My Language

First things first. Devnagari is derived from Sanskrit. There are 36 consonants and 12 vowels. But also a few more that don't make the actual alphabet but occasionally show up like श्र (shra) and ऋ (ri). And there are also things called double letters like त्त (tta, kind of). There are double letter for all of the consonants, I think. Or at least most of them. And half letters (ex. instead of ka sound it's just k), where if there's a leg or line on the full letter you take it away or if there's nothing to take you add a halanta (ट् it's the little line underneath). I absolutely adore this language. Learning the devnagari has really helped my nepali get better, too, which is certainly a plus. I'm thinking about picking up a newspaper tomorrow morning. 

Ok, here we go. 

Consonants:

क  ख  ग  घ  _      
च  छ  ज  _  ञा
ट  ठ  ड  ढ  ण
त  थ  द  ध  न
प  फ  ब  भ  म
य  र  ल  व  श
ष  स  ह  क्ष  त्र  ज्ञ

ka  kha  ga  gha  ngá
cha  chha  ja  jha  yá
Ta  Tha  Da  Dha  ana
ta  tha  da  dha  na
pa  pha  ba  bha  ma
ya  ra  la  wa  sha
sha  sa  ha  ksha  tra  gyá

Essentially.

The second two lines look oddly similar with out alphabet, huh? The sound completely different. With the Ta line your tongue is supposed to hit the soft palate--the top of your mouth, basically. With the ta line, conversely, your tongue should hit the back of your teeth. ka and kha also sound very different. The first is a more aspirate sound whereas the second isn't. It really does just sound like there's an "h" in there.

 
Vowels:

अ  
आ  
इ  
ई  
उ 
ऊ  
ए  
ऐ  
ओ  
औ  
उं  
उँ 

a
aa
i
i (longer. like eee)
u
u (longer. like oooo)
e
ai
o
au
un (nasal)
ung (even more nasal)


There are also different symbols that you use when writing the word ko for example. 
Here are the vowels again with क


क
का
कि
की
कु
कू
के
कै
को
कौ
कं
कँ

It's seems like a lot. It is. But it's also some of the most fun I've ever had writing. It's like drawing, but there are actually sounds and meanings that go along with the lines and swirls. I love being able to look at the signs on the side of the road and read the words. Granted, I don't always know what they mean, but I can read them all the same. I hope this gives you some idea of what I'm seeing. Just imagine tons of letters in countless different fonts and you'll know my initial confusion. 


Know what I say to multiple fonts now?


I'm making my own.

My name in devnagari:

आशा 

aasha

hope.

This Is My City

I'm so thankful I had experienced some insane cities in Eastern Africa before coming here. Kathmandu is like Arusha, Dar es Salaam, Kabale and Kampala rolled into one and I absolutely adore it. As crazy as it is, there is always a peaceful neighborhood in which you can seek refuge before going out to brave the chaos again. Our program house, the Nepal Sangeet Vidhyalaya (Nepal Music School) and my house are three of those places.

The Dragons Program House is our base. We arrive here every morning for breakfast and then split into groups for language class. It's located approximately seven minutes from Chalkrapath, one of the craziest intersections I've encountered (except not really, because there are actually traffic police) and if you were only at the Dragons house all the time you would have no idea what lay beyond. 

Although I no longer have an excuse to go to the NSV, it was another one of those places. I could catch a bus from Chalkrapath, get off a little after the Gaushala stop, and then somehow manage to cross the street without being killed. Each turn I took brought me down smaller and smaller alleys bringing me further and further away from the crazy. The first time I went to the school I immediately felt at home. There were maybe five or six drum students practicing on the second floor which calmed me instantly and many of the walls displayed artwork and photographs. It had such a stereotypically artsy vibe and I loved it. I felt so lucky to be surrounded by calming places. 

