Us and Them

I.

Dressed in grey shorts and a maroon T-shirt with an almost empty black backpack, I walk along the footpath by the Sanchaykosh Bhawan. There’s barely any space left along the sidewalk. People from across Kathmandu have thronged to Thamel today, at Durbar Square –a kilometre away— another group have gathered to commemorate the dead. I have decided, instead, to be a part of Nepal’s first Pride Parade. A sense of joy, a sense of pride is welling up in my chest, I have been a part of something historic. I have become, by participating in the parade, an ally of the LGBTIQ+ community. Instead of getting lost in a centuries-old tradition, I once loved as a child, I have become a part of the birth of a new tradition that celebrates the living and not the dead. The “progressive” in me is happy, wondering why people have issues when other people do not live their lives according to what society considers “normal” and acceptable. 

The surrounding is festive. Bright, wide smiles. Rainbow Flags. Blissful bands of musicians. Smiles in Saris. Smiles in Pants. Smiles in skirts. Rainbow flags upon rainbow flags. Smiles. Laughter. Dances. Music. Happiness. Wings. Flowers. Smiles. Smiles. Smiles. Flowers. Butterflies. Tiaras. Crowns.  Painted faces. Masked faces. Just plain happy faces.

 Garlands of rainbow-coloured balloons float above the rainbow-coloured people marching in joy and freedom, they are seldom privy to.

As people continue to trickle in, a sense of unease, a feeling of fearfulness begins to creep inside me. I look around and see strangers in dresses that somehow look out of place. The faces and the dresses seem to be a mismatch. I am enveloped in the smell of makeup. The pungent smell first attacks my nostrils then my mind. I am afraid. I feel insecure.  I have never liked the smell of makeup, but this is not it. I have never before felt fear as a result. I try to maintain a smile on my face. I look around. I see the smiles, the celebrations, I tighten my bag straps, run my hands over my pockets and my every so often. I say “Hi” to someone I know who joins the parade, a joyous, happy face, happy to be among his people. I smile too.  The parade moves, and so do I. I can’t wait for the parade to be over. I don’t recognise this feeling that has taken over me. I want this sense of unease to be over. I want to make sense of what has happened. 

My brain is trying to come up with something. An explanation. Why? Why? This was not how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to be a part of the crowd, not become a fearful, judgmental spectator. I had become the very thing I had professed to be against.  Yes, makeup, I’ve never liked, neither their smell nor what they do. Yes, it’s normal to be cautious around strangers. But it’s neither the smell nor the crowd of strangers. My fear does not originate from the strangers dressed like me. Still, I do not understand. I know. I KNOW. THEY, too, are people like you and me. THEY have suffered far too much. This society belongs to THEM too. The sense of fear and uneasiness still persists.

What do I know about them? Their struggles? Their stories? How many from the community have I interacted with? With how many, with the knowledge of their sexuality? None. Close to none. I had a few acquaintances. A couple of social media friends I had never met. 

What did I know? What stories had I heard? Seen? Read? News. Articles. Impersonal discussions of equality. A couple of movies, perhaps? What stories had I heard? “Be safe from the hijadas. Hos gar hai.” “Thamel area is not safe. Don’t walk alone there at night.” What of the movies I watched? Always the villains. If not, beggars “arey chikna, de na, de na.”  What did I know? The BDS. What of it? The Blue Diamond Society. What of it? Just it. What do I see of them? What do I know of them? Do I know any one of them? Them. THEM. THEM. THEM. US and THEM. US and THEM.

I move away from the crowd but tag along from a safe distance as the parade walks past the Purple Haze and the Pilgrims. Away from the crowd, I begin to enjoy the environment.  I see a carnival, and carnivals are fun. 

I go home, log into my Facebook and write, “There is this side of society, of humanity I had heard of, as stories and events, but knew nothing about. This has been an eye-opener.”

II.

It is around 4 in the afternoon, but the sun is as strong as a midday sun.  I have just come out of the bus, which had stopped in front of Himanshu Dai’s and Saroja's placement school.  I'm sweating.  I'm trying to handle the heat.  I'm telling myself this is what I signed up for.  But deep within I'm regretting my choice. (Day one of the fellowship) 

A few days later,  in the evening, I'm standing on the rooftop. I look around but can't recognise this strange place.  I don't see Nepal here.  It feels like a village from a Hindi movie. What I see is a place straight out of a Raj Kumar Rao film. I ask, "Why is THIS place so different from NEPAL?" I tell myself this is Nepal as well.  But the "Nepali" in me feels something else.

Every day, when I go to school and come back, I see women in faded saris which were once too brightly coloured.  I also see the new bright orange and pink, and green.  The saris are all that's visible.  Their faces, hidden by the ghumto paratha. The faces bowed down and voiceless. A few weeks later, I'm in the city of Janakpur.  Everyone looks the same.  The same sari and kurta, and dhoti.  The faceless women and a totally dark-skinned population.  I tell myself probably this lack of diversity is a reason why the city is so conservative.  It is a weird feeling to not see jeans and shorts, and T-shirts.  Only the boys have that freedom.  

However, two months later, the sun and the sweating are an everyday thing, both literally and figuratively.  Nothing new there.  When I am in Kathmandu, I need a jacket. The place now feels more like home.  I hitchhike so often that’s how people know me there. Help is just a hand raise away.  I now see the Nepali texts that had been hiding in plain sight. We talk back and forth in Nepali and Hindi, and Maithili (I try to). Language is no longer a divide. 

A month more and I see T-shirts and jeans and shorts and skirts not just on the dummies and men.  As for the ghumto, I have now adopted the gamcha, a cotton towel, as my multi-purpose tool. I wipe the sweat off my face and neck, and more to the point, I cover my face very similarly to how the women do with their saris. So, there's some utility to that too. As for how I see the city, there are dusty, potholed roads, stinking dhals and private schools at every next corner. Kathmanduites probably are familiar with that. If that's not Nepal, then what is? 

It's not all gold and rosy in Dhanusha, that's a fact.  But as an outsider looking in, my prejudice, which has been built up by decades of political propaganda, media biases and misrepresentations that have led to quite a lot of misunderstandings and racism, played a huge part in how I perceived the place and terai as a whole.