Sumit had been in Kathmandu for four months, having left home for the capital after his SLC results. He had never been to the city before. The metropolis, which seemed to be teeming with millions upon millions of people—here, there, everywhere—was a far cry from the idylls of Arutar with its wide, open spaces.[break]
All Sumit knew when he came to Kathmandu was that he wanted to study science. His distinction in SLC from a community-run school had all but cemented his destiny. When the results were out, neighbors and well-wishers had lined up to congratulate him. “Badhai chha! A brilliant boy like you must study Science. You must become a doctor.”
Sumit was not sure he was cut out for a career in medicine, but since everyone assumed he was, he decided to give it a shot. If he wanted, he could always switch subjects after completing his twelfth.
Sumit often wondered what Ama would think about the range of choices he believed was available to him. Growing up, Ama had hammered into his adolescent head that the contours of one’s life were set in stone. That no matter how hard you try, you are helpless before the whimsies of fate. “There’s no such thing as free will, Chhora. No one can escape what’s written on their forehead.”
He didn’t understand Ama. What made her belief in fate so strong? Because she never went to school? But what had schooling to do with one’s beliefs? Sarita Bhauju next door didn’t attend a school, either, but she was always exhorting her son to work hard and be a ‘big man’ someday. Sumit tried to remember a single instance when his mother had told him to concentrate on his studies or to think about his future. He drew a blank.
Ama was the exact opposite of Sarita Bhauju. “I was born a mile from here. I’ll die within the same mile,” he heard her say to Sarita Bhauju one morning.
Illustration: Sworup Nhasiju
Sumit’s blood boiled whenever he heard Ama complain about her wretched fate with neighbors. Most of all, he hated the way she talked to Sarita Bhauju. Ama, it seemed, was trying to infect their jolly neighbor with her depressing fatalism. But what made Ama so pessimistic, to start with? Could it be his father? Like most men in Arubari, his father liked a tipple at sundown, and also like them, was once in a while given to abusing his wife, psychologically, even physically sometimes. There must be something else, Sumit thought, which made Ama—unlike every other woman he knew in the village—so withdrawn from social life. She hardly ever left home, her limited life confined to their small house and the cowshed at the back.
“Pluto,” said Khabindra Sir, “is no longer considered a planet. The Umrikaans, we hear, have demoted it to the status of a dwarf planet.” Khabindra Sir was at his sarcastic best today.
But on this day, not even Khabindra Sir could command the attention of Sumit who was looking out on the road beyond the tall, whitewashed wall that separated the college premises from the main street. It was office hour and the road was abuzz with vehicles: Safa tempos, trying to squeeze their way through every little gap between four-wheelers; honking bikes, no less ardent to steal a march on the tempos; and the completely stationary private cars with their flashy bonnets glinting in the morning sun. Everything so routine, so uninspiring.
Even as he surveyed the road, Sumit was finding his lack of interest in his studies of late bewildering. He used to be the best student in his class back in Arutar, top of the pile, year in and year out. The highlight of his school life had been his coup de grace in SLC exams: Eighty-two percent. The next best was 72. While in school, never had he needed any encouragement to study. Despite the many distractions at home, Sumit had always managed to come out with flying colors in his academic pursuits. But what was happening to him now? What was it that was taking his mind away from his books?
What was it that he was missing? His village? His friends? His family? Or all of them? He was short of answers. Perhaps he would still have been lost in his reverie was it not for the shrill clanging of the bell that signaled the end of the period.
Even when he visited the supermarket near his one-bedroom apartment in Dhum Barahi to fetch some daily necessities later in the day, his mind was still swirling with questions.
Lost in his own world, the first thing that had caught his attention at the department store was the sheer variety of razors on display behind the cash counter. They seemed to come in all shapes and sizes, with such exotic names like Vector Plus and Mach III. His eyes still fixed on the razor shelf, Sumit felt his stubble, fine and velvety. Wasn’t it about time? Some of his classmates had started shaving years ago.
Back in his apartment, he dumped the plastic bagful of tidbits on the kitchen top, fished out the shaving kit, and entered the bathroom. He studied his face in the basin mirror for a while, then bent down and splashed some cold water on his weary face.
The rasp of the twin blade over his chin felt great. Was this how growing up felt?
Sumit was back in Arutar for the monsoon break after completing his second-term exams. He had flunked it. As he looked out of the first-floor window, his hands resting on the wooden latticework palms-down, right on top of the left, with his chin propped on top, he could see a vast stretch of cornfield, and above it an ominous cluster of low-lying clouds. He was thinking about Ama when the first raindrops hit the steel awning below the window.
Holed up in her room at the back, Ama wouldn’t be bothered. Father had headed out for the bazaar at the break of dawn. It suddenly hit Sumit: Never in his life had he felt so lonely.
As if on cue, he jerked his body from the windowsill. When he emerged from the ground floor, it had started to rain. The mud track by the house crackled, releasing little wisps of dirt. The rattle on the awning over his head was getting louder.
Was his life really set in stone? If not, why was he feeling so helpless? Why hadn’t Ama been excited to see him back? And why didn’t his father seem bothered about Ama’s increasing detachment from her own family?
Short of answers again, he closed his eyes. Three. Two. One.
He started to run. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him.
Nothing would hold him back today. Not the slippery red soil. Not the prickly pebbles on the mud-track. Not even God could stop him today.
Sumit ran past his old school and the green field at the back where he had played countless games of football, dutifully manning his goalpost. Past the chautari where he had spent many hours with Dipu and Shanker, eagerly listening to their tall tales of adventure; past Thuldai’s teashop which would hum with conspiracy theories over hot cuppa every morning; and down the stone steps leading up to the jholunge pul.
Breathless, he stood at the head of the bridge. His willful eyes looked down the length of the jholunge pul. Then he closed them.
The writer is the op-ed editor at Republica.
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