The tingling sensation hits my cheeks, then it gradually begins to burn. It’s a little bit like the time I was a teenager and someone said something embarrassing and my face responded in a blush. Only, it isn’t. It’s much more complex.
The tingling spreads to my forehead, it starts to itch a little, as though a stray strand of hair was irritating it. I touch it, there’s nothing. It’s just my forehead. The heat then rises from my cheeks and starts to spread across my face and then it’s a full furnace. My face burns, stings.
The first few times it happened, I assumed it was just the heat in the room.&nbsp;
For as long as I can remember, I always blush when embarrassed. My face has always turned red in packed spaces. One time, on a train, I was this close to leaning on the chest of a boy I liked, holding the handrail, my face turned towards him. Just then, I started to blush and was too distracted by it to focus on the romance.
But romance isn’t supposed to be like that. In films, scenes like that usually progress to sweeter things. In real time, there’s always reality check kicking in. I quickly become conscious of my face and the next attempt is to hide it amidst the crowd of passengers. I look away. And then mixed messages. Boy is confused.
If I were the creator of the moments in my life’s canvas, I’d draw only the pretty bits and leave out the rest. Unfortunately, that’s not how things work-- there will always be riddles and hurdles to overcome. The latest for me, has been rosacea.
The name sounds exotic, my editor said. It does. It sounds like the description of a dream of a meadow strewn with rose petals. Or something close to it. Only, it isn’t. Therefore, the lengthy lead, before I arrive at my nutgraf.
Rosacea is a skin condition. A complex one, but a common one. It causes the skin to flare-up, causing long-term redness and irritation. It can lead to enlarged blood vessels and acne-like bumps.&nbsp;
The flare-ups can be triggered by heat, sun, cold, certain foods and hot drinks, as well as stress and heightened emotions. (And there goes your chance of romance in any form! If I were writing this as a chat, I’d be using the emoji of a woman raising both her hands in the air to emote a shrug in frustration.)
I went through Covid again last month. This time, the symptoms felt more like the time I had caught the Delta strain. And at the heels of it, my face had started to flare-up, triggered by steaming. I was diagnosed with rosacea.
Reading about it online and finding out there’s no cure for it hasn’t helped. Not even celebrities can afford a cure, because there isn't one.&nbsp;
There are days when my face starts to burn and sting and goes from red to purple. Crying turns it purple. I could give Thanos a good competition!&nbsp;
I cry because there are days when I no longer know how to live with a face for a furnace. Everything fries my face, mostly, the sun.&nbsp;
I get on Zoom calls and during them, my face starts to change colour, startling my students and colleagues. No, it isn't the wrong lighting in my room-- it’s just my system rejecting certain kinds of light and mostly heat. And since the diagnosis, I’ve been walking on eggshells.&nbsp;
A friend kindly sent me a handheld fan. Occasionally, I fling it open and fan my now-red, now-bronze face, in imitation of the women I’ve only read about in the books or seen in films. While it cools my face, the activity also draws people’s attention. What’s wrong? What’s wrong?&nbsp;
Can you just not look at me? Please.
So, I’ve been to a number of dermatologists now and it all comes down to these: acceptance, gentle skin care, and avoiding triggers. Fragrance-free products (which are often more expensive than other cosmetics), broad-brimmed hats and umbrellas are my best friends. Sauna, hot baths and blow dryers are off limits.&nbsp;
Keeping my temper at bay, meditation, and a stress-free life have been recommended. But I find that I’m furious every time I see a tree being cut down, and my stream of consciousness takes over all attempts to meditate. And, I stress, therefore I am.
Recommendations are barely working.
I am a lover of light and now I must look away from the sun, incidentally, also the guy I was married to as an 11-year-old, in a bara ritual, observed by the Newa community. A friend pointed out I’m now a vampire and we tried to laugh about it. I had always thought I was a witch, where did the potions go wrong?
I’m thrilled any day I wake up and it’s cloudy. A gloomy day is gentler on my face and rain is bliss. While I’ve now accepted my condition, there’s never a time I’m not anxious about when something might trigger and cause a flare-up.&nbsp;
I’m constantly worried it will creep people out, the way it did my parents a couple of weeks ago when I had a major episode. And mostly, that it will get to the level where I have a swollen nose and constant breakouts.
When I first mentioned my new-found condition on Instagram, my friend Carla Tello, a broadcast celebrity in Peru, sent me several voice notes to help calm me down.&nbsp;
She has been following a skincare regime religiously to keep her face calm. She tries not to stress and if you look her up, she’s always smiling and making the best of all moments. And so I bear my messenger’s wisdom -- a reminder to self-care. Amen.
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

Pratibha Tuladhar

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Suburban Tales

What’s not to say about rosacea?

