Childhood in 1990

The Ringroad was like a dream, quiet and empty, without a single vehicle upon it. Policemen stood on each side at regular intervals. Some stood at-ease, others were working to direct transportation away from the street into the smaller lanes that branched off the Ringroad. There was one mounted police on a very tall horse and the horse trotted rhythmically in place. We were captivated by the promise of the Royal Procession.

“Do you think Prince Nirajan will

be in the car with His Majesty?” I

asked Ruby. “I am in love with Prince Nirajan, which is all right. He is not much older than me.”

“Well,” said Ruby, “he is only one year older than I am.”

I wasn’t convinced. “There should at least be three years difference between husband and wife,” said I. “Besides, Prince Nirajan looks too much like your brother so you cannot fall in love with him. That will be like falling in love with Rajiv. And I could not fall in love with Prince Dipendra,” I went on. “He is ten years older than me. My parents will never agree to our match. Or maybe they will, what do you think? It is no joke to be married to the Crown Prince. If I marry the Crown Prince I will be the next Queen. It already makes me nervous, even though we will not be getting married for quite a few years.”

“Yes, my Queen,” said Ruby, rolling her eyes. “I just don’t want to marry only. I think boys are just eww.”

So we stared at the road again.

Finally the Procession began and the motorcycles came, two at a time.

A man before me said, “oho!” and clapped. Other people clapped too.

One whistled. One cried, “Ayo,

aayo!” Another slapped his thighs. “Right here!” he said. “He is a god,” whispered a woman.

The policemen stamped their feet and stood in a smart salute. Even the horse went still. I held my breath.

The crowd galvanised, half clapping, half bursting into the national anthem, then half clapping and half forgetting the words to the song, and the motorcycles passed before us.

I faced the road and shouted out the national anthem, gloriously crowning His Majesty, praying for more glory, more success, more land to befall

him, shouting out the tune till Ruby called me a crow. “You sing like a crow,” she said, but I did not stop. I sang till the end then called her a frog. “You look like a frog,” I said. A boy appeared suddenly. “These motorcycles are like no other motorcycles in all of the world!” he announced. He kicked one leg and shouted “bhata-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta,” in imitation of the vehicles.

The motorcycles really were like no other in the world. They were big and very blue-black with red and blue lights blinking and dancing in circles on their heads. The riders, mysterious and unknowable under large, all enclosing helmets, were bent low to hold the handlebars. Their hands were hidden in white gloves and not even their fingers were visible. They sat upon their vehicles like men from the future. They did not speed past us and were surprisingly slow, as though they too were looking at us as we looked at them, but they were not really looking. They did not turn once towards the sidewalk. They never looked any way other than straight ahead. Their engines roared like beasts.

Then the cars came and I shouted out. “The Rolls Royce!” I cried. “There will be the Rolls Royce,” because I had heard His Majesty was the only one in Nepal to own a Rolls Royce.

A policeman turned around and shushed me. “Don’t be so noisy,” he said.

The cars were black but they looked blue under the sky. They had thin, silver antennae upon their hoods and they lulled the street with their soundless speed. The motorcycles had been so flamboyant—lights and sound and dark blue men in snow white helmets—that the cars in their polished blackness, in their monotone, were dangerous and somewhat terrifying. The steel antennae shivered in the air and sparkled like swords.

“Are you mad?” said Ruby. “Nobody can know where His Majesty really is.

He could be anywhere. He could have been in the very first car, and he can be in the last.”

The first four cars passed and more motorcycles came by. The pattern alternated. Motorcycles-cars-motorcycles-cars-motorcycles-cars-motorcycles.

The motorcycles varied, and some were green and white, but the cars sliding by were identical, black with silver antennae.

“It is quite possible that His Majesty is not in any of these cars,” Ruby said. “Daddy says it is possible that His Majesty is not in the country at all, that he has disguised himself as such and such and taken the local transport to the airport. Anything is possible, my little candy. It is possible that there really is no His Majesty and the pictures and the movies, the speeches on the radio, all of this was invented because we cannot invent anything else and because we like interesting topics of conversation. Anything is possible, flowerbud.”

“Is it possible, dear cockroach,

that you are insane and know nothing?” said I.

Ruby snorted. “I know everything, dear housefly. My daddy works in the casino and plays cards with His Majesty. I know everything.”

“Well then, dear flea on a dog, if His Majesty plays with your daddy, then he does exist.”

“That too is possible, dear earthworm,” Ruby conceded.

More cars and more motorcycles passed before us and though I refused to believe Ruby’s garbage I realised, rather quietly, that there was going to be no Rolls Royce on display, that I would not see His Majesty or the Prince. It would be foolish to single the Royalty out by sitting them in their personal cars.

I sighed. “We will never see them,” I said finally.

“But at least the Procession was fun, no?” Ruby said, feeling kind, now that she had managed to get me dejected.

The cars moved past, one after the other like a string of dreams, replicas of each other, and His Majesty did not show himself and I was a little disappointed in him.

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