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!