In a seemingly theatrical Hamlet-like pose, I think aloud sometimes: To stay or not to stay!
It is a question that has plagued me from the very first night in the US of A. It does get forgotten often in the mundane mediocrity of everyday working life, but then it comes back vividly – through emotional story lines of Sajha threads (Darn you! Beehove_Me), inebriated conversations with high school friends, and even more so while Skyping with my aging parents back home.
But as Orwell often reminds me, not all parental emotions are the same. In fact, the emotions of my parents are quite tangent. No-No! don’t get me wrong. Like all parents, they love me to death. Or else why would they deny me an opportunity to talk with pretty prospects (buharis), shooting them down deeming not a good-fit for me without even consulting me. But hey! They probably know better. They stand as a testimony of the most unlikely of relationships themselves: an outspoken woman from the far-east and a balding quiet guy from the West. Who would have thought? I give props for forging such a lasting relationship spanning over 30 years. But that’s that.
However, they have a good logic on why I should stay here. “You are too "Laato" (for this country) to return!”
I had brushed aside this insult multiple times before. Common now! After all, I am educated in the USA. I am fairly intelligent with numerous half-baked ideas brewing in my head; passionate in both bed and beyond; and have callous Nepali nationalism fueled by friends working in world-bank, UN, and other international organizations.
“How much does a packet of milk costs, do you know? Onion has become more expensive than the gold!” my dad uses his usual fear tactics.
So after dwelling for months, I make it to Kathmandu to test the waters. Fresh Off US (FOU), I use my networks wisely to contact my NGO friends and set up a meeting at Naxal’s Madison’s bar. They oblige after I insist the tab is on me. While fidgeting with his latest model of iphone, the first friend explains to me arrogantly, gulping down Carlsberg, on the frustrations of his job: his INGO team is in Europe and he has to work evenings to have meetings with them. He frowns on the tedious and boring nature of the job.
“Why don’t you quit then?” I ask. “Oh! But the pay is too good” he stares at my Nokia mobile I had borrowed from my dad to let my other NGO friend where we were. Perhaps he’d have a better insight.
“Yah! Actually I make good money. The work is relaxing. I go and work as I please. I am the only guy that writes the proposals in English.” He laughs. They can’t even fire me. “What do you write proposals in?” I get interested. “Oh anything that brings in the money!” Last time the donors sent books”. That was a waste, he shrugs nonchalantly. And I scratched my head.
That night my Dad gave me a wry smile and asked “So, you think you can make it in the NGO here? I’m sure the pay is good and life is relaxing no?” I was honest and told him that I really didn’t know shit about how NGOs worked in Nepal. Perhaps, it isn't for me!
That evening, my mom also weighed in expertly “Bankaa kaam garr na ta!” while she served the delicious portion of kauli and quaati. My dad and I both gave her a stare to which she stared us back down. Perhaps I should try research institutions that work on fields that I actually graduated in?
Seated around a conference table, each of the faculty explained to me what they did (more like what they planned to do). Despite the international fund available, the projects hadn’t quite taken off the ground. Ah! lacking management. After listening long-winding individual anecdotes and stories, I finally weighed in the need of proper management. The leader of the pack known as “Sir” explained to me how the upstarts from US and Australia like me often returned and told them how they should do their job.”Unacceptable” I turned red as he went on the idealism of how we Nepalis should learn to use the resources available efficiently/sparingly. As he gave the sermon, the other faculty had turned red too. And I quietly slipped away.
A couple of days later, I attended my Dad’s college reunion at one of the hotels. Each of his college buddies gave speeches about their life, children, and nostalgia of their college youth making me smile. So, did my Dad. Then, suddenly he started recalling proudly the hardships my siblings and I had faced abroad and how we’d worked our way through to graduate and achieved unparalleled success in the US. He elaborated on our successes so vividly that he made himself break down in the podium and managed to break a few tears off his drinking buddies. I guess I kind of understood. I realized how important and difficult it must be for my parents to elaborate such successful stories of us to our relatives, neighbors, colleagues, and rest of the society. But for that sake of success, I probably need to stay here!
So to that dreaded question: to stay or not to stay? Hey! Why don’t I just visit often?
