A familiar, round-faced 10 year old met us at the airport. Abhishek grinned up at us, having brought with him his perpetual cheerfulness and bars of chocolate. We chatted merrily in the car on the way back to Trishna's house about his own upcoming adventure called "immigrate to America." Trishna's family welcomed us with open arms, Doodle, grandparents, her mother, brother, and her father who I had not met on my last visit. Given his position and career choice, I was somewhat intimidated to meet this general who's pictures with US presidents and Joint Chiefs line the walls of Trishna's house. But her father was as warm and open as the rest of the Ranas.
Signs of the promotion and the celebration to come surrounded us. Bouquets of flowers in vases (nothing compared to the hundreds that would appear the next day), a whole, roasted wild boar (a Nepali delicacy) in the refrigerator, chocolate cake, foreign beer and fancy whiskey, embroidered saris on hangers waiting to be tried on.
(all the flowers given)
And try them on we did. By 6pm the next night, the family looked stunning, especially the women. Trishna's grandmother dotted all of our foreheads with red tikka, for luck. And good thing too because 1000 people turned up to the promotion party which was held at the Kathmandu military club under a large tent top full of twinkling lights and complete with a dance floor. Visitors entered and greeted the general and his wife with flowers and congratulations before ambling into the outside tent to eat a feast and drink an unending supply of everything from water to soda to wine to whiskey.
(me and Rana family)
Trishna had a lot of responsibilities being part of the honored family but she did not abandon me entirely. She sent Abhishek to keep me company and he showed me all around the party, whispering gossip about attendees, making sure he pointed out the people he considered important. The Commander in Chief of the army. The ex-prime minister. His teachers and best friends. The man serving ice cream cones. He didn't leave my side until the dancing started. And then he was one of the first on the floor along with his grandparents, his aunts, uncles, cousins and even, yes, the general himself. The party was in full swing.
As I watched Abhishek dance with his family, his utter joy and complete lack of self-consciousness, I felt a small tug of sadness about his impending move to the U.S. He's such a happy kid, in love with his grandparents, so at home in his own country and culture. The idea of disrupting that kind of contentment, the idea of dropping him into 6th grade class in the middle of Boston, the idea of taunts or indifference from other kids, the idea of him facing what can only be described as a strong taste of absence- (absence of momos, his language, his grandfather's calling voice) seems unbearably cruel. And he has no idea that this lies ahead.
(Abhishek)
The party went late into the night as the crowd slowly dwindled and the men consumed more whiskey stirred into water. As the people diminished it became easier to actually observe what was going on. A second meal was served at midnight. Almost everyone sat down to eat except one of the younger men who stood off to the side pealing a brightly colored piece of fruit. I watched the boy's intent face, more complicated than handsome, as he lowered his dark brown mouth into the incandescent orange.
But at last, the celebration ended. When all the boar and roti and oranges had been eaten and legs grew tired from dancing, the twinkle lights began to be taken down. I have to admit that despite the excitement, I was ready to get out of the sari and into pajamas when we finally pulled into Trishna's aunt's house for the evening. The crowd had exhausted me. As I brushed my teeth and changed into a Braves t-shirt, all I could think about was my bed, but even though I wanted to go to sleep, I didn't want to wash the red tikka off.
The rest of the trip was like taking a deep breath after the month I've had at school. We saw two movies (including Harry Potter!) in a tall, spectacular cinema with unnecessary AC, a bucket of hot popcorn, and power that never ran out. We had masala tea and momos in the old palace gardens. There was a lazy lunch the afternoon following the party where the leftover wild boar and pineapple cake was served. The lunch had a familiar feeling to it despite the fact that I was a guest- that feeling of the day after a party when everyone is tired but the memories of the night before are still fresh and exhilarating, when everyone relives the best moments of the evening yet is content that the celebration is over. I think I often like the lunch the day after a party better than the party itself but I'm strange that way.
(in the old palace gardens)
We ran out of time and just a few days after arrival, we had to go back to Chittagong. I left with blue bangles on my wrists and red tikka, bestowed once again by Trishna's grandmother, on my forehead. (I never mind taking extra luck with me on a flight). The hours had been short but the trip felt full. We were the only two women on our plane and in the rows behind us sat at least a hundred men all wearing identical baseball caps, stamped with the logo of a Middle Eastern company they must have worked for. Their faces were young but heavy. It was clear that none were leaving Nepal for a holiday or to explore South Asia. All were leaving because the stomachs of their families depended upon their absence. As we exited into the terminal the group gathered together, lined up against the wall, and waited. Waited for instructions. Waited for someone in charge to point out their new gate. Dhaka was just another port on the way to being away.
They were still standing against the wall as Trishna and I disappeared around the corner, heading for our own gate, the one that would take us home.
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