For the love of Cheeshbeesh

I speak the tongue, travel the jammed micro-buses and have made home on a hillside mud house in mid-western Nepal, but my cumbersome material possessions still label me as a ‘bideshi’ foreigner -a citizen of the over-fussed developed world

Our Buwal makes himself comfortable on one of three beds squeezed into our room. The room is perched facing south of the Ganesh mountains- on the second level of a mud house, a typical Nepali affair in the hills, a house made of brick and mud, the house of our host family. Tonight, the room is lit by one naked bulb, but bright enough to grant him an expose of my voluminous possessions.

We are a group of volunteers working for a cause in Nepal- the empowerment of rural youth. Our current address is the warm abode of the Adhikari family, a house built by Hajurbuwal, our host father’s own father.

I try to picture my possessions as he would see them – but it is too hard. My stuff (loosely termed) spills onto my un-made bed and fill the boxes and plastic bags clustering under it. My cheeshbeesh.

“Cheeshbeesh” is the Nepali word for ‘things’. It is Nepali, but I made it mine the day I step afoot into the Adhikari household, using it in liberal doses because the word conveniently captures everything that makes me foreign in Nepal.

“What are you writing?” my Nepali friends will ask. This could be a letter, a lesson plan for class, an entry in the journal or one of my aspiring journalistic pieces. But “Cheeshbeesh” I say, regardless of the content. Cheeshbeesh was also adequate for any foreign food I devoured at ten o’clock in the night (often junk food sent with love from hundreds of miles away). My weird habits, my contestable logic, including my grand dream of bringing farm buffaloes to school- everything that was too much of a hassle to explain –became cheeshbeesh.

Cheeshbeesh as my Nepali friends would understand, stood for what was beyond the Nepali everyday- and thus superfluous and unnecessary. Using the word however, often resulted in a certain smugness on my part- that there was a word to contain the sophisticated complexities of my other life, pleased me.

It is Buwal’s (Nepali for ‘father’) pastime to come into our room and inspect my cheeshbeesh. He points, he enquires the name of the object in question, requests to have a closer look, and fires a series of questions. For example, a hot water flask- how long can the water stay hot for? In steady succession, I am interrogated – head-torch, my digital watch, a photo album and my numerous bags and pouches carefully categorising more of my possessions.

After lengthy examination, he would return my possessions and thank me in a tone that is ambiguous. He keeps a silence that makes me wonder. Has his curiosity been satisfied? Would I have enriched his worldview by showing him a new way to tell the time, a new device of measuring water? Or is it a satisfaction I read on his face –that perhaps my excesses are examples of indulgent frivolities of another world, a world which he acknowledges as advanced but ridiculous all at once?

Somewhere along the way, the word began to turn its back on me. It was a cheeshbeesh backlash. Using the word on anything no longer made me feel smart. Using it to refer to my stash of Ferrero Rochers or my pulmice stone started to trivialize my life and my needs. It was simply ‘chocolate’ to them – not foiled globes of good taste. The word sometimes stung- of the indulgence of my world, not its superiority. My possessions started to own me, they suggested to my Nepali counterparts of a dependence on another world, an easier world to live in.

Alas, I am bideshi and these items are my passport to my country, and the developed world.No matter how far a person travels, how comfortable it might get that he forgets that he isn’t home, he never forgets his passport.  Sunscreen, deodorant, tablets for anything from a headache to indigestion, four different notebooks and journals and a dozen pens are my instruments for living a thoughtful life.

These are possessions that might chain me, but they are also part and parcel of what makes me, whichever part of the world I set foot on.

*Written four months ago in Nepal*

dukka lagyo belama (in times of woe)

Will this be the last post?

The rains in Nepal are beating. The Koshi River bursts in Sunsari -scores of villages affected across the southern underbelly of Nepal, hundreds of thousands sleep under the stars.

In Sunaula Bazar- SPW gets ready to move out of Plastok Village after ten months. Work or work for change commenced, ensued, ended. Change is still waiting to surface. The last of the funds haven’t arrived due to logistical inadequacies- the concrete and the metal rods are stuck in Besi, the toilet for Ragtakali Primary waiting patiently for its turn- pandra din bakisakio, fifteen days have passed, the Headmaster is anxious.

A school of three hundred odd students hold a farewell, the students perform in pride and with grace- a library is coming they know, but will their thirst for knowledge rise, after the Great Drought? The school scurries with new confident authority, fresh aura around young upstarts. But is the newly-established youth club a charade, patronizing international development- afai saknu huncha, parka ho?

In a village where men dig up dead buffaloes and barbeque their carcasses, drink and make merry- will the mothers stop their children from smoking? Will the women fight for legitimacy, will the men seek contraception? Will fighting the social categories work, will the children be positioned to do better? Does ‘awareness work’ raise false hopes?

And the little girls I sank hope in; Mina, may miss laai- kahile pharkine?  Mina, when will I return?

Questions sometimes must remain unanswered because of fear- the fear of answers we don’t want to hear: Paisal chaina- theres no money, Project sakina- the project isn’t working, SPW ??? Ke gareko? Dikka lagyo -What is SPW? Im bored.

