Prologue Spring, 2023 A D Editor took the guest to Kanyam Resort for refreshment. Dr. Simpson has come all the way from Kathmandu, originally from Amsterdem. He is a research fellow on Kathmandu University, department of sociology and anthropology. It took around fifty minutes from Birtamode to reach there. Kanyam resort lays aside the beautiful tea garden of Kanyam, Ilam. One could view the scenic views of Nepal as well as Indian hills when sky is clear. The climate was very cool when they reached. He was deeply dragged by the green hills. He beheld beautiful hills on the horizon, veiled partly with clouds….gurgling sound of small rivulet, chirping of birds etc. etc. Simpson wondered why people fancy leaving such a beautiful place and fly abroad. Ecologically speaking, he is in such a place where numerous rare species regard it a safer habitat to live in. Economically speaking, he is in a third world with a remittance-fed economy. But geopolitically speaking, he is in such a strategic location where power centers prefer to play. And statistically speaking, he was in south Asia where half of the world’s poor people live in. However spiritually speaking, every black cloud has silver lining.

Dr. Simpson was mechanically sipping a handmade tea of Kanyam. He came to the real world when editor broke the silence. ‘So, how can I help you sir?’ editor told. ‘I am preparing a research paper on “How to stop brain drain from conflicting nations?’’ I’ve heard much from Kathmanduize about Hope magazine. I also came to know that your magazine is the only national paper based out of capital. So I expect a lot from you Mr. Rajbanshi.’ Simpson told to the editor. ‘The topic is pretty interesting!’ editor remarked and looked on his eyes expecting some more details. ‘I need a fact story of a person who has stopped the brain drain’, Simpson clarified more. ‘Sure! I’ll get the right person’, he assured, ‘I’ll also tell you how he stopped brain drain.’ Editor started the legend…….. ‘His name is Naren, Naren Limbu.’` THE BIRTAMODE BABBLE

