Rest in Peace Hajur Bua

It’s been five days since we received the unexpected news—a series of calls from Kathmandu that ended with the death of P’s grandfather.

It has taken me a few days to think about what I wanted to say. It was quite a surprise, even though he was 88 years old, as he was very strong and active.

Hajur Bua was a very important person in P’s family, but I think he was of particular importance to P, who was the first born grandchild. Hajur Bua lived with P since childhood, teaching him how to play many sports, including his favorite—heck, it’s his passion—soccer. He used to walk little P to school every day and then pick him up and walk him home.

He was the “keeper of the house,” the person who was always opening the front gate or looking out the window to see who was coming and going when he heard its clank. Upon arriving at P’s family’s house in Kathmandu he was the first face you’d see, peeking out the gate or waving from the front window or roof, cup of tea in hand. He was always there to welcome us home or bid us farewell.

I first met Hajur Bua when I visited P’s family in 2005. Even then, I had heard many stories about him, and I was happy to have the chance to meet him, as I wasn’t sure when I would be able to come back or if I would meet him again. Luckily I had two more opportunities: He was there again in 2009, telling us stories about his time as a park ranger in Chitwan, acting out sitting on an elephant’s back during a tour. He liked to bring pictures out to share, or his school leaving certificate of which he was very proud.

After our wedding in July 2011 we were able to go back for Dashain. Although very strong, he was too old to make the long journey to America, but was able to participate wholeheartedly in the wedding party that was organized during our trip. He dressed up in a daura suruwal and coat in his favorite color which he called “gabardine” (which I think refers more to a type of fabric, but that’s what he called khaki-brown). He enjoyed sitting near us at the party, talking to people and introducing us to others. While we visited in 2011 he started calling me “Buhari”—bride—the same name he calls P’s mother. “Buhari, have you eaten?” “Buhari, have you seen this program?”

We were able to take our first married Dashain tikka from him. It would be my first and last.

I remembered seeing him many times sitting on the floor, cross-legged, like a man sixty years his junior. I couldn’t imagine my father being nimble enough to do that, let alone my grandparents. It was a testament to his health and fitness.

And then there was Rai Uncle, a former neighbor, who still liked to come over and spend time with the family. Hajur Bua and Rai Uncle had a love/hate relationship. Like two grumpy old men, they sometimes had feuds—“He took my umbrella!” “You cheated at cards!”—but they were companions as well, sharing in card games and conversations.

Hajur Bua also had a love of plants, a hobby I share. Back in Kalingpong, his home area, his family had a nursery with many interesting plants, and as an older man Hajur Bua tended to dozens of potted plants surrounding the P family home, several of which came from the nursery in Kalingpong. Many of the plants were unusual, much like the ones I enjoy collecting. In 2011 I complimented a giant green stemmed succulent plant, some type of Euphorbia, growing in a sunny spot behind the house. Before I knew it he plucked out a section of the plant, wrapped the roots in mud and wrapped the entire thing in damp newspaper and insisted I bring it home. I decided to try, and was able to sneak it in. The plant now grows on my window sill, and reminds me of him every time I see it.

Our Irish friend RH was visiting Nepal at the time of Hajur Bua’s death. He was staying with P’s family for a few days, before making a quick trip to Southern Nepal. He was due back to P’s home the day that Hajur Bua died. RH took the final living picture of Hajur Bua—as he looked through the front window, saying goodbye to him before RH left for Chitwan.

In an email exchange between P and RH, P wrote:

I almost feel as if you were meant to be there that week – to see Hajur Buba one last time. Since you met him, it almost feels as if you were there on our behalf. We also got the last photos of Hajur Buba that you took, looking from the window. It is hard to think that he is not going to be there to look out of that window next time we arrive home in Kathmandu and the next time the metal gate makes a clanking noise.

The whole news has been a shock and a surprise to all of us. He was old and had minor other pains and aches but we all felt that he was this strong person who would live to be 100 or more. At the same time, he passed away the way he wanted, without being bedridden, within a matter of hours. I am also glad that you were able to hear Hajur Buba’s stories once again while you were there.

I want to dedicate this posting to Hajur Bua. He always made me feel welcome and part of the family. We are all very sad at your passing, but we feel honored to have known you.

What’s in an Age?

At my sister’s graduation a few weeks ago my aunt, mother and grandmother were talking about my great-grandmother, known in the family as “Nanny.” Apparently she had a life-long habit of lying about her age—a trait my mother says I’ve inherited.

