Aama — Buwa

I met Aama Buwa once a year growing up, every Dashain, when we went to Jhumka, a small village in the Eastern plains of Nepal, to celebrate festivals. I didn’t know them as Kashi Nath Ghimire or as Chandra Kumari Ghimire. They were confined to their roles as grandparents.

[Imagine someone knowing you only in your role of a son/daughter/child/grandchild/nephew/niece/cousin. Your whole existence is confined to these roles.]

All I knew of them was their agricultural lifestyle in Jhumka. But a year ago, Buwa got sick, and baba had to go see him, and when he came back, he shared with me about Aama and Buwa’s relationship. He said Aama doesn’t love Buwa. He said Aama doesn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night and help Buwa to the restroom. He sympathized with Aama and said, “Why would she want to do that? Buwa has abused her so much, physically, emotionally over the years. Why would she want to take care of Buwa?”

But Aama had to because none of her sons were there, and her youngest daughter-in-law could only do so much.

Aama, Buwa are here, in Kathmandu. I’ve always heard how Buwa always complains about the food, from mummy, mailiaunty, kaki, aunty, aama. Buwa apparently never has anything good to say about the food. As I’ve heard, it’s not because he is old; it’s just how he is, apparently. As someone who enjoys plain rice with bland daal and lemon — that behavior is outrageous to me. It is disgraceful because getting to eat is a privilege; respecting the one who cooks is essential. So, I said outright, “that’s because his mom didn’t give him a tight one while he was young.” Everyone laughed.

Aama came to me the next day and cried. Buwa screamed at her, again for making him eat ushina chamal ko bhaat instead of basmati chamal ko bhaat. She said, “he never let me live my life when I was young, and even at death, he doesn’t let me live in peace.” She said, “he listened to all those around him, cursed at me, hit me with whatever he could find, never gave me money to sustain the family, and now, he barely lets me sleep in peace too.” She told me more, she cried, she recalled that neighbor who always got her into trouble.

And I wonder, I wonder how do Aama’s children respect Buwa. How do you respect a man who has abused your mother in front of your own eyes? How do you speak of him with so much reverence? I don’t understand.

I asked baba on a Friday evening as he sipped on his whisky. I asked him how he does that. He said it’s what Buwa did in the past. I said, but it still haunts Aama in the present. He said, what can we do? I said, Buwa should apologize to Aama. He said, Buwa is old. I said, Aama is old too. He fell silent.

Baba hasn’t been the best husband for mummy too. I’ve seen his shortcomings, and I’ve gone months without speaking with him. But I remind him that I only respect him if he’s a good human being, not for the mere fact that he’s given birth to me and that he’s taken care of me.

I’m finding it difficult to speak with Buwa. I talk to Aama when I have the energy to interact, but I don’t speak to Buwa. And mummy, baba know that if anything happens here, now, again, with me in the house, I will not hesitate to ask Buwa to reflect on his actions.

I wonder what it is to live with a man like Buwa. My heart aches for these women who have come above me. I see their trauma and abuse in their wrinkled faces, loud and shrill voices, in that patuki they tie around their waist, in those moments they stare far and wide, and their train of thoughts are disrupted by pressure cooker ko sithi.

I wonder what it is to live with your abuser, day and night.