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 down her dal-bhat. Her brother, a young man with dreams as big as the sky, eats while standing. Restlessness hums in his bones. The food is just sustenance, a fuel for the race, a brief pause before the world pulls them apart again.

But in the evening, I truly come alive. The aroma of tarkari and fragrant basmati rice fills the air. The family gathers again. The hierarchy of the day briefly fades during the shared ritual of a meal. The oldest aama is served first, her portion a sign of respect. My master sits at the head, his role as provider momentarily fulfilled. The buhari eats last, her bowl a testament to her endless service.

The conversation flows like a river. They discuss the day's events—the broken pipe, market prices, a neighbor's wedding. These are not grand stories, but small, intimate details that weave the fabric of their life. I hear the gentle teasing among the siblings, my master's frustration with a new government policy, and the soft, encouraging words of the buhari to her children.

But I also hold the unspoken. I sense the silent tension when the youngest son announces his wish to go abroad. I catch the worried glance the buhari and her husband share when the old aama complains of a new ache. I witness unspoken love and sacrifice, burdens carried in silence, and quiet pride in a child's small triumph.

I am more than just a table. I am the stage for a family's drama and a keeper of their unspoken words. I’m a witness to their love, conflicts, triumphs, and sorrows. When the last bowl is cleared and the house falls silent, I remain, a silent monument to the enduring heart of a Nepali home.