Song of work and freedom

This is the 68th episode of Diaspora Diaries, a Nepali Times series in collaboration with Migration Lab providing a platform to share experiences of living, working and studying abroad.

My father died before I was two, and I do not have any memory of him. In fact, I do not even have a picture with him. There were some faded photographs of him, but they were lost in the earthquake.

From what I know, he was a mason and was bed-ridden after a work accident. So it has always been my mother. I cannot speak about her without getting emotional. She raised us five boys as a single mother. Despite our economic condition, she did not let us feel deprived of anything. 

All the neighbourhood children went to school except me, so I demanded my mother send me to school as well. I doubt that my mother even knew that it was important for children to have  schooling. 

It was only after starting school that I realised that it was not a whole lot of fun. Somehow I did manage to study till Grade 12, but it was music that I was obsessed with. As Newars, we have many festivals that involve music. 

I played instruments during our festivals, and had a knack for picking up techniques just from watching the elders play. My passion for music overtook interests like sports and dance. As I grew older, I listened to music of all genres. 

We could not afford formal music classes, so I had to learn by watching others play. My friends and I started playing together and formed a band. We organised cultural programs and concerts.

Our first metal bands were called Aspirin and Jadecula, names that my friend gave, but I do not think they mean anything. Since then, I have been part of many bands but what we earned was barely enough to cover taxi fares and maintain instruments. 

Many of my former band members are arrangers, vocalists, and instructors, but others left because a career in music was not worthwhile.

Perhaps that is the story of many Nepalis who have to set aside their passion and talent to support their families. Passion for anything usually weakens as we get older. But not for me, my interest in music only grew.

When the pandemic hit, life got very difficult. As a musician I was a free bird doing frequent gigs, but I felt suffocated and caged during the lockdown. It got intolerable, so I decided to go overseas, to Dubai. 

My plan was to take up a regular job and continue music on the side. I took my guitar with me, which was not a common sight on planes flying from Kathmandu to the Gulf. I remember stowing it in the overhead bin above my seat to ensure it was safe.

A day or two after arriving I went to Kalba Beach in Fujairah, and was so excited to see the sea that I ran to the waves fully dressed. That happiness did not last because I realised that the recruiter in Nepal had screwed me over. There was no job waiting for me in Dubai as promised. 

I used up the money I had taken with me paying rent and buying food. It got so difficult that I could not even afford to eat. I ate khaboosh and missed Nepali dal bhat. I would think about my mother and pine for home.

In our family in Nepal we could not even eat rice and my mother used to prepare dhindo. She had a soft spot for her youngest and managed to give me some rice, and that caused fights among us siblings. How did my mother manage, I wondered as I struggled out there in the UAE. 

Even now, she has never asked me for a single paisa, which surprises me. In her eyes, as the youngest son, I am still a kid. As you grow up, you think of your childhood memories that you took for granted. And when caught in difficult situations, those moments sting you even harder. 

I did not tell my mother about how hard it was in the UAE, I did not want her to worry. I only told a few friends, and they offered help. 

I help others, but it is not in my nature to ask for help for myself. Maybe it is from fear of rejection, which I would not be able to handle. I am used to keeping my troubles to myself. 

I continued to practice singing despite the trouble I was in, but was not able to create new music because my mental state did not allow space for creativity. I decided not to come home because I had resolved to make something of myself before returning. 

As luck would have it, I was walking past a café in Dubai one day when I heard some music inside. I asked the Bangladeshi security guard about the live music and managed to get the number of the owner. The sound technician had quit, so I was hired for live performances. 

After a year, I got poached by a Nepali customer who came to the café who had started a club in Dubai. I get to sing there in Nepali for Nepalis, and give them a respite from a hard day at work. The songs remind the workers of home, and some are in tears when I sing songs like यो मन त मेरो नेपाली हो. 

I came to Nepal recently to participate in the Mero Voice Universe competition. It is more stressful auditioning than performing in regular concerts, where a few small mistakes will not matter so much. In an audition the judges only give you one shot at it. Even so, platforms like this help struggling artists like me gain more exposure and reach a bigger audience. 

I have come a long way from the Rs650 I earned after my first gig in Kathmandu where I sang Teri Diwani by Kailash Kher, which I still perform today. 

But I need to do a lot more in my life.