My house with the Sharma family is located right off of Ring Road, one of the major roads in Kathmandu, in a little neighborhood called Sukedhara. It really is just off the road, but it somehow manages to capture a peaceful air. My family keeps emphasizing how small these quarters are (they're renting the bottom floor of a house--two bedrooms, kitchen, storage/ shrine room, "dining room", living room/my bedroom and one bathroom) as compared to their real house. I truly cannot emphasize how happy I am that we're not in their other house. If I were, I would probably have my own room and bathroom to myself, but that's not what this is about. That's not why I'm here. I'm here to be part of a family, which I truly feel like I am. Whenever I'm having a rough day I can picture Mamu's face and I immediately feel better. The last fifteen steps from our gate I'm overwhelmed with happiness. I know I'm home. It's such a comforting feeling. 

I really feel like this city was made for me. I love the people, the public transportation, asking random people in Asan market for random items, walking where I can, finding hidden nooks and crannies, wearing my kurta and surwaal, seeing Baba read Punku's Barbie books to test his English and watching the faces when I tell people my name is Aasha Sharma.

You know, once you get comfortable with the general feel of things it doesn't even seem that crazy. Some of my best thinking is done on the bus or crammed into a minibus with 30 other people. I love it. I love the things that wouldn't fly in the States but totally work and are completely however oddly functional here. I love hearing the boys working the buses calling out their destinations and knowing which ones I want and don't want. I love banging on the roof of the tuk tuks when you want to get off. I love sitting on the bus and watching the sun catch dust particles floating around like angels of positivity spreading the light (and sneezes) wherever they go. 


(Sorry for the overflow of posts. I didn't know when I would have access again and wanted to at least get you semi up-to-date now)

The Hills Are Alive

(From the yak board)

Stop for a moment and think about the ground. If you want, go outside and look at it. Preferably the actual earth, not pavement or some other man-made surface, but take what you can get. When this and the following thoughts hit me, I was seeing mostly tan-ish, light brown grass. Everything was dry yet the ground was still damp, and there were still a few green patches left. (I've learned to accept the paradoxes of life). While looking at each individual blade of grass my mind was blown by an appreciation for the small things. Our planet, our universe, everything is composed of small things. All of the little bits work together to form the bigger picture. Everything is dependent on everything else. We're all interconnected.

Moments after marveling over the blades of grass, I turned my view towards the mountains. I was sitting there in the Himalayas wearing light trekking pants, a short sleeved shirt and a thin wool top just soaking up the sun and staring at the snow covered peaks. They're so imposing and majestic and uncaring and beautiful, which makes them sound half awful, but they're not. They're amazing. I love thinking about how they're formed and studying their appearance. I love how they make me feel--so small but like I've accomplished something at the same time. And I hadn't even climbed Aamaa Yangri, yet.

The grass, mountains, and sky all reminded me of The Sound of Music. It might just have been on my mind because I had been singing it while climbing up to Tarke from Timbu, but I think I still would have felt it. The tan-ish brown I saw was part of this field and that combined with the fact that I was surrounded by mountains made me want to stand up, twirl around and sing. We had been asked by our instructors to take time to reflect and write in silence and for quite a bit of the time I simply sat and listened to how many sounds there were. The sound that reminded me most of The Sound of Music was the sound of the wind. It's one of the most hauntingly beautiful sounds I have ever heard. It's very different from the sound of the wind through the prayer flags or the wind through the trees; I guess the sound is really the wind through the mountains. Iis the sound of serenity. I don't think I can ever adequately describe it. It's far too perfect. When I stopped listening for only that, I was suddenly opened up to a whole new world of sounds: the birds, the prayer flags, the laughter of children playing with Phoebe, Bec, and Andie, the wind through everything, and the echoes of voices and every other sound in those hills. There was so much to absorb. Trying to be aware of all of noises was a lovely goal.

That awareness brought along the realization that everything can be music and everything is. Music has given me great comfort throughout this entire trip so far.Iit has helped me organize my thoughts on life, existence, humanity and Nepal; it has helped me feel connected to home when I most need to feel connected; it has helped me open myself up to he culture and environment around me; and it has helped me gather the strength to climb mountains.

