The X-ray World of Khadakbahadur Daju

Khadakbahadur Daju does not own a motor-bike
but the story of his forty-eight year's of his life
is written on the alphabets of his cracked heels.

He has newly made a BPL ration- card.
He was overjoyed to get the card
like he was overjoyed
when he sewed his first "daura-suruwal."

He enjoys the melody of that "tir tiraay dhara."

The ever-flowing water of the "dhara"
made him strong enough
to lift "doko"-full of grass.

Sometimes, when a high fever strikes him
he crushes handful of "titaay-patti"
and snuffs it through his nostrils.
He feels healthy as a teenager with the grass- therapy.

He shouts aloud
that the chemist and the pharmacist
cultivated drug- addicts all over.

When his village was electrified for the first time
Khadakbahadur Daju was sad
that , the television might seduce and loath
the sober and innocent face of the village.

With her fist clinched tightly
Khadakbahadur Daju's wife exhaled her final breathe
while she gave birth to their only son.
Sometimes
Khadakbahadur Daju weeps self-lacerating,
resting his head on the unfired "chulaa"
sipping along his "tongbaa."

On cold inhered evenings
he drinks bottle of "guraas ko raksi"
and tenuously and tentatively
he kicks the scavenger dog
that shits on his bed.

During the village "mela"
he plays the role of a "maruuni"
and dances with female's garments and make-up.
Somebody offers him money,
somebody offers him "ghaar taruul."

His anger is hot as "dalley khorsanee."
His jokes are pattering as "timboor."

Maybe someday
Mc Donalds will brand his "iskoos ko subji."

Now the colonial town
has silently entered the village.
The electric guitar
has stripped off the clothes of "jhyaauraay".
Lethargic e-mails and SMS texts
has stitched the lips of "chitthi patra."

Crooked dreams shakes
the delicate hut of Khadkabahadur Daju.
He wakes in the midnight
and searches for his "kyatish", "tusaay aaishelu", "murai ko dalla" and "ambal- dambal."

Today Khadakbahadur Daju sits smitten
on the edge of his "sikuwa"
smoking round puff of his "katuwa."

He is waiting for his son
who has gone away to town to earn.

He is returning after four years
but Khadakbahadur Daju is afraid
whether his son will return
or, some post- modernist punk will return
with a label of his surname.