I walked dejectedly into the shitty, clutching my cooling potato parathas. I hadn't had breakfast, so I bit into one, but I felt so guilty at eating this boy's breakfast, that I put it back in the bag, hoping I'd find him. But he had his beat, and now it seems, he has been moved on, or away.
A short while later, a man with leprosy of his hands and feet, who gets around the shitty on a three wheeled trike with a rotary handlebar, put out his stumps for alms. I gave him the packet of parathas. He dropped them accidentally in the road. I picked it up, and put it in his lap. He nodded thanks and pedalled his trike away. Then I wondered: how does one eat without fingers? So many times in my life I've implored, Don't Eat With Your Fingers!! but how does one eat WITHOUT fingers? How would he open his bag of potato parathas? This has puzzled me all day.
I've also developed a healthy scepticism of taxi drivers. I caught one home from visiting Keith - refer Chap 1 Of This Great Adventure - who lives a looooong way from touristisation, in a very swanky mansion-type compound indeed - and so nervous was I - were we both - of my coming allllll the way back to tourist town at almost-midnight, that he agreed to go thereandback just to ensure I'd be okay after laughing at my story of the Move It Move It Watermelon Smooth Stretch taxi driver.
When the taxi eventually arrived to take me back to Thamel, bleary eyed and crumpled, he had with him a co-pilot for the toandfro journey. When both K and I asked why, the driver responded that it was better this time of night, many many taxi drivers get Kil-led, get stab-ed, get robbled, so this co-pilot, a young man weighing in at the size of about ten chickens, would be our bodyguard. Yes, he was armed with a knife. Yes he was armed with a rock. Sometimes, also, I was told as Keith faded into the night on the steps of his swanky sofarfromThamel abode, roadblocks are set up and both drivers are kill-led. Sometimes, also, as we passed the American Embassy with its Pentagon style security, and the Japanese Embassy with its Zen Entrance, and the Australian Embassy with a rusty barbeque outside, the driver told me that often passengers kill drivers, which is why he decided to take a bodyguard, m'am.
When he asked me for the ridiculous, insane, are you off your shitty rocker, this is blatant extortion amount of 1000rps for the taxi fare, once I was safely at the hotel, I coughed up, more quickly than you could say in Nepali, thankyou for highway robbery, is that a knife in your pocket or shall I just give you my money and my wife?
This morning my yoghurt and fruit salad was seasoned with garlic. This evening, sugar had been sprinkled onto my Russian salad which is a mixture of cauliflower, mandarin, apple, beans and pawpaw. I must visit the kitchen sometime soon and help them sort the sweet from the sour.
This lunchtime I ate on a very high rooftop in Durbar Square. I could see golden topped stupas on the vague outlines of mountains in graduated silhouettes. Below, in the ancient complex, were the marigold sellers, the pigeon poop collectors, the feather pluckers and the mattress stuffers, the weavers, the painters, the wood carvers, the stone masons and my two friendly painted sadhus, bearing their forks.
I went to fetch my kurta set from Mr Upyours. Up three flights of stairs, into the dark. The tailor was shitting crosslegged on the big white cushion, reading his paper. He opened my parcel with enormous pride.
You like?
No! Its not the pattern I chose!
Yes.
No! It's completely different! You were supposed to make the front part narrow, with a bit of the same same as the bottom.
No.
Yes it is different! Look, this part is really wide. It doesn't fit properly over here. The sleeves are different lengths. It was supposed to have a narrow trim, with panels. And high at the back! This looks like a lampshade for Queen Victoria. It's hideous!
Yes. You like?
NO! It's completely wrong. Look, where's the turquoise one that you were supposed to use as a sample? You know, the one with the trims and the panels, except it was too small across my boobs. Please find that one, then I can show you how wrong this one is.
Yes! That one, Finish.
NO! It's not finished. It's there, I can see it. (Irate customer removes shoes, stomps across fat white pillows, slides turquoise sample out of packets, lies it side by side with Queen Victoria's bouffant lampshade.) See!
Yes. You want this also?
NO! I want the one you made me exactly the same as this one, except completely different.
Not possible! Already cut. It fit yes.
NO! It does not fit, look - it's on me, for the love of Basmati! It buckles here, and creases there and gapes here and cuts there! I look like a steamed momo!
YES! (said with immense pride) Just need wash.
