Raksi is pronounced 'Roxy'. The sounds of 'a' and 'o' are difficult here, we try and squash the words into our cumbersome alphabet, just like the Volkswagen Beetle, lime green, in which I learned to drive. It was so small that my knees would keep my ears warm, and it was so rusty that I didn't need a speedometer, I could judge the speed by looking at the road through the holes in the floor.
Raksi. It is Nepali moonshine, typically made by Newari people (the traditional inhabitants of the Kathmandu valley) from rice rather than wheat. Unfortunately, at my house we have a limitless supply, because the landlady makes it, the best Raksi in town, as many will attest. The Newari language came down from Tibet, and is therefore very different to Nepali, which came up from India. My landlady whom, for some reason, we all call Baoju (brother's wife), speaks a kind of language which mixes Nepali and Newari with a kind of Raksi-fuelled life force which makes her much easier to understand than the average well-spoken person, merely through its desire to be understood. Did I mention that she's amazing? I watched her making the Raksi one day, mesmerizing. A cauldron over a wood fire, kept burning with whatever pieces of wood were salvageable. Inside the cauldron, the frothiest slop you can imagine, over which sits a little bowl, over all of which is finally placed lid with a pointy-down part, which collects the condensation and makes the drips slide down to the point, where they can land, drip drip, into the little bowl. All the while, Baoju was tending to the fire, opening up the lid and adding bits of water and whatever else, letting the steam rise up and invade her, causing her to sweat, back into the cauldron, putting herself unmistakably inside the whole distillation process.
I just tried to backspace a full-stop that was without doubt a punctuation error. It took me a moment to realise, after I had resumed typing, that it was still there. So I backspaced over it again, like the truck driver of the apocalypse, but it did not go. Is this really happening? I thought, is punctuation rebelling? Is my writing now taking control, having been neglected for so long, is it deciding to take the laws of grammar and syntax into its Own Hands? Imagine! I was at the peak of my speculative incredulity, when I suddenly realised: that was not a full-stop, but a speck of grit on my screen, placed perfectly. I brushed it away, a little disappointed at the prospect of returning to the mundane world. At least I still have the squiggly red lines that underline everything that is not in American spelling. I've changed so many settings over to UK English, so many times, now I just resign myself, and I think of the squiggly-red-line not as an indication of error, but rather a tribute, perhaps a portal. Although, of course, I must admit, it's a funny shape for a portal.
Raksi. It is Nepali moonshine, typically made by Newari people (the traditional inhabitants of the Kathmandu valley) from rice rather than wheat. Unfortunately, at my house we have a limitless supply, because the landlady makes it, the best Raksi in town, as many will attest. The Newari language came down from Tibet, and is therefore very different to Nepali, which came up from India. My landlady whom, for some reason, we all call Baoju (brother's wife), speaks a kind of language which mixes Nepali and Newari with a kind of Raksi-fuelled life force which makes her much easier to understand than the average well-spoken person, merely through its desire to be understood. Did I mention that she's amazing? I watched her making the Raksi one day, mesmerizing. A cauldron over a wood fire, kept burning with whatever pieces of wood were salvageable. Inside the cauldron, the frothiest slop you can imagine, over which sits a little bowl, over all of which is finally placed lid with a pointy-down part, which collects the condensation and makes the drips slide down to the point, where they can land, drip drip, into the little bowl. All the while, Baoju was tending to the fire, opening up the lid and adding bits of water and whatever else, letting the steam rise up and invade her, causing her to sweat, back into the cauldron, putting herself unmistakably inside the whole distillation process.
I just tried to backspace a full-stop that was without doubt a punctuation error. It took me a moment to realise, after I had resumed typing, that it was still there. So I backspaced over it again, like the truck driver of the apocalypse, but it did not go. Is this really happening? I thought, is punctuation rebelling? Is my writing now taking control, having been neglected for so long, is it deciding to take the laws of grammar and syntax into its Own Hands? Imagine! I was at the peak of my speculative incredulity, when I suddenly realised: that was not a full-stop, but a speck of grit on my screen, placed perfectly. I brushed it away, a little disappointed at the prospect of returning to the mundane world. At least I still have the squiggly red lines that underline everything that is not in American spelling. I've changed so many settings over to UK English, so many times, now I just resign myself, and I think of the squiggly-red-line not as an indication of error, but rather a tribute, perhaps a portal. Although, of course, I must admit, it's a funny shape for a portal.
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