by Sharmila Pokharel
What I have realized so far is that a place matters, and yet somehow it does not. For me, Rupnagar, where I spent my childhood, was a village of beauty, but some people who live in Rupnagar may not feel the same way I do. During the day, people who had a choice tried to avoid the extreme heat by carrying umbrellas or by sitting in the shadows of bar, peepal, mango and litchi trees.
But the choiceless people were victimized, even by nature. Jung Bahadur Bhujel was always busy carrying people in his rickshaw. I had seen Jung Bahadur always at the front of his rickshaw and always sweating due to the hard work and the hot weather. For him, Rupnagar may or may not have seemed like a wonderful place to live. Yet he always looked so quiet and calm that I believe he was happy. Was this because he had no choice, or was this because he was happy with what he had?
Perhaps Jung Bahadur is still carrying people on his rickshaw through the hot sunny days. Or maybe his son has grown up enough to take over his father’s position.
In late Winter, when all the leaves had fallen but before the harvest, Rupnagar looked as if there was no life. Even worse, when the wind blew, it carried sand on it. While walking on the street towards the school, every day, our eyes caught the blowing sand; our mouths became dry.
But there was a rhythm to life, a feeling of being alive even in the harsh conditions, a feeling of victory over nature. The leaves fell in the Fall, which is why I realized how beautiful the trees become when the leaves had not fallen. In June and July, the gentle flow of big peepal leaves and the slight smell of mango flowers purified the dirt of April and May.
In spring, the wind threw sand in my face. That’s how I knew how wonderful autumn was when the same wind carried smells of different flowers and a feeling that festivals had arrived.
When I enjoyed the festivals, I thought they were only a cultural and a traditional matter. Now, when everything is 7270 miles away, I understand more clearly: Those festivals are the fuel for our souls that keeps our inner happiness alive and lights up the beauty of life. My culture and those festivals are part of who I am. At the very moment when the elders of the family bless younger ones by putting red Tika on their foreheads, time becomes sacred for us. Their blessing of long life and prosperity, reciting the Sanskrit mantras, creates a happy environment. When there is a smile on each face, I am compelled to think, if there is happiness inside us, a place does not matter.
Now, I have my own room with a computer, a chair, a closet, the attached washroom, a shower tub, a dressing table, and lots of books and journals. So why do I keep on writing about the place that didn’t have a private room for me?
Back in Rupnagar, when my brothers were in Kathmandu for their college studies, I considered their rooms to be mine. Once they came back for the festivals and during the college break, I moved to the passage room or the veranda room.
When I ask myself the question again, “Would you be happier if you went back to Rupnagar?” I feel a big pause inside me as if the volume has been turned off.
Sharmila Pokharel has published two collections of poetry in Nepali. Her third book is a bilingual poetry collection, My Country in a Foreign Land, co-translated by Alice Major. She is a co-author of Somnio: The Way We See It. Sharmila is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers and a graduate student at Simon Fraser University in the Writer’s Studio program. She came to Canada in 2010 with her husband.
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