Sure, a lot of people, jokingly and otherwise, lie about their age—when a teenager wants to buy alcohol and shows a fake id, or a forty-something pretends they are still in their thirties. However Nanny did it for most of her life, and most of the people around her didn’t even know.

My aunt had jumped on the genealogical research bandwagon and dug up records from when Nanny had first arrived in the US, on a White Star Line ship from Ireland, in 1909. In the records my great-grandmother claimed that she was 22 years old, single and traveling alone, and had a few dollars in her pocket.

In subsequent census records she claimed to be quite a bit younger. We guessed this was to make her more marketable—who would want to train a maid or cook approaching a marriageable age, and lose that investment to a ticking biological clock?

She worked as a cook in the Rockefeller household for nearly twenty years, and left in her forties to marry and have her only child, my grandmother—at the age of 46! According to census records, at that point she made herself even younger, claiming she was still in her early thirties—which would have made her about 9 years old crossing the Atlantic by herself in 1909.

My aunt speculates that she made herself younger because my great-grandfather (according to the census, after calculating Nanny’s “real” age) was several years younger than her, and it was a social taboo for an older woman to marry a younger man. It makes me wonder if my great-grandfather even knew her real age. When she died in 1979, even my aunts, uncles and grandmother didn’t know, until now.

“It’s annoying,” my grandmother said, “It makes you think. If she lied so much about her age, what else was she lying about?”

“C’s no better.” My mother chipped in, “She lies about her age all the time, but unlike Nanny, she makes herself older.”

And it’s true. I’ve been lying about my age for most of my twenties.

I think it started in college. Most of my friends were international, and it felt like a good majority were older. P was—he is about three and a half years older than me even though he was only a grade above me at the university. I felt like I was surrounded by older people most of the time, and I didn’t want to feel like the baby of the group, so I didn’t advertise my age.

When we left undergrad and moved on to P’s master’s program, again his graduate student friends were an older crowd—mid to late twenties, some in their thirties, I didn’t want it to be known that I was only twenty-one. I was worried (probably needlessly so) that my opinions wouldn’t be taken seriously, or that my commitment and relationship with P wouldn’t be thought of as serious.

Then during my first post-graduation job I worked with high school kids. Nothing makes you feel like you need an age buffer to validate your authority than working with high school kids. And on my first day I made a terrible mistake. One student asked how old I was, and I answered honestly. I only worked with them for three weeks, but after that, I think it was tough for them to consider me as the group leader, instead of a buddy, even when I wasn’t trying to be a buddy.

That kind of solidified it for me, I just started lying about my age or keeping silent on the subject. On my birthday we didn’t talk about what year I was turning, if someone asked I added a few years, or said “I’d don’t usually share.” I even made details of my stories a bit ambiguous so people couldn’t reason out my age.  I finally internalized my lie so much that I started to forget how old I actually was. Sometimes I’d try to answer honestly and be off by a year.

At one point, many of our friends started turning thirty, and while at a friend’s birthday the group was trying to figure out when the rest would hit the thirty mark. Finally it fell on me. They were asking, “C—when will you turn 30?” and my ambiguousness only made the detail more enticing. One guy asked if I didn’t share my age because I was “really that old?” (I imagine he thought the reverse was true–that I was several years older than P) Another friend, at a different time, stole my license to figure it out.

However I’m starting to realize that I’m finally getting old enough, perhaps I don’t have to lie anymore. The new phd students in P’s program are now mostly younger than me. A lot of my graduate international students are younger than me. Some of our new friends are younger too. Perhaps I’m also feeling less sensitive because the older you get age difference doesn’t seem to be that big of a deal.

But perhaps I still have a bit of Nanny in me, because I can’t help but continue to keep my age under a veil of ambiguity. Like I’m used to not talking about it.

While looking in the mirror this morning I caught a glint of silver on the side of my head. I said to P, “I have a white hair!”

His response: “You’re the one who wants to be older.”

“Good Indian Friend Shanta”

I was talking to my grandmother the other day. I like to call her every few days on my drive home from work just to see how she is doing and what she is up to.

During the conversation she mentioned that her friend Shanta sold her house and was moving from New York to southern New Jersey to live closer to her youngest daughter. Shanta was going to come by with her husband the following day to say goodbye. “I think there will be a lot of tears” my grandmother said.