It was that day in January, when my heart felt the weight of everything around me that I first met Bhargavi Adhikari Mua, and something shifted about the way I had been feeling. As she walked into the premises of the Tapasthali old age home, her walking stick leading her, she became the presence-- the rest of us, audience.&nbsp; She made her way past the old women, greeting each one, making inquiries, and then ordered a set of plastic chairs to be spread across the lawn so the ladies could soak up some sun. Just before Mua arrived, I had been chatting with Chandraa Maya Ama from Solukhumbu, who told me Bhargavi Mua is shristi garne Ama, the one who creates.&nbsp; Mua founded Tapasthali in 1991.&nbsp; Chandraa Ama, she had left behind a bickering home where she was no longer wanted to move to the quiet of Tapasthali, Budanilkantha. In the summer, she walks with her friends to the nearby Rudreshwor temple every morning. Winter has brought along a changed regime: “We live slow lives. We eat, sit in the sun, sing bhajan, drink tea, sleep.”&nbsp; Tapasthali often receives visitors who bring along generous gifts to keep the kitchen warm. One Kapil Shrestha had come bearing a big bag of food for the elderly: “My son is 43 today and he lives abroad, so we wanted to bring some gifts to mark his birthday.”&nbsp; Mua thanked him and said: “The world is a mirror. You receive what you give.” Later, she turned to me and said I should visit her. …  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240204100240_becc14574ead170c99e58e578f41b1b07e82f64dddb85ea9f3c639d45e7218fd.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20240204100240_becc14574ead170c99e58e578f41b1b07e82f64dddb85ea9f3c639d45e7218fd" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Home for single older women"> <figcaption>Tea and food prepared by Bhargavi Mua.</figcaption> </figure>  I step into Bhargavi Mua’s home, where she lives by herself, and she immediately sets before me a full plate for a vegetarian-- saag, cauli, aluachar and pancake. She’s been waiting, so we can eat together. At 84, she still cooks her own meals. “I’ve never done an interview before. I don’t want that kind of attention,” Mua says. One of the pictures on the wall behind her is that of her receiving the Gorkha Dakshin Bahu medal from former King Gyanendra, in 2008. I tell her I just want to hear her story. Then follows several hours of conversation, during which she takes me back to her childhood, her youth-- several geographical and emotional landmarks.&nbsp; Mua dropped out of school at 14 to enter matrimony and become a substitute mother to her husband’s kid brothers. And that role stuck, as she moved on to raising her late daughter’s sons and became custodian to many elderly women.&nbsp; The process of securing land to build an old age home was a hard one. The energy that is Mua, she relentlessly pursued government permission, and while a land deed for the home was promised by the erstwhile government, eventually, only partial support was available.&nbsp; Just above five ropainis were first allocated and Mua had planned a home for a hundred residents from across the country. But in the succeeding years, the local government split up the property to build a community meditation centre. Mua watched as 800 saplings she had planted were bulldozed. She has had to stand up to layers of government officials to protect the home. She has even received threats. Sometimes, she has been asked for a bribe. “Why would I offer someone a bribe for a home for old, homeless women? What kind of society does that make us? Shouldn’t it be the job of the government to support those who have nowhere to go, instead?” she asks.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240204100244_e94d8befaffaecd9e3ec41f356cd1bfcaa75e36215fee25342fbe89fbca67b34.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20240204100244_e94d8befaffaecd9e3ec41f356cd1bfcaa75e36215fee25342fbe89fbca67b34" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Home for single older women"> </figure>  It was when Mua saw her childhood friend being insulted by a family member that she decided she needed to build a home for mothers who were discarded. But even before that, she had taken under her care two disabled, elderly women, who had been released from their jobs. She already knew she had picked a path.&nbsp; Simultaneously, she ran literacy classes at her home in Baluwatar for women, supporting 40 students. Her students in turn supported her first fundraiser, helping bottle pickles, which they sold to start collecting funds. “I visited individual families in my neighbourhood and said, give me one rupee in donation, but don’t send me away,” she recalls.&nbsp; This was followed by a fundraising activity in the US, where Mua was visiting her children. With the help of family and friends, she sold 150 bottles of nibuwa and khursani pickle, and managed to raise $1,500 &nbsp;which brought in the first real stash in the purse to build Tapasthali. Her enthusiasm was honoured by her (Late) husband with a 50,000 rupee top-up. And others added some more.&nbsp; Tapasthali, built block by block, can currently accommodate up to 25 residents. The amas are attended by a cook, a cleaner, a helper and a guard. Other residents are two cows, two dogs and an occasional cat. At one end of the property is the bhajan hall. The cowshed is tucked away behind the trees. Over the past thirty-three years, Tapasthali has laid to rest 28 of its residents. And while families hardly visit the waiting mothers, some bring their deceased bodies home for the funeral, so that legal requirements for property rights can be acquired. In the event that the families do not claim ownership, the committee overseeing the home ensures the last rites are performed.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240204100248_600db53c50eaa3ccb139c47ff19939075a6e8ca6b2827eccb6caa7e1cb71fcd4.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20240204100248_600db53c50eaa3ccb139c47ff19939075a6e8ca6b2827eccb6caa7e1cb71fcd4" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Home for single older women"> </figure>  Sushila Ama, an orphan, had spent all her life working as domestic help, until she started to age. When her employers were selling their cows to Tapasthali, they asked if she could also be taken in. In late 50s now, she is one of the residents, but is also paid a salary for caring for the cows. During my walks, sometimes, I see her by the clumps of trees, gathering fodder. She smiles, sometimes slaps my face and says, mero ghar aunu. Come visit my home.&nbsp; “Most mothers become unwanted when they no longer serve a purpose at home. And that’s why we need to do something. We must find joy in serving. That’s what my parents taught me,” Mua says. Only two residents are currently eligible for the senior citizen stipend. The rest, either they do not have citizenship or lack paperwork for their stipends to be transferred to Budanilkantha municipality.&nbsp; “We need some sort of financial aid to fall back on as we age, you know?” Mua says. “Women toil all our lives, only to be discarded when we age.” Then she asks me what I’m going to do with my single life. Stay single, I say. Or maybe I will go live at Tapasthali, someday. “Kathai!” she takes my hands in hers. “If you meet a like-minded man, you should marry. Otherwise, adopt a child. A girl. You’ll have a friend when you’re old. You don’t need a man’s money. You’re enough.”

