Hospitality

Asti means 'the day before yesterday.' but it can refer to any day in the recent past, especially if you can't tell where one ends and the next begins or don't care to figure it out. Asti, rhymes with "moss tee". So asti, after a long day spent touring around the outskirts of Kathmandu with an American friend and a Nepali one, I was ready to put my feet up. This same friend and I had an invitation to dinner at the house of another Nepali acquaintance. We climbed into a bus, which followed the trail of black smog around some of the city's major roads until we got to Swayambhu, the 'monkey temple.' Here we waited and waited amongst honking traffic and fruit vendors for this friend to appear. The sun set. The power went out. We waited. Finally, after dozens of distorted phone attempts it became clear that he meant to meet us at the other police station, by the other gate of the temple. We took a cab and there he was, waiting patiently. Steeling ourselves with the thought of imminent refreshments we followed him through narrow alleys to the house he was sharing with, he said, a couple of sisters. Inwardly I relished the thought of a nice quiet dinner, just us and a few young Nepalis who, I thought, wouldn't be inclined to ask endless questions about American life. We could catch our breath, fill out bellies in peace. Well. The universe is a contrary bugger, but I'm beginning to suspect it usually knows what's good for us, and some times it rubs our faces in it. Up the stairs we go, into the sort of Southasian living room that has many a Westerner scratching their head (is that a Swiss chalet poster on the wall? Or a gingerbread house? What does 'love is one flower for your bouquet life' mean? etc. etc.). No women of a sisterly age are to be seen, but there's old Amma and four grandcildren. As if the cement doorway were a revolving door, in come neighbors, friends, relatives, finally the promised didis, everyone with questions for us, it's true. By this time we've been served some khaajaa (see preceding post), peanuts and pickled daikon, along with some cloudy homemade raksi. There's nothing much else to tell--we ate and drank, and then ate again when at 10 0'clock or so when the khaanaa was ready. Goat meat, in our honor, flavored the rice mountain with its spicy juices. There was no peace, or at least no quiet, but lots of stories, jokes, impersonations, schemings--just lots of living, as people with big families do. I learned a few words of Tamang, and heard tales of the family's home village in the hills of Kabre east of the valley. People recently moved to Kathmandu usually like to talk about their family homes amongst quiet, lush hills. They'd rather be there, you'll hear. In those same towns, talk to a youth and chances are you'll learn how backwards it is there, how it's not for him, this country life, no, he's going to the city where there's opportunities, and money.
With what looked to be and indeed turned out to be another busy day ahead, I somewhat guiltily declined their offer that I spend the night. My friend accepted, and found himself sharing a bed with who knows how many family members, eating daal-bhaat again with all of them crowded into the kitchen in the morning. I'd tumbled out of their cycle, back to my own mattress and a house whose quiet was almost disconcerting. It's nice, though, to feel that if ever I find my way to that Tamang household they'll make room for me in their lives' daily rhythms as if I never missed a beat.