It was the thirteenth day of September and the year was 1997, three months after I turned eighteen. Hong Kong had been handed over to China after 156 years of British colonialism in the territory just a month before. I had never been to Hong Kong since my father retired from the British Gurkhas when i was four years old. There were rumours here and there that Hong Kong is not as multicultural as it was before the handover
It was already past dusk when i arrived Hong Kong. The inside of Kai Tak airport in Hong Kong seemed to me an aurora of unsullied neon illuminations. I had never seen so big an airport and well-illuminated place in my entire life. I sauntered my way up to the immigration desk. The officer at the desk appeared expressionless and bereft of no sense of humour at all. A golden badge with a name printed on it hung on the right lapel of his blue blazer. It read Chan, Alfred. His skin was the colour of wheat in contrast to my skin that was brownish black. His eyes looked relatively larger for a man of his descent. He glanced at me, ensured himself of my non-Chinese origin and said,ý Can I get your passport?ý
I replied, ý sure,ý and handed the officer at desk my passport. He went through it for a while and asked, ýWhy are you here?ý
ý I was born here. I am here to claim my right of abode.ý i replied.
ý Do you have all the supporting documents to claim your right of abode?ý
ý Yes, I guess Iýve got everything thatýs mandatory. The only thing left is to lodge an application in the immigration department.ý
ý Do you have enough money to support yourself while your application is in process?ý
ý Yes I think so. Iýll be staying with an uncle of mine in Tsim Sha Tsui, until my application is settled.ý I replied self-confidently.
The officer didnýt say anything for a while and started to input some details on his IBM workstation. A few seconds later came a print out from the printer. He took it and attached it on my green passport followed by a thwack of a chop. The officer handed back his passport and softly greeted, ý Welcome to Hong Kong!ý with a nod.
After collecting my luggage at the carousel, I hobbled my way out to the arrival gate. The weather outside was very humid and the crowd of frantic visitors sounded like vendors in a fish market at the top of their lungs. All i could hear were shrills and trills. It was five years before i had last met my uncle Ramesh, and i was worried whether heýd recognize me or not. Just then, as i was wondering, a dark looking man from the middle of the crowd waved his hand. I took no time to recognize my uncle. My aunt stood still, smiling beside her husband. Uncle Ramesh was a hefty looking man with a complexion the colour of an almond while his wife, Rita looked more fairer but equally robust as her husband.
ýWow, you look more like Bruce Lee now. You were a snotty little naughty boy back then.ý Uncle Ramesh teased and patted my cheek while his wife helped me with the trolley. I greeted my aunt with a namaste. She smiled and greeted me back.
ýYou look more darker than u were before, uncleý I said.
ýYes, itýs a lot of sun at our construction site. Hong Kong is tough, babu.ý Uncle Ramesh sighed as he answered back me. A red taxi pulled over by the stand we were waiting on for. We got in the taxi for the drive home. Hong Kongýs skyline with skyscrapers looked dazzling at a distant through the cab window, on the drive it led. An exhibition of numerous glitzy advertising hoardings in Chinese and English letters hung below cantilevers that jutted out off tall concrete buildings. People looked hurried and stressed at the rush hour traffic on their way home along the zebra crossings and footpaths. This is why Hong Kong has a synonym ýcity of lifeý, I thought. Few minutes later, the driver stopped his cab at a dimly lit cul-de-sac through the left side of Nathan road on Uncle Rameshýs directions. An old concrete building stood high just next to where we stopped.
ýThis is Tsim Sha Tsui, babu. Come on over. ý Aunt Rita said and hurried in to key in the password at the main steel door.
ýI have to cook dinner as wellý Rita added and opened the door. I just smiled back.
A narrow corridor on the fourth floor led them to the apartment. It was a one-bedroom apartment with a small living room and an attached kitchen and bathroom on the side. In the sitting room, a synthetic sofa bed with no upholstery lay quiet at the corner on the jute-matted floor. A Sony TV sat lop-sided on a wooden rack, with stacks of Hindi and English moviesý vcds on the opposite side of the sofa bed. The TV was placed lopsided so that it is visible from the bed inside the cubicle as well as the sofa bed outside in the sitting room.
