By Meera Rajbhandari Amatya

The story begins on a rainy morning in Japan, deepening the chill of January. It’s Sunday, and finally, there’s some leisure time at 8 am. But lethargy makes it hard to rise. I look out the window in a daze and think to myself. The streets are deserted. I see a few cars pass by, but there are no cyclists on the road. Probably, due to the rain, the Japanese (Nihonjin) have decided to spend their weekly holiday at home.

Hisai, Mieken a small town, perhaps one of the smaller industrial cities of Japan. Thousands of Gaijins (foreigners in Japanese) come here with millions of dreams, toiling day and night in factories.

Japan, is a land of hope for those aspiring to fulfill their unachieved dreams back home. However, there are also many sorrowful incidents due to the misuse of money and freedom, in the pursuit of dreams. The essence of life is about one’s determination and goals. Some earn, while others lose everything. Japan is a country filled with such stories and sorrows.

Ummm, I wonder why I’m getting sentimental? Annoyed with my emotions, maybe it’s the chill from the window that’s affecting me. I jerk awake and cover my face with the blanket, feeling the warmth of my own breath.

As I peek out from under the blanket, suddenly but slowly Manjita enters my room with a bright expression.

“Sister, how long will you sleep? Isn’t Vena (Brother-in-law) coming today?” she asks in one breath. “Ah, yes,” I reply briefly.

For some reason, I never liked her calling him ‘Vena’. It feels better when she says ‘Dai’ (brother). But I never opened up about this because few here understand the depth of the word ‘Dai’, both among brothers and sisters.

“Want some ochya (Japanese tea)?” I ask, getting up. She nods. As I set the water to boil, my phone rings. “I can’t come today, there’s a typhoon coming, and both the JR and Kintetsu lines are closed. Don’t worry dear, I’ll come tomorrow evening,” and with that, the call ends. My heart sinks. Our only chance to meet in the week is gone because of the typhoon. Reading my disheartened face, Manjita says, “Ah Sister, Vena will come tomorrow, right? Heehee…” I didn’t appreciate her teasing. Trying to ignore it, I say, “The train stations are closed. How will you go to Nisiyo?”

She flicks her hair and responds, “Ha… Didi (elder sister), already spoke to me on Skype this morning. He’s coming from Nagoya in his friend’s car to pick me up. What to do, here, you can stay with your husband… I mean, boyfriends are not allowed to stay. I can’t miss going today.” I felt alone and tried to stop her.

“Ah Sister, why are you getting so sentimental? I’ll be back tomorrow, and so will Venya. I promise, when I return, I will present you a wing from McDonald’s, my dear sis,” she spoke beaming.

I wished she wouldn’t go. I look at her from head to toe. Barely twenty, ten years younger than me, with a Mongolian face, slender figure, and appetizing looks. She’s at the cusp of youth, carrying sweet dreams in her life.

She works hard in the factory all week. The earnings aren’t great. Yet, she has responsibilities in Nepal, a lot of them. Household expenses, debts to pay, and increasing demands from siblings for clothes, Nintendo, laptops, and so on.

Sometimes she’s frustrated, other times delighted. “Sister, I bought a sweater for Mom, isn’t it nice? Got it on sale, cost me a lot of yen, but it’s amazing, right?” I respond with joy just to see her happy. This is how Manjita spends her youthful days amidst joys and sorrows.

After a week of relentless work and stress, why should I stop her from embracing her desire? Japan is a liberal country when it comes to sexuality. Furthermore, society doesn’t scrutinize foreigners’ activities. For the Japanese, sex is as basic a need as rice and curry.

The love hotels in the city’s main areas are indicative of Japan’s open sexual market. Japanese are free to fulfill their sexual desires, and no one hesitates to visit these hotels. There’s no shame associated with it here, nor any fear of police raids.

It’s surprising, the culture and social environment here. Perhaps that’s why there’s no culture of sexual harassment in workplaces or public places. If someone likes you, they propose without hesitation. If refused, the matter ends there.