Each place has it's own unique sounds. Bhaktapur was nice and calm; I remember specifically the sound of the fire at night. Tarkeyghyang was the epitome of peace; everything flows with the wind and seems to be carried to all parts of the world. Kathmandu is a chaos filled with dogs, motorcycles, buses, voices, horns honking, people yelling, TVs blasting when there's power, bells ringing at puja time, local music rocking the insides of many public transportation vehicles and so much more. Each sound zooms by so fast you hardly have time to process it before the next one comes along. Either that or there are so many at once that picking one to focus on is really impossible. But it's all music. It's the sound of the hills and valleys and rivers. It's the sound of the bustling cities and relaxed villages. It's the sound of my soul finding yet another place to call home.

Mero Pariwaar--My Family

(From the yak board)

Whenever I travel I gain a new appreciation for all things in my life in Kentucky--toilets, education, countless opportunities, drinkable tap water, hot showers, washing machines, dryers, and so much more. But one of the things I seem to appreciate most while away is my family. Sometimes it's through homesickness, but more often it is through seeing and experiencing things that remind me of how fortunate I have been and am. My family has always supported me no matter what. From the time I was little I never felt any pressure to do something specific. I had the entire world before me, and I still do. I never had to fight to take a gap year. My family loves me and knows that I will do things when I'm ready. They always have my back. 

My Nepali family is absolutely no different.

Before I met them I was feeling homesick and nervous. 

Then I saw Mamu.

She was smiling with her whole face and looked truly delighted to meet me. All of my fears melted away. I was home. My bhaai, younger brother, is so sweet. He's almost eighteen so I'm not sure if "sweet" is the word he would want me to use to describe him, but it fits well. He is always there to lend a helping hand, make tea for me, show me around Kathmandu--anything. I met my baini, younger sister, my second night and knew life would now never be boring. Punku is a nine year old full of energy and creativity. She's helping me learn Nepali, both spoken and written, and we are never lacking in the art project department. She reminds me of my sister in America in that she is not afraid to be herself and she sees the world in different ways. She's such a beautiful comfort.

But my Mamu is one of my favorite people in the world. Even though her English is not perfect (whose is?) we still communicate. We smile and hug all the time and I think she will soon be comfortable enough to let me help in the kithcen. She radiates warmth and kindness in everything she does. Her little songs and dances remind me of my American mom, another great comfort. I have never been underfed or uncomfortable in this house and do not think I ever will be. As my Nepali teacher says: "People love to feed you. They want you to be fat." Truly, they just love everyone in general. That's been my experience so far, at least. Everyone is baa, aamaa, dai, didi, bhaai, or baini. Everyone is family. Sure I get stares, but even people on the street look after me. Upon trying to enter my house by myself, I did not think to try turning the handle on the gate. I simply saw the lock on the inside as a barrier and assumed I could not get in. I fumbled around for about twenty minutes calling my bhaai's cell phone when suddenly a man came up and began trying what seemed to be a doorbell kind of thing, pounding on the gate and calling out to anyone who might be inside. I had not met this man before; he probably does not speak English; and yet, he stopped working to help me.

There are kind people everywhere, I know. I had met them in four other continents before this one, but being part of a new family and being so easily accepted has changed my view towards humanity. Every man is my father; every woman, my mother; every boy, my brother, and every girl, my sister. We are all connected by the very fact that we exist. We can never break that bond so why should we try to? It is so much nicer loving all and being loved by all. 

It is only my fourth night as Asha Sharma and I am already dreading the day I have to depart. It is lovely to be part of family I can see and talk to every day--so nice to hug a mother and say "I love you. Sleep well!" 

To my families scattered across the world, I love you. Thank you for perpetually supporting me. 