Summer, 2013 A D Birtamode Bus Park, Jhapa The whole country was in political instability. Days were pretty hot. There was no symptom of rain from Bay of Bengal. A bandh was announced without giving prior notice. Almost all shutters were closed. Naren’s café was half-opened. Mirrors of his café could easily penetrate the outside noise. Naren was staring out from his cash desk. His F M radio was blathering about foreign employment in a low volume. ‘May I have a glass of lemonade?’ a boy faced towards Naren pushing the glass door in. ‘Of course Please have a seat.’ Naren pointed a well-carved wooden stool. ‘After all why these bullshits never understand our suffering? It’s really annoying!’ The boy was mumbling while licking. Travel bag was still on his shoulders. Probably he was supposed to move Kathmandu. And perhaps he would fly abroad as any bachelor does before asserting himself as a groom, constructing a house in a real-state plot so on and so forth. ‘Who the hell are they again?’ Naren curiously asked the boy simultaneously turning off his F M radio. ‘Huh, don’t give a fig to those vandals. Somebody was telling two cadres of UPF (United People’s Front) are on custody. They are demanding their release. (Lowering his voice…) Tch! Now I’ve to cut a plane ticket. Fuck!’ ‘After all why are you so anxious Pratikji? Was it so urgent?’ Naren said. ‘Yeah, ammm… yeah it’s urgent. I’ve to say.’ A confusing gesture was seen on the boy’s eyes. Perhaps he was questioning himself that how a café-owner knew his name. ‘I like your articles. Since four years I am reading them. They are pretty revolutionary.’ Naren cleared the confusion. Pratik was infact a local journalist. ‘Aw… thank you.’ Pratik played with the cigarette leftovers on the ashtray and thought for a while. Only the fan’s whirring could be audible then. ‘Actually, I’ve decided to quit that profession.’ He broke the silence. ‘Why?’ Naren exclaimed. Pratik smiled a bit and said, ‘Amm….. Actually processing for abroad. Going Kathmandu for the same.’ ‘Crying shame on our superstructure!’ Naren regretted on his mind. ‘One who is supposed to inspire the society is himself in the doldrums.’ Pratik was blowing a cigarette with great feel. Hush existed for a while. He peeped out and declared for him to move. ‘Sun is getting down. I have to move. Anyway glad to talk with you… amm….’ He offered his hand for handshake. ‘Naren! Naren Limbu.’ Naren refused to take the money for lemonade. ‘No, no, no. For today it’s from my side.’ ‘But… you are doing the business!’ Pratik expressed his discomfort. ‘No… no… I am glad to get you here……’ Naren clarified that it’s his pleasure to serve a glass of lemonade as a fan reader. But Pratik could not read his lips. Attention was dragged by outside noise. Protestors were forcing chattpatte vendors to shut their shops down. They had stick on their hands. They were passing across Hotel Orchid, just 50 meters away from Naren’s Café. Naren suddenly pulled the shutter, got support from Pratik and locked it before vandals arrived. ‘Now…what to do…?’ Pratik exclaimed thinking the situation would be more tensed. Naren guided him towards the backyard without saying anything. They reached the staircase. ‘Let’s get in.’ Naren babbled. ‘This is my house. No problem we can stay here tonight.’ The house was three-storied, well designed. He took to the uppermost floor and let him enter. The interior of the house was well-furnished. Everything was in up-to-date condition. It seemed as if female stays there. Pratik observed all nooks and corners. Then he asked, ‘who all are there in your family?’ Naren said, ‘ amm… sister is married. She is in Assam. That’s all. Baba and Aama are taken away by god.’ Naren seemed little bruised. Pratik had thought to ask about his marital status. Seeing his mood, he didn’t ask. Silent prevailed. ‘Got bored, right?’ Naren broke the silence with a mild smile. Simultaneously, he got up from sofa and headed towards TV case. Local TV channel was blathering about present mood of Birtamode. ‘Oh my god…! See… see…’ Naren remarked. ‘Shit! How severely… breaking mirrors… ah!’ Pratik also exclaimed after looking some video footages. Naren lowered the volume after sometime. He told, ‘Hungry, right?’ ‘No. No. Alright…’ Pratik said with his unconscious mind. Naren went to kitchen and returned back. He brought some pieces of fried fish and chips. Something else was also brought. Hesitantly he asked, ‘amm… do you drink?’ ‘amm… seldom.’ Pratik replied. Naren took out two bottles of white mischief. The hard stuff was poured on the glasses and then cheered. A ceiling fan was moving on its constant pace. The TV was still chattering on its own. Steadily they were experiencing a mild trip. Both of them were reflected on each other’s eyeballs as they were talking. ‘Pratikji I am your fan, you know?’ Naren remarked on a drunkard’s tone. ‘I… am… your fan! But I am very sad to know all these. You should not go, you know?’ He was off balance, still he was gabbling. ‘But…’ Pratik wanted to defend however he was interrupted. ‘Shh… you don’t speak. Let me speak first.’ Naren interrupted. ‘I see a great prospect on you, you know? You need not worry about those mother-fuckers. I know why you are bereft and I also know how your job is fucked up. Even in the media there’s an incursion of smugglers, what a shame!’ Pratik was a journalist for a local paper and was unexpectedly ousted. ‘Why you are too much interested on me….?’ Pratik exclaimed with curiosity. ‘There’s a long story bro, there’s a long story’, Naren intoned. Naren took a long breathe and said, ‘Five years ago…’ ‘I was facing the same hard time. I used to work for an intelligent bureau of Nepal police. I… was a… CID, you know?’ Naren was babbling everything. Pratik was keenly listening, sometimes wincing. ‘CID…? Jhapa…? Fuck…!’ Naren declaimed. “One night I was on the alert around Ninda Bridge as signaled by a co-worker that something is passing by. It was around 11:45 at night. I could espy the beams of light gradually enlarging on the highway. I could make out that a vehicle was coming from Kakarvitta side. An ambulance towroped on a tractor approached. I lurked myself on the bridge railing. The tractor slowed its speed and dragged the ambulance toward the towpath of northern side. To my great surprise I could see the tractor bending its way under the bridge with the ambulance still tow-roped. Thinking that it’s riskier to follow them from northern side I decided to approach the sandbank from southern side. Lurking myself on the shrub I kept my eyes on their activities. They were five people altogether. The light of both the vehicles were turned off and a small lantern was glowed. One of them was talking about the tire-puncture on his mobile phone. Shockingly, I could see those people unloading sacks from ambulance. Even in the dim light I could distinguish those sacks contained fertilizers. They uploaded altogether ten sacks on the tractor. They drove all the way towards northern towpath. However, the ambulance was left there. I noted the ambulance number. I went the next morning but the ambulance was not there. ………………… It took around six months to complete this scrutiny. Shockingly, I could find the ambulance of a well known elite used for smuggling. I also found that those 5 goons were nourished throughout the year for the same. I submitted this fact-finding to the-then SP. The tragedy of the story is that after one month I found the SP boozing with the same malefactor on a bar. I got the reason why that case wasn’t forwarded. I was completely crushed. Hundred percent demoralized. Instantly I decided to quit the job.’ ‘Aha, now I see what you mean!’ Pratik exclaimed. ‘But who is the one involved here?’ Naren asked Pratik to swear not to expose it out. And he said, ‘Abhaya Chaudhary.’ ‘Oh my god…! .......the one who was kidnapped three years back by Indian mafia?’ Pratik exclaimed. ‘And you mean the trust and ambulance were just his buck teeth?’ ‘Yes… the mother-fucker was actually kidnapped by Naxals… ha-ha-ha… and he is already killed.’ Naren chortled. ‘I have heard from an internal source. He is killed, you know? He is killed near Farakka Bridge. He had dual citizenship. …was born in Calcutta and death also near Calcutta… ha-ha-ha.’

