Her costume, all white -- a cape and a mask. In the likeness of all superheroes, she has the gait of someone whose every move is purpose. And she wears her hair in a chic long bob — almost like Elastigirl. 
My superhero is called Doctor Anu, in the spirit of the syllables most superheroes go by.
When we first met, she was seated at her desk, a glass shield between us, examining my documents with brisk fingers and the silence of someone who is thorough with the content. Later, she ran her fingers over my abdomen, investigating, letting me know I had arrived. 
Doctor Anu, the one who never abandons her post.
When the 25 April earthquake struck Nepal in 2015, Doctor Anu was in the operation theatre, delivering a baby. She had just disconnected the umbilical cord when the rattling began. One of the two nurses attending ran out, screaming, and the resident doctor sat down on the floor and started to cry. 
The mother, lying on the operating table, anesthetised only below her waist as in the case of all cesareans, grabbed Doctor Anu’s cape and said: "Please don’t leave me!" 
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/the-wait/">The wait</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
I won’t, said Doctor Anu. And while the earth continued to shudder in instalments, she completed the procedure. 
For a moment, she teared up, thinking of her own toddler, who she had no way of reaching as the phones were down. She conducted two more surgeries that day, saving six lives. It would be 26 April when she would finally be able to go home. 
At the hospital cafe, she chats with her colleagues through her mask. When they break into laughter, hers is the clearest, heartiest. And I think that is her superpower — the ability to steer clear of the morbid in all situations.
She notices me, and gets up to join my table. There is a moment my eyes well up with tears as we converse and she puts one arm around me and pats. When she gets up to leave, she says: You call me or text me anytime you need, okay? 
Anytime I reach out, my phone pings back within an hour if not minutes, with brief but clear instructions— very superhero style. 

I am here, she says. And she just is. 
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/notes-from-a-musician/">Notes from a musician</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
 *********
Prachinta is Resident 301. We have it written on a band she wears on her wrist, along with the cannula that makes her hand look like an inflating balloon. She speaks every two hours asking me if she can have some water and I keep denying her request. It will make you sick, I say. Her body is still reacting to the anesthesia, making her throw up every few hours between zoning in and out and saying the blood pressure cuff is tight. 
What time is it, she asks. 2AM. How many more hours until morning?
Prachinta’s companions in the ICU are resident women 307 and 302. And a man in 603. Resident 307 needs careful handling. While phasing in and out of sedation, she wants to know what drugs she is on and how much the hospital will charge. At the end of most sentences, she says, "don’t tell my husband I said this", constantly censoring herself. And then, I am done with being here, I will go home today.
Resident 302 murmurs. Once, she asks if I am her granddaughter and if we are in a hotel. She says, I haven’t seen my grandchildren for so long, they are abroad. Then, Babu, why are you dressed in this uniform like you work in a hospital. I work in one, Ama, I tell her. Then she apologises. I guess you are not my granddaughter. Narisaunus hai. Don’t mind me. Then she falls asleep. 
Resident 307 curses. Being born a woman is a curse, she says. If you have a uterus, you are sin and suffering.
You don’t say so, Ama. All living beings suffer in our bodies. Men fall sick, too, I explain.
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/we-are-fire-breathing-dragons/">We are fire-breathing dragons</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
Prachinta starts to stir. Even with all the painkillers we have been shooting through her veins, she appears muted by pain. She can barely speak when she finally comes awake from the sedation. I help her sit on a stool and tell her to brush her teeth. Her hands, ballooning from the cannula, can barely hold the toothbrush. How do I do this, she asks. I find a black hairbrush among her personal belongings. She has long, greying hair. It reminds me of someone from my childhood. I comb the matted strands and ask if the greys are highlights. No, just age, she says.
I use my best braiding skills and tie up her hair with a piece of gauze. You have thick, beautiful hair, I say. Like the information even matters to a person who is spending time in the ICU. Thank you, she says. 
Her inner elbows have turned blue from the repeated punctures we have had to cause. But every time we make her wince in pain, she says: thank you. 
 *********
Writes Phoebe Waller-Bridge for Fleabag: 'Women are born with pain built in. It is our destiny. Period pain. Sore boobs. Child birth. You know? We carry it within ourselves throughout our lives. Men don’t. They have to seek it out. They invent ways to. Gods and demons and things so they can feel guilty about things, which is something we do very well on our own…and we have it all going on in here, inside. We have pain in a cycle for years and years and years. And then, just when you feel you are making peace with it, what happens? The menopause comes. And it is the most wonderful thing in the entire world. And yes, your pelvic floor crumbles…and then you are free. No longer a slave, no longer a person with parts.'
Maa sometimes says: I prayed all the years of my youth for the menopause. I have been thinking lately about how much I want to arrive at the menopause, so that my body can stop self-destructing. 
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/of-anger-and-love/" target="_blank">Of anger and love</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

