Dear reader, three of us writers/journalists had begun our journey to reach conflict-affected villages. We were passing through the village pathways which smelled of the Indian border.

“Brother, would you please pass on a message to Narayan dai ?”

We glanced back. A beautiful girl of seven or eight years was keenly watching us.

“What kind of message?” I asked.

“It’s good news!” She exclaimed. “Narayan dai’s Palpasa had visited our village. She shot pictures of our village, the militia’s camp far away; and then left.”

Rays of confidence and trust seemed to flow from that girl’s face as we conversed facing each other. We returned to Kathmandu, after that incident, promising to convey her message to Narayan Dai.

(Dear reader, I went to India for my further studies after the incident.)

I was going to Trinity Park on a trolley.

A lady was standing inside the trolley, holding Kiran Desai’s book “The Inheritance of Loss”. All the seats reserved for women had been taken. There was no use of leaving my seat for her, as there were separate rows of seats for men and women.

Like the waves of Bhagirathi Ganges, there seemed to be beautiful, lovable rays of beauty radiating from that college lady. Eye contact is heartfelt communication, even if it’s made in silence. As our eyes met, I felt we were getting drawn in together.

The trolley stopped in front of Gandhi Street, near Gurukul- Rabindra Art University. She got off the trolley in silence, a wordless farewell. She made her way into the university’s premises. “She must be a student of art,” I speculated.

II

Nupur decided to draft her master’s thesis on ‘conflict literature’. She arrived in Nepal with an aim to conduct research on Nepal’s armed conflict. She made it known to me that she had one Nepali friend who had prepared a documentary that touched upon the topic of armed conflict in Nepal.

Her friend had taken pictures of remote Nepali villages, in accordance with the theme of the country’s conflict, where the 10- year Civil War had severely affected the lives of the locals. I hadn’t asked Nupur for her friend’s name, nor had she told me who it was. But still, I knew that I wanted to meet the friend, eventhough I was unable to express my feelings. Nupur had promised to introduce us. She had said that her friend was a character who had actually lived in the midst of the conflict.

Madhurima Theatre.

The play, “Flowers”, by Girish Karnad was being shown. Nupur and I had reached the venue. We met one of Nupur’s friends who introduced herself as Seema. She was the same lady whom I had seen ages ago on that trolley! She was, it turned out, a diligent student of art. After that initial meeting, my friendship with her started to deepen. Within a short span, we started to become very close. Our chats and meetings increased, and we were together most of the time. She had a unique take on post-modern art. She was studying Shivarammurti’s Indian paintings and she even knew a lot about Nepali art.

One evening, she entered my room as usual. Her first task after entering the room was to arrange the haphazardly strewn books. These days she had a grave demeanour, but it was really difficult for me to plumb the reason why she was so; she looked, more or less, like an ‘abstract painting’. She used to love roses. Whenever she came to my room, she never forgot to water the forlorn flowers.

My room was a mess. The books I’d read recently were scattered everywhere, and the ashtray was full of cigarette butts. If Seema did not come over and ask about me, then I’d feel as if there was no one else to talk about how my life was going. Sometimes I felt as if those walls, books, flower vessels, and kitchen items were more familiar with Seema than me.

“You are smoking,” she used to say. I used to feel as if she was especially caring towards me. But her caring ways did not free me of my bad habits. (That’s how writers are, I guess). I couldn’t do without my cigarettes.

III

Weeks had passed away without my meeting Nupur. That was probably because I had been lost in Seema’s company, or it could have been because Nupur was busy with her thesis. One morning, Nupur called and said that she had to visit Nepal next month to work on her thesis. Soon after, I came to know that the Nepali friend of hers who was making the documentary on the Civil War was none other than Seema.  As I hung up the phone, I found that I was in a happy place.

IV

I rushed to Gurukul to meet Seema. I wanted to know more about her private life. I also noticed that we were becoming even closer. One day, she happened to reveal some private details on ‘love’ and ‘life’. I began prodding her on. Maybe it was because she felt compelled to do so, but she promised to share her life story some day. I kept waiting for that moment with great passion.

V

One evening, she invited me for dinner at Royal Triyast Hall. We started with glasses of wine. My curiosity about her was such that I couldn’t stop asking her questions, though. She seemed a bit upset. She was smoking as if she were a chain smoker, although she was the one who used to ask me to quit smoking. I was obviously amazed. She ordered two pegs of ‘Herbal Scotch’ and quaffed them down.

Then she started on her story. I stopped drinking and listened with rapt attention, as if I were a tape recorder.

“My parents live in America. I was unable to integrate into American culture. I preferred to examine my own intellect and wanted to grow in wisdom. After graduating from America, my desire to be a documentary film maker began taking shape. As it was impossible for me to succeed in my aim there, I left America and came to Goa. I met one artist during my stay in Goa; I had already become a fan of his paintings. He won me over during our first meeting.

I then went to Nepal. My relationship with him started to flourish. I lived with my old grandma. He had already been introduced

to my grandmother before I

could do so; he had won the heart of my grandma. He was well-learned and had his own brand of philosophy and art of living. I began melting in his love. He used to be away for long periods without any information; this was his worst trait. It was really hard for me to tolerate his habit. His disappearances made me long for him all the more. And with a heavy heart, I would go to conflict-affected areas so that I could fulfill my dream of being a documentary film maker.”

As she spoke, I kept getting drawn in more and more.

“I decided to return to Kathmandu after a while. And I was shocked to find him in the same bus! I felt as if I’d won the world at that moment. But that happiness couldn’t last long. After the bus travelled some distance, it stopped so that the passengers could relieve themselves. He got off the bus and subsequently, I too  got off to stretch my legs. I was searching for a shop nearby.”

“All of a sudden, there was a loud explosion and our bus burst into flames. I didn’t know whether he had already entered the bus or not. The crossfire started soon after. The place where we had stopped turned into a battle field. Everyone started to run for safety. I don’t know what became of him”

“Many years later I came to India, and now I’m with you.”

I was astonished. My mind froze. A name escaped my lips:

‘Palpasa!’