Ode to Sita Didi

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I stopped to watch a woman dancing in front of a small temple this afternoon, right in the middle of town near Bhat Bhateni. It was beautiful, and my love for Nepal came rushing back again.

This afternoon Sita came to collect money for the electric and phone. She asked how many days before I leave, and said that she wants to take a photo with me before then so that she can frame it and hang it on her wall. To think that I have affected this woman’s life in such a short amount of time made my eyes tear up.

She then asked if I had any female condoms left.

I was shocked. “You know what this is?” I asked in Nepali, pointing to the open one sitting on my kitchen table.

She went on to explain that when she lived in the village she used to take birth control pills because she didn’t want to have 9 or 10 kids like some women, but since moving to Kathmandu they’ve been using condoms or nothing. So she wanted the kind of condom she could wear. I gave her a couple of boxes.

Here I had condoms, a vibrator, and a penis model just lying around out in the open of my apartment, thinking she probably didn’t know what they were, but she knew all along. I explained it was my work, and she said my work is “derai raamro”—very good.

I can’t believe the level of conversation I can have with her now. Sometimes the language barrier gets the best of us, like the other day when I asked her to make some roti (flat bread) and eggs. She was trying to figure out how I wanted my eggs cooked, and I was trying to explain, but we were confusing each other. “Maile bugina” (I don’t understand), she said.

“Maile bugina!” I said, and we both burst out laughing. It was a lot of fun.

I think moving into my own place was worth it just to get to know Sita and have the experience of having a didi. It made me very uncomfortable at first to have a domestic worker, but while she took care of me, I introduced her to everything from kiwis to Korean food to The L Word, so I guess it was a reciprocal relationship. Not to mention I put quite a bit of extra money in her pocket for several months. I wish she was literate so that I could write her letters. But maybe if I mail them her daughter can read them to her. I’m going to miss Sita didi.

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