Subarna Prasad Acharya's Blog, page 2

Nights of the Buffalo Bull

The cultural significance of the buffalo and the real fate it suffers.
The buffalo is a culturally very significant animal: it is the vehicle of Death. Death, or Yama as He is known by, is believed to be dark and rides a male bull buffalo. The dream in which one is chased by a buffalo is thus believed to be a significantly bad dream heralding unknown dangers. This story, taken from "Daughter of a Watermill" thus revolves around the buffalo: its cultural significance as well as its fate... The following is an excerpt from the story titled "Nights of the Buffalo Bull".


Sabitri noticed him paying the boy as she walked along the pavement carrying morning meal for him. As the boy darted across the street, he turned, noticed her, and smiled. She felt awkward: he was her husband of years. Why should he smile at her, at this age, as if he was a young man and she a teenager? No doubt, he’s changed again after that eclipse over his brow. ‘(You’ve) Come smiling. What so strange has happened today?’ He flattered her with an unbelievable smile. Yes, unbelievable, of the man muted only yesterday. ‘You know, I saw an insect moult today,’ she replied, ‘and saw it shed a skin.’ There is a love story, two rather strange stories with strange narratives, a story about cigarettes and the Burmese uprising of 1988, and among these, as well as others, also a story of abduction during the violence of the armed insurgency that started in 1966 and lasted for more than a decade. The details are in another post within this blog, if you are interested.


The book, Daughter of a Watermill , will be available at a discount starting 29th of November 2013 from amazon. To take a look inside, or to purchase, please follow the link below:
take a look inside 

Desperation

...
'S*** you, man!' he expressed his feelings.
'No need to,' I told him, 'I already have been.'
'F***!' he swore.
 ...


A long time ago, a boy stood on a chair, looped his vest on to the bamboo rafter of the ceiling in his room, and tied it around his neck. Then he kicked the chair and hung there for a brief second. The sweat-eaten cotton of his vest gave way and he fell hard on the floor below, narrowly escaping the edges of the fallen wooden chair.
But he got a rather painful bum that made him weep without opening his mouth. When he got through it after a while, he cursed rather bitterly. There was no rope he could use.
The pain lasted the following couple of days.

Then a day came when he drank out of a toilet cistern. 'Shit!' he cursed after letting his stomach cool down a bit. He had no money to buy water in the concrete jungle, and there was no friend.
The next day, he had no money to pay for the books even though the exams were just around the corner. He could not prepare himself to have them taken. He said quit. Then he cursed again.
Then the next day, he went to mix concrete with a shovel. The landlord made him dig a big seven feet deep hole in the ground after the work hours were already over. No extra payments. He got drenched in the end, and when he got out of the hell-hole his legs felt shaky, and his back ached. He cursed himself this time, and did not say a word.
After that, he got a series of electric shocks so much so that he now could sense it in his fingers even though it was not there. He got thrown from a standing drum while chipping the walls and fitting wires, catching one of his fingers between the metal rim and his own weight. The finger went numb that evening. Then it swelled like a sausage. The hand felt like fire the next morning. Then he got a fever that evening, and needed to swallow the bitter-tasting paracetamol tablets.
It did not stop!
The nail turned blue, still feeling like a red hot ember and then after about three days the pain subsided a little. Then the nail went dead.
'Damn! He cursed just the same.
The nail took three months to fall off like a dead leaf in winter.
Then the devil came; once, twice, many times over. And there was no money to buy the medicine that could have lead it to another path. He nearly went mad.
It was just about the time when one of his friends committed suicide, hanging by a shoe-lace from a window railing.
'F***!' He cursed that evening.
But it stopped by itself, appearing only once or twice a year; but when it came it came with blood all the same. Bright red streaks that hurt, and the sight of it frightened him a lot.
Then one day, it felt like it was too much. He had read a book before, but this time it meant for real. He swallowed ten tablets with water, there being no money to buy a drink that would have made it easier.
That evening his head started to buzz like a hive of bees. His ears went crazy like hell, buzzing things all the time into his head.
Night buzzed, and the sleep buzzed. Morning buzzed, afternoon buzzed, and the evening buzzed, too. His heart pounded and slowed a little, but did not stop. 'Shit!' He cursed from time to time, in his hazy sleeps as well as his foggy mornings and afternoons.
The buzzing took away hunger and he did not feel like eating a thing. It continued for more than a week. And then it left only a horrible experience behind.
 'Shit! Shit!' He continued cursing.
The buzzing would just as appear and disappear from time to time over the rest of his life. And he would keep cursing. ...

