I look out the window of the bus and wait for the horizon to showcase the dazzling mountain range. Seeing the Annapurna range would prove that I’m getting closer to home. But I don’t see it even after I get off the bus and start walking towards home. And even though I’m a bit disappointed, I’m also comforted by the large scoops of clouds that cover the sky. Because the downcast sky and the moody rainfalls are part of what makes this city home.
I find myself being nostalgic these days and it surprises me because I was so worked up to leave this place and never come back. Growing up, it felt so small and it smothered me. Even visually, the hills surrounding the valley worked like boundaries that you could see from any point of the city – a metaphorical prison if you will. But this year part of me yearned to come back. I would remember the smell of deep dark soil and freshly cut grass in my dreams. The gorges and cliffs, the sound of the big angry river and the calmness of the lakes. I started to miss all of it.
As I take the short walk home, I feel elated and lighthearted. People smile at me and instead of being the socially uncomfortable introvert, I smile back. I make several stops – the stationery shop, a friend’s house to meet her mother, the shop where I went to buy milk every morning and make small talk. I guess the homecoming would have been a little more special if someone as it home but I don’t feel too bad about it.
I have always hated it when people are nostalgic about certain things or places. It’s not a very rational feeling. I remember the poems we used to read in schools about the old times, the villages, the jhar jhar jharana kal kal paani and it always irked me. How are they missing the fact that there are no hospitals, roads or electricity up there, I would ponder thinking about the village my grandparents live in. The still prevalent caste system, the hard work, and the rampant gender discrimination. Why would anyone want to go back to that?
I freshen up, scout for food and not finding decide to go out for lunch. With such a nice and cool weather, I decide to walk. I notice all the things that have changed and the things that haven’t. There are so many zebra crossings now and I notice a guy yelling at the taxi driver for trying to speed up. I will cut you up with a khukuri, he threatens. A friend had once told me that he found people from my city to be very rude and violent. He quickly added that I was different and was nothing like them. I remember being very offended by this addition, because I did think I was like that, at least back when I lived here. And I love this overall character of the city, the directness that can be taken as rudeness, I preferred to the sarcasm and political correctness of my current peers. Back when I worked for a humanitarian agency, I remember my boss asking in an exasperated voice why I couldn’t grasp the concept of diplomacy and I realised for the first time how much the place I grew up had shaped me.
I reach my favourite restaurant and the owner is so happy to see me. We chat for almost half an hour and he doesn’t let me pay for my food. This sort of kindness balances the aggressiveness over here. The city is stretched over both extremes and maybe just because I grew up here, I am comfortable with both.
As I walk back home, the clouds disperse and I see the mountains, lighted a flaming red by the sunset and I begin to wonder why I left at all.
