By Meera Rajbhandari Amatya “Katamari”
Yes, mother’s home. If there is no mother, there is no home. There is a house, but it doesn’t feel like a home without moms. Today, I am talking about “mother’s” home. Many fathers might think I am biased towards women/ a feminist, that she only talks about women and doesn’t acknowledge the contributions of men or fathers in society basically the society like my home country. Of course, fathers seek their own existence and identity, which is natural. But even if fathers bear the financial burden, I say their contribution is not comparable to a mother’s and should not be compared. Fathers are protectors, and security personnel – economically and materially/physically. But in my analysis, mothers are everything.
So, when talking about mothers, I am not only talking about my birth mother’s home but also about my mother-in-law, the mother of my married home.
Shall I first talk about my mother? I had a fever. I don’t remember what kind of fever it was. I don’t remember my age either, maybe I was very young/ small, maybe I was about 6? I guess. Mother, I mean my mom was so busy at other times. In a fatherless home, our mother had to become the financial guardian as well. But when I was sick, my mother would leave all work and stay home. I would get to eat porridge, milk, medicine, and biscuits. I ate so much Horlicks that now the smell of Horlicks makes me feel sick. A smell I don’t like. “Mom, my brother took my piggy bank’s 20 rupees and won’t give it back. He has so much money, but he won’t give it to me. He only buys kites and snacks for himself and doesn’t give me any.” My childish complaint. I could openly complain about my brother to my mother only when I was sick. Mother would say, “Alright, alright, I will give you your twenty rupees, don’t cry, the fever will increase again, and then the nurse will give you an injection in “Khampa” (means “Thy” in Nepal Bhasa language) again” – mother trying to scare and calm me down. Our heroic mother had such tactics.
There is another story about my mother, my mom too. When returning from school, there would be beaten rice and meat in the lunch-box, sometimes dry wheat bread and potato curry with tea, but cold tea. The fine fried potatoes and beaten rice made by mother’s hands were exceptionally delicious. Yes, in America, I have seen similar-sized fries at McDonald’s, but they did not taste like mother’s potato bhujia. Cold tea didn’t make much difference; I would gulp it down, dipping bread in it or soak beaten rice – the snack kept by my mother was always tasty. But still, I would feel empty inside because mom has a busy schedule for her work. And I know that if there was no work no money, my mom – earner, homemaker and caregiver of her tiny kids we are, and no money means no food no beautiful dresses and no tuition fees, I knew this in a very small age. However, on Saturdays, mother would be at home. That day, I would go up to “Khicha Pokhari” to buy meat. There would be a crowd. “I need to go to school, please give me the meat quickly.”(Saturday is a weekend in Nepal) Everyone would laugh, and the butcher would laugh and say, “Oh, our Maiya needs to go to school?” (My childhood nickname was Maiya). I, trying to act smart despite being small, loved the nickname “Maiyacha” – a mix of the Newah: phrase “chaa” and “Maiya.” “Uncle, please give me the meat quickly, I have to go to school.” The butcher’s wife would recommend on my behalf, and then I would get the meat quickly. I would run like I had achieved a big victory, from “Khicha:pokhu” to “Pyukha” – New Road, reaching home in one breath. The meat would be cooked, filling the house with a delicious aroma. Child psychology is such that it doesn’t even know how to lie – Lies told are easily caught.
Yes, when there is a mother, everything is there in the house. Rice cooks quickly. The clothes are clean. The mud house with cow dung-smeared floors and walls is well-kept. Relatives come over, and there is chatter. Although 90% of mothers’ conversations are incomprehensible when guests arrive, special delicious snacks are prepared, and they bring sweets, candies, and 20-paisa biscuits for us. When a mother is at home, the world feels complete. A mother’s home – you love it when your mother is there.