Mother, who creates

“Someone said curation is a generous act, and I said, no it’s a selfish act. I took so much from all of you!” Bunu Dhungana tells me over the phone while sipping her coffee at a borrowing bookstore in Delhi. When Bunu, who I’ve only known from a distance as an artist, reached out to me in August asking me to write something for her exhibit, I greeted her with surprise. No one had asked me before to be part of a collective. So, there was me who had never written for an exhibit before and there was Bunu who had never curated solo before. “Curation is an extension of my work,” Bunu explains. For her exhibition, she left the word “Mother” with a group of artists she had chosen, to see what they would come up with. During my two-month deadline, we embraced silence while thoughts simmered. As an artist herself, Bunu was highly interested in the process. And for me, who has never really had a tangible writing process, I didn’t have much to show her as the process, besides some images of my mother and brief notes on my phone. The process of creating is varied and subjective. Some days, it feels like the whole process is a slow-drawn retch-- a purgation of sorts.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024010714018_8a0f1f9ef66b079c56e2e840fafd77ab9bef7bc0155a2ac4db39f61331d8ea94.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2024010714018_8a0f1f9ef66b079c56e2e840fafd77ab9bef7bc0155a2ac4db39f61331d8ea94" data-rendition-name="original" width="717" height="596" loading="lazy" alt="Binu Dhungana"> <figcaption>Bunu Dhungana at the exhibit. Photo: UJJWALA MAHARJAN</figcaption> </figure>  In retrospect, the procedure for this piece was just Bunu waiting patiently and quietly, while I thought. Even as an insular writer, I have always sought an audience. And Bunu was creating that for me and all the other artists she was working with. The larger exhibition, A matter of time, with Bunu’s curation titled Somethings in the Belly, brought together works by Asmita Badi, Ayushma Regmi, Irina Giri, Shradha Devkota, Tripty Tamang Pakhrin, Shristi Shrestha, Ujjwala Maharjan and yours truly. “I have done work on mother-daughter relationships before. And one night it came to me-- why don’t I ask people to respond to the word?” And so Bunu churned a cauldron of the term “Mother” for the bunch of us, so we would cast spells over ourselves to awaken memories related to our origin, sifting through the trappings of time.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240107140112_921b9f5d5e34b54343e1e597e0230c9255aa96e5d23b99c6ebb98cba0ba774f9.png" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20240107140112_921b9f5d5e34b54343e1e597e0230c9255aa96e5d23b99c6ebb98cba0ba774f9" data-rendition-name="original" width="756" height="1046" loading="lazy" alt="A matter of time exhibition"> </figure>  Somethings in the Belly brings together a set of different mediums in the form of poems, short stories, letters, paintings, sounds and images. La.Lit’s These fine lines anthology of poetry was part of the curation guide for Bunu, so some of us in the collective had already appeared together before. Juxtaposed in the form of mixed genres of work, each strand in Somethings in the Belly reminds us about our existence, as it takes us back to the womb where we took form. The gestation is always ugly and often painful and so is the process of thinking about our mothers-- we inherit her suffering. Ayushma articulates the sentiment in one of her letters: 'So far we have perpetuated the suffering inherited from I don’t know how many generations of mothers who always kept every trauma locked in their wombs, only to birth them out in the form of their own children.' So, there we were, eight women, each transcribing our feelings for our mothers in our own ways. Ayushma embraced the simple yet intense epistolary format. Asmita did it in the form of a poem written/performed for her mother (translated into English by Prawin Adhikari). Ujjwala did it as performance poetry, standing in a courtyard, speaking of unspeakable things. Shradha put together seamless embroidery. Irina composed sound sequences guided by poetry. Tripti made images of her mothers. Shristi painted the intimate in Gouache. I wrote anecdotes about my mother and thought: our mothers bring us into this world but the only way we can bring them into the world is by offering our words or work. From the start, Bunu envisioned the exhibit as a process rather than an output. “We are so obsessed with output that it stops us sometimes. We have to let go of the idea of perfection.” Her first curation experience has been one filled with learning. She had started out, bordering on distrust, wondering if she would be able to do it. She didn’t know where to start, but once she put up the first work, it all came together like many narratives converging. The works are summed up in a catalogue where they are labelled, and artists identified. But at the exhibit space in Delhi, Bunu had a circle going-- like the womb-- where works were put up without the names of artists. “People were a bit thrown off by the fact that there were no names, but we wanted it to be a collective experience.” While she worked with each artist individually, she likes to call it a collective. “I liked being in process with you all individually. When I put it together, it felt like a collective-- the thread that connects all of you even though you were making work individually.” Bunu says that Somethings in the Belly collective has responded to her intrigue over the word “mother” in ways unexpected: “All of you gave it your interpretation and your work. My understanding was limited and my own thinking expanded beyond my own obsession, to hear you all.” Somewhere along the way, perhaps those of us who were part of her curation also felt freed to move on to the next stage of our lives from wounds we had been cradling over the years. Perhaps dwelling on the being of our mothers was a way of becoming all over again? “Now I realise why people do art exhibitions. Even if it is temporary. The process is beautiful,” Bunu says as she finishes her coffee, and we prepare to hang up. (Bunu plans to bring the exhibition home to Kathmandu in 2024. Somethings in the Belly was part of her fellowship for A matter of time, exhibited at India International Centre, New Delhi from 13-19 December 2023.)

Our mothers’ silences

When Kalpana first held hands with her future husband, her mind drifted from across the flat fields of her home town to the wide streets of Kathmandu, which was soon to be her new home. She stood up, looked at his face and smiled, the wheat-packed belly of the field spread behind him looked like a golden curtain and she wished they could have a photo taken of that moment. She thought, maybe a new phone with a good camera will be possible in Kathmandu and I can post lots of pictures on Facebook.
A year since that moment, Kalpana finds herself in the enclosed room of a certain parlour in Kathmandu. No, she isn’t getting her eyebrows done and neither is she getting a haircut. It is where she works now. Ten to Five.
“The working hours are not so bad, actually,” she says at first. “The money is not that great, but my employer says there will be tips.”
In her hometown, Kalpana had trained to peel eyebrows using thread, to heat wax in tin containers and pull them off with cloth strips and to massage the face and shoulders of women as they lay down for a facial session. Her friends had advised it was the best skill to pick before heading to Kathmandu. “Easy to find jobs,” they had said. “And if you’re going to go abroad, even better. Women do really well at beauty parlours.”
Now in Kathmandu, Kalpana finds that things run contrary to the narrative she had heard on repeat back home.
She had spent a few weeks in Kathmandu visiting relatives as a child and so of course she knew the city. But the Kathmandu that met her in her guise as an adult has felt distant, claustrophobic and indifferent. Bus rides are no longer breezy, but an ordeal. She struggles to find space to even stand without being crushed by other passengers most days. The feeling is packed with familiarity and yet it is alarming with someone’s elbow going over her face, some crotch pressed to her side and someone’s garlic breath upon her hair. Sometimes, during bus rides she shuts her eyes until the conductor shouts: Balaju! Balaju!
Five thousand rupees a month. The vermin! Kalpana sighs throughout bus rides.
In the first few weeks at the parlour, work seemed like a place to hang out with other women, gossip, eat buff momo for a hundred and fifty rupees once a week. Mostly, a bowl of spicy WaiWai with chana for sixty rupees. Kalpana found her feelings bordering on a familiar excitement, like the one she felt during her school days, when stealing moments away with her childhood friends.
Within less than two months of work at the parlour, Kalpana says her duties soon began to evolve. The owner lady told her that business was slow and shutters were coming down in the city and she had to think of a way to keep it going. She said she would either have to sell the place or reinvent.
Kalpana had worried at that time that selling the business would mean she would be laid off. The three thousand rupees a month that she was able to save after paying for bus fare and khaja would be gone. These days, she sometimes wishes the owner lady had actually sold or closed down her business. That didn’t happen, of course.
Her employer quickly turned things round. She added a sign to the business saying “massage”. And the high beds they were formerly using to provide facial services soon turned into massage tables. The lady took turns training all three girls who worked alongside Kalpana, showing them where to press, where to apply force, where to knead, where to rub and where to roll.
In her new role as a masseuse, Kalpana sometimes finds that the persons she is assisting are no longer just women. There are sometimes men-- often, pot-bellied, middle-aged men who come in quietly and leave in a shuffle.
“One time, this man asked me for an inappropriate kind of service and I didn’t know if I was mad or frightened. I walked out of the room and called Didi. But Didi said some clients are hard to please and she replaced me for the rest of the session.”
Kalpana’s hands are tiny, like those of a schoolgirl and one cannot imagine how such small hands could even cover the span of a calf or work their way across the spine. Tiny hands.
“My husband doesn’t know. He still thinks this is a parlour, which it is, too. He might kill me if he knows I’ve been working as a masseuse also. Marnu huncha. If I could find another job, I’d leave. Even as house help.”
Some days I think I’ll wake up one morning, leave for work, get on the bus from Balaju and just keep going, fall asleep on the bus, buy some badam and suntala, eat them on the bus, then sleep again and go back home at six. They would never know, right? I mean, until the money runs out?”
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

