Reasons to Love the Tarai

All too often the beauty of Nepal's Tarai region is overlooked. The hot and dusty plains may not be what comes to mind when most people in the world think of 'Nepal', the land of Mount Everest, Sherpas and Durbar Squares, but they are a massive part of Nepali cultural, political and economic reality.

When I came to Nepal as a traveler for the first time in 2008 I arrived expecting mountain views, rice terraces and prayer flags. I ended up going on 'holiday' in Nepalganj (any guesses whose idea this was?) for part of the trip. Being down by the Indian border during the monsoon quickly dispelled any picture-postcard preconceptions I had about Nepal, but it gave me the chance to appreciate a side of the country that I would have missed out on altogether if I'd just landed in Thamel and headed straight up to the trekking routes.

Aside from Lumbini and Chitwan National Park, few places in the Tarai see foreign tourists, and the whole region has been sorely neglected by travel writers and academics. Granted, there aren't that many tourist 'attractions' and, well, the security situation often leaves something to be desired, but the Tarai is one of the most culturally diverse and beautiful parts of the country.

And by beautiful, I mean to say that the Tarai has its own special beauty - the plains aren't as immediately striking as Nepal's famous mountains, and indeed, many of the Tarai's grubby bazaars and brash border towns are enough to put off the hardiest traveler. But if you stick around here long enough, you'll come to see why this region is so compelling. In the rural areas you'll find acid green rice fields, loudly-coloured and much-loved shrines to Hindu gods in villages and at the side of the highway, wall paintings and mud decorations on houses - and of course, hoardes of very cute children. The cultural diversity is phenomenal - in few places in the world will you find such a range of different ethnicities, languages and religions crammed into such a (relatively) small space. Sure, they don't always sit comfortably alongside one another, but the crazy mixture is fascinating nonetheless. Hindus, Buddhists, Muslims, animists and Christians inhabit this stretch of land, and languages spoken include Maithili, Bhojpuri, Awadhi, Hindi, Tharu, Dhimal, Danuwar, Hindi... and of course, Nepali.

I realize I may be sounding a bit like a Lonely Planet entry for 'Things to do in Rupandehi' here. But many of my happiest moments in this country have been spent hanging out drinking tea in villages in the Tarai or driving off into the big plains sunset on rickety local transport.

The Tarai is an amazing place, and not enough people know that.

Spare a thought for the Interpreter

Any journalist, businessman, NGO worker or academic working in a country where they don't speak the local language will know that a good interpreter is worth their weight in gold.

As crucial as these individuals are to the functioning of any international mission, summit or news bureau, their contribution generally goes unnoticed. As this editorial from The Guardian puts it:

They are in almost every shot yet they pass unnoticed, discreet facilitators at the elbow of power, perpetual outsiders. They are on the soundtrack of the post-communiqué press conference, and the monotone accompaniment of the dreary images of international gatherings, voices threading mechanically through anger and joy alike. But these latter are lesser mortals than the hand-picked interpreters at the ear of every head of delegation making the round of economic, political and military summits, three of them to every world leader, rotating through long meetings, tense bilaterals and tedious dinners. They are charged with conveying not a mere translation but an understanding of the nuance of every exchange.

In a rare incidence of an interpreter actually making it into the by-lines, the man giving the simultaneous interpretation for Colonel Gaddafis rambling speech at the UN Summit in New York last month collapsed 75 minutes into the podium-hogging monologue, screaming 'I can't take it any more!' Link here. Apparently the interpreter lost the strength to continue around the point at which Gaddafi embarked on his explanation of how the Israel-Palestine conflict could be solved by a single state called 'Isratine'.

And this leads into my other point: interpreters must also subjected on occasion to a level crushing tedium that I suspect it would be difficult for 'internationals' like me to fully appreciate. 'It's the stupidest job in the world' one ex-interpreter told me. For him, the daily ennui of translating the same banal, rambling and sometimes completely moronic interview questions became too much for him to bear, and he moved on to other things. It must be truly galling to hold two higher degrees, speak two South Asian languages and four dialects fluently and to spend most of the time using these to ask questions such as 'where can you buy toilet paper round here?'

Being an interpreter, whether at international summits or out in 'the field' is a pretty thankless job at the best of times. Perhaps it's time that the UN or news bureaus came up with an international 'Interpreters' Day' on which these men and women can come out from the shadows and be publicly thanked for their contribution. But in the meantime I urge all those who use their services - no matter how bad your day is going, whether you are sitting up a mountain being lashed with rain or stuck in an interminable meeting in stuffy office - to spare a thought for your interpreter!

