Who Am I?

Sometimes I do question the meaning of my existence, but this post is just about who I am in different spheres of my Nepali community.

I am

• “Baabu” (baby) to my host mother
• “Bhai” (little brother) to my siblings and cousins, except for my younger sister, who calls me “American dhai”
• “Uncle” to my nephews (but “American uncle” to my youngest)
• A houseguest who hangs around long enough to become one of the family

• “Ramchandra” in my village
• An incompetent American who can’t do simple things like wash clothes by hand
• An skilled American who can perform complex tasks like operating a computer

• “Ben” to those who ask my name and “Byen” to those who can’t pronounce it
• Just another foreigner to strangers but an instant friend when they hear me speak Nepali
• A perceived gateway to knowledge, wealth, and America

• “Sir” to the school children
• A magnet of youthful attention
• A better learner than teacher

• “Ben Bahadur” (Ben the brave) to my government counterpart
• “Dangali kaancho” (youngest of Dang) at the health center
• A voice people listen to

• “Bwags” with my fellow volunteers
• “Ben-ji” (sir) to the Peace Corps staff
• A generalist, pioneer, and guinea pig

A Hundred Thousand Splendid Suns

Sunday, February 9 was a momentous occasion for my family. We held a lakh batti (lak means a hundred thousand, and batti means light). As I understand it, lakh batti is an offering to the Hindu gods to ask for prosperity through the year. For my family, it was an expensive, meaningful family affair. For me, it was mostly wearing, confusing, and at times overwhelming, with a few highlights sprinkled in.

Nepalis often don't smile in photos, but I can assure you they're excited for the day!

Preparations began about a week before the event, with large groups of women coming to the house to make hundreds of thapadis, bowls fashioned out of leaves used for doing puja (an act of worship) and eating prasad (food served at the end of a puja. One of the older women taught me how to make them by stitching slivers of wood through a pair of leaves. My first two attempts were laughable, but my third one was good enough that my host mother put it in the stack with the all the others.



When the ambulance driver arrived late one night with several sacks of sugar, salt, and rice, I new it was going to be big. A few days later, I came home from work to find a large mud shrine erected in our courtyard.

Family members began arriving the day before the puja. I was busy much of the day, but in the evening chipped in by making maalas (garlands) with the women, threading white string through the stems of marigolds. I met three more of my sisters, their families, and a number of more distant relatives.

On the day of the ceremony, I awoke at 4:45AM to the sounds of my family. I fell back to sleep and arose at 6:30. “Why did you sleep in so late?” asked my bauju (brother’s wife) when I emerged from my room. I set to helping out with the preparations, helping clear some land for the cook fires. Soon we got a few fires going, over which we placed enormous pots to cook potatoes, kir (rice pudding with coconut), and aluwai (a sweet cornmeal and sugar mixture, kind of like bread pudding). Meanwhile, women bent over rolling pins and woks, rolling out dough for puri (slightly puffed, deep-fried flatbread) and squeezing out rings of sel roti (an oily, sweet donut). Along with much of my host family, I decided to fast for the morning, being told that we would eat around noon. In the coming hours, as noon became 3, then 5, and finally 7 in the evening, I would begin to question my show of solidarity.

Spotting a group of men peeling potatoes, I saw an opportunity to talk some nutrition. I sat down, grabbed a potato, and asked why they were removing the peels. “They’re not good for health,” said one of them, a teacher. “The skin is the healthiest part of a potato,” I replied. “That’s where all the vitamins and minerals are.” “Well, they taste bad. You can eat them, if you want,” someone said. So I ate a bit of the skin I’d removed. “Now the whole potato is jutho (impure)!” they cried. “You have to throw it away or eat it.” So I ate the rest. “Now you’ve broken your fast!” they exclaimed. Frustrated that my attempt to teach had backfired, I stormed off to find some other work. Now a group of women were placing bundles of short holy threads dipped in ghyu (clarified butter) in tapadis; these threads when lit, would become the lak batti.

A few females were smearing diluted cow dung on the shrine and ground to fill in the cracks.



Some guys around my age were setting up a bunch of metal poles for a tent, so I went over to help with that. Some of my nephews and neighbors used this as a photo op.

The priests (nine of them, many from the same family) soon arrived and set to adorning the shrine with designs of colored powder and rice. Large thapadis of rice, barley, and other offerings were placed in the shrine.







Sensing that the ceremony would soon begin, I changed into my formal clothes, the traditional Nepali daura surwal. This delighted my friends and family, and I was feeling pretty good myself—until the priests asked me to dig a hole. Why they asked me, a foreigner and the most formally dressed male around, to do manual labor with Nepali tools for a Nepali ritual, I’ll never know. At the time, I didn’t know what the hole was for, only that it had to be square and half a meter deep. By the end, I was feeling a bit hot and bothered.

