The Tradition in Itself
The dust from the ring road and the street games of Kathmandu is what I grew up in. Though I do not remember it, the facts however suggest that I was born in the city of Pokhara. The strongest evidence being my mother’s verbal account, the birth certificate, and the fact that it’s my father’s hometown which he so dearly loves. I do have occasional yearly visits, had my share of fun there, and consider it my home too. But if someone asks me one special thing about my home back, and among all the mountains, lakes, terrains, and waterfalls for which Pokhara is known for, the answer will always be, without a doubt, that we back home never ever celebrate Tihar.
Tihar is considered the most enjoyable festival in a country with almost a million festivals. As I go through my social media during Tihar I see the shots taken from various vantage points across the valley and the drone shot of glimmers where it seems like a picture of a constellation, I try to zoom in, zoom in a small dark pixel where I am currently at as my home is not as lit up as the others.
The Dashain is however hectic for us. We have a big family back in Pokhara and we do not miss to visit anyone. We celebrate Dashain as if it’s the only festival we celebrate. But as Dashain draws to a close, me and my family take a long breath of relief for having been done with the festive season. We naturally return back to Kathmandu for there is not much to do staying back. And as my cousins in Kathmandu celebrate Tihar with colors, blessings, malas, and gifts, we have always been sidelined with fish sticks and fried eggs. Me and my sister of course. For we belong to the home of Mudula Karkis. And Mudula Karkis have a long-standing tradition of not having Tihar.
The fondest memory I have of Tihar is of a bus ride back home. When I was small, we took the bus for airfare was a little too expensive to afford. My sister and my mother are the sleepy heads who don’t know the time when they got on to the time they got off. Me and my dad however are the opposite. We stare out the windows and have nice little talks about the power stations, rivers, and roads. But one time when I was little, I did ask my dad, like every other little Mudula Karki in their time, about why we don’t celebrate Tihar and he gave the explanation that his dad gave him and his father gave him so on and so forth. He said, “Ghar ko gai rukh ma chadhcha babu” (The home cow will climb the tree). I do not remember if I was too scared to deny my father or if I believed in magical realism too much but the explanation ended there with plausibility and as the bus drove through the Kathmandu Valley the thought had already lost my mind among all the glimmers in the dark.
The cow explanation was the only one I knew for a better part of my life. The real story behind it however came a few years back through a friend in the form of a YouTube link. The story is explained as follows: There once was a Karki village where one of the families had a son and two daughters. All the children were married and had children too. It was one day decided that the son of the elder daughter shall live with his mama (mother’s brother) for he was adored very much by the entire village the mama lived in. For having stayed at his mama’s home the entire village called him bhanja and cared for him. One Tihar during the family gathering the son of the younger daughter arrived too and was given more attention than the son of the elder daughter, whom everybody saw every day, which made him jealous and uncared for. When he was asked to do some chores, he stormed off and did not return even at dawn. The entire village went to look for him, however, he was nowhere to be found. From that day on, the Karki village made a promise that Tihar would not be celebrated until the loved bhanja was back home.
And looking at the facts I do not think he’s coming back anytime soon…
The question I get asked the most is not whether I feel missed out or should I fight for my freedom. It’s what will my decision be on the future generation and I think I have decided that the yet to come shall not be deprived of such a wonderful celebration. But for me, this has been and will be it. Every Tihar I drive around Kathmandu observing people put up lights, make Laxmi footprints out of hands, and those wonderful Rangolis that go through so much hard work. I visit my cousins and friends to account for their fun as one of the sisters puts a little too much tika on her brother’s forehead. Also, the dogs with wagging tails, tummies full, and malas around their necks swaying perpendicular to the direction of their walks. And most importantly, I think about the bhogote tree back home with its fragile branches that one day might have to bear the weight of a few cows.
And yes, Festivals are meant to be celebrated. However, for me, Tihar has been a festival to be observed. And this observation, year in and year out, has been a tradition in itself from back home.
