The man at the post office
The man at the post office
Betrawati, Nepal, Autumn 2000
Where I would drop off my daily stamped postcards, to be sent home.
Projectionists at the Nagarjun theater
Projectionists at the Nagarjun theater
Balaju, Kathmandu 2002 or 2004
Projectionists at the old Nagarjun theater. I believe that my getting to the projection booth required climbing up a metal ladder from a roof area.
I have since been told that this theater closed sometime in 2006.
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Another projectionist in the same booth on a different day.
Unfortunately, I misplaced wherever I wrote down the projectionists names.
Excerpt from a postcard written on September 28th, 2000:
“So it’s 11:45am, I have nothing I have to do in Betrawati today, so I say “I think I’ll go catch the last half of that movie with Barsha and Santosh”. Binod decides to join me (or escort me—I don’t think Sajani wants me going many places by myself because of the Maoist situation) so we walk the remaining 2km, I buy two 20-rupee rickets (about 30 cents each), and in we go.
It’s already about forty-five minutes into the film so it must be half over, I think. We take our seats and the next few scenes are very much like a ’60s beach movie—Monkee-esqe hijinks and a few musical dance numbers. The name of the movie is Dharmaputra and it stars a man named Raj Hamal who seems to be in every Nepali movie. As far as I can tell, Raj Hamal’s trademark is the bleeding eye—any poster you see with him in a fighting pose, he has the “Raj Hamal Bleeding Eye” going in full effect.
So, I’m in this darkened theater, Raj Hamal has been beaten up by three thugs and lays unconscious. But what’s this? Now the three thugs are going to beat up the very woman that hired them? She screams. Raj Hamal is still out. A few more screams and then Raj Hamal awakens and jumps up, fists at the ready. Every child in the place erupts with cheering and clapping, and for a moment there in the dark, it’s a Saturday afternoon in the 1940s and I’m watching a serial with all the kids from the neighborhood.”
Below: Looking out a broken window from the second floor of the Nagarjun theater.
The students of my fourth-level class
The students of my fourth-level class
Betrawati 2000
I took these photos at the end of class on my last day at Uttargaya Secondary English Boarding School.
I taught English in second-, fourth-, and fifth-level (grade) classes. The fourth-levelers could be a rambunctious bunch. The classroom had two rows of shared bench-desks with a thin aisle separating them. I recall that often one side of the class would get especially noisy and I'd spend a few moments calming them down, only to have the other side rise up and become boisterous while my attention was turned.
They certainly kept me on my toes, and it was a pleasure to work with them.
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The following text is from a postcard I wrote that mentions Bibek, one of my fourth-levelers
(he's in the top photo, on the right in the front row, holding up a peace sign).
“Last night after dinner I walked up and down our “street” for a nice after-dinner stroll. Passing by one of our neighbors I was called by Shabnam so I went over and shook her hand. Then some of her family came out and wanted to see me dance — not for it’s technical merits believe you me. I said that I’d need some music so they all started singing this beautiful Nepali dancing song.
I love that even kids in my school nursery class know this song and that you never hear a Nepali person say “No, I’ve got a horrible voice...” and that singing is so much a part of the culture — kids don’t laugh at other kids singing — it’s just like a different way of speaking.
A man from their family who is unable to speak came out and danced with me, then an elderly neighbor did some Indian dancing, Bibek (one of my fourth-levelers) sang and danced, and finally Shabnam did some dancing as well.”
—Tuesday, October 24th 2000
The next two photos show more students, at the end of the school-day, on the road below the school. My bahini Barsha can be seen on the left.
Santoshi
Santoshi
Uttargaya Secondary English Boarding School, Betrawati, 2000
[text below from a postcard I wrote on Tuesday, October 24th 2000]
"A few days ago during lunch I poked my head into one of the school’s class rooms. There, in a dim empty room filled with only six bench/desks and the sounds of one hundred children playing outside, sat a small girl.
Her arms were folded on her desk, her little face resting upon them. She seemed neither outwardly happy nor sad, but more resigned as if this was where she would be most comfortable—a warm bath in a cold house.
“Wouldn’t you rather play outside?” I asked her. She shook her head.
“We could play…”.
Again, she shook her head.
“Okay” I said smiling at her. I leaned across the bench/desk separating us and shook her hand goofily."
[from a postcard two days later]
"Yesterday I stopped by the orphanage on the way back from Trishuli Bazaar and for the first time I heard Santoshi’s (san-toe-see) voice. Since the day I found her alone in that class room at lunch, I’ve made it a point to walk into her class, say hello and shake her hand. I walked up to her today at the orphanage, said
“Hello Santoshi!” and gave her a goofy handshake.
She smiled, then laughed, then asked (in English) “What is your name?”
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Santoshi running across the rock-strewn football field to class.
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.
Children dancing to the beat of a madal drum
Children dancing to the beat of a madal drum
Uttargaya Secondary English Boarding School, Betrawati, 2000
[text below from a postcard I wrote on September 26th, 2000]
"...most of the students were already mentally on the two-week Dashain festival that starts in a couple of days. At lunch, I asked Kove, one of the teachers, if there was school tomorrow—I had so far heard differing accounts. He checked with the office and then told me it was still undecided.
After lunch I stuck around and noticed that of twelve rooms, only one or two had teachers. In the second-level class all of the kids were singing in Nepali while one boy danced at the front. I joined in and they all burst into laughter. From the "nursery" class I heard crying, so I went down there. Danuze, a small boy who speaks no English, was in tears. I squatted down, speaking in soft tones knowing that my words wouldn't help, but perhaps my voice would. He stopped crying and I think I may have gotten a smile once I started acting goofy—"Look at my hand Danuze... it's HUGE! It's the biggest hand I've ever SEEN!
The bell rang and all of the kids started yelling excitedly and running out the door—their little backpacks hopping up and down as they went. I followed them out the door and watched as they all ran across the field. It would seem there was no 7th period today and no school tomorrow. I'm going to miss seeing them all over the next 2–3 weeks..."
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