Working My Way to the Present

February 22

Woke up today in a new bed, in a new home, with a new mother and younger brother. This will be my home for the next five weeks. 


It's day three in Kathmandu, day fourteen in Nepal and I love everything. Before I go back and start from the beginning I think a little embarrassing story from this afternoon might brighten your day and give you a taste of the kindness of Nepali people.


After a bit of confusion I got on a familiar bus, got off at the correct stop and found my house all by myself. Sounds perfect, right? Not quite. Although this Kentucky girl can navigate the Kathmandu public transportation system, she cannot in fact manage to open a gate. Many of the houses are gated here and my brother, Shashank, told me it would be unlocked, so I was a little baffled when I couldn't get in. Now, this wouldn't have been too much of a problem if I had been the only one around. However, I was certainly not alone. There were people just going about their normal lives and marveling at the fact that there was a foreigner in their neighborhood. Instead of laughing at me or pointing, they all looked genuinely concerned for me. One man came up and tried what I think might have been the door bell, pounded on the gate and called out to the people who might be inside. Others stood around a little restlessly all looking truly worried. Turns out, I just had to turn this little doorknob to open a door in the gate...


Yep. Nothing like a little embarrassment to kick off the afternoon. 

Our journey began in Bhaktapur, a beautiful, almost medieval seeming city. It's one of the few living world heritage site meaning that the people still live just as they did when the city was first founded. Granted, some things are more modern and touristy, but, in general, if your dad was in construction, you are, too. Therefore, when ever an earthquake or simply the rain sends the building straight to the ground or perpetually erodes the delicate wood work, they know how to replace it exactly. It's not like these are simple fixed, either. Each is an intricate piece of art. 

How often does that happen in America?

Exploring Bhaktapur helped me gain a confidence that has been crucial to everything that has come since then and will continue to be crucial to the rest of this trip and my life. While on a scavenger hunt a task of ours was to collect the names of five saujis, shopkeepers, and as there were four of us in a group we decided to split up. I walked into a little shop and greeted the women with a polite "Namaste" then asked for the sauji. From there I asked her name--Tapaaiko naam ke ho?--and if she would write it down for me--lekhidinnus. Approaching people like that is something I struggle with, so I was surprised by how easy it was yo conquer my fear. Even when they started speaking more advanced Nepali and all I could do was smile and laugh I still felt like I had accomplished something and had made great progress. I felt secure and comfortable and that was only day three in Nepal. 


Another aspect of Bhaktapur I loved was how many temples and shrines there are everywhere. Where ever the people go they are reminded of higher powers and life meaning That's not something completely Bhaktapur specific, though. All the places we've been have landmarks reminding them to be thankful. They're even on top of mountains. 


But, there's always an exception. They aren't always in obvious places. Often one simply stumbles upon them. We happened to do this while searching for a Dhaka weaver. We were all drawn to a particular area of Bhaktapur because of these beautiful sounds we were hearing--drums, horns and much more. While wandering, we turned into this tiny alley because we saw a woman spinning yarn. Weaving and yarn spinning seemed to go together, so we tried to communicate that we needed and business card something completely lost in translation as I do not think she spoke any English at all. With her eyes sparkling she just kept on spinning her yarn and smiling the most beautiful smile. I know she came into our lives for a reason. Right behind where she was sitting was one of the most secluded places I saw. It was simply this little square filed with stupas--temples and shrines. I truly felt like I was walking on holy ground. I then realized that there could be hundreds of these places all over that city and others. One of the many good reasons to explore.


From Bhaktapur we stared to make our way to Tarkeyghyang. The bus could only take us as far as Timbu where we spent the time listening to and being calmed by the sound of the Mechi river and playing Would You Rather. By seven the next morning we were all up and ready to start the next part of our adventure which consisted of hours of hiking up and through the mountains/hills crossing sand dunes of doom and climbing stair after stair after never-ending stair until we hit the beautiful village of Tarke. One day of rest was all we allowed ourselves before making our way up the majestic peak of Aamaa Yangi--Mother Yangri. 


