"The first migrant worker from my village"

 This is the 53^rdedition of Diaspora Diaries, a regular column about migration in Nepali Times.

I was the first migrant to the Gulf from my village of Chagariya of Dhanusha district. We had heard of people who had gone to Saudi Arabia from neighbouring villages and done well for themselves. 

There were five children to feed and raise, and we did not have much land. Foreign employment seemed like a good choice. After I left in 1992, many others from my village also became migrant workers, including relatives.

I have vivid memories of the day I left home. The whole village showed up to drop me off at the bus station. It was like a wedding. My family members wept, they did not know if I would come back alive. There was so much uncertainty. Nowadays migrating has become so common that people come and go without anyone knowing.

Getting on the plane was scary. I had a window seat and the flight attendant helped us with our seat belts and offered us food. I chose the vegetarian meal, and even though they offered beer, I stuck to Dew.

Someone from the company was waiting for us at Dammam airport. And the heat! It burnt all the hair on my head. It was impossible without AC. But even in Nepal the heat is suffocating now, and it is hard working on the farm. Seems like we imported not just money, but also the heat from Saudi Arabia.

After a couple of months as a labourer, I lost interest in the work. Luckily, I got a job as a company barber since I had experience. I cut the hair of fellow workers from Nepal, India, Pakistan, Korea and the Philippines. 

 The workers did not have to pay, but if they liked it they gave me handsome tips, fruit juice or even a crate of canned Pepsi. I chatted in Hindi with the Indians and Pakistanis. Those working in scaffolding, welding or drivers earned more and tipped better. Low paid workers left less tips, but I did not mind.

I worked in the company’s hair salon which had a fancy revolving chair and big mirror. For off hours and holidays, I had my own makeshift barber corner in camp as my side hustle. I bought my own mirror, hung it on a rod and my clients sat on a stool. I would also drop by one of the salons in the market to earn some extra cash on our days off.

Times were different back then. There were no mobiles and my wife had to travel a long way to receive calls on a CDMA phone from Ram Dayal’s shop at a pre-arranged date and time. The calls were brief because they were expensive. 

We had more detailed communications through cassette tapes that we sent each other. Whenever I felt homesick, I listened to the voices of my wife and children over and over again – especially the girls who were always loud and chirpy.

When I missed my family, I would play the tapes on a Sony that I bought for 60 riyal. When I was alone in my camp dorm, I would record whatever I wanted to tell my family, replay the recording and if it was good enough, I sent it to Nepal with some cash, wrapping it all in layers of cellotape.

Every night before going to sleep, I would re-listen to the voices of my family. I kept the player close to my ears at a very low volume as I shared the room with four or five others. Even hearing about mundane everyday things from the village over and over again in the voices of my wife and daughters filled me with joy after work.

One day, someone from management said I had a call from Nepal. It was news of my youngest son’s death, and that was a painful moment. He was just 18 months old. In a tape that followed, my family filled in the details: he had died of measles. I responded by recording my own feelings on tape and consoled them.

My company offered to send me home on mourning break for a month. What was the point? My son was already gone, so I could not bring him back. Instead, I grieved on my own in Saudi Arabia before I resumed work. The company was kind enough to pay me my basic wages.

During my time overseas, I came home thrice. When I left for Saudi Arabia after my third vacation home, I wept as my mother was in poor health and paralysed. I just could not stay away, so three weeks later I returned to Nepal on a one-way ticket. I brought back my barbershop mirror, and it still hangs on my wall.

Diaspora Diaries is a regular column in Nepali Times in collaboration with Migration Lab providing a platform to share experiences of living, working, studying abroad.