Mothers Day Special

Thank you my dear friends, relatives, and random Nepali people who have added me in FB– for an early morning reminder that your mothers are very special to you. 

It surely came as a shocker – a little more than reading the news that the state of Nepal had the guts to deport a White Canadian national over some petty tweets causing an absolute frenzy in the capital. I applaud the ego of our non-functioning government on trying to maintain the illusion of social harmony. What I fail to understand is why was this supposed IT scientist getting cozy and rosy with Nepali politics? We shall never know except the recent revelation that he’d been harassing and bullying anyone that didn’t agree with him, especially the female journalists of KTM. But we all do that anyway – so no biggie!

Back to the big day. I must tell you my dear friends, relatives, and random Nepali people who have added me in FB- you could have simply made your mothers feels special by calling her privately, but I am not judging you. In this era of social media, we can’t even verify if you took that healthy dump this morning unless you gave a subtle hint about it. No! No! No! I am not against the public professing of how much you love your mothers – I am actually amused how little some of you resemble your mothers, and how simple, elegant, and wonderful some of your mothers looked before she had you. Sorry for stating the obvious!

What I am particularly irked about right now are my siblings, who live several time zones ahead of me who have already plastered their social media pages with my mother’s pictures. So, I am overcome with guilt and remorse of not being a thoughtful son – yet again. It hasn’t helped that I have a bad hangover from yesterday’s festivities, the importance of which I have neither googled about nor found the necessity. Like any festivals- Nepali or foreign, it is all game as long as there are FREE drinks! I am that much Nepali – if nothing else. 

It did almost cross my mind that I should post one of her younger pictures and come up with some stellar quotes like you guys, which probably have now been exhausted. But then, you see, my mother isn’t all that special. For the past decade and more, all she asks me is “Can you cook anything?” “How do you wash your clothes?” and in recent times, like you all know, she reminds “It’s time to get hitched!” 

You see – these may seem petty things, but mothers remember. Before I made it to the USA, I didn’t know how peel potatoes. Hey! I am from KTM – we enjoyed the servitude of people, the very same people that Canadian national was advocating about. Good riddance I say. When I started my college and realized that I ACTUALLY NEEDED TO MAKE MY OWN FRIGGIN FOOD – I nearly collapsed. I knew how to make a fried egg and how to make rice – in a rice cooker. I used to mix them together as long as I possibly could. Over time, like all Nepali men become, I have become a virtuoso at cooking chicken and rice. But even then when I flaunt this to my mother, she simply laughs it off! 

So – long story short, what I am thinking doing today, in honoring my mother, is making a full-fledged Nepali meal (for myself) and finishing my laundry. Then I shall take all the pictures- of both my food and laundry and post it in my wall. Then I shall call my mother and remind her to bother my father from his perpetual slumber, so that he can open up the computer and show her the pictures I have taken in her honor. 

And if that doesn’t satisfy her, I shall tell her how I have found the most beautiful, charming, intelligent, buhari-like, girl that I have fallen in love with (The fact that I have never met the gal, and more importantly, that she doesn’t reciprocate is the part she doesn’t need to hear!). Because for my mother, and perhaps for all mothers, their children will always be the best and to everyone else that don’t reciprocate – their loss!

So, my dear friends, relatives, and random people in FB who have added me over the course of history- thank you for the early morning reminder on how special I am to my mother! 

Happy Mothers Day!

Nepali in New York

“F****** Tourist. Move out of my way!” An old woman blurted out as she shoved me down the stairs.

Nearly a year has elapsed since the big day, and it is suffice to say nothing has changed. Oh no! I am not talking about the earthquake that jolted us to the core last year. I made peace with it by attending the candle light vigil and again yesterday, in central park by buying a pink balloon and letting it go, just like our folks back home, and then blasting my fb page with some sad emojis and #hashtags to commemorate the event. A wonderful way to overcome tragedy folks! 

What I am really talking about is my move to the big city a year ago, and how I am still struggling a year later to keep pace with it. The bustling city of skyscrapers; the big apple; the city of lights, the city that never sleeps, or if you live in queens, the city that won’t let you sleep because the Bengali taxi drivers are blasting their music system with “Choli ke piche kya hai!” at 1 am! 

