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
No comments:
Post a Comment