Lagankhel

Approaching Bhadrakali from Ratna Park, the traffic once again slows right around the overhead crosswalk near the Bagh Bazaar petrol pump. Micros stop there, on the left, far enough away from the sidewalk that you could fit another micro and a half between them. It is the last big stop before the Micros move to their destinations, and thus one last chance to fill up with people if still empty, or to over stuff with people if already full.

"La la ! Seat cha. Jaana laagyo hai! Lagankhel Jawalakhel!"

There is a chorus of this, and it is possible perhaps to learn quite a few names of places in the city by just singing along. There is hardly an adult voice- all the voices are children or teens wearing scruffy clothing, some of them wearing those black leather belts studded along the edges with silver beads, and with big buckles. Inevitably, the shirt is a torn and dirty tee with the faded logo of some 80's rock band- maybe Metallica, maybe Guns and Roses.

On the right, a long and thin gate, maybe eight or ten feet high, at the far end of the sidewalk, and the dried dirt visible where the bricks had been temporarily removed from the sidewalk in order to put the gate in place and then left permanently on the sidewalk. Some bricks lying around here and there, dust and the metallic gate reaching into the sky, all adding decoration to the enclosed "Khulla Munch" or open theater. It is a little faded on the outside now, a light greenish-blue- the same color as the thick, short cement railings that line Tudikhel- and a bright, almost neon, orange on the inside. Like a radioactive and extra ripe and extra large pumpkin, cut in half the short way, seeds removed, internals scooped out in a stepped fashion, just enough to allow about a hundred people to stand underneath- and political parties to start rallies- and mounted on a cement platform with stairs on both sides. The giant pumpkin would also have to have faded paper posters with monochrome print- usually blue- stuck to the side of it some way along its arch, and perhaps closer to the ground some political slogans painted in a single color, usually red. These days, the slogans say,

"People's Republic of Nepal's first president, Comrade Prachanda!"
and a little below, right aligned and in smaller font, following a dash: " Ne. Ka. Pa. (Maobaadi)"

And so, we crossed Khulla Munch.

The next road to come on the left, I think it is called Pradarshani Marga, is the one which has the Nepal Tourism Board office on the corner, and Ramailo mela closer to the other end, which meets one of the beginnings of Putali Sadak. There would usually be cars lining this road waiting for petrol, but none today. Perhaps the petrol is becoming regular already. My driver in the morning told me that petrol was rationed still, but that they had come up with a system of getting some to everyone: on even dates, only even license plates got petrol. On odd dates, odd plates. They also designated which petrol pumps would serve which kind of vehicle- taxi, private, motorcycle. And they changed the pumps every day. So, if you wanted petrol, you would have to pick up the newspaper every other day, find out where the pump for your vehicle was that day and go wait in line for them to distribute around noontime. You'd shell out the Rs. 1500 max. allowed, and drive off. I hear the lines are shorter than before, but still take several hours.

As we made the turn at Bhadrakali a bus also made the turn from the other side and sped towards Sahid Gate. It was an old bus of the kind that Makalu Yatayat used.- boxy, big broad sides, tall, small windows, and a long, rack type fitting on the roof. The driver's window was a little taller, and you could see almost his whole body as he sat and controlled the beast. From the bottom of his window, emerged a stripe of three colors which went the length of the bus all the way to the back. The bus was dusty- it certainly was not a local Kathmandu bus. Perhaps it had come from the direction of Ramechhap. Along the side of the bus, rooted at the windows, there were three downward spreading splashes of a dark brown color, irregularly spaced and of different sizes. Covered in dust, and of the same uniformly dusty tone as the rest of the bus, it looked almost like a part of the painted design, along with the stripe. They were probably the remains of meals that did not sit well. I looked at the people squatting on the roof, and they looked at me. I wondered what the pattern would have looked like if they had also thrown up. They probably wondered what it was about me that made me stare at them for so long.