Just before the ceremony began, my host sister pulled me aside and informed me that at the start, only the true Thapas (my family’s last name) would be doing the puja offerings. Even three of my host sisters would not be participating, as they had changed their names when they married. A little bit later, everyone else so inclined would be allowed to do puja. After a few minutes of my family’s own puja, I was instructed to make my way to the shrine. I was seated next to a twelve-year-old banja (sister’s son) whom I hadn’t met before that morning. It seemed to be his first puja too, because he was just as confused as I about what to do. Silently, we exchanged questions of procedure in furtive glances at each other. Should we throw the red rice now? How many times? How high? Ok, now it looks like we should take a flower, pour some water on it, and clasp it between our hands in prayer. Now we should throw it on the shrine. Wait, was I supposed to toss it whole or break it into petals first?

After sitting cross-legged on the ground for two hours, listening to a language I didn’t understand and performing acts that meant nothing to me, the sun burning my face from the front and a fire heating my back from behind, I couldn’t take it much longer. An aunt informed me that I could get up and walk around whenever I wanted, so I moved into the shade to meet my friends. I had invited all the volunteers in my district, two of whom (Maria and Christine) were able to attend. I pointed out my family members to them, and we chatted for a while. A considerable crowd had begun to gather, many of whom were community members I knew.

I spent the next few hours going back and forth between chatting with crowd members and sitting behind my family. The priests read aloud prayers from a book in Sanskrit through a microphone. At one point, my host mother gave gifts to the priests and covered their heads with pink tika. At last, my family began assembling the leaf plates of thread by the shrine. Soon a priest instructed them to light them on fire, pick them up off the ground, and walk around the shrine. I too was handed a flaming leaf plate and ushered into the procession. We circled the shrine several times, the blaze blowing in our faces and gradually burning through the bowls of leaves. An older woman behind me nearly set my sleeve on fire, but I was saved by an attentive aunt. I passed my plate off and took a seat. Visions of disaster, of people afire and a shrine consumed by inferno, flashed across my mind, but my fears were quelled as the last of the participants made their way to the front of my house to discard their fiery loads.

Now the guests flocked to the tent to eat. It seemed like a natural culmination, but the worshippers resumed their seats and the puja continued.

After some more time, the participants moved sit around the ditch I’d dug that morning. There was more tika, puja, and other things beyond my grasp. Finally, the worshippers gathered under a long piece of thin white cloth, a priest scattered water over their heads, and the ceremony was over, just over six hours after it began.

As evening fell, I broke my fast with the sweet treats that had been prepared in the morning. Three men performed a traditional dance, two of them dressed as women, while two others sang and played drums. A larger dance circle formed on the opposite side of the shrine, where individuals or pairs of women took turns dancing to a quickening song. I was hustled too and fro by friends and relatives, told to sit down, come here, go there, and, above all, dance. Soon I was thrust into the circle and got right down to it. My older host brother and younger next-door-neighbor brother joined me for a few rounds, and then I declared I was done. I ate some more and watched others dance but was hassled by those who hadn’t seen me and demanded I give them a performance. When my friend Christine was dancing, my host sister told me our mother insisted that I dance with her, so I reentered the circle and we danced, twirling our arms and shuffling our feet to the rhythm of the music. The next morning, my host mother would tell me she had said no such thing, and was disappointed she hadn't gotten to see me dance.

I consider myself very lucky to live in such a welcoming community, but a person can only tolerate so much attention. As the night wore on, I felt my composure and vigor waning. Inconspicuously, I ducked out of the crowd and shut myself in my room. Sleep came as the drums beat on.

Like Riding a Bike

Most who know me well know that I can’t ride a bike. Ok, I can ride a bike, but sixteen year olds can physically operate a car, and we don’t just let them drive freely on the roads. If riding a bike required passing a test, I would fail before putting the thing into gear. Chalk it up to poor balance or lack of practice, but it is one of the things I’m worst at in life, right up there with whistling, naming state capitals, and remembering how to spell the word “irreparable,” which Microsoft Word kindly autocorrected for me.

That’s what the opposition says. One puny argument against? The other side has loads up its sleeves. For one, the Peace Corps will reimburse for purchase of a bike. This part of Nepal is almost entirely flat. Having a bike would encourage me to explore some other villages in Shreegaun, my VDC (which is, geographically, around the size of an American town). It also releases me from reliance on public transportation. For one, this entices my frugality, allowing me to save a few bucks a month. But mainly it would liberate me from two things I hate: indeterminate waiting and physical discomfort. I’d often wait a half or full hour for a ride to or from Tulsipur. In my experience, ten percent of the time the vehicles would break down, forcing us passengers to wait or walk without any reduction in our fare.