My grandmother is of the generation of Americans for whom diversity and multiculturalism didn’t really register.  Most of the people she interacts with are neighbors or members of her church who tend to be Irish-American-Catholics. Most of the people she talks about have names like “Shea,” and “O’Brien,” and “Corcoran.”

But there is one name from her stories that always sticks out—her “good Indian friend Shanta.” (That’s usually how she references her in stories).

Before my grandmother retired she worked for many years at a pharmaceutical company. She was part of the cleaning staff that worked scrubbing test tubes and glassware for the chemists. A lot of the scientists looked down on the cleaning staff assuming they were unintelligent or not on the same level. However one chemist in particular developed a warm friendship with my grandmother over the many years they worked together in the lab. She was a Christian Indian from Chennai named Shanta.

They would share lunches together, and stories, and pictures of their kids and grandkids. They would giggle like school girls, and watch each other’s backs, and exchange Christmas presents (I think my grandmother must have gifted her every book about Mother Theresa ever written). When my grandmother finally retired they kept in touch. They would meet for lunches in town, and send each other Christmas cards. Shanta called my grandmother faithfully every single St. Patrick’s Day.

I remember one story my grandmother told me about how when Shanta first arrived from India she was studying in Minnesota or Wisconsin (or some other cold wintery state). She was a newly married woman, and had arrived in the US dutifully wearing saris every day (Shanta was of that generation too). However once, during the dead of winter, her science class had to go out into the field to collect samples for the lab. She had to trudge through the snow in a sari, freezing and wet, and afterward decided her clothing choices would have to favor practicality over tradition.

Even though my grandmother has loved P since the beginning, I somehow feel that Shanta helped her be more comfortable with the idea of a South Asian in the family. Even if they didn’t discuss the topic, although I’m sure they did during one lunch or another, having a friend from that part of the world opens one up to different ideas about culture, relationships and people.

“I’m really going to miss her” my grandmother said, “I’m sure we will still talk on the phone, but it won’t be the same. You know, I’ve now known her longer in my retired life then when we worked together in the lab? She was so good to me. I enjoyed our lunches together, and she always insisted that if I ever needed anything I should call. I didn’t want to bother her, they had their own stuff going on, but if there was a snow storm Shanta’s husband would come by and shovel for me. They are such good people. So loyal and kind.”

“I know what you mean,” I responded, “our Nepali friends are the same way. They would be there for us, no matter what.”

“I think there will be a lot of tears when they come by tomorrow to say goodbye” she said.

The Newest American-Nepali Household Part I

P and I just got back from a lovely weekend in Vermont. About a week and a half ago we got a call from P’s cousin MK asking if we could come up to Burlington. She was planning to get married, and wanted to have her American-based family with her. Albeit last minute planning, it wasn’t something that happened spur of the moment, instead it was an event many years in the making…

I’ve mentioned MK and MS before, but usually in passing. Let me rewind and flush out their background a bit.

MK is J Phupu’s eldest daughter, and P’s first cousin. She grew up a few houses away from P in KTM, and after her father died of a brain hemorrhage about fifteen years ago, J Phupu and her daughters (MK and SK) moved in to P’s parents’ house.

MK is the same age as P’s younger brother U, and the two of them were sent to the US for university together in 2004. U went to a school in Pennsylvania, while MK went to a university in Vermont (coincidentally the same university my sister K went to). While at the university she met MS, and the two dated for several years. MS graduated in 2006, but stuck around Burlington. He majored in music and was connecting into the local music scene, playing in bands (he’s a gifted guitarist), and doing equipment and stage set up for programs around the area.

The first time MK told her mother about MS, J Phupu cried. The family had already dealt with P introducing the idea of marrying an American, and even though they accepted me, I’m sure deep down inside the family was hoping that P was an anomaly—that P’s brother and J Phupu’s two daughters would at least end up with Nepalis. The last thing they probably expected or wanted to hear was MK saying, “Actually… I am seeing an American.”

Right away P’s mom made U swear he would marry a Nepali… but you never know.