‘Then…?’ Pratik was more curious. ‘Then I did the same what an arid does. I went Kathmandu leaving a newly married woman and then flew Dubai, dreaming for the class elevation…..’ Naren was babbling everything. Although Naren was legless he stood up and loitered. Pratik also followed him. They reached outward and drifted through the staircase. The town had not yet slept. Beautiful lightings could be seen around. Gentle breeze was blowing from the east. They were on the terrace. ‘After one year’, he gave the stress. ‘After one year I came home with lots of dreams on my mind, thinking my halcyon days are back. But that whore had already eloped away, utterly looting me. …..utterly looting me, you know?’ ‘Oh my god…! Your wife also had gone with somebody else?’ Pratik exclaimed. ‘She left me bare, you know? She looted all my hard-earned riches, Pratikji! She left me bare.’ His voice began to quaver. He sneezed a little bit and wiped his face. Hush existed for a while. ‘Then, how could you manage to be better off?’ Pratik cross-questioned. ‘Yeah… that’s the moot point. The only asset left was a plot of land. I had bought a plot when I was in the bureau- the land we are standing on right now. Thank god…! The land was bought before the real estate boom.’ Pratik nodded. ‘However, just a mere land could not do anything. I had no idea.’ ‘Then…?’ Pratik avidly questioned. ‘I was waiting a land broker on a tea-shop one day. He delayed to arrive. I was bored. I decided to go through a local newspaper. My eyes were dragged by a success story. …all about 5 gulf-returns toiling themselves on commercial horticulture... They were having a very exciting produce of oranges and lemons. A flicker of hope emerged into my mind.’ The article was written by Pratik. Pratik remembered. But he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Then…?’ Pratik went on questioning like a child. “Then I went Ilam, talked with them. They were actually in need of market. So, I decided to receive oranges and lemons and sell them here. Business was all done in credit. They helped me a lot. But it pretty worked!’ Naren was enthusing. Pratik was simultaneously nodding, sometimes wincing as he too was off balance. ‘Within one year I gained a lot of confidence. I decided to sell half of the land. …Constructed a house on rest half. I had some profit from business too. Rest of the amount was covered by house loan which I had paid after a couple of years.’ Pratik was avidly listening with a mouth half-opened. ‘I used ground floor shutter for a juice-centre. I mean my business was a bit modified. I used the third floor for myself and the remaining rooms of first and second floors were rented.’ Naren clarified. Pratik was nodding. ‘Later on I converted the same to a current form- a fast food restaurant.’ Naren enthused. Naren took a long breathe, smiled a bit and questioned. ‘A single news story gave me a big U-turn in my life, you know? And it was YOU who wrote it, in Kechana Times. Just try to flash back… Now you knew why I was interested on you, right?’ Pratik was speechless. He just beheld Naren with a mild smile on his lips and got his eyes blinked mechanically after three seconds. ‘I again repeat that you have prospect.’ Naren interrupted. He loitered a while and faced toward north. One could easily see the lights sparkling around the horizon on Indian hills. Naren pointed the hills on Indian hills of Darjelling. He said, ‘Just see the lights there. Isn’t it mind-blowing?’ He again directed the hills toward Nepal’s territory, ‘…And just look there?’ Lights could hardly be visible on Nepali hills of Ilam. Historically speaking, he was pointing such hills on Nepal’s side where men were lured to spend their youth abroad with the fantasy of class elevation, becoming a big man etc. etc. ‘Yo Nepali seer uchaali andhakaar maa lamakanchha… damn it!’ He sang a Nepali song on a drunkard’s tone. In fact, lyrics were distorted intending a satire. ‘Shh… tenants will hear us.’ He said while he was carefully walking downstairs. Pratik followed him still drifting. They managed to reach the living room. ‘Still I say not to go abroad. Those hills are waiting to be lit. Say no to bidesh, you know?’ He babbled. ‘Just don’t give a tinker’s damn to those mother-fuckers. I… will help you. I… I… will help you. You… you… come out with a plan of magazine. You can do it, I know! You can utilize two rooms downstairs, no problem. Money… no problem for now… I’ll manage to be a publisher… he-he-he… how is the idea?’ Pratik took a long breathe and said, ‘Give me some time. I’ll think.’ Finally they flaked out wherever they were.