Questions are also deliberately left alone because we want hope to prevail. The other volunteers are making earnest plans to return next year. I cross my fingers. I just need to know 9 months has changed at least something, someone before I can go back.

One day, I will hear from young Mina with a smile. She’ll tell me she’s done it- ‘I’ve quit smoking and tobacco. I want to go to school. I want to be someone different.’ A promise is a promise, Mina.

P.s. Sarita-ji, ekdam ramro kam gareko tio, derai derai dyandabaad!

Moving On

In my first month in Nepal, I placed a black string band on my wrist as a symbollic gesture in part out of narcissistic fun and in part to remind myself of my committment towards my work. The band was tight, but not uncomfortable. Eight months passed.

When I left Nepal, for this home in the urban jungle of Singapore, I cut loose that string and found a stark white ring imprinted on my arm.

This ring over the last past two and a half months has served me well- to recall the times I had when I was in Nepal. Each time my eyes glance over it, I recall faces, chats and encounters, all things Nepal. Today the band is almost, almost gone….

Shitez…. theres no sun like the hills in Sunaula Bazar!

I refuse to be any more nostalgic about my experiences in Nepal. No more weepies, May. It was good, and im glad I did it.

The local counterparts are wrapping things up before leaving next week. Im sad, but a little glad im not part of the wrapping-things-up gang.

red the winning party

5th June. The school bade farewell. I smiled, received garlands, applause and rehearsed dances. I hugged teachers, gave out stamps and envelopes and waved in nochalance.

2nd August. If only I know that two months on, I’m still bidding goodbyes in my heart, mourning the loss of a group of youth whose spirits mirror my longings for the future, me- wishing I could have clung on for a little longer, endured the drowning malas a little more.

strange suburbia

Moving back into my 9th floor Housing Development Block after seven months abroad in a developing country is funny business.

We are currently in the midst of shifting the family nest.

I have a sister who has a slight issue with the power sockets- she is requesting that the electrical outlets are positioned at a more accessible location so that she can save energy, save the Earth. She is glad that a dimmer function for her room light will be utilising energy saving bulbs. The room will be empty for the next four years while she does her undergrad studies in York. (She is also organising an eco-themed/friendly formal dinner targeted at snazzy yuppies).

I have a mother who is having major issues with wallpaper- the cost of it and the possible delays it might cause us when we shift into the house. She is choosing ceiling fans, the colour of walls, accessorising curtains with furniture, installing fuss-free down-lights and caught in a frenzy allocating appliances to kitchens, living rooms and any rooms which are of consequence.

(The male members of the family seem to filter themselves out of the entire chaos)

I am a girl who not too long ago, sat on a mud floor cross-legged with hands scooping rice from plate to mouth; who is now back home in suburbia, contemplating the strangeness of my life.

7 more days, 6 more nights.

The stint is almost over…

Community Toilet check. Medicine dispensed. HIV/AIDS – two workshops check. Adolescent girls group -check. Picnic with village kids- check. Group to visit Kathmandu and learn about girl trafficking- upcoming.

P.S. I came and Nepal was a monarchy in crisis. I leave and Nepal will be a republic, hopefully out of turbulent times.

 

dear adhikari family

Dear Adhikaris.

If I come back to Nepal again, I will again climb Sunaula Bazar, sit on your mud floor and drink milk with honey. If your buffalo still gives milk that is, and you still have some local honey to spare. For now, i am wondering what it would be like to leave.

The people in this house, this village, this community are warm and affectionate. I remember in my first week here, I knocked my head on the roof of your doorway and all of you crowded around me and doshed concern like my own family, I was so embarassed I teared- out of pain and because I was homesick. I have eaten with your family every meal- the rice from your fields, the cabbages and the potatoes from your front garden. And popcorn. Not like I have tasted before- not in the movie theatres, not like in touristy Pokhara even. Your popcorn is warm, sometimes fluffy, sometimes only kernel. It is neither sweet nor salty, it is from maize that also feeds your chickens, your goats.

I like waking up in the mornings- I am a morning person. But in your house I feel guilt in the mornings. By the time I am up, you would have already been up way before, doing the chores you do every morning. We brush our teeths at the same time. You work hard for your first cup of tea, I sip it to open my eyes. You work in your community, and I like to think that I have worked for your community in the last five-six months.

I can see many stars from your house. From your house I have also seen moons, mountains and rainbows. When it rains, your tin sheeting that is our roof makes a din like a child who knows no limits. But everytime it rains, I feel glad I am in your house. Your house has all the creepy crawlies my house doesn’t have- rats, spiders, snakes, toads and lizards. But I have never been bitten or hurt. It has been a peaceful five-six months.

