But don’t mistake this letter as a gratitude; this is an apology. My dear dear mother, I am sorry - from the core, from the depths of chasm, from whatever deep there is out there- for whatever you did and had to do for me. Very few people can see my eyes swollen- not with joy and pride- but with pain and regret whenever I talk about you. I wish I could take it all back and fix all the broken pieces.
She is someone who cries a bucket of tears when someone else has a break-up. She is someone who has zillions of friends (see I told you I am working my way up!). She is someone who calls a rough ride near-death experience. She is someone who loves bitching, not because she hates anyone, but just for fun. She is someone who has just been married but says she doesn't feel like one. She is wonderful. She is Bobby.
One day when I was teaching, I saw tears rolling down her cheeks without her own notice. Her face was mystical in that particular moment because her tears showed no grief and her plastered smile showed no happiness. Her face expressed paradoxical feelings- she seemed happily sad and at the same time sadly happy. She was like my Monalisa- keeping two opposite secrets in perfect harmony with each other.
If you opt out some grey hairs, a protruding belly and a small patch of bald head at the back, he could be one of those sci-fi agent “Men in Black”, fighting the alien named bureaucracy using his guns of words, bombs of ideas and arrows of finger gestures. And after he is finally convinced with his attack, he slides that right hand into his pocket. A moment of silence and a grin smile mark his victory. His eyebrows remind me of “Yakku” in Chandrakanta, always doing the cruel deed and lolling around with his tongue stuck out. But my speaker seems far from Yakku in character and knowledge in education policies, of course.
Poverty crushes a person in so many ways. My mother's husband (he has lost the title of a father for eternity) was a victim himself. He was not as strong as he thought he was. Otherwise, which father on earth would even think of giving away his own blood for some money. But that man did and hence he is not a father anymore to me. Only the devils of hunger know, he was innocent and I am still awed at the courage he might have had when he decided to sell a seventeen year old.
As I look back on the series of my life events that made me uncomfortable with my own language, I remembered my school. I studied in a small private school in my early years. I had 8 subjects in total and 7 out of them were in English medium. The Nepali book, as its name already suggests, was the only one in My medium. I wrote my exams in English for all seven of them. The worst part was we weren't allowed to even speak in Nepali during the entire school hours. Then came high school- 10 subjects in total and 9 out of them were in English medium. And came college-40 courses and 0 in Nepali medium.
Being a part of TFN was not a social work for me. It was an opportunity of a lifetime that I will always feel proud about. I can now see myself in the mirror and see a person worthy of my respect and admiration. Someone rightly said, “We build the road and the road builds us.”