PPT (Person, Place, &Thing)

Person

By My Side

If you look at every single photo from when I was born to this day, most of the photos will have a person standing by my side. She is there for almost every moment in my life, always there next to me. This person is my sister, Kamana Devkota.

My sister was two years and three hundred-sixty days old when I was born. And ever since the day of my birth, my sister had been given one major responsibility for life by our parents; “Look after Bhumika”. And though I complain that she had done a terrible job at it, everyone that has seen us together can tell that she has done she best job ever.

When I was little, I was a violent kid with anger issues and cried 24/7. I wasn’t and still am not the best at expressing feelings to others. This would make me frustrated ; I would cry for hours. There was a time when I cried almost the whole day. But all through that, there was one person that would help me with all my problems, emotionally, physically, and mentally. My sister was my translator to the world. She, at times, still is.

Like most little siblings, I wanted to be like my older sibling. I followed my sister around all the time. Instead of sitting with kids my age, I sat with her at school without trying to find new interests or friends. I would do whatever she did. If she liked something, I liked it. If she didn’t like something, I also didn’t like it. There were times when my sister got sick and couldn’t go to school. I would wail and cry all the way to school as my mom dragged me because “I don’t have anyone to sit with if Kamana isn’t there.” And even when I was forced to go to school, I would sit with her friends at lunch instead of making friends myself.

The thing I admired the most about my sister when I was little was that I thought that she was perfect. As I got older I learned that this wasn’t always true. Like everybody else in the world she, too, had flaws. She was moody. She hated noise (which always resulted in her kicking me out of the room that we share), and she wasn’t necessary fond of little kids. And because she wasn’t fond of little kids, I started not to be fond of most little kids myself.

And despite her many flaws, I still want to be like her. I have always been in awe and jealous of her art and dance skills and how she can master everything she tries at with or without working at it. And it always surprises me when she says that I am the lucky one despite me having many flaws and her being so strong. That’s the other thing I admire. I am always in awe of her being so strong and supportive though she sometimes acts like she isn’t.

If I have to pick one person to talk to about all my problems or just how my day was, it would be my sister. We are close. We tell each other pretty much everything. And how close we are is obvious to everyone who see us together just for a second. Despite this, we always talk about how to get away from each other. Most of the time we are insulting and fighting with each other. And our conversation starts with us picking a fight against each other. But at end of the day, we can’t stay away from each other since we both (me mostly) have so much to talk about.

Most of the things I like now are influenced by my sister. She was the one who introduced me to writing and reading books, which are two things I love doing the most. She helped me become a person who always have a book in her hand from a little kid who would cry if she had to touch a book. She got me into liking school and studying. She shaped my point of the world and my opinions. She taught me things and helped me improve my flaws. She always reassured me that I was okay and that I should be proud of my abilities. She also taught me not to care about what other people think of me, and that nobody is perfect. She taught me that not everyone is worth it, and that I should avoid and ignore dramas that don’t concern me at all. Most of all, she taught me to be confident and proud of who I am.

My sister is the only one who has seen all the sides of me. She has been through all the times I have been angry, helping me calm down. She has seen me cry and breakdown so many times, comforting me each time. She has always helped me with my problems, no matter how annoying I can be. She has been dealing with me throughout all of my moods. She has always laughed whenever I am hyper like a immature five year old kid at home. She has always been there by my side.

The longest I could remember being separated from Kamana was two months and a week and a half. This is without including school, friends’ birthday parties, and a few hours on some weekends. Because of this, my sister is the most influential person in my life. She is my closest best friend and though I will never say it outloud to her, she is the person I have the most respect for in this world.  

PLACE

Finally  A Home

I looked at the three story house. The gate had changed. There were plants in the side of the house grown by my grandmother. Everything else was the same from before. The yellow paint was still there, and so were my grandparents. My grandparents stood outside the black gate, tears falling from their eyes, as they welcomed my parents, my sister, and I to our house after five years.

My family’s house is located in Kathmandu, Nepal, next to so many other houses. As I entered the house, I noticed that there weren’t any big changes. It was three stories tall. The first two stories had eight rooms, which were rented mostly by college students. On the top floor was our family’s home in our house. It had one room, two beds in that room and one bed in the living room. That is a popular thing in Nepal, to have a bed in the living room.  Across the bedroom was the kitchen and between the two rooms was the bathroom. The house was more like an apartment for our family; it was nice and cozy.     

When I was little I had no connection to the house. To be honest I never cared for it much. In fact, I never knew why my parents had decided to build a house in Kathmandu. My sister was born there and my dad went to college there. We never really came to Kathmandu, so it didn’t mean much to me. Maybe my parents were planning on permanently moving there. If so, they never shared it with me or I don’t remember them telling me about it.

