The rocky trail slathered thickly with whipped snow. There’d been fresh snowfall the night before. Hailstorm while dining on M.G Marg. Street below Pub 325 covered with tiny homeopathic globules of ice. No local food, only Chinese. Pubs slamming doors on beef-eager faces on the Eve of Losar, Tibetan New Year. Winter kept us warm, covering Mountains in forgetful snow, feeding a little life with smuggled alcohol. Nip in the air curled once about the winter jackets, and fell silent.
“Here miss, buy a Chinese cat. Bring good luck, money,” M.G Marg calls.
Tap-tap-tappitty-tap on the Google bar. Search Chinese cat with raised arm.
—Kameki Miko, origin Japan, popular among Chinese merchants, golden-coloured cats supposed to lure customers in a business house, especially ones that operate at night-time— bars, restaurants, geisha houses.
—Let’s take Miko home. Not for good luck. Only ’cause he’s a strange fur-ball with an angry surprise on his face. Now have I seen a cat without a grin!
“The telling has not been easy. One has to convey in a language that is not one’s own the spirit that is one’s own. One has to convey the various shades and omissions of a certain thought-movement that looks maltreated in an alien language… It is the language of our intellectual make-up… but not of our emotional make-up. We are all instinctively bilingual, many of us writing in our own language and in English. We cannot write like the English. We should not. We cannot write only as Indians. We have grown to look at the large world as a part of us. Our method of expression therefore has to be a dialect which will some day prove to be as distinctive and colourful as the Irish or the American. Time alone will justify it.”