As Christo walked past Centre Point, it was drizzling. The upscale neighbourhood reminded him of cities in England, and the sight of white-skinned people crowding the lounge entrances made him feel at home. Ladies in mini-skirts shivered and chattered in the chilly Lakeside evening.

The air was a mix of soil, rain, coffee, booze, and perfume. Christo’s legs carried him aimlessly, unsure of where he was headed. Perhaps he was searching for a rooftop cafe overlooking the lake. When he left the hotel, the owner suggested a walk along Phewa Lake. “I can accompany you,” the owner offered, but Christo smiled and said they could explore the lake the next day.

With raindrops pelting down, the streets appeared empty except for a few taxis shuttling girls with heavy makeup. Walking became impossible, so Christo sidestepped and took shelter under the awning of a shop with a sign that read: ABC Handicraft. Inside, a thin man sat on a tiny chair, engrossed in a bulky paperback that seemed even larger in his small hands. Christo stepped inside without asking for permission as the wind blew the rain into the shop.

The man now set the book aside and greeted his potential customer. Shops in Lakeside usually relied on the profits made during New Year's Eve; otherwise, business was slow. When some wealthy tourists barged in, they bought things that looked stupid to the owners themselves. The following day, when the shopkeepers assembled for tea, they made fun of the tourists and their naivety. “Why would anyone purchase that thing at such a high price?” one would laugh, and the others followed suit.

“Good evening, sir. Please take a seat,” the thin man said, pointing at a chair.

“Good evening. No, I’m fine. The rain got so heavy that I couldn’t walk,” the man was disappointed to discover that the tourist had stopped by his shop to avoid the rain. “You can take a seat,” the man said in a small voice.

Reluctantly, Christo sat down, and the man immediately returned to reading his paperback. Christo was impressed by the man's focus and how quickly he immersed himself back into the book. Normally, the thin man would introduce himself to customers, but this time, he was so absorbed in his reading that he forgot to ask the usual questions about the tourist's name and country.

Assuming the man wasn’t much of a talker, Christo remained quiet. He noticed the man was reading The Great Gatsby, a novel Christo had grown up with and read over five times—his favourite book. Unable to resist, Christo finally asked, “Are you enjoying this? I mean, the book.”

“Yes, it’s my favourite read and never ceases to amaze me. I can read this book every year.”

In this unfamiliar city where people spoke an unfamiliar language, finding someone whose favourite book coincided with yours was a blessing. Christo couldn’t stop smiling, piquing the thin man’s interest. Now, the thin man closed the book and cleared his throat.

“I suppose you are an Irishman. Am I correct, gentleman? And what’s your name?”

“Close enough, sir. It’s Christo from England, and getting to know you is a pleasure. Also, this is my favourite book.”

The rain eventually subsided, and when Christo decided to leave the shop, the thin man asked Christo to join him for coffee at a cafe across the shop. Over coffee, they talked about ‘The Great Gatsby’ and its characters and why they loved certain characters. When the shopkeeper mentioned that he held a master’s degree in English Literature, Christo was surprised.

“Then why are you operating a shop? You should be involved in academics so that you could read more and do stuff related to literature.”

Suddenly, the shopkeeper turned severe, the pensiveness apparent on his bony face. Christo took a mouthful of coffee and waited for the man’s answer.

“It’s Nepal. Here, if you follow your passion, it’s more likely that you will sleep on an empty stomach every day. I run this shop, but it’s not a lucrative deal. I can only cover the daily expenses. I have no savings, and if something goes wrong tomorrow, I don’t know how to get through it. At best, I could have become a teacher, but they don’t pay much.”

Christo now realised how fortunate he was regarding finances and material comforts. Although he had experienced being broke, he never worried about money causing long-term problems. Despite not being as qualified as the thin man, he had a stable job, and it paid him well enough. Christo considered universities pointless and refrained from sharing this view with struggling Nepalis. The privileges he enjoyed back in England were something he had always taken for granted.

The shopkeeper got a phone call from his wife, and when he picked it up, Christo could hear her gentle voice. Christo figured out that the man’s wife was waiting for him to bring some vegetables so that she could prepare dinner.

“And where is your home exactly?” Christo asked as the man walked towards the counter to pay the bill. Christo briskly walked to get past the man, but the man had already fished out bills from his purse.

“Hey, I’ll pay,” Christo said.

“I’m your host. Please don’t embarrass me,” the shopkeeper said, handing the notes to the man at the counter.

It was only after they emerged on the street that the shopkeeper mentioned he lived in Damside, a quiet neighbourhood, some miles away.

“Let’s go and have dinner at my home today,” the thin man offered as he left.

“Haha, thank you very much. But it’s my first day in Pokhara, and I want to explore the nightlife of this vibrant place. Maybe I can go with you some other day,” Christo said.

The shopkeeper then walked away, and Christo continued his aimless stroll. With the rain stopping, more people flocked in, wearing long coats and skirts and smoking on the sidewalks. Christo wanted to smoke even though he was not much of a smoker. The owner said they would close the hotel at midnight; it was only eight now. He could go to the bar, drink a glass, and watch pretty ladies dancing on the floor.

He remembered walking past a pub called Busy Bee. He assumed it was a nice place, so he went in. The cafe’s entrance opened to a vast space with as many as 15 tables, and on the right side was a dance floor. Local singers were adjusting their guitars and getting ready to sing through the midnight.

A stairway led to the tables upstairs, and the whole place was so occupied that it was hard to find one. Christo walked upstairs and luckily found a vacant table in the corner. Not long after he had taken the table and ordered a beer, a group of young boys appeared before him. They were looking for a table, but since there was no empty one, they looked like they were going back down. They all looked desperate, and Christo could tell they had entered the bar drunkenly.

Feeling lonely, Christo considered inviting the boys to join him at his table and called out to them just as they headed down the stairs. The four boys exchanged smiles and sat with him. As they introduced themselves, Christo realized they were humble, well-educated young men—more qualified than he was but not as financially secure. They had limited money and couldn't afford to drink beyond what they had budgeted.

Christo was generous and planned to cover their drinks, but seeing well-educated people struggling made him reflect on how unfortunate the situation in Nepal was. He had observed similar challenges in Kathmandu and Chitwan, and now he realised Pokhara was no different.

Gautam is a writer from Pokhara.