I still remember the first morning commuting to work on that dreaded 7 train, when I let nearly half a dozen trains go by. Why? Well, how do you muster courage to get on one of these morning-rush-hour-packed-trains that seem to make KTM microbuses look better? After relaying my anguish to my bona-fide New Yorker friend, he decided to show me the ropes. And I learned quickly. 

You simply push your way in pretending others are pushing behind you. Sort of like when you make your creepy move towards a drunk damsel in a packed nightclub from behind. A fantastical accomplishment. Except when you open your eyes, you’re in a company of browns each with their crotch grinding you, albeit unintentionally, from all directions. The Chinese, the Indians and the Hispanics, each struggling for personal space and each blessed with their unique heritage of morning smell. And who needs a green juice for detoxification, when you get an early morning infusion of pork-bun, ragan josh, and that pungent breath given continually and freely over your face with an unfazed stare. Intoxicating romance, I say!

But this was still a small price to pay compared to the arduous ordeal of getting on the train itself. After much thought, I came out with an ingenious idea. I simply carried my laptop everywhere. Because pushing people with computer from behind somehow seemed less creepy and more polite than doing it with your hands and at worse with your frontal. And to my delight, no one has complained. Well, except my southern-neighbor friends at work, who are bewildered that I carry my laptop everywhere, but somehow not part of their exclusive IT team. 

When I first moved to the city, I assumed half the people in NYC had diarrhea. Just look at the pace people walk and talk around this city. I really thought they all had that “5 min burrito” the cart dubbed by my friend near Queens Blvd, because you literally had five minutes to make it to the toilet after munching on this delicacy. Well, as it turns out, the pace of people is what distinguishes New Yorkers from the tourists. What is fascinating is, I now move with the same unprecedented pace, edgier than ever, unaware even when it is the weekend. And I sigh in unison with implicit disgust with my fellow city mates if the train is late or missed it by a few seconds. 

And what has this excruciating pace done to me, you might wonder? My hair that stood the test of time through the stress of working under table at Ocean city and gas stations or the rigorous graduate program is fast disintegrating. Some say it’s the water, but I know it is this grueling pressure of 8 million people I have carried on my shoulders that are ushering me not only to work overtime but attend the myriad events and shows that I can barely afford, neither with time nor money. I find it particularly interesting the advent of the first sign of every sunshine, when people suddenly come in droves to congregate at the park out of hibernation, as if the sun had finally emerged out of some apocalypse. 

This is not surprising, because you cannot assimilate in this country if you do not obsess about the weather. I cringe every morning at work as the elevator fills up with people – and the clichéd small talk we have to make for the sake of being cordial and social. The conversation in a nutshell is always the same. At winter, isn’t it freezing cold? At spring, isn’t it allergy season? At summer, isn’t it f***** hot? At Fall, isn’t it unseasonably warm? If you’re a smart ass, you say that it’s the cause of global warming. If you’re striving to be a hipster, then you point out the difference between the global warming and climate change. And if you’re a manager aka an A**hole at work, then you just stare down and shut up the smart asses and hipsters!

The upside of working in NYC is you can show up fashionably late and nonchalantly blame the subways for not being on time. But leaving the work early? Good luck with that. That’s when you need a “colleague” at work. It took me nearly six months to find mine, because all other colleagues it seems, had already been taken. Colleague - someone who understands your need to bitch and vent about everyone else at work. This colleague-ness comes out more coherently during the incoherent conversations during the happy hour. This is when we vent the most about our a**holes at work, make elaborate plans to quit work, and leave this darn city for greener pastures. But at around 6 pm, our brown-ness kicks in, and we go and get our grande cappuccinos, and return to work quietly for the next few hours.

“Man how can you afford NYC – it’s so expensive!” my tourist friend chimed in. But he quickly changed his mind once we reached Jackson heights. 

“Man are those spits of paan? God! You guys get paan here?” “Are those people talking in Nepali?” “What – you get momos for $5? Is this a Bhatti-pasal?” His exuberance began to get out of control. 

