Abandoment

Around a month ago, during the afternoon hours while tending flowers in my garden, when the sun was still at all his might, I noticed something unusual. Two crows were flying around with little twig on their beaks circling the canopy of the tall Rudrakshya Tree. They were building the nest. My first reaction was that of indifference but realizing that the sight of nest will probably look ugly from my living room I shooed them. Catching the cue Rocky too barked around frightening the birds away. For a while the tree was safe from the encroachers.  

Next day they arrived again and again like selfish neighborhood watcher I chased them away. The routine continued for next few days. Finally being intelligent creature with high avian IQ they perhaps learned my office schedule and started building the nest unbeknownst to me during my absence. Slowly I started to notice the nest taking the shape. Its size grew with every passing day and before I could make any further futile attempt to stop its progress both crow moved into their new home. I too made truce with them; as long as they don’t spoil the yard with droppings their dwelling was fine with me.

One morning few days after this silent pact I was rudely awaken by the sound of Kow Kow that reverberated around. Upon looking at the nest I saw flock of crows fighting with each other. It seemed that some outsider males were trying to steal the nest. Its well known fact that whoever owns the nest gets the girl. The age old struggle for mating and perpetuating your gene applies everywhere. The fight was brutal and involved lots of pecking. After a while the outsiders were chased away and the nest was restored to its rightful builder. After this incident few more days passed by without any incident and I too lost interest.  However while reading ridiculous news about Nepal bandha, from the terrace I noticed pearl shaped eggs on the Nest. The female was incubating her eggs while her partner was perched on the branch of nearby Avocado tree keeping watchful eye on trespassers.  

After a terribly hot day that ensued, Kathmandu witnessed a small windstorm around the evening. I was having siesta when sound of slamming windows made me disinterestedly scout the surrounding. The ferocious wind was indeed menacing and threatening to uproot any thing that comes its way. For no apparent reason my eyes turned towards the nest.  And what I saw was indeed poignant. The branch that nestled the nest was swaying dangerously and both the parents were holding to it with all their strength. Their grit and relentless effort against the sheer forces of nature to save the egg truly showcased their unconditional love for the unborn child. Finally even wind god yielded to their resolve and the weather calmed down leaving the nest and its habitant intact.

After few days that followed the storm, a joyous event in the nest grabbed my attention. The egg had hatched. Mother was busy tending new born while the proud father was foraging for worms in dry grass. The fledgling was pitch black and was raising its head tenderly. With new arrival even the environment seemed cheerful.   

This Monday however while watching extended final coverage of French Open between Nadal and Dojokovic all of sudden the sound of clamor filled the air. The unexpected noise filled fear in my mind. I rushed to the window and yes my surmise was right, the child had died. And both the parent were lamenting at top of their voice. And they were joined by their fellow crows. Finally they lifted the baby’s carcass and dropped it under the Cycas tree. And without even turning back they left, all of them.

Today as I watch over the abandoned nest, the entire thing seems wrong. The emptiness is stark. And though I never approved the crows building the nest in first place, I have to admit I really miss them. And only one thing that comes to mind is those haunting lines from Wordsworth’s poem: “She lived unknown and very few could know when Lucy ceased to be; but she is in her grave, and oh, the difference to me”.

At the Barbers

The chill was unbearable but the place was warm inside. With one old fashioned electric heater below the chair, emanating enough heat providing comfortable refuge from the frigid weather. The heater was made of a red mud, and a dingy looking solenoid coil probably made of tungsten or some other high heat resistant filament seemed to have been ineptly inserted into it. Besides, it’s all cracked up edges suggested that it had been tossed around for a quite a while and the fact was further accentuated by its hexagonal shape.  A trash bin stood next to it and manifested as if it too was trying to wade off the brutal cold. The lid was lying aslant with the mould of hair creeping out of it. The squalid bin certainly provided fine dwelling for the bacteria that as I speak were probably in their merriment and multiplying like rabbits.  Scattered leafs from the newspapers which dated few days back were strewn all over the floor and some on the table as if it had been subjected to great twister. But despite all that, familiar aroma of alum had palpable and familiar effect on olfactory senses.