MS finally met J Phupu in 2008 when the family came for MK and U’s graduations. Their first interaction was rocky. J Phupu was still not happy with MK’s choice. Ideally she wanted MK to be with a Nepali, but MS probably made the whole “Hi, I love your daughter” situation a little worse with his first impression… he looked like a hippy Western tourist from Freak Street in Thamel—he had dreadlocks that reached down to his waist, and the wardrobe to match his hair. His appearances and her disapproval were roadblocks which inhibited J Phupu from seeing that MS was very hard working, devoted, caring, organized and came from a loving and supportive family; that he had a lot to offer MK as a life partner. Instead, J Phupu spent the week at MK’s apartment (which MS temporarily moved out of so as not to scandalize J Phupu any further) trying to convince her that MS was a bad idea, and even told MS that she didn’t think their relationship was a good choice.

It was a difficult period in their lives. I’m sure it was frustrating because the family seemed to be ultimately accepting of P and my relationship, while MK’s own mother wouldn’t budge on her relationship. The family didn’t say anything about P and I living together, while MK had to pretend that MS didn’t live with her. I didn’t really get it, but our friend R explained that expectations were different for sons and daughters. Although a family might not approve of a son’s relationship, families are often more flexible for a man. I think this could be a whole separate post topic for the future.

MK graduated in 2008 and like almost all international students in F-1 status in the US, she had to apply for OPT work authorization to be able to stay in the country and legally work. She only had twelve months to find something where she could earn money and hopefully be sponsored on an H1B (work) visa which would allow her to stay in the US even longer. She found work as a teacher’s aide at a local elementary school, a job that helped pay the bills, but not something that would sponsor a visa. At the end of her 12 month work permit the US government dictated that it was time for her to leave.

Obviously MS didn’t want her to go. He loved her, and asked if she wanted to get married. They could do a simple court marriage to keep her in the country, and if she didn’t feel ready for “real Marriage” yet, they could pretend like their legal marriage was an engagement until they had a “real” wedding with friends and family a few years down the road.

Ultimately MK decided to leave. She packed up her stuff and left it with MS’s parents, and flew back to KTM. Her family started pressuring her to study for the GREs and apply to graduate school to get back to the US, but I think she wasn’t really interested in that path. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do, and eventually found a position working at a research institute in Kathmandu.

It’s tough to be apart from the person you care about most, and MS was no exception. After being separated by half the world for a year, he decided he had had enough. During the months that MK had been away, MS worked as much as he could, picking up jobs here and there and saving until he had enough to leave the US for a while. He departed for KTM without much of a plan, excited to see MK, and hoping he didn’t have to leave the country until she could leave with him.

MS stayed with P’s family for nearly seven months, and I think it was often difficult for him. Not only were there periods of culture shock (Nepal was his first trip outside of the Western world), there were social expectations that frustrated him. As he told his family back home, “I’ve missed MK for so long, and now that I’m here I can’t even hug her!” since public displays of affection are frowned upon. Unlike P and I, they insisted that MK and MS sleep in separate rooms. When MK would go on field expeditions for her work, MS was left alone with the family, trying to fit in and learn about the culture.

After a while MS’s extended visit became awkward for P’s family. Whereas my shorter previous visits could be explained away to nosy neighbors as a “good friend” visiting from abroad, MS didn’t want to leave after a month, and it was harder to explain why he was living with the family. In a country where family is generally centered on the man’s side, it is already awkward for a son-in-law to spend extended periods of time with his wife’s family, but now we are talking about a couple that’s not married, and the boyfriend is from America! J Phupu started pressuring MS to start thinking about leaving, but MS was adamant that he didn’t want to leave until he could bring MK with him. They started paperwork at the American embassy for a K-1 fiancée visa for MK, but the process was still taking months.

Eventually J Phupu changed her tactic and started pressuring MS to return to the US so he could find a job and start saving to build a more solid financial foundation for when MK was able to come back and the two were to get married.  While in Nepal he had connected with several musical groups, and found gigs playing guitar for a few hundred rupees at bars in Thamel. It gave him some pocket money, but he wasn’t earning anything substantial, and he had used much of what he had saved getting to Nepal and living there for so long. After seven months MS eventually agreed that it made sense for him to go back first and start “setting up” their new life.

P was in Nepal at the time, and took pictures of his departure. That particular day there was a city wide bandh (strike), so there were no cars or taxis on the road. The city tourist council arranged for a tourist bus to leave from Thamel to bring foreigners to the airport, one of the few authorized vehicles able to drive that day. The family garlanded him in the living room, and said their tearful goodbyes (I think MS and J Phupu were the most emotional), and walked him to the bus in the tourist district. His last glimpse of the family was from the dusty bus windows. Once he arrived back in the US, he headed to Burlington to set up a place for when MK joined him.