Pim-pim-pim…the sound of the motor’s horn startles me again. Reluctantly, I look out the window. Manjita’s boyfriend, sticking his hand out of the car window, calls out, “‘Hayaku Hayaku…Manji Darling, Anata Osoi….’Chattomate, Chattomate’ Manjita hurries to him.(Hurry, hurry… Manji darling, come quickly, let’s go… hurry up!”)

Even in her rush, she has managed to put on full makeup. She carries a rather large and small bag, wearing quarter pants and a nearly transparent pink T-shirt, over which she wears a long overcoat with its buttons undone. Perhaps the warmth of her youth makes her impervious to the cold.

The bracelet on her hand and the earrings in her ears make her face and personality even more attractive. Her hair flutters as she enters the car. The vehicle speeds off towards an uncertain destination, not to return until tomorrow evening.

***

My mind wanders again. I notice the tea on the table has gone cold, just like my heart. Slowly, I pick up the phone and dial my children in Nepal. The phone rings, and I hear my father’s voice. “Dad, where are the children?” Poor mother’s emotions…I ask, realizing I haven’t even inquired about his well-being. “How are you daddy?”

“I brought them from hostel, 15 days winter vacation”

“Well, they’re here… I’ll hand the phone to them now.”

The children take over. “Mummy, Mummy, Why did you send so many chocolates? Don’t send so many, spending lots of money. Just save and come back to us…”

Their mature advice, despite their young age, warms my heart. Tears involuntarily flow down my cheeks.

Then it’s my son’s turn. “Mummy, don’t worry about us and just focus on your work. I’m here, I’ll take care of my sister…”

Tears continue to flow as I talk with him, reassuring him to study well and not to worry about anything.

Being in a foreign land, the longing for Nepal intensifies.

When I landed at Kansai Airport, Japan was welcoming the Sakura season. Despite its cleanliness and beauty, Japan never really felt lively to me. And here, I learned what true patriotism and love for one’s country is.

Living as an unrecognized citizen in a foreign land made me realize these harsh realities. My heart swells and eyes fill up spontaneously, when the memory of the place comes deep into the psyche, whenever I reminisce about my homeland.

One of the first-world countries Japan or Nihon (the name of Japan in the Japanese native voice), a dream for third-world country’s citizens —  a hope for the hopeless people a dreamland for the people who have a positive way of thinking about their life and the beginners with hope. Yes, Japan is the land of hope, the land of dreams, a super dream that might come to be true if people do hard work with moral and ethical values towards their duties and responsibilities. Since coming to Japan, I’ve seen and learned a lot. A nation’s progress hinges on its citizens’ sacrifice, duty, and dedication. Patriotism isn’t confined to a single attire. Our leaders have divided us into high and low, rich and poor. Over time, this dissatisfaction grew, and we shifted from surrender to seeking rights.

I see that the Japanese are more duty-bound than rights-oriented. They have little interest in politics. What happens in the parliament or who stands in elections doesn’t concern them much. They work in factories and shop at supermarkets, and their daily life is routine. At most, some Japanese go to pachinko parlours for gambling.

Nepal’s decade-long conflict caused significant losses and gains. It weakened various socio-economic aspects of the country. Many stories of ordinary Nepalese displaced by internal conflict have been forgotten over time. The state focused on managing the conflict rather than resolving it. This conflict displaced many youths, destroyed homes, but the state had no time to assess or care about these issues. In the struggle to escape this conflict, thousands of young women like Manjita ended up vulnerable in foreign lands.

Young women like Manjita, in their most vibrant and attractive age, face labor and sexual exploitation abroad. How many Manjitas have had their dignity violated far from the safety of their parents? How many wives manage the household and children, waiting for husbands, enduring hardships?

In Nepal, people from various backgrounds come to foreign lands for work. They are hardworking and honest, often working 12 hours a day, far from the love and warmth of their families. That’s why they sometimes seek transient affection in relationships.

Although the Japanese respect labor and admire foreigners, the notion of being a Gaijin (foreigner) is deeply ingrained in them. Sometimes, derogatory words like “Baka” (idiot) hurt the Nepalese, but they are helpless. I often hear stories of Nepalese who came here shouldering heavy debts. Their lives and stories are similar, filled with similar struggles and narratives.

