I would have  
stayed on the phone forever if  
I had known  
the next call across the ocean  
would come carrying a message and punch  
a hole in my heart  
where things fall and disappear like  
the Bermuda triangle  
names in photographs / scribbled notecards /  
moments  
in history / parts of family tree / political debates /  
trivia contests / stories / memories

Been five years, still  
things disappear  
into a hole in my heart  
shaped like my father

_First published in Newtown Literary, Issue 16 (Spring/Summer 2020)._

hole in my heart

A few days ago, it was reported that the President of Nepal expressed concern about the Nepalis in the U.S. in her conversation with the Nepali Ambassador, as she did with other envoys in countries with large numbers of Nepalis. A lot of “progressive Nepalis,” including a few friends, jumped on her for not caring about the migrant workers stuck at the Indian border and only caring about those in the affluent country. Indeed, it is important to remind the President and the entire government about the plight of migrant workers who are stuck at the border (not just when they are stuck at the border, but let’s talk about it another day). **But is compassion in such short supply that we cannot care about both communities?**

After all, Nepalis in the U.S. are seeing the crisis unfold in front of their eyes. What is still hypothetical in Nepal has been a reality in the U.S. for a while now. A Nepali man has died, most likely infected while working. A recent [New York Times coverage](https://www.nytimes.com/2020/04/09/nyregion/coronavirus-queens-corona-jackson-heights-elmhurst.html) of the crisis opened with his story. His wife and two of their children have also tested positive. Hundreds of Nepalis are infected, and thousands of Nepalis have lost their livelihoods, maybe permanently, and are staring at an uncertain future. The Jackson Heights-Elmhurst neighborhood of Queens, which has been the epicenter of the Covid-19 crisis in New York, in the country, and perhaps the world, is also home to a large number of Nepalis. The area has more than twice the rate of infection compared to other parts of the city and almost five times as much as the nation.

I see my former colleagues at [Adhikaar](http://facebook.com/adhikaar) working nonstop, day after day. I hear about the volunteer efforts of many Nepali brothers and sisters, alongside the medical professionals of Nepali origin. There are many thousands of families in Nepal — not all affluent — who are living in fear for the lives of their loved ones in New York and elsewhere in the U.S. I realize that not everyone has the experience and luxury of comparative lives, but the people who are commenting on social media certainly have access to international news.

Closer to home, when the local governments in Kathmandu started distributing food for people who had lost their livelihoods due to the lockdown, many people complained that “undeserving” people were getting it. They complained that people wearing nice clothes, carrying mobile phones, were lining up — as if poor people do not deserve to have nice things. Because of the sudden lockdown, people have been caught without an opportunity to make alternative arrangements. People who may not be living in abject poverty are also faced with loss of income — taxi drivers, small shop owners, craftspeople. Some of them may have homes and even fields ripe for harvesting outside Kathmandu, but right now with the lockdown, they are of no use. In a crisis, isn’t our goal to make sure no one goes hungry, instead of worrying about a handful who might be double-dipping? Is compassion really in such short supply?

Maybe it is because the pandemic is still theoretical for many in Nepal. My social media feeds are filled with stories of friends and their loved ones affected by the virus, not just Nepalis and not only in New York. However, with only a handful of confirmed cases, most people in Kathmandu do not personally know anyone who is suffering. While people are using the crisis language and peddling doomsday scenarios, most of our lives have remained untouched. Lockdown is a bit of a bother, but we are enjoying the cleaner air. We can get most things we need, even delivered to our door. Some are organizing cookouts and playing cards. There is more time to spend online, and more time to complain.

When I see the negativity, I feel despair creeping in. But then I think about my many friends and all the others, across the city and around the country, who have not wasted their time complaining online, but jumped right in to supplement the efforts of the local governments. I think cash transfers are better as it allows the recipients to choose food items that best suit their need, and also supports local shops. But I understand this needs a longer conversation, and in the midst of a crisis, I am happy to see the volunteers distributing food items as well. Some have made sure to partner with small farmers and dairy producers who have lost access to markets. Others are distributing cooked food. Some are volunteering their vehicles for emergency hospital visits. Others are making masks and face shields. Some translated documents into other languages to make sure people without Nepali language proficiency are getting informed. Some are thinking long term and working on policy solutions or creating educational platforms. Two lawyers have taken legal action to bring home the migrant workers stuck at the border, and the Supreme Court has issued an interim order in their support.

If the virus spreads in Nepal — I hope it doesn’t — I wish there will be more people jumping into action, and fewer people complaining. Even if people do not jump into action, I hope they will at least think about how our lives are intertwined and practice compassion.

Compassion in the time of Covid-19

Holiday season is upon us, and the festivities are accompanied by shopping sprees on adrenaline. Consumerism really seems to have become a new religion with the Black Friday and Cyber Monday as its holy days. In the past, I too would have gotten caught up in the frenzy. This year, however, I am surviving relatively unscathed as I am halfway through a year-long experiment of buying nothing but the essentials. I am not completely immune as friends and family members around me are still participating.

