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Two things I notice when I wake up—the neighborhood is unusually quiet, and the sound of rain. Rain in Kathmandu also means two things—the roads will become both dust-free and muddy, and no one will be on time for any appointment. In fact, in my experi­ence, this phenomenon is reflected across the whole of Nepal and South East Asia. Whether the roads be dusty/muddy tracks or tree-lined boulevards, Asia just slows right on down when it rains. I guess that’s because in countries like Nepal where really it doesn’t rain that often—yes, yes, there is the monsoon of course when it does for around 90 days—people just aren’t used to moving around in the wet. Being from Scotland, where it must rain 365 days a year (Google says its 265 but I’m quite sure that’s an under-estimation) we are hardened to going out in the rain, winter, spring, summer and autumn.

Meantime in Nepal, children are late for school, parents are late for work, and appointments are can­celled across the board the moment the skies open. Eventually, during the monsoon months, we do seem to get used to the idea of having to go out in the rain and unless it is a heavy downpour, Kathmandu does get moving. But should it rain ‘off-season’ so to speak, then for­get about anyone getting out of the house.

We all know the rain causes flood­ing that makes it impossible to drive or walk down some of the roads. Several times I have had to choose between walking through knee-deep water to get out of my street or stay­ing at home. Although I know what holes lurk under the water in my street, I’m in despair if I’m faced with wading through overflowing sewage and rainwater on a road less familiar.

Missing manhole covers, unex­pected collapse of the top tarmac, and newly dug holes for whatever reason can mean there are hidden traps under the water. We have all seen the footage and read the horror stories of children falling into ditch­es and sewage channels. It makes me shudder.

But if there is no reason to go out, I love winter rain. Because it reminds me of home. It’s the perfect time to huddle up with a hot drink and listen to the patter of rain on the roof. Somehow it feels ‘cozy’ even if it’s cold outside. I imagine all over the city families and groups of friends are sitting around chatting over a steaming cup of tea, a brief respite from the usual daily winter routine.

However, the summer monsoon rains are a different animal alto­gether. If you have to go out on foot, it’s impossible to wear a proper rain coat because it’s generally too hot. I have, over the years, had a variety of ponchos but why do they all leak around the neck? If a ‘hands free’ approach is required then the hood is also required. But the water always manages to snake its way in through the seam between the hood and the body of the poncho. What’s with that?

Thus, aside from when my hands are full, an umbrella is my constant companion from around March till November. The umbrella is both sun-shade and rain protection. Unfortunately, umbrellas seem to die young here. Something about Kathmandu affects the longevity of these essential items and they are all left broken, with limbs poking out and exposed, on rubbish heaps. RIP trusty friend.

For those who drive a scooter, motorbike or cycle, the situation is much worse. Avoiding pot holes and gushing sewers becomes daily routine. I’m sure helmets provide some protection from the rain and those interesting ponchos that are somehow attached to the bike come into play. But I will never get used to seeing women sitting on the back of a bike trying to keep dry under an umbrella which is being pulled this way and that by the jet stream wind.

Okay so perhaps ‘jet stream’ is a little overkill given the slow pace of traffic here, but you know what I mean. I feel sorry for those women; why do they never seem to have a rain jacket or poncho? Sometimes I want to shake their husband/son/brother and ask them why they don’t buy extra rainwear for their female passenger. Of course I also want to ask them why they don’t spend a little cash on a crash helmet too…

With provincial govern­ments coming into being in the past few days, fed­eralism is actually here. But it will be several years before all levers of devolved power structures are in place, as over 100 laws need to be written. Even in the best-case scenario—as examples from other countries suggest—it will take at least four years to fully phase-in a functioning federal structure. This waiting period may sound long and even appear frustrating, but it is in fact a perfect opportu­nity to enact sweeping reforms that do away with the dysfunction of erstwhile unitary system of governance. For clarity’s sake, let me dwell on one reform issue in each column.

Health, first. Under the devolved power arrangement in the new constitution, delivery of basic health services falls under the jurisdiction of the local gov­ernment. The provincial govern­ment, meanwhile, is responsible for overall health services—of course, leaving aside broader national policies and standards to the federal government. In the­ory, the provincial government is free to shape health policies within its jurisdiction so long as it complies with the broad contours of national policy.

But in reality, health system requires an integrated approach and should not be bracketed into different boxes with competing jurisdiction. Righting the wrongs of the current health system that perpetuates unequal treatment and preys upon patients’ vulner­ability requires substantial poli­cy reforms at the central level—backed by strict implementation and monitoring at the provincial and local levels.

