EIGHTH DAY On the seventh evening I flew to Pokhara. My grandparents live there. Since they are both in their mid 80s and function like they are in their mid 80s, I did not feel like it would be sensible to ask them to attend the wedding. When my family, composed entirely of my father, unanimously concluded a pre-wedding blessing from my grandparents a prerequisite, the trip to Pokara became consequential. On the eighth morning, while I was verbally diagramming my fiancée’s family tree to my grandfather, Hari Kaka ventured a customary intrusion to my grandparents’ house. After the ‘dhog bhet’ was exchanged, the blunt Hari kaka examined my physique for a few seconds and blurted out, “khelkood chahi khaas chhaina ki kaso ho?” He seemed to enjoy a moral authority to make that assessment. In his early 50s Hari kaka is still fit as a fiddle. As he swore, and I believe, the singular intent of his self-invited visit to my grandfather’s house was to see me. Having known Hari kaka for so long, I knew he would show up. The man had journeyed for an hour and a half to see me. I was touched. Literally. He kept on hugging me for almost a minute. He wouldn’t let me go. In spite of his countless efforts Hari Kaka has not been able to establish how I am exactly related to him. Though I don’t dispute his claim blatantly I can always trace a missing link. My deduction is, he deems, we are related because once upon a time his grandfather’s house bordered my great grandfather’s. But Hari kaka is such a caring person that I cherish a more intimate kinship with him than with most of my first cousins. The guy is a treasure of a human being— sensitive, loyal, helpful, pleasant, and considerate. And to surpass that all, he never talks about politics. My trip to Nepal reminded me anew, what a rare and admirable trait that is in our culture. Hari kaka mentioned he was thrilled that I did not marry a ‘Goree’. His entire family and the people in the adjacent villages are still recovering from Pitambar dai’s (Hari Kaka’s nephew) marriage to a Filipina. “Timi le pani utai keti felaa paareu re vaneko sundaa ta saato putlo udeko thiyo ni mero ta,” sighed my xenophobic kaka de facto. “She’s a Nepali only by birth. She’s more American than any American I have met.” I tried to tease Hari Kaka. “Jati American vae pani, Samudra chheu maa gaera saano euta dhaago jasto kattu maatra berera uttano parera naangai ta sutdinan holaa ni timri chahi?” Though his tone was dismissive, Hari kaka sounded curious. “Ke kuraa garya hajur le Hari kaka, aajkal ta tyo saano kattu pani launa chhodi haaleni. Jhan tyaha basne Nepali keti haru ko ta kurai nagarnus. Khattam chhan khattam,” I played along. “Tetu pani koreki chhin ki naaito waripari?” “Dherai chhaina euta saano maatra ho. Tala dhaad ko muni patti mero naam khopeki chha. Tattoo ta tehi euta maatrai ho.” Hari kaka exactly knows when to stop. “Bakwaas garna timilai kasaile najitne vo.” Hari kaka invited me for dinner that evening. I said yes. I remembered Padma kaki’s cooking. She used to be excellent. Plus I have always enjoyed their playful arguments. I have met a very few couples in my lifetime who enjoy their marriage as much as Hari kaka and Padma kaki. Hari Kaka lives in a place dubbed ‘Paakhaa’ by the locals, which is an hour’s walk from Paardi Bazaar. I left my grandfather’s house around 3:15 and reached there by 5:00. I knew they eat dinner early. Padma kaki sat me down in their bedroom, since that was the only room where they did not have cattle food and crop residues from last year’s harvested crops. She offered me some homemade buttermilk (mahi) before vanishing. An hour later, I was still at Hari kaka’s bedroom by myself. I did not see or hear from Hari kaka or Padma kaki. Since the kitchen was downstairs I did not hear any noise from the kitchen either. I absolutely had no clue what was going on. I was getting quite uncomfortable. There was nothing in that bedroom except the bed, the mattress and Hari kaka’s underwear next to the pillow. There were no newspapers, no magazines, no television, and no radio to kill time with. I could feel my toenails getting bored. Irked and impatient, I opened the small wooden window in the room that overlooked Hari kaka’s backyard. And there he was, in his backyard—chasing a rooster like some character from a Pixar movie. I heard Hari kaka scream at the rooster: “THE GUEST’S ALREADY HERE, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU RUNNING TO? I DIDN’T FEED YOU FOR TWO WEEKS FOR NOTHING.” On a second thought, I think this will hit a Gorkhey chord if I just quote him in Nepali: “PAAHUNA MAATHI AAISAKE, KATAA FUTKINCHHA YO MARNA NASAKEKO KUKHURO? TA MURDAAR LAAI MAILE DUI HAPTAA SAMMA BINAA SITTIMAA POSERA RAKHYA HOOM KI KYA HO.” What I was looking at was my dinner! Being chased by my host. I had just seen my dinner—alive, kicking, running, and flying. I realized that elusive rooster was the culprit who was delaying my dinner. I don’t know how long the poor old Hari kaka was chasing that rooster, but from what I saw, it looked like the dinner was a long way. That night at Hari kaka’s place, around 10:45 PM (Nepal Standard Time), I had one of the best vegetarian dinners of my life. Padma kaki had made Kaauli ko tarkaari, Laukaa, Maseura ko jhol, Methi ko Saag, Farsi ko muntaa, saandheko Gundruk ko achaar, pineko Dhaniya, and bhuteko Aloo. Everything was cooked on daaura ko aago. Simply delicious. “Today is Ekaadasi, so I didn’t cook chicken.” Padma kaki apologized. Ekaadasi was four days earlier. I could see a full moon outside. Ten minutes later, when I came back to the bedroom after dinner, I heard Hari kaka in the next room yelling at his wife: “They have the same moon in America also. I don’t think he has forgotten the concept of moon. Think before you speak, woman… ekaadasi… he knows when ekaadasi falls.” “Ani ke vanera dhaak chhop garne ta maile? Paahuna bolaako chha ghar maa, maasu chahi chhaina. Beijat nai vo aja ta,” snapped Padma kaka. She was as loud. “Maasu chhaina ta chhaina aba, aafnai vatijo ta ho. Waha Chandramaa ko dhikko dallai kothaa bata jhul jhul jhulkya chha. Ta chahi Ekaadasi vanchhes. Ta aaimaai ko buddhi?” “Dwi haptaa paalera raakheu budhaa, chahiney belaa maa chhopna sakenau, futta udera go. Ma sanga ke gan gan garchhau? Ooh utaa Mukhiyaa ko ghar tira laagyo vale chahi. Khaanchha aba voli Mukhiyaa ko jwai le tanna jhol haalera.” “That ungrateful rooster!” grumbled Hari kaka. The post-dinner entertainment was certainly more enjoyable than my pre-dinner confusion. What a beautiful night that turned out to be. Since it was already too late to head back to Pokhara, Hari Kaka, Padma Kaki and I ended up talking till 2:30 in the morning. But the couple did not mention a word about that rooster. On my trip back to Kathmandu a day later, I kept on wondering about that rooster. I am sure Mukhiya ko jwai can’t cook like Padma kaki. What a waste. And that mukhiyaa ko jwai, whoever he is … why the hell is he staying at his in-laws’? As they say in Mobil, Alabama: “Get your own space, dude.” At Hari kaka’s place, I lived a night that I will cherish for years to come. I wish they were my real kaka kaki. But I never feel like they are my real kaka kaki. Because they care a lot more than my real kaka kaki.