Warm my hands

Chandraa had to be carried down the hillside on a makeshift stretcher, as she went into labour. The pain she experienced at the time wasn’t taken away by the bright blueness of the October sky above her or the singing of the birds on the trees. As the men hurried her down the hillside on the stretcher, the jolts they made, only made her pain worse. She wondered if she would make it to hospital on time or if like her friend, Sukundara, she too would end up giving birth to her baby in a boat. She decided that to drip into the Begnas through the boat was not going to be her fate. And in response, her water broke as they scurried downhill and they halted and the women crouched beside her to help her and there, in the middle of the forest, in the Begnas valley, Chandraa’s daughter was born. “She’s 16 now and she’s in class ten,” Chandraa says. “My son is 12 now and he was born in the hospital. I wasn’t going to risk birthing in a forest the second time.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20231105121156_36d1aa692742ad68e05029c77c5bfd361557dc2fc739ba3376f6d97cc9758e6c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20231105121156_36d1aa692742ad68e05029c77c5bfd361557dc2fc739ba3376f6d97cc9758e6c" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Begnas Lake"> </figure>  The oars push into the water and away as Chandraa works her way across the lake. “You tell me where you want to go and I’ll take you there,” she says. I ask her to row closer to the thicket and we drift along the edge of the lake where the shore meets the forest— we’re far out in a deserted corner. No other boats in sight, it’s Chandraa and I, and the cicadas, at their loudest. A dragon fly perches on the oar and she pauses briefly, lets it alight on a bundle of grass parked on the side of the boat, and then rows again. “I don’t want my children to have to work as hard as I have had to and so they’re both going to go to college and work in offices,” she says. And so, Chandraa takes up extra work when it is available. She explains how rare a ride is during low-season, and that while she charges 800 per ride, she only gets to pocket 200. I ask if she spends some of that money on herself. “On my children,” she says. Chandraa is a full-time farmer, but on days when the field work is wrapped up, she picks her bag, umbrella and her hat, and sets downhill to the lake, in the hope of finding a tourist to ferry around. “This is easier than field work and sometimes I meet nice people who like to talk and ask questions,” Chandraa says. But the conversation quickly turns and she starts to dart questions at me. “What happened to your hair, madam?” she asks. Old age, I say. She laughs: “I can’t tell if you coloured your hair or if you’re really old.”&nbsp; I am old. We laugh some more.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2023110513110_0f83af6a9a6ac5eb3207c727d78ca9098820cf8e121fb0e16d4c59ae7838480e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="2023110513110_0f83af6a9a6ac5eb3207c727d78ca9098820cf8e121fb0e16d4c59ae7838480e" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Begnas Lake"> </figure>  … Januka joins me on the park bench by the lake. “It is impossible,” she sighs. “They all owe me money and say they can only pay me tomorrow. And now I have no money.” At first, it sounds as though she’s talking to herself, but I soon notice it is directed at anyone who will sympathise. Once she is done settling her twin flasks on the bench, she looks at me and smiles. “Are you selling tea?” I ask. She says: “Yes. But I have run out of tea today.”&nbsp; By this time, I’m holding out some money in her direction. She looks at the money, smiles and shakes her head. No more tea. I make an offer: “How about you keep the money for two cups of tea and my friend and I will meet you here tomorrow so you can give us some tea.” She stares at the notes for a while and then takes them from me and repeatedly says: “Please make sure to come by tomorrow.”&nbsp; It is after two days that I am finally able to launch Mission Januka and scour the lakeside for her. When I finally run into her again, she’s sitting in a dark patch by the lake, under a tree, handing out teas in paper cups. Eh, she says when she sees me: “Why didn’t you come the other day? Right right, the storm! It lasted two days, no?” “Where’s your friend?” She tilts her head to check as though she were expecting someone to emerge from behind me. It’s just me, I say. Januka pulls out a paper cup, uncorks her thermos and pours me a cup of tea. The wind has started to gather around us again and we both have hair flapping across our faces. “It’s crazy weather again, no?”&nbsp; “Yes, makes me think of the year we had the earthquake,” she responds. “That’s right. My family is from near Barpak and we moved here after the earthquake. I go to school here now.” Januka says she makes around 400 rupees a day selling tea after school. “It’s not much, but the work is easy and the money is useful,” she says. I ask if it is safe for her to walk home at night. Januka explains there are other vendors like herself and they usually wait for everyone to finish the sales and walk back together to their rented rooms. I close my fingers over the paper cup. The liquid is warm against my hands. It begins to pitter-patter. I’ll head to my hotel now, I say. “Will you be safe walking alone, madam?” Januka asks me. “If you’re safe, I’m safe, I guess.” We exchange smiles. Hers is the smile of a child, awkward but generous. Almost suddenly, I’m filled with a sense of joy that only a cup of sweet, fragrant tea could have brought me on a rainy evening. I sip the tea and walk on in the drizzle, talking to random street dogs and thinking about Januka counting her money at the end of each day.