ýSit down, Gopal.ý Uncle Ramesh said and sat down on the sofa bed. Aunt Rita went inside the kitchen and busied herself with her chores.
ý So how is Kathmandu and everybody, babu?ý Uncle Ramesh asked me curiously.
ýEverything is same. Everybody is fine.ý I answered back.
ýI have to lodge an application at the immigration department, uncle.ý I said before my uncle answered back.
ý Iým taking a day off tomorrow. Weýll go together, lodge an application, and see some places around.ý
ý Okay,ý.
After dinner, I sank into the makeshift sofa bed. I was feeling a little dizzy and exhausted by the jetlag. I shut my eyes but the thoughts of my home and parents clouted me instantly with a loop of billows on my cornea. The faces of my parents and friends and the times i had in the hostel appeared vivid like a moving picture on the inside of my closed eyelids. I felt a bit scared, clammy, and uneasy at the dark of the room. A few minutes later, i was snoring.

The building where i stayed was not far from the famous touristsý ghetto ýChunking Mansionsý. That is where i always used to go and hang around during the day. The ambience at the area was always lively and happening. There was never a day when i wouldnýt hear a word about an attempted theft, manhandling of a prostitute and a drug addict lying unconscious in the vicinity. Almost all the diversities of human faces could be seen loitering here and there. There were Chinese small-business owners, Indian brokers, Pakistani hoodlums, African businessmen, Hispanic and European tourists, Australian and North American backpackers, and Nepalese druggies and unemployed. A small cafe on the mezzanine level with a sitting area outside had been my favourite hangout. I had befriended the Nepalese owner and what would have cost a cup of coffee my dayýs pocket money in Kathmandu if iýd had to pay, i was getting it free. The opposite side of the cafý was a shop that sold pornographic magazines and materials. The owner was an old Chinese man with a zigzag set of cigarette stained teeth.
My new friend, Hari was a good-looking guy in his mid twenties. His cheekbones protruded so perfect giving his face a hollow look between his eye-sockets. He wore a ponytail and was never without a black tee shirt. Rumours had it that he fled Kathmandu quietly after he was listed in Nepal police departmentýs wanted list for chopping off a manýs arm in a gang fight, four years before. Since then, he had been on the run, his name changed from Hari to Harry and leading a happily married life with a Filipina in Hong Kong. A domestic helper in Hong Kong but a certified accountant in her home country, Julienne handled the financial and accounting side of their business while Harry took charge over its operation, after they were married. Harryýs small business was a success among the small group of Nepalese community and most of his regular customers were guys high on drugs, who knew what it was like sipping a heavily sugared coffee during the drugged delirium.
ý Whatýs wrong, kale?ý Harry asked me at my brooding look.
ý Nothing, Bro. Iým just upset about how long this immigration dept will take to settle my application.ý
ýCome on, you havenýt been here for more than two months. I got mine after four.ý
ý Yes, but its sooner the better. I am bored staying idle at my Uncleýs place. God knows what dart in their minds by now.ý
ý Youýre running high on that, Gopal.ý
ý Right, brother! ý
ý Have a mug of cappuccino. Wish itýd chill you a bit.ý Harry said and worked on his coffee machine. The table opposite to where i sat were two young boys with long hairs. One of them had dreadlocks and the other had it free flown. The boy with a sleek hair was busy pinching a black stuff that looked something like a goatýs dropping. I knew that they were rolling a joint and my mouth soaked at an instant and the more i looked at them, the more tempted i was with the thought of getting high on it.
ý Hey! Whereýd you get that stuff from?ý i hurled up from my chair to their table and asked. ý Can you get me some too?ý
ý Itýs 100 dollars a bullet.ý The boy with a sleek hair held the hashish between his forefinger and thumb and showed it to me. His friend with dreadlocks looked dirtier than what i had imagined from his back.
