FIVE DEGREES OF SEPARATION

Dulles Airport--Three weeks ago

Indira didi was a complete stranger to me when she first came from Nepal with my in-laws to help us raise our newborn. All I knew about her was, until she was let go couple of years ago, she used to work for my father-in-law’s friend, Rohit uncle. Beyond that, my inbred apathy did not let me bother.

Having watched her perform her duties at Rohit uncle's household for years, my in-laws were great enthusiasts of Indira didi’s stewardess skills and subdued mannerism. So much so that my father-in-law, who lives in Bishalnagar, Kathmandu had tracked her down in Damauli, Tanahu to offer her a job of a nanny in Fairfax, Virginia. Only that lazy embassy clerk who looked at her paperwork knows how she managed the tourist visa.

A great nanny produces bad parents. Seven months later, seeing off Indira didi at Dulles Airport in Virginia was one of the most stressful experiences of my life. She was such a super nanny that my wife and I were traumatized by her precipitous decision to return to Nepal. Both my wife and I felt that it was unfair of her to leave us with the responsibility of looking after our child. We did not deserve that.

Nostalgia strikes me with vague symptoms; though my desire to miss Indira didi was driven by my fear of taking the role of a father, I felt like I was involuntarily missing her. My anxiety made me feel a better man than I am. But who was I kidding? In my soul of souls, I was just a mammal with a genetic XY chromosome, horrified by the very thought of a seven-month-old offspring 14.3 miles away from the airport.

“You never told us why you decided to leave just like that.” My tone was of an inquisitive whiner.

“You really want to know?”

“I have been asking you for weeks. Now you’re telling me you have a grievance?”

“Because now is the time to tell you, Samaf babu. I am leaving because of that silver box fiasco,” Indira didi sounded embittered, “I never understood why Preeti bahini made such a big deal about losing that box.”

“I don’t get the connection between the box and you leaving.”

“I always felt I was the suspect. I know you guys think I stole that silver box. I know your kind—the rich kind. You think everyone who is poor is a thief.”

“No, no, no, not fair. This is cheap. Who told you, you were a suspect? Preeti overreacts. But she never, in her wildest imagination, suspected you. And you know me, these things, these material things, mean nothing to me. It is insanely silly of you to blame me.”

“Ok, maybe not you. But Preeti bahini ... I can swear she thinks I stole that box.”

“Then you must know my wife more than I do. You may not believe it, Preeti is more shocked than I am that you’re leaving … We just had your visa extended for six months.” I really felt bad for my wife, who, not for a second, had doubted her.

“She kept on bringing up that topic.”

“You lived with us for seven months. You should know Preeti by now. She cares too much about silver, gold, and diamond. It’s natural for her to panic when she loses one of those. Why wouldn’t you tell me this before? We could have sorted out this misunderstanding. Why are you telling me this two hours before flying to Qatar?”

“Samaf babu, it’s just a box for ‘supari’ and ‘lwang’. It’s that box’s misfortune that it happens to be made of silver. We lose stuff all the time … and we move on. I don’t get it what the big deal was. Shame. After all that I did for your baby ... I miss that poor little boy already.” Indira didi started crying frantically.

*****************************************************************

Home -- 11 weeks ago

It was 10:03 AM. I had just turned on ‘This Week with George Stephanopoulos’ when my wife came to the room, sat next to me and started to work on her Sunday project. I sensed her commitment to the task she was performing when I did not hear her comment on my sitting posture. That rarely happens. She labels slouching, what I call comfortable.

As part of her project, she carefully emptied ‘supari’, ‘lwang’ and ‘sukmel’ from a silver box that lay on top of our coffee table into three small zip-lock bags. Next, she moistened a soft piece of cloth with the Hagerty silver polish. Like a Baroque violinist performing for a ruthless king, she meticulously began to polish the box by gently rubbing the cloth over it in seesaw motion. I will have a hard time believing that Michelangelo was that focused when he painted the ceiling of Sistine Chapel.

