Dude, do you do drugs?

Saturday, the holiday. It is cool to roam around with friends when you don’t have anything special to do on holidays. On one of many Saturdays, I was on the seemingly hinterland, the name of which was Bhattidada.

Overcast day, and at noon, I reached there. Ten minutes of average speed vehicle ride to the South-East of Dhulikhel gets you to what seemed like a small picturesque paradise perched in the hill. Sadly enough, there were many hells emanating as rustic pubs open 24/7, serving liquors and weeds. Foreigners and locals alike indulged day and night in intoxication, in the semi-conscious. In one way you could say a door’s threshold sequestered an idyllic Nirvana from the Hades.

Long, curly haired red-heads were all clung up together inside a congested tavern around short-legged and tattered-topped wooden tables and loosely spread rugged mattress, aside. A seemingly millennial meliorist when propped out his head to look up at the glass ceiling just happened to flash the wonderful gushing of the slowly flowing smokes in shapes, first in the ring with thin rims, gradually expanding to form a doughnut and finally wasting into parts to disappear in the dim-lit air. There were stale whiffs, non-dwindling aroma of burnt stuffs, dead cigarettes stubs in the ceramic ashtray.  

“Fuck! It’s extinguished,” thus noted a Caucasian in a permed goatee. Blabbers, gossips and chatters ensued. The rutty denim with its buttock half-seen muddied insinuated his hipster imagery and ultra-libertarianism. A not-so-long-ago befriended Nepali bloke raised a red jug full of white liquor and offered a big round of toast for applause, but all in a nihilistic ambiance. “”Hell with the politicos, and the same with the strikes.” They were living the present forgetting past, dreaming future to be like just what was then.

A brunette in mid-twenties left her distaff chunks seated at a slope to the East of the grass-ground and approached the gang indulging in ecstasy, her footsteps swagging and joints quivering. Her rubicund cheeks exuded a well so deep feministic tenderness, still unruined by a blatant walk of some mortal being plainly masquerading as a crusader.

“Boungiorno.”The obvious Italian stereotype.

“Boungiorno Principessa.” Retorted the mavericks far flung home across the continents, satire interspersed in the tone.

“Do you do drugs, dude?” She was signaling me even if the answers were from the stoned bambinos.

Meters far from the crowd of the crackpots and standing aloof, I were as if unbalanced, and a suspect for the apothecary hopped-up in the job process who beheld me like a spoilsport.