Two women in a boat and some tea

In an English city, my aunt had learned to call home, it was the pursuit of familiarity that really gave her the purpose to stay. One weekend, she sat on the stairs, making frantic calls. My uncle punched numbers on his Nokia cell phone. Where? What time? Are tickets available? They echoed one another. Both were trying to book tickets for the only screening of Bollywood’s <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0420332/">Veer Zara</a>, in a city near us.
My cousins and me, we waited with bated breath. This would be an opportunity to watch a Bollywood film on the big screen. In the early-2000s, screening of Bollywood in the cinemas had not yet become a thing in England, so South Asians would organise their own screenings.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/light-of-the-absurd">Light of the absurd</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
Tickets were finally booked and we rushed out, thrusting our arms through our coats as we hastily locked the door behind us. “This is as far as Nagarkot is from Kathmandu,” my uncle said aloud, as he drove. Would we have covered the same distance to go watch a “Hindi” film in Kathmandu? Probably not. But in the UK, we did, racing towards a collective, South Asian sentiment.
When we arrived, the theatre premise was packed with Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis and Nepalis. Immediately, there was the relaxing of the muscles you experience in the presence of the familiar.
Probably among the last people to buy the tickets, ours weren’t the best seats. We were on the very first row, and for the rest of the show, we would tilt our head up towards the screen, as though clamouring for some love, while the actors would virtually breathe down our necks.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/memory-of-a-conversation">Memory of as conversation</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
We weren’t the only ones with bad seats. Some in the audience had been accommodated on make-shift chairs. The auditorium was packed all the way to the exit.
As <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0451321/?ref_=tt_ov_st">Shah Rukh Khan</a> rescued <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0006689/?ref_=tt_ov_st">Priety Zinta</a> by slinging on a chopper, I remember flinching in my seat, as though they would fall on my face. A Nepali family friend, Mahesh Mahaseth, who happened to be sitting next to me, nudged and laughed at me when tears ran down my face as the India-Pakistan romance transpired. I remember thinking at that time how cruel-South-Asian-male that behaviour was-- teasing a girl in tears.
Even as my dislike for Shah Rukh Khan (SRK) continued to build-up, I joined other women and girls in the audience and cried during all the sad scenes. The men cleared their throat. And although it seemed like SRK was demonstrating that it is okay for men to weep, to be vulnerable and heartbroken, that precedent wasn’t quite set off screen.
Regardless, we all went home purged. Post-catharsis.
…
For many South Asian women, SRK is religion, said my friend Ayub, and sent me a snapshot of the book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Desperately-Seeking-Shah-Rukh-Independence/dp/9354891934">Desperately Seeking Shah Rukh by Shrayana Bhattacharya</a>. Ayub described SRK as “the resilient embodiment of liberalism.” I asked him to elaborate and we ended up hate-watching <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt15354916/">Jawan</a>. (Was he a convert by the end of the film? He might answer that in a separate article.)
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/the-light-of-feet">The light of feet</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
I cannot remember the last time I watched a Bollywood movie in the theatre. So, when the audience cheered and clapped every time SRK dismantled a bad guy, I was surprised. And while the audience responded in euphoria, I found that I was quickly disassociating: what was this film beyond a family drama steeped in violence, a revenge tragedy interlude, and family reunion with the Robin Hood of a son, all woven into the narrative of vindication of geopolitics? But the show was house-full and parents had their toddlers in tow.
There are no sanitised versions of the world here, for children.
“I was not expecting so much crowd for a Bollywood masala movie. I was surprised to be honest,” Hashim Ahmad Hakeem, video producer from India, who went to the film’s screening in Kathmandu with friends from South Asia, told me. “It was amazing bonding over the movie and realising most of us have grown up in the same Bollywood cinema.”
Hakeem was participating in the Adenauer Media Leaders Academy in Kathmandu. On the sidelines of the event, one of the things the fellows did together was watch Jawan.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/of-anger-and-love">Of anger and love</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
“I watched it because Bollywood movies are banned in Pakistani cinemas. Secondly, I wanted to watch with fellows from other countries, specifically India as they are very much enthusiastic about Shah Rukh Khan. So, I enjoyed their cheering more than the movie,” says Abbass Raza, an aspiring journalist from Pakistan.
For many South Asians, Bollywood movies are about coming home to culture and language they can relate to.
“Honestly, this will always be memorable,” says Navneeta Nandan, journalist with The Economic Times. “It signifies the strength of art. We can be geographically apart but this can always be something that will keep us connected- cinema, music from different countries.”
…
On a certain terrace restaurant in the heart of Kathmandu, a friend from Pakistan and I get talking about architecture and end up discussing Pakistani teleserials. In the 80s, Nepal Television used to broadcast Pakistani series as an endorsement of its friendly relations with Pakistan. Some viewers at the time, even named their children after their favourite characters.
My aunt who lives in an English city, which has become her home, still binges on Pakistani series and records Indian serials. In the solitude of a foreign land, content in languages she can speak have always been her friends.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/a-letter-to-a-sister">A letter to a sister</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
Soap operas were created for housewives, who would watch them after putting their day’s work to rest, as though visiting old friends in the emptiness of their days. While on weekends husband and children filled the hours, on weekdays, they would go back to conversing with their virtual friends: women who sometimes did not represent their reality, and sometimes, offered them the comfort of heroism.
At my request, my friend from Pakistan shared a very long list of recommended Pakistani dramas. I forwarded it to my aunt. And here’s what she wrote back: Thank you, chhori. I have watched ALL of them! :)

