Meet me, I am Menuka Lal, I am in my mid forties and I am a lecturer in this little community college in Delaware. My parents are deceased and I have an older sister who is much older, in California. I was born in Kathmandu, to a Nepalese mother and an Indian father - Bihari to be precise. He was born in Patna and migrated to Nepal at the age of eleven, just like I landed in Baltimore when I was 18. I had been married once, but after two rocky years of battling his infidelity I finally retreated and inked that divorce document. Since then I haven’t dated much, I keep to myself, I read a lot and I drink a little. My nephews live in Bethesda with their family. I see them once a month. They are fun, they make me laugh. I always wished I could make someone laugh.
My father had struggled to keep his Nepalese identity growing up in Kathmandu. After his death my had mother disclosed that one of the happiest moment of his life was getting married to her, not only because they loved each other but also that he finally felt he was accepted into the Nepalese society. I didn’t really understand his sentiments until, thanks to my relatively darker skin and my last name, I was involuntarily made a bull’s eye for a debate during last year’s blockade. The elite Nepalese in Baltimore and DC would cleverly maneuver their conversation towards understanding my thoughts about the crisis - the thoughts of a woman who’s deceased father was from Bihar.
“So what do you teach?” I had startled when I heard his voice. I didn’t realize when he had snuck up behind me. I was at this thanksgiving dinner at my friend Reecha’s place.
“Hindi” I snapped.
“For real?” He squinted.
“Considering the questions few people have asked me about blockade today I think I do a fine job teaching one.”
He chuckled.
“One of those people is my wife” He pointed towards a woman holding a glass of Merlot.
“My sympathies” I said curtly and started browsing on my phone.
“She is a misguided nationalist; she takes any threat to Nepal’s sovereignty personally”
“Nothing is wrong with that, I do too, once again for the record I was born in Kathmandu, but half the population of Maryland doesn’t seem to get it”
“My sympathies.” He smiled, cleverly imitating me. Our eyes met for a long time.
“I am Srawan”
“Menuka….” We shook hands, his palms were sweaty.
“We have to go. NOW!” Miss Merlot, who had been gesturing Srawan to leave for last half hour and staring me with more disgust than jealously, finally poured in her petulance. Little did I realize that we had been talking over last hour and three glasses of chardonnay.
As she stormed out of the house with him probing me with a death stare, little did she know the damage was already inflicted. Srawan had invited me to lunch tomorrow at Adams Morgan.
I peered out of the window smiling as they drove away, for the first time in my life I was proud of being a conniving bitch.
“You can keep the nation for yourself missy, I already have your man”
