TARDINESS - THE OFTEN FORGOTTEN NEPALESE PRIDE When we first moved to where I currently am, we were a little relieved there weren’t too many Nepalese people around. Now I know this statement will flare tempers but I implore you guys to hear me out first. I, by no means am an imprudent gorkhali who forgets he is one the moments he boards the aircraft from TIA. With that being said there are four types of Nepalese people I have encountered in America; the first ones are like my aunts, who migrated here before I was born and are completely oblivious to the fact that they are Nepalese. The second ones are the same, except that they migrated not too long ago but became their international best the moment they set foot in American soil. The third kinds are people like me, who believe in moderation – one who imitate Americans for better reasons but still hold on to Nepalese custom and practices. And the fourth ones - oh my! - are the ones who have been infected with Chabahil syndrome. So it should not be too difficult to understand that my closest affinity is only with the Nepalese of the third kind, and it seems there either aren’t many or I have been cursed by afro hair Saibaba that I never run into one. I still remember this guy in Boston who called never called me when I was waiting on his call so we could go to this underground bar somewhere in Somerville - which clearly meant he didn’t want to go, but to my surprise he arrives with this miss thickness who aptly complemented to the midget in him and was shocked to see me there, sipping my gin and tonic. Now THAT, my friends is what I called a Chabahil syndrome - meaning they still believe they are in Chabahil and can get away with any lies or tardiness or sloth or ineptitude and still retain that dang student visa. I could have chosen Baneshwore or Maitidevi or Lazimpat or Nakhu or even as far as Sano Thimi, but since I really hate Chabahil traffic, I obligatorily deemed everyone in that area as stupid and hence ended up with that name. If you didn’t know it earlier, you know it now – I stereotype too. Now I was supposed to help that dude with the documents he needed for his green card, which I obviously never did. And I later heard he was fired from his temporary job in Genzyme in Framingham and he was last seen playing guitar in afterhours café at Northeastern. Next stop a T station, and I will be more than glad to throw a penny when I visit Boston next. A$$hole! Speaking of tardiness, I have a cousin in New York who is a manager at Dunkin donuts at Fifth Avenue. He goes to CUNY and somehow manages to pay his tuition with that pay. That is like me dating Mila Kunis with my salary. He also rents a studio at Elmhurst and has a 42” Sony LED, a Bose sound dock, X box, Playstation ,Wii and slew of video games, Armani colognes, J Crew Jeans and several Northface jackets. He texted me last time that he bought a Zegna loafer on sale which made me sit down on my shitter and think for a long time if my life, as compared to his, had any meaning at all. My wife thinks he is either a Nepalese version of Jesse Pinkman (she knows for a fact that he is certainly not smart enough to be a Walter White) or he is banging Martha Stewart every night. Anyways, the most interesting thing of all is, he sleeps at 1:00am every day and wakes up at 5:30am when he has to open the café at 6:00 in the morning. Evidently, he is always late, and always opens the store door smiling sheepishly at the other employees who would be waiting on him. He has been doing that for last two years and still has a job. This is where I tell my wife she is wrong; he must be actually banging that Bangladeshi owner’s daughter – Hallelujah (read Allah ho Akbar). “Puru’s birthday is this Saturday, I want you guys to come over and stay the night with us” said a bhauju over a phone not too long ago. I always forget her name, but remember he husband’s. His beautiful name in the land of America must have raised a lot of brows and charliehorsed even more tongues. He had proudly introduced himself to me few years ago - “hello I am Radhakrishna Sedai”. For a second I thought he was running for office. I then thought of those poor customer service representatives of the credit cards he owns, or the women in the front office of the doctor he visits who look at themselves in the mirror and practice his name several times prior to calling him. So Radhakrishna dai is arguably fifteen years older than me but still calls my wife a ‘bhauju’. As a result she