Published on the Fiction Park of Kathmandu Post daily on Feb 2, 2014
Motti didi’s bhatti – II
“Come on yaar, it’s Friday evening for god’s sake. Let’s go get drunk”, Prashant was clearly excited. Amon gave a faint smile and sluggishly nodded his head – clearly not excited.
“Okay okay, but, let’s go to a very local place. I’m sick of these fakeass restaurants with their fakeass wifi, fakeass waiters and the fakeass girls coming in there”, Amon stipulated.
“Looks like someone’s in a great mood”, Prashant muttered out some sarcasm, and quipped, “I know just the right place”.
Riding through the narrow roads of Thapathali and through the bumpy bridge over Bagmati sewer, they reached Lagankhel and went straight into Motti didi’s bhatti. Outside, the sun silently slipped into slumber. Inside, dark blue smoke gloomily filled the shabby bhatti. On one creepy corner, there was an empty table. “Perfect”, both exclaimed gleefully.
They took the chairs and ordered two glasses of rakshi. Amon started his tirade. “Thukka… my life is so pathetic”, he flushed the rakshi down his throat and thumped the glass on the table. His fists shuddered with anger. His nostrils exhaled pure hatred. “How could she do that? After all the things I’ve done for that kukurni. And how could she post a photo of her with that jerk?” He took another swig. He felt warm betrayal wringing his heart, cold hunger curling his intestine into agonizing knots, “Screw it! Let me get totally jhyaap”.
“Didi, dui plate buff momo ra dui kachaura soup“, Prashant gestured to Motti didi and patted Amon’s shoulder sympathetically. “Don’t get frastu yaar, forget her.. ajkaal ko keti haru testai ho”, he faked out some comfort with a clichéd line. He was acting a good listener, listening to the boring angry outburst of a heartbroken friend.
The bhatti was crowded as usual. Drivers and khalasis shouted out their orders. Bara. Choyela baji. Momo. Rakshi. Churot. Sekuwa. Bhutun. Soup. Motti didi was literally motti but she was very agile and kept her customers happy. “Eh Maiya, tyo kunaa ko dai haru lai momo ra soup rakhi de ta“, she told her daughter in her usual sing-songy pitch.
“Take this soup”, Maiya said coyly as she placed momo and soup on their table. “I guarantee your worries will fade away in a second”. Amon looked at her bright face through his bloated eyes and then slowly gloated at her from head to toe and up again. Ravishing, he mumbled and said, “Sure, but only if you pose for a photo with me”.
Her eyes lit like a full moon. She naughtily glanced over to her mother and said, “hehe.. bhai halcha ni”. Amon took out his phone and gave it to Prashant. “Hamro ek shot haani de na”. He stood next to Maiya, ever so closely, without touching her. Maiya pouted her lips. Amon squinted his eyes. Prashant clicked.
“timro soup atti tasty rahecha. timro smile pani tasty rahecha. ma ta feri feri aauchu hai”
“hehe… malai add garera photo ma tag garnu hai ta”
The guys were quite lucky as they were able to avoid ma-pa-say checking at Jawalakhel and Thapathali chowk. When Amon got home, despite feeling massively tipsy, he quickly logged in to facebook and posted the photo. He knew, it would eat his ex girlfriend’s heart.
Later in his alcohol induced dream, he saw his Maiya.
She was dressed completely in red. She wore a red bridal sari and a big red tika on her forehead. A blurry moment later she was mother Durga. With a big stump of bone… she was stirring the special soup… in an ominously large pot… placed over the eternal fire of hell. She lewdly smiled at him and made a menacing duck face.
He felt a sudden pull, he struggled for a while as he gasped for breath, and then,
he was drowning… drowning deep…
in the boiling soup.