I was recently asked by a friend to write a story, 'an imaginative, creative one'. There have been those who have remonstrated at the ease with which I am generally able to cook up a story and serve it up. But this time it did not work, for someone who claims that he can simply glance out of the window, or even at a blank wall, and come up with a dozen ideas. A tale just did not take shape.
Looking out of the window, there was the huge pipal tree, the rowdy crows, the traffic below, an Airbus landing across the valley, the scorching sun – but nothing crystallised. Funny short-story titles did come to mind: 'The Papal Pipal', 'The Crow Who Stole the Cellphone', 'Missed Approach, Cow on Runway' or 'How to Cross the Road When the Tarmac is Sticky'. But none moved from title to parable.
So, I decide to drive to town in search of a – narrative. Umm, this tarmac is new and smooth, they have laid it overnight and covered the potholes. The financial year is just about to end, so they have to disburse. Easier to spend it on an extra layer of macadam than to put in a footpath or provide wheelchair access. This would make an investigative report, but hardly an enjoyable tale.
Drive over the Bagmati, the river that has become sewer. Every so often, a whiff comes up to where I live, and tragically one is forced to say, 'Bagmati ganayo' – the Bagmati is smelling. Not an uplifting tale; drop it for now.