Kathmandu was never and still isn’t my favorite place in Nepal. I wasn’t born there, I didn’t spend my childhood there, and neither did the big line of my family start and live there. Kathmandu didn’t have the view of the mountains, nor was it in a village in the hill where you could see Mount Everest clearly. Except for the heritage sites, to me Kathmandu was just the heavily polluted and populated capital city of Nepal.     

However, when I went there a month ago, I found myself admiring the brightly colored houses that you couldn’t see in America. A smile grew on my face as I looked out the roof of the house at five o’clock in the morning. The street was already crowded with people going to work, socializing, or just passing the time. I stood there as I watch some girls almost having a cat fight over something really stupid. Despite my believe in nonviolence, I had to admit it was amusing to watch. Because of the electricity problems in Kathmandu, this was the best thing to a TV at that moment.

I yawned a little. I had just woken up to the barking of the dogs and crowing of roosters. I looked to my side to admire a small, busy, yet pretty hill. I wanted to go there to hike, though the place  wasn’t exactly for hiking. Filled with heritage sites and packed houses , there was no place for walking.

I climbed up the water tank in the roof and looked at the ground below me. Memories that I had forgotten for a long time came rushing back. I thought about the time I ran around with my sister, playing the  game of tag. At that time the place felt like it was the biggest and the best thing ever. I smiled sadly as I looked at the now small ordinary roof.      

My heart felt as if it grew bigger as I remembered the times when I played with games with my sister and cousin and his wife. I remember running freely and grinning widely. It seemed like forever ago.

Maybe it wasn’t before, but now this three story, yellow colored house in Kathmandu, Nepal finally had captured my heart with memories and its beauty that could only be found deep deep inside. I looked at the big orange burning ball in the sky. It was a view I never got to look at in U.S. since New York was so far away from the equator.

Looking at the sun made me realize something that I never thought of when I was little. This place, the house, the people, the street, to me was finally a home.       

Thing

Dhaka Topi

For most of his life, my grandfather stood proudly. His chin was up high with confidence when he did pretty much everything. His black coat covered his cultural Nepali clothes and his Dhaka topi stood perfectly in his head, covering his white hair. That is until I grabbed the hat and my sister pick pocketed candies from our grandfather’s pocket. And then my sister and I grabbed his walking stick together and ran away; our grandfather chasing after us.

Like most old age men in Nepal, my grandfather has a collection of Dhaka topi that he wears. Dhaka topi is a traditional Nepali hat; it symbolizes that you are a Nepali male. It is made out of a cloth called Dhaka and the word topi means hat in Nepali.

When I was small, I would stare in awe as my grandfather proudly took one of the rhombus shaped hats out and wore it on his head. When he sat down, I would plot with my sister about how to steal it from him. And once we did, we would run away to hide. Our my grandfather would start chasing us, complaining that my sister and I were the reason why he was aging so fast.

I suppose you could say that I wanted the hat. I would take it from him and wear it whenever I had the chance. I would go outside and show it off to my friends. It wasn’t until I got older that I understood why adults smiled and laughed in my direction. I never got the “Oh Bhumika…” until my mom told me that females don’t wear Dhaka topis. I would then stomp angrily over to my grandfather and give him back his top. And then I would run back outside where my sister was waiting with the candies she took when I took the topi. And then hours later, that process would be repeated.

In the day after my eighth birthday, I remember being at Nepal’s international airport to come to U.S.. I took the topi from my grandfather and ran around the airport, wearing it on my head, not realizing that I wouldn’t be seeing my grandfather and the topi for a year. And when I did, a year later, the first thing I did after saying namasta was take his topi and run around with it. And then I got confused about  why my grandfather was just laughing at my behavior and not chasing after me; he was too weak and too old to be chasing after me.

Taking the topi from my grandfather has always been one of my fondest memories of my childhood in Nepal. And though I am too old to be stealing my grandfather’s things as a joke, whenever I see my grandfather I take the topi from his head and wear it on mine.

This school year when I went to Nepal, my grandfather gave me one of his oldest topi to take with me to U.S.. I, in return, proudly took it and promised to keep it safe since it is one of the precious things my grandfather values the most.

Dhaka topis are my reminders of my young self and my childhood. They represent some of my best moments when I lived in Nepal. But most of all, they are my connection to my grandfather and the times we shared together. And now, the Dhaka topi stand proudly in top of our bookshelf.

Author's Note

Also can be found in https://passionforwordsbywanttobewriter.blogspot.com/2016/06/ppt-person-place-thing.html