DhalBhat & Takari

7:00 am. Namasté.

It is the first morning after the grueling trek (pun intended) to Kathmandu Valley. It began with my last self-cooked meal for a while; I made my favorite food: eggs. Fried eggs. Than aboard the curious A Train. Missed a stop. The bus. Terminal 4, JFK Airport. Zurich Airport. Delhi Airport. Transfer to Kathmandu? Security check. Duty free shop, gift for the family: a bottle of Jim Bean. Slept on a couch awaiting transfer. Tribuwan Airport. Kathmandu? No. Lalitpur. Taxi. New room. Temporary home for the next two months.

Passed out in new bed.

7:00 am. Namasté. Awaken by the smiling face of my host mother, fascinated by the novelty of an American student living in her home. Me, fascinated by this 7:00 am business, a time of the morning that I have neglected to recognize since I was probably in high school. I was gently pulled into the kitchen for my first true Nepali meal: a plate of DhalBhat and Takari (a lentil/bean soup/stew poured over Basmati rice with a side of curried vegetables). “You rice like?” my mother said, utilizing all the limited English she knew. “Oh, why yes. MiTho chaa,” I responded, summoning the limited Nepali I remembered. Did I really like rice? I suppose. More so, it was merely exciting to intake such a staple, typical meal eaten every single morning and every single night; to begin life in Nepal like a “true Nepali” consisting of the days that are begin and end with Dhalbat and Takari.

That is, until this lentils and rice lost its novelty and became but an indicator of the morning and of the night. A sense of predictability. A sense of routine. A sense of stability. However, what happens in between is when life deviates from the norm. Nepalis, at least in Kathmandu Valley, snack. They sample from Nepali snacks of grilled corn or MoMos (dumplings/potstickers), to the snacks from wherever that have shimmied its way into the Nepal. Pizza. Chow Mein. Hamburgers. Club sandwiches. Change. Variety. Experience. But as the day quickly ends, it is time to be back home, sit at the table, and sleep after a stomach full of lentils and rice, as if a reminder, that whatever various food that was tasted, there will always be this one Nepali meal. And there will be one in the morning, regardless of the spontaneous dreams that have previously taken place that night.

And perhaps this is symbolic... Forceful bandhas (strikes) are prevalent across Nepal, and some have continued to utilize intimidation with violence. The Maoist (Unified Communist Party of Nepal – Maoists) have transformed from an insurgency into a mainstream, democratically elected political party, but currently brushed out of the mainstream government and continue to be a powerful force to be met. The YCL (Young Communist League) are growing more militant. There are internal splinters in the UML (Unified Communist Party of Nepal – Marxist-Leninists) that have compromised greatly their supposed unified vision. The MPRF (Madhesi People’s Rights Forum) are also changing the status quo politics, bringing in the voices of previously marginalized groups. The Dalits (discriminated peoples deemed as “untouchable” due to their low-caste status in the Hindi Varna system) are pushing for their voice to be represented in the Congress via the political parties. Change. Pluralism. Democracy.

But Nepalese are awaken to find that the Constitution is still but a rough draft, the Nepali Congress Party (the conservative, “right-wing” party) still instituting a hierarchical political system that continue to quiet the numerous voices of Nepal, people deprived of land and dignity and voice. And Nepalese seemingly go to bed with the same dish, where it seems that these elite party leaders believes that they have a stake, a voice in the government but no one is willing defend a system of multiple voices.

7:00 am. Namasté. DhalBhat and Takari.

“You eggs like?” inquired my Hindi host mother, who doesn’t eat meat - eggs included. I looked up from my plate of lentils and rice. Be still my soul. Eggs? Change? With a crooked smirk, I took a spoon of the scrambled eggs with onions; granted it came along with the DhalBhat and Takari, but it was no matter. There was something sweet about it, even if something so unorthodox had to be taken with something so familiar. There was something hopeful about it, I suppose.

Perhaps my dreams of awaking to find, like, a New York bagel with tofu cream cheese on that tin plate was ridiculous; I shouldn’t push my luck. But I shouldn’t stop hoping for those eggs. Maybe one day, eggs again. Maybe one day, just eggs. Maybe one day, eggs and a baguette. And a coffee… Eggs, baguette, and a coffee.

And perhaps one day, the Nepali people - the marginalized, the discriminated, the everyday people - will say or shout louder than the chaotic jibber jabber of the political elites, the words that I can only whisper to my host mother when she offers me another spoon of Dhal: “Puggio.”

Enough.