The problem with Nepal’s health system is obvious: public health system suffers from short­ages of hospital beds in urban areas, while in rural areas there are inadequate doctors and shortfall of essential medicines and diagnostic facilities. There are also no financing priorities for different needs of different areas and sometimes global agenda (malaria and TB eradication, for instance) take precedence over local needs. This is the reason hospitals serving the Tharu com­munities, for example, have no stocks of drugs to treat sickle cell anemia—a common condition in this community.

Despite spending millions on public health system every year—roughly Rs 41 billion this year—poor patients still forced to seek basic services in the private system. That puts the per capita government health spending at approximately Rs 3,000 a year. But this number belies the much higher out-of- pocket spending by individuals. A complicated pregnancy can cost a family, on an average, half a million rupees in a private hospital.

Private health system is over­priced, highly exploitative and under-regulated. Anecdotal evidence points to a disturbing exploitation.

Last year, an acquaintance developed typhoid fever. Upon visiting Patan Hospital, she was referred to intensive care unit (ICU) in other hospitals, as there was no empty ICU bed in Patan Hospital. She ended up being admitted at a nearby pri­vate hospital. Five days later she was slapped with a bill of over Rs 100,000, including medicines. She was moved to the general ward after the hospital adminis­tration sensed she might not be able to pay.

Two days after being dis­charged, the fever came back, and she had to be rushed back to another private hospital. She came home after spending anoth­er Rs 35,000 and three days in treatment. In total, she spent a year’s worth of earning, not sav­ing, for the treatment of just one illness. That is a representative picture of our health system, which disproportionately affects the poor.

To address the problem in our health system, the incoming gov­ernment will have to revisit the flawed fundamentals while insti­tuting a mechanism to strictly monitor health services—both public and private. Instead of hav­ing hundreds of scattered health schemes, it should raise the cov­erage amount of the government insurance scheme and simultane­ously curb the runaway private healthcare costs.

Conditions have to be creat­ed such that government issued health insurance card is accred­ited in private hospitals so that patients aren’t refused treatment or forced out of hospital before the completion of treatment.

One of the signs of development is that poor families in the coun­try do not have to take out big loans to take care of their sick. I hope the incoming government with its agenda of shared prosper­ity will pay heed to this cause of recurring poverty.

The author is a Kathmandu-based journalist who tweets @johnparajuli

Drama/Biography

Padman

CAST: Akshay Kumar, Radhika Apte and Sonam Kapoor

DIRECTION: R Balki

If you are a regular movie-goer you may have seen at least some biopics about rebel innovators who question status quo. The latest Akshay Kumar starrer ‘Padman’ is one such film inspired by a real-life innovator. The person in question, however, hasn’t contributed to rock­et science or made another Face­book. He’s a social entrepreneur named Arunachalam Muruganan­tham from rural South India, who achieves fame for his invention of a machine that produces low-cost sanitary pads.

 Padman, the movie, is based not in South India but in a village somewhere in Madhya Pradesh and Muruganantham’s fictional counter­part is named Lakshmikant Chau­han. Understandably, this is done to make the film more accessible to the mainstream audience and make the character more suitable for Akshay Kumar. In spite of these factual liber­ties that the movie takes, the actor’s portrayal of a village simpleton who questions the stigma surrounding menstruation and female hygiene successfully captures the story (and spirit) of the original Padman.

Director R Balki and his co-writer Swananda Kirkire have adapted pro­ducer Twinkle Khanna’s short story ‘The Sanitary Man from a Sacred Land’. When we first meet Laksh­mikant, he is a family man living with his young wife (Radhika Apte), accompanied by his mother and two younger sisters. He, a metal-worker, is the sole bread-winner in the fami­ly. We come to know that he has only studied till the eighth grade but that in no way caps his boundless curios­ity. In an early scene, he takes apart a wind-up toy and fashions it into an onion-chopper, just for his wife.

His normal life is disturbed when he finds out that his wife has been using dirty rags during her peri­ods. To him that rag is unfit even to clean his bicycle. So he brings her an expensive packet of sanitary pads from a medical shop. His wife refus­es to accept them because it would burn a hole in her husband’s wallet. Lakshmikant soon understands that buying sanitary pads isn’t an afford­able option for his household. But what if he makes them on his own?