After dropping my friend off, as I neared the subway station, my phone buzzed – “I have been trying to reach you, so many times. Are you not home? I thought we could catch up today!”

Well, of course – right on cue. “Give me half an hour, I will be home in a jiffy!” I texted with my heart in my mouth as I noticed that my phone was dying.

I ran as fast as my legs could carry me until I reached the station, and as I began to climb the stairs, a big contingent of tourists were blocking the stairwell transfixed on a performance on what seemed like a thriller music in the background. 

“I am sleeping. Talk to you some other day!” Came her reply.
“No my phone is dy……” Smartphone Blank. Smartphone dead. 

At first my heart dented and hyperventilated, then the disappointment at my smartphone, then the sheer anger at the situation – I just thought out aloud: 

“F***** TOURISTS. OUT OF MY WAY!!!!” 

To my utter surprise, the crowd quieted down instantly, looked behind, quickly gave me the way to pass as if I were some royalty. When I reached upstairs, a little-grown man dressed up like Michael Jackson was dancing to thriller who gave me the eye. I realized there was also a dude with fluorescent hair that matched his fluorescent trousers who was trying to make his way down through the crowd. He fist bumped me and nodded in acknowledgement.

I walked away feeling a little better– feeling a bit empowered, confident, and bold. Sort of like an A**hole.

Sort of like a New Yorker- if I may dare say! 

Of Marriage and Men

Candid Verses: Of Marriage and Men 

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness!”

I must confess the first few months after the break-up were pretty hard, as I brooded and sulked like a sick chicken. But then, like most adult resilient Nepalis, I blamed her for everything. Walla! It made me feel a whole lot better. As winter turned to spring, all the relationship experts in my family, friends, and relatives joined in to turn around my life with a solution –the panacea to all Nepali’s problems- MARRIAGE. Reluctantly, unwillingly, and hesitantly – I agreed to the norms of such an arrangement, because according to the experts, I had now reached the age of no reasoning.

Thus, the first step of my healing process didn’t begin with a self-reflection but rather with a well-orchestrated selfie, just enough to hide my receding hairline, taken from my newly minted smart phone, and sent all over the world (to Nepali families that I had no idea existed), and affixed also with my overhyped resume. Slowly at first, then steadier, a deluge of prospects came reckoning, each with a disclaimer along the lines of “If you don’t agree to this, you’re losing a chance of a lifetime!” It is surprising how everyone else knows exactly what I want in life, except me. Anyways, I went along with the circus.

“She’s a social worker – she works with children. It will be much easier for you in a few years.” Well, of course! It was not the idea of the social worker that appealed to me, but this insight that she may even earn less than my non-profit research job paved way to the romanticism of future struggles, especially when we’d have children. You see, I am a far-sighted guy.

“What are you doing?” she texted via G-Chat which I had just begun to learn on the smart phone. “I am cooking chicken - I like them crisp” I boasted typing like a teenager slid the phone into my pocket. A haunting silence ensued. Slightly irritated, I checked my phone and realized in horror what I had typed. Darn you “autocorrect!” My text read unapologetically “I am cooking children – I like them crisp” So that’s that!

Unfazed with this first fiasco, I was resolute to move on to the second- an accountant, a perfect family material according to the sources. Now that I had mastered the art of g-chat, things seemed to go smoothly until we decided to meet up – in an Afghan restaurant in Jackson Heights. After exchanging the pleasantries, she turned serious “You don’t laugh much during our conversations, do you?” I have to be honest here, but she wasn’t that funny and I wasn’t exactly cracking jokes. I managed a smile and ordered the lamb shank and motioned to her. “I already had dinner. And I have to leave soon. My cousins are waiting outside” Woah! Without much thought, I blurted out “So what do you want in life?” She answered back hurriedly but in a serious vein “I have two dogs now, and I want at least three more!” I would have wanted a more thorough explanation, but timing was inappropriate. She had to leave and the lamb-shank had arrived. I was in a dilemma. They say you always have to be at the right time at the right place, and this probably wasn’t!

