Three sisters in a sewing shop
Three sisters in a sewing shop
Futung, Kathmanudu, 2005
I took this photo of three sisters while walking through the Futung section of outer Kathmandu. The shop sat on the right side of the road as you walked into the hills that surround the capital.
[text below from a journal entry I wrote six years later, on June 18th, 2011]
"Today I walked my usual hairpin route through Dadagaun, Futung, and Manamaiju. In my backpack I carried a couple of dozen six-year-old photos.
I was looking for a sewing shop where I took two photos of three young women many years ago.
The first photo [seen below], was a staid one of the three;
the second [seen above] was snapped after I cracked a face and got them to laugh.
Having walked the area many times, I know that the small closet-like space the shop used to fill has now been taken over by another business.
I stopped at another nearby sewing shop, where a woman sat behind one of those timeless boat-anchor-heavy sewing machines that will outlive us all. I show her the photo and ask with my voice, face, and hands if she might recognize them. She doesn't.
Another woman, who is either waiting for some sewing, or just hiding from the mid-afternoon sun, takes a look as well. No joy.
From across the road, a man in his thirties ambles over. He looks at the photo for a moment, then looks at me, raises his head a tick, and wordlessly points down the road.
I give him my thanks and head off.
Past the three women filling water jugs at the tap.
Past two baby goats,
one who’s mostly black, but for her ears which look like they're covered with white lace
(or a smattering of snow flakes).
Two students in their schools brown skirts and socks walk ahead of me.
I follow the jog in the road that passes by Nag Pokhari;
its thin statue of nagas (snakes) standing in the middle of a square of murky greenish water.
There is an idle butcher shop up on my left. As I pass it, I look back—I like how it’s patina walls contrast with the red cloth that is draped over the counter and the scale. There are a few small spots on the wall; blood I would guess, but only for the fact that it’s a butcher shop.
Two young girls, curiously the exact same height, pass by holding hands. I smile at them and ask “Teekcha?” (are you well?). They laugh to hear me speak Nepali, and smiling, continue on their way. The one on the right holds an orange twenty-rupee note rolled in her little hand. Sent off to buy something from the shop, I think to myself.
The road completes it’s turn and there is a wide spot that reminds me of a gathering place in Manamaiju. A large tree stands at the far end, and a few ducks are conducting business in it’s shade.
Past the ducks, past the tree.
Past a large metal gate that has been stood up at the side of the road, I assume to dry a fresh coat of paint. The various pieces of iron are arc-welded together. Walk most areas for more than a few minutes and you’ll pass an open-air bamboo shack, blue packets of electric snow-blindness shooting out the side.
The gate has two small bas-reliefs on it—one of the Buddha, one of Ganesh. I wonder if the shop makes the entire gates themselves, save these two decorative pieces which they have to order and weld on at the end.
Up ahead I can see the school with the laundry hung in the playground. I’ve reached the turn-around point quicker than I remembered. Do I want to walk all the way up to the gate of the school? No, it’s enough to just look at the shops by the gate and to see that, no, there are no sewing shops.
I turn around and start walking back towards the ducks.
I hear the quick burp of a motorcycle horn and on the left side of the street, the man from earlier is looking at me. Once he sees I see him, he points down a path that leads from the road.
I give him my thanks again, and he drives off.
I’m not sure who yet, but one of the three sisters in my photo lives down this path.
In a pretty blue colored house, as it turns out.
No one seems to answer when I call “bohini?” (young sister?)
I will try tomorrow, Saturday, when schools are out and people seem more liable to be at home.
(Curiously, I was almost in this exact spot about six weeks ago, but of course would’ve never known it. At the time, I was listening to the parade-like brass and percussion of a hired wedding band. From across a terraced rice field I could see the color of the sarees, and the top of the wedding tent.)
I walk back through Phutung and again see the two girls of identical height heading back my way. Namaste I tell them. The one little girl still has the orange note in her hand.
Perhaps the shop was out of cheenee (sugar) I think to myself."
I returned another day, and was able to find one of the sisters at home.
(I know I wrote down her name, I just don't know where—hopefully I can find it in the future)
She is seen below, in 2011, at her beautiful blue house.
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