THE NEPALI DINING TABLE SPEAKS
I am the heart of this home. Not the hearth, not the place where the fire dances and the spices sing, but me, the low wooden table around which a family gathers. I have no voice of my own, but I hear everything. I silently witness countless meals, stories, and secrets whispered and shouted. The day begins with the soft clatter of chiya cups. The eldest aama, her hands gnarled like the roots of a banyan tree, sips her morning tea. She speaks few words, but her presence carries weight and history. Her gaze is sharp and knowing as she surveys the family. The buhari, her daughter-in-law, moves with quiet efficiency, her movements a silent apology for imagined faults. Her husband, my master, sits with a newspaper, the rustle of the pages shielding him from the world. The children, their hair still messy with sleep, giggle and squabble over a piece of roti. At midday, I serve as a spot for quick, hurried bites. A student, her books spread around her like a protective shield, gulps ...
