Remembering Peter Dai

Late Peter J Karthak (Photo credit: Google)

Hello, J Lo

Peter Dai would smile after saying those words. Always. Saying it in half-jest, half-seriousness. I don’t look like her, I would say. And he would say he thinks I do. And even though we both knew that I don’t, I felt flattered every time he said that. It made us laugh, even if we were only walking past each other. He would say it every time we crossed path. In the canteen, in the car park, reception. That was how I mostly met Peter Dai. In passing.

But we also had some long conversations. Most of them in the Kantipur Publications canteen, where the couple of hundred staff ate every day and ran into one another to share smiles, handshakes, teas, coffees, chiura sets, noodles, momos, fried rice, roti. We didn’t always share the meals of course. But chat was abundant. Journalists often took breaks to go down for chiya. The canteen was a meeting point for staff from KTV, TKP, Kantipur. Saptahik, Nari, Nepal, and all the admin staff and the corporate office staff. All of that was lost when one of the buildings had to be dismantled to the ground after the April 2015 earthquake. 

Anyway. 

It was in one of those swift, brief meetings that I first met Peter Dai. I can’t remember what we talked about. But from the way I delivered the newscasts, he had surmised I might have been to school in Darjeeling. And that gave us a common ground for conversations. In the meetings that followed, we talked about books, memory, mostly of Darjeeling. 

Then his English edition of Every Place; Every Person was published and he gave me a copy. 

The book was set in Darjeeling and was linked to a real incident, I happened to be familiar with. The story was about the gang rape of a college girl. 

Every girl who went to Loreto had heard of her. After the rape, she had come and thrown herself on the floor of the long, upstairs corridor of Loreto Hall with her head down and stayed like that for hours. But this was in the 70s and the horror was passed down to us as a warning. Her boyfriend had not been able to protect her from the rapists. And so, the girls were often warned not to meet their boyfriend in isolated places like the Mall Road. All meetings had to take place in the certified, pricey, six specific restaurants. Most of the students had holey pockets and so they were always going to illegal joints, as rest of the restaurants were known. 

So, when I read Peter Dai’s book about this incident and the girl, whose unfortunate experience had managed to change the way the Loreto Hall functioned, I became interested in writing a review. And I wrote one. I think that sealed our friendship.

We talked more frequently after that. I liked talking to him because he didn’t treat me like an idiot who knew nothing about Nepali politics, the way some senior journalists seemed to. He always spent enough time talking if he wasn’t pressed for time. If he was busy, he just didn’t have time. He would say that to my face, never making an effort to coat his words in politeness. It was always what it was. He would use only straightforward speech and he would never compromise his commitment to work. 

Once, I ran into Peter Dai as I was going into work. He asked why I looked so happy. I told him I had spent my morning reading in the Garden of Dreams and I loved it. At this point, the garden had newly opened and was still a novelty and a getaway for people who seemed to need an oasis in Kathmandu. So, the moment I mentioned the garden, Peter Dai had an outburst. “I would never go to a place like that where Kaiser Shamsher groped the breasts of young women and exploited them. It’s the remnants of an autocratic, slave-driving regime!”

I was too taken aback to react. So, I just listened to him until he stopped and then he walked away. I didn’t know what to make of it at that moment. In my early 20s, I was an idiot. But years later, when I heard about his demise, that moment came back to me, to remind me of what a rebel Peter Dai was. He never made compromises against his beliefs. He was who he was and I think that’s what made him good.

We would talk shop sometimes. He would tell me about how he was part of a “formidable editorial team” with the likes of Kamal Tuladhar. He would talk about music sometimes; about the time when he was a rockstar. I listened because I’m a sucker for such stories. I enjoyed listening, even though much of my memory now fails me. But you know how it is, often when you have good conversations, the words evaporate, but the essence of the hygge remains. Conversations with Peter Dai were like that.

When Peter Dai left TKP, we didn’t keep in touch. But months after the Gorkha earthquake, he phoned me and we had a long chat. He said he had been injured during the disaster and had taken leave from work to go live with his son in America. When he returned, he was told his leave wasn’t valid and he had been let go of. He told me he had filed a case against his employer. In the same breath, he also asked me if I knew of any writer’s residency. I didn’t, and even though I wanted to help him find something, I never called him back. 

That was the last time we talked. But I did think of him now and then. I wondered if he won the case and was reinstated to his job. I also wondered what made him as full of enthusiasm as he was. I for one, had never thought of applying to anything. I was in my mid-30s at that time. But Peter Dai, in his 60s, had still not given up on anything. It made me guilty for myself and for him because I had done nothing to help him. And so, it was easy to get on with life and forget about Peter Dai. And being the gentleman that he was, he never called me back to ask me. Maybe he thought he didn’t want to be a bother or that I would call if I found something.