I've forgotten something: a house blessing. Our first evening in Tarke we were invited to attend a very special puja (simplest definition being "offering") being done to bless a house. We were first offered food (WOO!) which consisted of tea that looked like dud chhya (milk tea vaguely similar to a chai latte) but wasn't, spicey potatoes, and millet  chumbas. The tea, Tibetan butter tea, was made from black tea, salt and butter and definitely helped to lessen the burn of the potatoes and the chumbas were made simply from millet flour and butter and were some of the greatest things I have ever tasted. Butter was certainly valued as you can probably tell and was used for almost everything during this puja. Even the little decorations on the shrine were made from butter. 


Now, that was all amazing, but then the mind blowing part started: drums, chants, bells and cymbals. I was captivated. It started so suddenly and I'm sure would have ended the same way. Knowing what they chants meant would have been great, but at the same time, you didn't need to understand them to feel their power. I truly felt blessed to be there. They were all so welcoming and seemed to be delighted that we (the instructor Claire, Aidan and I) were there embracing one of their rituals. We didn't get to stay the whole time as it could have gone on for hours more. I love that I got to witness part of it, though. It was so interesting to see how much effort could go into the blessing of a house. 


Our "nature hike" up to the top of Aamaa Yangri was definitely a challenge. Some members of the group were totally in their comfort zone while others (like me) were struggling for many reasons. One of the first things I noticed was how hard it was to breathe. After maybe and hour I already had to pause every so often just to get more oxygen. Singing was something that really helped me. (Thank you Sleeper Agent, The Strokes, The Beatles and Fleet Foxes, and The Sound of Music, specifically). It sounds like it would make breathing more challenging but it was actually the opposite in that it reminded me to breathe and helped get me into a specific rhythm. Another thing that played a major role in getting me up that mountain was the view. Whenever I was feeling a little overwhelmed I could just pause, catch my breath and absorb the world around me. Whether it was a view of the surrounding mountains, a view of the sun shining through the branches of the trees, infinite rock stairs, inches of snow and ice slowly melting, or just a lovely green forest, there was always something new to see. I was not expecting as much variation as there was. It was an incredible surprise. I felt like I was traveling through multiple different worlds not just up one mountain. 


I'm still not sure my brain can truly process the view from the top. It seems so surreal. Looking out over the hills made it look like the world went on forever and also like that was all there was. Throughout that entire trek--up, absorbing and down--I felt like I had heaps to write about, but when I started writing that night and while trying now, I still can't find the words to sum up my thoughts. I decided that maybe all of the revelations I seemed to be having at the time weren't coherent thoughts at all. Just random words or, more likely, feelings. I'm such a firm believer in the power of feeling. Each person has such different connotations associated with specific words that trying to communicate with them is often futile. That doesn't mean we shouldn't try, obviously. And feelings can certainly fail us, too. I just want to add some emphasis to the importance of other ways of communication. 


"For seeing without feeling can obviously be uncaring, while feeling without seeing can be blind." 
--Pico Iyer


I feel like that quote fits the countries I've experiences this past "school year" pretty well. You always need balance. It's a hard thing to manage, but an excellent way to try to live.


We thankfully took a bus from Tarke to Kathmandu. Granted, sitting in one position didn't make my sore muscles feel any better, but I truly don't think I would have been able to walk anywhere. It was so crazy moving up and down and around what seemed like mountains but what, after seeing them from about, I know to be merely hills. 


Due to Shivaratri (Night of Shiva) many kids were sent out to blockade the roads to try to collect money from anyone who wanted to pass. They wanted to replace the money they were losing by burning the precious firewood being burnt in Shiva's honor. It was definitely an adventure. How strange that parents send their kids out to play in the middle of the street whereas in America I was always told to stay away from it. 


From my first views of Kathmandu I knew it was going to be exactly how I imagined it.