When George Will and Fareed Zakaria’s big words and formulaic viewpoints turned on the cynic in me, I turned off the TV, grabbed my car keys and walked out of the house. Two and a half hours later, after making stops at a Starbucks, a Border’s Bookstore, and a Hair Cuttery, when I returned home, my wife was still polishing that silver box. This was the same person, who, when I ask to scratch my back sometimes, does so exactly 11 times before quitting with: “Hyaa alchhi laagyo malaai.”

“Look at this box. It looks brand new.” Fifteen minutes later, when she felt she was done, my wife yearned loud for a compliment.

Indira didi, who was trying to put my four-month-old son to sleep, glanced at the box before turning her head away. She looked as interested as she would be in a Star Trek convention. I don't know how I managed it, but I was even less interested than Indira didi.

“Doesn’t this look brand new?” Evidently annoyed by Indira didi's disinterest, my wife phrased the question to me.

The silver box was gleaming with fresh polish. It looked brand new indeed. But being a wisely married man, I did not admit it. I knew my Miranda rights. I did have the right to remain silent. Anything I said could and would be used against me by the law of marriage. I was well aware that she would use it against me every time I fail short of an equivalent job cleaning the Pressure Cooker: “Maile gareko kaam ra timile gareko kaam maa difference hera ta.”

When my wife did not hear anything from me either, she held the box up close to my son's eyes and said, “Babu timro maamu le ghotera safaa gareko hera.”

The baby started crying.

*****************************************************************

Home -- Seven weeks ago

“The box doesn’t have legs. It can’t walk out of here on its own.” My wife’s banal monologues and her shrill pitch were seriously wearing me thin.

Appearing progressively fidgety, she had been searching for that silver box for two uninterrupted hours. She was less agitated during her labor pain. I was there, I remember. It is beyond me how the pain of dilated cervix from the pressure of 7.6 pounds human can be less than the pain of losing an ornamental item of no real significance.

When my wife loses stuff, she loses her psychological equilibrium as well—and becomes fatally irrational. I had already seen her check each bathroom in the house three times. I also helplessly watched her look inside the Microwave oven twice. I saw her lifting the DVD player and the speakers. Finally, when she started searching the pockets of my jackets, I could not curb my irritation. “Have you completely lost it or what?”

“It’s a wedding gift. It’s important. You don't understand these things.”

“Gift from whom?”

“From Rohit uncle.” She lowered her voice because Indira didi was in the next room.

We never talked about Rohit uncle in front of Indira didi. We did not know the exact reason behind the fallout between Indira didi and her former employer, but we knew it was unpleasant and she was awfully bitter about it.

“So you are doing this circus because Rohit uncle gave it to you? It has nothing to do with the fact that it is made of silver?”

“If you’re not going to help me find it, at least keep quiet and let me do my job.”

How could it be a ‘job’ when it is voluntary? I wanted to ask her, but did not dare. The search effort continued for another hour. Even when the search ended futilely, speculations on its whereabouts did not end. My wife kept on harping on the missing box for days to follow. Five days later, however, the missing box crisis sounded trivial when Indira didi surprised us during dinner, “I want to go back to Nepal.”

****************************************************************

Ranjan’s house – Three Days Ago

“Who else have they invited?” I asked my wife as I parked my car in Ranjan's driveway.

“Pratima said just us.”

“Then we should have brought something other than this cheap Trader Joe's wine.”

“You can give him half of your 401 K for all I care. I don't know why you always have to look more generous than you are.”

Before I could face up to my wife's indictment, Ranjan opened the door and deci-humored us, “Samaf dai, I said 6 PM, Virginia time, not Denver time.”

That line was not even remotely clever when I first heard it in 1996. But nothing cracks up Ranjan more than his own gags. I gave him some moments to applaud himself before explaining why we were late.

When we walked inside the house, we saw another couple comfortably sitting in the living room. “Take a guess who they are?” Ranjan pop-quizzed my wife.

