It was February 2, 2020. After three long years, I was heading to Las Vegas to reunite with him and his family—him, Uncle Gopal. So much had changed in those years, with the Hudson River witnessing its share of flowing waters. I had returned to Nepal, gotten married, and embraced a family-oriented life. I had also landed a job in New York that suited my qualifications. Visa issues were behind me, with my company already filing for my green card. Life was unfolding smoothly, without major worries.
Now, I found myself at John F. Kennedy International Airport. A heavy snowfall outside had delayed flights by an hour and a half. With a cup of coffee provided by the airline, I sat and reflected on the past. Memories rose with the steam from the cup, swirling like scenes from an old film reel. I was deep in thought, recalling the challenging days of my early stay in America when Uncle Gopal had been my savior.
It was early May 2015 when I first met Uncle Gopal. Just days before, I had learned of the devastating earthquake in Nepal. The quake had destroyed many homes in my village, including ours. Each report of the tremors back home made my heart quake in unison. I couldn't eat or sleep, my mind consumed by worry. My studies and lab research suffered as my body remained in America while my heart was in Nepal. This restless state persisted for days.
One Tuesday morning, after our regular weekly meeting, my professor called me aside. "There are some serious matters to discuss. Come to my office after lunch," he said.
When I arrived at his office, he was engrossed in his computer. "Please, have a seat," he said without looking up, his fingers dancing over the keyboard. "I'm sending a couple of emails about my funding proposal. I'll talk to you after."
"Okay, thanks," I replied, taking a seat nearby. The room was filled with the clatter of his keyboard as silence settled between us.
Finally, he looked up and asked, "How is everything? Doing good?"
I nodded silently, indicating that things were fine, though I remained quiet. He reiterated the morning's message, "Actually, I need to discuss a serious matter with you."
I thought he might have noticed that I hadn't been working well for a few days. That must be the issue he wanted to discuss. I was ready to explain my lack of concentration at work, but I remained silent, stifling my thoughts.
He continued in as gentle a tone as possible, "My new research project is being delayed. The research you're involved in will end this month. I had promised you work for 40 hours a week during the summer as well. But time was not on our side."
I listened quietly. He paused for a moment, perhaps reflecting on his words, and then continued, "Now, I'm in a situation where I cannot guarantee your scholarship for the next semester."
The slow unfolding of his words brought an internal quake to me. I could sense that he easily felt my restlessness. I scrambled for words to respond, to explain my need for support at that moment. He preemptively comforted me, saying, "Don't worry too much about the next semester. Something will come up during the three-month summer break. I am currently working on seven different proposals. If even one gets accepted, that should suffice. If not, I will request the department chair to waive your tuition fees. But there will be no funds available for you during the summer break. Manage on your own."
By delivering the bitter news in sweet words, he added to my pain. My mentor, who had become my fate, was not in my favor. Time, like him, was pushing me toward a difficult path. Part of me wanted to share my plight—I needed to go home, my house had been destroyed, and I needed help. He knew about the earthquake in Nepal, but he didn't know about my house. He had asked about my family. "Everyone is safe, but they are facing difficult times," I had told him. Then I thought about what he said: if there is no other option, then what's the use of complaining? If he could help, he would have.
After the meeting with the professor, I left feeling agitated. On one hand, I was worried about my family in Nepal; on the other, I had to arrange money for my living expenses for the next three months. Moreover, whether I would receive funding for the next semester was uncertain. My Nepali friends didn't have this worry. Their professors had funding. But everyone back in Nepal was in the same dire situation.
The single word from the professor who had called me to America on a scholarship plunged me into a dark abyss. Where would I find work? I didn't even know how to swim, yet I felt like I was suddenly thrown into a deep pond. What to do? How to manage? People on student visas aren't allowed to work anywhere. Is Vegas really that big? Hotels and casinos don't offer work. Apart from two or three Indian restaurants and a few gas stations, there seemed no hope of finding a job. I was wandering like a ship lost at sea, in search of work.
I went to all the nearby Indian restaurants in two days. "What's your legal status? Do you know how to work?" they would start with such questions. When I said I was a student, the response would be, "We already have people working who have been here from the start."
On the third day, mid-afternoon, disappointed from not finding any work, I was walking around. I had ventured out into the heat of Vegas, carrying my frustrations with me. A volcano that hasn't erupted yet simmers just like that under the earth's crust. Tears, ripe for falling, were held back in my eyes as I kept walking. At such a time, a woman on the street corner yelled out loudly in her American accent, "Smile, please. For me, for the world. Don't lose your smile. Cheer up, life..."
