Kamal Bahadur Mahara Diktel Rupakot Majhuwagadi 12, Khotang
“I brought back a bitter memory from Malaysia. I was working in one of the machines in the factory. That day, I had to mix chemicals and accidentally, I poured acid on my hand. The skin turned black and it came peeling off. The pain was unbearable. Though my wound healed after a while, eventually I decided to return home and start pursuing what my father had taught me- tailoring. I opened this shop and as the town started to populate more people came in. Some with the pants, some with their skirts and saris and some with there dauras and suruwals. I taught my son the trade and with his help, I had started to feel settled. I was happy. When my son announced to me that he no longer wanted to pursue the tailor shop but wanted to try his luck in a foreign country, I felt sad. I chose not to say anything, for once I had also left and not to let him live his life the way he saw fit was not the right thing to do. Now that he is gone, sometimes my customers have to return home without the dress they gave me to tailor. Finishing work has become a struggle. Some understand my predicament and they are aware that I have no help and some do not. So I miss working together with my son. Sometimes, during sleep, I go back to the same accident and I think of my son. How and where he must be. Sometimes, I wake up with chills in my body. And every day, I pray that no such thing happen to him. I do not care about how much money he will bring but I pray that he comes home in good health. And without any bad memories.”
