Motti didi’s bhatti, which was in the north corner of Lagankhel buspark, had quite a reputation. After around 1 pm everyday, microbus drivers and khalasis would crowd into her bhatti to gobble down momo, choyala, thukpa, chowmein and a very special soup. Usually, her customers would hang around till 11 at night drinking tongba, eating momo and gulping down her soup.

Motti didi’s soup was to die for, and so was her 15-year-old daughter. Drivers and khalasis would slurp the soup while drooling over the daughter. She was ripening and she was glowing. The drivers would try to flirt with her, cautiously though, because they were a bit afraid of Motti didi.

Man Bahadur had been driving a microbus for around three years now. Full of hopes and dreams, he and

his wife had come to Kathmandu

five years ago. He’d worked in a garage for some time, then worked

as a khalasi in a bus, until a lucky break had given him a chance to work as a microbus driver. He loved the work. He loved driving his microbus from Lagankhel to Ratnapark and back to Lagankhel. He also loved Motti didi’s daughter.

He would dream about her while driving, humming along with the dohori songs that blared out from the Chinese speakers on his dashboard. Every second, he fantasised about her. A feeble guilt would pinch his heart, but she was so ripe, and he had to be the first to taste her. He would enter the bhatti after each round, just to see her, just to smell her. She would serve him the soup, a bit shyly, a bit flirtingly. Man Bahadur was sure that she was giving him ‘the

lift’. Motti didi too didn’t mind

Man Bahadur’s frequent visits

to her place.

That evening, it was raining like hell. “Aaja yetai basnu na ta—why don’t you stay over tonight?” Motti didi insisted. He took a swig of the soup and smacked his lips. He couldn’t say no. He took another slurp and phoned his wife casually, “Eh budi, tyre puncture became. Ani, raining very heavy. I will stay in the garage tonight.” He then switched off his mobile. Motti didi’s daughter served him a plate of bhutun and a jug of tongba. Outside, the rain poured, relentless.

When all the customers finally left around 11.30 pm, Motti didi signaled Man Bahadur to go into the next room, behind a dirty green curtain. Man Bahadur felt a slight hesitation but the daughter grabbed his hand and gently dragged him away. “You must be tired and sleepy,” she said with a ravishing smile. She then sat him down on a rickety bed and started to stroke his head, massaging his shoulder and neck from behind.

Man Bahadur had never felt this godly before. He felt her gentle hands passionately squeezing his shoulder muscles. He remembered the time he had smoked poland but this was far better than that. Way better. “Close your eyes and just relax,” into his ear she whispered, unzipping his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. He was Indra. She was Apsaraa. With every caress of her hands on his back, he felt tiny electric shocks tickling his belly. He was swimming deep in the elixir. She started rubbing his neck. He was floating high in heaven. She was ripe and ready. Man Bahadur would taste her tonight.

He was hallucinating.

The daughter was nibbling

on his neck and he felt his blood gushing out.

He was dreaming.

Motti didi was in front of him, biting chunks off his right arm.

He was dying.

Severe pain and terror paralysed his body. He wobbled, convulsed and rattled on the floor. His heart twitched.

When Motti didi and her daughter finished chewing off the muscles, they stashed away the bones under the bed. They would need it for the soup.

II.

“Come on yaar, it’s Friday evening, for god’s sake. Let’s go get drunk.” Prashant was clearly excited. Amon gave a faint smile and sluggishly nodded his head—clearly not excited.

“Okay okay, but, let’s go to a very local place. I’m sick of these fakeass restaurants with their fakeass wifi, fakeass waiters and the fakeass girls who come in,” Amon stipulated.

“Looks like someone’s in a great mood,” Prashant muttered sarcastically, before quipping, “I know just the place.”

Riding through the narrow roads of Thapathali and through the bumpy bridge over the Bagmati sewer, they reached Lagankhel and went straight into Motti didi’s bhatti. Outside, the sun silently slipped over the horizon. Inside, dark blue smoke filled the bhatti’s shabby, gloomy space. In one corner, there was an empty table. “Perfect,” Prashant and Amon exclaimed gleefully.

They took the chairs and ordered two glasses of rakshi. Amon started his tirade. "Thukka... my life is so pathetic,” he said as he flushed the rakshi down his throat and thumped the glass on the table. His fists shuddered with anger. His nostrils exhaled pure hatred. “How could she do that? After all the things I’ve done for that kukurni. And how could she post a photo of her with that jerk?” He took another swig. He felt warm betrayal wringing his heart, cold hunger curling his intestines into agonising knots. “Screw it! Let me get totally jhyaap.”

"Didi, dui plate buff momo ra dui kachaura soup,” Prashant gestured to Motti didi and patted Amon’s shoulder sympathetically. “Don’t get frastu, yaar. Forget her...ajkaal ko keti haru testai ho,” he said, fake-consoling Amon with a clichéd line. He was pretending to be a good listener, listening to the boring angry outbursts of a heartbroken friend.

The bhatti was crowded as usual. Drivers and khalasis shouted out their orders. Bara. Choyela baji. Momo. Rakshi. Churot. Sekuwa. Bhutun. Soup. Motti didi was literally motti but she was very agile and kept her customers happy. "Eh Maiya, tyo kunaa ko dai haru lai momo ra soup rakhi de ta,” she

told her daughter in her usual sing-songy pitch.

“Take this soup,” Maiya said coyly as she placed momo and soup on their table. “I guarantee your worries will fade away in a second.” Amon looked at her bright face through his bloated eyes and then slowly scanned her from head-to-toe and up again. Ravishing, he mumbled and said, “Sure, but only if you pose for a photo with me.”

Her eyes lit up like a full moon. She glanced over to her mother and said, “Hehe...bhai halchha ni.” Amon took out his phone and gave it to Prashant. “Hamro ek shot haani de na.” He stood next to Maiya, ever so close, without touching her. Maiya pouted her lips. Amon squinted his eyes. Prashant clicked.

“Timro soup atti tasty rahechha. Timro smile pani tasty rahechha. Ma ta feri feri aauchhu hai.”

“Hehe…malai add garera photo ma tag garnu hai ta.”

The guys were quite lucky as they were able to avoid the ma-pa-say checking at Jawalakhel and Thapathali chowk. When Amon got home, despite feeling massively tipsy, he quickly logged on to Facebook and posted the photo. He knew his ex-girlfriend would see it.

Later in an alcohol-induced dream, he saw his Maiya.

She was dressed completely in red. She wore a red bridal sari and a big red tika on her forehead. A blurry moment later she was mother

Durga. With a big stump of bone…she was stirring the special soup…in an ominously large pot placed over the eternal fire of hell. She smiled lewdly at him and made a menacing duck face.

He felt a sudden pull, struggled for a while as he gasped for breath, and then, Amon realised…

he was drowning… drowning deep…  

in the boiling soup.

—

latebecame.wordpress.com