KATHMANDU: Chhan Dong stopped the car in the yard of his house. He signaled for me to get out of the vehicle.

There were no other houses around the home of the owner, Chhan Dong Fyu. Colorful flowers bloomed on the side of the yard of the neat, one-story house with a slate roof. There were also cypress and pine trees. The fragrance of the flowers filled the air. There were two large Paiyun trees, which had just grown fresh green leaves.

Even though it was the middle of May, it felt like a cold Biratnagar morning in November/December. I was wearing a thin blue T-shirt and black jeans.

Sensing that the car had arrived in the yard, a woman emerged from the main door of the house. She turned out to be Chhan Dong’s wife. After her, two elderly people appeared. They were Chhan Dong’s parents.

Chhan Dong said something to me. I understood the word ‘Insa’ from what he said. He had told me, “Bow to my father, mother, and wife” (I understood this later).

As he instructed, I bowed to all three of them. Bending low, as I had read in books, I said, “Annyeonghaseyo!”

All three accepted my bow by saying “Annyeong.”

Even if Chhan Dong hadn’t told me, I was going to bow to his wife and parents. He taught me how to bow, thinking I was genuinely a clueless simpleton. In Korea, there is a custom of bowing low to greet people older than you.

The Korean teacher had told me while studying the language in Nepal, “When you go to Korea, you must respect the local customs and laws.”

The custom of a worker bowing to the employer’s seven generations also exists in Nepal. The relationship between the owner and the worker is almost the same everywhere.

Chhan Dong’s wife is short. Her fair-skinned face was bright and cheerful. She must have just put on makeup; her cheeks were unnaturally rosy and beautiful. Her hair was short. She looked under 40 years old.

His wife is young. I guessed that he must have remarried after his first marriage failed.

Chhan Dong’s wife came near me and quietly asked, “Ireumi mwoyeyo?” (What is your name?)

“My name is Ramesh Pokhrel,” I replied.

She couldn’t remember my name right away. Trying hard, she managed to say ‘Ramesh’ with difficulty, but she couldn’t say ‘Pokhrel.’

On one side of the yard was a small storeroom with a protruding awning. There was a cot under the awning. Chhan Dong signaled for me to sit on the cot.

Chhan Dong went into the main house. His elderly father came and sat next to me. The father’s cheeks were wrinkled. He was wearing glasses. His hair was completely white. His back was slightly hunched. The teacher in Nepal had taught me to call such an elderly man “Harabaji.”

I addressed him as Harabaji (Grandfather).

He asked me several things. I didn’t understand. I only understood him asking what my name was. I told him my name. But the old man couldn’t distinguish my name.

After a while, Chhan Dong’s mother also came near me. She stared at my face for a moment. Then she asked my name. Like her husband, she also couldn’t remember my name.

She looked much older than her husband. Her back was so hunched that her body had formed an ‘L’ shape. The teacher in Nepal had taught me to call such an elderly woman “Halmoni.”

She returned inside the main house.

The old man and I sat silently on opposite corners of the cot.

Looking at the geography here, it resembles the hilly region of Nepal. Since spring has returned, the hill is green.

I don’t know what work I have to do here. The labor agreement stated that I must work in crop production. It did not specify what kind of crop.

After a while, Chhan Dong’s mother came out of the house again. In her hand was a chocolate and a bottle of juice. She gave them to me, indicating I should eat. I held out my hand. I placed them aside, saying, ‘I’ll eat it in a while.’ But she ordered me to eat right away with a hand gesture. I half-obeyed the order. I drank the juice but didn’t eat the chocolate.

I had no language to speak.

A crow started cawing while sitting on a pine branch. The crow was cawing ‘Kaa Kaa,’ just like in Nepal. Only human language is different. Bird language must be the same. Perhaps because birds do not have a country like humans, they do not have different languages. Humans created different countries through their self-interest, ambition, pride, and power. They created different languages. For birds, the entire Earth is their country.

Or, it might be that all crows’ voices sound the same to me. All human voices might sound the same to the crow, too.

I tried to ask what the Korean word for “crow” was. But I lacked the language skills.

When a person has an itch in an awkward place and scratches it vigorously right there, I feel like asking so many things when I lack the language.

“What do you call a crow?”

“What do you call a pine tree?”

“What is the name of that blue flower?”

I was about to make a sound like a crow, point my finger at the crow sitting on the tree, and say “Ireum” (name), when the owner, Chhan Dong, suddenly came out of the house and signaled me to get into the car. I rushed into the car.

I didn’t get to learn what the Korean word for “crow” was. Not even two minutes after I tried to find out the crow’s name, Chhan Dong drove the car into a large warehouse with a plastic roof. He signaled me to get out of the car. He also told me to take out my luggage.

I had arrived at my address.

There is no place to live here; where will I stay?

I took down my luggage. But I couldn’t ask about the place to stay.

In one corner of the warehouse was a pile of cartons and plastic baskets. There were shovels, hoes, picks, sickles, and a hand tractor, too.