I remember that year, the dark year when my father passed away, I have a clear memory of one particular day. Mother’s bangles were broken and she cried.(Bangles are broken when the husband dies in Newah: culture?) Father hadn’t been home for many days. I heard he was at Naradevi Hospital – he was sick! That’s all I heard. But I didn’t understand why my mother was crying; I was too young. The “Guthi” members returned from the funeral, probably after performing the final rites at the Vishnumati River near “Kanga: Ajima” Temple. There was a gathering of neighborhood women, relatives, and “Guthi” members. It was the first day I remember so many people gathering at our home on that dark day, it rained. Those returning from the funeral were soaked, and my elder sister accompanied me to buy hot milk from a hotel, I carried milk in the kettle to serve them with snacks. When I reached the corner, I felt a kind of excitement and sang, “Pyar Deewana Hota Hai Mastana Hota Hai Har ‘Jusi’ Se Hardam Se ‘So’ Jana Hota Hai…”. The meaning of the song was lost, but my childish mind sang it. “Hey Maiya, don’t sing songs; it’s not right to sing when father has passed away,” my sister reminded me. “Why did he pass away?” I questioned. “Because God called him…” she replied. I was still puzzled, “When will we go, sister?” She scolded me to stay quiet.
Another dark day that year was “Laxmi Puja” SWANTI a great festival of the Newa civilization. After my father’s death, my mother had to go to our ancestorial village to update the land records – to Kavre. It was just my brother and me at home. My brother would play, getting his white clothes dirty (“Barkhi Wosa:” – the ritual custom to be weaned white clothes for a whole year of passing the parents by son). A twelve-year-old my poor brother trying to follow mourning rules – poor boy, it must have been so tough. On “Laxmi Puja” day, every house was lit up, everywhere the lamps of oil in the Palas (small bowls of mud), candles and electric lamps but our house was dark. In the tradition/culture, a year after a death, no festival is celebrated. But there was no other light either. The brightness that mother brought. Mother’s home means my mom’s home – without mother, truly dark. My brother wasn’t home, and I was alone, scared, sitting outside on the pavement. Fireworks and rockets burst throughout the neighborhood! After a long while, the fireworks began to dwindle, and I started crying. “Pyukha”- New Road, a posh area, the heart of Kathmandu, an economic hub – then and now. There was a “Marwari” makeup shop nearby – seeing me cry, the “Marwari” shopkeeper gave me a sweet and a rupee, comforting me, saying, “Maiya, go home. When your brother comes, I’ll send you home.” Worried that the little girl might get lost, the neighbor uncle cared. The memory of that night came back when I was abroad, working hard – my children were alone in a hostel in Nepal on “Laxmi Puja” night – a night without a mother. Remembering my children and comparing it to my childhood Laxmi Puja night, I cried – I cried a lot. A mother’s home without the mother is so uninteresting/sorrowful, my poor kids.
So, I was working. The office would close at 5 PM only! By the time, I bought vegetables and reached home, it would be 6 PM – a 45-minute journey from Bishal Nagar. My tenant sister would say, “Today, your son hit/kicked the bucket – poor thing, coming home hungry, no mother at home -Can’t you come a bit earlier, sister?” I would compare – yes when mother wasn’t home after school, I would also get angry, sometimes feel like crying – poor my children. I still remember the days without my mother even now. Maybe it’s also because father wasn’t there, we were very close to mother, especially me being the youngest, I was mother’s favorite and closest to her.
Now let me turn to another phase: the time after marriage, when I moved into someone else’s home, into the care of another mother – my mother-in-law. Another motherly figure: Grandmother-in-law.
Born and raised in the open alleys and courtyards of Kathmandu, I played hopscotch, swung on ropes/skipping, and cycled around taking a rented cycle to my maternal home-sometimes to Makhan, sometimes to Dugambahil from time to time. My childhood was spent in a clean, spacious Kathmandu, unlike the narrow, dirty city that people complain about today. There was plenty of water, and during holidays, we would sometimes go to “Sundhara” stone spout to wash clothes and bathe with my sister. I have no experience of a cramped, dirty Kathmandu as people describe now; it wasn’t like that for me. Everywhere clean. Water in abundance.