We invited MS and his parents to our wedding over the summer. It was nice to see him, and our first time meeting his mom and dad. During the Nepali Wedding-after party MS bought me a drink and gave me a hug. I told him we were happy to have him, and he said he was happy to be there. “Without you guys leading the way, I know it would have been much harder for us. I’m glad I could see this all happen.”

MK’s fiancée visa was finally approved in September, and she elected to stay in KTM through the holiday season of Dashain and Tihar, and arrived in the US in mid-November. They spent their first night back together at our apartment in Massachusetts before heading back up to MS’s family home in New Hampshire, and then up to Burlington, Vermont.

One of the requirements for a K-1 fiancée visa is that the couple has to be legally married in the US within 90 days of the visa holder’s arrival in the States or the visa is nullified. We knew the wedding would be happening soon, we just didn’t know when…

I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow…

Never Ever Ever Ever Ever Live There…

“I hope his document problem is resolved. You were born in this country [the US], the best country in the world, where we have electricity and running water. You could never ever ever ever ever ever ever live in that country [Nepal]. Why on earth would you want to? I’m not sure what you will do if he can’t get his documents. He should never leave this country again!”—quote from my grandmother a few nights ago.

“Enough with this ‘traveling to Nepal’ business. You need to stay in one place and start saving money for a house and a family. You can’t just go off gallivanting to the other side of the world, it’s not safe, and I don’t like it. This is your last trip for a long time.”—quote from my mother prior to my departure for Nepal. A similar thing was said by my grandmother around the same time.

I’m going to come out and say it.

Yes, I’m American.

Yes, I grew up in the United States.

But– I’m not against the idea of someday moving to Nepal.

I don’t know if it will ever happen, or how long we would be there if we did. I have to admit that I struggle to imagine living in Nepal forever, but I certainly would actively encourage our household to move there for at least a few years.

Why?

I don’t think I’ll ever truly learn the language properly unless I live there and take classes and interact with people in Nepali on a daily basis. Language might not be important to everyone, but it’s important to me, and even though I’ve struggled to learn the language on my own, prompting some to question my true passion to learn it, I hate nothing more than sitting in a crowd of Nepali speakers and being the only one not able to properly communicate.

I also believe living in Nepal would be a great way for me to learn much more about the customs and culture, like  how to properly celebrate holidays, and get to know P’s gigantic extended family more intimately, while having a chance to know Kathmandu and the rest of the country much better as well.

As my passport is filled with stamps from various countries considered “off the beaten path” by many, I think my family fears I might “get the idea” to move to Nepal someday. It’s not totally uncommon for my grandmother to slip in a casual comment here and there that goes something like, “America is the best country in the world. Everyone wants to come here, that’s why you have so many foreign students at your university! Why would anyone want to go anywhere else?” or “Sure, P was born in Nepal, but you can tell he wants to be American. Look at how he dresses and talks, how he carries himself. I’m sure he wants to stay here for the rest of his life.” Yes—not so subtle “subliminal messaging.”

I’m sad to say that I know if and when the day comes that P and I might decide to move it’s going to be a huge fight. I worry my grandmother, whose opinion differs from mine on a great many things, but whom I feel very close, might never talk to me again. I’m sure my mother will completely freak out, and probably say it is a plot for me to punish her—especially if we decide to move if and when we have kids and she doesn’t get to see her grandchildren that often. Although I don’t see my dad much, and he is much less vocal, I am sure he too would be disappointed, and quietly express his feelings as well.

I certainly don’t want to hurt my family, but I don’t want to feel bullied or pressured into not following through on an opportunity if one came along. Why should P’s family be the only ones to “suffer” on the other side of the world destined to be separated from their children simply because America is more wealthy and powerful than their country?

I don’t doubt that there would be major challenges to living in Nepal, I’m not that jaded—the distance from home for so long would surely be difficult, the infrastructure problems would cease to be “adventurous” after a few weeks—with electrical shortages and bucket baths common, travel on degraded congested roads difficult, and strikes bringing the city and country to a standstill more often than not. Even being around P’s family all the time would certainly have its stressful moments, and I can see times where I would feel suffocated from lack of independence or solitude.

But I see a lot of positives too. Being back in Nepal this time I could truly appreciate how close the community and families are. Being in the US I only see my mother and father two or three times a year, and my extended relatives once during holidays. Sure I talk with my sisters and grandmother on the phone, but I can do that through the internet from Nepal almost as easily as here.

