“When I first arrived in Kathmandu for my college, I did not know the ways of the city. I had come alone and I was to live with a relative. I did not know how to use the bathroom, or to cook. I remember watching my relative use the pressure cooker to cook Dal and every time it whistled I felt it was magic. He would put rice in a container and then after 20 mins it was ready. I did not see any fire raging or the firewood crackling, like in mother’s kitchen. There was no smoke, no dried cow dungs. For a while, I missed home. Mother’s love, food and the morning ruckus as father prepared to go to work. Father was a teacher. Everyone in the village respected him as he was probably the only one who could read and write in those times. And he was different than the village simpletons. Villagers flocked at home to seek his advice and he would happily offer help. I always wanted to be like Father. So when he suggested I go to Kathmandu to do my degree, I was very happy. Though life in Kathmandu was difficult I was ambitious. I would go to college and work at the same time. In the process, I learnt the ways of the city and its people, but I kept my soul clean for I had to return to my village after I completed my education. When I did, I was happy to return home. I wasted no time in joining the school I had once gone to as a kid. But this time as a teacher. Back to where I truly belong, following in my father’s footsteps.”