The 'Going-for-an-English' Sketch Revisited

This skit from sketch show Goodness Gracious Me is essential viewing for anyone who wants to get an insight into the bizarre relationship between British people and South Asian food.



I was trying to explain to my Nepali friends the other day the British ritual of 'going for a curry' and this sketch came to mind. A British trip to an Indian restuarant is generally preceded by a visit to the pub, or, if you happen to be going to an unlicensed restaurant in Brick Lane, accompanied by lashings of cheap wine or beer from the nearest corner shop. The stereotypical Brit-in-an-Indian-restaurant will patronise the waiters, mispronounce all of the items on the menu and demonstrate his machismo by ordering 'the hottest thing on the menu'. Of course, not all of us are like this - I, for one, conduct myself with nothing but the greatest decorum when going to get my chicken tikka masala fix. However many glasses of dodgy bring-your-own rose may have accompanied it (stop laughing)


In this sketch, a group of Indians 'go for an English' after getting 'tanked up on lassis' and procede to patronise the waiter ('oooh! hasn't he got lovely pale skin.. it's really pasty'), over-order, misprounouce names of food ('I'll have the steak-and-kidney pieeeee')and of course, try to outdo one another by ordering 'the blandest thing on the menu'.

I would live to take this opportunity here on Mesocosm to apologise to all of the desis working in Indian restaurants in the UK for the revolting behaviour of my country's people.

Mesocosm Fun Fact: My fellow blogger James' nickname, Jameeeezzzz, comes from this sketch

Here Comes Everybody

TKP 29/8/2009

Poor visibility meant that there was to be no flight that morning but I chose to wait it out at Biratnagar Airport. I had received tika from Anshu Aama, hugged Dai goodbye, shaken umpteen male hands along the way and watched the rain. The Narayan Gopal song, Bisera jaun kasari aaja, had been endlessly played before I left. And there was no way I could go back and do all that again the next day. The arrival of a government minister for the delayed flight speeded things up but I wasn’t impatient. If I could sit on the right hand side I would soon be watching a regular Thursday morning unfold across the Himalayas.

Tarai airports all tend to look the same: entrance lined with trees, well worn airport buildings next to a control tower, odd scattered junk in the round and about, large signs telling you the elevation, always-on fans inside the waiting area and similar-sized luggage trolleys (must rest tipped during the monsoon). Admittedly not every airport had, in a former spot, been part of a plane hijacking plot (allegedly masterminded by a future Prime Minister).

And something was unusual on the day I left too: the passenger crowd looked different. The rotund, older male businessman or NGO worker was still present of course, perhaps accompanied by his wife and children too, but there was also a large and exotic gaggle of Japanese and Europeans, election observers all, heading back to Kathmandu to confer and later pronounce credibility.

The flight would be memorable as I was leaving but I doubted that my fellow passengers would consider it special. For a select few in the world flying is similar to catching a bus and airports are, at best, glorified bus parks, places to pass through and barely tolerate. World-weary travelers, bounding from country to country, often end up hating airports—and their wasted time in them—and make sure everyone knows it. In Nepal too the long history of regional flights has made the internal experience mundane and routine for many. In the 1960s travel writer Dervla Murphy was shocked to see how accessible air travel was to visibly poor Nepalis queuing up to use the then RNAC from Pokhara.

But, when writing in praise of airports, journalist A.A. Gill noted something partly true: “For most of the world, airports are the portals of hope and advancement and anticipation and amazing good luck.” Viewing the daily exodus of nervous baseball cap-wearing manpower groups from Tribhuvan International Airport (TIA) will confirm hope, advancement and anticipation in spades. Often all the pride and finances of a family has been staked on gaining a good return abroad, though the reality of service, labour and drudgery may disappoint.

The foreign election observers’ loud and multi-lingual chatter in the waiting area also reminded me of the slightly surreal and other-worldly quality of most airports. Gill called airports between places, our modern “caravanserai oases” and they can be portals to other alien worlds, sites of strange or amusing happenings too. In Nepal TIA (number one objective: ‘To ensure safe, efficient and orderly movement of Air Traffic’) has seen in the last few weeks alone a story about the removal of pockets from the trousers of airport staff, then a media scrum to welcome an apparent Belayati Goddess, followed by the scrapping of the tradition of girls from Bal Mandir orphanage waiting for and receiving heads of state as the Panchakanya.