I didn't pay attention to what else she was saying. You meet all sorts of people in Sin City. They do whatever they want to do in the name of freedom. Some people, just as she said, walked by faking a smile. Others just watched, puzzled. I am so much in pain and still I need to smile for her? I felt anger rising within me.
I couldn't force a smile onto my stormy face, dark as the clouds from a year ago. The woman, noticing my expression, muttered under her breath, "How rude? Crazy guy."
After she pointed me out, all eyes in the crowd turned towards me. From that crowd, a middle-aged man approached and asked, "Brother, are you Nepali?"
"Yes! But how did you know?"
"Do I need to say it when you're wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Sagarmatha (Mount Everest) and a map of Nepal?"
I then realized my obvious attire. The Indian manager hadn't asked where I was from; he had asked about my visa.
"Oh, you are a Nepali, too! Where is your home, brother?"
"My home is in Jhapa district of Nepal. And yours?"
"Gorkha!"
"Gorkha district? I heard the earthquake destroyed everything there. How are things at your home?"
"My situation is the same, everything's gone. Two friends from school were also taken by the earthquake. Everyone in the village is living together in tents in the grounds of a nearby primary school. I found out when I talked to my parents recently."
"Ah, you must really be suffering then. And where are you staying here? How long have you been in Vegas?"
"About five or six months. I live near the university, close to the intersection of Flamingo and Maryland Parkway streets."
"What do you do here?"
"I'm studying."
"And work?"
"I'm actually looking for work right now. I'm tired of not finding anything."
"Haven't you worked anywhere until now?"
"I used to work within the university, assisting with research. I came here on a scholarship. The money provided by the professor was enough for my living and studying expenses."
"So, what's the issue now?"
"Troubles don't announce themselves before arriving, do they? Right when I was troubled by the disaster back in Nepal, my professor here said he couldn't give me money and asked me to find work. Back home, my family and friends are all suffering, hoping I can send them some money. Just when I needed support the most, it broke off. I can't find work outside. The money the professor used to give was just enough for living and studying expenses. Not a penny is saved. From this month onwards, I will be in minus financially. In this situation, how can I imagine sending money home now?"
"Brother, don't worry too much. After my son comes home in the evening, I'll tell him about you. Go to the Indian Garden Restaurant after 6 PM tomorrow. Meet my son Vishnu and tell him Gopal Uncle sent you. He will help you as much as he can."
As I was drowning in my memories, it felt like I had fallen into a trance. I lost track of time. Suddenly, the airline's boarding announcement startled me. I quickly threw my coffee cup into the trash bin and joined the boarding line.
After settling into my seat and stowing my bag, I took out a book to read during the flight. I buckled my seatbelt and prepared for takeoff. As the plane climbed, I tried to read. But I didn't feel like reading. When my desire to read faded, I tried to sleep. My eyes were closed, but those old scenes were still dancing before me. Since hearing the news about him, only the moments spent with him kept circling in my mind.
The next day, I arrived at the restaurant precisely when Gopal Uncle had instructed. I met his son, Vishnu, and mentioned Gopal's name. We had a brief, formal conversation. Vishnu worked two jobs: from eight in the morning to five in the evening, he did housekeeping at a hotel, and from six to ten at night, he worked at the same Indian restaurant. His father had spoken highly of me.
"You really need the job, I understand. I'll help, don't worry," he said, requesting the manager to give me a job.
The manager explained that they already had enough staff. "It's hard for me to say no to you, but what's the use of hiring more people? It only increases expenses. He can't work in the kitchen. The current staff is enough for now. It's also difficult to employ someone without a card to serve outside."
Seeing the manager's hesitation, Vishnu elaborated, "He's really in a tough spot right now. The recent earthquake in Nepal destroyed his house. His parents, family, and other villagers are living in tents in a village square. He's been struggling here without finding a job. It would be good to help him during such times."
"I understand that it's upsetting to hear about his house. I can personally donate some money. But if there's overstaffing, the owner won't appreciate it! Tell me, Vishnu! What to do?"
"I understand your problem too. Let's do this: I'll give him my shift to serve outside. He needs the work more than I do right now. I won't come to work until he gets another. I'll send him from tomorrow."
The manager agreed to this arrangement, and I got the job. In this way, Vishnu saved me by giving me his own job. What a kind father and son! They became my saviors during my hard times. After I started working at the Indian Garden, I began to meet Vishnu now and then by phone or in person. During our meetings, we gradually started visiting each other's apartments. Over time, I learned that they were Bhutanese Nepali in America.
On days off, I often visited their place. Vishnu would go to work in the morning, leaving the little grandchildren born here to sit watching cartoons on TV or iPads. The two elderly seemed almost confined to the house. It felt very lonely since there was no one else to talk to, so I went there. They were very happy to have someone to talk to when I visited.
