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.

 

 

May I drop in to give my 2 cents? Though I would agree that some females do not read any books (just like some men doze off after opening a book!), I do not necessarily think that they consider browsing through Catalogs as "reading." I dont believe that Sum Off literally meant that the wife felt some degree of accomplishment about reading an intellectual book or so by looking through the VS catalog. And as far as I believe, men are much more enthusiastic than women to go through VS catalogs. LOL But Samsara's comment about the coworker calling from work to order was funny nonetheless! I wonder why she just doesnt order something online!!

Rythm, Even if she did it online, its all monitored here (but we still do our net surfing anyway)!! hahaha Imagine work without sajha (my muse), I'd be slumping da whole damn day.

You're not at work right now though (according to my assumption!!), and you're still in sajha!!

yeah, am on vaca and its raining in the mid-west, shucks!! Am stranded, so nothing better to do than check sajha!!

Doesnt it always rain on the mid-west? LOL... Anyways lets not spoil Sum Off's wonderful thread now!!

How was I supposed to know?? Just passing through here and its snowing/raining...Been on the East coast for the past 9 years (too damn long). Anyway, lets let peeps respond to this thread now.

Apologies for the digression, sum_off. Am outta this thread!!

Finally, I got to read it.

Sum_off bro,
This should be regarded as one of your best stories because of the warmth one feels after reading it. The story is so simple yet it possess the top notch humor which is what I enjoy the most in all of your writings.

By the way, I just wanted to add that I bumped into Jerry Sienfield, your favorite, a couple of days ago in Boston.
I shook hand with him but I didn't know what to say and said, "Hi Jerry, what's up?"
He replied with "How you doing" and just vanished in the crowd. Later I found out he was there for his movie premier.

Anyways, I really hope to read your professional works some day.
All the best.

AudreyH
me!!and my five best friends...that would be six for you.
:)

I. Hi to my new friends first …

Kekohalla,
Welcome and thank you for the comments. Ani halla chaahi keko ho ni? Regarding your confusion, you missed the quotes, that’s all, not a big deal. Speaking of quotes:

This is my favorite quote from my most favorite silent movie: “ ”

Torikophul,
Welcome and thank you for the compliment. I really appreciate you editing your comments in my other thread. After destroying a 19-year-old friendship with one email, I learned this:
I don’t type anymore when I am bitter, angry, self-assured, frustrated, or depressed. The person in the receiving end does not necessarily identify with my mood.

Thanks again.

Athena,
You don’t know what a compliment like that does to my fragile ego. As soon as I read your comment, I started a Word file to write another story. Thank you for the kind word (there was exactly one word).

II. Maybe not completely new, but almost a stranger …

Bravesouls,
Thank you for coming back. What is that software called? Is it free? Would love to have one myself.

III. Now my regular friends,

Khusi,
My threads are not complete without your replies. Thank you so much. Poor Indira didi indeed! When I write real stories like these, sometimes I wish I could use the real names and locations. Then I would be exposed. That won’t be fun.

Pretty,
Ghar ghar ki kahaani huh? So you’re married too? Sorry to hear that. My sympathies (in plural). Thank you for clarifying kekohalla’s point.

Cerine,
Thank you. Good to see you again. We have been saying hello and hi for a while, but I don’t think we have been properly introduced. “Hi I’m Sum_off. And I piss off people by taking myself too seriously sometimes. Other times I am ok.”

Aviator,
You sure are funny. For two table tennis balls, re? Tyo seto chaahi? Pachhi ta pink color ko pani paauthyo ni. Pink color ko vae, at least pink color ko balls vanna hunthyo ni, haina? Seriously, for two tennis balls? I will never forget your comments in my last post. That was so unexpected and funny.

