A year in Australia

It has been one year in Australia, difficult one year. I had arrived here in June 2015 with my family. I never thought I would every leave my country, I was just uncomfortable with the idea, I didn’t have the courage. Its not that friends, relatives and colleagues didn’t try to allure me to foreign lands but I was too afraid.

The first time I was clinically diagnosed with depression was in year 2005. Then after 2007, I usually had it once every year. Then in year 2010, I was hospitalized because of pancreatitis. I was afraid, very afraid. Then depression stuck with me like a shadow. At-least shadow leaves you when there is no light but depression never left me. I became hypochondriac or probably I already was. After being discharged from hospital life was in its regular track but 3 months later I had another attack that defeated my soul, and I feel defeated till date. The ephemeral nature of life became too obvious and too scary. My daughter wasn’t even 1-year-old, I was newly married and my parents were not very happy with my wife. The worries pierced its root very deep inside me and as it expanded I became part of the root, not that root was part of me that I could throw away. Doctors kept telling me, I had to be careful because pancreatitis were often fatal. Worse of all, mine was idiopathic pancreatitis.

Stays in hospital became frequent at-least twice every year. I felt bad when my aging father had to take care of me when by the rule of nature it had to be other way around. On one such stay at hospital, I became too worried about my daughter and wife. My wife’s brother and sister lived in Australia and her parents were planning to moving to Australia. It worried me because my wife was naïve, innocent yet couldn’t mince properly with the rest of my family. To me I was a culprit, I should have rejected to marry since I had depression. I had tried but my attempts were futile before my adamant parents and specially my mother. I thought I won’t live long, so the least I could do was to take my wife (and my daughter) to her siblings and that is when I decided I should move to Australia. Just two days after discharge from hospital, I had lodged a IELTS exam form at British Council in Kathmandu. Probably around same time next year I was granted the permanent resident status in Australia. It didn’t bring any happiness as my mother won’t even speak to me properly after I disclosed that I was planning to migrate. She was either angry or was crying, she had completely stopped talking with my wife. I being equally nervous and frightened at the prospect of leaving my comfort zone was in a confused state of mind. The day came and my father and mother seemed completely devastated. Tears started to roll in my father’s eyes as well and my mother was incontrollable. She worried that I won’t be around when she would die. Yes I inherit my hypo-chondriac character from my mother. I left home amid lot of tears and sadness.

The decision to migrate to Australia was a life changing event but it changed my life not for good but for worse. In this entire year I cannot recall a single month when I had remained well. I lost contact with everyone that I knew and who knew me. I struggled with depression every day, I struggled with suicidal ideation almost every day, cried almost every day. So far I have refused to contact my friends, my relatives. I do not remember the last time I used my facebook account, I do not remember the last time I wrote a proper email to my friend, I do not remember the last time I have properly talked with my family (at home). The exception is the first three weeks of December 2015, when things appear good for the first time. It lasted just for three weeks but that is all I have of the good memories here in Australia.

I arrived in Australia with some hope. I was happy for the first few days but everything came shattering down like a castle of sand. I have lost all confidence in myself, lost whatever self-respect I had. I have become literally hopeless.

Evaluating the prospects....

We discussed so many things in these two days trying to identify possibilities and solutions. I told her yesterday though not deliberately that I feel someday I shall leave home never to return again. It was too late before I realized the mistake or should I say the sin that I had committed. Our marital life has not been successful as I have only been able to give her pain and nothing but pain. My wrong use of words made her night sore and she remained sad the entire day the next day. Then the next day as my pain exacerbated we sat together to identify what can be done. The immediate option (or the only option) was to get admitted to the hospital and see if the condition improves and hope for the best. The best would be the situation where I shall be able to keep my job, remain mentally and physically healthy. However after being constantly depressed, that august situation is very unlikely. Then we sat together to see what could be done if I lost job. One option was we would try to make ends meet with her salary, while I shall remain an useless expense and a poor impression to our only child. We would share our flat with someone to cut down the expense. The other option came from my shameless mouth, what if we went to Perth to her brother. He had huge house and spare room which he could avail to us on request. We would then again live on her earning while shameless me shall stay home doing nothing. She said that is quite a viable option.
But then another option came from her, she said we return home. We won't get a divorce but won't live together either. She would stay with her parents and I could visit them without any restriction. I didn't like that option. It is not the prospect of living on her income in this developed nation that allured me but this time it was the father inside me that still wanted a better future for his daughter. The other reason could be the fact that I have become so much dependent on her and our daughter that living without them with whatever comfort possible is same as not living at all. Our discussion has not ended but has only reached an intermission as it was time to collect our daughter from school and of-course the lady would do the task. The reason I have been sore with pancreatitis and haven't had substantial food in last few days.
What I want? I can be shameless when I speak but when it comes to living it can't be the same. I would like to live on my own and earn for my family. Unfortunately depression either keeps me too worried, suicidal, in panic almost depriving me of the possibility to earn my livelihood.

My Archana

She is simple, easy to please, makes no demand and is happy when you are happy, that is my Archana, that is my wife. Bring her a coat or a jacket no-matter how worthless it is, she will always praise it. I can win her with $30 jacket, I can win her with simple words of assurance. She drops tears quickly but is quick to please as well. All she needs is my shoulder when she sits by my side. She is naive, she is gentle, she is kind and she is simple, that is my Archana. She listens to all the words that you speak, she appreciates your appreciation, she corrects you seldom, she supports you, she soothes you. Every day she prepares food for me with a dedication of the most pious nun, everyday she looks at me with a hope a bright August day. When I hurt her with my words she seeks solace in the warmth of my daughter. She fears my depression, she understands my evil intentions and she dreads if something terrible was to happen, she again seeks solace in our daughter. You know when she is insecure with the way she says the name of our daughter. A glimpse of tear in her eyes shatters me to pieces and yet I always manage to commit that sin time and again. 

