MY MOTHER’S VOICE IN MY HEAD, EVEN WHEN SHE’S NOT THERE

 

My Aama's (mother's) voice echoes in my mind all the time, regardless of whether she is standing physically next to me, tending to the tulasi mathi (basil plant altar) or living in memory. It's her actual voice, the one that guided me through all the Dashains and Tihars, all the time of my childhood.

SWEET CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

I still remember how soft her voice used to be when I was a child and might have broken a diyo (oil lamp) or spilt dal-bhat. "Babu/Nani, yaso garne haina," (Son/Daughter, don't do it this way) she used to say, her voice firm but soft. That voice rectified my faults, not with the fear of a chappal (slipper), but with the warmth of her love, like the aago (fire) that heated our kitchen on a cold morning.

Sometimes, when I did not feel like learning the Nepali alphabets or helping with the work of grinding masala (spices), her words would be, "Padhai timro bhagya ho, chora/chori. Aja ko mehnat le bholi ko bato khulcha." (Education is your destiny, son/daughter. Today's hard work opens the doors for tomorrow.) Such words, typically spoken while kneading aata (dough) to prepare roti, always motivated me to move forward.

IMAGINED INTERJECTIONS

These days, whenever I'm making any important decision—perhaps of going to pardesh (abroad) or investing in a new pasal (shop)—her voice automatically comes to my mind. Since I am contemplating taking a big decision, her voice says, "Ke timile sabai kura ramrari sochyou? Hatar ma nirnaya nagara." (Did you think everything through properly? Don't make a hasty decision.) It is as if she is still sitting beside me, doling out wisdom like a sage in a panchayat (village council) meeting. This voice always tells me to be wise and patient and reminds me of the bato (path) less traveled.

When I am down or sad, perhaps missing the festive spirit of Tihar or the idyllic calm of the paddy fields, her voice is a comfort, "Sabai kura thik huncha. Har namanu." (Everything will be okay. Never give up.) This voice, like the calming tinkle of a ghanta (bell) from a nearby temple, strengthens me, even in my isolation, and reminds me of the tenacity of our pahadi (hill-dwelling) forebears.

INHERITED PATTERNS AND LANGUAGE

Her influence is also visible in my language and speech. Some of the lok-ukhan (folk proverbs) that I utter, some phrases like "Devi Bhabani le raksha garun" (May the Goddess protect you), and my formal way of speaking to elders—all are traits I learned from her. My way of thinking, my comportment, my respect for sanskriti (culture), and my perception of karma also have her imprint.

This voice, which never fades in my mind, reminds me of who I am and where my jura (roots, which are typically associated with mountains) are. It is not a voice; it is a part of me, like the dhulo (dust) of my nation adhering to my soul. Even when she is away, looking after her goth (cowshed) or preparing gundruk (fermented leafy greens), I feel her love and inspiration are always with me, like the continuous gurgle of a khojo (small stream), guiding every step.