When the entire mountain range at the southernmost point began to open up, the tall palm tree standing firm and unwavering became visible, and the beautiful mountain range of Chapauli was welcomed by thin, silky clouds. It felt like — “Now Dashain has come!”

When even the high-altitude lakes of Sailung, far in the northern belt, slowly thawed after the rainy season, and the Gaurishankar mountain range glowed red like a newlywed’s blush, it seemed like — “Now Dashain has come!”

When rivers like Sunkoshi, Tamakoshi—as poet Siddhicharan Shrestha said in his poem, ‘Giri Phori Bahane Roshi’—as well as streams such as Andheri, Chapauli, Bandijor, and Baksu flowing from the Mahabharata range, began to slow their current like they were exercising, a surprising caravan of people returning from Lahore could be seen descending the steep slopes of the mine. It felt like—“Now Dashain has come!”

When even the thin, swirling clouds over the southwestern mountains—stretched out like a contented python resting among the lonely bushes—began to disappear, Dashain had truly arrived. The delicate scent of Dashain filled the air, and I was drenched in a mist of excitement, enthusiasm, and joy. I truly felt, “Now Dashain has definitely come!”

New Clothes

I used to sleep beside my father at night. But that night, he wasn’t home. Usually, when he went to the fields in the valley, by the stream, or elsewhere, he gave me advance notice. But that day—where had he gone without telling me? My mind was restless all night.

The next morning, as soon as I opened my eyes, I asked my mother, “Where did he (father) go?”
“He went to Baraha yesterday to sew a Dashain dress for you guys. He hasn’t come back yet. He’ll probably return after finishing the dress,” she said casually.

Aha! New clothes!
My mind soared like birds flying across the winter sky. Curious, I asked my mother, “Where exactly did he go to sew the dress?”

“That’s Maila Damai’s (nickname of a tailor) place! Who else would he go to?” came her straightforward reply.

In the socially, culturally, and economically divided place where I was born, every ethnically and culturally powerful community was present. Most of the houses were Newar; eight to ten were Chhetris; one was Brahmin-like; one Magar; one Hayu; and so on.

A little above the village was Baraha field, near Khurkot. Of the two parts of the valley separated by the Andheri River flowing from Gadhi Danda (Sindhuli Gadhi), the ‘upper-class’ people lived on the fertile fields to the west, while the Damai (tailors) caste of the Dalit community lived on the slopes with little crop production to the east.

They took contracts to make clothes for the so-called ‘Bistas.’ They also sang cultural tunes at weddings and parties for these ‘Bistas.’ In other words, they played a vital role in enlivening the cultural festivals and ceremonies of the so-called upper castes.

Arjune Damai and Maila Damai—two Dalit family members—were responsible for sewing clothes for people in the surrounding villages. At other times, they had little work, as the sewing season only came around Dashain.

Dashain was a frenzy! When they entered a village, they had to spend 15–20 days sewing for 10–20 people per family. How could they manage such a workload with an ancient-style loom and piles of clothes? Truly, it was no small feat.

I didn’t like that my father had gone to sew clothes alone without telling me. I muttered to myself. Almost every year, Maila Damai and occasionally her eldest or youngest son would come to us, carrying their looms, climbing the hill of Sallebas. Special arrangements were made for them in a place called ‘Thapreng’ to sew clothes. After all, sewing Dashain clothes was no trivial task!

From morning till late at night, they worked diligently, accompanied by the unique sound of their sewing machine.

I used to sit and watch as they sewed my clothes. I was fascinated by their work. Sometimes, they teased me with a needle, and we would playfully dodge each other. Ah, how memorable those days were!

That year, during Dashain, I was devastated because I couldn’t watch the “live broadcast” of my clothes being sewn. After breakfast, without saying a word to my mother, I went down to Baraha—to Maila Damai’s house, where my clothes were likely being sewn.

I didn’t know exactly where Maila Damai’s house was; I only knew it was somewhere in the Baraha area. Originally, there was a Thapa settlement there. The Dalits lived on the neighborhood wall, and in the middle, there was a small stream.

Standing across the stream, I saw a woman at Maila Damai’s house. I called out, “My father came to sew clothes. Is he here?”

The woman replied sharply, “No one’s home right now. He has gone to Titribote’s house in Palanse to sew clothes.”
She said “Titribote,” but I thought I heard “Chitre Bhote.” So, I went to Palanse, asking around, “Where is Chitre Bhote’s house?”

Eventually, I found out that Maila Damai had gone to Titribote’s house, and there was my father, sitting completely absorbed in sewing clothes for us.

Back in the 1970s or 1980s, those living in rural areas didn’t have a steady income. Most people survived through farming and animal husbandry. A few from each family would seek work abroad, in northeastern Indian cities—especially Calcutta, Assam, and Meghalaya. The ‘Lahures’ (people working mostly in India) who returned from Calcutta carried a different kind of reputation and respect.

I remember our house always had milk. We never lacked a milch buffalo. If the buffalo wasn’t cooperative, my father would rush to bring it into the cowshed. We also had goats and chickens that added charm to our home. The milch buffalo was our main source of income. In the 1970s, milk was sold at shops like Govinda uncle’s and Khapangi uncle’s in Phedikhola, and later at Maila Sahu’s shop in Thanti. The money earned from selling milk not only covered household expenses but also supported our education.