'I don't believe you,' he said.'You don't need to,' I told him. 'What happened, just happened.''Damn!' he retorted his disbelief again in the end. 

The Story Does Not Lie

The story does not lie, and neither do these photographs. 

A village woman prepares morning mealDuring the first half of the 1990’s, political dissent and the struggle for power led a political party to go underground, and rise up in 1996 with arms pushing a violent insurgency movement that the state found rather impossible to deal with. It launched at least two secret operations that led to the arrest, execution and disappearance of hundreds of innocent people. The revolutionaries pushed their atrocities to the limits, setting up parallel governments and passing penalties to the people who dissented with their philosophies.

Locals celebrate the festivitiesDeep in the hearts of the Himalayan mountains, the rebels forced the poor people into involuntary recruitments and loaded their hands with .303 rifles. Those who differed in their ideologies were either brutally killed or else forced into exile from their native settlements. The state on the other hand, carried out its operations in a most unjustified manner: it forced the people to make false statements and then executed them in secrecy. It then lied later to the international community as to the whereabouts of the potential victims. Families and relatives waited for their loved ones with a firm belief that they would sooner or later return to their homes; but who knew where they were taken during the wee hours, blindfolded, kicked, raped, beaten, and then buried alive, or dumped to the scavengers…

A villager carries firewood on his backDuring this chaos, the nation went into an undeclared civil war: the state passed arbitrary laws that gave its forces unprecedented powers to search all households at all hours, and, at the same time, no rights for the common people to even file a complaint or register a case in court. Very soon, people were robbed at gunpoint within their own households during the middle of the night; many were taken to unknown locations never to be returned again. The rebels set fires to most state infrastructures, attacked and ran down security set-ups out of the capital, confiscated arms in the process, and fought against the state with the very weapon that they managed to carry away during their previous raids.

Porters with medical suppliesThe ramifications are too much to describe in one story, or even one book, and spread too far in time. However, some, or rather, a few, always find a way with us and become kept as records: of what was seen, of what was felt, of what was shared, of what was to become… the inevitable. And when tranquility dawns with a false promise, everything becomes changed, forever. 


The people that never had enough to buy even a few tablets of paracetamol, the cheapest among the medicines, (read acetaminophen if you are in North America) to get rid of fever and pain, became pushed to breaking points.  NandaKala comes with a gangrene
There is TB they have to face, and wounds and tears and cuts, snake bites and bone fractures, malnutrition and even death! A humanitarian organization provided free health facilities for many, and in the shadow of its medical services, the most helpless of people shared their stories. But there are rules and regulations that govern the system in a most bizarre and the most unacceptable way: morally, culturally, ethically. 


NandaKala with her arm amputatedIf any justifiable story was written of the few incidences depicting the plight of a people at that time, then they were carried in the nation’s daily newspapers. And whatever filtered through across the nation’s boundaries to the outside world was more of a distorted image than a reality.
You can now read the full story of humanity’s side: of helplessness, of heartbreak, and of the inevitable as it happened in one corner. But there is more to it: you can find the most bizarre, most unbelievable, and also the most humbling of events and incidences from the lives people have lived.