The next date couldn’t be more fitting. She was on a business pitch in downtown Manhattan, and I had been unemployed for a month. An entrepreneur and the unemployed- a match made in Wall Street depression. We sat down in uncomfortable silence preoccupied by our thoughts – her probably in her business pitch the next day and me in my current wallet denting endeavor in the $$$$ restaurant. I should have YELP’d harder, but it was too late now. Trying to distract myself, I asked about her business pitch. She stood there with her hands crossed looking right at me – well right through me and uttered a few quiet words. I asked if she wanted some wine hoping she wouldn’t. She didn’t. Feeling better, I cracked a few spontaneous jokes to the silence that was prolonging to which she gave a wry smile. As we finished our meal quietly, I asked her “So, what kind of food do you like?” she shrugged. “I like all the east Asian food – Thai Vietnamese Indonesian” I continued. “What do you like”?She took her time, finished her meal, wiped her face, and crossed her arms again and blurted “GOOD FOOD!” Months later, I learned that Good Food meant French food- if only I had known!

After a few more unsatisfying and unrelenting dates, I told everyone that I needed a break. Things simply don’t work this way, do they?

“Listen! You’re not young anymore. You have to learn to compromise. Not everything will ever be perfect. We’re old now” My parents lamented with their usual emotional blackmail.

“Listen! You’re still young. Do not compromise. Everything will end up being perfect” suggested my newly married cousin, who seemed a little lost.

“Listen! You need to change. Change your hairstyle. Fashion. Be asshole to the gals” suggested my younger cousins.

“Listen! You’re a great catch. Do not change anything. Be nice to gals” suggested my married friends.

There was no letting up. It was only a matter of time the deluge started again-

“We’ve found a perfect gal for you in the US. Infact, the mother called us and pleaded that you add her in FB. All you need to say is yes!” my father conveyed the prospect beaming with smile

 “If it all works, we should start planning marriage dates to give your siblings enough time to take holidays” My mother joined in the skype, of the certainty of the latest prospect.
Hold on a minute – I protested “I don’t even know who u r talking about!”
“You will – she’s the only daughter. You don’t want to lose out on this one” echoed my sister from the back.

It was the super-full moon night in August. We chatted frivolously. We exchanged numbers. We called and talked through the night – about family, career, childhood, and everything in between that may lay in the future. It seemed natural. There seemed a connection. The stars seemed to be aligning in my favor in a long time. Or so it seemed.

The next day, she sent me a note that she was going to be away and may not respond for a while. A mere three weeks into this note, I saw pictures of her engagement in FB. Rather perplexed and slightly angered, I sent her a note on why she had not told me as adults?  She responded by unfriending me. Next, I took my anger onto my parents, who also seemed equally perplexed.
“Poor Mom. She had no idea her daughter had a BF in USA. She called this morning and apologized” A familiar theme of disconnect of parents from their children in the foreign land. It really was nobody’s fault. Well, except the Gal’s!

My parents may have stopped bothering me for a while, but the calls about someone’s “amazing daughter, niece, friend, sister, colleague, and acquaintances who is a perfect fit for me” continued on. Sometimes I’d just get CVs of random girls and asked if this is the right fit. All I could say is relationship- especially meant for life has to be gauzed through more than the piece of stellar paper right?

Still I talked and learned a lot. About women who wanted to travel around the world. About women who didn’t want to be tied to family. About women who wanted to climb Kilimanjaro and do all the trekking. About women who wanted to go on safaris. About women who wanted to run a big business. Or even become a singer and/or an actress. All noble dreams indeed – yet no one wanted seemed to have given the thought of settling down. And most were only talking to me as they were coerced by their families, just like me.

“How come you haven’t done any travels?” “How come you just started working?” “You don’t have Instagram?” “Why haven’t you updated anything on FB?” “Why didn’t you go to Adele’s concert – it was there” Came their quizzical replies. It seems to me that, as we grow older, the expectations from our potential partner exceeds those of the very potential partners. We live in a world where no one wants to compromise, perhaps the reflection of spike in divorce we see more regularly among our friends and families.

“Maybe you can also check out the girls while you’re in Nepal? After all they are all educated these days and much beautiful than the ones in US!” My mom suggested a solution one day trying to make up for her failed attempt earlier in the year. Why not? I shrugged.

