Unfinished dreams

In the living room, hajurmami(grandmom) has a fixed seat, alongside the edge of the sofa, besides the Mahogany door. She is sitting beside the regular seat of Buwa. I am leaning against the arms of the sofa, folded over to her. I am a curious girl. I am trying to understand the world around me. I ask my grandmother how old she is. She says, “I am old, and I am about to die soon.” She exaggerates her age to be 60 years. Till today, her age has not changed from around 60. I ask hajurmami how old she was when she married buwa. She says, “fifteen.”

To my grandparents, education was not their priority. Education was only for those who had extra money or brilliant minds. During their time, they were the first generation to attend school. My grandmother completed her middle school, and my grandfather ‘just passed’ the SLC (school leaving certificate). They had big families who had to be sustained.  So, the men got into different kinds of industrialism that were booming at the time and the women got married to take care of the domestic lives. That is how ordinary families ran.

I am asking her more questions because now I want to know how she knows my English teacher, Miss Bhawana Rana. She explains to me that the Ranas are the aristocrats, and they happened to be her childhood neighbors. She attended St. Mary’s, too, she explains.

Neither of my parents are proficient in English. Buwa too barely speaks English; his biggest struggle with English  has been pronouncing the letter eight. In his lengthy business calls, number 8 was always present. It sounded something like “aight” and nuit dissolving into each other. I have always loved mimicking him. Even now, the reason they want my brother to pursue higher education is so that the next heir of their business will have a better understanding of the complexities they hire people to understand for them. In my case, it is to maintain the hierarchy and to find a well-suited beau. Only a peasant will marry an uneducated person they say. They use a myth of men being naturally bad at schooling and learning. So, that expectation of literacy is thrown to the women to become something of their own or to be married if they cannot.   The men just take on the power roles in the family business.

To be able to Fill in the gaps and the empty boxes, they sent me to the best English-speaking school, St Mary’s.  St. Mary’s high school is the all-girls catholic school located in Jawalakhel, Nepal. The school was established at the end of the Rana regime — a dictatorship in Nepal that restricted education to the elites and forbade widespread publication and public education. India too had just gained its independence from the British. Even after the regime ended, access to the school remained limited to a small aristocratic family. Democracy has existed for almost a decade, and to this day, the school receives thousands of applications every year. People stand in long lines for hours just to obtain an application form. Based on an entrance examination, only 200 students out of the many thousands are selected each term.  This institution has set one of the highest standards for English in Nepal. There is a common ideology that if you attend St. Mary’s, you will almost certainly obtain a visa abroad because of how well English is taught there. S.T. Mary’s had everything they hoped for. It was going to make me disciplined, to obey patriarchy and submit myself to their gaze. A school that would groom me to become a token for many beaus to come my way.

Before the prefrontal cortex:

           Nepali is the only language we speak at home. It was only during Parents’ Day I had to speak in English, where I was dressed up, and I had to explain what is it is like to be a mango.

I have graduated from my pre-school, Bernhard, and yet another day of exams is approaching. I turn towards my cousins and elders, asking everyone if they knew what the exam was going to be like. They shake their heads, claiming that I am the first one. My dad hands me a big guide book made specially for the entrance exam. It has the dimensions of a college-level book. i just flip through it hopelessly. My mom, too, had a similar guidebook, but it was to learn English. In my early schooling years, she took on the hobby of learning English. She would resume it throughout the years, but with the advent of phones in her palms, she stopped completely.

The sun has just turned towards the spring, marking it as the month of Falgun. I turned 6 last week, but every day of this month has felt like my birthday. Everybody is very excited for me to take the exam. All I am excited about is that joining this school is going to make me extra special amongst my cousins and my friends. I am born out of the belief that the institution put me on top of everybody else in Nepal. Little did i know that I was instead the chosen one in The Hunger Games.