SetiMaya (right) cries with a villagerEven more, there is humour and laughter and fun at the most unlikely of circumstances. Need solid proof? Look at the photographs that accompany these texts. These images have not been released to this scale before. (There are also a few among you who would testify as to the full story, no doubt about that. Without taking names, I can tell, you probably were there!)
A patient who knows there is probably no cure for her illness, an ostracized housewife whose arm needs to be surgically cut thrice sees the wound never heal, an old man who has a cancerous outgrowth, a baby that dies during the hours of midnight...  


Could you have gone through this all? Could you have faced all this? Could you have stood in the shoes of those helpless and endured? 
SetiMaya probably knows there is no cure
To find the most difficult answers, have a look inside Ripheart Mountains, or get a copy, here:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007SJFBMI


    Take a look inside














(All photographs by the author. Except the book cover photo all photographs relate to the story in question. A few may have previously appeared on-line.)

Midnight's Allegory

[This blog-post is completely personal and has been taken from my own experience. It does not in any way indicate to any relationship with any person, living or dead, except that it is completely an allegory used to express my own personal experiences. Friends from my ever-growing circle have also appreciated my poetic compositions rather sincerely and I have been unable to refrain from giving them a taste from a completely different corner of my heart. Part of an on-going work of poetic expressions/compositions, I hope I shall be able to bring this piece together with others out in a book-like format, probably on amazon/kindle as it is my only platform/option of choice. Yes, heartache has been a rather genuine and wonderful fertilizer for creative outlets in my life's experience. My support for all of you stands in that wild river of bitterness you have experienced. See, whether mine is in confluence...]

***   ***   ***




Talk about bliss, a burden you have always felt like.O wild weed, of life, what pleasure are you?Thrice I had hung on the edge; thrice you shied away.O friend among friends, what measure are you?
A Guest of Love, you can’t be shunned away; you can’t be sold!O dark net of miracles, what treasure are you? Felt like fire from hell, you have, felt like a poisoned arrow.Far, far deep you have cut; what razor are you?
Of joy you haven’t carved a line: so blank a book, what eraser are you?The meadow that might have been isn’t any green today; what grazer are you?
No turning back, no running away! What game of chance, what wager are you?
*** *** ***

You can read another allegory, of beauty and of love this time, at
http://fallencorner.blogspot.com/2013/07/dandelion-my-first-book.html
 ***   ***   ***
[This composition was actually done during the midnight hours of the 9th of October, 2013. I could not sleep that night. There was a visit from the Devil for the second time in the last 3 months, and I just remained tossing and turning in my bed. It was too much to bear. I sketched these lines and the morning I got out of bed, I was drenched in sweat as if I had taken a shower! It really felt painful, and horrible... As this is a part of my life's experiences, the work is copyright protected. Midnight's Allegory is actually a series of on-going compositions by the author. © 2013, Subarna Prasad Acharya. Reviews need to be accompanied by references to the author.]