“Love at the time of fuel crisis” I weaved romantic notions once more when I landed in KTM. It was only a matter of time I met a doctor in electric pagoda in Thamel, a place I loathed once but a quiet sojourn amid the crisis. Sipping hot rum punch, the doctor conveyed with a smile “You see, my seniors suggest, if I marry someone like you, my career will stall. I am already giving my USMLEs, and I don’t want to wait here for years.” If for nothing, I enjoyed her candidness, and for that matter paying the bill than in Manhattan.

Next, at the posh Le Trio in Jhamel, amid the who’s who of the bygone era sipping their lattes and cappuccinos, we ordered jhol momos. Two hours later, we were already finished with our talks. “You see, I really don’t want to go to the US. I don’t want an apartment life like yours. I don’t want to work so hard that we have to eat lunch at our desks. I don’t want to work weekends. I have a decent job in the INGO here and I have a lot of fun, and I get to travel. I think I want to marry someone from here. I have heard enough from friends about the hardship in the US” The theme resonated on the next two set-ups, be it in trendy café in Baluwatar or the Jazzmandu in Lazimpat. Things may seem like a lost cause in Nepal, but among certain circles of Kathmandu, life is beautiful!

“No one can marry without the right lagan” My mom tried to cheer me up, on a cold November evening, wrapped in the blanket watching me pack. “Just ask Shankar. He saw at least 50 girls. And when it happened, it took a mere three days!” I stared her down, packed my suitcase, and headed back.

For the first time in years, I felt a tinge of loneliness in my apartment. We do have an apartment life here. I mostly have to eat at my desk. I haven’t traveled anywhere in years. I don’t see my friends regularly. Family seem so distant.

I lied in the rug in the floor and longed for a life back home – at least the social life. My phone pinged. An email from an old friend-
“It’s been ages. How are you? Did you marry your gf?”
“No. we broke up. How about you? Are you married with kids?”
“No. we broke up a while ago.”
“Why are we emailing like this? Don’t you use g-chat?”
“No – common this is fun. I don’t have g-chat”
“I didn’t know you were single. Maybe I can flirt with you?”
“Yes sure– but do you know how to?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll try!”
“You’re so stupid- you know. I have always known that”
“Indeed – I have been very foolish. I have the wisdom to prove it”

I remained in the floor that night emailing back and forth, charging and recharging my phone- hoping, wishing, and contemplating the unknown future with my fingers crossed.

You see friends, it has been the best of times. And the worst of times!

An Expert in Anything and Everything!

Candid Verses: An expert in anything and everything!

*************************************************************

The mammoth twin earthquakes that shook Nepal only a few months ago seems like a distant blur of the past.It seems like Nepal has already recovered - without even allocating a single penny from the raised $4 billion dollars that sits precariously in the mouths of a handful of crocodiles. But those things barely concern us because we are, as the darling medias around the world has portrayed us - a nation of "resilient" citizens. We move on!

And what better timing to move on from a tragedy so morbid to a fodder that unites all of us in Nepal (I mean Kathmandu)- bashing India without any inhibition. What is pretty laughable is our political dimwits who couldn't take a dump in the morning without the blessing from Delhi are suddenly patriotic, unwavering leaders taking a strong stance against India protecting our sovereignty and constitution. In retrospect, we've gone back to the status quo - where we're not only bashing India, but giving legitimacy to the thousands of "Tharus" and "Other Madhesis" whom we've deliberately assigned as Indians and kept in servitude in the capital. Yes - we can now do that in the open. Congratulations!

I am quite befuddled which "expert" in the social media should I defer to for a candid analysis of our newly written, coveted constitution. If I read on my own, I might actually learn the truth - so  should I believe the black flag bearers of FB and twitter, who claim the constitution is the most oppressive in the world that victimizes rights of women and minorities? Or should I believe the patriots who say this is the most liberal of constitutions that has even included LGBT community and stretching further would make Nepal another Fiji. To the latter experts, no one in Nepal really knows where's Fiji - i think most of them think its a mountain in Japan - so please stop using that analogy.

