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THE DEATH OF RAMMOHAN ADHIKARI

Nepalese Clay, 21st Issue (2013)
SUSHMA JOSHI
On the morning his son was to return from Doha, Rammohan said to his wife: “Lets go to Shivapuri forest, you and I. We can both take some rope and hang ourselves together tonight.” Rammohan Adhikari knew with absolute certainty, at five in the morning on that warm July day, that he was going to die that night. The air felt muggy—rainwater from a sudden downpour collected in slippery puddles on the road, the looming new construction of his neighbour’s rising building seemed to close in, heavy and oppressive, cutting off the flow of air, and a low bank of dark rainclouds had hovered over the Kathmandu Valley. His wife, who was wondering what to feed her eldest son, who was to fly in from Doha that afternoon, scolded him. “What kind of talk is this? You must stop thinking these dark thoughts, and welcome your son back home.”                                                 *** Rammohan, peering from the grimy glass windows separating the waiting crowd from thos…