Conversations With Mary

My mere perceptions and delusions were the only things weighing me down the entire month of October. Naturally, I originally knew this, yet did not possess the necessary guts to take myself out of this mindset and into a newer world; the city itself. I had a fear I was under the control of some "authorized personnel" and I didn't know who to speak to, and I didn't know what to do, and I felt trapped in my own anxiety, as any insane person would. But finally, for whatever reason, without the push, without the ask, I decided to go for a walk to an art supplies store to fulfill my latest delusion: watercolor. It was a struggle telling the parents of the building I was going out, an even bigger struggle telling the children of the building to tell the adults I was going out. I finally settled on an in-between man named Kashi, who's grown fond of me, trying in his best broken English to befriend me and ask me questions. I have never been enthused by it and I'll look back to my pages when he gives up and wonder—what, exactly, is so wrong with me, I cannot find a question to ask. I cannot survive the humility of having to repeat myself or having to explain myself if he does not comprehend the question at hand. I struggle with this repetitious thought and pray it is resolved in due time. So I set off, my trusty app before me, got some food, and walked two hours in the loud city under the scorching sun, from the DRC and back, with nothing but my music and fragile optimism keeping me afloat. Some days I am so glad I don't feel like sinking.

***

Late last week, Rajuna was kind enough to finally relay pieces of how she felt about me to my face. I was sitting unawares, my face settled into my customary frown, and she looked up at me, wheeling her wheelchair in front of my chair and asked, "Why are you never smiling?" I was taken aback, and therefore at a loss for words, so I shrugged, and my mind immediately ran through every dark and demeaning reason, reminding myself that Rajuna knew the biggest one—the maternal one. As I tried to defend my case, she spoke louder, defending her own. "You always look sad. You have no reason to be sad, you are from Canada!" And as close to a point as she came, she didn't have one. Now, do not be fooled by our riches and our stable government—we are still, and continue to forever be, human. The human mind does not care who we are nor where we're from, it sees hurt and therefore it feels—I think, therefore, I am. But Rajuna believes that material over people grants happiness. And with her theory, perhaps I should be happier. We didn't grow up rich, I understand my family has undergone strenuous budgeting, but we've aged into a much more common wealth. Unfortunately, that money couldn't save anybody, so I shall continue with my previous statement and belief. I do smile. Not constantly or consistently, but every so often when something passes that deserves one, and being able to deserve a smile doesn't take too much. But, so it seemed, I needed to smile every second of every hour of every day to prove I was happy. Now, I have known a time of feeling completely dead on the inside, no more point to anything, and my face smiled because it had to. Because I was in public. Because I was working, etc. A smile never proves the well-being of a person. It never can and it never will, and that is the reality of humans. We are machines designed to appease society even if we fail to do so to ourselves, and it is such a dangerous way to live, but, seemingly, the only way we know how.

So, for obvious reasons, I was uncomfortable with the upsetness Rajuna had brought me and was ironically unhappy being around her. Two new kids were attending the Jhilko project—Lulan and Pashupati—and I was asked to be a private tutor. This upset me in a way I was unable to explain. It felt like the opposite of what I was there to do, and in that moment, I felt picky and spoiled, openly complaining about a job most people will never experience in their lifetime. I wanted to be with all the kids. I wanted to continue what the Jhilko Project was making me do in the first place—sitting there and smiling and nodding. I wanted to be lazy, but every time I chose that path, I received an internal thought asking me why I just didn't stay home if this was going to continue to be my reality here. I have been questioning that a lot lately. Plus, I was not a good teacher. Especially not with a language barrier. Thirdly, it felt incredibly unfair I was to teach this one kid English and the rest of them had to sit and listen while they colored. It didn't feel right. Why wasn't I in charge of teaching all of them? Because Pashupati was the only one still in actual school. We're acting like that never stopped us before. I was asked to run the class for the rest of them, but with a much simpler task—one of learning animals, drawing them, titling them, then coloring what they drew. I cried on the inside as I marched down to the playground-learning area, English book in hand. I taught what needed to be taught of animals, much to my surprise, enjoying it a lot more than I believed I would the tutoring, and moved on to Pashupati separately at the same table. My fear crept up as I could feel the older students' eyes on us, trying to comprehend what we were doing and why it was different, but reminiscing on it now, perhaps they were used to this and I wasn't in the wrong. It still felt unjust, but I did nothing to stop it. I asked Pashupati to read the story in his grade eight English book and answer some questions about it. I learned more than he did in that hour. I learned that this child Rajuna was so worried about learning because he was in school, mind you, had around the same comprehension as at least two of the students sitting at the table. But I did nothing to accept them into this, I just continued to slowly lose my mind as I asked the same simple question time and time again. It wasn't being fair, my mindset, I kept comparing my knowledge to his, I kept believing he should know these English words because I made them simpler. I knew nothing. I still know nothing.

