The ABCs of Chitwan Part 1: The Beginning

Ali Ali
In Nepal, rather in any Asian country, if someone asks if you want a little more and you are hungry, you never say, “Ali ali,” which means a little more.  Because you will not get a little more.  You will get at the minimum 3 dripping ladles.  And if you say “Pugyeo” which means done, food will be poured through the spaces you have left between your fingers when covering your plate with your hands.

The vertical distance you are from your seat as you hit millisecond apart bumps seems to exponentially grow with time. Every bump on the bus throws the sleeping 5’ 8’’ billabong-outfitted half-Indian onto the shoulder of the lean, too-tall-for-any-bus-especially-an-Asian-one Londoner who nicely shrugs him off.  On the other side of me, two eight year old boys sharing a seat jostle juice boxes, chips, and dried fruits, all of which move up together with a bump.

Cause I’m Falling
It’s been years since I touched a guitar.  I don’t why because I use to love it.  I use to stay up under my school-uniform grey quilt with a flashlight practicing the tunes that I would make up about how that day Sara had stole my Robbins Egg Blue crayon or my refusal to succumb to this period called “naptime”.  As I grew older the medium changed from music to books to my computer.  I somewhere forgot how to find joy out of something other than How I Met Your Mother and XKCD (not to say those aren’t wonderful themselves: they truly are treasures).  But since I’ve arrived in Nepal, I’ve bumped into a guitar and a willing teacher. And I think, “I’m falling. Yes, I am falling. And she is calling me back again”.


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