Aslam bhai’s barber shop is a place to be. If you ever happen to have an opportunity to walk from Milan chowk to Sangam chowk you will notice a ragged metallic plate with a symbol of scissor beckoning you to have a haircut. Meanwhile in the door you’ll invariably find two old men squatting or sitting in the stool and intently regarding every passerby with their hawk sharp pair of eyes always focusing towards each head with uncanny capacity to recognize the potential customer at stone’s throw without any shred of insinuation. Aslam bhai and one of his cousins had built this establishment nearly two decades ago, the time when Baneshwor area was still lush green in vegetation and according to the popular legend a playing ground for foxes, which during the most opportune time would fled with rooster from nearby dwellings. It is really philosophical to ponder what mind set the two middle aged men had when they embarked on their endeavors twenty years back or what hopes and aspiration did they harbored when they set out to this alien place where both their language and religion were foreign.  

One can imagine that when Aslam bhai set out from his home, an un-trodden and unnamed village in some rural part of Bihar, to seek fortune and wealth he might have encountered many questionable glances from his peers and families. Some might have showered him with the encouragement while other may have festered him with ridicules. His father might have objected it disapprovingly while his mother must have cried during the farewell. I wonder what unforeseen power persuaded him to come to this part of Kathmandu and try out his luck. And to start a barber shop with a shoe string budget in part of town with thin population must have dumbfounded many. But there is no telling about human spirit. It is capable of reaching the moon as well as scouring the depth of sea despite any odds. As Hemingway put it poignantly “A man can be defeated but not destroyed”.  Now gray and old, it’s hard to discern in his face pervaded with wrinkled lines whether the dreams he once fostered came true or not.  But one thing is for sure the vitality and spirit still pervades in his dexterous hands.

Being a usual Saturday afternoon the place was bit crowded and Aslam bhai and his son Tarbez were having hard time persuading all the customers to remain seated. Everyone seemed to be in hurry. Funny thing is once the customer seats on the barber’s chair and starts getting pampered no matter how much time elapses he won’t complain at all. Perhaps seated chair turns into non-inertial frame of reference and time dilation as explained in General Theory of Relativity kicks in. But whatever was the reason waiting is always the pain and patience is indeed a virtue. Watching two barbers one at his sear and other in his early spring and  both projecting agility despite their demanding schedule made me lamp blast the “Sleeping Barber “ Algorithm in standard operating system text book. Who says barber sleeps in busy hour?

It is said that barber knows secret of everyone in the community and Aslam bhai was no exception. He too knew every nitty-gritty detail of everyone in the room. He especially took pride in cutting hair of his old customers and liked to tell stories of many distinguished customer he had throughout his career spanning from minister to police chief. He seldom allowed his old customers to get hair cut from his son, only during times when he is already handful and the customer was in hurry.  It reminded me of that old Seinfeld Episode of Barber where to jerry’s upmost exasperation his old barber insisted on cutting his hair that transpires some of the funniest moments that network TV has ever presented.   

All of sudden a car stopped in front of the door and a tall, stout fellow entered the shop. Aslam Bhai’s face lit up and menially he cleaned the bench and implored the customer to take a seat assuring him that he won’t take long with his present client.  He really seemed to be in hurry and the fact was further accentuated by fast paced scissor chops totally indifferent to state of the customer’s hair. In offhand fashion he dismissed the current customer and began weaving magic in his new clients head. Perhaps some VIP I guessed.

With Mr. Cynosure ensconced in the barber’s chair all we mere mortals had to wait. But no one seemed to be bothered. I enquired another customer regarding the proceedings and he explained to me that the seated customer was no other than Mr. Nikhil Upreti , a leading actor in Nepali movie. Not being a fan of Kollywood movies I forgave myself for not recognizing him. But it indeed was flattering to know that the place where you cut the hair is actually frequented by leading men form Nepali tinsel town. To much of our relief Mr. Upreti didn’t take long and left as early as possible. My turn was next but we all (five of us) rushed to the chair and Alsam bhai was nearly squashed like a pancake.  After having his faculty restored he yelled at all of us reminding that conscientious people do not jump in front of buffet line.  But being in queue characterized by Poison distribution with prolonged waiting time, none of us were in mood to yield. Finally we settled and I received the coveted chair as I was their first. I called for it. I was feeling high when my eyes all of sudden fell on poster above of holy Mecca that had words “God is conscience that whisper in your ear” inscribed in it. I felt guilty.