26 Novermber 1983. My parents had Rs2,000 with them when we moved from Arghakhanchi to Dang. Dad opened a tea-shop in front of the District Administration Office and the court. Mum and my sister stayed back in the village.
Dad sold tea and samosas, I studied. Every time I brought paan and cigarettes for his customers from the bajar 15 minutes away, I got a rupee as payment. In that hut Dad and I leaned on each other. He kept his arms around me when we slept in our only bed, and I found the smell of his armpits soothing and pleasant.
When officials from the court and offices came for tea at our shop, I used to curse them under my breath for their lavish lifestyle. Dad used to say, “You could also come for tea here if you become a lawyer.”
And my mind played out fantasies: I would be wearing a black coat when I came for tea, I would pay my Dad with my own money and steal it back from him in the evening.
Every Friday, Dad and I travelled 26 km to our village, where my mother, sister, and younger brother stayed. When I went home on Fridays with Dad, I used to feel like I had the world in my hands. You could hear our Philips radio blaring from quite a distance, and my siblings would come running to receive us.
We didn’t have a tv at home and I grew restless. Dad said a tv would ruin us, but I understood that we really couldn’t afford one. Day and night we sat together listening to the radio.
The corner of our tea-hut was our home. One day it caught fire and Dad was almost burnt alive as he tried to save me. I took this half-burnt parent of mine to the hospital, and guide him back home. I was his only support. He had become an obedient son, I his Dad.
People are born twice during their lives: first for their parents, later for their children. After our shop burnt down, I felt my father was born a second time for me.
We sold our tea shop and bought one that sold clothes. My mother and siblings came to live with us in the city.
Every month Dad went to Kathmandu for supplies. Those monthly trips to the capital were what I dreamt about all the time. I was dying to see the escalator at Bishal Bazar my friends talked about.
Every time Dad packed his bags for Kathmandu, I sat in front of him and sulked. He used to look at me and then invariably say, “Okay, bring your clothes.”
In Kathmandu my only mission was to go to Bishal Bazar and ride the escalator and search for empty matchboxes wherever we went. These I could sell for a lot of money in Dang, and colourful ones even fetched twice the price.
On the bus back home, with pockets filled with matchboxes, I often sat listening to sermons by people I didn’t know. One went like this: “Friends are always more loyal than life-partners, don’t you ever give them grief.”
Our shop was far from where we stayed and we took turns carrying Dad’s lunch. In the evenings, my sister soaped the dishes and I washed them. Dad used to tell us we were children of communists so we had to do the chores. Maybe that is where I go my name: Lenin. If he was in the Nepali Congress, perhaps my name would have been ‘BP’.
We sold our clothes shop and bought a guest house. Instead of clothing people, we started lodging them. Dad had his own ideals about this. When we were younger he never sold cigarettes and alcohol, but times were different now and he was compelled to stock both.
Twenty-six years passed, and it took me all those years to really get to know my father. But by then he had become a grandfather and I had left Dang for Kathmandu.
Back then, when Dad came home from the shop, the radio in his hands blaring away, we used to be ecstatic. These days, when we call him from Kalanki before heading home, it’s his turn to be delighted. Back then, I used to be so happy when he bought me new clothes during Dasain, These days, he is overhoyed when I buy him new clothes.