I used to pride myself on being a conscious consumer, a bit of a minimalist even. My kitchen is full of mismatched glass jars used for drinking water and storing leftover food. I have resoled my favorite pair of boots multiple times. My winter coat has gotten me through almost fifteen New York winters. Heck, I had even gotten married in borrowed saris. Yet, when we were moving two years ago, I realized how much stuff I had accumulated. I came to the U.S. with two suitcases worth of clothes and personal items, almost all of my possessions in the world. Here I was two decades later, getting rid of more than that in a week.

How did I get to this point? Online shopping was definitely a culprit. I ordered more than I needed thinking I would only keep what I really liked, but I got too busy to think about return deadlines. I also got addicted to finding deals, buying multiples to unlock the savings. I bought outfits for special occasions that were worn once at most. The unused items got shoved into the dark corners of the closets, and remained forgotten — until I started to pack and move.

Since I was moving to a smaller place, I had no choice but to shed some of the excess. However, I did not want to add to the pollution, so I donated and recycled as much as possible. I made multiple trips to the Salvation Army thrift store. I carefully sorted paper and plastic and metal, and deposited them in appropriate bins. I felt I was doing the best I could to be a good global citizen, until I started to fully understand the perils of fast fashion; how much of donated goods end up in landfill anyway; the U.S. recycling crisis and how triple-washed peanut butter jars are ending up in incinerators.

I decided to tackle the problem at the source and become more intentional about what I buy. I started out by implementing zero-dollar days, when I did not spend any money, including on grocery. Using what I already had in the pantry, I created some interesting recipes. These sporadic moratoriums on buying did not help much since I could simply defer purchases and splurge the very next day. Therefore, I decided to make a longer term commitment to intentional buying. Earlier this year on June 21st, I decided to embark on a year-long journey of buying just the essentials. I chose the day of the solstice to mark a turning point.

I am aware that I am operating from a position of immense privilege that I can undertake this experiment without really impinging on the quality of my life. I also do not have to worry about a child outgrowing their clothes. It is a luxury not available to everyone, including many family members and friends. Additionally, my ban on buying is only limited to things, and not experiences like travel and restaurants.

Six months into the experiment, I have fared fairly well. I have not added anything to my wardrobe, or home decor, or kitchen utensils. When I had to accompany out-of-town friends for shopping trips, I have found deals that I could not have resisted in the past. A lovely sweater for less than $20. A velvety soft full-sleeved button down shirt. But I was able to walk away without buying anything, every single time. When I travelled, I did not buy souvenirs and gifts. I have made exceptions a couple of times and bought a few items of clothing as gifts. However, I specifically chose each piece with exact recipient in mind, unlike in the past when I would buy things that would eventually migrate to the box labeled “gifts” and remain there for years.

Books have remained in a grey area. I am not sure if they can be labeled as essential items in the same vein as food, soap, and medicine, but if I have a book in my hands, I can forget about everything else. So, I have bought a few books in the past six months. Also, to my defense, when you find George Orwell’s Burmese Days in the streets of Yangon, how do you pass it up? Buying books has always been my weakness; however, even books, I have bought sparingly.

Since I embarked on this experiment, I have re-discovered the joy of things I already own. I have worn clothes I have not worn in years, including some whose existence I had forgotten. I am fixing things, and getting things fixed. For minor rips and missing buttons, I can fall back on the skills I learned from my grandmother. Changing zippers and resoling, I needed professional help. But with these fixes, many items have been salvaged from reaching a landfill, at least for a little bit longer.

Some things I could not save, but I have been careful about not replacing them immediately. When a toaster stopped working, instead of buying a new one, I started using a cast iron skillet. I enjoy the more hands-on preparation, and now have one less gadget taking up valuable space on the kitchen counter.

With the bonus time I am not spending on scouring online deals for things I do not really need, I am reading and re-reading books I already own. When I am in need of different reading materials, I am raiding friends’ bookshelves. After many years, I have also renewed my Queens Library card, a passport to more books than I can ever read in my lifetime.

I am fortunate to have a support system of close friends in the neighborhood who have made this experiment of not buying so much easier. We have long been borrowing and lending more than just books. Sometimes, we lend each other clothes for special occasions or give away the ones we are no longer wearing. Sometimes we show up at each other’s doors to ask for a bowl of sugar or to give a quarter of a winter melon. When I recently decided to serve soup at a party without owning soup bowls, my sister-friend saved the day with six matching bowls — the same bowls she had used as decoration at a party I had helped plan earlier in the year.

I know that I have difficulty parting with things (and people). So, I am not planning to Konmari anytime soon. I also do not like that minimalism itself has become commodified — however, that is a conversation for another time. For now, I am doing what I can — not bringing things into my apartment, and my life, that I will later not be able to let go.

**_(This is the first part of a series of reflections on my year of trying to become more conscious about consumption and look critically at the consumerism culture.)_**

[**CC BY-NC-SA 4.0**](https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/)

hole in my heart

Compassion in the time of Covid-19

Year of Buying Nothing