Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Alison, Religions And The Intended Bridge

Alison was her name, my older cousin sister’s new best friend.  When she wanted to come to visit our house and celebrate Tihar, we were quite excited. A tall, white girl, blue eyes, blonde hair, speaks Nepali nearly fluently…she was almost as Royal Goddess to us. We were so eager, impatient to show our hospitality, love and compassion to her. We certainly believed from the core of our heart- “Atithi Devo Bhawa….”- Roughly meaning- Guest are like Gods in disguise, treat them with love…and such. We were on a countdown for Tihar.

But my religious grandaunt was very disappointed, she made it a big deal.

White? From Melkshya Country? Cow eater? Genital mutilators? Demons ?etc

They should not be allowed in this Temple, for all ‘Vaishnavas', house was a Temple. She took a stance that if we were to allow the white girl in our house; my grandaunt would leave our house for ever and go to forest. We were utterly disappointed. We knew for sure, she was human and this criterion of humanity would qualify her to enter out temple, the honest love and hospitality of human heart must be better than that of Religion. My father, mother, even my grandmother we all wanted her to come to our house. However, we could not convince our aunt so we had to yield to her.

My uncle was happy to host in his house instead.  So, she came to our house, we “made” her our sister by “Bhai Tika”. She told us about Christianity and how she hated Christmas telling us that she would have to be fake her love, visit her family, buy gifts which no one would really appreciate in the end and how better Bhait Tika was, the auspicious occasion of celebration of brother-sister love. We were so desperate to converse with her, to tell her about what Bhai Tika is really about, to keep in touch with her, to invite her to our house like a family member and so on.  We waited her to ask us questions, and in some deep corner of heart hoped that she would take our cousin to US of A.

While all the neighbors were amazed as we did this on our rooftops/balcony, and as She took out fancy telescopic digital camera (this was time in Nepal, when digital camera were RARE, almost non-existent), they sat in awe, perhaps in jealously, in greed I don’t really know… I start to talk to myself- She stays in the same house as Mustafa, an Egyptian ugly bearded Muslim, a visiting doctor in Sheer Memorial Hospital, but not married to him, talks about Christmas and hails Tihar and accept our gifts and “Becomes” our sister.  What a complex life and fake life. As I took her American Candy in sweetness, my heart grew bitter. I asked myself: who would be better? My Grandaunt or She? A hypocritical sinner, a liar, a pretentious good looking foreigner or a religious, conservative, blinded by faith inasmuch as illiterate that, she thought touching the white girl would make her candidate of hell. One side was a highly religious woman remaining celibate after her husband death at age 15, and praising and worshiping God every second and doing everything according to scriptures, ready to die but not let a white woman enter her house.  Other side was a woman who said she was Christian, stayed with Muslim, had no intention of marrying him, called herself by her  own last name, and still involved in some kind of humanitarian work in remote parts of Nepal. Although I could not really rationalize much, I respected the educated, seemingly, reasonable white, “royal girl” for her acceptance of our hospitality, and for her enthusiasm in our culture and for her desire to be a part of the family. I prefered Alison's philosophy slightly to my grandaunt's faith. A bridge was intended.

Fast-forward- Few days later, I saw her, face to face in a street, actually near my house. She was wearing Salwar Kamiz, carrying a hand carry, looking like she was walking for a noble cause. I said in great delight- “Hello Sister…” She looked down at me, hardly trying to smile, just like a deaf looks to a flute player nearby, completely lost and clueless. I still have that picture in my brain very alive; a silent aloofness, a short glance of indifferent looks from her bright, clear, blue eyes, slightly condescending short exhalation… shrinks her lips as if to remember me, but surely unable, perhaps deducing me to a ‘Poor Street Kid’ trying to beg ‘one dollar’ and in haste, without response of any kind, she hit her road. This is life.  When I told this to my grandmother- She said- "Told ya’…"


23 May 2012

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