Second In Love

By Arun Budhathoki

Second in Love is a collection of short stories written on the theme of love, murder, betrayal, promiscuity, surrealism, past, future and present—loosely based in Kathmandu, England and few other places in Nepal.

The eight stories mainly focuses on human relationships in the modern changing times, especially focused in Nepal. As I’ve been influenced by the stream of consciousness; authors and writers like Murakamai and Morrison, my stories tend to be bit subjective and surreal. On a first read it is understandable but perhaps tends to be bit obscure. I leave it on the interpretation of the readers.

These stories basically revolve around relationships, murder, mental illness and surrealism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312232341

Book preview

Second In Love

Second in Love

Short Stories

Arun Budhathoki

Copyright © 2014, Arun Budhathoki

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-312-23234-1

Dedication

For Sapana, who taught me to dream,

and only dream.

Acknowledgements

Many people have encouraged and influenced me as I have written these stories. I wish to thank my Canadian editor/father Jerry McFarland for editing my stories and providing me with valuable inputs, helping me to think more profoundly and to expand my imagination. I wish to thank my friends for sharing their experiences which contributed to the themes of these stories. Hilda Paul has encouraged me to write passionately, and I thank her. I embrace Jesse Song, my spiritual father, who has been a source of inspiration for several years, and continues to be so.  My mother and father, NM Budhathoki and NB Budhathoki have given me their continuous support. For her constant reminder to write vigorously, I am grateful to my sister, Anu Budhathoki, and to John Stewart for his ideas which stirred my imagination for one of my stories. I am also grateful to Prashamsa G.C for giving me the idea for Loving the Enemy.

My friends in Fredericton, New Brunswick, Canada, professors and deans at the University of New Brunswick have been so supportive to my writing adventures, and I thank each one. I am grateful to the following individuals: Raymond Fraser, Yuyutsu RD Sharma, Bhuwan Thapaliya, Alexandra Delaney, Swechha Subedi, Vijay Regmi, Kavita Gurung, Deepak Adhikari, Matrida Ekangyela, Shristi Niraula, Benard Gurung, Supun Dhakal, Rebika Limbu, Fidel M. Kamondo, Dr Linda Eyre, Dr Ian Methven, Dorothy Turner and Aruni Kashyap.   

Summary

Second in Love is a collection of short stories written on the theme of love, murder, betrayal, promiscuity, surrealism, past, present and future--loosely based in England and Nepal, mainly Kathmandu.

The eight stories mainly focuses on human relationships in the modern changing times, especially characteristic to Nepal. I have been influenced by the stream of consciousness; authors and writers like Murakamai and Morrison; hence, my stories tend to be somewhat subjective and surreal.

The first story is Murder at Kupondole. It deals with a past crime and how it haunts a person in the future.

The second story is The Forbidden Love. As the title suggests, it details the platonic love between two men and suggests an underlying homosexual love, albeit not specific.  

The third writing, Second in Love, is a story about a man’s pursuit of a woman and the difficulties which evolve, ultimately leading to failure.

The fourth story is The Good Wife, which tells the story of a woman whose life changes in a positive manner as the result of her husband’s influence.

The fifth story, The Migrant’s Wife, is about love for money and a person - the confusion and paradox which complicate relationships between people.

The sixth story is A Long-distance affair. Basically it tells about a young man from Nepal studying in England, and how he is unfaithful to her girlfriend back home.

The seventh story is The Song from the Wilderness. A writing which deals about murder and redemption.

The eighth story is Loving the Enemy, a story about a secret agent in Nepal and his love for the enemy.

For the most part, my stories revolve around relationships, murder, mental illness and surrealism.

Bio:

Arun Budhathoki alias Daniel Song is the author of Edge, The Lost Boys of Kathmandu, Poems on Sikkim and Prisoner of an iPad: New Poems. Arun is from Kathmandu, Nepal and is currently pursuing MPhil in Policy Studies at the University of New Brunswick, Fredericton, Canada.

Chapter 1: Murder at Kupondole

Underneath the bluish sky Kathmandu valley appears smoke-tainted, and dust-infested. Souls living in this city get wrapped up in the dust and noise pollution. There’s no place to escape the brutal attack of dusty roads and honking vehicles. For some, although, respite is found in their bungalows far from the crowded places. And there are others who have no choice but to live in jammed areas. This is the city of plenty.

It is Monsoon and rain is delayed. The ground is still dry from the fresh memories of the past.

The wetness of dreams overwhelms people of this city.  

This modernizing city is home to many dreams.     

The window looks rusty and the world is grey. I check this room and a solitary feeling grips my heart strongly. I cannot understand what this world is. I look outside the window and it’s the same thing I see every day. This razed road terrorises everyone because the government is too slow to do the maintenance work swiftly. I can see people covering their mouths and running quickly to escape the dusty road. I wonder how far this civilization will go. It seems to me progress here is not possible.

I am exhausted quickly to watch the outside world. The same thing happens again and again. Perhaps my education has failed me. I turn away and look at my room. It’s a room, a house, and a tent next to the putrid river. It doesn’t face towards the raging river at least. I hate Monsoon. I can hear the heavy noise of rain. The sound is overwhelming. It reminds of my true love. I lost her and shall never get to see her again. This is the third day it has been raining continuously. When it rains non-stop the streets of Kathmandu becomes flooded. 