always seems miffed when he is around. At first I thought he was hitting on her although it seemed very unlikely. And when I asked she gave me a look that said “Seriously? Of all, him?" Needless to say my wife is equally judgmental too. Speaking of Puru, as if Radhakrishna already didn’t do the damage,dai and his wife had named him ‘Purusartha’ when he was born. He goes to upper elementary and is suddenly mum when asked about school. I have a feeling that ‘Purusartha Sedai’ perhaps doesn’t have many friends. So we drove to their place, which was an hour and half away from where we lived, that Saturday afternoon to attend Puru’s birthday. Bhauju had sent in a detailed message in Facebook after the phone call which said – “ Puru’s birthday party 4:30pm – 10:30pm this Saturday Guest arrival and snacks – 4:30pm Cake Cutting ceremony – 5:30pm Dinner – 7:30pm Music and dance 8:30pm – 10:30pm” The first thing that struck us when we arrived at 4:45 at Sedai dai’s driveway was that it was empty – which meant none of the guests had arrived. I sped past the razorback traffic dodging several redneck wagons to reach in time and was still a little concerned I was fifteen minutes late, until I didn’t see a single car in his house. Relieved, we climbed down our vehicle and knocked on the door. No one answered. We knocked again – ditto. We then realized that the driveway didn’t have any car, including his, we knew for a fact that his garage was too messy to park a stake board let alone a car and that he always kept it outside, even during inclement weather. Long story short, no one was home. “Let’s return” my wife hissed. My daughter nodded. Luckily we always give cash during such occasions instead of gifts with a return receipt neatly pasted on it therefore thus far no damage was done except for our time, aggravation and cost of gas. “Let’s wait”, I pleaded as I dialed dai’s number “we have already drove this far, they could be here any second.” It went straight to voicemail. After fifteen agonizing minutes Sedai family pulled over next to us and as the car’s rear door opened, out walks Purusartha carrying a cake bigger than his name. “Sorry, we had to go get his cake, hopefully you guys didn’t have to wait for long” bhauju smiled as she opened the door, she had brought some ice creams and soda from Walmart. The clock then struck 5:00pm; perfect timing, the cake was there prior to its ‘cutting ceremony’ The next few hours went in blur, I tanked myself with bud light and watch Bama play Ole Miss as guests arrived and shook my hands. My wife was busy with her phone and my daughter with mine. The cake cutting ceremony happened few hours later than its scheduled time because bhauju was still waiting on some guests to arrive. And before I was blinded by the flashlights of point and shoots as Puru blew the candles, I happened to look at the clock -it was well past 8:00pm. “Hello bro….” someone patted on my back as I turned around to look at him. He was drunk as a skunk and was extending his hand. I swear I’d never seen that dude in my life, and as I shake it utmost discomfort he grins and asks ‘aaramai?’ Little did I know before I shook his hand that I’d be spending next 20 minutes with him hearing him talk how much he hate Indians and that Buddha was born in Nepal. Exasperated, I almost told him I thought Buddha was born in Hyderabad as I confirmed he didn’t have a gun on him. “I hate dhotis, they are killing our nation”. He repeated that sentence 5 times verbatim. It was then dinner time, I don’t remember much what was on the menu, but I did remember the time, it was 10:15pm. I ate the rice pulau trying my best to land whatever little conversation I could with few individuals that would make sense to a sane human being but failed to garner any interest. They were all speaking of Election in Nepal and I am as dumb as a doorknob when it comes to Nepalese politics. “Tera pyaar pyaar pyaar hukka bar” the music blared aloud as I was tying my shoe lace, it was almost midnight now. My daughter was half asleep and my wife was holding the door for us as if she had just stolen something and feared the cops might arrive any second. The drunken dude saw us leaving and suddenly leaped towards me urging me to come and dance (in the dhoti song). No thank you, I smiled. As bhauju bidded us goodbye I happened to hear the final words coming out of her mouth – “……you could have stayed tonight and leave tomorrow after breakfast; I will make it at 7:00am” Last edited: 10-Dec-13 10:19 AM