The shopkeepers, however, wanted to buy milk cheaply. Since morning milk was bought at a low price, a lot of water was mixed in before selling. Both the milkmen and shopkeepers were profiteers!

Our only other income source for buying clothes, spices, and oil for Dashain was ghee. Stored in tin containers all year, the ghee was sold at places like Khurkot, Mulkot, Ratmata, Jhangajholi Bazaar, and Mangaltar on the eve of Dashain. Whenever I went to sell ghee in these markets, my tired father would say, “The traders in the jungle are good; they buy ghee at a fair price.”

The Dashain with Laate Uncle

This must have been around 1982. That year, the people returning from ‘Lahur’ hurried home for Dashain. Most were familiar faces, coming back every year to celebrate Dashain-Tihar. But among them was a completely new face—our Laate Mama (uncle). His arrival was unlike anything we had seen before.

Some called him ‘Laate Dai (Laate elder brother),’ others ‘Laate Salo’ (brother-in-law), or ‘Laate Mama,’ but he was anything but lazy. He looked smart and agile—as if he had ‘eaten the country’ and returned stronger.

How else could someone from a backward rural area stay years in Calcutta and come back like that? He wasn’t just a lazy person! I couldn’t understand why he had been labeled that way.

It was early morning. Dashain was about to arrive. Plants like Marigold, Godavari (Gardenia), and Makhamali (Globe Amaranth) were blooming. Fruits like Junar (sweet oranges), oranges, pomelo, rough lemons, and gooseberries were ripening on thin branches. The air was growing cold. Looking west toward the road and the mines, you could feel Dashain creeping in.

The three of us brothers lived in the house. One of our sisters had already married. Our father was busy making buttermilk. And then, just like the grand entrance of a movie star—unplanned and unexpected—Laate Mama arrived at our home.

“Oh, Laate Mama has come!” people said in surprise. My father paused from his work to look at him. The mother, sitting nearby, looked at him with wide eyes. Laate Mama bowed respectfully to the parents. He knew them, his brothers—though I had never seen them. Laate Mama had left for abroad before I was born, and it seemed like he had ‘lost his way’ until that Dashain. “Is this the younger nephew?” he asked, looking directly at me.

Recently, I learned that he was not my uncle. He was an acquaintance uncle. When he returned to the village, a fresh wave of excitement swept through our family. Laate Mama, who had spent many years living in various places across India, including Calcutta, was still unmarried.

That year, on the eve of Dashain, a new five-rupee note was issued — crisp, smooth, and even jingling when handled. Laate Mama had brought a bundle of these notes with him. In our village, those who brought new currency notes during Dashain were usually the ones returning from abroad.

The fresh, jingling five-rupee notes he brought were incredibly attractive to us — even precious. Why precious? Because those notes symbolized the promise of filling our pockets during that Dashain.

Laate Mama stayed at Tek Bahadur uncle’s house. Every morning, he would come to us to drink milk, and nearly every day he would hand me a fresh five-rupee note. I became Laate Mama’s ‘beloved nephew.’ I would climb onto his lap, and without fail, he’d give me a five-rupee note. In just a few days, I had saved up thirty-five rupees.

He stayed through Dashain and Tihar, but as soon as Tihar ended, he returned to ‘Lahur.’ After that, year after year, Dashain and Tihar came and went — but Laate Mama did not return. He only came to us in memory, every Dashain-Tihar.

Mother’s Forehead

“If the Tika (mixture of rice grain and red vermillion) applied on someone’s forehead on Bijaya Dashami (Dashain) remains until the full moon day, that person is lucky.” This was a saying passed down from the older generations. It seemed true to us, too. Was mother’s forehead lucky or not? The tika she applied on Dashain stayed on her forehead until the full moon day. She would only wash the tika off then.

Maybe our foreheads were ‘unlucky.’ On the day tika was applied, my own forehead was bare. Looking around the village, most people had no tika left on their foreheads. But mother’s tika lasted the whole Dashain.

Mother was the eldest daughter. Uncle was gone. Disappeared. She only returned to her hometown long after mother had passed away. We seldom had chances to visit our maternal uncle’s house. Sometimes during Dashain, we would visit uncles’ houses, but there was never the warmth and hospitality we remembered from the maternal uncle’s home.

Sweet Orange Business

With the arrival of Dashain festival, those who had gone abroad returned in waves, eager to celebrate Dashain and reconnect with their ancestral homes, parents, relatives, and friends. Autumn brought ripening sour fruits like sweet oranges and oranges to the village. Oranges ripened a little later, but sweet oranges already tasted sweet.

There were two flourishing sweet orange trees in the lower garden and about 9-10 orange trees. I would go down to the rocky banks of the Andheri River to sell them to those returning home for Dashain. From morning to afternoon, I’d sell sack after sack.

On the eve of Dashain, selling the fruits would earn about two to four hundred rupees, which helped raise Dashain expenses. The money from selling ghee was enough to buy clothes, salt, and oil. The money from the sales of fruits covered the rest. These were our vital sources of income.

Looking back from the perspective of time, I feel that Dashain in those days was qualitatively different — richer in socio-cultural, religious, spiritual, and communal aspects. The dark, cruel scenes and images that have seeped into social and cultural circles today were rare in the cultural landscapes of four decades ago. Where has that time gone now?