Sense of despair

In the past I have travelled to Nepal via Sunauli many a times— a traditional name given to both sides of India-Nepal border crossing, 70 km north of Gorakpur and 3 km South of Bhairahawa, but that day it was different in the sense that I was alone; by foot and with a hand bag and a suitcase in a rainy, cloudy day just got down from the bus stop in 'Sunauli' and was looking for the rickshaws to go to the other side of the border, 'Belahiya'. The moment you get to the bus stop you can hear the sound of the rickshaws pullers, cars and auto rickshaws drivers calling out for you to come and get your seat and sometimes they will get into each other’s arms and quarrel over you to make sure you’re sitting right on their transportation.

Suddenly a gust of raindrops was beginning to pour and for the next five minutes, it was in a rest like a periodic cycle. I was enjoying both as it was feeling me the nostalgia of my childhood when we ran in the heavy raindrops, striking against our face and body with heavy school bags on the shoulder. As we wheeled along the 'Sunauli' road and saw the banners of coaching speaking of PRIME CLASSES, JRS Institute, APEX Institutes, Ashok Singh’s Academy and many more. It is amazing how just in years, number of coaching increased from one to seven, just beside the Sunauli road with appealing names. It is not so far when this road will match to the feel good scents of Gali of Sunauli in the number of hoarding boards and other institutes.

I just passed near the famous India-Nepal boarder gate known more as a famous transit point between India and Nepal. The Indian side is officially called ‘Sunauli’ and Nepal side is ‘Belahiya’. There used to be a great rush of people going to home land but that day it felt like something was missing and I just couldn’t get through the whole process because of the lack of understanding of what was happening as everything was unusual. There were two queues of the beggars at the two side of the gate of temple. Their eyes were restlessly watching with convincing dismay. Many people were familiar with their good acting and few were exception. At every second, I could see how tempo and rickshaws drivers were bowing his head, murmuring Jai Mata Di. I wonder if those are the man who beat his wives and humiliate their mothers.

As I reached ‘Belahiya’ bus terminal, it had become somewhat dark, earlier because of dark clouds. One can easily find a fair number of foreigners near the exchange Center and some of them enjoying the pious, calm and mystical feeling, sprouting from the bottle of cold drinks in their mouths. Some foreigners were clad in Nepali traditional dress Dhoti-Kurta with twisted long hairs and a large red tilak on their foreheads. People were gathered around the shops selling spicy chats, roasted mazes and special-tea. I saw some couples, expressing their love in the cool and peaceful ambiance of open space, after anyhow getting a private place. As to respect their privacy I only spotted them for a second and moved forward.

I watched; I enjoyed; I contemplated. Now it was time to return home. I reached beside the Pan shop and ordered a mitha pan. First I smelled it; let its coolness, sweetness to flow through nostrils to mind and then to my stomach which stimulated my craving of taking it to my dried mouth. In a second it was finished and finally with refreshing footsteps, I walked towards the bus about to leave for my home town.

This passage beautifully captures a vivid, nostalgic, and melancholic scene at the India-Nepal border crossing at Sunauli-Belahiya. You evoke a strong sense of despair mixed with memories, cultural observations, and subtle social commentary.

Revised Version with Enhancements

In the past, I had traveled to Nepal via Sunauli many times — the traditional name given to both sides of the India-Nepal border crossing, located 70 km north of Gorakhpur and 3 km south of Bhairahawa. But that day was different. I was alone, traveling on foot with just a handbag and a suitcase, stepping off the bus on a rainy, cloudy afternoon. I looked around for a rickshaw to take me across the border to Belahiya.

The moment you arrive at the bus stop, the cacophony of rickshaw pullers, auto drivers, and car owners hits you. They call out incessantly, vying for passengers, sometimes getting into heated quarrels to secure a seat.

Suddenly, a gust of rain began to pour, falling in a periodic rhythm for the next five minutes. I found myself enjoying the moment, filled with nostalgia of childhood days — running through heavy raindrops that struck my face and body, my school bag heavy on my shoulders.

As I wheeled along Sunauli road, I noticed the banners of coaching centers advertising PRIME CLASSES, JRS Institute, APEX Institutes, Ashok Singh’s Academy, and many more. It was astonishing how, in just a few years, the number of coaching institutes had increased from one to seven along this road, each with appealing names. It wouldn’t be long before this road resembled the bustling streets of a big city, with hoardings and signs crowding every corner.

I passed near the famous India-Nepal border gate — a well-known transit point between the two countries. The Indian side is officially called ‘Sunauli’ and the Nepali side ‘Belahiya.’ Usually, this place buzzed with people rushing home, but that day felt different, somehow missing its usual rush. I struggled to understand what was happening — everything seemed unfamiliar.

Two queues of beggars sat on either side of the temple gate, their eyes watching restlessly, filled with convincing dismay. Many people here were familiar with their practiced acts, though a few were genuine exceptions. I noticed tempo and rickshaw drivers bowing their heads repeatedly, murmuring Jai Mata Di. I wondered if these men were the same who beat their wives or humiliated their mothers.

By the time I reached Belahiya bus terminal, the sky had darkened prematurely under thick clouds. Near the currency exchange center, a fair number of foreigners gathered, some savoring the pious, calm, and mystical atmosphere — sipping cold drinks. Some wore traditional Nepali attire — dhoti-kurta, with twisted long hair and large red tilaks on their foreheads.

People clustered around small shops selling spicy chaat, roasted maize, and special tea. I saw couples expressing their love quietly in the open, finding small private spaces. Respecting their privacy, I only glanced at them briefly before moving on.

I watched, I enjoyed, I contemplated. Then it was time to return home. Standing beside a pan shop, I ordered a mitha pan. I first inhaled its cool sweetness, letting the aroma flow through my nostrils to my mind and then to my stomach, which ached with craving. In a second, it was gone. Refreshed, I walked toward the bus that would take me home.