It was the thirteenth day of September and the year was 1997, three months after I turned eighteen. Hong Kong had been handed over to China after 156 years of British colonialism in the territory just a month before. I had never been to Hong Kong since my father retired from the British Gurkhas when i was four years old. There were rumours here and there that Hong Kong is not as multicultural as it was before the handover It was already past dusk when i arrived Hong Kong. The inside of Kai Tak airport in Hong Kong seemed to me an aurora of unsullied neon illuminations. I had never seen so big an airport and well-illuminated place in my entire life. I sauntered my way up to the immigration desk. The officer at the desk appeared expressionless and bereft of no sense of humour at all. A golden badge with a name printed on it hung on the right lapel of his blue blazer. It read Chan, Alfred. His skin was the colour of wheat in contrast to my skin that was brownish black. His eyes looked relatively larger for a man of his descent. He glanced at me, ensured himself of my non-Chinese origin and said,ý Can I get your passport?ý I replied, ý sure,ý and handed the officer at desk my passport. He went through it for a while and asked, ýWhy are you here?ý ý I was born here. I am here to claim my right of abode.ý i replied. ý Do you have all the supporting documents to claim your right of abode?ý ý Yes, I guess Iýve got everything thatýs mandatory. The only thing left is to lodge an application in the immigration department.ý ý Do you have enough money to support yourself while your application is in process?ý ý Yes I think so. Iýll be staying with an uncle of mine in Tsim Sha Tsui, until my application is settled.ý I replied self-confidently. The officer didnýt say anything for a while and started to input some details on his IBM workstation. A few seconds later came a print out from the printer. He took it and attached it on my green passport followed by a thwack of a chop. The officer handed back his passport and softly greeted, ý Welcome to Hong Kong!ý with a nod. After collecting my luggage at the carousel, I hobbled my way out to the arrival gate. The weather outside was very humid and the crowd of frantic visitors sounded like vendors in a fish market at the top of their lungs. All i could hear were shrills and trills. It was five years before i had last met my uncle Ramesh, and i was worried whether heýd recognize me or not. Just then, as i was wondering, a dark looking man from the middle of the crowd waved his hand. I took no time to recognize my uncle. My aunt stood still, smiling beside her husband. Uncle Ramesh was a hefty looking man with a complexion the colour of an almond while his wife, Rita looked more fairer but equally robust as her husband. ýWow, you look more like Bruce Lee now. You were a snotty little naughty boy back then.ý Uncle Ramesh teased and patted my cheek while his wife helped me with the trolley. I greeted my aunt with a namaste. She smiled and greeted me back. ýYou look more darker than u were before, uncleý I said. ýYes, itýs a lot of sun at our construction site. Hong Kong is tough, babu.ý Uncle Ramesh sighed as he answered back me. A red taxi pulled over by the stand we were waiting on for. We got in the taxi for the drive home. Hong Kongýs skyline with skyscrapers looked dazzling at a distant through the cab window, on the drive it led. An exhibition of numerous glitzy advertising hoardings in Chinese and English letters hung below cantilevers that jutted out off tall concrete buildings. People looked hurried and stressed at the rush hour traffic on their way home along the zebra crossings and footpaths. This is why Hong Kong has a synonym ýcity of lifeý, I thought. Few minutes later, the driver stopped his cab at a dimly lit cul-de-sac through the left side of Nathan road on Uncle Rameshýs directions. An old concrete building stood high just next to where we stopped. ýThis is Tsim Sha Tsui, babu. Come on over. ý Aunt Rita said and hurried in to key in the password at the main steel door. ýI have to cook dinner as wellý Rita added and opened the door. I just smiled back. A narrow corridor on the fourth floor led them to the apartment. It was a one-bedroom apartment with a small living room and an attached kitchen and bathroom on the side. In the sitting room, a synthetic sofa bed with no upholstery lay quiet at the corner on the jute-matted floor. A Sony TV sat lop-sided on a wooden rack, with stacks of Hindi and English moviesý vcds on the opposite side of the sofa bed. The TV was placed lopsided so that it is visible from the bed inside the cubicle as well as the sofa bed outside in the sitting room. ýSit down, Gopal.ý Uncle Ramesh said and sat down on the sofa bed. Aunt Rita went inside the kitchen and busied herself with her chores. ý So how is Kathmandu and everybody, babu?ý Uncle Ramesh asked me curiously. ýEverything is same. Everybody is fine.ý I answered back. ýI have to lodge an application at the immigration department, uncle.ý I said before my uncle answered back. ý Iým taking a day off tomorrow. Weýll go together, lodge an application, and see some places around.ý ý Okay,ý. After dinner, I sank into the makeshift sofa bed. I was feeling a little dizzy and exhausted by the jetlag. I shut my eyes but the thoughts of my home and parents clouted me instantly with a loop of billows on my cornea. The faces of my parents and friends and the times i had in the hostel appeared vivid like a moving picture on the inside of my closed eyelids. I felt a bit scared, clammy, and uneasy at the dark of the room. A few minutes later, i was snoring.