They would say, "We feel so happy when you come here. America feels like a prison for old folks like us, like a caged bird. Neither can we speak their language nor understand clearly. We would love to go to work, but what are we supposed to do? It’s so painful to be inactive and sleep the whole day. Sleep doesn't come easy as we get older. We would love to visit new places, but we can’t drive. That’s why going to the nearby park, walking a bit, and coming back are our regular activities. That's how we pass our days. I met you on the road the other day when returning from the park. That was a lucky coincidence."
"I heard that there is a small Nepali community nearby. Don't you meet them, Uncle?"
"No, brother, no. They are not interested in meeting us. Being the Bhutanese refugees, they feel segregated wherever they go. After crossing seven seas to get here, we should have felt like brothers. But the people of our communities show no interest in getting closer to each other. How nice it would be if we all lived together?"
"I agree with you, Uncle. We share one language, one culture, and most of the same festivals. Whether we are original Nepalis or Bhutanese Nepalese living in America, our ancestral home is Nepal. We should identify ourselves as Nepali instead of creating divisions between Bhutanese or Nepalis," I said, supporting him.
"Yes, brother. Your child born tomorrow and my current identity here are the same. Your child's father's country will be Nepal, and my father or grandfather's country was also Nepal. What's the difference when all the customs and languages are the same?"
Our meetings were always filled with such conversations. Some were more logical, and some were less.
Three months later, the festival of Teej arrived. Luckily, the professor had arranged funding for me again, so I quit the restaurant job. I was invited to Gopal Uncle’s home on the occasion of Teej. At a time when my parents in Nepal were worried about me in the USA, I had found a family that loved me like their own member. I went to Gopal Uncle’s home for the Teej festival. As usual, Uncle and I started talking. He was the happiest person there when I visited, finding someone to listen to him.
The satisfaction of expressing his inner turmoil was evident in the sparkle of his face. Sometimes he would tell funny stories from his childhood in Bhutan, and other times, the stories of hardships while living in the refugee camps of Jhapa district in Nepal. When he talked, I listened, saying, "Yes, yes, Uncle." Each time we met, our conversation ended with some form of his frustration about being stateless.
"Uncle, can I ask you something?" I said during one of our conversations.
"Sure, ask!"
"You and your son have done a great favor for me. But why give such importance to a person you hardly know?"
"What are you saying, brother? We've been ostracized by our own relatives. That's why even the bond of blood doesn't feel close anymore. But when you're in trouble, even a small help feels significant. How happy it makes one feel when someone understands your difficulty! Our old days of suffering came to my mind. I feel like helping as much as I can. Seeing my help resolve someone’s difficulty brings me joy. I felt so affectionate seeing you in that situation the other day. I remembered the hassle of looking for a job myself. And I told my son, 'If you can, please help him.' You are an educated man. Within two-three years, you'll be sitting in an office chair, working on computers. You don’t have to wash dishes like our sons do. But the only help we could offer you is the job my son was doing. For now, you must do whatever work you can to fend for yourself. There's no shame in working to earn your keep. When your time comes, you'll get a job that matches your qualifications."
"No, no. I'm not ashamed to work, Uncle. It's not right to steal or deceive to eat. There's no shame in eating from your own hard work. I looked for the restaurant work and I didn't find it until you helped me. It's not a time to be picky about what work I do. Whatever I find, I must do, and I have been doing now."
"Yes, the first thing is to feed oneself, then later choose something bigger."
"And, Uncle, how did you and your relatives get ostracized? The Bhutanese government expelled you, right? I believe this is what the world knows."
"Many others were expelled by the Bhotes, but not us. We were expelled by our own elderly uncle."
"What? How can that happen?" I was taken aback by his words.
"Not everyone was expelled in the same way. Brother, haven't you heard the saying? - If you must see the face of a tiger, look at the face of a cat. If you feel like seeing the face of an enemy, look at your own brother."
"Yes, I've heard it. But I don't see how your leaving Bhutan and this saying relate."
"The Bhutanese government didn't expel those who had documents from 1957."
"What documents, Uncle?"
"The Bhutanese government announced a rule that only those with land registry documents from 1957 and before could stay in the country; the rest had to leave. Our entire family's land was in my elderly uncle’s name. When it came to distributing the land to family members, the elderly uncle recorded the names only of his son and two daughters at the land registration office."
"Really? And no one else spoke for you?"
"Greedy for property, he practically killed his own brother and his family alive. I had gone with my father to have our names recorded in the land registration office, but the elderly uncle did not go. He pretended to be unconscious after saying that we were not the ones to divide the property. He didn't speak or eat for a week and stayed in bed. Scoundrel!" As he said this, tears broke through Gopal Uncle's eyelids and streamed down his cheeks.