Npl2Us/SNDY/Captain Haddock/Rythm,
I already said hi and thank you at Café N. And I also recommend my friends here to visit Café N once in a while. It’s harmonious. SNDY, the first time I was there was because of your invitation. Kasto ho jatti vaau diye pani napugne? Rythm, you need to write more. Seriously. CH, so Philadelphia huh? What a miserable city it is, isn’t it? I walked around U PENN one time. What a great school and what an ugly neighborhood. Hope you are not too attached to the city already. If you are, my apologies.

Nepalonmymind,
Ke chha ho haalkhabar? Aafno baaremaa pani eso kehi lekhnu ni. Ani tyo literature maa thyammai interest nahune saathi chaahi ke garchhan ta? NFL herchhan?

I have some American friends who read my essays, other than that I have not shared my fiction/non-fiction work with them.

So, did you figure out what was the fifth degree (of separation)? I know you can easily count to four, how about the fifth?

Ratobhaley,
Of all the threads I have glanced at Sajha in the last three months, I swear nothing cracked me up more than your thread about Prashant Tamang singing in public to solve Maoist problem in Nepal.

YACC,
It’s not that I am a professional observer, but I am curious when I am around people. People, when they are amongst people, they act like people—I find that very people-ish. Therefore, I take mental notes on these peoply people, come home, magnify their peopler idiosyncrasies, and tell you what I saw. I admit I tend to add what my peripheral vision wanted to see (but did not see). Does that make me a liar? Maybe just a second-rate gossipmonger.

Always a pleasure seeing you in my thread. Thank you.

Lootebhai,
I am glad you did not like it. Sometimes I want to hear that too. Makes me wanna write something different next time. I know you like serious stuff. So, what’s up? My good friends SNDY and CH tell me that you are ignoring certain threads (or, just one particular thread). You can’t abandon what you are a part of. Betrayal.

Punte Damai,
Welcome and thank you. The name sounds so familiar. I never got my son’s ‘bhoto’ and ‘surwaal’ back.

Oho,
Once upon a time and also in present time, there used to be (and there is) a guy named SunnyDev who used to comment on my favorite lines from my story. I think you beat him this time. You have no idea what it means to me when people spend more than five minutes to tell me they have actually read what I write. So, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I see you are fair and encouraging to all other writers in Sajha. I don’t know why, that’s very important to me.

Chanaa_tarkaari,
The conversation back home was weird. My wife did not know whether to be shocked by the coincidences, kill me for stealing the box, or to be pissed at Shikha for blaming Indira didi. She kept on jumping from one topic to another. Thank you for reading.

Samsara,
I know you are a very intelligent person. Before I agree or not agree with you, I have to respect, whatever you do or say, you must do or say for reasons that make sense to you. However, when, what you say, gets lost in how you say it, I for one, can’t help but wonder: “Isn’t a big part of your thesis your presentation?”

How say you?

World_map,
I knew you were going to comment on this piece. I have been writing here for so long, now I have pretty much figured out who likes what. Thank you for reading. So, how are the things at Chautari land?

Suna,
I always speculate on people who have been generous to me. Having read your comments for a while in my threads, I don’t know why I have this feeling that you must be an entrepreneur. You must have a business of your own—perhaps a store, or a company, or a restaurant, or who knows what? I don’t know what I am talking about. I have lost it.

Thank you for all the kind words you have served me. I have never been a fan of Thomas Jefferson though. I don’t know why, when I think of you, I think of Jefferson.

Imi,
Stealing is bad, but repenting cures it. Especially when you are willing to tell the whole world that you are a thief. So, what else is new? Where is my coffee?

SunnyDev,
You said:
“I must be one of your favorite; I laughed when you mention Miranda rights and the laws of marriage.”

The story was not supposed to be haha funny, but it was supposed to give you mild chuckles throughout. I failed if you laughed only when you read the “Miranda Rights.” I give myself a D Minus.

Audrey H,
I wrote:
“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'.”

You must have read:
“I heard all the women in the world passionately talk in detail about the book they had recently read: 'Victoria's Secret Catalogue, Fall Sale & Specials 2007 Issue'.

