The single light bulb swung from a naked wire attached to the low ceiling. The glare penetrated the blindfold as it moved back and forth like a pendulum. The heat from the fine filament seared the tip of the woman's nose every time the bulb swung close to her face. The room reeked of urine mixed with sweat. But for the blindfolded woman, the stench of past terrors penetrated her nostrils every time she heard the sounds of boots approach her---near, almost touching her. She smelled his breath -- tobacco and beetle nut.

She sat straight on the cold metal chair. Her head held erect and pushed back as if against an invisible wall. Her eyes were shut tight, bound by the band of rag knotted at the back of her head. Her hands were on the table with palms flat and fingers spread out like fans. She knew the table was placed directly under the swinging light bulb because the skin on the top of her hands felt hot--unbearably so. Somewhere towards her left, water dripped marking every passing second. From her obsessive counting of the drops, she had measured at least ten minutes she'd spent in the room--six hundred water drips and still counting. The sounds subconsciously triggered an urge to urinate but she was bound to her chair. The rope which secured her felt roungh--perhaps, made of coarse coconut husk. Her head throbbed as if she'd landed on a bed of nails. She had, almost. She'd landed on a thorny bramble bush when she'd jump from the moving bus crawling up the rugged hillside. Her pursuers hot at her heels.

The stomp of boots stopped once again. The man put something hard and sharp against her chin and snapped back her head--forcing her to face her captor.

"So, Miss Mina, I believe you are a journalist?" he inquired softly as he applied more pressure on her neck. His voice was cultured. His English was faultless indicating an education abroad...India, perhaps. He had a slight accent--a bilingual marriage of British and Indian lilt.

"I can't hear you! Would you repeat it?" He ignored her choked "yes".

"Yes, I work for the Diaspora Online!" She struggled to raise her voice but given the angle of her chin, words were strangled, caught in the gurgles of her breath.

"Miss Mina, times are not safe for journalists, especially here in District 50. You could be kidnapped by Maoist sympathizers...mugged, raped or simply disappear!...Or didn't you know?!" His voice turned softer as the intensity of the words increased.

Mina gritted her teeth in pain; it spead like a tongue of fire from her chin down to the base of her neck. Any more pressure and her vertebra would snap in two. If only she could rip off the blindfold and memorize the face of her persecutor, she'd have the satisfaction of seeing her killer before her final moments. Not that it would do her any good.

"You have beautiful fingers, Mis Mina...like an artist's. Ah, but you are not one are you, you are a journalist---a journalist in search of a story." He stroked her spread hands with one rough finger. Her skin crawled at his touch but she resisted her impulse to react.

"A journalist, rash enough to get her precious fingers possibly smashed to useles pulp. How old are you Miss Mina...twenty...twenty one?" She heard him rustle some papers.

"Aha! Here we are, Mina Davis--age, twenty four; address-Arlington, Virginia. And yes, how remiss of me...you are an American citizen. Does that mean you are protected by America? Not in District 50, you're not. You've strayed too far from diplomatic or journalistic immunity. You have no rights here. This is the no man's land. Here ,you are considered an infiltrator. I could have you pulverized, here, now, without a trace. And, no one would be any wiser. Your journalist friend...you haven't heard from him have you? The newspapers said he disappeared 15 days ago... well, you won't find him either!" He spoke every syllable with slow deliberation.

Mina froze in terror. She had interviewed and written stories about survivors of toture camps. Every twisted finger or missing limb spoke of unimaginable horror...of psychological and physical hell. Many of them had been innocent, neither belonging to Maoist camp nor to the RNA. They were ordinary farmers trying to eke out a living from the unyielding rocky soils of Dolpo. Those farmers were caught in the civil war between the people's men and the king's men. They had nothing to offer either camp and yet, both terrorized them at the slightest whiff of suspicion.

She, in her brief one month stay in the area, had accumulated enough information to be hung by either side. Mina had ventured into District 50 in search of her journalist partner who had been missing for the last 15 days. In their last conversation, he had implied that there was a major connection between the army and the Maoists. That he had an idea who was playing both camps. Dave never made it to their meeting place.

***** To be continued****

Sitara Di,
its always been pleasure to read ur piece.
this one reminded meh of incident "model(Shivani singh tharu) kiddnap".

welcome back!:)

Sitara (didi nai hola bhannu parne maile pani),

I had started reading you since long. I think the first one I read was "SPIRIT OF THE HOUSE!" since then I have not missed a single piece from you. All of your creations are superb.

SITARA,

I apologise profusley for having taken so long to read this marvellous piece, your creative mind and easy flow of prose Madame are nothing short of outstanding!

The fusion of current day politics and fiction were enthralling to read. Kudos!

"In their last conversation, he had implied that there was a major connection between the army and the Maoists."

Fiction or fact? I hadn't thought about this possibility before. A big time depression is around the corner. Frenzy of Guns, Girls, Gang accompanied by the insurmountable depression.Nothing remains impossible.
Keeping aside the ideology, these are all mobs.

You have a analyst in you.You have an extraordinary prescient.
Keep your grey cells on work. Divya Jyoti Dekhau.

Waiting impatiently as kins of Dave.

Well narrated Sitara, as always.
Very limited works I read nowadays in Sajha. Please keep writing.

:)...Keep Writing Sitara di!!!
Masterpiece once again!!...
Nirman~*

Rythm, how are you and your classes going on? Thank you for your comments on the characterization of the other pieces too. My schools are fine, both job and uni. :)

Darshan Indi! So you were in SS eh? tyasaile hola weather ramro cha yeta tira.