A Look Inside Daughter of a Watermill

[brief analysis of a portion together with an excerpt] 
I found out that I had eaten the forbidden but it cannot be undone now. I am growing older day by day and the events, the occurrences, about and around me foretell that I do not have much to live. Not that I am that old though, or am suffering from a disease or malady of the general sense, but perhaps because having eaten the forbidden. And that may be the worst one can ever suffer; far more and far worse than a life-threatening disease... Ask why, the culture in which I was born and brought up does not believe otherwise. Because of that one act, the forbidden has assimilated into my system, inside out, outside in. Part of me now, and my tale, I have dedicated a poem to the whole thing in repentance and for forgiveness, with a firm belief that perhaps I would be spared all the torments sooner or even, as an option of kindness, my sufferings would get lessened. But it still continues. Read More HereI am unable to get a proper sleep, my days are being haunted. I am finding myself dead every night, every snippet of sleep stealing into me. I am leaning more and more towards the divine and raise the inner arms of my soul in supplication for mercy, and for forgiveness. Perhaps a little merit I garner from the process would make me deserving to ask for a little reduction when the final verdict is delivered to me….. (Note: The pronoun "I" used here is not indicative of person, but rather it signifies a character. It is used to describe the experiences of the character concerned. The story in concern may not necessarily be in first-person narrative.)
***   ***   ***Sabitri noticed him paying the boy as she walked along the pavement carrying morning meal for him. As the boy darted across the street, he turned, noticed her, and smiled. She felt awkward: he was her husband of years. Why should he smile at her, at this age, as if he was a young man and she a teenager? No doubt, he’s changed again after that eclipse over his brow. ‘(You’ve) Come smiling. What so strange has happened today?’ He flattered her with an unbelievable smile. Yes, unbelievable, of the man muted only yesterday. ‘You know, I saw an insect moult today,’ she replied, ‘and saw it shed a skin.’ ‘Is that a good enough reason to smile along? Well, perhaps it is. After all it’s living its life, and life’s a rather precious thing. Don’t mind.’ He sat down on the small mat, his shoes taken off at some distance, towards his back. ‘So you’ve seen an insect moult, aye?’ ‘I also noticed a seedling,’ she added, not answering his question of surprise or that of curiosity if that was one. Her husband sometimes asked too many questions like an innocent child as if he knew nothing. And she liked him more for that. He was learned also, and possibly wise too, but not with cunning as was natural to most men. He was her artless husband and she sometimes loved to play with his simplicity even if she hardly knew to read or write her own name. ‘What seedling?’ he asked, startled. ‘I mean, in this cold of winter?’ ‘Probably an orange pip has germinated, or a lime seed, in the flower pot. It’s so small, it’s difficult to know which one it is.’ ‘It’s orange. I know it’s orange. I’d thrown all the seeds from an orange into that pot last time. Which pot was it?’ How can he be so sure it’s orange. Sabitri questioned to herself. The pots are moved from this side to that side, placed and replaced and exchanged. It all depends upon his moods, the full moon, the no moon... ‘It’s on this side of the doorway—’ ‘Which side?’ he quickly asked. ‘This side, ké, this side. The one in which there was aloe before.’ ‘Leave it, leave it. Maybe it’s lime, or orange...’ his cheerfulness vanished now that he could not be sure and certain, but it returned once again. ‘So you saw a seedling on the pot? Hhhmmmmm!’ The aloe had already been re-potted in another because the previous pot had looked rather small for its size and now there were few empty pots as well. Empty of any specific plant, that is, and anything could germinate and grow in them. But neither orange nor lime. The pot would be too small for either of them when they grew. Had they germinated in open soil, they would keep growing, produce branches, flower, and fruit. A gift of heaven... Aye, wait! Adhikari had a flash. He hurriedly finished eating and left the empty box for his wife to take back home. ‘Beginning to feel a bit hungry these afternoons,’ he reminded her. ‘In winter it’s always so; one feels more hungry because of the cold.’ She reminded him of  the fact. ‘Could you make some rotis and prepare potatoes? Something like the sort?’ he asked. Sabitri sensed he was up at something again, nodded in affirmation, and left with the empty lunchbox. He couldn’t be dating a damsel at this grey age of his, could he? Read More HereWere it a mango... he continued thinking, a banana or a papaya seedling. Anyway, a seed has germinated, sprouted out, pierced the earth and emerged itself into the air, the sky, the light of the heavens. It doesn’t matter what plant or tree it gives rise to, or has the potential. Were it in soil—not in the pot, that is—it would grow, spread branches, produce buds, flower, fruit. And it would cast a shade. Adhikari quickly grabbed a sheet and scribbled lines in it. After finishing, he went through the lines again and again in amazement and chuckled gleefully. Some came so smooth and so easily while others turned you into a different man altogether before they were readable. In ten minutes, for example, this seed-germination-life poem was finished without much effort. In comparison, the buffalo poem had taken three days completely, and disturbed his nights’ sleeps as well. Ah, poetry; poetry! He went through the lines again and satisfied, folded it and shoved it into his pocket; there were now two in it. Adhikari smiled within himself, his gladness visible on his face that has appeared to be brighter. He knew well that there was no end, no finis, to a composition or a creativity of words; the revisions through time could become endless but for the time being two had been done well and they could be filed or trans-written onto his third poetry note-book and read from time to time, to feast himself, to relax his eyes and mind, and for possible improvements. The loose pages and sheets of paper that were now in his pocket could, after they were copied over with dates, then be burnt or shredded, disposed of one way or the other. Adhikari brightened up and became cheerful; he was happy now, at least for the time being.
***   ***   ***
Read More in my next blog.    