The next morning When Naren was awaked he found that the boy had already gone. A mild hangover was still there. He took a bath and refreshed himself with a cup of tea. He was bruished little bit. The third morning Naren was sitting on the cash desk. He was staring out. A boy with a Che Guavara T-shirt and a box-pant was heading towards the café. He was heavy with his stuffs- a still camera hung on his neck and a side bag on his body. He pushed the glass door. Yeah! It was same Pratik. He faced towards Naren and smiled a bit. He said, ‘Congratulations! Publisher sir... I decided not to go.’ ‘Hats off…! Pratikji. I was damn sure that you wouldn’t go.’ Naren expressed delight. Pratik took out a white sheet of paper that explained briefly about the blueprint and gave it to Naren:

Epilogue Simpson took a long breathe and averted the editor with a boss-eyed gesture. Ultimately he moved his jaw. ‘Can you arrange a meeting with the man?’ ‘Sure! We shall dine on his restaurant.’ Editor assured. ‘….. And another man… amm…’ Simpson tried to recall Pratik’s name. ‘Oh! Talking about Pratik, right? No worries sir. I’ve called him as well.’ Editor clarified. A rivulet was still gurgling. Birds were flying homeward. And the sky was turning red. They decided to move. …. … … They reached Birtamode at lighting-up time. Editor slows the vehicle and takes a right turn. They head towards Birtamode Bus Park. ‘Pratik’s press is still on Naren’s house, right?’ Simpson questions while they are still on the way. ‘Nope… it has shifted to its own building.’ Editor enthuses. Simpson has more questions. His wrinkled eyebrows are frowning, as if puzzled. However, the car is halted. They have to stop for the dinner. So, he is bounced to follow the editor, still carrying his doubt.

*** *** *** *** Simpson sees all the nooks and corners. He has come to the same location as he had visualized on the legend. The restaurant is quite crowded. He is taken to a special cabin on the right-hand corner. Then a man with a narrow eyes approaches. ‘Naren…! Naren Limbu.’ He introduces himself slapping two palms and with a shying gesture. ‘Namaste…! Stephen Simpson, a research fellow of Kathmandu University.’ Simpson replied. They have a small-talk regarding their how-about. They have the dinner together. Then Naren directs everybody toward the staircase. This time nobody drifts. All three move up. A gentle breeze is blowing from eastward. City has not yet slept. Beautiful lightings can be seen. Naren points toward sparkling hills on the horizon. This time hills on both sides are sparkling equally. Hills of Ilam seem as dazzling as the hills on Indian side. ‘Aha, it’s an outlived indicator of how the society transformed.’ Simpson remarked. ‘If youths desire they can even thump up the stars…’ ‘Yeah… within ten years 600 gulf-returns have registered their business as asserted by District Development Committee, Ilam. … Halcyon days are back.’ Editor remarked. ‘Yup… But ... I am in a fifty-fifty certainty about the second character.’ Simpson turns his head toward Editor. ‘Yup… the second character of the legend- P S Rajbanshi i.e. Pratik Singh Rajbanshi- is standing in front of you.’ Naren enthused with a quaver. Simpson was slack-jawed with wide-opened eyelids. He got a good case study. His eyes gradually turned dim because of tears. All of them turned emotional.

*** *** *** *** Simpson stays with Pratik and Naren for two more days. Then he went Ilam for his paperwork.

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Name of magazine: Not yet decided

Target readers: Youths

Coverage: Jhapa, Ilam, Biratnagar, Itahari, Dharan, Darjelling and Sikkim

Genre: Socio-economy