Building of My House

When it comes to digging into my 'hoardings' I am so dexterous. I am so  meticulous, I do not miss anything. On one of such excursions, I found what I was looking for, which of course, was bound to happen as I am, as I said above, is so good at it. 

I found the picture of my old house that I built in my village, Phakhel after coming to USA in 1974. As one never forgets first love, I never forget this house. Oh, the building of this house! The imagery comes back to my mind, so fresh and so vivid as if it happened just yesterday even though it happened more than 30 years ago. 

The best thing about building this house was, it was built by my family and the neighbors alone. We did not hire any architect....architect in the true sense of the word. The village bricklayers were the architect and we were labors. We carried bricks in 'dokos', knead our own mud, cut our own timbers, we did everything by ourselves to build this house:) I remember bringing the slate tiles for the roof from Gajuri (Dhading district) in a truck. But it took the laborers I hired more than a week to carry them on their back using 'doko' and 'namlo' uphill to the construction site, which was about three or four miles on foot from where the tiles were unloaded. And the roof of the adjacent house, in which my sister lives now, was brought from Kathmandu. The tiles were from a Rana's house and very different from those regular tiles that were in use then.

I remember the daily lunch preparation for the workers. Oh, they used be like fiesta. My mother along with the help from female members of the neighborhood used to prepare it. 

Now I think of it, the harmony in the collectiveness of the whole village for the one cause - the building of that house...the 'phenomenon', ... the solidarity...is it how 'uprising' feel like? Whatever it was, I can still feel it every time I look at that picture of my house, maybe it was the feeling of creation.