Anju
Anju
Betrawati, 2002
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Gayatri’s son
Gayatri’s son
Betrawati, 2002
[text below from a postcard I wrote on October 2nd, 2000]
"Gayatri and I were going to her office today; it's about an hour away, far up on one of the hills. She works for women's rights in Nepal. My aama (mother) here joined us for about half the way, then turned off onto a separate path to go see about a bi-see-quo (buffalo). Gayatri and I continued on—even though it was still early, only about 9:45am, it still felt like we were carrying the full weight of the sun on our backs.
The office where Gayatri works is tucked into the side of a hill, surrounded by green fields of millet. Inside it was nice and cool, and there was such a good cross-breeze that I was soon shivering in my sweat-soaked shirt. She and her co-worker Sangita prepared some tea for us which helped rid me of the shivers. They went about their work and I took the time to write. A little while later we ate the lunch that they prepared while Sangita softly sang along to a Nepali song on the radio."
(In the background of the above photo, you can see our neighbor seated in front of her house, stripping dried ears of corn of their kernals.)
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Gayatri, with her brother Ishoor, during a festival in 2000.
The make-up around Gayatri’s son's eyes is called kajal. You can see me holding a small tin of it below.
Bua and Ama
Bua and Ama
Betrawati, October 8th, 2000
[text below from a postcard I wrote on October 8th, 2000]
"...This is the day when all of the amas and buas [mothers and fathers] give their families tikas. Unlike most tikas, these ones are enormous and by the time you've gone to each of the tika-giving people—in my case, eleven—your whole forehead is almost covered.
Woven mats are unrolled in front of the house and all of the amas and buas sit on them—a plate made of metal or of leaves acts as their palette. There is a paint-like substance made from marigolds (I think), a blackish paint applied with a piece of wood, and a mixture of dry rice and red paint. To receive your tika, you hunch down in front of the giver so that your faces are about twelve inches from each other. As they apply the tika with their caring fingers, they softly speak a blessing in Nepali.
They're looking at your forehead as they apply the tika—but it feels like they are looking you straight in the eyes. Reading their faces, I felt like a favorite painting that an old master was putting a final touch on. For the first time I was able to appreciate the incredible beauty of my ama's eyes—her irises a rich brown inlaid with lace, and the outer edge a grayish moonlight blue.
After everyone has their tikas, we all sit on the mats and eat rice, vegetable sauce, goat, and curd from bowls made of leaves sewn together..."
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My bahini [younger sister] Barsha and a boy (whose name I don't know) with their tikas.
As the ceremony was coming to an end, I spied this little girl carrying her mothers much-larger parasol and it was so sweet that I quickly took a photo.