Friendship (24 February 2010)

I have a friend named Yubraz.  He is twenty-two years old, a part time student and part time farmer. We had met at Oja and Oji’s house and shared a few meals together before he disclosed to me that he needed some help with his homework.  He will be taking an exam next month on The Great Gatsby (a fact which defies logic given his level of English and that of the local teachers) and he wanted to know if I would help.  I had read Mr. Fitzgerald’s ubiquitous novel in high school and recalled enjoying it with minor reservations, so I told Yubraz I would love to help him, but that I remembered only the characters’ names and the general outline of the story.   He lent me the book and I was immediately sucked in, finishing it the same day, and while I still think it may be slightly overrated, I enjoyed it almost enough to change my estimation to “properly rated.”   I discussed the practice questions with him, helped him take a few notes, and tried my best not to participate in an outright academic fraud; although I’m not sure I succeeded in the latter. 

Today Yubraz showed up at school and we walked home together.  We sat on my porch drinking tea for awhile before he asked me if I would like to take a walk to the nearby village of Surypal.  I happily accepted, this being my walking time of day anyway, and after finishing our tea we set out on another of the standard hour-long treks that have become a staple of my life in Samibhanjyang.  After a vigorous hike we reached our destination, a short ridge running perpendicular to the main line of hilltops, and sat down in the grass to enjoy the sunset.  It occurred to me that in The West two men taking a walk together just to take in beautiful scenery may have seemed a little, shall we say, romantic, possibly uncomfortable for the sexually insecure, but it struck me as perfectly natural here.   Yubraz asked me to point out what I thought was the most beautiful part of the panorama and when I told him he responded in kind.

  

On the way back Yubraz called for a halt without explanation in front of a local market.  We sat down outside and he called in a greeting.  Thirty seconds later I was seated inside at an unfinished wooden table while a group of teachers from a local school greeted me warmly with a cup of raksi and a small plate of vegetables.  Yubraz’s father was among the teachers and he explained to me with comic, drunken gravity that they honor and cherish their guests.  Everybody at the table was a long way from sober and, amazingly, each of them spoke a little English.  My hosts told me that I seemed British, complimented me on my Nepali pronunciation, and aggressively demanded that I drink with them.  After thirty minutes I had to pry myself away, a little lit up after three glasses, while trying to convey my sincere appreciation for the warm welcome.  Sometimes I love this town.

Yubraz is broken hearted about my imminent departure.  He told me as we stumbled our way back by the moonlight that he will miss me terribly and he feels that our time has been too short.  I would think that this sentimentality is an affectation of youth if not for my middle-aged friend from school telling me today, “You sit in our soul.  We will not forget you.”  Although I always tell them I feel the same, I honestly don’t know what to make of these displays.  I like these men too, but I’m not getting misty about it.  I don’t feel that our painfully simple, half-understood interactions warrant the outpouring of emotion.  I’m not sure this gap is cultural or if it’s the disturbing other option; my own lack of a soul for them to sit in.  Whatever it is, I’m sincerely happy to have known these people for the short, inadequate amount of time that I have, and I’m equally happy to be moving on.