Maybe TIA is particularly vulnerable to the weird and wonderful. I hope people took note of the threat last month from Gautam Sapkota of Makwanpur. He claims to be able to imitate the calls of 175 different kinds of birds, and, unless the government assists him in his quest for Guinness Book of Records recognition, he will “call a large number of birds to the airport and affect the flights by asking the crows to fly over the sky”. Apparently the crow gang is already on his side, having responded to his call in Tundikhel last year. Let us see if an avian drama and ‘bird strike’ is added to the list of airport oddities.

Besides this, anybody passing through at TIA can still witness the daily dramas of human life mainly through great, large and moving family send-offs as someone leaves for study, work or a combination of the two. Here the economic realities of being a labour-exporting nation heavily reliant on remittances hit home and take on personal meaning. Statistics become real and the day it is your turn to fly away can never be just an ordinary, small, forgettable and unemotional bus-like trip. I am usually upset at leaving Nepali friends but I can, relatively easily, come and go. The inequality of air travel denies that freedom to most departing Nepalis, many of whom are considered lucky to go and have only vague or employer-arranged ideas of when they will return.

Hub airports are, it has to be said, even more unreal sites compared to normal international airports. Travellers emerge blinking, typically somewhere in the Gulf, into brightly-lit domes of hyper-expectancy where the global financial priesthood of Arabs, in flowing robes, share elbow and sitting room with tourists and labour migrants from across the world. Caravanserai indeed! In some ways no one really owns airports. They are—to jargonise—transnational spaces: reflecting something of their host country but also adapting to others from everywhere who—temporarily—wait, sleep on seats, share food, chatter and dream.

Telling The Truth

TKP 18/7/2009

I am not alone, I think, when studying human rights reports on conflict and the messy aftermath in often reading direct quotations from victims first. Not, I hope, out of voyeuristic interest in horror but because they usually contain a power and immediacy unavailable in ordinary report prose. “What is the What” can be viewed as an extended direct quotation from Valentino Achak Deng, a refugee during the second Sudanese civil war. The reader follows Achak the child as he flees from a government helicopter attack on his village in the mid-1980s and then becomes one of the so-called Sudanese Lost Boys who ran from soldiers, animals, diseases and death until they reached refugee camps. After 11 years Achak and 3,800 other Lost Boys were resettled in the U.S. where the now adult Achak encounters new hardships.

The book is authored by American novelist Dave Eggers and subtitled “The Autobiography of Valentino Achak Deng” and “A Novel”. After trying different approaches, Eggers chose to write the book in Achak’s voice. It contains little fiction and is based on years of interviews with Achak. The problems arising from Achak needing someone else in order to tell his story are, for both men, insignificant when compared to the central purpose of helping others to… understand the atrocities many successive government of Sudan committed before and during the civil war’ so as ‘to prevent the same horrors from repeating themselves.’

It is a legitimate exercise to question their methods and goal, but Achak’s story is more nuanced and unique than similar tales, extending as it does deeply into his memories and, time wise, way past the main traumatic events. The period spent waiting for nothing, for example, as a humanitarian victim in refugee camps, is rarely depicted in other made-for-advocacy stories. Interestingly, Eggers has also excavated other stories through his Voice of Witness series. It might be a worthwhile exercise, if not already done, for someone to try an extended life history book in Nepal — say for a Bhutanese refugee, a former Maoist or Army soldier or any victim of the conflict — not least as a way of remembering the recent past.

A large part of “What is the What” concerns Achak’s need to find listeners and tell his story. He does this through the only obvious stylistic intervention by Eggers: namely flashbacks into his horrific experiences in Sudan, Ethiopia and Kenya from the vantage point of his American life. Achak says that when he first came to the U.S. he would tell silent stories to ‘people who had wronged me’. ‘You do not understand, I would tell them. You would not add to my suffering if you knew what I have seen. And until that person left my sight, I would tell them about Deng who died after eating elephant meat, nearly raw, or about Ahok and Awach Ugieth, twin sisters who were carried off by Arab horsemen…’ Only one American, a kindly sponsor, wishes to hear the whole of Achak’s story from end to end. The reader too is presumed a willing listener and given a very full version.

