1/5/14
January 5th, 2014
21 Pus, 2070
Sunday
Aaitabaar
I had a lot of funny, weird thoughts
and happenings when I wandered and got lost in my VDC (the whole of
my village) that I initially wanted to write, but I've been very sick
the past couple of days and felt the need to fulfill a Peace Corps
goal.
And so, instead of funny stuff, I'm
going to enlighten and enrich all of your eager minds to some Nepali
culture. Today, or maybe yesterday, was the one year anniversary of
the death of my gharbeti baba (house father)'s baba (basically, my
grandpa). The many different castes and ethnic groups that make up
Nepal all celebrate such an event differently, but all in all, most
if not all families recognize this day as very, very significant in
their lives.
In the village where I resided for
three months of Pre-Service Training, Chhaap, my neighbor's mother
had past away and all the sons born from her were required to fast,
restrained to eating one meal a day, for 45 days. On the 45th
day, the family threw a bhoj (party/celebration) where many of the
neighbors and extended family members were invited to eat and be
served different types of “bhoj” food (mostly beaten rice,
veggies, and beans).
Here in my permanent village, Manpur, a
similar event occurred. My baba told me it was a bhoj, but I was
quickly corrected by some of my co-workers at the health post and
it's known as something else I couldn't pronounce (I was a little fed
up with them so I gave up trying, I'll be honest). My family
prepared massive portions of special “word-I-couldn't-pronounce”
type food, such as kher (milky rice with coconut bits *yum), haluwa
(can't describe it but it's sweet), achaar (spiced potatoes), and
roti. It seemed that everyone from our extended family had come to
join in on the puja (worship) and the festivities.
After everyone had eaten, received
tikaa, and drank tea, the remaining ladies, some of the boys, and I
all headed out to the nearby river to send off a final puja tradition
down the river in honor of the late grandpa. This was a very joyful
ceremony as we sang (we as in they sang and me yelling weird,
similar noises), danced, and clapped to the beat of the group's song
while walking down to the river and back. As we began our trek home,
I had told the group that I've never been a part of such a ceremony
and that in the United States we don't conduct such a thing. This is
when I began to reflect about this aspect of Nepali culture that I
found myself very much appreciating.
In American culture, a person's passing
is a deeply mournful ceremony. Everyone is expected to wear black at
the funeral as a sign of respect and a sign of loss, all the while
much is needed to be discussed concerning property, money, and the
late person's will. This is not to say that Nepalis do not mourn,
for they certainly feel the same pain and loss when a loved one dies.
A difference, however, is that instead of recognizing a deceased
friend or family member with a moment of silence, they recognize it
with food, the gathering of living family members and friends, and
celebration. I was at first conflicted with this tradition,
thinking, “Why does a son who's mother just died have to feed me
food?” Yet during that walk back home from the river, I saw how
joyous the occasion was for the living family members, and how
grandpa was still very much alive in memory that day. Even though he
had passed a year before, his life had brought everyone back together
in honor of him, and they all rejoiced being family and being alive.
This is my interpretation and reflection of the ceremony, at least.
La, Peace Corps goal fulfilled.
With ramaailo and maya,
Bora/Stinky/Christine.