After marriage, I moved to Bharatpur, which felt desolate with mosquitoes swarming around, biting so much that I got malaria. Life as a daughter-in-law was quite unpleasant. I couldn’t go out, and there was no work to do going out. Anything I needed; my brother-in-law would promptly bring it. Everything was available at home, unlike in Kathmandu, where you had to traditionally and compulsorily buy everything. The house felt like a home with everything in it – vegetable gardens with various kinds of vegetables, and fruit trees like mango, lychee, banana, guava, lemon, pineapple, and peach. We rarely ate meat. There were cows and buffaloes for milk and yoghurt, and chickens aplenty for eggs. Boiler chickens are used to give eggs, flesh and fertilizers to the gardens. There were even betel and areca nut trees. On Makar Sankranti, when Tarul (a root vegetable) was needed I heard my mother-in-law instructing my brother-in-law early in the morning, “Son, get the Tarul, and give it to your sister-in-law to boil.” Surprisingly, what not this house had? Mother’s home. This house had everything; it was indeed mother’s home.
My father-in-law was always busy, and unable to help with household chores. Her schedule was tightly packed from morning to night. Sons were away in Kathmandu for studies or work, and daughters-in-law were with sons. The house belonged to mother-in-law, and she managed it alone, the house that had everything. Lucky house. When mother-in-law fell ill, everything became disorganized. I was amazed at how she managed the big house alone. My own father wasn’t around, and my mother managed everything. In his house, the father was there, but everything depended on the mother – from managing her husband’s glasses “Lungi”(A kind of loin cloth)and slippers to feeding the chickens and cows, planting vegetables in the garden, removing weeds, watering plants, and even making cow dung briquettes.
The mother’s home was just like the mother-in-law’s home. Mother was alone and everything was there. But when she became ill, everything fell apart – the garden overgrew with weeds, no chickens, cows and buffaloes were sold off, and the barns and coops were empty. The house occupied by Hawker tenants, who rented the house, made noise, and it was hard to sleep. The house was no longer a home when mother-in-law was bedridden. A mother’s home, a home when the mother is strong, a home when the mother is ill. The real theatre of our hero mothers – where non-fictional dramas unfold. Our hero mothers and our hero mothers’ homes! a sweet home.
Let me change the topic. I’ve written a lot about my grandmother before, so this time, I’m talking about his (husband’s) grandmother’s home.
She was an aristocratic daughter from “Naikap,”an ancient village of Newah: civilization far from Kathmandu City a small but beautiful village, the only beautiful daughter. She didn’t like men at all, especially those who came to rent rooms, shouting from the courtyard, “Sister-in-law, is there a room?” She couldn’t stand such men from outside Kathmandu who addressed her as “sister-in-law”. She would sternly reply, “Who told you to call me sister-in-law? I’m not your brother’s wife!” The tenants would stammer and correct themselves, “No, sister, we’re looking for a room,” but before they could finish, grandmother would ask, “Am I your father’s daughter?” and scare them away. Why wouldn’t she? She was young, and she believed it was inappropriate to rent rooms to strangers, especially when she had a young daughter at home. It was her principle.
Grandmother means Grandmother-in-law’s home. Grandmother-in-law’s home was under her strict control. She enjoyed eating Gundruk (fermented Greens) rather than renting rooms and having non-vegetarian food. Her strong decision. She had the skill to scold all the daughters-in-law into submission. Just like my own grandmother – strict but kind-hearted. I had just been married for about twenty days when I came to Kathmandu with malaria. I had a high fever. My grandmother-in-law was staying with us at that time. Although she couldn’t cook, she could instruct the grandchildren well. “Why did you put chilli in the Mung bean soup for the sick? Just add salt,” she would say, even with her poor eyesight, noticing the chilli powder in my soup. I remember she would come to my room thrice a day with great difficulty, performing rituals with rice grains and thread, chanting the name of Goddess Harati, “Yakana Lane Ma Jimi Chaye Bhau Ya Lwe,” (Get well soon my granddaughter -in -law) and sprinkle rice in all the four directions on the terrace of the house. Her dedication and selfless love continued until I recovered. Such dedication and selfless love only exist with mothers. A mother’s home, grandmother’s home. Our hero mothers’ homes. My mother, his mother, my grandmother, his grandmother. Our mothers. Our hero mothers! The homes of our mothers’ home sweet home, a sweet home.
amatyameera@gmail.com
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