Although Achak admits that his own story “includes enough small embellishments that I cannot criticise the accounts of others”, the reader soon trusts him. This is partly as Achak is a seductive and self-aware narrator, with a good memory for funny anecdotes. In the Kakuma refugee camp in Kenya he remembers rumours associated with the arrival of the first white man he had ever seen. People said “He’s turned inside out, and is in Sudan to find out how to become right again.” He admits too that when Sudanese ‘stand to speak, our comments are rarely brief. Some say it is the influence of [former SPLA leader] John Garang, who was known to talk for eight hours uninterrupted and still feel like he had not made his point.”

Achak’s story, in some ways, requires no great embellishments or exaggeration, being already one of unending sadness and bad luck. As Achak and Eggers later explained the most unbelievable things in the book actually happened, only minor details were introduced, mainly to describe Achak’s very early life for the sake of narrative flow. Boys regularly stop, give up and die on the long walk or get killed by lions or disease. The description of the death and burial of one of Achak’s oldest friends is particularly harrowing. He had known his friend since “he was a baby and I was a baby”. Achak implores him to “Keep your eyes open”. His friend agrees but when Achak leaves briefly to get food “the life in (his friend) fell away and his flesh returned to the earth.” His memories here recreate the horrors of war for a young boy in such a detailed, personalised way that, unfortunately, it can only be true.

Achak, unusually in the sub-genre of stories from African children affected by conflict, continues his tale in America following resettlement, sharing his pain and loss in another world. Achak is well aware of his good fortune. He is keen, however, to share the reality of waiting forever to enter college whilst working in dead end jobs just to survive. “We wanted it all immediately,” says Achak, “homes, families, college, the ability to send money home, advanced degrees, and finally some influence.” He says too that “things are tense, too political. There are 800 Sudanese in Atlanta, but there is no harmony.” Ethnic divisions between different groups seem to worsen (not uncommon amongst diaspora communities!) as does suspicion, backbiting and jealousy. Two astounding highlights in the U.S. — the visit of John Garang and a surreal reception with Sudanese NBA basketball player Manute Bol — are set against a long and unanticipated period of struggle.

From one perspective the reader leaves the novel viewing Achak as a hopeless, hapless figure stuck in his latest dead end job — checking customers in at a gym reception in the early morning. For Achak the worst can and usually does happen. But there are other interpretations too. Achak is already mentally making plans to leave Atlanta after the robbery. Achak tell his listeners, from behind the reception desk, that “whatever I do, however I find a way to live, I will tell these stories.” Primo Levi, surfacing after surviving the Holocaust, wrote that “we the survivors, are not the true witnesses” and “we speak in their stead, by proxy.” Achak too is one of the saved and survives partly by telling his own story on behalf of the drowned, his tale arrayed against the vast despair brought one day to a small boy in southern Sudan.

The uses of law

TKP 31/8/2009

Those who argue that the Vice President should take the oath in Nepali fail to realise that the state's legitimacy comes from its ability to evolve

Those critical of Vice President Paramananda Jha's decision not to retake his oath of office in Nepali — at least until the constitution is amended to allow the taking of oaths in other languages used in Nepal — argue that he is in severe breach of the rule of law. That whatever the merits of the case, now that the Supreme Court has taken a decision the vice president should stick to it, for if he doesn’t a bad precedent will be set where others too will feel emboldened and disregard the Court’s decisions, setting in chain a sequence of events where total impunity and disregard of the law will prevail.

But what is the purpose of the “rule of law” and how are the courts to uphold it? Granted, state authorities have in normal circumstances the authority to ensure — if need be through force — that the citizens under its control follow the established rules, thus inhibiting other potential violations that could occur. But to think that the courts should always closely follow the letter of law in deciding cases while disregarding all other circumstances is to take an excessively narrow definition of the rule of law. It is a definition that tyrants and dictators have often taken recourse to when they wish to punish those who threaten their authority. For by maintaining the fiction that the rule of law exists in a pristine realm untouched by dirty real-world politics, illegitimate leaders can hide the fact that they are taking decisions that are blatantly in their self-interest.

The true purpose of the rule of law is to create a community that is bound together by norms and regulations where no one is unjustifiably deprived of their rights. In order for such an environment to prevail, the laws that the community is bound by must possess broad legitimacy among the population. Interpretation of law should be taken with the recognition that its purpose is to establish an environment where citizens are encouraged to trust each other and unleash their talents and energies, individually and in collaboration, for the benefit of themselves and the larger community. Those who violate the law should face punishment, not for its own sake, but to ensure that normal citizens do not lose their faith in the ability of the state’s institutions to protect their interests.