ý That wouldnýt cost no more than fifty bucksý Harry put the coffee mug on my table and joined the conversation. ý I can tell its origin by the colour and smell.ý He curtailed with confidence before anyone uttered back a word. The two boys on the table looked at each other.
ý Itýs okay. He can take it for fifty. ý The boy with the dread locks replied and took out a plastic sachet full of hashish from a pocket inside his pants. I took out two twenty-dollar bills and a ten-dollar coin from his wallet and gave them for a bullet. After the two boys left, Harry and i sat on the table. A black man, as black as ebony, wearing motley robe the colour like that of the colours in a South African flag walked past their table. A shining crucifix hung low on his chest.
Harry heated the hashish with his lighter, pinched a part of it, and squeezed it into tiny bits on his palm. I rolled and shook out tobacco from a cigarette on the other side of the table at Harryýs instructions. Harry then mixed the hashish with the tobacco and puffed it into the empty cigarette wrapping again. A Gurkha security guard with a baton was standing still in front of a jewellery shop, hundred yards away from our table. Harry lit his lighter and i took the first whiff of the joint. After a few puffs, i passed it to Harry, which he held it between his pinkie and the finger next to it. He clenched his fingers into a fist and puffed the joint from the top as if he is smoking a hookah. He let out a wisp of smoke through his flared nostrils after he gulped in the waft of the joint. By the time, Harry finished his last puff; he was all lit up with red bloodshot eyes. I blasted laughing aloud as though i was struck with a funny dejavu.

ý Damn! This is the best black Iýve ever tried ý Harry said.
ý Iým completely blown away too. I didnýt know Iýd get to blow a stick in Hong Kong.ý I replied and sipped my coffee.
ý Donýt worry brother. Youýll get every merchandise as long as youýre loaded enough. Crack, smack, ice, brown sugar, coke, ecstasy. You name it.ý Harry said.
ý Iým not a junkie, brother.ý I answered back.
ý It seems like youýre well spread and informed in these activities.ý i said.
ý I am in touch with all the druggies who come in here. They are the sources of all these rumours. At times they boast of their links with the triad members too.ý Harry replied.
ý Who are the triads?ý.
ý Well, they are to Hong Kong what mafia is to Europe and yakuza to Japan.ý.
ý What exactly do triads do?ý
ý Drug-trafficking, robbery, prostitution, video piracy, loan sharking etc. Itýs like a cult and their bond is that of brotherhood.ý Hari said.
I didnýt say anything but sat quiet gazing at Harryýs gestures high on hashish. Harry seemed more like a gangster himself on his ponytail that looked like a horseýs mane to me. A psychotic effect that took Gopal by hallucinations would have struck him with this thought, and the more i looked at and listened to Harry the more inebriated did we seem to be in our delirium tremens - me on my concentrated silence and Harry on his non-stop blabbering.
ý If a triad member is found unfaithful to the group, they will castrate him or take his eye ball off the socket as a punishmentý Harry went on. ýThey donýt kill him; maybe they want the condemned to realize his guilt later after he is mutilated.ý
I sat still and agape, my tongue hanging out of my mouth a little, listening to Harry without a single word until i felt my mouth a sticky parch hole. I took a sip of coffee with a splatter as if it would ease me drink without a scald on my tongue, only to realize that it was already cold. I gulped down the remaining half in a single gasp. A western couple with backpacks strutted near the cafý and sat on the table opposite to theirs.
ý Iým better be gone now, bro. You have customers waiting at the table.ý I nodded my head at them.
ý Okay, brother. Iýll catch you later then.ý.