In Kathmandu P’s family has a small beautiful house in the backyard that P’s dad has said we could live in if we moved back—so no need to immediately save for a house as my mother said we needed to do– and there are workers who could help with things like laundry, dishes, collecting water and keeping things generally clean. Raising a young kid there would be so fulfilling—they would have grandparents, and extended relatives to dote on them all the time and child care would be essentially free. Although our earnings would be much less than the US, our ability to save will probably be much easier with some of the big ticket items like rent and car/car insurance off the table.

The day may never come when we move, but if it does I dread the battle that awaits. I wish a fairy godmother would wave her wand and grant my family a broader perspective and new understanding that would help them not fight me on every decision. I’ve travel quite a bit, but far far less than many. I know that my “different kind of lifestyle” continues to push my family to step outside their comfort zones, but I defend myself in that I’m not the first person to embark on many of these paths.

And the next time we travel to Nepal, I hope I’m not told to “stop with this ‘Nepal nonsense’ you should just stay put” because like it or not, my husband and his family are from Nepal and it will always be part of my life. I might not buy an expensive fancy car or clothes or jewelry, but I foresee many plane tickets to the other side of the world in my future–whether those are tickets from the US to South Asia or the other way around.

I’m curious– for any readers who are now living in their partner’s country and away from their own– how did your family respond? Was it an issue?

From “Very Good Saathi” to “Naya Buhari”

The first time I visited Nepal I was in Kathmandu for four days. There wasn’t really time to meet anyone, only a neighbor’s daughter who needed to practice speaking with an American to prepare for her US visa interview, and we visited Mamu’s brother’s clothing shop where I was barely able to fit into any of the pants because I was too tall. Other than my stay with the immediate family, my visit was largely unnoticed by neighbors or extended family, so little explanation was needed as to who exactly I was or why I was there.

The second time I visited we stayed for three and a half weeks. By then P and I had been dating for nearly six years and we were engaged (his family didn’t know, although they figured we would marry eventually). For the first part of our stay, our friend RH was with us, and we went hiking in Solukhubu, so having two white foreign friends at the house, probably made it easier to explain to the neighbors that we were “just friends” visiting P for the hiking trip.

I stayed on after RH left, and we even went to a neighborhood wedding ceremony. As with many close-knit South Asian communities, people “talk,” so taking me to a neighborhood wedding was opening the family up to lots of “talk.” As we were getting ready, P’s aunt J Phupu said, “It anyone asks who you are, you are P’s ‘very good American friend.’ Okay? They do not need to know our business.” That trip I was always introduced as P’s “saathi” [friend].

Even though I kind of understood the logic—in a country where arranged marriages are still rather common, there was no need for the neighborhood to know that their son was with an American before we were married—but I was still hurt. I didn’t want to be P’s “good friend.” I thought after six years I could be considered at least a little more than that.

I even noticed that the Nepali papers referred to one of the American casualties from the Buddha Air crash as a “saathi” of one of the other Nepali passengers. If you read about the crash in on American online news source they explain that she was the Nepali passenger’s fiancée, and had come to Nepal to meet his mother before they married.

So this time it is refreshing to be here with P as a married couple. Instead of being the family secret or the “very good saathi” I get proudly introduced as the “naya buhari” [new bride]. Mamu is not ashamed to walk me by the local shops, point and smile, “naya buhari.” While the neighbors smile back, “ramro cha.” [she is good/nice].

Now if I could only speak proper Nepali back to everyone, I’d have it made.

A “Horrible Mediator” ;)

At our white wedding, instead of a traditional guest book, P and I set up a digital camera with a ten second timer on a tripod and set beside it an erasable marker/white board. We asked people to leave us photo messages in our “digital guest book.” A lot of people didn’t notice it (unfortunately), but a few did… and at the end of the night had about 30 pictures of different people posing with messages for us. (I stole the idea from our Canadian friend–you know who you are!)

I wanted to share one of my favorite pictures. It looks a little like a mug shot, but the message is absolutely priceless and hilarious. Our friend AD made the perfect choice.

The white board reads, "I'm glad today happened despite me being a horrible mediator."