Pratibha Tuladhar

original

674x448

610x380

500x500

400x266

400x240

400x203

301x200

1250x600

1084x550

Light of the absurd

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141124/636cfbaa9c7e80680e0a0b46jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"/><figcaption>Photo: MONIKA DEUPALA</figcaption></figure>Namaste Aunty,It has been a while. I think the last time we met was at our cousin’s wedding. It was a good one, lasted one whole week, and I can imagine how stressed everyone was, but it went well.It is always a headache to find five different outfits, we cannot repeat saris because God forbid, someone might notice. Also, I did not repeat jewelry because what would people think if I wore the same earrings twice in a week?I know you judged every woman there, you noticed what she wore, how much she ate, who all she spoke to, and you may have also seen some women who were quiet the whole night, either sitting alone staring at the unknown or standing next to their husbands. Not every couple is genuinely happy. But we all gossip and tell tales.But I also know you are strong. To be a woman and a Nepali woman, you have to be. You have the world of responsibilities on your small yet strong shoulders. You have managed households and raised many. I think I am trying to understand how you changed from how I am to what you are at present.I think I know why you are the way you are. It is because we have both lived the same life. You were me at some point, and I hope I am like you in the future, minus some of the qualities that you developed along the way.We both grew up with rules and expectations. We both represented the grace and the shame of our families, where one wrong decision, and we would be scarred for life. That is the life of the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/boys-will-be-boys-is-never-an-excuse/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">woman in our society</a>. We are meant to be pure, untouched and strong enough to wait for a man who comes back home at 3AM.In the beginning, you used to upset me. You always talked about my skin tone, my weight and my <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/dreaded-bliss/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">future wedding date</a>. You made me question if I was still of a desirable age. As I grew older, I realised some things.You had a difficult life because you had it more challenging than me. Maybe it was your in-laws, your aunties or the society that tested you every step of the way and hardened your heart with the years.You had to survive, and you did what you had to do to protect yourself. You grew stern and distant. You hid your vulnerability to the point where you forgot you have a heart. You took away your softness to not feel hurt.But when you say something about me, ask yourself if you would do that if I was your daughter. And if you do not have a daughter, think of me as someone you used to be. Please do not teach me also to harden my heart. Please let me live a happy life without the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/shamed-for-bleeding/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">constraints of society</a>. You felt the pain, and you know how much it hurts. I wish for you not to let me go through it.Please try to live the life that makes you happy and <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/maybe-baby/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">let me live mine</a> the same way because we only have one. What I feel now is what you felt, you were once tender and kind. It is still there inside you.The beauty in your simplicity is forgotten but remember who you used to be. Remember the light inside you. Remember, you are the same woman who has lived the life we live now and bring to the surface the softness that you have hidden for so long, and all of us will be in a better place.Our lives are divine. Relight the radiance in your compassion. You are a force that can end wars. You are governed by love and kindness. And I know it will be slow, but you and I are meant to get along. You are the light to lead me in the darkness because I trust you to show me the path.Let us not hide the unspoken truth: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/educating-your-sons-will-protect-your-daughters/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">you have been hurt</a>, and you have all suffered, so please understand the pain. Do not hide your true self anymore. It is both our worlds together, let us make it more liveable together.I will always carry love and respect for you in my heart because you taught me that respect is mutual irrespective of age and gender. Help me be a better person. Be the guide that I need. Look at me with the eyes that you wish your aunties looked at you with because you were me once too.I promise to text you before tomorrow’s reception so we do not show up wearing the same shoes.Much love,Your Younger VersionAnjana Rajbhandary lives and works in Chicago. She writes this fortnightly Nepali Times column Life Time about mental health, physical health and socio-cultural issues.

