UJJWALA MAHARJAN
In an anecdote I read somewhere a long time back, a sage asks three people from different cultures what they called a grape in their language. The three men answer respectively: angur, grapes, and inab. The sage then smilingly concludes that though they have different names for grapes, the fruit they refer to is one.[break]
Likewise, though they may have different names for their gods, the entity they refer to is one.
This story somehow has always stuck with me, and the concept of “different” gods never made sense to me.
Growing up in a Newar family where the puja kotha (worship room) always has had idols and posters of Shiva, Laxmi, Ganesh, Bishnu, the Buddha, Guruma and gods that I don’t even know the names of, I never figured if I was a Buddhist or a Hindu. I’m guessing I’m not alone in this.
So I’ve been to temples, vihars, gumbas and chaityas and even churches on occasions. I haven’t had a chance to go into a mosque, but if an opportunity arrives, I wouldn’t shy away.
This week I’ve been visiting some Gumbas and Viharas. The essence of both these words, which basically means a hermitage, is again the same but people over the years have come to recognize them with different terms/symbols that they coined in the first place. And these people even came from the same religion but, as I found out, from different “branches.”
Like a tree that grows out of one seed and branches out, religions and cultures I believe also stemmed from one single point and spread into different directions.
In due course, as one end of this tree somehow thought it was independent of and different from the other countless ends that seemed poles apart, they forgot about their “One” origin.
Now, what this point of origin was/is, I can’t fathom to debate. I just believe it’s something beyond cytoplasm, the Sun, space, energy and even time. And maybe, so the human mind could comprehend such fathomless entity, and they came up with their symbols; they came up with their gods.
So in the chaos of distinguishing oneself as a Krishnayana, Shaiva, Vaishnav, Mahayana, Vajrayana, Hinayana, Catholic, Protestant, Shia, Sunni and countless such divisions, I would rather not know where I belong. Because if I were to truly delve into the basic essence of any religion that every kid learns in the kindergarten – appreciate, apologize, love, respect, be honest, be kind, and don’t harm anyone – I know I would fit anywhere.
Because, basically, it’s all just one. Grapes, Angur, Inab–God, God, and God. At least that’s what I believe in.
Ujjwala tweets @UjjwalaMaharjan
Marriage? No thank you
CILLA KHATRY
Welcome to the fifth installment of me ranting about myself and my strangely weird and complicated life and all the people who are miserably associated with me.
I’ve been warned not to talk about my family and friends by my family and friends, of course, so I’m going to steer clear of that to avoid the early morning blaring of phone and pounding on my bedroom door the moment the victim of the week reads the paper.
So I’ve safely chosen a topic that centers on me. My marriage. But as I’m writing this, I’ve realized that I can’t pick the issue without mentioning my Mom who seems to be in a rush to get me out of the house. Sorry, Mom! But if you’re reading this, I hope you’re listening, too.
Okay, so the talk at home is mostly about my marriage. My Mom brings it up every single day (sometimes even twice a day) so much so that I’ve started to wonder if she dreams about it as well. A big lavish wedding is her fantasy and my worst nightmare.
Weddings have always scared me. The whole concept of being dolled up as a bride makes me hyperventilate. Add to that the thought of standing on a fancily done up stage with a smile plastered on my face, and I wish I had siblings who could fulfill this crazy and senseless wish of hers.
I have pretty liberal parents who tell me I can marry anyone as long as I just say yes to marriage. Caste, religion, nationality are no barrier. Marry the one I love or they’ll find someone for me to marry and then love. That’s what they say.
My argument is that I can’t cook or clean and am least bit interested in doing any household chores. Nor am I okay with living in a house other than the one I’m currently residing in. And also, getting married takes away my freedom of waking up late, the one luxury I don’t want to be deprived of. But my Mom tosses these arguments aside and calls it childishness.
I’m in a quandary and find myself thinking about marriage at odd times during the day. I think to myself that I shouldn’t marry the one I love because I can’t put him through the torture because God knows how difficult a person I am.
So I’ve come up with the brilliant idea that I should find a mean, arrogant and selfish man and spend the rest of my life making his life miserable. It’s karma.
Sounds like a good idea to me. Would my Mom agree though, I wonder. Probably not. But this plan will definitely stop her from discussing my marriage. For a while, at least. Mission (provisionally) accomplished!
