It was a boarding school, and of the kind which allowed students to leave its premises only once a month, that too for a period of two nights and three days termed officially as leave weekends. There were exceptions, however, especially for senior students who could make excuses like, “Sir, we need to buy chart papers for the quiz competition we are organising next week, and it is a very rare variety of charts that can only be found in Asan bazaar.” It was for some absurd reason like this that my friend and I had ventured into the capital for a day.

We took a minibus that ran from Budhanilkantha to Ratnapark, and when we got off in front of Kathmandu Mall some half an hour later, both of us had big grins on our faces, which appeared from the realisation that we were only moments away from completing the objective of the day—to have Thakali lunch.

In hindsight, it looks like a rather childish pursuit that makes little sense. For instance, why did we have to go all the way to Ratnapark instead of, say, Chakrapath? And why Thakali and not some Western food that is devoid of Dal Bhat Tarkari that we used to have night in and night out? But then I guess we were still children, and unlike adults, they tend to find meaning in all that is vain.

As someone who is now the latter, I have to say I am quite envious of the blissful ignorance that gradually seems to erode every passing year. Anyways, we got off and made our way past the crowded footpath with sellers selling cheap earphones, torch lights, single-use socks, underwear, DVDs and bags and then headed for a narrow path in search of a particular shop behind Dharahara. The search was guided by the recommendation of a veteran senior who used to go on adventures like these, but the recommendation, of course, had little to do with taste and was instead based on affordability.

By the time we left the shabby structure about a quarter of an hour later, burping and chewing fennel seeds and mishri, we could feel, along with the satisfaction of the meal, a drop in temperature accompanied by raindrops against our skin. We rushed to buy the rare breed of chart paper, not because we wanted to but because we needed evidence for when we’d re-enter school. However, before we could get into the alley of Bhotahiti, the downpour became so ferocious that we were forced into another alley. Thankfully, we saw a small minivan, the type that is used to transport fruits and veggies, with an open rear-end door, and we rushed to take shelter. A middle-aged man was already standing there, and because we assumed him to be the vehicle owner, we asked him, after we’d already taken shelter if it was okay to do so.

At first, he didn’t respond. His eyes were big, and I wondered if we had angered him. We looked at each other, unsure whether we should stay or leave. It was only after he opened his mouth that we realised, by the smell of his breath and the mumbled nature of his words, that he was intoxicated. He kept pointing in the direction towards the main road beyond which lay the open Tudikhel, the huge plot of land that is neither remarkable nor easy on the eyes, and the only compliment you could offer it is that it still exists and has managed to convince people of the need for its continued existence in this same unremarkable form.

No one cares about Tudikhel as long as it remains untouched, but once it does get touched as part of some city plan, then suddenly it gets overwhelmed with all the love and support from people looking to “preserve” it.

After cautiously moving closer to him and focusing really, really hard, I could finally understand what he was saying. “Ratnapark ma baadi aisakyo”. Ratnapark has been flooded. The friend beside me broke into a smile, and I could see he was trying his best not to let that escape into laughter. To be fair, I was smiling too, but upon noticing the drunk man’s big eyes fixated on me, I became nervous, and the temptation sort of fizzled out.

I was aware of what people could become under the influence of alcohol. After a few bouts, even the most timid and weak are transformed into creatures with a vicious purpose and Dracula teeth. Of course, the divide between their intention to inflict harm and the lack of control over their motor responses did make their attempts rather comical at times, but I am merely talking about the intent. And if there is anything I know about anything, then it’s that a person harbouring wrong intent is to be feared.

The dark sky lit up once again, interrupting my thoughts, and the man repeated what he said. There was a moment of silence followed by a deafening roar. The downpour didn’t seem to wane. There were puddles forming on the uneven road, scooters driving through them, puddle water splashing over those walking by, the passersby shouting, the drivers casually ignoring. But it wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination a flood. I looked at my friend, who was stealthily pointing towards the man’s head, a gesture to question his sanity. Then, quite characteristically, my friend asked, “How long has this been going?”

The drunk man’s eyes further widened, which I didn’t think was even possible, and he said, after taking a lengthy pause, “No one knows. But Ratnapark has been flooded.” For the first time, I observed the man carefully and peered beyond the shackles of stereotype I had imposed on him. He had dark, wrinkled skin, thick eyebrows and a moustache that had strands of both black and white. He was wearing a black Topi, a white shirt under an old coat, tattered Goldstar shoes and pants that seemed a bit too large for his legs.

On his wrist was strapped an old Casio watch flanked by red threads. On his fingers, he had gold and silver rings bearing stones of different shapes and sizes, and under his palms were blisters indicating a life of hard work. And then there were those big eyes into which I looked once again and saw a hollow pit. And when I peeked into the pit, all I could see was a vast nothingness. It was as if he wasn’t seeing the reflection of the world that I or anyone else saw, but something beyond.

For the first time in my life, I could understand what I had read or heard or been told many years ago, or was it in a previous life altogether? That you need a bit of delirium to see beyond the limitations of human rationality. Maybe in a parallel world, there was a flood in Ratnapark. And maybe that is what washes away the morality of this city. I looked at the sky, which lit up as if it would explode and let the flood in. In the meantime, my friend reminded me about the chart papers.