A lot of water has gone under the bagmati bridge since last winter. And with the monsoon rains washing away most of our toxic waste, it just seemed that the metropolis might remain a bit bearable for a little while longer. The truth is that human memory is short lived. Memories that are unpleasant to us are conveniently swept beneath the layers of our labarynthine consciousness. Only to resurface when we last expect them, to stun us like a cold slap on the face, leaving us with that ever too familiar expression of 'how could I have forgotten.'

So was I greeted today, as I drove across the bagmati bridge in my morning commute towards Kupondole, oblivious to everything around me, deeply engrossed in the to-dos for the day, with that stink, beatifully weaving its way through the cool morning air, wafting away from the river underneath, to suddenly violate my unsuspecting olfactory sensors. And then I realized the stink had returned, opening a can of bad memories, of having to pull up the windows hastily, too late, everytime you crossed the bridge, leaving your car full of that stink, not knowing whether to open the windows again or to keep it shut.

Here in Kathmandu, you can't have your cake and eat it too. With the coming of the winter, it is a priviledge to be privy to a panaromic view of the magnificent Himalayas, revealing its unprecedented beauty above the Shivapuri hills when the occasional clouds clear away. If only one could enjoy the view from the banks of the bagmati river on a warm afternoon. In fact, I was doing exactly that, from inside my car, all windows pulled up, when I see someone from across the river, yelling frantically about something I could not understand and pointing at river. I am least bothered. But soon a crowd gathers. I come out of the car, and lo and behold, a child of 2-3 years floating along with all that toxic waste, sinking now and resurfacing again. Luckily a kid of about 10 years doesn't hesitate to dive into the river, only to realize that the river was only waist deep, picks up the child in his arms, wades across, beaming like a hero. The child was still breathing and is rushed to a nearby hospital. I return to more mundane things at work. So much for the views.

Kathmandu is full of unsung heroes. I am definitely not one of them, but I did meet one the other day. He is a short man, in his early 50s, with a belly, clean shaved, crew cut hair, in a leather jacket and rides a motorcylcle. He volunteers as a traffic controller. The problem with the city, he says, is that the people are way too timid to confront traffic offenders. Be it the microbus punks who consider it their god-given right to park anywhere to pick up that extra passenger in their already full vans, bringing the entire traffic behind them to a halt, all honking away. Be it the Pulsar hawks who swerve through the narrow streets at full speed, hitting this thing and that thing, but never discouraged. Or, be it the drivers of the V8s of the myriad state, donor and private agencies, who are always in a rush to be somewhere a little sooner. We just don't do confrontations. I did once yell at a lone driver of the state's V8. I was threatened to have my head blown off. So much for confrontation.

I have a new label for our beloved city. I call it a ghetro. A ghetto the size of a metro. We were not forced to live here, we choose to. However, the conditions we live in would bring anyone to shame. Not so much in our private quarters, but the common spaces that we share. But still, one must smile away, like one's having the time of one's life, with nothing to worry about. For in that smile is the contagious capacity to bring some civility in our lives. Like the monk, who I was furious with and about to throw what obscenities I could think of at, for crossing the road and forcing me to yield, when he smiled. All my bitterness dissipated as I smiled back.