In upholding the rule of law, then, an enlightened Supreme Court would take its decisions based on whether they fulfilled these criteria. It would have understood that Nepal is undergoing a transformation where the sources of legitimacy that the old state rested on have eroded but where the new ones are yet to become institutionalised. And that, as the laws have not kept up with the times, it would be best to demonstrate flexibility while taking decisions, especially on sensitive cases involving the feelings of identity of particular groups.

Unfortunately, the justices of the Supreme Court, considered to be the most enlightened of citizens in many nations, have revealed themselves to be even more parochial and myopic than the politicians and administrators who have governed this country. For the aggressive action that the Supreme Court took against the vice president — first by judging that he violated the constitution by taking his oath of office in Hindi and then by demanding a month later that he retake his oath in Nepali within a week — fulfills none of the purposes of the rule of law. Instead of enhancing feelings of trust and belongingness towards the state, it has antagonized Madhesis, a large and influential group. It has reinforced the perception that despite all the movements for rights that have occurred over the previous years, the organs of the state are partial to a minority that is going to fight to its death in an attempt to maintain its old privileges.

At this point it will be argued that in conditions of disorder the state cannot go about seeking legitimacy from each and all of its citizens. That it is necessary to maintain order, if need be through force. The assertion for rights cannot be made an excuse for the state to sit back and watch its power erode. In fact, it will be said, one of the major mistakes the governing class made in the past few years was to turn a blind eye to violations of the law: if it had asserted itself to a greater degree, the current anarchy could have been stemmed. And among all the state organs, the Supreme Court has demonstrated that it is committed to guaranteeing order. The establishment of order will strengthen the state, and only a stronger state will be able to command legitimacy.

In response, it could be pointed out that when near complete impunity has prevailed for those who hold powerful positions, it is senseless to claim that the Supreme Court is in this case upholding the rule of law. But more importantly, it is absurd to think that forcing the vice president to retake his oath in Nepali will strengthen the state. If anything, if a resolution satisfactory to all sides is not found soon, greater confrontation will be unleashed — between the state and Madhesis, between Madhesis and Pahadis. In the longer term, Madhesis and other historically marginalized groups will remember the ruling on the vice president’s oath as an example of the state’s hostility towards their interests, this will add to their burden of grievance and the feeling that they should refuse to adhere to any decision the state takes will increase. These consequences can only mean a further weakening of the state’s hold over Nepal’s territory.

But then perhaps the eminent justices of the Supreme Court represent only that section of the population that feels that other cultures cannot at any cost be allowed to influence the Brahmanical state structure. Perhaps they feel that a culturally “pure” state that holds authority only in Kathmandu and some hill areas is preferable to a “contaminated” state that possesses legitimacy across the entire country. If this is the goal, the Supreme Court has succeeded in taking the nation a step closer towards it.

Two directions

TKP 25/8/2009


The day after Prime Minister Madhav Kumar Nepal arrived in Delhi last week, some consternation was visible among the advisors who had accompanied him. For rumours were circulating that the Indians had opened high-level channels of communication with Nepal’s Maoists. Details were scant and it wasn’t clear what this would mean for Nepal’s political process, but for a government that had gone to Delhi to seek assurances that the Indians would do all they could to prolong its tenure, the news was disturbing. Then there had also been embarrassment when Foreign Minister Sujata Koirala, apparently piqued at the prime minister’s refusal to grant her the position of deputy prime minister, refused to accompany him on the visit. Nobody missed Koirala, it was true, but the incident gave the impression that the prime minister was weak and had little control over his cabinet. 
The beginning thus appeared inauspicious, but whatever engagement the Indians had with Nepal’s Maoists was preliminary and thus unlikely to have an immediate impact on policy.


In addition, the Indian establishment was keen to demonstrate respect (and perhaps gratitude) towards the Nepali prime minister. He was, after all, in assuming the position of prime minister at a difficult time, fulfilling one of New Delhi’s major agendas in Nepal — that of keeping the Maoists out of power. 
Besides, there were a number of other circumstances that contributed to the Indian establishment’s mistrust of the Maoists, which could likely lead to a decision to keep the pressure on and weaken them — circumstances that directly benefited Prime Minister Nepal and his government. First, of course, the memory of what was thought to be the Maoists perfidy while in government — in attempting to cultivate China at the expense of India and demonstrating that they had no intention of remaining committed to multi-party democracy — had not receded.