Download an excerpt from my goodreads profile page.

Get your copy from amazon 

take a look inside
(This material, as always, is provided free on the internet. But as always, it is copyrighted.) 

Daughter of a Watermill

Finally, after a long passing of seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, suns and moons, seasons, I have been able to bring out my new volume of stories entitled, rightly or wrongly, Daughter of a Watermill. Is there a story by the same title? Of course, there is. Rest assured.




Find characters as weird as a buffalo or a narrator as unlikely as a mirror, or even a butterfly, in some of the finest stories the likes of which appear nowhere else.So, what has changed since the last prediction?First, no characters from the older stories have re-appeared. Rimi got late, of course. Others were slow as well and could not catch up. 
Second, the weird and the strange, unexpected, continues in this book as a whole. Perhaps, it has now become my identity and so has chosen not to leave me. A mirror will tell you a story, yes, believe it right now! Or if you think it can not happen, then there is a butterfly that does it in another place and time; across time's boundaries from two different worlds, in fact. Third, the characters are themselves common and ordinary. Their stories are not so at all. Last, the cover image has been arranged across cultural, social and language barriers despite the obvious difficulties. Thanks goes to Andrew Ioch.
HERE IS THE DEAL, FINALLY

THESE ARE THE MOST MATURE AND REFINED STORIES I HAVE WRITTEN, AND MOST INTENSELY EMOTIONAL TOO. I DOUBT THERE WILL BE ANOTHER VOLUME LIKE THIS ONE.

If you have gone through the death of a friendship, then I am really very sympathetic. We can even be friends, you and I.

If you have been associated with the 8888 Burmese Uprising, or are part of a father-son duo, or very similar, or have had to share smokes with someone, then I am definitely a friend of yours. (I am not promoting cigarettes or smoking in any way.)

If you are the one whose story is being told by a mirror, lucky you! You have been fortunate enough that you at least had someone, or something, rather, to tell your story.

If you are the butterfly that can flutter between two absolutely different worlds, befriend with me. I need just a connection like you to bridge two different worlds. Would you accept?

If you have eaten the forbidden, you share the same fate with me. I am living through the consequences.

If you happen to listen to one of those speeches in the desert heat, thanks god, you made it through. I could not.

But if you had ever been abducted by the rebel guerrillas during the insurgency for forceful recruitment as a cadre, then I am extremely sorry for your plight. But, yes, I can understand. I will definitely listen to your story.
      

So, what's the fuss about?

Nothing in particular. There is no pride, no joy, no celebrations... Two of the stories are definitely out of this world, yes. For the rest, please go to the ends of the world to carry out a research on your own and find faults with the stories real people have lived with. This is a request. Once again, find the book here on
 
get your copy here


Sorry, no paperbacks available this time onwards (unable to afford all the expenses)...


(Cover graphics: Andrew V Ioch; Modified and used with permission. Cover designed by the author.)

Wind Chimes!!!

Some winds are mild and gentle while some are forcefully violent. Talking about life's music, some winds make calm and peaceful chimes while some brew hurricanes. It doesn't matter who faces the cyclones and tornadoes--the question is, who doesn't?--but how and for how long, to produce what music.

The beat, the pulse, the tempo and the rhythm... Winds across the terrains of my life definitely produce my own music. And music does not necessarily always sound beautiful to the ear.