Anyways, in all honesty, this is a futile debate about constitution.The bitter truth is we, the people of Nepal, just cannot live in harmony. The false sense of unison the earthquake provided has fast dissipated with incidents in Kailali and rest of the Terai and shown how quickly we revert back to our "real" selves and fighting tooth and nails to prove each other as being beneath (darker) from one another. Have you seen two Nepalis in Nepal or elsewhere form a formidable partnership? Yes  - I thought so too. Sorry Nepal, we just don't have a harmony gene, or else we wouldn't see the most educated leader of the country leave the sinking ship, brilliantly washing all the blood in his hands and expertly transferring to his ex-guru- the feared one!  I love how one conman ups the ante on the other!

What irks me most about this whole situation is that now I'll have to read a dozen op-eds everyday from the so called "experts" in the media outlets. And equally annoying status updates from my family, friends, and relatives in Facebook, who will all proclaim how just and progressive they are by bashing either India, Indian-looking Nepalis, or simply any Nepalis and provide an apt solution that will make Nepal prosperous. I am already nauseated!

And Nepal, as we know, is the country of experts. So, the journalists (celebrities) who are to report the incidents in unbiased fashion from the field will sit in a panel of political experts in the capital. Political pundits will be busy giving homeopathic solutions to cancer and diabetes in the social media. Politicians will be busy striking against medical institutions to save their investment just in case there's an impartial investigation. Doctors will be busy giving USMLEs. And social media will be busy forming the #hashtags.

But not to worry folks - there's a respite ahead: Dashain is around the corner. And by the time the festival ends, I am sure we'll have found a new tinder to light the jungle. Perhaps, there'll be a popular singer from SIKKIM who doesn't want to be called a Nepali. Or North Korea will proclaim Buddha as its own. Or even better, maybe Paras will have quit his marijuanic obsessions and come back as a yoga guru. 

How do I know all this?

I am a Nepali: An expert in anything and everything.

Aging not-so-gracefully!

Every morning, I stand in front of the mirror for a few minutes: examining myself hoping for my youthful vigor to return magically.

As soon as I switch on the lights, that first darn sign is revealing: my "Khappar" with the receding hairline -- C'mon Now! Onset this early? Some say it’s genetic, some say its stress, and some say it’s the Shampoo. Nepali doctors (aka friends, family and relatives who are experts in everything) have offered hundreds of homeopathic-solutions over the last few years to this inevitable fate, but to no avail. As the light from the energy-saving bulb illuminates, so do my two parallel streaks of wrinkles right across my forehead. I swear they were not there yesterday!

I quickly remember the facial cream my girlfriend bought me a few days ago that is supposed to revitalize my skin or whatever. Or at least it did to the celebrities flaunting on TV. How did she manage to put it on top of the shelf? I stretch with all my might barely able to reach it --the next frustration sets in. You see, I stopped growing vertically as soon as I hit puberty. I can't blame my parents for this because they tried multiple alternate therapies: they encouraged me to hang out with my "Tarzan" mama climbing trees, stealing fruits, and running away from dogs. My mom spoon-fed me tons of contraband calcium pills & Dabur Chyawanprash. And my Dad, just like my teachers, resorted to old-fashioned treatment every now and then: stretching my ears with all his might with the false promise of imaginary "MamaGhar."

I console myself thinking what the great-to-be philosopher (me) once copied "You only need to be tall enough to reach the ground." Ironically, there are other unwanted growths, in all tangents, secant and innumerable geometric shaped in both accessible and inaccessible of places: Hair protruding out from nose, ears and chest alike in most inopportune time as if they are going to sting someone you're having conversation with; the two lonely, thick eye brows aching for a reunion in the middle; the beard that is not satisfied with its territory and wants to take over the neck and make friends with the Adam's apple. But my gut feeling tells me there is a bigger concern in the gut itself: The horizontal ever-growing stomach!