I thought of that conversation yesterday when I heard about his demise. We don’t push hard enough sometimes. We let go and then things that have been let go of, find a way to leave. And now, what I have of Peter Dai, is what others have to say in his memory. “He was a hardworking, straightforward and extremely talented person. He minded his own business, but was also full of enthusiasm,” my father said about him this morning.  And as we talked about him, my ears seemed to fill with Peter Dai’s sonorous, but slightly nasal, very Darjeeling accented voice. And I couldn’t tell if I missed him more or the memory of Darjeeling that has now become the residue of conversations with him.

Rest in peace, Peter Dai. 

--

Friendship

I ask the cab driver to go faster because my heart is aching. The afternoon feels like nothing but a recap of years missed until the time we're taking photos, exchanging hugs and huddling away into taxicabs.

It's like we all suddenly metamorphosed into women. Crossing into a new decade. There are unwelcome flabs, blemishes and unnecessarily long, dry manes- reiterating the years that have gone by. There are also aches we had not hoped to encounter during the Loreto Hall days. But I guess that's what we meant when we said "the big bad world" back then. Wasn't the convent preparing us to take on such a world?

There were movies like "Ann of Green Gables", "Sound of Music" and "Huckleberry Finn", along with those on abortion. How come there wasn't anything on how to deal with miscarriages, heartbreaks and on what to do when the man you risk everything for jilts you? I guess at convents, they never think such things happen. It's all about ethics and virtues, that we're already learning to breach even while in school.

P raises a question about our generation being too scared to walk out and too scared to stay in. Why are we in transition? What would happen if each of us learnt to move on without the men we once claimed, like our younger sisters do. Is it the claim part that makes us this way? Or are we just chicken?

It feels so dishonest, sometimes.

As the cab goes faster, I wonder what kind of a man would not want to be with P who is always the person who keeps the girls together- at least virtually -on Orkut, on FB and who knows exactly how to say "I love you" without saying it. I wonder how any man would not want to be with S who i still like a school-girl, demure, neat and willing to fail her finals just because South Africa lost a cricket match. Why so much suffering stemming from men? I guess it's not even about men. I guess it's only our ego, sexuality and ultimately love. But what is love?

Talking to P and S over fruit-juice, I think of love as "the desperate" need each one of us feels to fly to Dublin, just to see Mother D one more time. I equate love with the smell of books in the English literature section of the library and Ma'am K's fireplace near BIBLIO series. I think of love as the bad feelings we all get when we hear how the Irish and Austrian nuns who wanted to die in Darjeeling were asked to leave and how grills have gone up around the Carmel wing and St.Anne's.

Still, there is no definition of love.

I am hurting from the goodbye hugs. Nothing changes the way you feel toward some people you've shared frangments of your life with. Perhaps insignificant, but shared. Perhaps that ache and the happiness of meeting again after so many years and still being able to lay your heart bare on the table alongside Home Fries, is love.

Remembering Rosy

...I do this once in a while. And I did it again after a long time. Soma RB and Rosy Chamling are names I often google to see if there are any traces of them on the net, which will connect me to them. Sometimes I feel like a stalker. But I know it's only my love for these long lost friends that makes me look them up.

Looking them up, is like trying to find pieces of me that got strewn over the hills of Darjeeling when I left that place for good. Looking them up is like trying to find the side of me that believed in goodness, in love, in living by principles and in working hard and being a girl that parents took pride in. But perhaps I forgot these aspects of being human, when I lost touch with these friends- almost like I needed them for my sanity.

I fell out with one over emotions that were exteremely complicated. We fell out because we were girls in a convent, who were always living in fear of being branded lesbians. So, to assert your sexuality, you sometimes stake your most tender sides- even though it never matters what the world thinks of you. With the other, I just drifted, even when we both probably knew how much we meant to one another, and that there were things only we understood about each other.

Poets to love a lifetime, men of words to desire, books read under the Oval's trees, pacts made against the shade of the sun-dail, stories told on the bench near the grotto... these are still a part of me and these memories still bond me to these girls- women now. One a Ph.D. Don't know about the other. But when I found a link this morning, saying Rosy Chamling is a Ph.D., I thanked her for fulfilling a dream that I promised her but didn't live-up to. But she made it a point to.

I look at Rosy's smile- still the same baby smile clad in a blue sari and I'm reminded of the day we made rounds of the Chowk Bazaar, looking to buy saris for the farewell. We rummaged through piles of silk and finally settled for a wine red for Rosy and a white one for me. The excitement of getting your first blouse and petticoat. Your first sari! And rounding it up with Wallis biscuits and pastries from Glenary's- the last shopping we did together.