We were all emotional that evening. After dinner, I returned to my apartment. I became busy with studies, thesis, and research work, so our meetings became less frequent. Whenever we spoke on the phone, he would say, “Are you going to forget us, brother?"
A few months later, one day, I went to meet Uncle Gopal again. The first thing he shared was sad news, "Did you hear about the incident that happened here recently, brother?"
"What incident, Uncle?"
"One of our Bhutanese brothers committed suicide."
"So sad! Do you know why he did it?”
"He was said to have been suffering from depression. There had been long-standing arguments between him and his wife; they would always fight."
"Was it since before coming to America?" I asked curiously.
"He was fine back in the Jhapa refugee camp. We were neighbors back then, and I hadn't heard of any issues at that time. But after coming to America, their behaviors began to change. Everyone thought themselves superior to the other. His wife would say, 'Why stay under him when I'm earning as much as he can?' Even the husband wanted things to run his way, just like back in Nepal. They both seemed the same to me. Since arriving in America, I've heard of many suicides and break-ups in the name of freedom and equality. It seems the man hasn’t really grasped the new way of living here either. Whenever we met, he always shared stories of his struggles with his wife.”
My last meeting with Gopal Uncle was in the first week of January 2017.
"Uncle, I've completed my studies and now I'm leaving Vegas," I said when I went to see him before moving to New York.
"Ah, you were like my own son. Now that you too are leaving, it's going to be very sad," he said, sadness evident on his face.
"I've found a job that matches my studies. The company has also said they'll file for my green card. Let's keep in touch wherever I end up," I reassured him.
"It's all destiny. Nobody knows where one will end up. I wish you well wherever you go, brother. It wouldn't even be right to ask you not to go just because we'd miss you," he consoled himself.
"It seems you don't like America even with all these luxuries and facilities. Why aren't you happy?" I asked him before leaving.
"Yes, brother, I'm not happy. I still wish I could go back to Bhutan. I've suffered a lot here due to the language and cultural barriers. Once, I was chopping meat and only my wife and I were at home. Someone rang the doorbell. I opened the door with a knife in my hand. It was night, and then I met a tough time. They reported to the police that I was going to attack them with a weapon. The police came right away. We were so confused, not being able to tell our true story clearly. I tried but could not explain. There I was, like a fool. There was no one around who knew English. Everyone had gone to work. That incident gave us trouble for several months. Since then, I am always scared and try not to repeat such foolish mistakes." He added, "People from many countries try to come to America, and many of them face so much trouble with their visa status even after arriving here. You at least get to live here with your relatives or friends. Isn't it a great thing to live here like a community?"
He continued, "You have a home and a country, at least. You have your own soil. Only those who have nothing know the pain of having no land. You live here now, but someday, you can go back to your home if you want. You have a place to return to, a place where you spent your childhood. Look at us. Where are we supposed to go? We are stateless. We are people without citizenship. We've become a lost ethnicity. Neither does anyone understand our language, nor do we understand theirs. Can you imagine the pain of being banned from the place where you were born and raised?”
I listened to Gopal Uncle, speechless.
Gopal Uncle continued, "If I could get American citizenship, the first thing I would do is visit Bhutan. Once I get American citizenship, I am sure they can't stop me. I'd go to Bhutan and eat the wild fruits of the place where I grew up before I die. Believe me, that's my final wish. But alas! Getting citizenship is tough for uneducated people like us."
Resting my head against the seat of the plane, my eyes were closed. In 15 minutes, we would be landing in Vegas. The announcement for landing brought me back from the past to the present.
Gopal Uncle! Or the man who loved me like his own son and a close friend. He shared his stories of childhood and his final wishes with me. Gopal Uncle chose the path of suicide, defeated by his loneliness. Soon, I would have to see his lifeless body. I felt heavy, heartbroken that his dream of becoming an American citizen just to set foot in Bhutan remained unfulfilled. He died, and his dream died too. He had spent his life chasing a mirage-like dream. Like a failed mountaineer, he closed his eyes forever, harboring a longing for the summit.
Gopal Uncle! I try hard to reach the depth of your pain and find myself suffering and restless.
This short story, "The Final Goodbye," is taken from Krishna Kusum's latest collection, Parshwadhoon (Ambient Echoes), which explores social justice and political awareness, amplifying marginalized voices. A civil engineer by profession, Krishna is a dynamic voice in contemporary literature. His evocative Nepali poems and ghazals captivate readers. As an editor, his works like Aangan Chhodepachhi (After Leaving the Homeland) and Paradeshaka Katha (The Stories of Diaspora) resonate deeply. Krishna's stories weave together rich experiences from Nepal and the United States, offering unique perspectives.