 Soon he discovers that making inexpensive sanitary pads isn’t like taking apart a wind-up toy or mak­ing an onion-chopper. And the big­ger challenge is to make pads while facing the withering criticism of his own family and villagers. They act offended when Lakshmikant tries to hand out his homemade sani­tary pads to girls. They fume at him for poking at something which is strictly a ‘ladies problem’. Thus his obsession to create low-cost sanitary pads comes at a huge cost: his family disowns him and his wife’s family puts pressure on her to divorce him. Roadblocks keep coming in Laksh­mikant’s way but he is not going to rest until he has actually found his solution.

 As mentioned earlier, the story closely follows Muruganantham’s struggles and unfolds in a linear and straightforward manner, stay­ing true to the real story. But since the makers had lots of material to cover, the screenplay at times feels rushed and many events in the story give you the impression that his suc­cess resulted from a series of lucky breaks and not from his persistent hard work.

In many places, the film’s script is downright lazy, as it uses inner monologues to make us under­stand how a character is feeling at the moment. It is the support­ing cast that breathes life into the average dialogues and makes the clunky scenes work. Radhika Apte is convincing as Lakshmikant’s wife. Meanwhile, Sonam Kapoor is likable in a small yet crucial role.

Padman has its downsides but it is made with sincerity and gus­to. The movie should be cherished not because it’s an Akshay Kumar star-vehicle but because it dares to celebrate and signify the work of a real-life hero.

3 Stars

Title: Sher Bahadur

Director: R Rajbanshi

Cast: Menuka Pradhan, Sunil Thapa, Karma and Rabindra Jha

It’s ironic how the latest Nepali thriller ‘Sher Bahadur’, a movie about burglars getting into
trou­ble when they decide to steal from the wrong man, is itself guilty of stealing the plot of the 2016 Amer­ican film ‘Don’t Breathe’. While the original film tightly grounded itself by packing in some genuinely fresh punches in the otherwise over­wrought horror genre, its Nepali counterpart never makes us fully care about its central characters and gives us many moments of uninten­tional hilarity.

The movie opens with Bihari (Rabindra Jha), an Indian car thief, entering Dharan in a stolen car. He takes the car to a garage where a Nepali mechanic by the name of Kumar (played by Karma) works. Bihari is used to bringing stolen cars to Kumar’s place and Kumar is used to re-selling the cars with fake papers and number plates. Then we meet Maya (Menuka Pradhan), a bar dancer whom both Kumar and Bihari have a crush on. Whenever Bihari is in town, the trio gang up to burglarize rich households.

In an over-extended scene, we see them enter a house in the day dressed like salesmen pretending to sell toilet cleaners. This gives them the opportunity to scan the house for available loot, which they easily rob later that night. Meanwhile, we get to know that Maya is putting together money to take her (missing) sister’s daughter to Kathmandu, away from Maya’s unkind stepmoth­er. Kumar wants to buy a garage of his own. And Bihari’s intent is to make Maya his wife some day.

Soon fed up with small-time bur­glaries that yield them only pennies, they look to score big. When they hear that a blind man named Sher Bahadur (Sunil Thapa) is stashing large amounts of cash in his house, they target him. For them the job is super easy: what danger would an old retired army officer pose, that too if he’s blind and lives only with his dog? But when they break and enter the house, they realize they’ve misjudged him. They soon find out that the man will not, on any condition, forgive those intruding his privacy.

Surely, the premise of burglars getting locked down inside a house and being preyed upon by a mon­ster of a man sets up an intriguing hook for a contained thriller. But director R Rajbanshi wastes much of screen time in establishing the band of burglars.

We are also made to sit through repetitive information on burglar alarms and home security with bor­ing and clunky dialogue exchanges. These sequences are so slow, it kills the built up for the moment when the trio come face to face with Sher Bahadur.

Sunil Thapa’s performance as the titular antagonist is wobbly and inconsistent. He tries to appear scary by grunting and quivering his facial muscles, which honestly aren’t hair-raising but laughter-inducing. The same goes for Rabindra Jha, whose already established forte as a comedian prevents us from taking him too seriously in moments where his character demands emotional maturity.

Even at times when Jha’s charac­ter is running for his life or getting shot at, the majority of the audience members continues laughing. As for Menuka Pradhan and Karma, the two talented actors are wasted, as they mostly sleepwalk through their scenes and mindlessly parrot their dialogues.

‘Sher Bahadur’ falls flat under its shoddy special effects and lackluster acting. It is inconsistent and messy throughout and is guilty of a cardi­nal sin for a thriller: lack of any com­pelling terror or suspense sequences to get your adrenalin rushing.

Rating: 2/5