I still have not heard from Shambhu. He was my dear friend and Nepali teacher. I have not heard from his wife Banu either. I don’t know what to think or say really. I am thinking of calling the language department at my college to see if they know anything or have heard anything. Part of me still wants to wait in the unknowing. Lauren is going to Nepal in a few weeks. I am thinking of sending her by their family home with gifts and a handwritten letter. I am worried though that the building might be demolished, that she would have to call me with the sad news. I don’t want that to be her burden, so I think I should try to figure this out on my own. It’s just so hard when they are half a world away.
Shambhu is very special to me. He was like a father, offering the unique perspective on life that is the Nepalese world view, one of joyful acceptance and openness. We laughed a lot. His door was always open to me. His version of kindest was the closest thing to the South that I had found up in the more rigid social climate of the upstate NY, a feeling of immediate warmth and welcome and of home.
Shambhu had come to the US so his son could go to college here. We would eat weekly meals together at his house. I watched his son Binni grow. Binni was in high school then and his family was so excited when he got into college and we all sent him off to become an Engineer. When I was away in Nepal, Binni died in a fraternity hazing incident. Banu was in Nepal too when she heard the news. She didn't come out of her house for weeks and weeks. When I returned to Ithaca, Shambhu was so sad and so withdrawn. We went on many quiet and tearful walks. Shambhu’s cousin was staying with him to provide support and comfort. Oddly enough, he was from Chattanooga. When I left Ithaca, we lost touch.
Seven or eight years later, I was on a shuttle from Chattanooga to the Atlanta airport. There was a family with a baby two rows in front of me. I was reading a book when I heard the man call his baby Binni. It struck me, so I looked more closely.
“Where are you traveling to?” I asked.
His wife answered, “Nepal.”
“Is there any chance you are Shambhu Oja’s cousin?”
“Yes!”
“And the baby is named after Binni?” I asked.
“Yes,” we all paused.
“What a beautiful tribute.” I said and we paused some more.
I asked if they could deliver a letter to Shambhu and Banu, so I tore a page out of my journal and wrote to them. His cousin and I talked the whole way to the airport.
“You’re family is very dear to me,” I said and held my heart and passed the letter onto his cousin when we parted ways. “Send them my love.”
One of the the most common Nepali saying is ‘Y’estai cha’. You hear it all of the time. It means 'life is like that'. Life is hard, it means, but it is said in a light-hearted way. They often wiggle their head side to side as they say it. You miss the bus, y’estai cha’, something catastrophic happens, “y’estai cha”.
When I lived there, Nepal was the poorest country in the world. Life was hard in so many ways, both hard and precious. However, it was by far the most joyful place I have ever lived, even more so than Asheville. I have hardly laughed more and certainly never danced more. It was part of the fabric of the place. The earthquake, so they say, was predicted to happen every 70 years. But like so many tragedies in life, it seemed to come out of nowhere. One day the earth was shaking. What I learned when I lived there so long ago, what Nepal, my friend Andrew, and so many experiences taught me is that you must move forward with love.
Rather than feeling the overwhelming burden and worry, I am trying really hard to remember that and fill all of my nooks and crannies and sad spots with abundant love. So much love to Shambhu and Banu. My friends Mandira, Parvati, Tulsi, Krishna, and so many more. So much love. I feel like, in all of the futility and randomness of life, that is really all I have to offer. And the more I am in this quiet space and time, the more clear I become about this. We are here to offer love and laughter and connection in whatever ways we can. In Nepal there is no word for thank you because taking care of other people with love is just what you are expected to do.
Shambhu is very special to me. He was like a father, offering the unique perspective on life that is the Nepalese world view, one of joyful acceptance and openness. We laughed a lot. His door was always open to me. His version of kindest was the closest thing to the South that I had found up in the more rigid social climate of the upstate NY, a feeling of immediate warmth and welcome and of home.
Shambhu had come to the US so his son could go to college here. We would eat weekly meals together at his house. I watched his son Binni grow. Binni was in high school then and his family was so excited when he got into college and we all sent him off to become an Engineer. When I was away in Nepal, Binni died in a fraternity hazing incident. Banu was in Nepal too when she heard the news. She didn't come out of her house for weeks and weeks. When I returned to Ithaca, Shambhu was so sad and so withdrawn. We went on many quiet and tearful walks. Shambhu’s cousin was staying with him to provide support and comfort. Oddly enough, he was from Chattanooga. When I left Ithaca, we lost touch.
Seven or eight years later, I was on a shuttle from Chattanooga to the Atlanta airport. There was a family with a baby two rows in front of me. I was reading a book when I heard the man call his baby Binni. It struck me, so I looked more closely.
“Where are you traveling to?” I asked.
His wife answered, “Nepal.”
“Is there any chance you are Shambhu Oja’s cousin?”
“Yes!”
“And the baby is named after Binni?” I asked.
“Yes,” we all paused.
“What a beautiful tribute.” I said and we paused some more.
I asked if they could deliver a letter to Shambhu and Banu, so I tore a page out of my journal and wrote to them. His cousin and I talked the whole way to the airport.
“You’re family is very dear to me,” I said and held my heart and passed the letter onto his cousin when we parted ways. “Send them my love.”
One of the the most common Nepali saying is ‘Y’estai cha’. You hear it all of the time. It means 'life is like that'. Life is hard, it means, but it is said in a light-hearted way. They often wiggle their head side to side as they say it. You miss the bus, y’estai cha’, something catastrophic happens, “y’estai cha”.
When I lived there, Nepal was the poorest country in the world. Life was hard in so many ways, both hard and precious. However, it was by far the most joyful place I have ever lived, even more so than Asheville. I have hardly laughed more and certainly never danced more. It was part of the fabric of the place. The earthquake, so they say, was predicted to happen every 70 years. But like so many tragedies in life, it seemed to come out of nowhere. One day the earth was shaking. What I learned when I lived there so long ago, what Nepal, my friend Andrew, and so many experiences taught me is that you must move forward with love.
Rather than feeling the overwhelming burden and worry, I am trying really hard to remember that and fill all of my nooks and crannies and sad spots with abundant love. So much love to Shambhu and Banu. My friends Mandira, Parvati, Tulsi, Krishna, and so many more. So much love. I feel like, in all of the futility and randomness of life, that is really all I have to offer. And the more I am in this quiet space and time, the more clear I become about this. We are here to offer love and laughter and connection in whatever ways we can. In Nepal there is no word for thank you because taking care of other people with love is just what you are expected to do.
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