The Story of My Shades
“Mom, it will be okay”
“Just take it”
“Seriously!? But you need it.”
“Take it and go pack your stuff.”
“Fine”
I entered my room. My clothes were scattered all over the bed. I slowly picked them up, folded them and stuffed them in my bag. Far from my room, through the window, I could see harvested paddy stacked in the field. Women in shirts and kurtha suruwal with dupatta tied around their head, were sitting in one corner trying to feel the mere touch of wind. They were fanning their red sweaty face with dupatta and trying to block the sun with their hand. They, all, seemed exhausted even to stand up. But soon as a woman entered the group with sickle on her hand, all of them resumed their work. I watched the newcomer as she cut the paddy hastily than the other. She had worn the white shirt which once I used to wear as my school uniform.
I bounced on a cantilever chair just beside the bed and looked around the room. A bed, a table, cloths hanging on some hangers, a messy bookshelf, those dirty walls having holes of nails and track marks of old newspapers; they were lifeless but they bore a story as a whole. Stories, they make parts of your life and life; it makes a part of a story. These walls, its every brick, they carry a story. A moment is enough. Trigger it and you shall see the blast and puffs of every hidden stories.
Just the night before, my father had entered my room to have some father-son quality time or so I presumed. My father and I, we were not much of a talker but there he was sitting beside me on my bed that night as I scanned through my Facebook feeds. “Son”, he started talking, “Life is unpredictable. When I was your age, I didn’t have money to buy a copy. I wrote on raincoats, plastics and even on beds. If somehow I got a copy, I would write on it with an ink pen and when there are no pages left, I would wash it, dry it and use it again. I struggled so hard to read. But as opposed to what you might think, not every struggle pays off.” I wondered where he was going with the story but I kept listening; the part about washing the copy sounded interesting. “Your grandpa never compelled me to do hard works. I was lucky about that. But when he died, my whole world was torn apart. Then my cousin took me in, but I didn’t have that same freedom that once I had. I felt dominated. He had me do his laundry, cook foods, work on his fields and I never got a chance to study. So, I ran off to Kathmandu. When you don’t have money, you learn to survive.”.
“Dinner’s ready”, My mom had announced. But it didn’t even nudge him off his nostalgia. He followed her sound through his memory and slowly spoke out of epiphany, “We came this long way together, your mom and I. She never complained.”. He beamed as he said so and so did I. I remembered how my mom had handled everything, when he went abroad, in Dubai, to work. She would work in a hotel crowded by people every night with drinking spree. She would fan a copy to her red-hot face and would shout out of anger and exhaustion, “Prajwal, Prajwal!!! Come down here, right now!” I would immediately shut the TV and run to help her out of fear. She would then tweak my ear sharply and I would whimper. After the customers were gone, we would eat some leftovers and she would cook in that smoky kitchen if that’s not enough. After dining, we would go upstairs in our room and she would take out her mobile waiting desperately for a call. A call- perhaps this was what she waited for the whole day. I still remember a night when she had forgotten to bring her mobile with herself and went searching like a maniac.
“I couldn’t give her the happy life that she deserves.”, he had sounded sad. I wanted to convince him that she had got a happy life with him. But I didn’t. I kept listening. “We didn’t have money. I worked as teacher for a while. I used to cycle an hour up the highway to Maaidhar every day to reach the school. But the money was still not good. So she would wake up before the sun and brew alcohol every day. I used to deliver gallons of alcohol to every inn in the area every morning. We didn’t even have money to buy woods for brewing. So she would collect sacks of twigs and withered leaves. And sometimes dried cow dung too.”, He had choked.
I had felt numb. My father was crying. And I had no idea how should I respond. I went near him, tried to hold him and I wanted to say, “It’s okay Baba.” But I didn’t. He rubbed his eyes. I handed him a towel. “I wa — nted a happy family”, he whimpered, “I just….f-f-failed”. I wanted to say, “No you didn’t fail, baba”, But I didn’t. I heard footsteps approaching. That was mom. I didn’t want her to join us. So, I stood up and slammed the door shut. It took him a while to regain his composure.
I stood up from the chair. It was already 3 pm. I arranged all my things and packed in my bag. My vacation was over and I was leaving.