In the other corner of the warehouse was a container. It looked like a cargo truck container. Attached to the container was a small kitchen.

Chhan Dong opened the door of the container and signaled with his hand, saying, “Now you have to sleep here.”

How could I live alone in such a large warehouse? I was nervous seeing the sleeping place and the secluded environment.

There was no cot in the room. There was an electric mat on the floor. There was a cabinet and a table nearby. On the wall rack were Korean language books. The room was clean.

Chhan Dong entered. Pointing at my luggage, he told me to open it.

I opened the luggage. He himself folded the clothes and put them in the cabinet. I expressed my gratitude, saying, “Khamsahamnida.”

There was an old cassette player on the table. He put a disc in it. He played music. He said something. But I didn’t understand. Maybe he said, ‘If you get bored, listen to music.’

I felt like I had met an employer who tells a person who doesn’t know the language at all to listen to a Korean song. Then I remembered, music has no language. I remembered breakdancing to ‘Gangnam Style’ many times.

After a while, his wife and parents also arrived at the warehouse.

His wife brought food on a plate. She asked me with a gesture, ‘Do you want to eat?’ I shook my head, indicating I didn’t want to eat.

The reason for saying no was not that I didn’t feel like eating, but that the eating utensil was chopsticks. How could I pick up the food with chopsticks and put it into my mouth?

Chhan Dong said something. His wife brought a fork. She handed it to me. I speared the ball of food with the fork and put it into my mouth. It was delicious. (It was a dish made from rice flour, which is called ‘Tteok.’).

Chhan Dong gestured for me to eat another ball of food. But I felt embarrassed to eat another one. I didn’t eat it.

They must have thought it wasn’t delicious.

I badly needed to urinate. How do I ask in Korean where the bathroom is? I don’t have the language.

What is the Korean word for toilet? I had studied it. I forgot.

I made a gesture. I raised the little finger of my right hand and pressed the remaining three fingers with my thumb. By doing this, they should have understood—I needed to pee. This signal was enough when I was in Nepal.

A sense of ‘Oh!’ appeared on Chhan Dong’s face.

I was happy.

But Chhan Dong didn’t show me the toilet. He said something to me. I didn’t understand. His wife also spoke. I didn’t understand.

Chhan Dong took his mobile out of his pocket. And putting it to his ear, he signaled and said something again. He had asked, “Do you want to call home?” I finally understood after the signal.

I needed to pee; I showed the little finger again to say I would go to the bathroom first.

He still didn’t show me the toilet. He gave the mobile to my hand and signaled to make a call.

Who should I call? I dialed my mother’s number.

It had been four days since I left home. I hadn’t talked to my mother for so many days. She was anxious. I could tell from her voice. My mother asked, “Are you well? Did you eat?”

“Everything is fine. Everything here is good,” I said. My mother believed me.

I came to the airport alone from home. There was no sadness in my heart when leaving the country. Rather, there was curiosity and excitement: what would Korea be like?

I didn’t miss the country, family, relatives, friends, or language. Only after talking to my mother after arriving in Korea did I realize I am in a foreign land. I no longer have family. I don’t have relatives or friends. I don’t have a country. Most importantly, I no longer have a language to speak. I realized I had become a voiceless, helpless person.

Even more troubling than that, I desperately needed to urinate and couldn’t hold it any longer.

After talking to my mother, I showed Chhan Dong the little finger in the same way.

His eyes were wide with surprise. His wife was also surprised.

I really need to pee; the little finger is all I have to show for ‘show me the toilet.’

What solution should I try now? What signal should I give?

I slowly moved my left hand towards my private area and placed it over the zipper of my pants. I showed the little finger of my right hand again in the same way.

Chhan Dong burst out laughing loudly. After laughing, he said something. I didn’t understand. I was frustrated.

Chhan Dong gave me the phone again. I shook my head, saying, ‘No.’

“Then what?” He got angry.

I get scared when the owner gets angry. It was the same in Nepal. An angry owner and a stubborn ox always feel the same.

Chhan Dong got up and started to walk. Remembering something, he stopped and signaled me with his hand to follow. He walked ahead, and I followed. He led me through large tunnel houses with plastic roofs, where the soil had just been tilled. The soil was dry.

I urinated in one corner of the tunnel house.

Chhan Dong saw me urinating. He understood—Nepalis show the little finger when they want to go to urinate.

After a short tour, he went to where his wife and parents were. He said something to them. His wife and parents laughed heartily.

They laughed talking about me. I knew it.

Was I not supposed to ask where the toilet was so everyone in Korea could hear? Or was I not supposed to stand and urinate where the owner could see? Did I cause an insult? I couldn’t figure out exactly what was going on.

Later, I started to understand the Korean language and customs. If someone raises their little finger in Korea, it signifies a loved one. Raising the little finger while pointing toward the place for urination must carry a serious meaning. Which you, the reader, have already understood.