A Rainy Day Memoir

 

                                                                                                -Moheindu Amiran Chemjong

 

Come rainy days and I’m taken back in time. I remember with tenderness those days of torrential monsoon outside our windowpanes and how I’d be in my sister Lalima’s room, the pink linen, the creamish pink curtains, her miniature figurines, her sheet music all over the place, her piano and the musical talent that she is. How in spite of the harsh rain outside, we’d enjoy ourselves in the comfort of our beautiful home. I’d ask her to play Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Bach and Chopin over and over again. And then, I’d ask her to strum her piano keys to some songs that were common favourites between the two of us-Edelweiss, Memory, Greenselves and then sing on top of our voices, as if the rain pouring outside those June afternoons would dance to the accompaniment to our music?

 

Time and again, Mommie would interrupt us with the goodies and cream of chicken soup. We’d enjoy our soup as we listened to Papa’s words of wisdom on the dining table. On rainy days, Mommie would disappear into the kitchen to make special stew and bread out of the authentic barley brought from the villages. She never failed to mention how this bread would remind her of her glorious childhood days. At that time, it made no sense to me. Today as I’m enjoying Bach and cream of chicken while typing out my childhood memories  the rain outside is forcing me tread along the memory lane and bring back those glorious days of my childhood to my heart! Today, I marvel at my maturity and the sagacity at which I am capable of cherishing those golden days, maybe Mommie was right after all! And during the course of the rainy days, Papa would wear his navy, woollen hat. He’d check out if Mommie and us, the girls were keeping warm enough and if there was anything he could do to add lustre to our lives on those chilly days. He’d hand us warm jumpers, woollen hats and would cover our backs with those shawls, such a loving Dad he is! Papa would spend his rainy days tucked in his warm bed reading books while my sister and I had the orchestra going on in the background.

 

After Mommie finished her cooking, she would instruct our cook on how to serve the bread and stew and also give the finishing touches! Then my old-fashioned Mommie would gravitate to her study to write her long-pending letters. Perhaps the rain outside touched her and made her outpourings much easier! Her study is always filled with papers, she always has so much to do, and she is always on the go. She would always be helping, embarking on newer journeys; she is the flame that shines brightly in all the lives she touched especially ours. On rainy days, even Lucy, the beloved Daschund would be allowed in. Lucy must have loved those days of rain and thunderstorms for she, too would be inside with us enjoying our expressions of love for her. Lucy would enjoy the comfort of sleeping on our beds when the days were cold and rainy outside. Our parents would not be entertained by this idea but my sister and I couldn’t help dressing her up in our doll clothes and tucking her in bed!

 

Sometimes if there were hailstones, Lalima and I would be sporting our rain-coats and gumboots and would be out in the garden, ecstatic at Nature’s play. We’d scream and laugh in delight as our parents watched their daughters’ childish sense of wonder and delight with so much love and sparkle in their eyes! Lucy, too would be jumping all around the place in the hailstone frenzy. After the pourings of the Monsoon rain at the slightest hint of the rainbow, we’d be again be out in the puddles in gumboots to catch the tadpoles and enjoy the sweet smell of the earth after the rains. When I go through the albums, I can still re-live that magnificent sense of accomplishment we used to feel when we brought those baby frogs at home.

 

As a studious girl at school, I’d also make use of the cool days to mug up the poems, “The Solitary Reaper,” “I Remember, I Remember,” “The Echoing Green.” Today, on rainy days, I sit and write prose but when I think back, I believe I learnt to appreciate the beauty of poetry and started a love affair with the Monsoon on those rain swept days. Our romance never ended! Rainy days still fill me with an extravagant sense of wonder and childlike blissfulness and still helps me rejuvenate the hum drum blues of everyday living.

 

Many years have passed and gone but in my memory, the tunes, the flavours, the feelings, the colours and the perfumes of the rainy days are still as fresh as the crystal rain droplets that are falling outside my windowpane right now. The monsoon provided sabbatical days to all those people working at home, even the gardener, and the chauffeur. My tender heart overflows with nostalgia as I can still remember the sparkle in their eyes when they, too had the luxury of staying indoors all day long, relaxing! Secretly, they must have been thankful to the Gods for the rainy days.