The day of the exam. My mom is seated in the bed sharpening the red and black Natraj pencil. Along with it she is preparing a small transparent case with a white eraser, a sharpener, and a small scale. My parents’ bedroom has a little dressing room in a nook. The nook is where I mostly find my mom hidden away from the family.  It is quiet and is always painting itself with the different hues of the day. The curtains are of a beige floral chintz. It is around 8 am, and the curtains are drawn to the edge, folded perfectly. I am wearing a red turtleneck, and my hair has been braided neatly. I really wish I did not have to give this exam. The windows have a big nest. I stick my nose to the net, casting all my weight to it, hoping it will leave its unique Criss cross marks. I look outside into the neighborhood. The crystal-clear sun casts itself directly into my eyes, like a diamond. Staring outside, I am daydreaming of what it is going to be like. The force is so big that no number of courageous tantrums would reverse it. I am overwhelmed, I feel like crying, but I do not have the right words for what is happening in my life.

I am the most scared about the English- speaking teachers who operate on very strict rules. I am scared that my inability to comprehend them might make them agitated towards me.

Kathmandu is such a small city, wherever there seems to be a crowd and hustle, it becomes the talk of the town. We arrive at the school’s gate and see a big crowd of parents with their kids. I see parents are motivating their kids. Some girls are crying, others are displaying their confidence to the world, and the remaining are drowning in their quiet obedience. My dad just smiles at me and wishes me good luck and tells me not to be scared. There is already a very long line of girls inside the school. I enter through the gate, which is decorated with a green circular sign that reads” ST. Mary’s High School” in big white bold letters. Underneath it says “est.1955”. The color of the sun and the yellow buildings are merging so well, which makes it seem like a white reflection is coming through the buildings. I am escorted to the line. I stand at the edge of the line, and incoming kids add to the line from behind. Our lines are re-arranged according to the initial alphabets of our last name. A teacher hands us a card. The card has yellow strips hooked on a blue form with a header of the school’s name. Underneath there is my picture, my name, my address, and my parents' phone number.

Miss escorts us into a brightly lit room of full of small plastic blue desks and chairs. The floors are grey, and the walls are colored without any plastering underneath. I am sitting in the very first bench. She hands us the paper. Before starting, I scan the paper, it is divided into an English, mathematics, and an art section. The majority of the paper is grammatical questions. The teacher announces that we are given 15-20 minutes on each section, it was not even a quarter of the time I need to comprehend all of this information.

Not being able to comprehend most of the instructions, I fall into denial. In my head, I am inventing my own theories, my own whole numbers, even and odd. The differences of Or-and, Beauty- ugliness, then- than. I am confused over the difference between the letter b and D. That was the last time I remember reaching a place beyond the knowing and dualism, a place before my mind was ripped into two. A state of emptiness.

In between my nervousness held so deep inside, a girl stands up. She proceeds towards the paper with a big smile on her face and takes the exit, leaving only haste behind. One by one, girls are starting to finish their papers and go home. i can feel my head fumbling in between these papers, trying to find any, just about anything I am sure of and can get right. I fill in all the spaces I can and take my leave, knowing well I am going to fail this. I am falling into another denial by telling myself that maybe I am the smartest and the others really didn’t attend any questions. What would be the only case for me to be able to get into this school?

My parents are starting to ask me how it went. I tell them it was good because I did not get lost and nobody scolded me, but it was bad because I am not quite sure if my answers are correct. I know I will disappoint them, yet their hopeful faces make everything better. It was much of a milestone for them. To have someone in the family sit for an exam in such a prestigious school was a promising sign for them that the next generation would not have to face and instead would be protected from the oppression that stemmed from language ideologies. This is the only form of oppression the men in my family have known.

In Nepal, for documentations we are always required to save even the smallest slip of receipt. Due to lack of technological advancement, one can never know when and where we might have to draw our lines to the beginning. Inside my mom’s closet lays a green, clear file with “Isha” written with a black marker in bold letters where she has stored every step of paper work done for the school till today.

After that day until the results came in, I looked into the study guide every day, trying to find questions that appeared in the test. Another one of those make-believe. I have this enormous faith that my parents can somehow see and tell me the reality of my life. Every day, the anxiety creeps in during sunset. In the veranda, I ask my mom whether I got the questions right or not. She has no clue about the questions that appeared. She looks at me with an amused look, like being surprised at her own creation. Behind her eyes, she seems to be questioning if I get those traits from her or from my dad, and when she finds herself in me, she gives me a ruby smile.