Refractions

 

Refractions

_{(Two Essays )}

_by

Dinesh Poudel

_{Itahari, NEPAL}

 

 

1. Everyday Life of a Nepalese Teacher

 

 

I am 16 years older than I want to be. But these sixteen years have made me the present me: a father of two nice daughters and a husband of a loving wife, and a teacher with a permanent job. Please note, having a wife is not something worth mentioning here in Nepal. You are pitied upon if you have two daughters; and if they are the only children, it is understood as a curse. A teacher's job is the least paying and last sought for. A Nepalese teacher is the least respected employee. But these general rules and standards never affected me. My daughters are the best on the earth and I've never seen a man, with an exception of a close friend of mine, as happy as I am with wife. I never applied or looked for other jobs than for teaching.

If you are a civil servant, you are good, if you are in the excise, land revenue or customs or such 'lucrative' jobs, you are the best. If you are in the military you are the second class, police officers and government owned banks-employees come to the same second class. But teaching has never been taken as a profitable job. Probably it is not one anywhere. A remarkable choice about Nepalese employees; they prefer a permanent job to the temporary one that offers them twice or even thrice.

If you ask a brilliant schoolchild, he'll say: 'I want to be a doctor.' Engineers and pilots come next in their choice. Military and police are still glamorous and remain a choice for many. Academically better children don't wish to go to the film or sports. Banks, business, industry, farming, journalism and teaching fall in the order of lesser choice.

That is what they are parroted by their parents.

But soon when they grow and see the importance of money and power, their goal diverts and government employment, especially tax section, becomes the first attraction.

It's half past six in the morning. Wife is still in the kitchen. She gets up at half past four almost without failure. I have almost never seen her use the bathroom in the morning. She invariably takes bath when she gets up.

(2007, December, Itahari)

000

 

 

2. A Humble Appeal

 

Mr. Suresh Shah was a Science and Mathematics teacher in a high school in Morang District of Nepal. His parents, wife and children lived in a small village in Saptari District some 150 kilometers away. His home and workplaces were connected with a poor road system and he could visit home only on special occasions and during longer holidays.

 

His students, fellow teachers and everybody he had to come across took his behaviour as his personality traits. When his solitary ways became more than silent and sullen, and when became rather aggressive or behaved rather unpredictably, they informed the family. He was taken to a local hospital. The physician referred him to a better hospital and then he was taken to a mental hospital at Ranchi in India. But doctors said it was too late. Though at times he still displayed signs of mental well being, they said nothing could be done to bring him to normalcy. He lost his job. And soon he became completely insane.

 

Nowadays he walks on the roads of my town. Sometimes I see him playing chess or solving some complicated algebraic problems in the air. The townspeople are not unfeeling, but they can't help: there are so many like him. Every time I pass by him, my heart twitches. And the pang persists longer when he asks whether I understand what he teaches. I have done virtually nothing to help him, or for the people like him.

 

I am from a small town of Itahari, Nepal. Itahari lies at the cross roads between larger towns of Dharan and Biratnagar; and other new dense settlements and municipalities. One can see mentally ill people lying at the roadsides, in the crowded streets, under trees and everywhere here. Some of them make sort of permanent abode at a spot; others don't stay at a place. Some come here new fresh ill and many others could have a longer history of mental illness. These people lead a life that is not better than that of our street dogs. They drink water from the poodles on the roads, or in the drainages. They live on the scrap food in the dirt containers by the roads, or from the hotel backyards.

Last year we, me and my wife, were on the way to Chhinnamasta Devi temple at Saptari District early one morning. At the small marketplace of Bhardaha, a strange sight struck my eyes. A sturdy young woman of 20-25 years was walking along the highway. The road was empty and I could see her even from a good distance: she was stark naked. Her fully developed breasts were dangling magnificently. They were pale: they were probably exposed to the sun quite recently.

 

People were sipping their morning tea at those roadside tea stalls. Nobody showed a feeling. I slowed my motorbike to form an opinion of the state of affairs. What can be done? Soon we were in front of her. She was a picture of beauty, youthfulness, vivacity and womanhood. She was joyfully walking along the central line of the highway towards the east and every curve of her body reflected in the morning sun so very clearly. She walked past us majestically: her eyes fixed at something far ahead, quite unaware of any of us onlookers' existence.  And she sang some Maithili melody a bit too loudly, dangling her hands as if in confidence.

 

'How can such life exist? She must have her husband (by that age, almost all women get married in her community), or parents or other relatives who could take care of her, to find a hospital or doctor for her.' My wife asked me later again and again. I don't have an answer. The insane woman could be a stranger to the town; or she could be a local woman. Whoever she was, she deserved treatment, a dignified life, a home to live, and somebody who really cared for her. 

These insanes howl or curse into the air at the streets, walk silently in their filthy rags, carry all the plastic, paper and clothes or whatever they can gather and carry on their backs.

 

These ill cousins were not born insane. Any one of us is susceptible to such circumstances. I don't know the best, but I feel an urge to act. There are no government funded, private or NGO run charity homes for such people in my country. But now I feel one must do something for these forgotten people of the society. But I don't know from where to start. I am neither influential nor rich nor have a knowledge or skill at the field. But now I feel a strong urge. For 33 years, I have been teaching in schools in villages and then in towns of my country and I have been content with what I did and what I had. Now I feel I should work for an area where a disowned section of my society dwells.

 

 

Doctors' statistics say almost 20% of Nepalese are suffering from a degree of mental illness that needs clinical care. A country suffering from unemployment, political instability, poverty, violence, insecurity and so many other social evils lives through trauma. Nepal does not have a spacious, well equipped and well staffed mental hospital; and therefore treatment to curables too is a serious problem. There exist a few small clinics, and there are departments of psychiatrics in larger hospitals, but they are quite inadequate to attend to the ever increasing number of mental patients. Some of us have abandoned our patients in the hospital in their care once we knew the case was hopeless, we have run away from the scene to avoid responsibility. And these hospitals are already crowded.

 

We Nepalese have a proverb: 'It's better to go insane than to kill oneself'. But here, the insanes suffer so much that you wish them an early death.  

 

We hide a disease if it relates to our private parts, or to mental condition. If a young man or woman's mental illness, however mild, is disclosed, their life will be in jeopardy. They will be left with little hope for marriage or employment; many times they are deprived even of a friendship.

 

I wish I could take some responsibility. I wish I could do something to help my disowned cousins. I wish them a warm bed against the chilly winter and a mosquito net for summer; a square meal that a human stomach deserves. I wish them bathing and washing; and a doctor's regular care, too. I wish them a home. Can my wish come true? I want to act; but don't know how. Is there anyone who wants to work here?  Can I be a useful person to my cousins who are disowned and dying because of mental illness?

(2007 December, Itahari)

000