I walked out of the cafý for my apartment. A moment later, i was struggling my way through a horde of people on their walk back homes after hard daysý work. All of them looked hurried along the footpath, and their visages were a sign of hardship, of exhaustion and of anxiety. On a different side, their heads looked more like an army of ants on a mission, to me. Some young couples seemed to me to be in high spirits in their trendy outfits and dyed hairdos, and the way they glued to each other a show of affection, of love and of lust. The hustle and bustle of the people, the revving of the vehicles, the screeching of the tyres and the blaring sound of a sentimental Cantonese song from a nearby shop was all i heard but it all sounded to me a resonance of a diminishing buzz. I hobbled my way through the cul-de-sac that led to our apartment. After few minutes, i reached my buildingýs main gate. A pile of letters and advertising circulars that poke out of our post boxýs opening caught my attention, at the corridor. I took hold of all the letters and started checking it and to my surprise, one of the letters had my name on it. The more surprising part is that the letter was from the immigration department, which had its logo printed on the envelope. I took out the letter only to find out that i was called out for an interview in the immigration department, the next day. Just as i was wondering why would the immigration department call me for an interview, my uncle Ramesh entered the gate. Uncle Ramesh was back from his work and his state looked terrible. His tanned skin on his gooey tee shirt and shorts and his dirty construction boots gave him the look of a rugby player just after a game. The whole vestibule reeked of his smelly sweat as soon as he entered the gate.

ý How was your day? Uncle Ramesh asked me. I was scared heýd not do anything silly under the influence of hashish in front of his uncle. Instead, i backed up a little not with the fright but his uncleýs bad breath. Rameshýs habit of chewing tobacco made his breath worse than that of a person suffering from halitosis and he believed that chewing tobacco is more economical than wasting his money on a pack of cigarettes that cost eleven fold higher than the price of a sachet of tobacco, imported from India.
ýIt was okay, uncle.ý I managed a smile and replied.
ýWhatýs that at your hand?ý Uncle Ramesh asked me while we waited for an elevator at the vestibule.
ýOh, itýs a letter from the immigration department, uncle. Iýve an interview tomorrow, is what it says.ý
A rickety door of an elevator opened wide noisily at the vestibule. We took the elevator for our flat on the fourth floor. Inside the elevator was a small placard that bore a warning sign, a penalty of $5000 written under an art of cigarette with a crossway of two red lines above it. The elevator came to a halt and the rickety door opened wide again, noisily.
ýYour id card must be ready.ý Uncle Ramesh said as we walked out of the elevator.
ýMaybe.ý
ýIts time now you get a job and make some money, Gopal.ý
ýYes, Uncle.ý
ýYour parents have high hopes on you.ý Ramesh said and reached his hand for the doorknob.
ýI know, Uncle.ý
Rita was busy with her chores as usual inside the kitchen. A daytime job as a helper in a beauty salon gave her ample time every night to prepare a wholesome dinner for the family. Tonight she was chopping pork chops. Ramesh put his bag on the floor and rushed into the bathroom for a shower. I took the seat of my makeshift sofa bed. Dinner was ready in awhile later.
After dinner, Ramesh sat down on the sofa bed while Aunt Rita and i settled down on the jute-matted floor, cross-legged. The late night English news in a local channel was on. Hong Kongýs rising unemployment rate at a record high of 5% was the major headline. A protest outside the immigration department by a faction of illegitimate mainlanders for their legal right of abode was the next report. The female newsreader also read a report of thirty illegal prostitutes, held in custody after raids at brothels around downtown Mongkok. After the news, i delved in a thought that there must be no such place on earth, where women are subjugated off their bodies and are deprived off some rights. ýMatriarchy only exists in the kingdom of bees where a male bee is killed by a female bee, after copulation. Prostitution is a game in the name of sexý, i thought.
Uncle Ramesh went to bed inside the cubicle straight after the news. A little while later Aunt Rita joined her husband. I turned off the lights, TV and slouched into my makeshift sofa bed. I shut my eyes. About a quarter of an hour later, a faint moan from the cubicle caught my attention. I opened my eyes wide at the dark and gave all ears to the sound quietly. A creaky noise of the bed that hit the plywood partition was also audible. My auntýs moan grew louder and louder until it almost turned into a cry in the end. It seems like uncle Ramesh had brought his wife to an orgasm, i reasoned, otherwise sheýd not have near cried like that. The last hum i could make out were a murmur from my uncle. After they were quiet again, i pretended asleep and started grunting noisily as if i he was snoring.

Kalebhut.

That's the shortest story I read.