(Part 1/3) “We had to move to Gadhawa because my mother got severely ill. It was a chest pain that she said hurt like “nettles leaves to the eyes”. There was a time the family had given up hope of saving here. There was no health post here so our only option was to move to a bigger settlement where we could get help. I must have been only 6-7 years. We were 5 daughters and 2 sons. And because my mother could not take care of us the other members of the joint family took care of us. 

We were able to save her by bringing her to Gadhawa. Better water and stronger medicine cured her. But life was not easy for us. We did not have a land of our own in Gadhawa. My mother’s brother sheltered all of us. Father was a carpenter who did not inherit much from his father who himself was also a poor man. You see there were few rich men and many poor men back in those days. So it took some time for him to buy a piece of land. We built a hut there. When grandfather got sick father had to sell that land too. Grandfather has stones in both his kidneys and the hospital was expensive. Father also sold all his buffaloes. Unfortunately, grandfather did not live. The loan had mounted and It became a problem for my father to continue sending us to school. 

Father sent one of my sisters to stay as a Kamlari in Kathmandu. She stayed there for 2 years and after she returned it was my turn. I remember my father coming home that evening weary and tired. I remember him sitting me down and saying, “Nani, sorry I will not be able to send you to school. I am still repaying the loan that I inherited from your grandfather. Go to Kathmandu and live with this family I know. They have promised to send you to school and you will have to do all the housework.” I could not refute my father’s plea. I was the witness to his struggles. And for families, we have to make sacrifices sometimes even when we don’t want to. 

I stayed in Kathmandu for 2 years. During that time I missed home. The cold floor of my home, I realized is better than any wooden bed and soft blankets. The stale food of home, mother’s pickle is better than a feast in someone else’s home. It was during Maghi, after two years of living in Kathmandu as a Kamlari, I returned home. When the celebrations were over, the landlord wanted to take me back. I hid, I ran and made excuses. In the end I pleaded with my father. “You love me, I know. Please do not send me back again. I want to stay home, work and study. My heart is here.” He nodded quietly and did not pressure me into going away again. 

At home, I was happy again. I started going to school and helping my mother and my sisters at home. I was young and there was hope.”

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