Then there’s the actual ride, which may require you to squeeze yourself into a space smaller than your physical dimensions. Can you picture a jeep with sixteen people in it? Can you imagine a bus aisle where every row contains seven people? I’ve tried to capture it below, but appearances don’t convey the full experience—It hurts, and it makes me hurt others, which also hurts in its own way. I’ve lost weight since coming to Nepal, but I’m still a lot taller and wider than the average Nepali. I sit in taxis with my head pressed to the roof, my knees jammed into another man’s hips, my elbows digging into two other people’s sides, my bag clutched to my chest, my legs steadily losing circulation. Standing on buses isn’t much better; I cling to the metal bar as the road and other travelers jar me to and fro, both sides of my lower half pressing against helpless passengers as people tried to squeeze past me. Standing on a bus a few weeks ago, I elbowed a woman in the face; she, however, didn’t even react, as if a few bruises were inevitable when going from one place to another. Maybe there’s an art to tolerably riding in cars with so many strangers, but I think it must be conditioned tolerance or learned helplessness.

 Views from the back seat of a taxi

View from a local bus

“You have to drive on the side of the road, not in the middle,” instructed my five-year old nephew when I told him I intended to buy a bike. “If you drive in the middle, you will be hit by a bus.” He demonstrated this collision with a block of wood and a rock. I know this, I told myself, but whether I can pull it off is another matter.

The morning’s events, however, reinforced my resignation. First, I waited for a half hour in vain for the bus, which never came because this overturned tractor was blocking the road:



I walked out to the main road to catch a taxi, which came about fifteen minutes later.  Climbing into the crowded trunk, I found myself sitting on a very narrow seat on top of a sack of cement. If you’ve never had this experience, It’s unpleasant. Halfway to Tulsipur I lost sensation in my left leg, and, with nowhere to move, could do nothing about it.  Finally, we arrived. I jumped from the trunk to the ground, landing fine on my right foot but having no feeling whatsoever in my left, buckled and fall backwards. Luckily, a man I knew happened to be there to catch me, otherwise I might not have bought anything that day. Later, a man who sold me socks told me he’d heard about my fall from the taxi. It’s a small, small world for Peace Corps Volunteers.

I met up with Maria and together we headed towards the bike shop. With our limited budget, we opted for a mountain bike with wide tires and good shocks but without gears. The shop owner worked on each, meticulously fitting and tightening all its appendages. The equivalent of $73 would buy the bike, a bell, reflectors, a pump, a lock, and a bungee cable. I was beginning to feel good about this purchase. Then the shop owner invited me to take a test drive, and I immediately crashed into a couple of the bikes on display. “You should wait until you get out of the city before you ride,” he later cautioned repeatedly. Before leaving the city, I also purchased a metal trunk to store clothing in. Cheap and lightweight, it would be easy to transport, I thought erroneously. Brushing aside Maria’s apprehension, I strapped the trunk down with two bungee cords and continued on my way.

Making our way home, we walked our bikes across the bridge at the edge of the city. As Maria adjusted her helmet, a small crowd gathered. Seeing me struggling with the awkwardly sized, poorly secured trunk, some of them encouraged me to take a bus. Take a bus? Avoiding vehicles was my reason for buying a bike in the first place; to board another stuffy, cramped, and bumpy bus with a bike and metal trunk would be ironic, if not absurd. “No,” I told them, “I’ll ride.” With their help, I rotated the trunk and refastened it with the bungee cords. And then we were off.

The first few minutes went smoothly, mostly thanks to the paved road. Then the rock-strewn dirt road began. It began to narrow considerably in places where large piles of rocks and dirt had been deposited for construction projects. A bus honked behind me and then passed a bit to close. I began to feel a little shaky. Reaching up to itch my face, I instantly swerved off the road. I plunged into a thicket, falling off my bike and breaking my fall with my hands. I guess it had to happen at some point. I looked down at the fingers on my left hand, where three straight cuts were beginning to gush blood. Wrapping my fingers in a bandana, I dragged my bike back onto the road and kept going. Fortunately, I experienced no more falls on the rest of the journey.

An hour later, I arrived safely at my home, a bit sore and fatigued, but not much worse for wear. My family cheered my arrival. My neighbor took my bright blue helmet and placed it on his head, exclaiming, “I look like a tourist!” (he didn’t—he looked like a Nepali in a silly bike helmet. So what does that say about how I must look?). Then the predictable line of questioning began: “How much did it cost? That’s a little expensive. Did you fall? Were you badly injured? O-mum-mum-mum-mum (Nepali for “oh my!”), you need to be more careful.”

Two days later, I rode my bike to work and received a similar welcome from my coworkers. That afternoon I spontaneously decided to attempt to visit each village in Shreegaun on a road that purportedly circumscribes the area. Unfortunately, roads here are not so simple. After crossing into the VDC to the west of Shreegaun, there was still no clear southward road. I asked an elderly Nepali man for directions, only to be told to turn around and go back the way I came. I kept pressing for an answer, but he began insisting that he couldn’t understand English, even though I was speaking Nepali. Eventually he directed me to a nearby, narrow road to head south, which I took. At a crossroads awhile later I took a left to go east, in hopes that I might soon cross back into Shreegaun. Forty minutes later, however, I arrived back at the same intersection from the south. In the meantime, I’d gotten pretty tired and sweaty and had fallen again, throwing my bike a little out of whack. Disgruntled, I decided to head home. Tomorrow I’ll try again.