I still remember, soon as I had passed SLC I had said “I want to study in Kathmandu”. My father had smirked. And that’s it. I was admitted to a college in Kathmandu. As I first stepped on Koteshwor, the first thing I noticed was the crowd. That was a strange city, highway roaring with horns, streets swamped with vendors and their unusual screams: “100 for 3” “20 Rs a mask”. “You know I used to be them back when I was in Kathmandu.”, He said. I looked at them and I looked at him, surprised and wondering what he had meant by that. I never knew and not still how a 20 Rs a mask helps feed a family.
My father had managed to rent a room in Maitidevi and we headed there. To be fair, I was disappointed yet excited. There were houses everywhere, people everywhere and litters everywhere and it stank. Kathmandu wasn’t what I presumed it would be. But the newness and those new unexplored strangeness of the city was fairly enticing. We had walked past the gullies in Ghattekulo across the main highway and entered a corner. It was already late. The sun was nowhere to be seen and the places were uninterestingly shadowy. Soon as we had reached a room, I remember my first mental note, “Is this it?”. Well, it was very small dark room. But I had chosen that life so I didn’t complain.My father switched on the light and started unpacking. That night he started reminiscing his youth there in Kathmandu. He had said, “You know, this was where I met your mother”. I had known their love stories from letters sharing to those timid unusual dates. “I used to stay near Gongabu in my friend’s room, helping in his chores. I had some money to start my college in Tri-chandra college, that’s where I met her.”, He snickered. “Well life in Kathmandu will always be struggling especially when you don’t have a father. You know I want to provide you everything that I ever wished that my father had, if he had lived that long.”, He soon changed the conversation from his love life to life lessons and I hadn’t even noticed. “You have already provided, Baba”, I wanted to say that to him. But I didn’t. “I had to earn for myself. I started a street shop in Ratnapark and soon as I was about to make some livings, I was chased off by those native vendors.”
I was listening to his story. I knew my story is connected to him. Without his story, there is no mine. Past three years I have been studying in Kathmandu. I stayed in that corner for 2 years. Then I shifted to hostel paying 8k per month. I never knew where that money came from, but it came, every month without excuse and without hesitation. And all I had to do was study. I never had to struggle. He did it for me. After he married my mother, he had more responsibilities. Soon he had me, adding more to his plight. He went abroad for my future. And returned with a hope of happy life. I don’t know what kind of masks he puts on. But with it he conquered all the happiness I deserved.
“Still not finished packing?”, my mom screamed at me knocking me off my unusual trance. “I’ve finished”, I replied relentlessly.
“Here, I have packed some snacks. Eat it on your journey.”
“Okay, but where is Baba?”
“In toilet. You get ready.”
“I am ready.”
My bus arrived on time. The bus’s khalasi took my baggage to the bus carriage. I looked at my mom on her pale sweaty face wearing my dirty school shirt and still holding the sickle and my dad with his unusual smile. I smiled at them nervously. “Okay mummy, baba… Bye”, I waved my hand. She spoke, “Call as you reach, okay? And eat the snacks on the way”. I nodded. I, so badly, wanted to hug them and say, “Thanks mom. Thanks dad. For everything”. But yet still, I held back my feeling. Why do I do that? The khalasi showed me my seat. I stared at it with the emptiness. Then I glanced back to her. She was faking. I looked at him. He was faking. I mustered all those feelings and went towards them and I hugged them and said, “Bye..” with awkwardness. Why was I so awkward? And then the magic happened, they smiled. And yea, that was not fake.
I sat on my seat. I looked at my father. I could see all the expectation he had in his life reflecting in me. He wanted more from his life, he wanted to live. He struggled yet failed. Somethings never change. “Life is unpredictable, you know”, he had said. And I looked at my mother. Just that morning as she took out the money. I felt how much she wanted to provide me. Her eyes had met mine and sadly she looked through them. I felt her being ashamed and she handed me 5000 rupees and said, “Baba will send more soon”. I took the money. I wanted to say, “Its okay”. But I didn’t coz’ that wasn’t.
“Take it”, she added another 500 from her pocket and handed that to me. “Yo don’t even have a nice pant, buy one okay?”, I sniggered. Did she even know the price of a pant?
“If you need more, then say it.”
“No, its good. Baba is sending naa..”
“We have this much only for now.”
“Okay”
I gave her a smile. She observed me and took another 500 from her pocket.
“Mom, it will be okay”
“Just take it”
“Seriously!? But you need it.”
“Take it and go pack your stuff.”
“Fine”
I took out my wallet to keep my ticket. And there was that money, it taught me something that day. I didn’t ask for it. I needed it and he knew it, she knew it coz’ they are my shades.