Lunch came quickly, something I had to be grateful for, and I chose to spend it in the room, my nose in a book as per usual. I like to believe I am only antisocial because that is what people choose to say about me. Mary, the Jhilko intern, came in for me specifically, without originally indicating it. She was out with Rajuna eating as they usually do, leaving me out of conversations which could easily be held in English for them, and for whatever reason chose to enter the room only I was in. She collapsed onto the carpet looking at her phone and I watched her from the corner of my eye. I do not speak on Mary all that much simply because I do not like her. She seems to know people like her and understand her and it feels as though she does not see me as necessary nor helpful, at times blatantly ignores me for the sake of a laugh from the kids, and I have lost not only all patience, but all humility this trip. I know she knows what she's doing. I could tell now she was antsy to speak to me, to connect in a way, but I felt it was merely for the sake of telling people she knew a white person, perhaps even to say she befriended one. The conversation felt intentional. Now, Mary is young, 22, 23, and social media addicted which led to my earlier conclusion of the false bonding and somewhat cruel intentions. She asked about my life, and I politely reciprocated the questions. Mary is studying to be in childcare. She is leaving in twenty days (quite exciting to me). She hopes I see the city and hopes I do so with her and her friends, a dull promise, I was sure. It felt as though Mary were begging me to tell her where I wanted to visit so I told her the Monkey Temple. She repeated her makeshift plan to me over and over—she and her friends would find a time that suited us all and we'd go. I kept agreeing, mainly to get her off my tail, but I thought it over. Perhaps this would be a cool experience, a necessary one even, to go out with people my age but to whom I knew not and explore the place I'm in now. It's what I'd wished for if I ever went solo traveling, to befriend people from that place, or visiting alongside me, and go sightseeing. I second-guessed my prior thought by believing I would be third-wheeling as per usual, I'd only be there to appease Mary, to make her look cool in front of her friends. It hurt me, my mind.

After lunch, I was invited to play Ludo with the kids, and I agreed because I knew this was what I was hoping to do earlier. Just to play a part in their lives as a human, not as a title like teacher. To quickly explain the intention of the game, Ludo is the equivalent of the board game Sorry but without cards. You need to roll a die; a one or a six allows you to exit your starting area, and you are allowed to roll again. This was to my advantage since luck decided to hold out its hand for me for the first time, and I was rolling two, three sixes in a row, moving up in the board game world. I had a young boy seated next to me, perhaps four, continuously glaring at me for rolling and moving and winning. He would try to miscount my piece and place me on a further back square than what was originally intended, but I played to his skill and followed his tactic, all the while changing my piece when he chose to change his. He finally seemed to clue in that I was lucky, so despite the language barrier, he managed to let me know he wanted me to roll on his turn. Turns out, I truly am lucky. He was getting ones and sixes (I was somehow giving myself more, however), and we became a team of rivals, this four-year-old and I. I cannot remember who won, but I do remember him counting how many spaces he needed to traverse before knocking my piece back to its starting point and claiming board game dominance.

After four, as per usual, I went up to Bijata's office, only these past few days I've been going up in the hopes of the past revisiting us and her taking me back to the DRC in her car. That has not been the case lately, and it's caused me a type of distress I've been struggling to put a name to. I think it may be fear of change. Perhaps even a fear she doesn't want anything to do with me anymore. I've been struggling the month of October, feeling like a burden, and this cold that hasn't left for ages doesn't place me in a situation for healing. I'd asked her where to buy pasta, for my social media was once again bombarding me with more unique food options than offered at the DRC. She showed me how to order online, and I was ecstatic for the chicken parmesan I was to receive. I question why I raise my hopes and my expectations sometimes. The food was the spiciest I'd ever consumed, and the issue with the navigation created more problems with the driver calling me many times, lost as ever. When he finally found me, I'd given the driver 100 more rupees, for he didn't have change, and I felt guilty and embarrassed. Before the food fiasco, however, I returned to the DRC on the back of the SDSS's female accountant's bike, who informed me she'd only ever been there twice. I directed her, pride swelling in me, allowing me to feel more mature and adult than I had in the past of being here. Upon entering, Prathna, Bischestaa's baby cousin, one who'd gone through heart surgery at the mere age of one, was running up to me, hyped up by her grandfather who only ever seems to smile when she's around, and it's beautiful. She was holding my hand, dragging me around, babbling in a mixture of Nepali and English, later almost running onto the street to see what I was doing. I did not know where this attention from her came from, but I was quite grateful, for I believed we were to be rivals, a three-year-old and I, when I first met her and weeks to come.

As well, I stumbled onto a dilemma: the DRC kids were beginning to return, one body at a time, from their month-long vacation, and I forgot what an extensive part of their lives I'd been in September. Throughout the lonely weeks, I came back from work, ate food, and hid in my room for the rest of the night because two of the boys couldn't care less whether I was around or not, as long as they had their all-day television, and the third boy wanted nothing more than to be with me, even if it meant a breach of personal space and me hurting his feelings. As the kids slowly returned (starting with a girl I'd forgotten went here; I'd forgotten there were more kids than merely these three), I needed to reteach myself extroversion and the real reason I was put in the DRC, whether Bijata says so or not. Today, as I am trying to fix such bad habits, they come running back at each minor inconvenience. It's always made me feel terrible, and I've tried to rationalize these actions, but at no point will they finally convince me I'm doing okay and making a fine decision. I'm scared.

Watercolour cards I'd hiked for and painted myself.