Umisha KC
Editor
My father has a pen name that he loves more than he loves the name given to him. In his long-haired youth, before he had to take on the responsibilities of looking after his aging parents and soon after his newlywed bride and two kids, my father dreamt of being a writer. He penned poems and stories and essays during his younger years. My father, so lovingly named Uddhab after a disciple of Lord Krishna by my grandparents, adopted the name Marmik to churn out his musings. The name Marmik means touching or poignant in Hindi. Although my father had to retire his pen name in order to support his family, I often think about the stacks of poems he keeps in our attic.
My father also loves the news. He loves the news so much that I would not hesitate to call the news his hobby. From the radio to the newspaper to the news channels, my dad consumes every bit of news he can get. I clearly remember waiting around for my dad to get off the TV so I could watch a show. I remember the fights we would have. I could not fathom why he would want to watch the news again when he had just watched it an hour ago. How much could it have changed in an hour anyway? My dad, on the other hand, wanted to cultivate this love in me too. Every week he brought me this children’s newspaper so aptly named Kopila (meaning flower bud in Nepali) for me to go through. Although the news I was getting as a child was not really news (the paper had comics, coloring competitions, and short poems), it did start a love for reading within me. When I started preferring the paper in English, he started buying me The Himlayan Times.
I don’t know when I first fell in love with the English language. Growing up bilingual in the suburbs of Kathmandu, Nepal, I grew to love this second language. The tilts of the words rolling off my tongue, the imagery in the pages of the books I couldn’t put down and the ease with which I could express myself better in English than in my mother tongue Nepali confirmed what I suspected at heart: I loved this foreign language. When I broke into my father’s desk drawer to sneakily read his poems, I wished they were in English.
Now as editor of The Spectator, it is weird to see how I managed to take the two things that my father loved and roll with it. I am who I am because of my parents, and it is weird, but fitting, to see that I seem to live my life honoring them even when I don’t realize it. I find it in the way I cook mushrooms, the way I part my hair, and the way I carry myself around. Although a scary notion sometimes (I am my own person, I swear), it is also a comforting thought. It also makes me feel like a better daughter. If my life is the sum of the parts, these two people are pretty good parts to add up.