My wife scrutinized the couple’s shape, size, structure and texture for few seconds before giving up, “I don't think we have met.”

“Rohit uncle's son, Ashish, his wife, Shikha vauju.” Ranjan introduced the couple to us.

“Oh my god,” my wife screamed, “We were like kids when I saw you last time. After you guys moved to Baansbaari, I don't remember meeting you. It's been what, 19, 20 years?”

“Twenty-three years … Time flies,” Ashish did not waste any time on launching a cliché.

“Rohit uncle had sent me an email saying that you guys were in New Jersey.”

“We’re still in New Jersey. This is just a mini-break.”

Soon, Ashish and my wife started talking about their families. Ranjan and Shikha got busy with Prashant Tamang tidbits. I went to the kitchen to talk to Ranjan's wife, Pratima. She is one of my favorite people in Virginia because she has two great qualities: she laughs at my jokes and reads my writings.

Ranjan and Pratima are fabulous hosts. However, when I am invited for dinner, where the ultimate purpose is to eat, I prefer bad hosts who are great cooks over vice versa. Not that Pratima is a bad cook; it's her doctrine on cooked food, which is flawed. She believes edible food is what submerges in cooking oil. My appetite was ruined when I saw the dishes she had cooked. There was so much oil in each dish, that if Dick Cheney had seen those dishes, he would have proposed a unilateral preemptive strike.

The dinner conversation was long because oil being viscous liquid, took a longer time to travel from oesophagus to the stomach. I got to know the new couple better during dinner. Ashish was more like Pratima. He was quite down-to-earth. Unlike most people I meet, he was not bothered by my dismissive and skeptical attitude towards life in general. Shikha was more like my wife. I heard the two passionately talk in detail about the book they both had recently read: 'Victoria's Secret Catalogue, Fall Sale & Specials 2007 Issue'.

I also found out during dinner that Ashish and Shikha have been living in the US for only 17 months. Though both sounded educated, they seemed to be struggling to adjust here. Ranjan gave them some tips on the importance of not falling into treacherous telemarketing traps, Pratima enlightened them with the often-overlooked art of collecting and using grocery coupons, and my wife, a fitness super-freak, stressed the value of exercise and healthy diet to lead a stress-free life.

After dinner we were all relaxing in the living room, reminiscing good old Kathmandu, Ranjan suggested, “Supari, anyone?”

“No we are good,” I spoke for everyone. I felt a subconscious urgency in my voice.

“I will take one.” My wife voided me.

When Pratima came back to the room with a supari box, my wife exclaimed, “We used to have the exact silver box. I don't know where we lost it.”

“You guys gave this to us as wedding gift.” Pratima clarified.

“We used to have two of these boxes. The one we lost was a little bigger than this,” My wife said without even glancing at me.

God bless my wife. She can be as spontaneously clever as anyone I know when there is an emergency. We did not have two boxes. She had figured out the story of the missing silver box. But, unlike her husband, she did not choose to embarrass her husband in front of other people.

The story of the missing silver box is not all that complicated.

After getting married, when Ranjan and Pratima returned from Nepal, under tremendous peer pressure, they threw another reception for their friends in the US. My wife could not make it to their party because of her work. I was left with the thankless task of buying a gift for them.

Ranjan and Pratima were registered at Macy's. By the time I browsed the gifts they had selected, the only items remaining were either priced less than 60 dollars, or more than 250 dollars. I felt Ranjan was too close for a gift less than 60 dollars. And in my case, no one in North America is worth the gift of more than 250 dollars.

To simplify my dilemma, I already had a gift-wrap at home—and that silver box that sat on top of our coffee table looked brand new. My wife had spent three hours polishing it only three weeks ago. In the end, it was an entrepreneurial decision and I had every intention of telling my wife. But when she overreacted after finding it missing, I changed my mind.

