Two Thapa sisters, elder Patali and younger Satteydevi, hurry through a narrow muddy-grassy trail which separates patches of fields in the outskirts of Gothathar in Kathmandu. They take mouthfuls of beaten rice and dried noodles from a blue polythene bag. To add extra flavor to their dry breakfast, they occasionally take bites of onions and green chilies.
Upon reaching the central and elevated part near the fields, they sit by the edge of a bunker, waiting for their colleagues before beginning their day at the fields. The fields smell of mud and water and are perfectly ready to be planted with rice seedlings. Patali fishes out two sticks of Pilot cigarettes from inside her patuaka, passes one to her sister and lights another for herself.
“If everything was normal, monsoon season is the busiest time of the year for rural women. No other ritual is considered more sacred, more important than rice planting," says Patali. She draws long pulls from her cigarette and looks towards the horizon. "It’s so unfortunate to be at the wrong place at the wrong time,” she says in voice filled with feelings of both helplessness and misfortune.
This time of the year, the sisters could have been planting their own rice fields, catering to their cattle and assisting their neighbors. Every year, the villagers would plan a communal planting, and by the end of monsoon, the entire village would be thriving with lush green rice seedlings, their tips dangling in the wind.
However, this monsoon the sisters are far away from their village in Golche VDC of Sindhupalchowk district. The devastating earthquake of April 25 and its subsequent aftershocks ripped apart their life completely. They have a different plan now. Through their labor in the fields, they strive to earn at least Rs 900 daily. After monsoon, they plan on take up jobs as domestic helpers. Saving as much as they can is the only way they hope to stitch together their already torn families.
The women arrive, and the two sisters, both clad in old T-shirts and lungi, put on scarves, pulling them to cover their forehead. The seven women begin planting the field belonging to a local. A woman throws bundles of rice seedling across the field. Spread in a single row, the women began picking a seedling from a bundle in the left hand and immersed it in the field with the right.
Work is swift in the morning. But it gets sluggish as the day matures. The two sisters, however, just have the perfect remedy - Ashare songs (folk songs sung during rice planting in monsoon). The women sang with all their heart, generating new enthusiasm and energy into their work.
.gif)
“Ashare songs are like magic potions that add energy into your work, or like medicine that help you heal from the absurdity of life," says Patali. "They also help to escape from the daily life, and are medium to socialize and earn some kind of social status among your villagers."
She says women with beautiful voice are not only accepted and welcomed, but enjoy special treatment as well.
"I used to be an average singer in my village. But I'm considered good here,” she adds, before continuing with the song.
Hala ma hala, dhunga bagai lyayo,
Muda bagai lyayo, Balefi kholale
Na khana payo, na launa payo,
Kalilo mero joban le
12 bise khet ko, 13 bise ali,
Balaka kal ma lako sano maya
Chuttam vako, k garau?
(The Balefi River is raging, sweeping stones and wood blocks along;
This youth of mine is just passing away;
What should I do that my childhood love was destined to break)
Ashare songs are part of the popular Nepali culture. In the month of Ashadh, these songs are sung all over the country, differing in tone and melody.
.gif)
Not far away from where Thapa sisters are planting, a group of women in the outskirts of Pepsi Cola are planting Lagna Maya Neupane’s fields. Lagna, who hails from Jumla in western Nepal, has called some of her friends from her native village to assist her in the fields.
Jhum Jhumeu Jhuma Cheli,
Magna aaye Humli Jaad magna aaye
Jhuma cheli janna vanchhan
Juauna Jauna jhuma cheli
Humli jaada magna aayo
Bhanchhan bale
Thukka khanchha, Bakkhu lauchha
Himal pari ghar chha
Tyo jaada ka janna
Buwa janna ma
Lagna explains that the songs embody the story of a Chhetri girl from Jumla who is married away to a Mongolian man far away in Humla in her childhood. It tells the melancholic emotion of a girl who longs to see her parents. But it’s hard for her to travel a long distance to meet her family and vice versa. So she fixes her eyes on the road leading to her village, and hopes to see her parental family members in every person passing from the distance, only to be disappointed.
Whether in the rugged hills of remote Jumla in western Nepal or the hills of Sindhupalchwok where Thapa sisters come from, Ashare songs tell life stories and repressed feelings of women. They speak of the struggles and pains of life. And although Patali, 37, has been singing the songs all her life, perhaps in no preceding years did the songs resembled her life as they do this season.
On April 25, Patali, 37, was preparing food for her buffalo inside the shed, when the earth suddenly started shaking. In no time, her house collapsed upon her, knocking her unconscious. She was rescued from the rubble of her house after five hours and ferried via helicopter to Kathmandu for treatment.
After regaining consciousness, Patali’s visions were hazy like misty mornings of winter, she says. It took her some time to register that she was receiving treatment at a hospital in Kirtipur.
The news about what the earthquake had inflicted upon her struck her like thunderbolts. She was stricken by fits of sadness, and her pain swelled and swelled like river currents in monsoon. The earthquake on April 25, she felt, had torn apart her life: She's a widow now, she was told, and that she had lost her youngest daughter.
“She was my youngest and the dearest," and Patali's voice is already beginning to break. "She was taking care of her sick father. I couldn’t even see them. Such was my fortune.”
.gif)
Patali says her pain gradually subsided during her stay in the hospital for recovery for over a month. "I'd trick myself, taking solace in the people who had suffered worse than I did. We'd shared the fate. Some beside me in the hospital didn’t survive, but I did. Some had lost everything, including beloved family members,” she says, struggling to hold back her tears swelling upon her eyes.
“I could've been singing happy songs on my own fields back home. But my fields have been damaged. I do not have courage to return now. I will have to work for my daughter and son. And these songs are great help. I could go on singing these songs all day and night. They give me peace of mind and divert my thoughts.”
Hala ma hala, kholo bari aayo,
Bagai lyayo k garau?
Mana ra bhari, pira ra bairi,
Na roye k garau?
Hawai jahaj udyo dui pankha kholera,
Raatma nindh ni chhaina,
Din ma bhok ni chhaina,
Manama kura khelera
(The river is violent and raging towards me, but I don’t know what to do;
As my heart is filled with despair, what can I do other than crying;
I can neither sleep at nights, nor eat in the day because I have lost my peace of mind)
This is dummy text. It is not meant to be read. Accordingly, it is difficult to figure out when to end it. But then, this is dummy text. It is not meant to be read. Period.