Page 7 - My Creative Writing Portfolio

7

GRANDMOTHER’S STORY ABOUT OUR PLACE IN POKHARA

I grew up in close companionship with my grandmother. By the time I was old enough to remember
clearly, most of her other grandchildren were no longer at home. All her granddaughters had been
married off, and my elder brother had gone to Kathmandu to pursue Sanskrit education. Until I
was about nineteen, I remained at home with her. In 1978, I received a scholarship to study in
India and left Nepal for the first time.

My grandmother passed away while I was there.

There was no telephone in those days. News travelled slowly. I came to know about her death
nearly three months later, through a letter written by a distant relative. She was already above
eighty-four years old and had celebrated her chaurasi puja, the Hindu ritual performed upon
completing eighty-four years of life. Yet we never knew her exact age. In those days, there was no
formal system of recording births—especially for women.

Today, our ancestral place in Pokhara is considered a prime location, with very high land value.
Roads have been widened, modern houses have replaced old ones, and the area has developed
into a major tourist hub. Friends sometimes tell me that I must have been privileged to grow up
there and to own land in such a place. From the present perspective, that appears true.

But to understand reality, one must peel away the surface of the present and look into the past.

My grandmother often told me about her wedding day. When she was married into our family in
Baidam—now known as Lakeside—her friends and well-wishers wept during her farewell. They
believed she was unlucky. Pokhara at that time was known as a malarial, hot, and humid place, far
from forests and without easy access to cool drinking water from natural spouts.

Her birthplace, Sammi—now called Nirmal Pokhari—was located on a hilltop south of the valley.
Hill settlements were considered healthier: cool air, malaria-free environment, and close proximity
to forests for firewood, fodder, and grazing animals. Pokhara, by contrast, was associated with
sickness.

My grandmother lost her husband early. Her elder son also died young. Several grandchildren
passed away in childhood. She used to describe my father’s recurring fevers and weakness;
listening now, I suspect he too suffered from malaria repeatedly. When I reflect on this history, I
wonder how they endured so much loss and illness.

Perhaps their faith in karma, fate, and supernatural forces helped them cope. Perhaps belief in
divine will gave them a framework to tolerate what they could not change. In truth, they had little
choice. Acceptance was not philosophy—it was necessity.

From the time I knew her, my grandmother was completely blind. I still do not know the exact
cause. It may have been prolonged exposure to smoke from the kitchen, where firewood burned