No! Look here, it's all lumpy!
He gets up, and starts to adjust me. He pushes my left shoulder down. He bunches some fabric under my right armpit. He straightens and restraightens and restraighens the totally off centre panel that is totally off centre, each time brushing my boobs. He pulls my right hip up, and makes me cock my left leg. He rolls up one sleeve. One side of the neck design is curved, the other is pointed. By the time he's finished tucking me into the shape of the dress, I look like The Elephant Man in a lampshade. He stands back proudly.
Yes! Good fit! You take churidar (jodhpur pants) also?
NO! Terrible horrible shocking hideous fit. You can put the thigh of your mother in this sleeve. I can't fit a blade of grass from a groom's laurel inside the chest. My arm is stuck above my head. My legs won't go into the churidar, look, it's cutting off my circulation, my toes are turning blue, it wouldn't fit your infant niece. The churidar looks like two marrows that have been run over by a rickshaw. The Kurta looks like a giant poppadum with jellyfish arms. It's not fit for a cremation. I wouldn't wear it to Holi tomorrow.
YES! Holi tomorrow. Very good fun. You pay now?
NO! NO PAY! No pay for shitty Kathmandu work. No pay for shitty rigid digit shonky tapemeasure Mr UpYours tailor crappy poo poo shonky needlework. No pay for exquisite beautiful hand made pure loomed silk cotton with just my design fabric that you have totally ruined, wrecked, destroyed, abused, humiliated and desecrated.
Mr Upyours pulls out plastic packet and lovingly folds his creation into it.
You take now?
NO!
Silence.
WHAT!? You want moneyback?
YES! I want a refund!!
NO! No give refund. you take clothesthes. You choose, I make. You must pay fabric even if notlike.
NO! I choose - you mess up! You don't mess up, I buy! You lucked out lance thrower, you misguided needle threader, you wet thread sucker, you feckless fabric slicer, you tragic treadle pusher, your sister could sew better than you, you grandmother ganesha, you haberdashery harridan, you textile traumatiser, you you you CHANEL CHARLATAN!
Yes! You want set! You take set. Now show receipt!
Holy smoke, hanuman, let me find Kali and her seventy six spears and skulls heads, and let me set her loose on this humble man of the cloth. Let each one of the skulls inhabit this old building at night, and invoke magic into his fingers so that nobody else has to go through this couturier catastrophe.
I scratch around in my bag for the receipt which is covered with peanut skins and hand wipes. Fortunately, as I have OFTEN been bitterly disappointed with custom made clothes - I'd insisted on only a 50% deposit. It seemed simple. I'd chosen the material from him, and he'd make the outfit. I was not likely to abscond. He looks at the receipt, hands it back in disgust, and tells me I haven't paid for anything so far.
Yes! He glares at me. You no like set, ok, but must pay material.
Huh? Clear as daylight, it has what the total was, what I paid, what the balance was.
No! I'm not paying anything more! Look! I have already paid the deposit. It says so here in faded running-out ballpoint on threadbare recycled paper in a language I can't read or understand so maybe it's a lunch receipt.
Mr Upyours inspects the pink receipt. Not from here, he says, handing it back to me.
YES IT IS.
Mr Upyours carries it to the shuttered window, flings them open, light streaks across the wooden floors, dust flies in and pigeons fly away and noise bursts in, and he looks at the receipt. He pokes his head out the window and shouts in Nepali. I hear scuttling.
He nods at me. I nod in agreement. Three thick set men lumber upstairs. They kick off their plastic sandals, pick their noses, inspect the contents, and then gather around the Tailor on the Great White Cushion, and debate.
WHAT!? You want moneyback?
YES! I want a refund!!
NO! No give refund. you take clothesthes. You choose, I make. You must pay fabric even if notlike.
NO! I choose - you mess up! You don't mess up, I buy! You lucked out lance thrower, you misguided needle threader, you wet thread sucker, you feckless fabric slicer, you tragic treadle pusher, your sister could sew better than you, you grandmother ganesha, you haberdashery harridan, you textile traumatiser, you you you CHANEL CHARLATAN!
Yes! You want set! You take set. Now show receipt!
Holy smoke, hanuman, let me find Kali and her seventy six spears and skulls heads, and let me set her loose on this humble man of the cloth. Let each one of the skulls inhabit this old building at night, and invoke magic into his fingers so that nobody else has to go through this couturier catastrophe.