 

On rainy days, Mommie would write those letters as Papa devoured his books and as Lalima and Lucy made music together, I’d look outside, enraptured by Nature’s beauty and I’d sometimes think Que Sera Sera. Today, as I’m listening to the old numbers, reminiscing those rainy days in my childhood, I feel I can still go out in the rain right now, dance and sing on top of my voice with those memories gently playing on my mind, “I could have danced all night, I could have danced all night and still have begged for more. I could have spread my wings and done a thousand things I’ve never done before.”

Such is life, memories are made on rainy days!

 

 

The Milkman

-Moheindu Chemjong,

Perth, Western Australia

 

The milkman was an ugly man. Do I have the right to comment on somebody else’s looks? Maybe not. Well, I suppose equating the milkman with the adjective “ugly” was something I learnt while growing up. I was told he started bringing us milk even before I was born, some twenty years ago. Even till date, he still works as the alternate alarm clock for our family.

 

The “gwala dai” had a face full of scars, it looked like millions of pox scars on his dark face, complemented with two tiny deep-set eyes and a distorted nose. He wasn’t handsome and lacked appeal but the smile from his face never waned through the years. Those small eyes looked deep in spite of the size and they had a rather cunning twist to them. I always saw him in a traditional daura and I cannot remember seeing him without a Nepali topi. At a time when satellite telly and the internet had helped Nepalese men be heavily influenced by the western culture and when they had began to fantasize themselves as being Amrikans, gwala dai wore his daura and topi with pride. Did patriotism flow in those veins? I used to wonder. The other striking feature of him was the awful stench-combined of milk, curd, and ghee as if the whole of the Lagankhel dairy had come visit our house early mornings. Maybe it was this attribute that made him the unwelcome guest in the house. The maids got mad at him for no apparent reason, they swore at him, poor thing! The male workers looked at him with uncanny hatred as if their eyes boiling with disgust would hurt him. The gwala dai wasn’t Shah Rukh Khan or Rajesh Hamal with killer looks to give them a complex. Seriously, there was nothing fancy about him that could ever make anybody on earth feel so small. I wondered if it was those scars that made him so special, or maybe the male workers found nobody but him to laugh at, ridicule and show their power! Ha, cowardly power, signs of an insecure soul?!!

 

Well in fact the virus had caught me, too. For some unusual and unexplained reason, I had a dislike for him, too. Was I taught to despise him? I don’t know. He used to come by the house at the end of every month to collect money and varying opinions used to blast from the kitchen door, “ Your milk is no good”, “You’re a fraud”, “Better wait quietly for the money or get lost.” Nasty comments and rude remarks altogether from everybody all at the same time- had those scars turned our maids tart-tongued as if tens and dozens of sharp scissors were in their mouths? Poor gwala dai, didn’t they realize that he was made of flesh and bones? Did he get derogatory remarks at every household he visited? He wasn’t committing a crime, the gardener, the man who collected garbage also arrived at the end of every month to collect money. How come they were never the subjects of ridicule? If you looked at the servicescape, he (the service) was coming to our doorsteps, weren’t we lucky in fact? It wasn’t like where I live today where I often have to rush to the grocery in the mornings to make myself a cup of tea. Tea hardly tastes the same without the milk given by gwala dai. In the grocery I can pick a whole range of milk from low fat, skimmed, full cream, high calcium low fat in quite a few brands. I wonder how gwala dai’s milk would look all packed in cartoons and sold at department stores. Would it be called gwala dai’s home brand or by some other name that would speak for gawala dai’s persona?

 

I had heard stories of gwala dai’s sons working abroad, making mega bucks. Often the maids made this an issue and asked him why he had to charge the milk so high when his sons were rich. I could never comprehend the comments and his answers. Did resilience work for gwala dai? When did he read Deepak Chopra? Or was he a thorough gentleman who had been taught not to answer back at women? He was a regular at my place for some reason or the other though we rarely bumped into one another. One day, even when Mom decided to make a regular no more by discontinuing his service, she had been compelled not to. That morning, gwala dai had created a ruckus, a big hangama, “Madam, how can you say to me?I started bringing you milk even before Maiya was born”. Mom must have felt sorry and must have succumbed to his request.

 

Gwala dai used to live in a far-off village called Chapagaon. Whenever Dad used to take us for a drive, everyone would shout “This is Gwala dai’s village.” He used to commute long distances from Chapagaon to many places in Kathmandu on his old bicycle in the wee hours of the morning to deliver milk. From Ekantakuna to Jawalakhel and from Kupondol to New Road, almost the whole of his mornings were spent like this. Whichever house he went to, he would collect news and the latest gossip and bring it to our home. He must have been saying things about our maids and male workers, too. If there was anybody selling a piece of land, he would come over and tell my parents. He used to be adamant and till an answer was given, he would knock on the door over and over again, he used to work as a broker as a part-time business, from what I understood.

