Letter for Prakash

Prakash,

By the time you get this letter, I will have gone. I don't want to be too dramatic, but I will have left Nepal when you're reading this. It was kind-of urgent. Sorry.

You're wondering why I had to write a letter when I could have called you, or texted you, or emailed you, or facebook-messaged you. I'm writing this to you because, Prakash, I don't want you to try to contact me in any way for at least the next few months. It hurts me just as much as it hurts you, but I know you will understand.

When I came to Nepal four months ago, I was expecting to lose any remaining love/respect I  had for it. I knew the streets were dirtier, the men filthier, the buses unsafer, the water undrinkable, nights darker and days... silent. My family was not in Nepal anymore. I had friends from school, whom I hadn't seen for the better part of the decade. Friends from US who had returned were few and few. I knew I was going to be lost. I was not going home, I was going to bid a place I'd called home a final farewell, I'd thought.

Then I came across you guys. I realized the Kathmandu of when I was young, and the Kathmandu I lived in for the summer, were two different cities. I never had to go in a bus, to be groped, stared at, spit, looked at strangely, asked for bribe, or anything else I expected from the old Kathmandu. Your apartment was considerably better than most apartments I've been here -- the freedom everyone enjoys (our friends) in Kathmandu is in no way less than what I enjoyed in the US. You can drive to whatever place you want to, at any time. I was amazed. I expected to see the Kathmandu of my teens. This was an adult Kathmandu, where I was free to do whatever I wanted to. I'd connected the US with my personal freedom... I began realizing it was not the US that'd given me the freedom, but my adulthood.

I came to love the life. A weekend in Sara's apartment, the next in Ashu's, the next in ours, another in your, and so on. It was the life, yaar. Maybe part of why I loved it so much is that I never expected to get so much out of my Kathmandu trip. It was cheap, mostly, and it was real fun. I ate from bhattis and I did things I wouldn't have imagined myself doing in Kathmandu, like that night we stole all the concrete dividers in Durbarmarg.

And so my three-week trip extended to become a four-month vacation. The last time I had been in Kathmandu, maoists were still not as big as they later got. And now they had 'gone big', become legit, and were in power. I thought these things in Sara's penthouse in the evenings,  while staring at the mess of lights that Kathmandu is. It's amazing yaar. My life was so different from what I'd imagined, and it was good.

It was so good, I wanted more of it. You know Natasha didi, Anisha's sister who works at the state department. I talked to her, and there was a very real possibility I would get an consultancy in Kathmandu. I would be making American talab in Kathmandu yaar, and I'd get one of the cool apartments like you guys, and I'd get a car, and life would be awesome. Don't freak out, but sometimes I could imagine myself settling down...maybe even with you?, and those thoughts freaked me out. I had always thought 'settling down' was at least eight years away.  I'd live the dream yaar, and it was amazing how happy the thought made me.

I know you've been waiting for the 'turning point', or else I would not be running away from you -- I'd have asked you out. The turning point wasn't anything dramatic that you read in the books... it wasn't The reluctant fundamentalist's September 11. And there were no particular events I can remember that made me feel queasy.

It was just-- what I was seeing was so different from what I'd seen. So I started looking more carefully. I saw that the buses were still as packed, and the girls still as abused. Crime ghatyaa chhaina yaar, it's grown muchmuch worse, it's just we don't bother seeing it anymore. All the malls were fun, but, you know, I felt like I was one of 'those' people. Rich people. Privileged people. And I swear, it felt soo wrong.

