Auntie, Ma Sanchai Chu!

Dear all,

So I’m writing today out of a need for some literary catharsis rather than because I have anything terribly exciting to say. In fact, I’m afraid the story I’m about to tell will be a bit vague, because it involves people I hold to be very dear and I’m hyper sensitive to saying too much about them on the internet where the whole world can peek in on their lives. My sensitivity to this is heightened today by a post on one of the other blogs I follow, Janice's Blog. While the most recent blog post is unarguably an enjoyable story, I have to wonder about the prudence and sensitivity about posting it, particularly about a child. So as I also want to talk about a little one today, I hope you’ll excuse me for leaving out some of the details.

Anyway, many of you know that while I have an apartment which has been provided me by the Fulbright program, I often stay with my didi’s family in Satobato. I really enjoy staying with them because it makes my life in Kathmandu feel more homey, and because my Didi, my Dai and their beautiful two year old daughter are just a ton of fun and I love them to pieces. Staying with them has also really been a crash course in Nepali familial structure, and I’ve learned a lot of intimate details about the way Nepalis live that I think many other foreign students may miss out on. My involvement in Didi’s daughter’s life is a perfect example. In Nepali, the word for daughter is “Chori”, and while parents use the word to talk to their daughters, in sentences like “Daughter, come here.” or “Daughter, what are you doing?”, it’s culturally acceptable for many other relatives to also use the term “Chori” when addressing a small girl. Therefore, while I occasionally address my sister’s daughter by her name, I more often simply call her “Daughter”.

As I’ve written on before, kinship terms are indeed powerful words, and I’ve found that my use of this term has changed my perception of this bright little girl from being my niece, to being “our little one”. I find myself fussing over whether she’s behaving well at her preschool, what she’s eaten on a particular day, and how long of a nap she’s taken. And while I certainly don’t have as many responsibilities as her own mother when it comes to her care, I am much more involved than the typical American aunt. This has created a deeper bond, both with my Didi and with our Chori, and it’s an aspect of Nepali life I will always treasure and admire.



That said, I’ve also found that I now exhibit some very maternal feeling which I find hard to understand, as I’m (thankfully) not really a mommy. Tonight is a perfect case in point. This week I’ve been unable to stay even a single night at Didi’s house, and it looks as though the coming week will be much the same. So today, I called “home” to check in on everyone, and after chatting with Dai on the phone for a minute, a smaller gigglier voice came on the phone. “Auntie!”, she exclaimed. I started to respond, but before I could really say anything, she said “Auntie, ma sanchai chu.” In Nepali, this simply translates to “Auntie, I’m fine.” Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Ok, that makes sense.”, but that’s not at all how I responded. I was, at first, joyfully surprised, as our daughter had completed a full sentence perfectly, and even more excitingly, was learning what typical phone conversations consist of. The mommy in me beamed at how smart our two year old is getting to be. But as soon as I’d hung up the phone, I found myself feeling something else completely. I suddenly felt very very sad.

It was as if with that one sentence our daughter had crossed the border of babyhood, and was now fully a little girl. Of course, I’ve been watching this transformation with some excitement for the past several weeks now, but it was only after that brief window of absence that I realized just how much she was learning, and how quickly. And I’m excited to continue watching her grow and learn, but I’m also going to miss her baby talk. And for me, this is a strange sense of nostalgia to have. When I worked as a teacher, or even as I watched the younger kids in our family at home grow, I always noted these little achievements with pride and excitement. But now that it’s my own “chori”, I can’t fight a small sense of loss at this passing of time.

I know my own parents must also be reading this post with their own mixture of loss and pride. I’ve always been a challenging little girl to raise, but I think now that my achievements have pulled me so far from my family, the tug of both ends of the spectrum must be stronger. I know that’s true for me. The things I’ve accomplished here, and continue to accomplish, give me a sense of purpose and achievement I can’t ever imagine having obtained back home, but I’m still acutely aware of all the minutes I’m losing with all of you. Thankfully, occasionally, I can come here and write all these feelings out and send them along to you, and at least for me, it makes everything just a little bit easier.

Anyway, I guess I’m just saying what I’m always trying to tell you all; that I love and miss you no matter where I go or what I do.

Now on a lighter note: our daughter’s recent mastery of full sentences also means that I am once again in danger of being the weakest Nepali speaker in the house and if she keeps learning at this pace, she’ll be speaking English in no time. I’m trying not to let that wound my pride too badly, but I enjoyed having the ability to teach her new words in Nepali. I guess from now on, she’ll be teaching me. Oh well, at least I’ve still got her beat at reading! :)

All my love,