One Hundred Years Of Solitude

I was trying to fix my hair but Email was quick enough to capture the moment. This photo later reminded me of another photo taken nearly a decade in hostel by Ujjwal in which I am seen fixing hair in the same manner. That was part of photo session in the hostel. (One Wagle telling the other: Hero huna khojeko hola ni!!)

Wagle Monologue

This evening at around 10:30 PM while reading today’s issues of the Times of India and the Hindustan Times 30 minutes after arriving home from office, I suddenly realized one thing: that I read a lot and write a lot but both reading and writing are limited to newspapers. I read a lot of texts in newspapers and I write a lot of texts for newspapers. What about books man? After all reading books makes a man wise and I definitely want to be wise, if not wiser. Actually, by the time I got enlightenment, I had already finished reading both of the newspapers. I quickly threw a glance at my bookshelf and found Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years Of Solitude underneath the television set. “Oh…” I told myself, “I should read this book.”

I occasionally buy books but I hardly read them. I had bought this book months ago and, to be honest, I had taken this book in the US when I visited that country in April. When I saw a young girl, in tight half pants and a small (I don’t know how to describe that), let me say, jumper in-flight to Detroit from Tokyo reading something, I pulled out this book from my handbag and started turning pages. Before turning the seventh page, I think, arrogant airhostess of the North West Airlines started serving juices. Of course, drinking was more crucial than the story of one crazy Jose Arcadio Buendia as I would be flying continuously for about 13 lazy hours. Then I had to take a nap, and then had to eat, and then go on dreaming again and then there it was: Detroit.

So today I decided to read the book from the beginning because I had forgotten the details and specifics in those initial pages. As I reached the 10th page and the clock approached 12 midnight, something from inside me started telling me that I should wake up, open up the computer, and start writing something while listening to the music (and I am listening to The Bee Gees’s Stayin’ Alive). As I was opening the computer, the same force also told me that I should photograph myself holding the book. What a nice idea. (I am pretty good at photographing myself!) As I was trying to do just that, my brother Email popped into the room and he was like ‘what the hell is going on here pal?’ I know he was tired of studying textbooks and was wandering here and there inside the house. When I handed him the camera without uttering word (but flashing a smile) he said, “It seems like I am here on time.” Yes, he was. Take some snaps brother!

[This whole blogging thing has become an addiction to me in the last two years and recently I am trying to drastically reduce the time I devote to blogging and focus myself in other works. I am being successful in some sense but sometime, like today, like now, I can’t resist the temptation of blogging. As I said, it’s been addiction and I am sure it takes time to get rid of any addiction.]

Okay, so my determination of reading this book to the last page is what I would like to declare here now. What a time man! Its midnight and some one had said a few days ago that if you wish anything good at this time, you will succeed. I know there will be very little time for me to read books especially in the next few days as I have to several stories for my newspaper and its Saturday supplement. But I have decided to do this.

This one is the self portrait! Don’t know where I am exactly looking at.

I had an incident with Marquez. Several months ago, I had translated a story from the Economist for ‘Kala ra Shailee’ (Arts and Style), the last page of Kantipur, newspaper where I work. It was about his book “Memories of My Melancholy Whores” and while translating the story I used the writer’s middle name (Garcia) all the time in the article. A few days later, Kantipur published a critique on language used in Nepali newspapers including Kantipur. Though there was no byline in the translated piece, the translator (I knew who that was!) was thrashed by the critic for not being able to know the real name that referes to the Spanish novelist. “To say Garcia’s this and that is like saying Prasad’s ‘Muna Madan’ instead of Devkota’s ‘Muna Mandan’,” he had written. [Do we say William’s ‘Hamlet’ instead of Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’?] He had suggested that I should have written Marquez’s ‘One Hundred Years Of Solitude’, not what I had written: Garcia’s! “Okay,” I had told myself and to one of my friends in office. “At least I learned a new thing today.” (Marquez mero bau pani ta hoina ni. And Khairez also do the same mistake while writing Nepali names.)

[Okay, my psycho monologue is finished. Its already 12:24 and I just discovered that my wireless dialup is not functioning. It gets connected but data is not being transferred. Weird. So I will be posting this text and those photos tomorrow- oh…it’s already ‘tomorrow’ (Thursday July 13)- later today.]