SIXTH DAY I got engaged on the sixth day. For some strange socio-religious reason, engagement (Swayambar) is a big deal in Nepal. I am not talking as an outsider here, but I never understood why priests and astrology needed to intervene on my engagement—which in essence is nothing more than a formal proposition. But they do. In the end, though I wanted a neutral venue to settle the matter, mandated to follow the custom, the Swayambar indeed took place at the bride’s house. The family priest from the bride side, who coincidentally has never taken a single course in Math, calculated the astrology-blessed time for our Swayambar. Per his ‘Paatro’, the most sanctimonious time was forecasted to be at 3:17 PM. We were told by the middle man (a generic ‘lami’) that we needed to be at the bride’s place by 3:00 PM latest. When it comes to taking charge in social events, my demeanor limits me to do only a supporting role. I am not patterned to play a leading role in a public setting. I neither have personality nor any ambition to be so. But it was my wedding and I was destined to play the leading role in this episode. When I woke up on the sixth morning, I was not looking forward to this elaborated ‘jaatraa’ called Swayambar. Talk about getting cold feet, mine needed to be thawed. I did not quite comprehend the rationale behind it, but my father had invited more than 100 people from our side to attend my Swayambar. I did not know many of them by first name or last name—or by face, DNA, fingerprints, or dental records. But they were there, pretending to be celebrating this circus where I was the leading clown. Some invitees even made a point of congratulating me. Others just ate free food and vanished like they did not want to see my face until my first child’s ‘paasni’. I found it extremely odd that almost half the people that my father had invited did not even bother to congratulate me, let alone indulge in a conversation. Is that a normal behavior for a grownup person? This is one of my genuine complaints. I sincerely did not like the grandiose tone of this event. I strongly feel that an engagement should be more personal than festive. I asked our ‘Purohit Baaje’ why everything has to be so formal and extravagant in our culture. He replied: “Om bhur bhuvaswah, tat savitur varenyam bhargo devasya dheemahi, dhiyo nah prachodayat.” After my ‘Bartaman’ in 1989, my grandfather had asked me to memorize Gaayatri mantra. For some reason I had a hard time remembering that chant. I recall asking our ‘Purohit Baaje’ to repeat that mantra to me at least a dozen times. Our ‘Purohit Baaje’ who is 76 now has gone 60% deaf in both ears. So whenever he sees my lips moving he assumes I am asking him the same question. We reached the bride’s place on time. The bride’s side was ready for the combat with more than 100 of their own people. As soon as we entered the house, I whispered to my nephew that if I had known some of my fiancée’s cousins beforehand, I would have never agreed on the venue. They were deafeningly loud and agonizingly unfunny. As soon as I walked in to the house, I heard them applaud—as if their cousin (my future bride) was an award being bestowed upon me. I did not have my acceptance speech prepared. Maybe that was one of the reasons why I was getting jitterier by the second. I heard them talk loud without any trace of humor or sense. They seemed to be intrigued by the fact that when they opened their mouth, it produced sound. In their case, a very loud one. At some point during the engagement drill, it hit me, that it was not my fiancée’s cousins who had annoyed me. In fact her cousins were very friendly and respectful towards my family and me. They made us comfortable. They were nice people with an exceptionally loud voice and a missing humor gene. Something else had bothered me. I grade myself to be an unmotivated person with a passable sense of humor. And I am extremely vigilant of the latter quality. But as soon as I entered the bride-to-be’s house, everything changed. Their house was at least three times bigger than ours. They lived in a beautiful house built in a large piece of land. I wasn’t funny as soon as I saw that house. The house got my tongue. My ego had a seizure. Incoherently humbled, I started getting this involuntary urge to scream: “I HAVE A CREDIT CARD.” I knew they were rich, but to see them live rich wounded me. I have never felt comfortable around rich people. Rich people I know are too paranoid to enjoy a friend or a joke. And my problem is I can’t fit in where I can’t tell a joke. I felt bad for my ambitious wife-to-be that she got stuck with a funny man whose family owned a small house with a very limited water supply. During the entire Swayambar routine, and the reception thereafter, I set a record by not telling a single one-liner. I was reduced to being a ‘previously funny man’ whose family owned a small house with a very limited water supply. The Swayambar proceedings and the house served as a double whammy, and just like that my punch lines were muted. Attempting to be a good sport, nevertheless, I complimented my wife-to-be on the house. She is not a bit modest when it comes to her parents’ wealth. She bragged, “This is nothing, you should see inside.” I did not say anything. I know she has more credit cards than I do. But as modest as she is, she voluntarily added, "This is not even my favorite house. Among the four houses we own, I’ll rank this number three.” I felt nauseated and weak. Suddenly I needed to boast about something myself. I ended up saying: "Our neighbor, Dr. Bastola’s water pump fills up his tank in less than an hour. He’s got an Indian water pump." Then I remember walking away from her as far as I could. Eighty-six percent of the male who were attending the Swayambar were talking about either politics or the World Cup. The 14 percent were waiting for their turn to talk about politics or the World Cup. One person from the bride side was creative enough to combine both: “Tyo jyanmaara Prachanda laai ta David Beckham le jastai ek kick diera udaunu parchha.” Whether the house is big or small, the menu in these events has not changed in Nepal. It feels like we are going to eat the same food for the rest of our modern culture. Guess what? The post-Swayambar menu had the same ‘aloo ko achaar’, the same ‘Golveda ko achaar’, the same Pulaw, the same ‘Taamaa’, … and the same arrangement. And even the question was the same: “How’s the food, hajur?” To top it all, even my answer was the same: “Fantastic. Loved the Khashi ko maasu, hajur.” But one thing I noticed during my Swayambar is people in Nepal are much happier than the Nepalese I meet in the US. They don’t worry much. I think we, the first generation migrants, are the confused ones. We have seen more but done less, because we know we don’t always fit in. To be continued…