This morning as I left my flat to head out into Birganj, I discovered something very troublesome. On many levels. I paused, then composed a haiku.
Previously I wrote about some of the unique people I’d met in Jhapa district, namely Sunjay the Islamic Extremists and a child named Time Pass. I’d now like to write about some of the odd Birganj-wallahs that have crossed my path since coming to this town.
I remember where I was last Tihar, a year ago. A year ago? A year ago I’d gone to Kathmandu to hang out at the Spice deraa, my old co-owned flat in Kathmandu, with some of the folks there. Pardon me while I wax nostalgic.
While I don’t usually use words like ‘peaceful’ to refer to Birganj, I must say that last night’s triade of bombings in my hometown did come as a surprise. Two of the bombs were at offices to the north of Birganj proper. One, however, was located not far from Shripur.
Just like Birganj, my flight from Kathmandu to Birganj was packed with characters. First of all, I had been away from the ‘Ganj for nearly six weeks. I remember when Rob had been gone from Birganj for nearly two months people starting appearing every where to ask me, Where is Rob? Where is Rob?
Some suffered from Rob-withdrawal, as I had more than a couple people assume that I was Rob (as if in some magical way I had become him). I never understood that.