Navigating invisible borders

I unwrap The Public Life of Women, A Feminist Memory Project, and then slide the book out of its maroon case. An olive photo book with black pages reveals itself to me. My palms and fingers close around it in an embrace, the texture of a book always tells you something. I flip through the pages and want to turn to the only other person on the terrace-pub, a stylishly-dressed young woman, to say: What a gorgeous, wholesome book! Flipping through the pages, I am swept by gratitude for the women who came before us, for making sitting alone in public places in Nepal possible for women. When my friend shows up, I nudge the book in her direction. She says: “The white letters against black pages are symbolic, like light in the dark, showing us the way forward.” Valentina Abenavoli’s aesthetics will not just pass you by — the design carries the depth of the content, even if the book might need a stronger binding. This collection by Nepal Picture Library is based on an archival campaign representing women from all &nbsp;backgrounds from all over Nepal. The acknowledgement, as acknowledgement should be, is generous and not at all rushed. Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/feminist-prints">Feminist prints</a>, Monika Deupala &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;…  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230903030940_1c791ae4eba749940e0373ea3a992ca6e1b436d440bbee7b74cee87850e6adc0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20230903030940_1c791ae4eba749940e0373ea3a992ca6e1b436d440bbee7b74cee87850e6adc0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1065" height="710" loading="lazy" alt="Feminist project NT"> </figure>  Mamu receives the book, flips through it and says: “This is the book for every Nepali woman. Many thanks to whoever made this.” She sits down at the dining table and starts turning the pages right away. She pauses at the photo of urban Nepali women in Moscow in 1963. Yes, they did represent a certain class of Nepali society. Still, it makes me wonder if my mother, growing up, gained hope from women like them. And even though she has spent her own life in and around the kitchen, perhaps knowing that there were women out there, who were trying, gave her hope for her unborn daughters? The thought makes me weep. I wish Mamu had a moment like Prativa Subedi, standing coy of the ocean in a 1994 image, a reminder of The Awakening by Kate Chopin. “We will save the book for my unborn daughters,” I say. Mamu nods. Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/comment/coping-with-patriarchy">Coping with patriarchy</a>, Bhumi Ghimire &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;…  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230903030940_f05d136605b0771f07a63f7bb398868c54f9d6a96f0d3cce0abeec6382785184.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20230903030940_f05d136605b0771f07a63f7bb398868c54f9d6a96f0d3cce0abeec6382785184" data-rendition-name="original" width="1065" height="710" loading="lazy" alt="Feminist project NT"> </figure>  Throughout history invisible lines have been drawn around women. This book is about those who have taken us beyond those lines. The first images in the book are of women at public events. Strangers stare back from the images. They feel familiar, because which woman is not &nbsp;familiar to another? They were women who cooked and cleaned alongside their public or political lives. Some operated as flag bearers for the men they loved. Long after I have put the book down, the image lingers of Rashmi Shah pillion riding on a motorbike with her husband, and her poem where red becomes the colour of revolution, the colour that binds them. The book is a collage of arrested moments in some stranger’s camera or perhaps that of acquaintances, mostly male. It is a representation of the gaze, all of them very different from one another, just as the women we see in the images, who tried to change the idea of belonging in class or caste. Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/memory-of-a-conversation">Memory of a conversation</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230903030940_69399aa9662bb1ad09cd1241de5b341f288a1aa33c2a31c09f667bb700dcaab9.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20230903030940_69399aa9662bb1ad09cd1241de5b341f288a1aa33c2a31c09f667bb700dcaab9" data-rendition-name="original" width="1440" height="1440" loading="lazy" alt="Feminist project NT"> </figure>  Sushila Shrestha’s ‘party marriage’ to Ashok Rai, which breaks the social convention is one such example, where marriage is also a political project. There is also mention of an ‘arrest warrant’ but no details divulged, making Shrestha’s story one of the many incomplete anecdotes in the book.&nbsp; Shanta Manavi is also ‘compelled’ to work as an underground operative after she met Modnath Prasrit in Banaras. And the un-captioned mugshots collected by Parijat and Punaya Prabha Devi Dhungana. So, they become an enigma. In the mystery of the intersection of the private and the political, are the very public images of Nani Maiya Dahal at the election victory rally in 1981. The photos are probably the first such we see of a woman leader woven into the fabric of her supporters. They depict what Nepal might have had to offer to its women politicians.&nbsp; Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/are-women-not-nepali-enough">Are women not Nepali enough?</a>, Sahina Shrestha  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230903030940_213ab8ef0355e04cd5ea95b42d87182e5debeb8602a2613527a74b733626e8a1.jpg" data-media-id="editor_7" data-image-id="20230903030940_213ab8ef0355e04cd5ea95b42d87182e5debeb8602a2613527a74b733626e8a1" data-rendition-name="original" width="1066" height="711" loading="lazy" alt="Feminist project NT"> </figure>  And yet, their political careers have always been short-lived, mostly oligarchic in nature, many of them operating from backstage, emerging time and again and then, exeunt. Women are beautiful. And the most beautiful are those who have fought like images of the Tharu women from Karjahi of Dang who led the peasants’ revolt in 1980 against local landlords. We shine brightest when it is dark. The photos of women in education are the most important for obvious reasons -- they trace the trajectory to women’s becoming. There is the fierceness of conviction in Chandra Malla establishing a school for girls in Makhan, circa 1935. Two high school teachers in Tehrathum in 1970: something remarkable about the light in their eyes. Female students prepare for Kathmandu education in an image from Doti in 1966. Little girls stand around them, watching, a moment so familiar to me. Seeing my Nini go to TU as a child was how I first decided that someday, I too would go to university.&nbsp; Images of ladies’ handbags and shoes and no-shoes are representations of status and economic independence.The book is more than just images, it is a repository of scraps and letters, articles, interviews, records, copies, journals, and notes and legal documents tucked in neatly, each revealing something about lives known and unknown. The images are flanked by texts in both English and Nepali, the Nepali version reads better and provides better context. Read also: <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=17426">Singing of sorrow</a>, Indu Nepal  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230903030936_fb05a4c2314c5f2545bf1b5b0507006f35c8fe3c52e06c4435746d44190ba41a.png" data-media-id="editor_9" data-image-id="20230903030936_fb05a4c2314c5f2545bf1b5b0507006f35c8fe3c52e06c4435746d44190ba41a" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Feminist project NT"> </figure>  The book follows no chronology, but segments act like the stream of consciousness, flowing from one thing that stands out to another. Some recent photos appear in black and white, as if to give them a dated feel. Probably aesthetics. So many lives: their aspirations, suffering, dreams, period cramps, menopausal mood swings. Who knows what they were experiencing at the time they were facing the camera. It is as much for the audience to feel as for the subjects of the images. Like Nayantara Gurung Kakshapati says in the curator’s conversation section, where one is in their lives when they engage with the images impacts how one interacts with images. And she raises an important question: What about those who were not photographed? More archiving, then? Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/making-nepal-s-history-colourful">Making Nepal’s history colourful</a>

