Palpasa Cafe

Narayan Wagle

Description

A journalist sits in a cafe waiting for his subject-an artist called Drishya about whom he wants to write a novel. But Drishya doesn't come. For that morning he has been visited by Maoists at his home and abducted by them... So begins Palpasa Caf the extraordinary novel by Nepali journalist Narayan Wagle, which has become a sensation in the country. Starting with the murders of the royal family, it tells the troubled story of contemporary Nepal through the eyes of a romantic artist who falls in love, wanders the war-struck countryside and dreams of creating a caf named after his beloved which serves the best coffee in the country. Playful, moving and melancholic, fusing the boundaries between fiction and non fiction, Palpasa Caf presents a rare picture of Nepal at war. It is one of the most important novels to come out of the country.

Informations

• Publié par: Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd.
• Date de parution: 02 décembre 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9788184002522
• Langue: English

Extrait

RANDOM HOUSE INDIA
Published by Random House India in 2011
Copyright Narayan Wagle 2010
First published in English by nepa~laya, 2008
Random House Publishers India Private Limited
Windsor IT Park, 7th Floor, Tower-B,
A-1, Sector-125, Noida-201301, U.P.
Random House Group Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London SW1V 2SA
United Kingdom
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author s and publisher s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
EPUB ISBN 9788184002522
For sale in the Indian subcontinent excluding Nepal.
To my dear Nitika
PROLOGUE
A paper bird came flying down from the balcony and landed by my seat in the Birendra International Convention Centre. On it was written, When s your novel going to be published, Mr Coffee Guff?
The curtains would soon be raised and singer Deep Shrestha would begin his performance. Seconds before the lights went down, I passed the note to my friends. They read it and chuckled.
Over the next two hours Deep sang many songs, old and new, his voice flowing with the rhythm of the orchestra. I came from afar, Deep sang while I read the note again and wondered who d written it. I looked up at the balcony, straining in the darkness, but could make out only a black mass of people. When Deep began to sing Sainlibari in the tea garden , I thought I saw someone in the balcony wave to me, but I couldn t be sure.
I d stopped writing my weekly column Coffee Guff in the Kantipur daily newspaper to make time to finish a novel. One of my colleagues quipped, You re a newspaper editor. What makes you think you can write? Another chided me, A journalist shouldn t write fiction. Even events in my country seemed to be conspiring against my novel. A series of shocking incidents had occurred at breathtaking speed in the lives of my countrymen and in the life of my protagonist. The line between fact and fiction was blurring.
***
Kathmandu had been washed clean by the winter rains. I headed for Thamel, taking in the cold air mixed with the scent of wet earth. I passed some young people on motorbikes heading for Nagarkot. It must be snowing up there, they shouted to one another. There was a long line of cars going to Bhaktapur. I thought that if the sky cleared I might even get a glimpse of snow-capped mountains from a rooftop restaurant.
Just as I was about to climb the stairs, a waiter called from the top, I saw a photograph of you recently. I stopped at the bottom. He said, You were writing and exhaling smoke.
So what s the big deal? I thought. At least it wasn t smoke from the barrel or a gun.
The waiter went on, Were you writing in one of the restaurants around here? I didn t bother to answer.
Is a table free up there? I asked.
I went upstairs, sat down, ordered a pot of coffee, and called Drishya from my mobile. I m on my way, he said, sounding harassed. I hung up.
I wanted one last interview with him before finishing my book. It was based on his story, after all, and I needed a few more details to make it as true to life as possible. The novel was a portrait of his world. It was the music of his experience and his imagination. A painter, he was my novel s only rightful critic. He was the one who d inspired me to write it in the first place. Drishya was like a painting to me and I, his enraptured viewer. I d written my novel in such a way that readers could take his story for my own.
Drishya had a dream project: he dreamed of blending art and coffee on the canvas of the western hills. He wanted to establish a resort built in the local architectural style and surrounded by sprawling coffee plantations where connoisseurs of art and coffee could experience something unique. The resort would have a library, an art gallery, and internet facilities. He d told me about his dream. He d named it Palpasa Caf .
Drishya was going to the hills soon to begin his project. I wanted to read my novel out to him before he left. Palpasa Caf was his future. He d told me a ladder spiralling up from the left of the art gallery would take visitors past the library to the caf . From there, they d see a wonderful view of hills and, in clear weather, the mountains in the distance, covered with snow. Palpasa Caf would have gardens with flowers that perfumed the air all year round, where migrating birds could rest on their seasonal flights. Visitors would be able to reach the base camp of the mountains after a four-day trek.