Now tell me, how is that different from a guy who reads Sports Illustrated and actually believes he is a reader?

There are two thieves in the story: both are males. There is only one victim in the story, who is a female. And as a female, you still found a line that offended you? Hatterika! Ke ho testo! You guys have very unfairly tagged me a sexist. No matter what I do; I won’t be able to change your mind.

You were gone for a while. Hope everything is well.

Freak_Alien,
I have some geographical news for you. NY is not considered West coast. And if your Yankees win the World Series, I will send you a check of $9.99. That is a promise.

Tamang_Lady,
You have been quiet these days. But you are usually quiet, aren’t you? Hope everything is well. Thank you for the comments.

Kevin_ekstrom,
Thank you sir. Yeah, I also felt this one turned out to be exactly what I wanted it to be. Fifty percent gaf-gaaf, 50% story, and a little bit of twist. The beauty of writing a real story is you don’t have to think much. I loved Seinfeld the show because it was a fusion of Larry David’s neuroticism and Jerry’s observations. Jerry by himself, I only like him. Larry by himself, I can’t stand him.

Hope to see you more here.

Amazing,
Two smiley faces to you too. Thanks.

[Comments are unedited. Pardon the typos.]

Sum Off -

Ha ha, I dont find it that bad but your's is not the first complaint I have heard about the city. There are some parts of the city that, lets say, leave a lot to be desired - how's that for PC? LOL!! Where I work and live are pretty nice.

:)

BTW, Sum off...Thanks man for the words. Always a pleasure to hear from you. BTW, its dissertation in my case Well, lets hope all goes well!! Ciao.

hahaha, sum_off bro !
ofcourse i know NY is not west coast, but i never said i was in west coast, if my memory holds then it was you who assumed i was in the west coast ... but if you keep going west from west coast you will reach NY eventually, makes it west of west coast ? hehe .. and thanks for the offer, now i really hope they do, so that i get my $9.99 ...lol ... nice to hear from you bro !

LOL, Sum_off, jatti bhau diyeni kaha pugcha ra? Tyo pani Sum_off le diyeko bhau..

sum off .....literature ma THYAMMAI interest nahune sathi NFL, College FB, EPL, Champions League sabai herchan. kaile kaai sab kaam chhodera aafu jastai 10-12 jana aru batulera khelna pani janchan :).

I am sure people have told you quite a few times that you have a good memory. I believe good memory is just showing interest. Thank you for remembering :)

You should share your fiction with your American friends. You should seriously throw away any remaining inhibitions about your writing....... ( i dont know if u can use 'throw away' with inhibition)

I am reading Rohinton's Mistry's 'A Fine Balance'. I love South Asian writers writing in English. And whenever a certain para or line interests me in the book I say to myself, 'Our sumoff could write like that too!'.

hehe sum_off
your speculation is surely making some smile right now... :)
I hope you are thinking of Martha Jefferson :) if you are not a fan of Jefferson. Plenty being done in her name too.
I work for a living...somedays I am the boss, sometimes I am the naukar...kya karey...zindagi jhyaang jhyaaaaang cha :).
c'est la vie...
now.ummmmm you've got my attention...my undivided attention. All positive monsieur!

Sum_off,

Now I am embarrassed because 'Sir' is way too magnanimous or humongous title for me from such a beautiful mind like yours. I would be absolutely fine if you call me just Kevin.
Anyways, it's the stories like these that cheers me up when I get back in my room from a hard day's work, just as if I am watching another episode of Seinfield with less disfunctional characters.

Thank you for your beautiful words and please feed us more from your intellect.

(Just added a line).

I'm sure the rest of sajha readers must be going, "what the the beep"? why's he commenting now?

But just to clarify, how is it that Shikha's gift went missing?

Pardon my common lack of uncommon common sense.

Samaf Dai, what a piece!! but bichara Indira didi...I feel so sorry for her

In memory of Sum_off who was the best writer to have set foot in sajha...