I told the story over a year and a half ago in the post “The Main 3” but it warrents a retelling in honor of the pic:

Shortly after P told his family (“He Told Them!“) about our relationship our friend AD (pictured above) traveled to Kathmandu to visit family. During his trip he was also charged with the task of “talking me up” (positive reinforcement) to the P family.

At the time P’s parents and aunt had kept P’s “I’m in love with a white American” story secret from P’s talkative Grandfather in case P was just “going through a phase” and would eventually leave me and marry a Nepali someday. When AD and KS showed up for lunch that fateful afternoon in January 2005, every time AD dutifully brought me up in conversation one of the “Main 3″ (mostly J Phupu) would shut him down or change topics to deflect the “match maker/mediator” role that AD was not so subtly fulfilling.

Six and a half years later, Mamu, Daddy, and AD sat in the audience watching P and I get married. It made me laugh to think about AD’s message concerning his skills as a mediator (it wasn’t his fault he kept getting deflected!).

:)

A Message From Home

I nearly forgot to mention something very sweet that P’s family did after our wedding weekend.

P’s 87 year old grandfather couldn’t make the trip to the US from Kathmandu for the wedding (understandably), even though he really wanted to be here for the “big day(s).”

P’s aunt (J Phupu) also couldn’t make it– she was elected to stay back and watch over P’s grandfather while P’s parents were away, and then she tripped in the market and broke her knee right before they left town, so even if she was originally coming, she probably couldn’t make the journey so soon after the accident.

P’s cousin MK (J Phupu’s daughter) is stuck in Nepal waiting for her K-1 fiancee visa to be approved so she can be reunited with her partner MS in the US, so she couldn’t come. And SK (MK’s younger sister) is still in high school and doesn’t have a tourist visa, so she also couldn’t make it either.

As much as we would have loved to have all the siblings and immediate family together, having family on the other side of the world makes it difficult to get everyone in the same place at the same time. But we know they were thinking about us over that weekend.

And then they did something so sweet– they posted pictures of themselves on facebook holding up “Congratulations P+C” signs and tagged us in the photos so we would see them celebrating from the other side of the world.

MK, P's grandfather, J Phupu and SK

Arrival of the Soon-To-Be Inlaws

I’ve met P’s parents several times before:

I met his dad for the first time in May 2005, and the rest of his family in KTM in December 2005, next they visited us in 2008, and we visited KTM in 2009. So this is my forth/fifth (for dad) time meeting and staying with them.

The first time I met his dad I was nervous out of my mind. I remember driving the two and a half hours to the airport with P, internally freaking out; unsure of how our first meeting would go (acceptance? Disappointment? Sadness? Anger? There are horror stories out there.) I soon realized that his dad is very nice, very liberal, and very caring. His utmost concern is for his son’s wellbeing and happiness, and if I factor into that equation, then there is no reason to worry about it.

In December of that year, I traveled to KTM by myself to meet his parents, aunt and grandfather while I was in India for studies. The freak out process began all over again. I knew his mother wasn’t overly happy (at the beginning), because she was worried I was going to lead her son astray (make him eat beef, perhaps take him away from his family), I’m sure she was envisioning a soap opera girl rather than a genuine human being. I think I allayed their fears that meeting, and subsequent meetings have being easier.

Communicating with Mamu was tough that first visit. In Nepal, students are taught in English, but if you don’t use the language on a daily basis it is easy to forget and have trouble understanding once you have been out of school for many years. P’s mom and I had many awkward silences, miscommunications, and conversations through gestures, but it was difficult for both of us.

In 2008 they stayed with us for about five weeks. I was commuting four hours a day for work, so I was exhausted, and that made me feel more stressed out, but I really enjoyed the camaraderie and happiness shown in the family. I come from a family of er—let’s say “debaters.” Everything has to be a debate, a fight, an argument, and people sometimes communicate through yelling at each other (which I acknowledge is not healthy). P’s family, on the other hand, is so calm, and laid back, and easy to be around. It was refreshing. Mamu had been practicing a bit of her English with their tenant who is a British language teacher in Kathmandu. Communication was getting a bit easier this time.

In 2009 we visited Nepal for four weeks. P and I went hiking in the Everest region for his PHD research, we attended our friends’ wedding, and I had a chance to explore KTM with P for the first time. Communication was again getting easier (along with my stronger comprehension of Nepali), however eating became a challenge (please… no more rice). In Nepal food=love, but too much food=C feels ill, and this lead to some stressful moments at the dinner table.

