I and two of my fellow student friends had decided to stay in a rented flat in Pune, not because we had loads of money, but because we were denied seats in the hostel. We stayed with a typical Maharastrian family with whom we had signed a contract.
The clause in the contract that troubled us the most had to do with cooking. We weren’t allowed to cook meat. Not to be outdone, we lit many incense sticks when we did cook meat. But that’s not what this story is about.
We were pretty poor compared to other Nepali students there. Every night, after cooking, eating and cleaning dishes, we would take our positions in different corners of the two-room apartment, trying to study. Our contract barred us from having a television. We often slept late. [break]
doxologia.ro
Around the stroke of mid-night, we would hear a loud ‘thwak!’, and our heads would automatically turn to one of the alarm clocks we shared. It was the night watchman, beating his big wooden stick on the road. How can someone be so particular about time, not just for months, but for almost four complete years? It was not until the end of our stay that the thought of finding out who this person was crossed our minds.
Late one night, after hearing the first ‘thwak’, we sneaked out. One clause in our contract prevented us from making any kind of movement after 9.30 pm. With studies almost done and the time to leave fast approaching, our fear had declined sharply.
We made up our minds that since Diwali was approaching, we would ‘gift’ this watchman something. Till then, all we had seen of him was a silhouette under streetlights. We managed to muster 262 rupees. We had no clue how much he earned, but were pretty sure that our gift would make a difference.
We confronted him on a sidewalk with a neat array of trees. When he saw us, he shouted in Hindi. That was a rarity, because people there spoke either English or Marahi. Manish asked him what his name was. The other two of us shrugged at this question, because his name did not matter. But trying to think of a better ice-breaker was difficult. From a distance, we saw the watchman refusing to take the money from Manish. They exchanged whispers.
Manish came back a few minutes later, and led us back to our apartment. The guard, on the other hand, continued his march. Manish had managed to invite him over for dinner the next day. That was quite a surprise. For some reason, we all slept happily that night. If someone looked at us, they could easily believe a college professor was coming over. Nowhere else have I seen teachers and professors revered so much. They were godlike figures at the university; students really respected them.
The day for dinner came. A soft knock on the door, and we knew it was him. Manish asked him in and offered him the only chair we had. He pushed that aside and sat on the floor. Not knowing what to do next, we hurried to our one-stove kitchen and offered him a plate full of rice and loads of chicken. As he got started, so did we. It was only after the meal was done and we offered him our gift that tears started dripping down his eyes.
We told him that was all we had. After an awkward pause, he began talking. We finally came to know that he was actually a Nepali from Baitadi. He tried conversing in Nepali, but struggled. He had left home when he was seven, travelled to almost all parts of India before landing in Pune to work as a night watchman. We chatted for hours. It was heart-wrenching to hear him speak. As he stood on the doorway and politely offered his Namaste, he said that in forty years of ‘service’ this was the first time he was asked to dinner by educated engineer sahabs. He burst into tears, took a brief pause, and ran down the stairs. All our eyes were on the empty plate on which a really heavy meal was offered to him, and the envelope next to it. His name was Khadga Shahi. We never saw him again.
You might be wondering what is the point of this story. As I watched the horrific tragedy of Uttarakhand on TV, every now and then I spotted Khadgas in the crowd. Unlike others, they weren’t doing any talking, nor were they keen to do so. Their body language seemed to suggest that they had nothing to hope for. No air lifts, no government help, not even a kind word!
I could not help remember an incident outside a hotel gate in Kuala Lumpur. I had to take a cab and wanted to ask someone how to do so. I saw many faces similar to Khadga’s, arranging flowerpots on a driveway under scorching heat. Happy to see my compatriots, I asked for help. For some reason, none of them bothered to reply. Instead, it was a Bangladeshi guy who suggested I walk outside, take a right, and hail a cab.
As I left, I could not help wonder what has happened to us. For some reason, we think that in ‘Amrica’, there are no sweepers, forget beggars. We are scared of being seen working on streets. For us, every foreigner is a ‘learned’ man. The thought of some foreigner being completely broke or not having any college degree is impossible for us. If there is something we Nepalis suffer from, it’s lack of self-esteem. When a foreigner offers his hand for a shake, we offer two!
And the lack of self-esteem is not limited to people like Khadga. I was at a principal’s office a few days ago, trying to understand the admission process. There was quite a crowd in the room, and as part of the counseling process, the principal was asking each student, one by one, about their parents’ occupations. Most of the students stood silent, pretending not to have heard the question. It was only later when I had a chance to talk to the principal in private that I learnt that they did not want to say that their parent is a driver, carpenter, or a vegetable seller.
Barring a few, we Nepalis are invariably poor. However, the thing that keeps us in the vicious cycle of poverty perhaps is our lack of respect for work, our lack of self-esteem. Sharing stories of how one used to work in farms before becoming famous by the grace of ‘politics’ does not counter our inferiority complex. With elections lurking, such voices will soon become commonplace.
hiteshkarki@gmail.com
Related story
A Decade Later: What Nepal Got Right—and What Still Ails It
_20220508065243.jpg)