Anjana Rajbhandary

Letter to a Nepali aunty

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110121140/636ce3519c7e80680e096647jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1125"/><figcaption>Photo: PRATIBHA TULADHAR</figcaption></figure>Jyoti was standing just outside the gate when I stepped out. I walked past her hurriedly, on my way out to work. She caught up with me.Hello, I said.Hello, she smiled.My father is asking if you will tuition me, she asked.Tuition, what? I asked in return. I’m not sure.Oh, if you will teach me.Teach you what? I laughed lightly.Teach me. She smiled again.I said: Okay. Let me think about it. Let’s talk about this later?I smiled and she smiled back.Rushing to work, I kept thinking about how she had beamed when I had said okay. And inside my head I was already starting to plan what I could ‘teach’ her. The opportunity that had presented itself to me drummed an excitement in me. I was being given this chance to influence a young mind and how much I could do to help her discover.I could not stop smiling to myself. Book, books, I thought. I could begin with a book. I rummaged through my bookshelf in my mind. What would an 11-year-old want to read? Maybe stories about birds or dogs? Or about women role models? Or maybe a book of short-stories. Or maybe a comic book?When I was 11, one of my uncles had given me a book. Here, he had said, presenting it to me. Pretty As You Please (365 Recipes for Young Ladies). Read it when your period comes, he had said. And it did come soon after.The book had exactly 365 chapters, beginning with what it means to be a lady. So, a lady was what a woman was not, which introduced the idea of ‘class’.The book had a list of instructions on a number of things: how a young lady should sit, how she must speak, how she must walk. A lady is never supposed to sit like a man, she must sit with her legs together. She must speak with her voice calm and low, and walk in the same manner, calmly. Never run!The book also prescribed the correct way to laugh. Do not open your mouth and laugh like boys do. Laugh softly and wave your hand before you, just so that you can hide your embarrassment a little.Years later, I had retrieved the book from a box of old things and dumped it into the carton going out to trash. i am not a pretty girl. that is not what i do.The book did have a couple of useful tips though -- exercises for menstrual cramp, and on how to ask a male friend not to touch you. But do it politely, it said. I can barely recall what else the book had, but what I do remember is that I had gobbled the book down.At that time, I heard the term ‘act like a lady’ so often in school that I was convinced that was the only way to behave. Never sit with your legs spread out. Be kind, polite and gentle—all very well, but also to male friends who touch you in ways you do not like?So, when a boy punched me, I would say ‘ow’ in pain but never retaliate. When a family friend tripped me on Holi and pinned me down to the marble floor, the cold, hardness of it stinging my back, while he put abir on my face, again, I did not retaliate.When another boy slammed my head with a water-filled balloon and when the balloon fell on the road without bursting, I merely crushed it under my feet so that he would not pick it and use it against me again. I did not pick it and throw it back at him or tell him he was being a jerk. I had to be polite, right? Even in my aggressions. That is what the book said. And I had read the book too many times.In those days, my access to books was limited to the Enid Blytons. And while mysteries were still my genre, Nancy Drew Case Files were still not allowed because she had a boyfriend. And Agatha Christie, you could read a page or two in the library, but not borrow. So yes, I read Pretty as you Please on repeat, until I knew some recipes by heart: A good girl takes care of everyone around her.It was a while before Nancy Drews and other books happened. But it was not until I turned 14 that I met Little Women. I won the book as a prize. Spelling competition. And it was then that my impulse to run was validated. It was possible to be a girl and want to only read and write and not cling to a man, like Jo March -- the girl who changed the lives of millions of young women.Over the years, though, I find myself gravitating towards the idea of Aunt March. I’ve often wished I could have one to whisk me out of certain situations, but now, I want to become one. For Jos. Maybe for Jyoti.I make a mental list of books for her. I imagine explaining books to Jyoti. I plan assignments for her. She will be rewarded with a new book every time she finishes her assignment.Her first assignment will be around A House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. When I hand her the book, I will ask her to open to the chapter, ‘A house of my own’ and ask her to read aloud:Not a flat. Not an apartment in back. Not a man’s houseNot a daddy’s. A house all my own. With my porch and my pillow, my pretty purple petunias. My books and my stories. My two shoes waiting beside the bed. Nobody to shake a stick at. Nobody’s garbage to pick up after. Only a house quiet as a snow, a space for myself to go, clean as paper before the poem.I surmise at Jyoti’s surprise and the sense of familiarity the words might evoke in her as she reads. I imagine she will shut the book and look at me and smile at me in acknowledgement. And I smile to myself.Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in the author’s life.

Write fearlessly, she said

mainNavigation

footerNavigation

opinionSubnav

nepali-times-column

Light of the absurd

Letter to a Nepali aunty

Write fearlessly, she said