Ten Tales with BTB

“Who am I?” questioned the essay in its title and answered it on the very first line. This essay by Sudha Tripathi in the third chapter of the 9th grade nepali book remained so ingrained in the back of my mind that recently, I searched for it, only to find it in recitation and photos of the text book.

Choosing a space, designing it to my want by filling it up with my muses and interests was what excited me when we shifted to a new house. The space I chose became exactly what I wanted it to be. I filled it up with post-it notes, song lyrics, journals, books, and fandom posters and collectibles (some bought, most made by myself). Even the smallest thoughts I had, I hung on my bedroom wall.

But I remember one particular event of that Dashain: my five rupees note. Growing up, I always cherished the red notes, especially the 5 and 20 rupees notes. Mainly, it gave me my chocolates from the shop. And even from the red notes, I loved the smallest, the 5 rupees.

I was always envious of my friends who had mamaghar near their house. They would go there every weekend and return with stories about their cousins. It was fascinating to hear how free and happy their weekends sounded when they went to their mamaghar.

You always eat dessert at the end, after you’ve savored your main dish and Bhaitika was just like that for me: one big, fancy festival that wrapped up an entire month-long celebration made just for us sisters. Although it’s meant to celebrate the bond between brothers and sisters and even when it has “bhai” in its name, I always felt like the sisters were the real main characters.

Less a festival, more a traversal time was Dashain for me for far too many years. It felt like travelling from the scorching summer time to searing winter in almost an instant. The time between Dashain and Tihar felt like an entirely different timeline. Needless to say, Dashain was the reason I only recently learned what Autumn felt like and that Kathmandu even experienced Autumn at all.

In Nepali society and culture, we believe in ‘Bhakal’, which means a prayer or vow made from the heart. When the wish is fulfilled, people repay it with an offering or a pilgrimage to a temple. That’s what my mother says she did when she prayed to the goddess of Manakamana for a daughter.

My mom craves jhol momo like any child would crave candy. Her eyes light up and her sharp, loud voice softens into a somewhat demanding request. Suddenly, the power dynamics shift between us.

I sit and watch people coming and going in the courtyard. They worship God in their own ways. I see elders, adults, and children alongside their parents with puja thalis. Parents hold their toddlers’ hands, teaching them to perform puja and touch the gods for blessings.

Everyone calls it “hamro manakamana” probably to clear out the confusion that early in the morning, they are going to the nearby manakamana mandir, not the Manakamana of Gorkha. The word “hamro” attached to it made it special, even for people who lived more than a hundred meters away.

Kathmandu is a valley of temples. There are thousands of temples and stupas, some grand and famous, others quietly hidden. Many remain unknown to people because they are tucked deep within the maze of Kathmandu’s narrow Alleys.

Some trips stay with you long after they’re over. For me, one of them will always be the hike to Pathibhara Temple in Taplejung.

As time changes its course, so do our daily lives. Be it a change of moving places or a change of clothes. In my life, the place I lived felt a change when my family moved.

A tree stood. It was an ordinary, almost forgettable tree, in the middle of the hills of sand and gravels a depot owned. I didn’t notice it myself till I had to walk the road it was across for my daily morning and evening classes.

I rarely carry my umbrella and today, it was almost about to rain, the weather felt moody. The kind where the sky feels heavy, and every slanted drop taps a rhythm in the streets.

There was a long, open field I used to cross every day on my way to school. It stretched endlessly, the kind of place where time felt slower, where grass bent with the wind, and where each season painted a new face onto the land.

Our terrace still stands tall above the house, its stone-mixed tiles stretching wide, carrying the same view of Swambhunath as it always has. Yet, the terrace of my childhood exists only in memory.

I was quite young when the evening market still existed. In my memories the fluorescent light and the sound of crickets are still imprinted, along with the specific smell of vegetables and fruits. Many people would scatter and push through the crowds to get the best price from the best vendors.

The farms are filled with houses, and I can no longer see the fields.

For more than half of my life, I have only ever seen the houses among huge fields of paddy and wheat around me. Even after migrating thrice, we never escaped the little VDC unit that housed mostly the area locals and their agrarian lifestyle.

Maybe one day, I’ll step beyond the veil between sleep and waking, and finally visit the places my heart already knows.

There used to be a small waiting area just outside my school gate, our own “pratikshyalaya”. It wasn’t grand by any means but that waiting place was my after-school world

I wish I had more pictures of that corner of Kathmandu where I grew up. Proof that those moments truly existed, something that immortalizes the pristine condition as I remember from my childhood.

Because I feel a village might not always be something you’re born into or inherit from your parents. Sometimes, it can be shared, borrowed, and lived through the people around you.

My identity lies in this deep sense of belongingness and ownership. The language I speak, the clothes I wear, the food I eat, the values I hold, and the festivals I celebrate define who I am.

While we chomped up our orders, small gossip made their way through each bite and there they were with their attentive ears, often laughing along with us or cursing the teachers when we complained about them.

Growing up, goat was a delicacy reserved for special occasions. In my family, there was a particular way of cooking goat meat.

Now, when I think back to those Saturday mornings, a quiet ache settles in. How a simple snack used to bring immense pleasure, but now it’s just a snack.

Hangma Hukpa Chongbang: I remember how my non Limbu friends tried to pronounce my full, hefty name. Whenever someone new gets to know that I am not just ‘Hangma Limbu’ but ‘Hangma Hukpa Chongbang’, there is always a confused and curious face behind it.

Whenever I go to my old house, which is now made of concrete, I go to the roof, look at all the surroundings, and think about how much time has changed.

Perhaps we grew out of ourselves over time, or it really was the buildings, the number of visitors and playmates went down with each new building. We were gaining new neighbors, but by then, it felt too much like work to make new friends, to know new people.

Years have passed, but whenever I crave that taste, especially during festivals, I still ask her the same thing... “Aama, sel roti banaidinuna.” And she smiles, just like always, brushes her shawl aside, and starts the process.

Growing up I never imagined that the place I was raised would linger so vividly in my memory. Born in the heart of Bhaktapur, you could find a temple, or god and goddess at every turn.

It felt like us grown ups, tall and built with memories intact, but no longer as free and wild as we used to be.

Whether we meet up in that dark tea shop near our school, or a well-lit café in the center of the neighborhood, or even at a fancy eatery abroad, every time our paths cross, however infrequently that is, it has taught us something.

A place that once was filled with many plants, flowers and trees is now just left with bricks, concrete and dusts of its own body. They may have shattered its body, but they can never touch its soul.

The way I view it, I see it as a stage, a play stage in which each actor is the main character with their own stories.

My village in Bardiya is a place I have been to only a handful of times. Yet, I would say that this place has been a big part of my story, unknowingly shaping me through the experiences and stories of the generations that came before me.

A place that isn’t just a village, but a memory box filled with joy and fragments of my childhood.

He now lives in the city, but time and again, he dreams of going back to his house of youth, as if to relive that youth once again.

Sometimes I wonder what it must have been like to grow up there: in bicycles and streets that do not really indulge in the chaos of traffic, what it felt to cross a river to reach the school and how must it feel now when they narrate their stories of mischief for their daughters.

Perhaps it was the horizon that ran along the far extended farmlands that made the sunrises and sunsets over there more interesting than anything.