I get into the safa tempo all sweaty and covered in the valley dust. There is room for only two. I sit opposite a woman in a yellow kurta suruwal trying to cover her head with her cotton shawl—there are drops of sweat on her forehead and nose. She looked like she could use a shower right then. While everyone waited for the empty seat beside me to fill up, I tried to think of insignificant things. But my mind kept going back to the poem that a friend had recently sent on my Facebook messenger. It was called “Bhumiputra”—son of the land. The son of the land in a perpetual struggle to belong. I had known what the poem meant—it was meant for the Tharus who had lost their lives, the Tharus who have been misrepresented, the Tharus who have been discriminated against, her Tharus, her sons of the land. But I asked anyway what the poem was about. She replied, “to Tharus”. Her angst, her frustration, and her knowledge all got mixed into words that are familiar to our tongue—words of wisdom. I refrained from replying; after all, what do I know of the plight of Tharus, when was I ever taught about their history, and when have I ever sat down with them to talk about their concerns?

Our land is no longer the fertile land my father studied, or my mother sowed corriander seeds on. It is soaked in the blood of the sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, friends and foes who came with hopes and continued to struggle. One day, perhaps, when a farmer ploughs the land, she will discover that the colour of our soil is no longer brown but shades of maroon. However, what is scarier is that it will not surprise her. For generations and generations, Nepalis will have grown accustomed to the red soil. Stories about how the soil used to be brown will become a part of the myth no one will be willing to believe. My friend’s poem will also become one with the red soil and run through its veins.

A young boy, probably around 13 years old, got into the tempo. He looked like he was going for an interview, dressed up in a checkered shirt and cotton pants. As he settled beside me, he took out a smartphone from his right pocket along with the earphones. As the tempo stuttered to life, he pushed the earphones onto his ears, turned on the phone, pressed the password, opened an app for music, scrolled through an extensive list of songs, and selects a Hindi song. I guessed it was his favourite.

I tried to imagine what the boy does—he was too young to own a mobile phone (or go for an interview), but he was traveling on his own and looked self-sufficient. Perhaps he’d bunked his classes? But where was his uniform? Perhaps, he wasn’t as young as he looked. He continued to listen to his music. I got back to thinking.

Our land is no longer the fertile land my father studied, or my mother sowed coriander seeds on. I think of the vegetable garden that I never get to stroll on nowadays. A guava tree, a peach tree, some mint bushes, and a patch for vegetables. For a long time, my mother used to tend to the garden on her own—she always made sure the seasonable vegetables grew on the season, that the right amount of mixture of organic and chemical fertilisers were put on the plants, and that the trees were pruned on time. My father was never around much, but he would give his occasional comments. But to be honest, it was the flowers that my mother really cared for. She would look after the flowers without needing to consult my father. She knew exactly when the flowers needed to be watered, or when they would bloom, and when they needed the nutrients. I wonder what her reaction would be if she were to one day dig one of the flowerpots and discover that the soil had turned red.

I looked outside the window and realised my stop had arrived. The kid was still beside me. I got off and started to walk towards New Road Gate. As I took a left turn, an old man with a pipe coming out of his stomach was being showered with five-rupee notes. It was a bizarre scene; his face wrinkled with untold stories, his head raised to look at the passersby, his body lost in his yellowed overalls; a rag in front of him was covered with five-rupee notes. I do not know what to make of Kathmandu.

“I miss my son,” said my friend as soon as I met him. His eyes glistened with the longing for his two year old son in Karnali. He recounted what he had heard in the news, the death of an innocent infant by protestors. The horror was evident on his face. I did not know what to make of Kailali, or Karnali. I do not know what to make of anything. All I know is my friend’s longing will also become one with the red soil and run through its veins.