I knew it was going to be a long and pauses-filled drive back home that night. But I did not want to ruin the evening for Ranjan, Pratima, Ashish and Shikha. I was just about to switch the topic to something else, Shikha beat me, “This is such a weird coincidence. I used to have the exact box, a wedding gift from my saanima. I also lost it. Bizarre.”

“How did you lose yours? Ours vanished from our home.” My wife started playing along.

“We lost ours at home too.”

“In Nepal?”

“Yes … You know what? I remember it was during your wedding week,” Shikha told my wife, “Ashish and I could not make it to your reception because my cousin was getting married the same day. When I came home from my cousin’s wedding two days later, the box that was sitting on top of dressing table was gone.”

My wife threw a fleeting glance at me that lasted no more than half a second. I tried to recall Rohit uncle's face, but my memory did not oblige.

“Shikha made a huge deal about losing that box … We had this woman, Indira didi, who used to work for us. She had been with us for years. Shikha would not stop asking her about that box. Indira didi was so frustrated, she quit. She was a great helper. When my mother passed away, if it was not for Indira didi, we would have become dysfunctional. What a loss that was to our family.” Ashish sounded remorseful. Then he looked at his wife and asked, “Why did you make such a big deal about losing that stupid box?”

“It was a wedding gift. You don't understand these things.”

“Shikha, it was not worth losing Indira didi.”

“There is no doubt in my mind that Indira stole that box.” Shikha sounded certain.

There was a huge mirror on the wall right across from where I was sitting. The mirror kept on reflecting the face of only one thief. No matter how hard I tried, I could not recall the original thief’s face. My memory did not oblige.

 

 

reminded me of one of B.P. Koirala's stories after the ending. I hope that other women readers won't be unhappy after reading this story as the female characters were doing with that silver-box. Your story shows some of the differences between two creatures separated by just one y-chromosome. Moral of the story for me: doubts like those are real bad enemies of us, and can do a great harm to us, and to the harmony among the people. Poor Indira didi!

I liked the example of gift ranged between $60-250.

Bravo Sum_off, you did it again. Every time I read your stories, it feels like I'm Sum_off living those moments. You are such a wonderful storyteller. I will repeat like a ghisa pita record player..it's time to find a publisher.

BTW:

"The silver box was gleaming with fresh polish. It looked brand new indeed. But being a wisely married man, I did not admit it. I knew my Miranda rights. I did have the right to remain silent. Anything I said could and would be used against me by the law of marriage. I was well aware that she would use it against me every time I fail short of an equivalent job cleaning the Pressure Cooker: “Maile gareko kaam ra timile gareko kaam maa difference hera ta. – Kahani ghar ghar ki

"Appearing progressively fidgety, she had been searching for that silver box for two uninterrupted hours. She was less agitated during her labor pain. I was there, I remember. It is beyond me how the pain of dilated cervix from the pressure of 7.6 pounds human can be less than the pain of losing an ornamental item of no real significance" – Epidural ka kamala hai

Another good one from you. I read it throughly and enjoyed it. So, blame on uncle Rohit for creating such fiasco

Ranjan’s house – Three Days Ago

“Who else have they invited?” I asked my wife as I parked my car in Ranjan's driveway.

“Pratima said just us.” You must be referring to Preeti here, not Pratima??

Wow. It was amazing sum_off. ..Poor Indira Di!!

I visit sajha once in a while and the first thing i do is look for "SUM OFF's". Well today I found a new one. I am in office right now so reading it on screen is not possible. I am listening to it. got a text reader installed so that i dont have to read it in office.
enjoying it
Thanks sum off

********“Pratima said just us.” You must be referring to Preeti here, not Pratima?? *********
Preeti said “Pratima said just us.”

Enjoyed thoroughly sum_off, really it's ghar ghar ki kahani.

Great story !!

My bad! Thanks for clarifying, Pretty. I did not realize how the quotation mark was there.