 

Gwala was okay with me. I was always busy in my own world and never bothered about him. He used to call me “Maiya” and he used to always always tell me how tall I’d grown and how cute and chubby I used to be when I was a baby. We hardly talked except for a casual hello now and then. It was on those rare occasions when I woke up before five-thirty that we had a conversation. “Maiya, people have started jogging on the Ring Road, even old folks, how come you’re sleeping till now?’ he always used to say. I can’t remember how I used to tackle that question. I am sure I was asked that question at least a hundred times. How could I explain my body clock to him? Though I often wished I could get up at four like our gwala dai and John Milton, I could never ever bring myself closer to doing that, I had given up for once and for all. And especially in the harsh, cold Kathmandu winters, no, never.

 

 

This was till I left home for overseas. In the mornings when my alarm rings, I long for a cup of beautiful Illam or Tokla tea served in bed. Of course, I don’t have either of the luxuries, I make myself Dilmah tea with Browne’s low fat milk and I miss the kind of milk I grew up drinking. Maybe I’m too accustomed to gwala dai’s milk, I sometimes dislike the smell and taste of the finest Aussie milk. I call up my sister and we laugh at the jokes on gwala dai, his scars, the unwanted visitor, his looks, this and that. “Why was he the laughing stock all the time, “she asks. How important the gwala has been to our family for so long and yet we never appreciated him. How often in the complexities of life we forget to pay tribute to the backstage actors in the play of our lives! We compose an email to Mom asking her to give him our regards. Yes, we are awaiting the reply!

 

 

 

 

Autumn Festival

-Moheindu Amiran Chemjong

 

After the tiresome floods of the monsoon season, the Gods decided to smile upon the Valley of Kathmandu with their demure suns and modest weathers. And thus, it was November, the romantic autumn month.

 

The spirit of Dashain hadn’t wanted away and the festival of Diwali was just round the bend. The serenade of festivities had reached the prelude. Marigolds were the flowers of the season and in flamboyant colours of bright orange and yellow, they had started intoxicating the entire valley with compassion and love.

 

Finally, after much wait, autumn arrived in Talchikhel, a tiny village in the royal town of Patan. The crisp chill in the mornings and evenings matched with the feelings in the hearts of the mothers who had lost their sons and daughters in war that year. The fields had started looking rather brown, sad and dim but the regular romping of the withered leaves and twigs with the gentle breeze compensated that streak of sadness.

 

Though the seasons were ready, the people of Nepal seemed unprepared for the pleasantness of Diwali. The country was at war, the soldiers and the villagers had started killing themselves. The venom of hostility and enemity was spreading across the yellowish-green highlands of a far like a rogue fire. As a result, many Nepalese hearts were paralyzed with fear, doubt and remorse. The sensitive among the lot were turning philosophical.  Many of them had by now tasted the fragility of human life and while clinging to the already broken piece of life, they had all become Buddhas in their own ways and had given up the vices that would bring them more agony.

 

In the whirlpool of the confused Nepali population, Phulmaya had now decided to live each single day as it came, with its bundles of joys and sorrows. But this year, she was overwhelmed, she felt as if her life line had been rewritten by the Lord Vrahma. The old widow lived with her daughter-in-law, Sunita and grandson, Gopal in Talchikhel. Her husband had died on a peace-keeping mission in Lebanon. The proud, Nepali son, Arjun had followed his father’s footsteps and had joined the Royal Nepalese Army, much against his mother’s wishes. The nights she had cried on her pillow in the privacy of her room came flooding back to her eyes.

 

But today, those tears for the choice of her son’s vocation were replaced by the tears of exultation for this Diwali, he was coming home. She had started counting the days of his arrival. It had been three years since Arjun had been posted to Dang, the Maoist-infected area in western Nepal. It had been awfully hard to bear the absence of her husband for Sunita but it also hadn’t been easy on Arjun’s mother’s tender heart. Heartaches, fright, confusion, nightmares and loneliness had been piling up on her mind for four years now. Year after year, she had been waiting but today, after months and years of the dismal feelings, the sun would shine again, her child would be home!