* * *


Since the very beginning I have attempted to get my creative writings in print. My first book was published by a small publisher in Australia way back in 2006. After the initial print run, the publisher went out of business and got dissolved. My bad luck!

I tried most of the publishers I could find on the internet: in Australia, in the UK, in the US and in India. All were regional publishers. I got left out of South Africa, not by design though. All of them turned my books down citing the only reason that my creative work/s did not fit their publishing programme.

Then I found one in Kathmandu, others rejecting, for the very secretly maintained reason that I had no links to higher powers in the chain: I am neither a well-known politician nor a journalist. A small publisher formed by a bunch of friends worked in it but eventually they got separated and my bad luck returned back one more time!

I did not give up trying: I wrote to most. I sent queries, I wrote proposals. All good lucks but all rejections. No way! It should not have happened but it did.

Was I a bad writer? Were my writings not worth the market? Were they not of good beginnings or of quality? Did they not deserve a chance? Was I, in fact, a writer not worth publishing? Was I just a one-time writer after all, like many internationally best-selling ones, and not worth the salt to write any further, or, any more?

Many unanswered questions that plague and haunt me most of the time.

Then luckily, or unluckily, I got a break. I started self-publishing my works. Three books have already been published this way. Five are on the way.

What? Did I really say FIVE?
YES, and YESSS!!!

But what will they be? What will they contain? What will they look like? Have a guess!
The first one to come next will be a collection of short stories. Any continuations? Probably Rimi will come back if she is ready by the time. Another older story may also be back but with original and unmodified plot as against the modified one that had appeared previously.

The second one to come will be a non-fiction, and by the looks and appearances of it, shall take a very beloved position. This one will be a self-help book.

The third one to come will possibly be another non-fiction. If this turns out to be a fiction then the fourth will be the non-fiction. If the fourth becomes another fiction, then the fifth shall be the non-fiction. These three books shall definitely compete with each other to cross the finish line. The two fictions shall have their own positions but the non-fiction shall once again be a self-help book.

So here is a neat probable line-up (re-shuffling may occur).

*Fiction/Short Stories
*Non-fiction
*Fiction
*Non-fiction
*Fiction
*Fiction
*Non-fiction? Fiction? (Impossible to tell at present.)

So the race is on. Everything depends on the way things go with me now as I work on them. Circumstances being favourable, they will come out one by one, soon enough. However, circumstances acting on the contrary, they may take years, or even not get published at all.

But why so cynical? Are they not being written?
Yes. I am working on all FIVE at the same time. I work on one, then take some rest, then I go to the other. The process continues. The speed is the limiting factor, and it depends on things beyond my control. That is FATE, if realizing it is called cynicism or fatalism, or something else. Bad things happen to most people but at their backs, and so is with me. Things are really not that beautiful from many perspectives.

Worried?
Not a bit more than is necessary, no. (We all worry, and need to, but the degree differs.) Why should I be? It isn't a solution, ever, and doesn't provide one, to life's manifold problems. The realization of things slows me down, that's all.


But to cheer myself up, I think I have been in the past, and still am, something that dies many times but never gives up. I have been dead, yes, yet I have risen to fight the battle. To give up, I have never learnt because it has never been an option in my life. If fighting is a must, then either I need to get eliminated or come out victorious. There is no in-between...

Of course there is! That is why I am alive but not completely living!! If Darwin's natural selection process be applied, then my chances of getting selected to live on are rather grim. (If you happen to find out otherwise, please let me know.)

Disappointed?
Yes.

Frustrated at/with myself?
Yes.


What then to expect?
HOPE. There is no better medicine in the world than this. And DREAM. And wait. With PERSEVERANCE!

Things will be as they will be. Neither you can change their course, nor can I. We sing and waltz like wind chimes, the only difference lies in the tune we make in the end. Or we are like parachute-mounted seeds of dandelion carried by the mercy of the wind. Accept or deny, it makes no difference to the way of things. What matters most is how we encourage the good, and enjoy it.