It’s not like I don't eat healthy.  Slowly at first, and faster it seems every month now, it is continuously protruding out defying all odds to accomplish its mission: hide my own "manhood" from my normal range of view. When my girlfriend first scoffed at this beast, I got scared. I did the unthinkable. I spent hours (mostly minutes) doing the Ramdev exercises: breathing in and out in our living room. Then I quickly realized that this exercise only works on Ramdev himself. After constant nagging, I did the unimaginable. I started running (actually lazy walking) every evening. However, when she noticed that I began eating thrice as much as other dinners previously, she concluded perhaps it’s genetic as well and deemed it OK. Thus, I resorted to my old exercise routine: sinking in the chair, meditating (sleeping most of the time), and immersing myself in knowledge (TV) :)
I closed my eyes for a second to get a respite from the mirror. I hear her voice echo, "Why do you care about what others think? I like the way you are. I wouldn't have you any other way!" This brings smile to my face. I am geared up for rest of the day. I am one lucky SOB. It could have been much worse. "Much much worse" I mutter to myself as I reach for my glasses, whose power has been compounding every year. I glance back at the mirror.

Surely enough, it is much worse now: every little flaw amplified at least a hundred fold!

[Originally in sajha.com 05/09/12]

Stress of Going Home

One sleepless night, out of the blue, I decided to go home. Yes, just like that- barring any occasion or any agenda. So, I jumped out of the bed, surfed the internet, bookmarked few online deals and sent a few inquiries to Nepali Travel Sites.Having never made such impromptu decisions before, I felt liberated and empowered in the middle of the night.

 

Little did I know it was to be short-lived. Early next morning, a Nepali travel agent called me with an unbelievable fare "Dai, this is a great deal. But if you don't book it right away, we cannot guarantee this fare tomorrow!" He bluffed with a threatening tone. I readily obliged with my credit card. That evening I found an online fare $100 lower. And that's that!

 

The following evening I broke the homecoming news to my parents over our usual Skype conversation. Instead of the joyous surprise,  they showed signs of grimace. "Did you lose your job? Did you get laid off?  Why do you want to come home at this time? Do you know there's a  bird flu scare? Do you know the airport has potholes?" I breathed in a long sigh and told them i just wanted to come home for a change. "But what is the occasion?"

 

It took nearly a week of convincing that everything was fine. Finally, reluctant smiles returned to their faces. Next up: shopping for the family. Easier said than done!

 

"Don't bring anything for anyone here. Don't spend your money on useless stuff" My mom started her usual cliched lecture "Just bring chocolates. We'll distribute that to everyone. Maybe a couple of t-shirts for your uncles. Few lipsticks and nail polish for your aunts. You know they always expect. Don't bring shades of brown and black like you did previously. They'll laugh at me if you bring those" Right on! I'll try my best I said.

 

"Mama, can you bring a laptop for me? My 8 year old nephew confided me one evening "Everyone in school has one." The kid is good. I did not want to be un-Mama like. So, I said I'll bring one if he shares with his sister. "No! No! No! No!" my 6 year old niece shouted from behind "We need two." I can't bring two laptops for you guys I retorted. "Why can't you?" she inquired "If people can ring 2 I-phones, 2 tablets, why can't you bring two laptops?" I shut up for good!

 

"Coool bro. We'll hang out " My only remaining friend in KTM replies to my online message. "But what's the occasion. Getting married?" No!

 

"Looking for a girl?" No!

 

"Dating? No! 

 

"Not to worry boss. you know how it works here: First date, then set, then off with the jet, then you can mate..hahaha" He showed his prowess strengthened through the rap battles he's been involved recently.

 

"how about first mate, then everything else can follow?" I quipped.

 

"Damn bro. you've become so American" 

 

I enjoyed that. I was about to call it a night, when I got a call from one of my cousins here.

 

"Bhai, I heard you're going to Nepal. Can you take some things?" Sure Dai! What do you have?"

 

"Not much Bhai! few cell phones. a laptop. few pairs of shoes. And a couple of coats. I'll bring  them  first thing tomorrow morning."

I stopped using the words like "empowered" and "liberated" to describe myself. Never, not again!

To Stay or Not to Stay

In a seemingly theatrical Hamlet-like pose, I think aloud sometimes: To stay or not to stay!