Hmmmmm.......so the story revolves around a silver box...nicee.....reminded me of my silver Watch( to be precise, it was platinum....but since silver and platinum kinda look alike). there used to be this monkey mannered boy in our house who stole my watch and exchanged it for 2 TT balls, can u believe it? I nearly went to Coma after knowing the truth.
I don't have to keep telling you that you are an awesome writer , do i?, since writing seems to be your forte.
Good Luck!

Another good piece!!! "Hocho ko mookh maa ghocho"

Thanks brother!!!!

'The dinner conversation was long because oil being viscous liquid, took a longer time to travel from oesophagus to the stomach.'

hahaha....good one there.....but i would think that oil would also act as a lubricant and reduce friction and hence make the transit easier for the food.....:P :P

I loved the word 'deci-humored'.

And if you ever ask a man to wash the pressure cooker.....you will have to wash it again before u make dinner the next day! This is a fact not open to discussion :)

Loved the Maupassant-isque flavor (twist) to the story.

I am glad that because of you the story of Indira didi and many like her is being told. You compel me to confront my own prejudices.

I really wished we could take your stories to more people: namely foreigners. So that they could sample 'vintage' Nepal (and Nepalese).

We love u sumoff.

Sum off, loved this story. The buildup was great and the timeline made it even more interesting.

The climax was hilarious. I might be overreacting a little when I say there might have been a little too much coincidences which reminds me it's more of a story than reality.

Great story Samaf!!

As always there is a twist in your story... I love how you write the details like-

"When my wife did not hear anything from me either, she held the box up close to my son's eyes and said, “Babu timro maamu le ghotera safaa gareko hera.”

The baby started crying. "

To write like you do, you must be very observant of the people, their behavior - actions and reactions, and other things around you.

huna ta comment nadiye pani hunthyo..tara ke garne chhucho mukh paryo.

for me, this is just about average story (theme-wise) from your standard..although your story-telling is yet again amazing...

tyo 'kabhre to thimi' bhanne thiyo ni, testai testai theme (almost) no? i'll say this one is a subset of the other.

nevertheless, i do certainly and wholeheartedly appreciate the time and effort you put into this

Sum Off -

Good to see you back! Hope all is well. Will read tonight and comment.

Have a good one.

Sum Off,
Good one.

The silver box was gleaming with fresh polish. It looked brand new indeed. But being a wisely married man, I did not admit it. I knew my Miranda rights. I did have the right to remain silent. Anything I said could and would be used against me by the law of marriage. I was well aware that she would use it against me every time I fail short of an equivalent job cleaning the Pressure Cooker: “Maile gareko kaam ra timile gareko kaam maa difference hera ta.”

Sum Off: A wonderful read as always. I found the part about marriage law totally hilarious. "Anything I said could and would be used against me by the law of marriage." Keep it coming. Indira didi quit 2 jobs exactly for the same reason... because some men "stole" a silver box from their own house and poor Indira was a suspect! I loved the wasy you linked the sub parts through the silver box! Whenever you mention Fairfax, VA.. I cant help but remember some family that I have there! Anyway... hope to read more from you later!

SNDY-- Epidural ko kamal re. LMAO!!

sum_off, I had to leave this read for tonite since I had some dysfunctional fools here in sajha who occupied my entire morning! Since they've all been long taken care of, I finally made myself the time to read this and respond as I always do. hahah As always, do I have to say you're magnificent again?? Its works like these that makes me want to keep coming to sajha over and over again and as Ratobhaley's earlier thread today asking where all the sajha intellectuals have gone, I'm glad you and Galt are still around belting such phenomenal stories. We in sajha are truly grateful. An awesome read!!

BTW, had to attend a wedding a coupla weeks ago and I presented cash in an envelope...Hell, for me, no on in North America is worth more than $100!! hahahah Have a good night!!

Ha ha ha , what a fascinating and humorous story - loved it all the way.

" Beyond that, my inbred apathy did not let me bother. "

Can't stop laughing at that line. I have been accused of the same thing time and over.

You are the best!

Hope you'll keep writing. You should visit the Cafe again (and that goes out to the others on the thread as well).

Best wishes