Every time I visit the camps, whether to see my sexagenarian parents or for office work, I spend most of my time surfing the internet in a communications cum money transfer booth run by one of my relatives in Beldangi-II. I choose this place to spend my time or even send news to my office because the Internet access is free, that saves me expensive hours at a cyber cafe.
The other reasons for avoiding such cafes are the overbearing crowds from early morning until late afternoon, and most of them having no Wi-Fi connection anyway, so I prefer to use my own machine. The booth that I am talking about has two private rooms for making long distance calls. Both of the chambers are usually occupied, one after the other, from before 9 am to after 5 pm.
Like many journalist, the booth has offered me several chances to hear the stories of varying emotions of those who regularly visit this place to make calls to their resettled family members, friends and relatives in eight western countries. Among many of them, a story of the aged couple from Beldangi-II Extension has deeply touched me.
- The telephone booth cum money transfer
One day, I was alone in the booth. The owner, who had gone to his hut for lunch, had not returned. It was around 2 pm. The mercury level on that day was above 40 degree Celsius. I was reading news stories about the preparations to release thousands of emails of former governor of Alaska, Sarah Palin, by the state authority.
“Nani, Canada call garidinu huncha hamilai? (Dear son, can you please make a call for us to Canada),” said the man in his late 70s or early 80s. He got in and tried to find a seat for himself. His wife, who seemed to be a few years younger, stood at the entrance. I conveyed to him that the owner of the booth was away. However, he insisted that I try dialing the number once.
I then logged into my Skype ID that pays an account to make unlimited calls to the United States and Canada for a month. He took out a paper, half-torn and folded several times, from his pocket and gave it to me. The paper contained nothing except a thirteen-digit number, which I later figured out that it was of his eldest son resettled in Canada in 2008 with his wife and children. As I dialed the number and a male voice answered the call from the other end of the wire.
“Nani, ma buba boleko. Ama ra ma tahlai phone garna ahyeka chau (Dear son, this is your dad speaking. Your mom and I are here to make this call to you).”
The response from their dearest son was a bit discouraging. Without greeting the parents, he immediately asked why they called at this time, waking them up and killing their sleep. As he was about to disconnect the call, which was very clear from his response, the helpless father asked what the suitable time would be to make him calls. He was told to try two hours later. Then the couple returned stating they would again come back at 4 pm to try calling again and pay the entire bill.
The short conversation was a matter of curiosity for me. Several questions struck my mind time and again. I even compared the scene to my own aged parents and more than half of my family members resettled in the United States. How would my dad feel if my brother (s) or sister (s) in North Carolina had acted in that modus?
The couple arrived at 3:50 pm to make the call again. I had already told the booth owner that I would be dialing for them incase they show up again, and he had accepted the proposal happily. He was doubtful, since most of the customers want to use the private chambers. But I was hopeful, as Skype calls are better than Internet calls, at least for those who were lucky to avail such an opportunity.
Fortunately, the old man requested me to redial the number but his wife chose to speak first this time. The fellow in Canada received the call but didn’t say anything, as if the phone was on hold. However, conversations in the background indicated that some people were playing cards.
“Malai bassa jutt, yehi bela unknown numberbata call ahyo (At a time when I have a pair of kings, I have a call from an unknown number)”
Then he answered the call with a greet to his mom – “Ama sanchai chau? (Mom, are you well?)”
She replied saying she was fine. She also narrated that his father has developed night blindness and needs an urgent operation. But the man pretended that he was not hearing what the mother was conveying to him, saying nothing.
I redialed the number. Then he presented a long list to his aged-parents asking whose process had reached where. They replied one by one. As they again entered into his father’s condition, he said he was getting a lot of disturbances over the phone. They told him that his voice was very clear and that he could keep on talking. Instead, he decided to discontinue the conversation saying he was getting nothing except the background noises.
The next day they arrived at the booth at around 2:30 pm. This time, the man chose to speak first. When he began to speak, he became furious and shouted at his son.
Father : Buji-buji kina nabuje jasto garchas? Hamilai phone pani gardainas, tahlai garda pani bujina vanchhas. (Why do you pretend to not hear us clearly? You do not make calls; when we call you, you pretend that you don’t hear us.)
Son: Etabata call garda, phone nai lagdaina, bau. (The connection doesn’t work when we try making calls from here, dad.)
The man said that it shouldn’t be true. According to his explanation, he gets regular calls from his niece in America and some relatives from Australia. Then, he asked the son to talk to his mom.
Mother: Ekabihani, lagaera basejasto cha ni? Tyo purano bani ajapani chodeko chaina? (Seems, you are drunk so early? Haven’t you given up your old habit?)
He laughed. He said why would he quit drinking when drinks are cheaper than other liquids.
Son: Ama Canada ma ta sabaile khanchan. Nare, Dile, Bire, Saru, Pabi, sabai….ani tyo Beldangiko dudwala, dudwalaki chori, sabai le khanchan. (Mom, everybody drinks here in Canada. Nare, Dile, Bire, Saru, Pabi, all of them…and even the milkman from Beldangi and his daughter, all drink.)
She interrupted him in the middle as she started talking about his dad.
Mom: Nani, buba ko ankhako operation garnu parnae vo. Ankhako jyoti pani ghatyo. Sath hajar jati lagcha arey. (Dear son, your dad must get surgery for his eyes. His vision has also gone down. They say it costs around Rs 7000.)
His response was unexpected. He told his mom that they were preparing to change their car, a better one and unable to support the dad’s operation. He also asked the parents to talk to his wife about the matter, but needed to call her another time since she was sleeping.
“Ani, bubale kam garna chadnu vo ra? (And, has dad stopped working?)”
Father: Nani ma kam garna sakna chade. Ankha pani dekhdina, budo pani vaye. Panch hajar jati sahayog garis vane, aru hami milauchau. (Dear son, I am unable to continue with my work. I have low vision, I am old. We’ll manage the rest if you can support us with Rs 5000.)
The son, who was murmuring because he was intoxicated with Canadian drinks, asked the dad to make another call on Sunday so that he could discuss the matter with his wife. He said, it would be not possible for them to wire Rs 5000, but maybe 50 Canadian dollars. Getting some positive signals from the son, the couple returned. I planned to follow their conversation on Sunday.
I thought that the next meeting with them would be a turning point for my story. I knew that I had to confirm whether or not their son would decide to support the surgery of his partially blind father struggling with night blindness since last year.
I reached the booth quite early on that day, not to miss the conversation. I engaged myself there for the entire day. But they didn’t turn up! The very next day I left for Kathmandu. Even from Kathmandu, I tried to figure out if they again visited the booth, but knew that they hadn’t so far.
I certainly have very little room to make close follow-ups or any further developments on this story; yet some progress on it might explore out when I am there in camps within these few days.