It is a question that has plagued me from the very first night in the US of A. It does get forgotten often in the mundane mediocrity of everyday working life, but then it comes back vividly – through emotional story lines of Sajha threads (Darn you! Beehove_Me), inebriated conversations with high school friends, and even more so while Skyping with my aging parents back home.

But as Orwell often reminds me, not all parental emotions are the same. In fact, the emotions of my parents are quite tangent. No-No! don’t get me wrong. Like all parents, they love me to death. Or else why would they deny me an opportunity to talk with pretty prospects (buharis), shooting them down deeming not a good-fit for me without even consulting me. But hey! They probably know better. They stand as a testimony of the most unlikely of relationships themselves: an outspoken woman from the far-east and a balding quiet guy from the West. Who would have thought? I give props for forging such a lasting relationship spanning over 30 years. But that’s that. 

However, they have a good logic on why I should stay here. “You are too "Laato" (for this country) to return!” 

I had brushed aside this insult multiple times before. Common now! After all, I am educated in the USA. I am fairly intelligent with numerous half-baked ideas brewing in my head; passionate in both bed and beyond; and have callous Nepali nationalism fueled by friends working in world-bank, UN, and other international organizations. 

“How much does a packet of milk costs, do you know? Onion has become more expensive than the gold!” my dad uses his usual fear tactics.

So after dwelling for months, I make it to Kathmandu to test the waters. Fresh Off US (FOU), I use my networks wisely to contact my NGO friends and set up a meeting at Naxal’s Madison’s bar. They oblige after I insist the tab is on me. While fidgeting with his latest model of iphone, the first friend explains to me arrogantly, gulping down Carlsberg, on the frustrations of his job: his INGO team is in Europe and he has to work evenings to have meetings with them. He frowns on the tedious and boring nature of the job.

“Why don’t you quit then?” I ask. “Oh! But the pay is too good” he stares at my Nokia mobile I had borrowed from my dad to let my other NGO friend where we were. Perhaps he’d have a better insight. 

“Yah! Actually I make good money. The work is relaxing. I go and work as I please. I am the only guy that writes the proposals in English.” He laughs. They can’t even fire me. “What do you write proposals in?” I get interested. “Oh anything that brings in the money!” Last time the donors sent books”. That was a waste, he shrugs nonchalantly. And I scratched my head.

That night my Dad gave me a wry smile and asked “So, you think you can make it in the NGO here? I’m sure the pay is good and life is relaxing no?” I was honest and told him that I really didn’t know shit about how NGOs worked in Nepal. Perhaps, it isn't for me!

That evening, my mom also weighed in expertly “Bankaa kaam garr na ta!” while she served the delicious portion of kauli and quaati. My dad and I both gave her a stare to which she stared us back down. Perhaps I should try research institutions that work on fields that I actually graduated in?

Seated around a conference table, each of the faculty explained to me what they did (more like what they planned to do). Despite the international fund available, the projects hadn’t quite taken off the ground. Ah! lacking management. After listening long-winding individual anecdotes and stories, I finally weighed in the need of proper management. The leader of the pack known as “Sir” explained to me how the upstarts from US and Australia like me often returned and told them how they should do their job.”Unacceptable” I turned red as he went on the idealism of how we Nepalis should learn to use the resources available efficiently/sparingly. As he gave the sermon, the other faculty had turned red too. And I quietly slipped away.

A couple of days later, I attended my Dad’s college reunion at one of the hotels. Each of his college buddies gave speeches about their life, children, and nostalgia of their college youth making me smile. So, did my Dad. Then, suddenly he started recalling proudly the hardships my siblings and I had faced abroad and how we’d worked our way through to graduate and achieved unparalleled success in the US. He elaborated on our successes so vividly that he made himself break down in the podium and managed to break a few tears off his drinking buddies. I guess I kind of understood. I realized how important and difficult it must be for my parents to elaborate such successful stories of us to our relatives, neighbors, colleagues, and rest of the society. But for that sake of success, I probably need to stay here!

So to that dreaded question: to stay or not to stay? Hey! Why don’t I just visit often?

[Originally in sajha.com 03/11/14]