Arresting God in Kathmandu Read Online Free Page A

watching him sing to the baby. Without turning to her, he said, “Maybe we should start a shop. What do you think?”
    Radhika looked at him suspiciously, then realized he was serious. Later, when they were in bed and he was about to turn off the light, he said, “Can you imagine me as a shopkeeper? Who would have thought of it?”
    “I think you would make a very good shopkeeper,” Radhika assured him.
    “I will have to grow a mustache.”
    In the darkness, it occurred to him that perhaps he would be such a good shopkeeper that even if Kamalkanth did come to buy something, Pramod would be polite and say “Please” and “Thank you.” He smiled to himself. If Shambhu-da came, Pramod would talk loudly with other customers and pretend Shambhu-da was not there. And if the housemaid came, he would seat her on a stool, and perhaps Radhika would make tea for her.
    This last thought appealed to him tremendously.

The Cooking Poet
    H E WAS a well-known poet in Nepal. During the rule of the Rana dictators, which lasted for one hundred and eight years, he had been their outspoken critic, lashing out at their cruelty, writing poems comparing the situation of him and his countrymen to that of a caged parrot, whose hunger is not for food but for freedom, whose only desire in the world is to fly away into the woods. The Ranas immediately banned the circulation of the poems and threw the poet in jail. When the revolution finally toppled their regime (it was a classic rebellion, led by the legal king, who had been treated by the Ranas like a eunuch, locked inside the palace and barred from even reading the news), the poet, generally known as Acharya, was regarded as a hero by the people. The king called him into the palace and awarded him several prestigious tides, including one given only to outstanding soldiers on the battlefield, although Acharya had never advocated physical violence. After the elections—as bitter quarrels erupted among the freedom fighters for high-ranking positions in the government, causing a general climate of corruption and ultimately a severe setback in the economy—Acharya was presented with an award given only to the nation’s foremost poets.
    Acharya was not dazzled by his fame. His quest for truth far outweighed any desire for personal recognition. It amused and surprised him that people made a fuss about his poetry—some critics went so far as to call him “our Shakespeare”—for he loved poetry as an art, not as a means to achieve personal aggrandizement.
    Now, at the age of sixty, Acharya lived with his wife and two children (his elder daughter was married and living in another part of the city) in a comfortable house in a quiet part of the city. Royalties from his anthologies and books of poetry, still used in classrooms throughout the country, brought him a decent income, and he spent his time reading, relaxing, and being guest of honor at various functions at schools and colleges. Over the years he had also been a mentor to those whom his friends recommended as serious young writers. Often he judged a poet not only by his writings, but also, after careful observation, by his character, maturity, and humility.
    One young man who presented himself to Acharya made an immediate impression by the deep insights expressed in his poems and the masterly way in which they were shaped, with subtle echoes of the classical tradition, infused with a rigorous quality of modernity. After spending some time with the young poet in his study, however, Acharya became offended by his arrogance. The man kept pointing out the impressive manner in which he had employed certain images and his adroit handling of the language. Acharya, convinced that so large an ego is detrimental to the art of poetry, refused to take the young man under his wing, much to the dismay of the colleague who had recommended him. But Acharya was resolute: the poet does not make the poem; the poem makes the poet.
    One winter morning, when