा नै खाईहालियो नि भन्ने तर्क दिदै प्रभात पनि भान्छाबाट पन्छियो। त्यसपछी आफुलाई पनि भात नै खानुपर्छ भन्ने नभएको र अरु कुराहरु खाएर पनि चल्ने बताउदै सन्तोष पनि खाना नखाने भयो। यसरी सबै साथीहरुले मलाई भात खाने मामलामा एक्लै छोडिदिए। तर म त बर्षौदेखिको भातको पूजारी त्यसै भात खान कहाँ छोड्थे र?

          खाना एक्लै पकाउन धेरै समय लाग्ने। भाडा माझ्ने काम पनि एक्लै गर्नु पर्ने। फेरी खान नखाने साथीहरुलाई तरकरी आदी किन्मेल गर्न सहयोग माग्ने कुरा पनि आएन। पहिला चारजनाले मिलिजुली काम बाँड्फाँड गरे जस्तो सहज भएन। तरकारी मसला  आदी किन्न नेपालमा  नजिकको पसलमा गएजस्तो सजिलो नहुने, बसै चढेर टाढा जानु पर्ने आदी कुराले साह्रै झन्झट भयो। तर पनि विचलित नभैइ सबै काम एक्लै गर्न थाले। एक्लै किन्ने, एक्लै पकाउने, एक्लै खाने, अनी एक्लै भाडा माझ्ने। त्यसो त बाहुनको छोरो त थिए नै, मेरो हजुबुवाले पनि पाउनु नभएको ‘स्व्यं पाक्य ब्राम्हण’ बन्ने अबसर अष्ट्रेलिया आएर नै पाए। केही दिनपछि  प्रभातले मसँग साझेदारी गर्ने प्रस्ताव राख्यो। त्यसपछी भाँडा माझ्ने काममा चाँही अली राहत मिल्यो। धेरै दिनसम्मा प्रभातको र मेरो साझेदारी चलेपछी सन्तोषले पनि हामीसँग मिसिने ईच्छा देखायो। अली पछि आकाश पनि भान्छा फर्कियो। यसरी बाटो बिराएर भातसँग नाता तोडेर गएका साथीहरुलाई फर्कन करै लाग्यो। आखिर भातको नै बिजय भयो।

          अझै पनि म त भातको अनन्य प्रशंसक, भक्त र पूजारी हुँ। कहिलेकाही साथीहरु मलाई ‘भाते’ भन्न पनि चुक्दैनन। हुन पनि मैले एक दिनमै चारचोटि सम्म भात खाएको छु। तर जसले जे सुकै भनोस आफु त मिलेसम्मा टन्न भात खाइन्छ। जय भात।

          अँ साँच्ची तपाईंलाई चाँही भात कतिको मन पर्छ नि?