Pictures of women taking pictures

That’s right! Let’s not talk about Barbie but its patrons, the audience. Why? Because that’s where the real story lies.
My sister is a Barbie patron. Or at least she was, growing up. Now, I can’t exactly remember how Barbie came to be in our family, but my sister had one. It came in a pink box, see-through on the front, and had a set of belongings including a green hairbrush (which stayed stashed among her things long after the doll was gone).
I imagine my sister must have pestered my parents until she got a Barbie. Her friends owned the doll and the TV advert crooned between soaps my mother watched: Hey babe, Barbie!
I imagine too, that it must have been my Nini, who exported the Barbie to my sister. It was quite the centre of my sister’s attention for a long time-- an answer to a middle-class girl’s prayer for the doll of her choice. She’s been the only person in our home who has ever owned a Barbie (interestingly, my brother had a Ken, but he didn’t need it beyond a day).
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/memory-of-a-conversation">Memory of a conversation</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
When I was growing up, Barbies must have been beyond my parents’ means, and so I had instead, the likes of: a dog and a bear and a big baby boy, the size of an infant, who would laugh if you pressed his tummy. Now, why were little girls given babies as toys, I have never understood. It does seem like a cuteness-coated euphemism to nourish the “nurturer” in little girls, as the film also mentions.
I don’t remember having much to do with my toys, however. I think I was more obsessed with collecting marbles of all colours even if I never won a game. And I was pretty good at jackstones. So, something like a Barbie would have had no place in my daily. When my sister obsessed over her doll, I couldn’t really relate. She even went to the extent of having my aunt sew sequined dresses, and knit a jumper for Barbie. And so, when <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1517268/">the film</a> released, she had to go!
As we headed into the theatre, we started to get hit by splotches of pink. First, a couple of girls, headed the same way as us, dressed in pink. Then, by the time we got to the popcorn stand, there was a steady flow of excited audience in pink jumpsuits, fuchsia minis, pale pink shirts and skirts, dirty pink shrugs and bright pink scarves and scrunchies to validate coloured dresses. I thought I had imagined the colour code, until I was steeped in a sea of the pink army.
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/a-letter-to-a-sister">A letter to a sister</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
At the pop-corn queue, I struck a conversation with my fellow Barbie goers: So, you played with Barbie, when you were little? Most of the girls asked: Hajur? I said: Barbie. They chorused: Oh, the doll? Yes, of course!
I sauntered around, throwing the same question at more girls, and they all said, yes.
Inside the theatre, my companion by my right elbow was a woman in her 30s, who had come to watch the film on her own. She showed signs that the matinee show was the perfect hour of escape for her. She enjoyed a full tray of nachos, popcorn and coke as she laughed at the slapstick bits between stuffing her cheeks. (Like me, if you too are into going to the movies alone, you are familiar with the catharsis this woman experienced!) I am from Biratnagar, she shared during intermission. “I couldn’t wait to watch this!”
When <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm3053338/?ref_=tt_cl_t_1">Margot Robbie</a> made her first appearance, the audience clamoured. <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0331516/">Ryan Gosling</a> skated, sighed and grooved and the clamouring got louder. The film went quickly from being a corporate capitalism epiphany to a battle between the sexes, as real life relationship terms got endorsed: long-distance commitment-casual!
There were many moments when the audience hummed and cheered as a collective force and I remember thinking-- this is what it must mean to be young! When America Ferrera delivered her monologue about the patriarchy, girls brought their palms together. Interestingly, the monologue might as well have been a soliloquy, because to each woman the battle is hers alone. Or does delivering it amidst glamorised dreamy hues do something to carry the message to the masses, even if temporary?
So, who is Barbie then, I wondered? Is she Ruth Stalker’s attempt to immortalise her daughter’s name? Or is it <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm1950086/?ref_=tt_ov_wr">Greta Gerwig</a>, one of the best directors of our day, doing Mattel’s bidding by showcasing political correctness to the world? Is Barbie every woman, as the film attempts to portray: “Mothers stand still so they can see how far their daughters can come,” Ruth tells Barbie, who is as much her baby as her own daughter Barbara.
We also hear Barbie say: I want to be an imagining and not an idea. And yes, the world created by a toy can be limitless, but it also means something different to every single child, as the interaction is influenced by colour, nationality and class.
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/vagina-conversations">Vagina conversations</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
As we stepped outside the theatre, I asked my sister what had happened to her Barbie. She grinned: Remember the haircut? Eventually, she became dismembered and went into the trash. I nodded in disapproval as Kate McKinnon’s cropped hair and wacky outfit as Weird Barbie suddenly made sense to me.
At the parking lot, we ran into transgender activist Angel Lama. I asked her what she thought. She said: it’s a lot for me to process. And did she have a Barbie growing up? She said no.
I hopped behind my sister on her scooter and we hit the road, straddling our middle-class dreams after being transported back to reality from our willing suspension of disbelief in Barbieland.

Let’s not Barbie

a cat
The cat doesn’t know you love him. Or that you are about to unlove.
So what does the cat do? Alights on the window sill, insists you let him in, because when he wants to be let in, he wants to be let in. And there you are by the kitchen window, one arm akimbo and the other lifted up in the air, wagging a finger at him.
Should you open the window to let him in or be still and watch until he leaves? But that moment of him leaving is the point that will break your heart. And it is that moment you must avoid seeing. And so the urge to avoid seeing that scene translates into the urgency of throwing him out. The kitchen window will have to remain shut-- not allowing in is tantamount to throwing out.
That cat is a murderer! Baa says.
And as if to prove Baa’s point, the next morning, the cat brings you a dead sparrow and plops it on the doormat. Meow, he says. Here. You cannot hunt and so I must, for you.
You stare in horror at the dead bird. Throw the cat out, they all shout.
You remove his bed from the back porch temporarily, but retrieve it at night and check several times to see if he has returned. You wonder if you will ever see the cat again.
In the morning, a dead baby mole is lying still at the threshold. You shriek and the cat leaps down from the wall and says: Meow!
Days become punctuated with the gory paraphernalia of dead birds and rodents. The voices become louder. Throw that cat out!
On a stormy night, you wait and wonder-- did the feline get stranded? Every day becomes a wait. If you fall in love with a cat, you must suffer, they say.
Then one day, he shows up, wraps his long body against your ankles the way fog clings to trees. The cat thinks you’re the toy. You exist because he does. When he is bored, he walks out of the back porch into the street, hops on to the house on the other side. And it is another night of waiting for you.
It is sometimes days before the cat decides to return. Once in a while, during his absence, other ferals show up. They all look like him. Tabby. Stealthy. Moody. Graceful. They all moan when they are at their favourite meal. Like nursing babies. Then, suddenly leave.
You aren’t even a feline person, Baa says. Why are you letting him stay? Get a dog instead!
But you know I am a dog widow, I insist. I am not ready for a dog yet.
And you are for a cat? Cats never love you back. Remember that, he says.
I know. I know. It’s not like I love Babu Bagh.
Babu what? Now he has a name? More like Murder Meow-- going around killing the birds. And what is with the rice grains you leave out for the birds? Are you trying to bait them for your cat?
He is NOT my cat! I don’t even like cats. I am a canine person!
You dump his bed in the trash once again, remove the water and the food bowls. You must prepare to forget. Cats are too independent. They cannot be owned. You must prepare to unlove.
You get the boiled chicken out from the fridge and ladle it out to the community dogs. Community dogs being dogs, are grateful. They wag their tails, their eyes beam and they gobble the food down. They boop at your knees and strut alongside you during evening walks. You pat their head, cup their face in your palms and speak in gibberish baby talk. They let you hug them. And it feels like home. Home is familiarity.
When you’re back from the walk, you get a glass of water and your muscle memory draws you to the back porch. There’s no cat there.
a man
Strip your heart of love, replace body parts he touched, delete photographs from albums. If they reappear on other platforms, delete again. Remove from trash. Wipe out strands of night where his voice hangs in the air like lingering light. Snap your synapses to get rid of the bits in where he appears to have shown up from a childhood memory. These memories will happen on repeat, so repeat action each time.
Delete old emails, empty chat boxes, get rid of all stories he wrote, unlearn every poem. This means undoing the rhythm that sets your heart in motion. Erase him from the memory of your reproductive system. Layer up on antibiotics, ensure a clear cervix, wipe clean the memories of first flutter by the navel— tell the reproductive system to get a new memory. Forget.
Block him on all apps. Check again to make sure. Unblock to see if he has reappeared and then block again. Remove chunks of years. Unspool the feel of the contact of your fingers with his hair, even if only imaginary. Stop twirling your fingers even in imagination, let go of those tresses. Pause at the temple and retract fingers. Detach. Disengage.
Imagine you never saw his toes. And if they did curl to your touch, look the other way when you see feet that resemble his. Suck in some cool monsoon air and the drumming up of the rain’s rhythm but let go of that rhythm. 
Fill those crevices inside you with tarmac so no cavities are gaping open waiting to be filled again with the outpourings of life. No longer remind yourself that the expanding of his sternum at the sight of you was the same as your clavicle rising and falling.
Breathe— but release.
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