She enjoys simple meal you buy, she cherishes the small things you do. Her wishes are not long, her dreams are not complex, all she wishes is my happiness and that is my Archana, that is my wife.

She is tender, she is vulnerable and that is what worries me the most. Unlike others she is too simple for this world too complex. Her world is small, her parents, me and our daughter. She loves her world the most yet I keep conspiring bringing it down. 

As she hums in the kitchen along with the chimes of her crockery weaving simple dreams of happiness I find myself hatching conspiracy to destroy it.

She seldom gets angry or loses her cool unless I make myself a greater fool, unless I speak out my evil intentions. Her anger are never towards me but rather toward the life. She yells at our daughter and she sits by my side. I knit few simple words of comforts and there she is brought back to life. That is my Archana, that is my wife.

Childhood stories and their importance

Like many other children we also had bedtime stories, and free-time stories. Though I am sure we must have been told more stories with good ending but the stories with tragic ending made a lasting impression on me as I grew up. The story teller were my parents and my grandmother. My grandmother never told us tragic stories, she used to tell us stories of prince and princesses, stories from the mythological literature. Two stories that my parents told us had a huge impression in shaping my young mind. One was the story of Shishir and Basanta, the other was about Nicholas and Jakapo, I do not remember the story but both dealt with two brothers whose parents died when they were young and they were subjected to harshness by their step-mothers and relatives. I could relate their story to our family, me, my brother and two parents. That firmly established a fear in me that life will be harsh if we lost our parents and there is a possibility we might lose our parents. In both the stories the elder brother had to take care of the younger brother in some way and probably I was worried if something fateful happened how would I take care of myself and my brother. This inevitably made me weak emotionally, too much dependent on my parents. When young I often used to go desire to stay at my grandparents place overnight. But when night came, the thought of my mother would be too overwhelming, I used to worry what will happen of her, will she be alright and worse of all she was alone (as my father was posted in the far eastern part of the country). I will cry and cry until my uncle carried me home in the middle of the night. Even when asleep, I would constantly play with the lips of my mother while all my brother needed was me.
Our paternal grandparents lived in the eastern region of the country and so did our uncles. We used to visit them during dashain the most important 15-days long festival celebrated in the country. Me and my brother used to get very excited as dashain approached. We just loved travelling in bus an entire night to be in the expanse fields, and welcoming relatives. Schools remained closed for a minimum of a month during the festival. So on one such occasion my parents seeing the enthusiasm in their children to go to Jhapa, made an arrangement to send us early with one of our relatives. We were all excited, my father had come to see us off. As the bus ignited its engine, all my excitement came shattering down the prospect of leaving my parents behind was unbearable. I was crying uncontrollably and that continued probably for 4 hours. When we reached our grandparents home, I made a small table to keep track of number of days when my parents will arrive. Every day I would erase the number at the end. So when we arrived at our grandparents place there were fifteen numbers. Next day I will erase 15 so I have 14 days left and so on until our parents arrived. I missed them miserably while my brother didn't care as long as I was by his side. I was growing up into an emotionally weak and rather unstable person.

Growing up with maternal cousins

I grew up in a small family and my early childhood mostly revolved around my young mother. My father was posted in the far eastern part of the country while we lived in our home in the capital city. In those early days, my mother worked in a dairy company. She used to leave me and my younger brother to school and my maternal grandparents used to collect us. It was usually my grandfather who could hardly see. I have a grim memories of him with a black glass refreshed by the large photo of him and my grandmother in my grandmother's room. We stayed at our grandparents until our mother returned. I can only imagine, it must have been really difficult for my young mother to raise two children in society that didn't trust women specially when she is single, but the closeness to my grandparents home might have helped. My grandparents lived at a distance of mere 5 minutes from our home. My uncle and his family of four lived in the same house as my grandparents. My maternal uncle was notorious for his drinking and violent activities. My cousins were of same age as me and my brother. The daughter was older than me by six/seven months and the son was younger by seven months. We grew up together but probably with little distrust due to the behavior of my uncle and rather introvert behavior of my aunt who was subjected to physical abuse by my uncle and mental abuse by my grandmother.
My grandfather was a rather carefree but full of life. He loved his grandchildren equally unlike my grandmother who always favored us over our cousins. But he died early, I was not even eight when he died. The only thing I remember about his death was my mother crying uncontrollably one chilly morning in Kathmandu. I often heard my parents say that he couldn't grasp himself up mentally after being beaten by his son. He got into bed after that and never recovered, though my uncle repeatedly denied it. These and similar incidents made our relationship with my maternal uncle and his family sore. We were always given the impression that my uncle was wrong and his wife was not innocent either. Even as young children I remember instances of discussion of family matters with our cousins, me trying to tell them how their parents were wrong and they trying to convince me it was not only their fault and my grandmother was not same as she tried to appear. My mom mostly if not always sided her mother and she thought her mother was right most of the time and we believed in our mother.
Later we realized my grandmother was not a noble woman. Her tears were fake and she was greedy old woman. The dysfunctional family had two culprits and they were my grandmother and my uncle and others were just the victims. I can only wonder today how my cousins managed to grow up into responsible, social being despite growing up in such a violent environment. I have always felt pity for my aunt who was married at the age of 12 to a violent person, forced to live with equally violent, abusive and oppressive mother-in-law, no-wonder she grew up introvert and suspicious of everyone around her except for her helpless parents.
My cousins saw their mother being abused everyday, they were often abused themselves. My cousin complaints of a backache frequently for which he blames his father who once hit him with a brick when he was young. They saw no support to their poor mother. They grew up becoming suspicious of everyone.