Lost in these thoughts, night fell. I didn’t even realize when I fell asleep.

***

The workload today is particularly high. With Manjita not coming in, my share of work has doubled. On top of that, there’s an obligation to finish a job for another factory tomorrow.

Sometimes, working to the rhythm of the machines makes my head spin. I feel frustrated. Then I think, “I’ll collect this month’s salary and go to Nepal.” But the opposite happens. When I count the money, sometimes 17, sometimes 20 Maan Yen, I think, “What will happen if I go to Nepal? I should just keep working like this.”

The bad weather today has disrupted the trains, spoiling our fun plans for the husband-wife meeting. Chindring… I hear the sound of a dropped key. I look towards the next room. Manjita has come back. She enters without even looking my way, picks up the key, and goes inside. This isn’t the first time; it’s become her usual behavior. I’ve noticed that she often seems sad after spending the night with Naresh.

Manjita, who leaves in the morning shining like the rising sun, often returns in the evening looking drained and forlorn. Her life of borrowed love and trust, based on transient moments, pains me.

The love of men often fades with the waning of desire. But women, like rivers, continue to flow endlessly with love.

Naresh is attractive. He has a charming physique, a captivating manner of speaking, and a sparkle in his eyes. His appearance, always in beautiful attire, could enchant any woman. Perhaps that’s what captivated Manjita. Naresh, who has a wife and daughter in Nepal, freely makes love with  Manjita here in Japan.

When I delve into the definitions of love, I find no meaningful description of Naresh and Manjita’s relationship. It’s just a fleeting fulfilment of physical desires.

Manjita didn’t come to work for two days, staying in the apartment. She remained inside until I left for work. Perhaps she managed everything when I wasn’t around.

Repeated attempts to contact her on the mobile went unanswered. A suspicion crept into my mind. She must have fought with Naresh, I guessed.

Late in the evening, she finally entered the kitchen. Her hair was unkempt, her eyes dry from crying. Her face was colorless. She asked for money, saying, “Sis, I’m quitting the job. As soon as I find another one, I’ll deposit the amount into your account…”

“Why? What happened?” I asked.

“Naresh is bringing his wife from Nepal to work in my place… I felt uncomfortable. A relationship with someone else’s husband… A love that crumbles along with fading desires. And those who orchestrate such love stories are themselves fallen characters, creating tales of failed love.”

***

I woke up a bit late this morning. After completing my daily routine, I realized it was already past seven-thirty, and I needed to be at the factory by quarter to eight. My habit of not setting an alarm dates back to my time in Nepal. I believe alarms gradually make our natural routines artificial. We become slaves to alarms.

With these thoughts, I hurriedly finished my morning routine and went to the kitchen to make tea.

As I reached to open the door with the large glass window, I saw a piece of paper taped to it. It had a poem written in beautiful handwriting. It didn’t take me long to recognize the script. It was Manjita’s. But for whom was this poem written?

The poem read:

“Yesterday was good for me,

The flowers were blooming.

Yes, the garden was beautiful,

But…

Today it has become strange.

Don’t ask where it hurts,

It wasn’t sought in time.

You weren’t mine,

In the high tide of love,

Neither Nimesh nor Naresh mattered.

***

I didn’t look for Manjita. Here, it’s not customary to seek out others. Everyone here, tired of life and worn out by behavior, has their own sorrows. We Nepalese, burdened with problems and carrying the love and needs of our families, don’t have the luxury to care for others.

Here, both friends and foes are like droplets of dew, slipping away with time. Often, even the names are forgotten, just carrying another person’s passport and visa to enter Japan.

Yet, Manjita was my sister. The affection and love for her don’t fade from my heart. Unwillingly, two tears drop from my eyes.

In a soft voice, I whisper, “Sayonara, my unnamed anonymous sister… Sayonara, Manjita-saan anata osoai…”(in Japanese – you are slow Manijta-saan).

 

Source : https://www.peoplesreview.com.np/2024/05/04/sayonara-my-unnamed-anonymous-sister/