Nasturtium

There’s a certain feeling attached to certain things—stuff around us. The gush of air around October, new flowers after winter, the Lumineers playing, going up on a Ferris wheel, watching children play—somehow, all of it makes you feel like you’re in a different stage of life. It pulls you back to the past—makes your heart weep and your mind strangely content.
Nostalgia—funny thing it is.

Nasturtium does the same for me. After so long, my path crossed with it today. Just for an ounce of a second, but I recognized it from afar. I could see it waving to me even through the haze. And I knew—it was melancholic for me to see it again, as much as it was for it to see me.

Back then, around Dashain, when I spent the best time of my childhood at mamaghar, Nasturtium was everything in my imaginary world. It was fine china, diamond jewelry, ruby accessories—everything my little mind could imagine. It sufficed.

Hajurmamu used to call me from the kitchen to bring her Nasturtium leaves. I would quickly wash my hands before plucking them—my sacred duty, entrusted to me among all her grandchildren. And I was a loyal soldier.

Never failed—except once, when I gave my thulo baba “basi pani” to wash his face before his nitya jap.
He doesn’t need to know that, though. I realized it much later. Anyway, I was Hajurmamu’s soldier, not his. No regrets—not at all. 

She used to serve everything she cooked on those leaves— one serving for the dog, one for the crow, one for the cow, and maybe even one for the ants.

I would carefully carry them, call out to the animals, and feed them all. It was fun then, but later I realized—I was learning something greater: Bhoota Yajna (भूत यज्ञ)—an offering to all living beings, a reminder that we are not the center of the universe, but part of it.

Exactly the philosophy of Hinduism I live by—“तत् त्वम् असि” (Tat Tvam Asi)—“You are That.”

The same divine essence that created the universe (Brahman) exists within you (Ātman).
There’s no separation—only the illusion (Māyā) of it.
So when you feed, love, serve, or harm anyone—you’re doing it to yourself.
Because Tat Tvam Asi—You are That.

After feeding the animals, I would sit for dinner. One serving would always be placed on Nasturtium leaves—for the Devas and Pitris.

Simple leaves, yet they held worlds of memory and learning. But those worlds faded. I went to mamaghar less and less. Nasturtium slipped from memory, buried under goals and dreams. The last time I went there, they had buried the Nasturtium too—a new house stood over all my memories. Hajurmamu had grown old. She didn’t recognize me. Her little soldier—the keeper of her belief—was buried under her memories, just as Nasturtium had been under mine.

But Nasturtium never truly dies. Its roots remain deep in the soil, waiting to rise again. I couldn’t hope the same for Hajurmamu—to remember me again.
She went away, far away.

Maybe she became the red glowing star I see on my way home every night—whispering softly, “It’s going to be okay.”

Maybe it will, hajurmamu. 

Maybe it would have been—maybe if you had remembered me the last time I saw you. Maybe I’d have been just okay, just a little bit, if my last memory of you wasn’t you forgetting me. Maybe if I saw you one more time. Maybe if they had told me you're no longer with us, I would have been there for you the last time. I would have come for you, only if I had known. But I was forgotten again. 

Maybe I’d be a little more alright if I were Nasturtium—no one could have forgotten me.