For seven months in 2010-2011, J Phupu’s daughter (MK)’s American boyfriend (MS) came to stay with P’s family in Kathmandu. She had been a student in the US but due to post-graduation visa issues the pair had been separated for a year, but MS came to Nepal to see her, and stayed for an extended period of time. I have to admit I was jealous that he was able to experience all the festivals and get to know the family more, but I should also thank him, because I think he gave more insight to what an American can be like—needing a break from rice every now and then, not understanding the language so quickly, needing some space, practicing English. I think I’ve noticed some of the benefits of this even in the short time P’s parents have been with us this time already.

I admit, I was again a little nervous yesterday when we were on the way to the airport, and waiting at the Boston Logan international terminal for P’s parents to come through the door. I know everything should be fine, but I’m always worried that I’ll be awkward, that my language skills will be a disappointment, that I’ll struggle with food (eating rice and daal everyday), or that I’ll struggle with the lack of privacy—like not being able to run out and do errands or meet up with someone without letting people know where I am and what I’m doing. I’m still mostly worried about having to “be on my best behavior” all the time (not that I’m bad, but it can be tiresome to be attentive all the time), so hopefully with time I’ll be fine.

But P’s parents quickly allayed many of my fears. They have only been at our place for less than a day, but they have already been so sweet. P’s dad greeted me with a hug and a kiss on each cheek, and P’s mom gave me a hug when I gave her a bouquet of flowers at the airport. When we got home, they started unpacking their luggage, and bringing out treats—like a new maroon silk sari to wear for Teej, and a beautiful new orange/gold Banaras silk sari for Dashain. I promptly made chia (tea), and helped P make dinner (mixed veggie tarkari and rice). When Mamu attempted to get up and clear the dishes, I took the dishes away and told her to sit and rest (which promptly led our friend D to tease me about being a “good little buhari”—daughter in law).

I had a pair of blue plastic sandals that I brought back from Nepal on Mamu’s urging in 2009, and this time she said that she would use the blue sandals if I use her red ones, “You are bride,” she told me, “bride’s wear red.” Another time she was showing me her sari for the wedding, all smiles, saying, “I can’t believe, my son, he’s marrying.”

As I alluded to before, MS’s seven month stay earlier in the year also helped Mamu’s language skills. That coupled with the slow advancement of my Nepali language skills means that our communication is better than it has ever been (not perfect, but a far cry from my initial awkward attempts in 2005).

So things have started out well.

Picking P's parents up at the airport last night

Family Tree–Nepali Style

As I mentioned before, P brought back some fun wedding related stuff from KTM, but he also brought some interesting family related stuff–as in family stories and a family tree.

I guess life changes makes one think about your family and your ancestors, and it’s interesting to hear about the people who came before you. I had heard stories about P’s grandfather before, and some of his adventures as a young man traveling with his older brother, but I hadn’t heard about older generations of relatives. P brought back an interesting story about how one of his grandfather’s aunt’s was chosen from Kalingpong (Nepali community in Indian Darjeeling) by one of the ruling Ranas as a wife, and how his grandfather came from the same Nepali community in India to Kathmandu so that he could be her driver. While in KTM this time the family visited the old palace (which has since been turned into an orphanage) where his grandfather used to work for a period of time—but I promised P he could tell that story himself in an upcoming guest blog post some time.

It was also interesting to see the various strands of P’s family tree and how some relatives had multiple wives (polygamy not being so common to my Irish heritage), while others didn’t, and which branches stayed in Kalingpong and which moved to Kathmandu. I’m hoping to learn more when his family visits this summer. The last time they visited we learned that P’s grandparents had eleven children, but only three survived to adulthood and only two are still alive—his father is sixth born but first to make it out of childhood. I can’t imagine.

I need to ask more questions of my family too. On my mother side my grandfather emigrated from western Ireland in the late ’40s, and both of my grandmother’s parents are from Ireland as well. I’ve heard a lot of family stories about them, but I don’t really know that much about their parents or grandparents from back in Ireland (my great-great and great-great-great grandparents… hey if Obama can find them, why can’t I?) . On my dad side, I’ve only heard stories about my great-grandparents but no one before that. We are supposed to be mostly Irish through his side as well, but I’m not quite sure how many generations it goes back.

So I thought I’d share the family tree that P brought back with him. He started translating the different branches into English and filling in some stories about the various people so that I could understand. I thought it was a pretty neat memento to bring back.