Hey Ruina and Pretty. Thanks for reading. Pretty, "The Spirit of The House" was written as a distraction from months of formal writing. Need to go back to more bhoot ko katha.

Nepaali, thank you. You know, I have been enjoying your comments on Samrat's books.

Hello Sunny Dev, I would someday like to weave a long, political, social story around the Nepal of now. Someday.

Hi Nirman. Long time no see. How's school these days? A pleasure to see you here.

DWI, I noticed your absence. I would like to read more of you too. We need more short stories in Sajha. hoina?

Dijju, enjoyed reading ! keep them coming, we need more stories for sure :-))

How are you? long time no talk...

good story

Hi Guzmoon and Pipalbot, thanks for reading.

Very well written. Thorughly enjoyed the well scrutinized scenes weaved with great depth of words!

Another grand-gripping tale from SITARA's truly unmatched penmanship. Her prose has that rare lustre; it retains an assured quality of capturing a vision that penetrates deeper into the core of being. What it achieves is a glaring display of exactitude and elegance that lures you into a surreal world where every conceivable level of human emotions - love, passion, humour, sorrow, loss - has a defined place. But it is also where humanity too looses its universal relevance and life's grotesque realities reign supreme; dreams are made but they are also shattered in a mere instant with a fickle twist of fate: the bewildering paradox.

SITARA'S prose flows seamlessly as is customary of her stories, with an authoritative narrative voice and crafty characterisation. Her treatment of the wider theme of the good vs the evil in this story clearly reflects a craft fully in control for mobilising her multifarious subjects with a clever choice of settings and a clarity of intentions. The outcome is a resounding display of superb storytelling with pitch perfect precision. Important perhaps is the shift in her choice of subjects and settings in this story; Mina Davis's is a fate many meet and have met while carrying out what they're/were supposed to carry out, whether as reporters or as soldiers in a battlefield. There is chaos; there's danger everywhere and worse still, there is a raging war out there. I think, it is this sense of precariousness and fear that war evokes in one's mind, provides much impetus to the spine-chilling cliff-hanger with which the plot progresses towards its eventual conclusion. Truly spellbinding in every possible sense of the word.

**************
SITARA,
My apologies, I have been rather late with this call but the last few days have been an absolute nightmare. Have a good day and a good weekend. I'm off to London this weekend. Have a good one.
Carpe diem

Baba sab le pheri dijju pelera hahaha ..... oh sitara dijju mani dijju nai pelnu paryo .... aba tyo momo plan ta khai k bho bho esto chwak weather cha ... bbq hanne haina ...... .

Yes, yes, and Sitara can walk on water too. She's a goddess. I say she sells 50 copies, tops, if she writes a book.

Oho Nirmanji, kaha bepatta ho yettika din? Yaha Sajha ma katro halla chaleko thiyo.

Ani pipalbot chahi New Road ho ki Dillibazaar ko ho?

SITARA,

Bask in the limelight and the adulations that seem to be falling from the heavens around you! :-)

As for Mr. Samrat Upadhyay..I will give him credit for being the only Nepali writer to reach the world stage but his "Arresting God in Kathmandu" was a cross between Freudian theories and a sleazy "Mills and Boon" / Barbara Taylor Bradford narrative!!..would you agree?

Anyways, I hope all is well with you and I hope we have the pleasure of reading another installment of your ceative prose soon.

Best Regards,
***********************************************************************
Sandhurst,

You seem to be getting rather good at the old Houdini trick--only it seems to be peppered with the antics of David Baline!!...hopefully this weekend in London will live up to all your anticipations that were so cruelly dashed by work the last time.

0

Sandhurst, the fact remains, your reviews are better than my writing! However, please don't stop; I enjoy reading you more than you know.

Hi Hunk in grave or is it Hunk out of hibernation? Thank you for dropping by.

Shaq baboo, dijju pelepani huncha.

Hi Nepaali, would you believe, I haven't read our Samrat? Now, do I have a reason to? :) This summer perhaps, just to prove you right! ;)

Thugged out, Fifty books? I tell you, you're being optimistic. :)

Hi kumale!

Have great week all!

Nepaali,

Afternoon madam. Samrat Upadhyay - cross between Freud, and Mills and Boon. Hmm,,, I had better not say anything because I can go on woffling on and on. Refer to the original thread.

But hey, if nothing else, what's wrong with having the company of someone err the chhupe chhupe 'Limping Bride'. I wouldn't mind a cuppa with her in STARBUCKS. Hey why not! :-)

Houdini and David Blaine eh. The magician's charm is perhaps something I am keen on perfecting when dealing with the fairer sex. Ahem... :)
*******
SITARA,
Afternoon. Hope all is well with you. I have not found time to check up on my regular thread and reply as much as I used to. Work, work, work, and work. Ke garney.
Take care madam.

Carep diem

SITARA,
Hope all is well with you. I'm sure you must be busy with work and the multitude of things that keep getting added to the "to - do" list :-)

Sandhurst,
I did read your review on Mr. Upadhyay and I said it there and I will say it again, perhaps you ought to give him a session or two on fluidity of prose :-)
...I really did feel like large portions of the book were a throwback to Mills and Boon..and I know that's not the kindest thing to say, but, that's the truth--from my perspective anyway.

As far as taking the "limping bride" to starbucks is concerned...you just put an image in my head that had me in hysterics..something akin to "Young Lochinvar"..with all due apologies to Sir Walter Scott :-)