So long then...

My Survival Knife

I love carrying a knife with me, in my pocket or my bag, even when I'm home. Whenever I am out of home, I always carry a knife along not just because it can be of use, sure it has always been, but because it just feels like I have a trustworthy companion there, always within my reach, and always with me.

But what is there in a knife which makes me feel so secure and comfortable carrying one around? Why do I carry a knife in the first place?

For me throughout the years, a knife has been a constant source of companionship and security. It has always been a great tool that is rather trustworthy. Without it I just feel insecure. I have never used the blade of a knife to injure or kill in the first place, never as a weapon -- I simply hate violence -- but then I have also gone through countless occasions in which a knife had been simply indispensable. Here is a small list of things, among many others, I have employed my knife to achieve:

1. Peel and chop fruits and vegetables
2. Cut through ropes and twines
3. Make walking sticks in the mountains out of bamboo and branches
4. Peel insulation from wires in remote areas
5. Drill holes through and make depressions in various types of wood
6. Skin, dress and clean a whole goat once in the remote mountains
7. Peel bark from trees for cordage
8. Split wood
9. Carve
10. Cut and tear through plastic sheets, clothing materials, fabrics, nylon straps, etc.  

And here is what I seek in a good quality survival knife:

1. A good sharp cutting edge
2. A certain thickness that provides me with assurance while working with wood and plant materials
3. A reasonable tip-point that can be reasonably employed as a spear-tip if need be
4. A certain toughness that even if it falls from a reasonable height on a rock by accident it should not break into pieces like glass.

5. A certain hardness that when I put the knife to chop or hack at branches, or even bones, the blade should not go dull.
6.  A certain flexibility in the blade material as well as the design of the blade: it should be able to hack, chop, slice, peel as well as being able to flex somewhat under pressure than break completely.
7. A full tang that extends to the very butt end of the handle
8. A reasonable grip and a solid hefty feel
9. A solid pommel (butt-end of the handle)
10. A reasonably sized eye (or a lanyard hole)at the butt end of the handle to tie a cord for extra safety so that even if the knife slips from my hand, I still have a line to which the knife clings (losing a knife in the field is not an option). The same rule applies while carrying the knife in a sheath or belt.
11. It should be easy to sharpen and re-sharpen with rocks available freely in nature and yet it should hold its cutting edge for reasonable limits of usage and time
12. It should be easy to maintain and at least, to some extent, have rust-proofing
...

In my home country, options are really limited as the market is not freely competitive. Branded knives are really not available apart from the world-famous folding/pocket Swiss Army knives. They are neatly foldable, easy to carry, have multi-tools attached and the authorities feel relaxed with them. However, they are really not meant for heavy-duty tasks demanded by survival situations in the field where people almost invariably carry a Khukuri knife on them. However, for a person who is not a traditional villager carrying a khukuri is not practical as a khukuri is basically designed for extra heavy-duty work such as chopping and cleaving firewood, and butchering all sort of animals, large or small. Moreover, a khukuri is rather cumbersome to carry on a city person, weighs very heavy, and its handle does not feel very ergonomic in one's hand. It is legendary, hefty, world famous because of the British Gurkha soldiers and Indian Army, and at the same time, not so easy or comfortable to carry on one's person on a daily basis. It is designed as a farming and household utility tool, mainly to hack, chop and slash. Smaller ones are available, but as they are the mirror images of the big brothers, they are difficult to use as knives comfortably. 

So what do I do?

I make a small, customized knife. And who made it for me? I did it myself.

What with? A piece of scrap metal bought from a junk-collector, an old Chinese-made angle grinder that did not simply forget to die quickly like its siblings and continues to run despite being badly broken at many places, a couple of grinding wheels together with sanding wheels that fit into that angle-grinder and sandpapers, a stainless steel ruler, and a lot of drawings with pencil on paper. A piece of wood taken from a carpenter's was used for the handle. A pair of aluminium rivets to fix the wooden handle to the knife. Not to mention, days of labour with intermittent breaks filled with tiredness.  Oh, and a couple of circular discs that got eaten away during the process. Couple of carbon, too, but being a DIY guy I simply fashion carbon contacts from used and spent battery rods (spent size C batteries).