Exacerbating these fears were other issues internal to India. Recognition that Maoist posed a serious threat to India’s security, the establishment’s position towards the Naxalites had hardened. Delhi was abuzz with talk of how military and paramilitary forces would be deployed against the Indian Maoists in October. Given the penchant of Indian intelligence agencies to see links between the Nepali and Indian Maoists on the scantest evidence, it was clear that a hard line taken against Indian Maoists could easily translate into a hard line taken against those of Nepal. 


Then, worries regarding China’s intent had also increased, following the dissemination of an article published on a Chinese nationalist website that argued how China could encircle and balkanize India. Fears ran high, and it was conceivable how, even in the absence of adequate information regarding the links between Nepal’s Maoists and the Chinese, the Indians would feel it in their best interest to attempt to demoralize the Maoists to such an extent that they would be forced to sever whatever links they had with the Chinese establishment and come completely under Delhi’s control. 


So the message Prime Minister Nepal received was that the Indian establishment wanted him to remain in charge until the constitution was drafted and elections held, that he should remain adamant and refuse to integrate any Maoist combatants into the Nepal Army. Privately, however, the Indians realize that it is impossible to complete the peace process while maintaining such an obdurate stance against the Maoists. There now appears to be official acknowledgement within India’s Ministry of External Affairs (MEA) that there is a high likelihood that the constitution will not be drafted on time, especially if the current state of affairs persists. 


There is a remote chance that the current government will last until the constitution is drafted and an even remoter chance that the Maoists will join a government under the leadership of the CPN-UML. The logical progression of the policy to exclude the Maoists from real power is thus the establishment of a regime formed through extra-constitutional means or the invocation of emergency powers, such as one led by the president and backed by the military. This would mean the dissolution of the Constituent Assembly (CA) and the end of the peace process. 


The Indian establishment has been contemplating such an eventuality, but it is averse to it. It is understood that this will bring increased polarization and conflict in Nepal, and that it will be difficult to stem the anarchy that could be unleashed. While the Indians would have major control over any governing coalition that is established in such a scenario, this will be of little use, for such a government will be wholly paralysed. This would not be in India’s interest for a number of reasons, not least for its own national security. Prime Minister Madhav Kumar Nepal was asked to pay attention to and control third-country elements acting against India through Nepali soil. As all his energies are consumed struggling to maintain his own position and security within his own country’s border, the Nepali prime minister will find it difficult to devote much energy to this Indian request. An extra-constitutional regime such as one envisioned will be even more consumed by domestic priorities and even less able to pay much attention to Indian interests. 


In the longer term, it is in India’s interest to have the peace process culminate along the lines laid out in the 12-point agreement and Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA). This is the only way in which a government that commands long-term legitimacy can be established in Kathmandu. Only such a government can work towards strengthening the state, absorbing the political participation of the masses into legitimate channels and maintaining the rule of law — all of which are necessary if the Nepali state is to have the capacity to address Indian security concerns. 


There is increasing recognition in the Indian establishment that for such a scenario to come about it is necessary to engage with the Maoists and bring them back into government. Influential journalists and activists in Delhi have been urging the same line. Engagement with the Maoists has thus begun, but there is some way to go before India is convinced that they are committed to preventing Chinese penetration into Nepali affairs and to a plural democratic framework. When the Indians are suitably convinced — and there is a high likelihood that they will be since the other alternative is so dire — a sea change in Nepal’s political landscape can be expected. 


As for Prime Minister Madhav Kumar Nepal: The initial embarrassment he felt soon evaporated when faced with the hospitality and graciousness of India’s top political leaders. All support was promised and some deals were signed, enabling him to give the impression that he was returning home with his bags full of gifts for the Nepali people. 


But the prime minister’s jubilance was slightly dampened on Thursday afternoon — his last day in Delhi — when he went to the India International Centre (ICC) to give a talk. Introducing him was the dignified Soli Sorabjee, who, while otherwise lavishing praise, let it slip that the Nepali prime minister was “also popularly known as Makunay.” The septuagenarian former Attorney General of the Indian federation perhaps thought that “Makunay” was an affectionate honorific, an appellation similar to “Girijababu.” The Nepalis in the audience, aware of the derogatory connotation that the name contained, cringed, while Madhav Nepal sat apparently impassive. But it became clear that the prime minister was perturbed for when he took the stage he said, “My name is Madhav Kumar Nepal. Popularly known as Mr. Nepal. Not what you heard earlier.” But all this was quickly forgotten, and that evening, when the prime minister was presented to a whirl of faces and handshakes at a reception at the Oberoi hotel, there was the shine of exhilaration in his eyes.