How to unlove…

Dearest Miti,
The past few weeks were spent with my face buried in your book. And something about lolling with a book in a bed lit by the sun, reminded me of your room in Ganeshbasti. You remember how the patterned, frosted glass on the window trapped sunlight, like we were inches away from being singed?&nbsp;
We spent hours on your bed chatting, reading and sometimes sleeping, limbs piled up in a bunch, while the Usha fan hummed above us, and then woke up to Rita’s very sweet, condensed tea.
Our homes were different. Even in how we drank teas. At mine, tea was less milky, with a faint hint of sugar.
At your place, the bed was the communion. If not yours, we would be sitting on M Auntie’s, chatting, drinking tea and listening to her “blasphemous” ideas about the gods-- Ram was a wife-beater and Bishnu was a good-for-nothing rheumatic.
At mine, beds were strictly meant for sleeping at night. It was an unspoken rule. And so it was never my room that we hung out in, but yours, re-reading your Sachi stories, the one about the imposter hermit and the one about a woman who liked to climb trees-- the one forsaken by her family and society. You wrote so many stories!
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/walk-of-shame">Walk of shame</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
Now, reading them in a new light in your novel, I finally understand that the journey had begun so long ago and you were arriving at this point the whole time. We were becoming over the years and perhaps shaped one another?
You fetched new things to my sight. One time you said, it is remarkable that in these times of discrimination, two of your closest friends are Tarians. Back then, I wondered what friendship had anything to do with discrimination.&nbsp;
Growing up in a tole of mostly guy friends, who eventually joined the British Army or went abroad to study or enlisted in the Chakre Milan gang, I hadn’t thought of the why. But many things set in perspective when you came into my life.&nbsp;
Janakpur, for instance, came into existence for me when you did. It is true. When you said your village was Sabaila, I experienced the longing for the name of a village I could also call mine. But there has only ever been Kathmandu for me. All these years, Sabaila was to me a name until your book gave it the colour; brown fields, brown everything.
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/vignettes-from-war">Vignettes from war</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
In contrast is Kathmandu with its “width not enough to last a run”, with its sudden gorges and hills. Your descriptions are replete with gorgeousness and nostalgia, it makes me pause at phrases and wonder when you learned to write like music.&nbsp;
As a young, somewhat confused girl, your words were my reprieve. I had needed throughout my lonely schoolyears, to find friendships that filled the cracks in me as your poems and stories did.
And so when you left for the US, I found myself caught in a blankness, a bit like Preeti in your novel feels when Sachi leaves-- anger and brokenness that nothing mends. And year after year, you carry it like a secret stone in your pocket, until time passes you by and you can’t remember when or where you put it away. Once in a while, you slip a hand absentmindedly into your pocket.
Reading your book made that spot abundant.&nbsp;
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/we-are-fire-breathing-dragons">We are fire-breathing dragons</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
You also brought the little monkey back to life. I wince when Adi and Preeti stand before the rowdy brick-sellers, trying to rescue the monkey, and Adi is called “Marsiya”.
In another section of the book, you describe the word as being a swear word. I immediately want to call you and explain that the word Marsya in Newa, means someone from abroad. Marse means abroad. In that sense, Marsya would mean an outsider, while the word might also be a derivative of Madhesiya, meaning a Tarian. The word is not a slur in itself but can be used as one, just as you could call me an Urani to identify my “caste” but you could also call me “Urani!” as a slur.
Words can take on different meanings within communities as they get woven into a complex tapestry of how each new user adds meaning and intent to it.
I want to call and explain, but how long since we talked about anything? Since you left?
It is probably the fate of all female friendships-- your characters, Kumud and Meena, Sachi and Preeti. Female friendships are to be mourned years after they were alive.&nbsp;
Your novel traces many uncomfortable ideas and conversations avoided. You use the word “Mongoloid”, a term now obsolete and offensive. You also describe Pahadis as people who “share features with Tibetan and their Chinese neighbours”.
These terms used as perceptions by your characters point at the fissures between the people in different parts of Nepal. There’s hostility and a lack of trust. It is as if being Nepali means instantly being aware of our ethnicity and differences. Nepali language isn’t good enough as a binder because once we step into the privacy of our own homes, it is a language we leave at the threshold.
The concept of Kathmandu then, is a temporary one. &nbsp;
Manmohan and his Indian friend Mr Katyal think of it as the backyard where money is to be made, it lacks belongingness. And home, is an imagination.
Yet you create a nest for the readers with the years spanning across political seasons. The Kathmandu of our childhood is tactile, even with its mangled timeline, that annoys the journalist in me.&nbsp;
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/write-fearlessly-she-said">Write fearlessly, she said</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
&nbsp;Nepal Police did not wear blue until after the 1990s democratic movement. The Hrithik Roshan riots did not occur close to the democratic movements. And the Rajiv Gandhi embargo had everything to do with a failed treaty and little with “Christian wrath”.
Your character, ADC Gurung tells his wife he will buy her land in Ganeshbasti. But the tole only got its name in the 90s after Gurung was jailed and his property was confiscated and was meant to be turned into a park with a Ganesh temple. But Gurung was able to secure his land after release and the temple was never built. Until this day, Ganeshbasti does not have a Ganesh temple.
While somewhat misplaced, the political narrative becomes the spine for a compelling story about a woman’s fight and anger against a world that inflicts trauma on her just because she is her. It points at the complexity of geopolitics in South Asia and how it barely changes.
I have come away sore from the reading.
There have been memories of madnesses. There has been tenderness. Then storms, bickering and banter. I learned that all great stories come from truth, but that truth can be a mangled version of reality.
Your book is brave.
I love the possibility of a female Utopia. Because isn’t it what every woman desires? To be free to be? To climb trees. To be needed with nothing. &nbsp;
All your anecdotes are hyperbole, Miti. In hyperbole, are possibilities.
Love,
P
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.