I wasn t sure the situation in the country was conducive to the realization of his dream. How, I wondered, could Drishya find the strength to face all the uncertainties? His determination impressed me, especially because I thought that the country had already raised its hands in surrender, defeating his dream. He alone was standing, defiant.
A cat miaowed, approaching my table. An article about my novel published in Nepal magazine had mentioned another cat in another restaurant I frequented, my favourite restaurant. This cat looked like that one and, like the other cat, jumped onto and curled up on my lap. Beside my table, the flowers of the potted poinsettia thrust themselves forcibly out of the budding stage. After I finished my coffee, I phoned Drishya again.
Five friends have arrived, he said, still sounding harassed. I ll come after they leave.
Which friends? I wondered.
Order something for me in the meantime, he said before hanging up.
I d soon find out these weren t his friends at all. The cat on my lap looked at me serenely as I sipped my coffee. Unaware of all the events taking place in the lives of the people around it, it lived in a blissful world of its own. Not many cats were so lucky. Tourists from all over the world came to this restaurant. Even now, a tourist at a nearby table was turning her camera towards me to take a photo of the cat. I wasn t sure if I was included in the frame but nonetheless grew wary. In times like these, even small things make us paranoid.
My mobile rang. A reporter was calling. The Maoists had looted and bombed a bus. No casualties, he said, but my report might get there a bit late. The district headquarters is still very tense. There was the sound of gunfire this morning and now students are throwing stones from inside the campus.
Why don t you buy a bloody computer and e-mail your reports like everyone else, instead of relying on the PCO fax machine? I said, unable to hide my irritation.
I would ve if you d approved an advance, he shot back. I hung up.
Drishya still hadn t arrived. I began to wonder whether he d come at all. I was fascinated by his dream project and wanted to know more about it. What did the villages around Palpasa Caf look like? I imagined small houses with slanted roofs, dark wooden doors, and clay-washed walls, their verandas dotted with tiny pits made by raindrops. I hoped Drishya would take me there one day.
I phoned him again but someone else picked up the phone.
They took him! They took him! she cried. I recognized the voice of Phoolan Chowdhary, Drishya s secretary.
Now it was my turn to panic. What? Where? I asked.
Five strangers came, she said breathlessly. They said they needed to ask him some questions. They said they were security personnel but they weren t wearing uniforms. He didn t even take his mobile!
Had Drishya s friends abducted him? Are you sure? I asked.
Absolutely! she shouted. Can t something be done?
Phoolan s panic infected me. How could Drishya have been abducted in broad daylight? Since the men had been wearing ordinary clothes, no one on the street would suspect anything. I learned later that they had made him walk a short distance, then put him in an unmarked van parked nearby.
And all the while I d been sitting in this restaurant, waiting for him, thinking about his dream project. I d been waiting to read him his story while he, the protagonist of my novel, my first reader, was being abducted.
I phoned an army general I knew. He said nothing could be done at this time . I knew only too well that it was now common practice to arrest people without a warrant. And I also knew how difficult it was to discover the whereabouts of such people once they d been arrested.
But I called around nonetheless, trying to talk to the chief of the army. He was apparently in a meeting. Talk to the spokesperson, a major advised me.
When I hung up, the waiter, always very eager to serve, asked, Have you placed your order, Sir?
What order? I snapped.
My mobile rang again. It was another district correspondent. I m sorry but I have to dictate a story to you, he said. No one s answering the phone at the district bureau.
What timing! I picked up a napkin to jot down the story: A patrol of the unified command lost contact with district headquarters after being ambushed by Maoists this morning about eight kilometres to the east
This was nothing new. We published stories like it every day. Today s newspaper carried an almost identical story; tomorrow s would as well. It was the same thing every day: security personnel losing contact with headquarters, land mines, bomb blasts, the killing of suspected spies, deaths of victims being rushed to health posts Did newspapers here exist only to publish body counts?
Is that it? I asked the reporter.
There s one more report, he said.
I picked up another napkin. Seven children died after temperatures dropped to a record low due to heavy snow in the western part of the district
Afterwards, I re-read what I d written. The ink on the napkins seemed to have changed from blue to red, as though my writing had somehow changed langu