Is it serviceable? It is not rust proof as it is home-made with cheap materials but it is rather hard and tough and can be sharpened easily with a Grindwell Norton 6" standard two-grade sanding stone that is manufactured in India (while at home), or with a suitable stone available everywhere along the trail. Imitation copies are widespread in the market but no other stones are available in any other size and it cannot be carried in a pocket (It fits in a pocket but is rather heavy).

A night without a knife under my pillow is just simply another rather sleepless night, even at home.

I don't know why.

If you can buy a good knife that meets your requirements, then by all means do so. If you cannot find what you need in the market, then make one for yourself. Here is a link to an article that contains basic but good knife-making instructions. Check it out for yourself:
http://www.instructables.com/id/How-to-Build-a-Knife/?ALLSTEPS 



(The first image in this post is taken from an expired US registered patent of 1959. Patent No. 186021. The second image is taken from artofmanliness website at http://www.artofmanliness.com/trunk/687/gorkha-soldier-saves-girl-from-rape-and-takes-on-40-train-robbers-with-only-a-khukuri/  retrieved September 11, 2013. Image copyright of its respective owner/s.)

The Complete Interview

You?(A mystery onto myself!) A human: simple, gentlemanly, inquisitive, curious, exploratory, straight, no hanky-panky guy. (Many of my attributes are not meant for discussions, I suppose.)
Who?A married man of about 35, a father. (As brief as I can. No use letting out my secret life-story.)
What?An electrician, a home tutor, a teacher, a translator, a correspondence clerk, a language instructor, an editor. (What a list of hardships and struggles and humiliations!)
What more?An amateur: a photographer, a book designer, a web designer, a DIY guy. (Self-taught mostly. What can I say?!)
Where?Less of the city and more of the countryside, mountains, west, east. (A compulsion rather than a choice!)
Why?(A ridiculous question! To survive. Why else?! You don't know much about what it takes to be a man, do you?) To fill gaps and voids in life. (I circumnavigate the question.)
Why not? (This? Or That?)(Another humiliating question!) Not fortunate enough!
How?(How stupid?!) Circumstances beyond your control teach you much, I believe.
How much?(Silly! Who is satisfied with what they've got? Human nature.) But anything's better than nothing.
How long?(What a bloke!) Depends on the quality of the glue, does it not, to describe the bond?
When?(Pig-head!) Soon, when else! (What do you think? Shouldn't you be answering that question?)
Any specifics? Love freedom, independence, nature, music...
Illnesses?Not that I'm aware of. (My heart's sick, I can't tell him. My soul's fatigued, I can't show. My self is tired, I can't make him understand!)
Pretty thin, aren't you?(What do you think? Do I have enough to eat? You garbage-bin!!!) Perhaps it's in my genes. (I smile. I cannot speak much. So I try to show.)
Can you?(How ridiculously ignorant! I wouldn't be there if I couldn't, would I?) I believe I can. It's not that difficult, is it? (I hide my cynicism about his suspicions. It's his job, I figure out in the end, to be suspicious.)
O-K, he says. We call you.(He's a liar, I know. I leave, thanking him generously for his narrow field of vision, on life, and on humanity. He's not much educated, I conclude.)
29 July 2013. Monday.All rights reserved with the author. Please mention the author and other details in your reviews.

Dandelion: My First Book

Softly
You whispered to my soul

I followed close

Lightly
You carried me along
In your own waltz

Here

There

And further away


(1 December 2004)

Cover Design: Andrew Byrne
ISBN: 978-0-9775120-2-9 
Printed and bound in Australia at Griffin Press, 2006
All rights reserved with the author
Status: Currently not available for purchase