I scratch around in my bag for the receipt which is covered with peanut skins and hand wipes. Fortunately, as I have OFTEN been bitterly disappointed with custom made clothes - I'd insisted on only a 50% deposit. It seemed simple. I'd chosen the material from him, and he'd make the outfit. I was not likely to abscond. He looks at the receipt, hands it back in disgust, and tells me I haven't paid for anything so far.
Yes! He glares at me. You no like set, ok, but must pay material.
Huh? Clear as daylight, it has what the total was, what I paid, what the balance was.
No! I'm not paying anything more! Look! I have already paid the deposit. It says so here in faded running-out ballpoint on threadbare recycled paper in a language I can't read or understand so maybe it's a lunch receipt.
Mr Upyours inspects the pink receipt. Not from here, he says, handing it back to me.
YES IT IS.
Mr Upyours carries it to the shuttered window, flings them open, light streaks across the wooden floors, dust flies in and pigeons fly away and noise bursts in, and he looks at the receipt. He pokes his head out the window and shouts in Nepali. I hear scuttling.
He nods at me. I nod in agreement. Three thick set men lumber upstairs. They kick off their plastic sandals, pick their noses, inspect the contents, and then gather around the Tailor on the Great White Cushion, and debate.
It goes something like this:
NEPALI nepali Nepali NEPALI nepali nepali nepali NEPALI NEPali NePALI NEPALI nepali nep NEPALI nepali Nepali NEPALI nepali nepali nepali NEPALI NEPali Nepali NePALI NEPALI nepali NEPALI nepali Nepali NEPALI nepali NEPALI nepali nepali NEPALI NEPali NePALI NEPALI nepali NEPALI nepali Nepali NEPALI nepali NEP NEP NEP nepali nepali NEPALI NEPali NePALI NEPALI nepali NEPALI nepali Nepali NEPALI nepali nepali nepali NEPALI NEPali NePALI NEPALI nepali
NEPALI
Mr UpYours face is black. He picks up the Queen Victoria Poppadom Lampshade I wouldn't even wear this to Holi never mind cremation Kurta, and tries to fling it across the room. It tangles on his wrist, so he throws it again and it collapses, embarrassed, on a dead pot plant.
He hands me the churidar. TAKE!
NO! Why would I take a churidar that is supposed to match the Kurta when the Kurta isn't fit for a cremation and it looks like a Queen Victoria Lampshade poppadum that wouldn't be paraded at Holi!
Again, I place the turquoise "sample" alongside my Queen Victoria's overblown poppodom and point out the obvious differences. They are as unalike as Camilla and Di. You see? I ask tenderly. Chalk and cheese!
What chalk? I rub off chalk. No cheese, very clean.
Different, I say.
Yes. You not like?
No. Not like. Not like, AT ALL. No Wear, No way, Not Ever.
Mr UpYours counts out 1000rp in small, smelly crumpled notes. He throws both pieces of his highly creative creation into the corner. He throws my money on the big fat white pillow. He turns off the lights and stomps downstairs, leaving me in the shadows.
I fumble down the stairs, and soon I'm laughing so much I have to hold onto the walls.
Price of a botched kurta? 1000rp, refunded. Price of a rickshaw ride through ancient streets? 150rp. Price of a plate of momos on a rooftop? 120rp. Price of a plastic bazooka to fill with coloured water for tomorrow's holi? 150rp. Price of a paratha for a streetkid? 85rp.
Wiping the smile off my face? Priceless.
No. Not like. Not like, AT ALL. No Wear, No way, Not Ever.
Mr UpYours counts out 1000rp in small, smelly crumpled notes. He throws both pieces of his highly creative creation into the corner. He throws my money on the big fat white pillow. He turns off the lights and stomps downstairs, leaving me in the shadows.
I fumble down the stairs, and soon I'm laughing so much I have to hold onto the walls.
Price of a botched kurta? 1000rp, refunded. Price of a rickshaw ride through ancient streets? 150rp. Price of a plate of momos on a rooftop? 120rp. Price of a plastic bazooka to fill with coloured water for tomorrow's holi? 150rp. Price of a paratha for a streetkid? 85rp.
Wiping the smile off my face? Priceless.
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