The pandemonium in Kathmandu is strange and unbearable at times.

Early morning when the sun is exhausted over the misty horizons of Kathmandu I realize the importance of doing nothing at all. Lazily I sit back and listen to the old melodious songs of Narayan Gopal. This is how my days are spent every week. It is not because I’m lazy or unqualified: I am jobless.

There’s a knock on the door. The rapping becomes louder.

Barun, wake up, you lazy bum. Come for breakfast and then find a decent job, shouts his mother Parbati. She works in a nearby tailoring shop and earns one hundred rupees a day. She has to wait for certain festivals to make enough money to feed her grownup unemployed son. As the sound thins Barun tries to cover his face with his favourite pillow but suddenly slams it on the floor. I hate this pillow cover. I don’t ever want to see it again—never!

Outside it’s raining heavily. Monsoon has just started.

Mom, where’s my new shirt? shouts Barun. A distant voice replies, check in your wardrobe you hopeless. Barun has become immune to what his mother says. He wears a white shirt, looks at the dirty window, combs his hair and heads to the kitchen.

The house is as old as he. After his father left for work abroad they have been living there. Since the ‘90s they haven’t heard anything about their father. Life has never been so hard.

Breakfast is the same: lentils, rice and vegetables. Barun fumes but eats quickly and leaves home without saying a word. Back home Barun’s mother is distraught and angry with immense frustration bubbling inside her. Oh Lord, what should I do with this boy? Please give him some wisdom. This prayer is repeated every morning. God must be tired hearing it.

Sunday mornings are always frantic. Since Saturday is a national holiday Sunday becomes extremely chaotic and busy. Barun these days works for a national newspaper called the Times of Nepal as a reporter and online editor. He not only loves to write but juggles the idea of investigating and writing stories on others’ lives. His story he’d never revealed to anyone. It’s a promise he made long before he joined the media industry.

The office half-an-hour away from home in Shantinagar is an ideal place in which to work. Often seen as a gateway to other good-paying jobs, working for media means no respect or little honour. His mother once pointed out that journalism is the worst paying jobs done by people who have shitty attitudes. Barun on hearing this shrugged and replied that writing gives him pleasure and pleasure is all he wants in life. It was a sort of destiny. A good one.

After all from where he comes it’s a great achievement for him to succeed so far. I met Barun at the slum area of Bagmati River, underneath the Bagmati Bridge which connects Kathmandu and Lalitpur city, near Kupondole and Thapathali. I was doing a documentary about the landless people and the policy of government. I was a crime photographer and needed some inside stories. I remember it was a sunny day. A beautiful one.

The sun is up high. Looks like it’s doing everything to keep the black clouds away from its reach. The air is crisp but with the smell of smoke and dust. At my left side a beautiful river flows. I’ve closed my scrutinizing eyes and what I hear is beautiful. The river makes enthralling sounds. If you are ever tired hearing people’s voice I suggest you come to the river and listen to its voice. I keep listening to the swooshing sound. Somewhere in the middle of this meditation I hear its inner voice: pain. My heart is gripped with utter pain. I wonder how painful it must be for this river to be contaminated day after day, yet the people of this city live happily. No, they too live a contaminated life and get contaminated every day. It’s my beautiful curse for them, speaks the river. I must be mad! I must be mad! I must be mad! I shout thrice and children who are around me begin to burst out into laughter and start teasing me: Uncle, you’re mad! Uncle, you’re mad! The noise disturbs my meditation and I’m forced to open my eyes. I can see the world. I see scores of dilapidated huts on the edge of the black river. I turn left and see the river: polluted. Beyond the river there are several buildings and villas where richer people live. This side of the area is for people who’re contaminated. Like me, and like everyone here. I remember what the river said about the beautiful curse. This remains in my heart for a long time.

Mr. Photographer! Why are you here? someone screams from behind. I turn back. I see a young man in his twenties. He’s of average height. He looks no different than every Chettri guy in Nepal. The only distinct feature he’s got is the scar on his right cheek. I keep staring at him for a while and wonder what he wants. He’s not muscular so I take a deep sigh knowing he cannot beat me at least. He’s alone too. This means I’ve no worries from the slum gangs. I heard they are ruthless. They have no caste or religion. Their only business is to kill and kill. "Mr. Photographer! Are you really mad?’’ the guy shouts. This time there’s seriousness in his tone.

I look at him with complete nuisance. What does he want? I begin to imagine that he must be crazy enough to talk that way. The aroma is not good. He suddenly grabs my collar and shouts loudly, What are you up to mister? I’ll break your fancy canon camera. I wake up from my oblivion. I look at him in utter horror and mildly speak, Sorry dai, I work for a local magazine. I’m writing a story about a slum area and the pain of being landless. His face transforms. There’s a big smile in his face stretched out like Himalayas, brightly glowing like snows I’ve never touched.

Let’s go for tea. We can talk about it. He points out at a nearby tea shop.

We walk ahead towards a woman whose tea shop partially sits on floor. She is boiling water on a stove and cups lined up