Cilla tweets @cillakhatry
Dealing with my height
ASMITA MANANDHAR
“What’s your height?” – A very common question that I come across almost every day. It is sometimes interesting that people would want to know my height before they ask for my name.
It has become an easy subject for starting a conversation. I have even been questioned by random people while shopping. And some others who are not brave enough to ask me on my face mutter on their own, “Bafre! Kasto lambu!” (Whoa! What height!) I have also come around people who neither ask me nor mutter but I just know they are interested in my height by a certain kind of expression on their face.
5’ 8”. There you go! I know some of you would say, “Geez, what’s the big deal?” Trust me, I feel the same way. But the measurement happens to be slightly taller than the average Nepali height.
And I have not solely deduced it from people questioning me but the fact is strongly supported by the size of clothing and shoes we find in the Nepali market. I have to dig in to the sizes that shopkeepers just throw in the corner of their stores, convinced that nobody will own it.
To save myself from all the efforts of finding the right size in the girl section, I was a tomboy while growing up, and during most of my teenage years. I was always dressed in baggy pants, loose T-shirts and sneakers.
Though I never really liked what I was wearing, the tomboy-ish thing portrayed me as a ‘cool’ one, and my attempt to fit in the world that I always outfitted was more or less a success.
Nevertheless, my friends always used to feel intimidated by my height. So I began to droop my shoulders a little low just to avoid being awkward while walking with them. This soon developed into a habit. But I have been trying to change that since I met a friend a few months back.
It was a delight to see her, someone even taller than me – 5’11”, to be precise. She and I shared many experiences for being taller, most of them disadvantages.
Then she told me how droopy she used to be as a kid, and that she knew she had to stop that. “I wanted the world to deal with the way I am,” she said.
That very statement made me realize how hard I was still trying to fit in. Not to look like a giant and fit in with the stereotype, denying my unique physical quality.
There have been moments when I have wished that my feet size would be a little smaller, or people would stop asking about my height. But as I decide on making the “world to deal with the way I am,” I think of the sale in a shoe store and calculate my chances of getting a pair of my size!
Asmita tweets @framesandlaces
Swindled by an ethical cabdriver
NISTHA RAYAMAJHI
Not so long ago, I was quite in a rush to meet a cousin of mine. After waiting for a while to get the usual Safa tempo ride to Tripureshwor, I gave up after I saw no signs of my ride.
I didn’t want to make my cousin wait. Being a very punctual person myself, I hate making people wait for me as well. The place wasn’t so far and with no option left, I reluctantly went up to a cab at Sundhara.
Well, reluctantly, because except for a few times I’ve always been duped and I’m tired of being duped by cabdrivers with their tampered meters!
Riding a cab on full alert, constantly checking the frivolous meter can be such a hassle. That a few minutes of taxi ride can seem like a lifetime when the accelerated meter shows no sign of relaxing.
The feeling of helplessness that surrounds you when you can do nothing but check the unrelenting meter is a feeling I’m sure my fellow cab-hailers are aware of.
And it’s no help even when the driver is an “ethical” one. Halfway through the drive and he was yapping about how the traffic policemen were no good.
They are wearing the uniform from our tax money...heck, they have the job because of our tax money! He was telling me how can there be traffic jams when these traffic cops are on duty and they speak in such demeaning manners as if they are doing us a favor.
Then Mr. Cabman went on enlightening me on how ours is a stratified country where people treat you according to your wealth, your last names, your background, and the region you come from.
I was nodding and saying “mmhmm” and “tyei ta” the whole time and all this while my eyes glued to the meter which was vehemently contradicting this preacher.
I agreed with everything he had to say about our society, about the ungrateful traffic policemen, and the conflict that arises out of differences. I would agree more and respect him if he had not duped me after all the preachy talk he gave me.
How on earth could he charge 300 Rupees for such a short distance? He even gave a lame excuse that he has to turn around all the way since it’s a one-way road and hence the charge. To compensate for my good listening skills, he gave me a 20-Rupee discount in the end, though.
It’s alright to charge a few extra bucks but asking for double and treble the amount is just insane. I use cabs and a lot, and besides the fare issue, what annoys is when cabdrivers don’t even want to go somewhere when the route isn’t feasible for them.
If that’s the case, how can they even stay on the streets as cabdrivers? With all those thoughts buzzing in my head after getting ripped off, meeting my cousin however, was a breath of fresh air.
Nistha tweets @Nisthaz
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