in the evening after the after dinner clean up, i find myself comfortable on my mother’s bed as we chit chat.
recently i’ve started telling her my thoughts on things. i told her about why i think we’re in the mess we’re in. about how idiots waste energy trying to condemn the rich without realizing they’re making things worse for themselves. how the amendment process should have been started right after the passing of the constitution.
i tell her she’s racist…but it’s not her fault, and i don’t hold it against her. she takes no offense but understands.
i explain the concept of Fatalism and Development, about the documentary i saw on Dor Bahadur Bista and how i feel like i understand him. i explain in simple terms how caste and hierarchy has damaged our country. i talk about how development has done so much harm.
i tell her about why i believe Nepal is in the state it is. and i tell her what i think it will take to change. true pride in our country. a generation raised with more education. the death of old thoughts. the rise of the up-and-coming. openness over the definition of ‘nepali’.
we talk and i see she is interested, she listens, but she doesn’t contribute as much. a question here and there, good questions too.
“you should write a book” she says. “why haven’t you written one already?”
i smile and wonder why i haven’t made anything of myself yet, but, these are certainly matters i could (i should) put into writing.
“i need to develop my thoughts first,” is the decided appropriate response.
we talk more. i add detail and flourish to earlier concepts i had presented her. i say good night and give her a kiss feeling very satisfied. i think about all of this and i wonder, does my mother understand everything i am saying?
does she get it? do streaks of light take life in her mind? will she see things the way i do? will she agree?
i don’t know. but even then, i am happy for these conversations. i am happy for these memories. i hope they mean something to her too.