Everyone I meet here says, ‘Take me to Singapore.’ Your family included. You jest I know, but I took it seriously- only initially. I tried to work out how much it would cost to bring your family to my HDB block, first in a plane, than in a train and a bus. You wouldn’t need to scale a hill every evening for a week if you stayed. I would show you our electricity and our running water, and also the way we use a chopping board when we cook. But somehow, after these five months, I have somehow forgotten this aim, lost passion for this idea. The reason I think is because I have stopped comparing the two places. And also, I am starting to suspect that my country would be inferior in some ways. After all, I am a city girl who has left her home for your home.

And I will always be a city girl who has lived in and loved your home for six months.

the urbanite’s education

You should try to sit at the back of a truck one day and your let your rumbling world fall behind you. The one you have been living intensely in, take a closer look at it and watch how it looks as you leave it behind, as your vehicle makes new tracks, like your life does with a mind of its own. It was a curious automobile experience, coming down to the district yesterday evening. I felt like a passenger in my own life. (I flagged down a vehicle unexpectedly, I was meant to be returning back home. But thanks to it, I am now able to sit and connect to the world (wide web) for two seconds). On the back of the bumpy truck, I watched how the dirt roads snaked behind, yet seemed to lap up more of me as we went. I watched our winding descent down the hill, at the times the hills seemed to grow smaller, disappear even, yet in a heartbeat, they seemed to grow more magnificent, loom larger that ever by each metre the truck chalked. I would like to frame the Nepal I saw yesterday if I could.

Day 46- a morose countdown to the end of my Nepal experience. The demonstration toilet still unbuilt-in-process, the buffaloes still yet to materialise to give milk, the children still speaking less English than I am in Nepali, and worse of all- I keep losing track of the reason that I am here- other than to admire how beautifully they live. I am determined to make a difference, but damn, its hard, with both time and heart working against me.

Someone should save me from the melodrama of departure, and it doesnt help to be among the village children or my host family. My host brother Amrit, started this countdown from Day 51. The girls, Asa, Rita and Kamala, stick out their tongues like it is piro -the spiciness getting to them- when in their routine questions about my impending departure date they realise these days I have less than two months left.  A part of me was initially pleased, but now I am terrified of leaving- of bawling my eyes out from the emotion built up for this place. The maternal figures in my host family- my host mother and grandmother have been of late rather indulgent with their affections, their missings and more wistful natter about whether I will miss them- I never know quite how to deal with such open affections. I smile, uncomfortably. Ke garne?

I imagine their concept of time to be somewhat aligned with the seasonal farming calendar- she’ll be gone by the time we plant the tomatoes, they might be thinking. They are planting maize and cucumbers now. The rice basins in the lower fields are nicely filling up with the ocassional rainfall- the beginnings of a monsoon season. Not to say the weather lacks character right now- the heat at high noon grips you like warm death.

Since my return from India, Ive noticed that the daily clocks have shifted in the hills. Wake-up time is now at least one and a half hours earlier- dawn falls at five. The heat comes in at eight and by ten it would have felt like half the day is gone.

People go out to work earlier and dhal bhat time finally makes sense at ten or eleven in the morning. The children go out to look for green fodder for livestock and fathers carry water and cut wood.  Thing is. People dont let their days be dictacted by less than meaningful reasons here. They don’t staple documents in a shipping office, or shift shoes over a glass counter; they literally work for the food they eat at the end of the day. It is honest living.

I am not daft to deny that even their agrarian world is dictacted by the forces of a global economy at the end of the day. The landowners lord other people, the middle-class watch television and the poor work to feed everyone else. Stackfuls of history went down the pages this way. What I am pondering however is- Which role is optimal? Who gets to lick the cream of the pie at the end of the day? We are not talking about life in the long term here- this notion we always seem to be obsessed with. We are talking about the days, the hours which pass by in our lives, the seconds we don’t notice tick off on our clocks. How do we lead these moments?

It is hard labour, back-breaking work they do here, I have no illusions about that. But do they actually live happier without cubicle politics and the stresses of material accumulation? I cannot say for sure because I do not belong to this world, but I deeply suspect so, after having lived with the satisfaction of eating what I have seen them grow the past four or five months, and witness my life be literally sustained by the seeds they plant.

p/s. you may dimiss this post as the musings of a starry-eyed romantic urbanite. But this is an education to me.

the flight home

Delhi.

City of limping dogs and whole streets devoted to the business of selling swivel chairs, iron hooks and cakey white statues of the Hindi Gods, separately. I’m not mad about the heat at the moment or the scamming faces I see lurk in the streets – only waiting patiently to return to Nepal.

Kathmandu.

Nepal, gripped in the fervor of historic (and by far ’successful’) elections, never sounded like a better idea. The security update from my organisation SPW is out- the situation is safe, so we are leaving India and entering the lion’s den (Kathmandu) tomorrow…

uncertain times

The road to democracy is tumultuous, and I often ponder its value to the common man. What changes will elections like that bring?

Sarita, my Nepali counterpart lives in Biratnagar in the Morang District. Bombs have been going off and I am worried for her safety. Her mother is a member of the Communist-UMN (United Marxists-Lenin) and was to stand for the foiled elections of November last year- just on the eve of our arrival in Nepal. This April 10th elections though, her mother will not be part of, something which is of relief to Sarita and her family.