Candid Verses: Dashain (Non) Celebrations!
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Like all previous years, I discover the advent of Dashain in the most annoying of ways - - a chain-email that has spiraled out of control from a certain-somebody, whom I barely know, yet who genuinely wishes me prosperity and good health. Attached to the email is also a crappy, low-resolution photo of Jamara, Red Tika, and goat curry (And I thought all Nepalis have a DSLR now!) and what sounds like a pirated version of Mangal Dhun that should supposedly cheer me at work. Thank you - it must be my Dashain bonus this year!
Historically speaking, I have not been a big fan of Dashain. Maybe it was because as a boy, I was psychologically scarred when the elders that put monstrous "Tika & Jamara" on my forehead limited themselves to
mere Tika and Jamara while the money was reserved for my female siblings and cousins. Yet each time they blessed me with their perennial "Maun le chitayeko kura pugos!", I would instantly wish they would spare some of the cash at hand but to no avail.
But the worse was to follow. My parents would then drag me along with my siblings and cousins to get Tika from every elder we knew or barely knew, to every corner and gullis of our village and the city alike that always included a visit to my dad's-great aunt's-cousin-brother. This great uncle, who considered bathing a sin, wouldn't take anything from me except a thorough bowing down to his stinky feet for a full-few seconds in exchange for the same set of blessings that never came true but was sufficient to give me nausea that lasted a few days. If you want to know what those precious few seconds felt like, you'll have to ask Einstein to explain his theory of relativity again. I would have protested, but my mom would secretly make a pro-Bono deal with me to match the money my sisters made during the festival. And that's that.
Dashain became less and less exciting during my college years in the US. It is one thing to be studying in middle of nowhere, but those midterms nearly always coincided with Dashain. So, Dashain instead of being joyous, became synonymous with my exams. After college, I finally moved to the city where there was a massive Nepali community and I was looking forward to a first real Dashain party in US ---or so I thought. On my way to work one day near Queensborough Blvd, I saw a big sign that read "Pre-Dashain Dance Party - $20 entrance fee!" Excited and humbled by Nepalis that have done so much to preserve our great festival, I even bought an advanced ticket only to realize later that the party was about everything but celebrating Dashain. At the end of it all, it seemed like an excuse to drink, be rowdy, and show how big an asshole you can make of yourself in front of other Nepalis. Of course, there's nothing wrong in being drunk and rowdy, but I was well-over my college 101 days. And boy did I make a fool out of myself then. Memories! Anyways, that was when I officially called it quits. No no! not to alcohol (god forbid), but going to Dashain parties.
As I scroll down the chain email, pictures of flying kites, playing cards, and high-flying swings that people have subsequently attached begin to reveal themselves --the kind of images that provide warmth from your childhood. I grow nostalgic about the facets of Dashain that were actually wonderful. I hear the voices from the past that echo freedom and joy unfathomable in a foreign land. At the end of the chain letter, I stop abruptly at the email address that I find very familiar, the email that started it all - the entire chain reaction.Well of course, it is my girlfriend's email address who has meticulously managed to send Dashain greetings to all her friends and family and TO MY HORROR, TO ALL MY FRIENDS & FAMILY AS WELL. Surely, all the email addresses seem familiar now and the attached photo is the one I took last year at my cousin's: the crappy picture of Tika/Jamara/GoatCurry.
For what its worth: Happy Dashain ya'll!