There are poor people in US too... a lot. And maybe even here, I'm one of privileged. But... there's more people who're doing better, you know? Nepal maa... I saw that there were few people who did sofuckingly well, and good for us, and them, butbut.. most people did alright. Paru Jajarkot gaako thee, she was telling me about everything there. Ani I realized, I'd become an expat in my own country, without ever denouncing my citizenship. Mero US work permit le matrai ni expat jasto feel huna thaalyo. You know, the regular aid-gang, the newspaper-waaalas, the models, the singers, the who-knows-what-but-they're-hots. I started feeling nauseous yaar. I hated the old Kathmandu, but... this was... not Kathmandu even. This was... some smalltown America with exceedingly poor population, that thought it was the center of the Universe. Kathmandu America bhanda kei different feel huna chhadyo, except it didn't have any good parts. A cheap chinese production of some middle-America city.

I thought about the future. What would I want to do in twenty years? Would I still hang around the same art-galleries, go to the same restaurants, attend the same conferences, and party at the same places? I didn't want to. I wanted... a more.. khoi k bhanney... this probably sounds hypocritical coming from me but... I wanted a more... wholesome life yaar. I wanted my feet on the ground.

But they were just nagging feelings. The biggest argument for staying in Nepal was, always has been, that you're a 'someone' in Kathmandu. Everything you do can appear in Page4 if you want to, you can write whatever and they'll publish and pay for it, and you can be as big a celebrity you want to be. People know you, maybe even respect you, and it's a great tight-little community. Contrast that to the lives most Americans live -- office and home, office and home, maybe friends sometimes, but, the same sense of community that's in Kathmandu is not there. You can't make it to the papers, you don't become a celebrity right-away. And there are so many people, no matter what your accomplishments are, you're still a nobody that nobody cares about. You're a person who matters in Kathmandu; in the US, you're someone who happens to be there. It was a good argument to be in Kathmandu, so I suppressed all other emotions that contradicted it.

And then the realization hit me. That argument is not new yaar. It's not even a particularly creative one for Kathmandu. Everyone says that. That's the decision people in small towns and cities even in the US make before moving to bigger cities. In a small city, you're someone, and people know you -- specially if you make lots of money. That's a Universal truth. The idea of a strong community exists in towns too -- you'd be surprised how patriotic they are about their parts of the country. And then this whole wave swept me over.

Kathmandu is no different yaar. Kathmandu is America, the Kathmandu you and everyone lives in. It's a shitty shitty part of America, but it's smalltown America nonetheless. It's a part of America that doesn't have white people. In the end, that's what I was left with. I didn't care about Kathmandu anymore. I realized if I wanted to live in Nepal, it would be because of Nepali bhasa and the Nepali-pan -- whatever that means. There would be no point for me to leave America to live an another America.

And then I was back to square one. The Nepal I grew up in.. where we'd go to temples early in the morning during festivals, where we'd be overjoyed in riding the cable car, where we'd spend weekends in Manakamana...that wasn't there for me anymore. We (us, meaning you, me, everyone, the guys, you know) weren't that kind of people, I realized. The life I wanted in Nepal, I couldn't have with you (there, I said it), or with anyone I could find on my own. That was when I decided I would leave Nepal.

I couldn't leave you yaar. You're too hot, hahaha. You may or may not have asked me to stay back, and I may or may not have given up, and I may or may not have spent more time in Nepal. I didn't want any of that to happen. You know esto sentii things don't work out very well. So the only thing I could do was to get the hell out of there. I reserved the tickets in secret, and left without telling you. Or the guys. Aru lai text, facebook, sasebook gareko chha. I just told them there was something serious that I needed to attend US ma. I'll be in touch with them. I won't, with you for some time. Tell them about this if you want to.

I know you know why I'm doing this. We were too good together. We would have melted and frozen into each other. And I didn't want to .... you know what i mean. It's been very painful, and if it makes you feel any better, a little crying was done. Maybe a bit more. I guess that's going to make the plane-ride great because I sleep really well after crying. You know.

I want to talk to you. A lot. Not just now. Bujha hai, please. I need peace.

Timro,
Rebbi

PS: I'm heading to a Snake farm in South Africa. Heh, kata kata bata ayo. Three months there and back to work. I'm hoping to pass off this 6-month period as 'research'. I guess it has been, in a way.