[Written after being told I take myself too seriously way too many times.]
at 7 a.m. every morning, mamu (i) made her way to the kitchen.
placing the pot full of water on the stove, she would say,
"we never had breakfast growing up and we were fine"
indignant for a ritual she would vehemently wake up to,
one she would still uphold had we cared enough to end
kalo chiya (ii) served with soaltee biskut (iii)
until oreos made it to saleways (iv) then our home-
upper middle class shenanigans.
sipping the marich haleko chiya (v), baba (vi) read kantipur (vii)
didi and I read the newly subscribed kathmandu post after
my fourth grade class teacher told my parents
get the girls to read the news in english. make them read it aloud
first place in english extempore
first place in english elocution for remarkable recitation of 'the three tittle pigs'
first place in national cursive handwriting competition, meanwhile,
78/100 in nepali then 64, then
red ink on report card.
my poet father digests my failing of a language occasionally
flaunting my folder of certificates shelved
in our daraz (viii), protected.
half way across the world, i wake up
not to the smell of marich and chiya but mamu
calling and asking me to edit emails for work,
mero englis tero jasto bhako bhaye ma aile kaa hunthey, bujhis? (ix)
i picture her eyes glaring at this yearned somewhere.
the folder of certificates in Baba’s daraz is still sitting,
it has no name,
but if it did, it would be called the making of an imperial subject
living, breathing, imperial project.
i) mother
ii) black tea
iii) biscuit
iv) supermarket
v) black tea infused with black pepper
vi) father
vii) nepali daily newspaper
viii) wooden shelf
ix) if my english were anywhere close to yours, i would be somewhere else, you see?
[ I also want to acknowledge that while Nepali is my mother tongue, it has an exclusionary history; one that has wiped the languages of marginalized and indigenous communities; one that has deemed those who do not speak it as anti-national and un-Nepali. ]
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