 

She was also delighted that it was the season when their big guava tree and the orange tree would bear the fruits, his favourite fruits. This coincided with their cow, Malati’s pregnancy. Everything single happening in their household pointed to prosperity and happiness. In spite of the humdrum blues of daily life and the shams of life, Phulmaya’s heart had started to flutter in anticipation. How her heart would skip beats at the arrival of her son in his military fatigue and how she’d bask in the glory that her son had decided to dedicate his life for his country. Though the autumn days had started getting shorter but with each passing day, her daydreaming became more and more consistent.

 

The preparations for the festival of lights began. Phulmaya and Sunita began cleaning the house with red clay and cow dung. They had already begun making garlands of marigold to adorn the house. They also cooked selroti, malpuwa, khir and sweets of sesame seeds. These two women who had been holding the fort for four years knew their happiness had just begun and maybe for this reason, they couldn’t stop humming melodies of Diwali! Shainla, the local minstrel who used to earn money by singing sad songs while strumming on his sarangi  also came to know about Arjun’s return.  When he came by the Thapa house some morning, he joined them in happy chords!

 

In Chapagaon, the neighbouring village, Arjun’s cousin sister, Sita also began her preparations for Bhai Tika, the auspicious day of Diwali when she would get to honour her brother, Arjun. Diwali was always the most pleasant times for the children of Talchikhel. As the days for Diwali were drawing near, their carol practice for Bhaelo and Deusi  became rigorous and they could hardly wait. The pealings of the temple bells of Tachikhel started getting louder and louder as more worshippers flocked to the temples. Today, the line of worshippers also included Phulmaya, Sunita and Gopal. They had to thank the Gods and Goddesses for what was to come… In their lives, Diwali and happiness were coming together this year!

                                                           Daddy’s girl

                                                                                         -Moheindu Amiran Chemjong

 

Like many times in this past, this time, too was I seated next to a daughter-father duo on the plane. The baby girl must have been three and it looked to me that she was very attached to her father and that her affection towards him was unmistakable. And here was I, who had just said goodbye to my Dad after the long holiday in Nepal. To make matters worse, I suppose chose an inappropriate poem the first poem on the book of poems by Gulzar I brought was about separation of a father and daughter when the daughter is married off. As I read the lines, “Something leaves my soul, something sinks in my soul, she’ll take a turn towards the rising sun, and I’ll merge in the setting sun,” a quiver ran down my spine. I remembered Dad who must have felt the same when I left him again to continue with my studies. The way he put some extra money in my hand just before I bid him goodbye and the way he looked at his daughter, the feeling could have killed me. And though, unlike the baby girl I am not three and I don’t get to cuddle up like her with her father, I am still very much Daddy’s girl even at twenty plus!

 

In the three hour flight, a lot happened on the next seats and I was kept completely glued to the twosome! There was a big ruckus when it was eating time for the baby and the Dad had to tell her a story and sing her a song while she ate. I remembered these particular lullabies Dad used to sing us when he had to put us to sleep, they are still fresh in my memory as ever! I remembered the times when we were would be anxious waiting, times when we would be unsure and scared, sad and depressed and how Dad would comfort us after which we’d again feel happy like the sunshine after the rain. The times when we all we needed us Dad’s push and we’d be able to go head in spite of all the adversities of life. Every girl, whether she’s three or thirty-three needs a Daddy! After a while, the baby girl’s lollipop got lost and she was in tears, wailing away. I also had to get up to check if it had got under my seat, her Dad looked all over for it but held her tight as she was crying away. After a while, we found the lollipop and he had to wipe her tears dry. I remember how protective our Dad is and how though we’re grown up, he cannot help remind us to be careful of the demons that might in disguise of knights! It seems no matter how old daughters are, fathers are protective after all in their hearts, and daughters are their little angels! When the baby girl went off to sleep, I started reading the poem again. But then I am so thankful to Dad for he, too believed that I will take a turn and head to the rising sun. His belief in me immense that it gives me wings to fly and soar high up in the sky! I am so grateful to him that he’s taught me to put all my faith in God, to be good and to remain a perennial optimist!  

 

There are so many times that I miss him terribly-how I long to spend time with him, be with him, share life’s stories with him and just talk to him! Since I am already so far in miles from from, for now, let me be Daddy’s girl and give him a call to let him know how much he means to me…