FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH - PART TWO

After dodging bicycle rickshaws with no lighting or reflectors, and occasional cow wandering along the side of the road that decided it was a good time to cross it just when our car was approaching, or trying to miss the potholes in the road (but being more like a giant magnet attracted to them) we made it to Biratnagar and to the home of my host, Rotarian Basu Dev Golyan. The driver honked the horn of the car was we approached a gate and I certainly did not expect to see the size home that loomed on the landscape as we rounded the corner and parked under the port cachere. The driver got out of the car and hollered for the houseman. He continued hollering until a man in his late twenties or early thirties emerged from the back of the house, rubbing the night's sleep from his eyes. He turned on one or two lights and we entered the foyer of what was to be my home for the next three days. Basu joined us and instructed the houseman to carry my bags to the upstairs where I was to sleep.

"We must now have dinner, my friend," he said. I checked my mobile phone (that incidentally stopped working as we crossed into Nepal - being an Indian phone, only) and the dial told me it was well after eleven-thirty - just a bit late to address a Rotary Club meeting. I told Basu I would much prefer to sleep, that I was not hungry, that I ate on the plane. Basically, I offered every excuse to him for not wanting to eat at that late hour. He insisted, and I finally said, "No, Basu, I am going to bed, and I must go now!" The message penetrated and he asked me to follow him upstairs and that he would show me to my room. As I mentioned before, this was quite a house, for all I could see from the outside in the near-total darkness. We climbed the marble staircase - first twenty-four stairs to a landing and then another twenty-three stairs. High-posted, ya think? We walked down one hallway, turned into another and then opened a door into another passageway, and finally opened the door into a huge bedroom (about 25' x 30', if I were to guess). A king-sized bed awaited my tired body, but Basu insisted upon showing me the rest of the suite - the dressing area and the enormous bathroom with a marble tub that was easily six feet in length and about two feet in depth. He told me he was going to open the windows, but that they had screens and that I really needed some fresh air to sleep well. I assured him I would probably not remember anything within two minutes of my head hitting the pillows. Basu bid me a good night’s rest and I settled down onto the bed.

Although it seemed like I had slept for hours, in checking the clock on my mobile phone, I had actually slept for perhaps forty-five minutes. I awakened to the sound of a commando raid attacking me! Mosquitoes were out on the town for dinner and I was the entrée. Both in India, as well as in Nepal, at least in private homes, beds come with a bottom sheet and a comforter. There was no escaping these winged bandits. I pulled the comforter up over my head, totally wrapping myself into a cotton cocoon, and I waited and I listened. Another raid began in a matter of a few seconds. It is difficult to swat at mosquitoes, or anything else for that matter, when one is wrapped like a mummy. I did try to reposition myself within my envelope, but the tricky little helicopter pilots were able to located the only opening and glide in to attack me again and again. These little beasts were relentless in their sorties, coming in for a landing and the kill for hours.

Every half-hour, the bell tower peeled out the time – 2:00 a.m., 2:30 a.m. and on until dawn broke. Every fifteen minutes or so, I had to come out from beneath the comforter in order to keep from suffocating. It would have been so much easier if there were only a top sheet – at least I might have not feared suffocating, to say nothing of baking in my own body heat. Frustration set in after the first twenty-minutes. Where the devil were these carnivores originating? How were they entering the room? For a while, I decided to go into the bathroom, close the door and hopefully escape the barrage of attacks. This worked but not for long. Within about fifteen minutes, the commandos found there way through the exhaust fan, which did not have a screen on either the outside or the inside. Finally, when it got light enough to see outside, and the bell clock tolled 6:30 a.m., I went back into the room, only to discover the source of my grief and frustration – a tear in the screen about the size of a soccer ball. The little buggers had free entry throughout the night. If only I had been able to see that during the night, I could have remedied the situation by closing the window. One fact I learned however, in Nepal, or at least in Biratnagar, the electricity is shut down completely for between eight and sixteen hours each day or night, depending upon the schedule for your city or village and at Basu’s home, the time for no power was from about midnight until eight in the morning. Since he had not left me with a flashlight (or torch, as they say) I was helpless to see much of anything, since it was just not the power to the house, but the streetlamps and factory buildings, as well.

With only a few winks of sleep, I got up, took a shower (once I figured out the faucet idiosyncrasies) and got dressed. I descended the marble staircase, noticing there was a similar one leading up to another story. As I surmised when I arrived the night before, this was one huge house. I heard Basu in one of the rooms on the main floor so made myself known and he asked how I slept. I did not want to insult him by telling him that due to his concern for my health by providing an unlimited supply of fresh air I had been unable to sleep more than a total of less than one hour. We enjoyed breakfast in the formal dining room. I asked whether this was his permanent home or whether he lived in Kathmandu. He told me this was his home, that his mother still lived there with Basu and his wife. Both his mother and wife were away on an extended trip to India, so I would not be meeting them. I asked him about his business and he told me he owned a factory (immediately next to the side yard) where he produces pashmina sweaters for companies like Benneton. He said we would tour the factory probably the following day. I walked outside for a few minutes, waiting for Basu to finish puja and then we would be off to meet the members of two of the Rotary Clubs in Biratnagar.

Hopefully, the night was an anomaly and Valentine’s Day would be better.