HEALTHY
I
was walking the set of stone steps leading up to my house one day when I
stopped to talk to a group of men on the side of the path. We were
talking about basic things, the meat of which I understood maybe 30%.
Then one of them said something about me that I didn’t understand.
“Um…” I said, puzzled. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re [word I didn’t understand]!” he said, repeating it, assuming I just hadn’t heard clearly.
I remained confused. “I don’t get it,” I replied.
Now it was obvious I needed some external cues to come to an understanding. The other men chimed in, waving their hands and gesticulating. “[Word]! You know, [word]!” They became louder, more energetic in their motions.
This continued for what felt like a while but was probably only a few seconds. Their efforts were fruitless until one of them managed to muster in English: “Healthy!”
The word hung in the air between us. Healthy? I thought.
“Fat,” added a voice from behind me, suddenly. Another man had been walking up the stairs during the interaction and arrived at the perfect moment to interject. I looked at him. We knew each other: both our houses lay on these stairs and at this point we had exchanged many a broken conversation. He knew a few English words and liked to use them in conversation whenever he could.
“Fat,” he repeated flatly, with the assured confidence of a 55+ year old man. “Fat, fat.” He nodded tranquilly and waved toward the men in a way that clearly indicated, they’re saying you’re fat.
It dawned on me: they had been saying the word moto,
which indeed means “fat”. I hadn’t recognized it in their dialect and
manner of speaking. In Nepal being called fat is more of a
physical description than it is a derogatory one. And most of the time being fat is seen in a favorable light, but not always. Despite this, I wasn't exactly sure how to respond.
Of the strategies to employ I decided on the polite acknowledge-and-disengage. "Ohhhhh," I said, nodding. I exclaimed emphatically to demonstrate this understanding, tried to seem appreciative, and politely dismissed myself without further ado.
The passing man and I continued up the stairs. We didn’t get too far when—
“Hey!”
I turned.
“Hey!” he said. “You want some rakshi?”
Rakshi. This word I did recognize on its first utterance. It means "alcohol". In the villages, it is typically home-brewed and very strong.
I was surprised that he asked me so directly and in front of such an audience. Although in some Nepali communities drinking is widely accepted, in others it is considered something of a vice, at least in public. Ours happened to be one of the latter. “No, I’m fine, thank you,” I said.
This time in English: “Alcohol,” he stated slowly. Perhaps I needed another explanation.
I paused, not sure how to proceed, and he took my hesitation as a sign of reluctance. “Not house-made, I mean,” he followed quickly. “I’ll go get some proper stuff from the store. Do you want some? Rakshi?” He gestured.
"No, thank you," I said.
Just then a motion caught my eye. I looked below past the man on the steps to its origin. One of the others sitting to the side, still in earshot and in my direct line of sight, tilted his head back and held his hand high, thumb pointing toward his mouth. The silent message read: this one drinks a lot. Noted. I wondered if this had anything to do with the unease I sometimes felt talking to him, and decided he had probably been drunk for many of our previous conversations.
For the second time, I politely dismissed myself and walked the rest of the way home alone.
TWO WORLDS APART, ONE LEECH TOGETHER
One morning after breakfast I walked up to our dishwashing basin in front of the house. There I found something in the water. This would not be altogether unusual – there are sometimes ants, bugs, algae, and other detritus floating about; however, what I found was none of those things.
It was a leech.
The adumbral leech inched, stretched, and crawled about the side of the plastic basin without concern, completely immersed in water at the bottom of the tub. I was stunned. Shocked, even. I watched its eyeless and freakish meandering with a mixture of fascination and disgust. I was heretofore unaware of leeches’ ability to breathe underwater. Unfortunately, I couldn’t be more aware now.
My host mother noticed me standing and staring.
“Ke bhayo, chori?” she inquired. What happened, daughter?
I turned away from the basin. “There’s a leech,” I said, mouth twisting with revulsion. I retreated to the safety of the porch where I could attempt to wipe my mind of the rolling leech film.
Her voice rose an octave. “A leech? Where?!”
“In the water,” I said curtly. I didn’t bother to point it out.
She descended from the porch and stood before the sky-blue trough. Hands on hips, head toweled, her back turned to me in the bright sun. She stood where I had stood, watching as I had – with what was not quite admiration, nor curiosity – but somehow spellbound, and unable to look away despite the thousands of other leeches I am sure she has seen in her lifetime. Several moments passed in silence.
“Ew,” she said.
The absurdity of the moment hit me and I wanted to laugh. We were two generations, and two worlds, apart: 50 years old and 28, Nepali and American; host mother and daughter; and our daily realities seemed more different than they were similar; but here, looking into the water – at this single wayward leech – our world was one and the same.
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