Rishi Ram Paudyal

It's winter and towards the late afternoon, I come out of my house carrying a black shoulder-bag that contains a notebook and a pen. My jacket's pocket also has two sheets of white paper and a pen. It’s not that I love going out in the freezing winter while other people are staying at home, most probably, either in their beds or by the fire or some kind of heat. I'm on a mission. I have some tough university assignments to do. As an almost complete novice in linguistics, I've got to have some experience of learning a new language and I have made a decision to go with Newari language. As an MPhil-PhD scholar, simply learning basic Newari language won't be enough; that won't do. I've got to go a bit further.

The professors won't probably mind if I can't speak the language fluently. If you are fortunate enough, one day you may meet some linguists who have written grammars of other languages but they themselves are not that fluent. It appears, observing and analysing a language is one thing, speaking the language fluently with the right accent and in the right contexts is another. However, in my case, I'm a bit driven by temptation to learn to speak the language a bit, which it seems doesn't come that easy. Further, I have decided that I will write one term paper on tense aspect, another on constituent order, and the next on verb agreement, which to me are herculean tasks, entangling webs, and intricate mazes.

I walk like a nomad looking for somebody who will help me enter their world – the Newari world. Having lived in Kathmandu for quite a long time, I have, of course, heard people talk in Newari and on occasions, I have also used a couple of or so phrases with absolute confidence such as 'jojolapa', a greeting; and 'mhãphula' meaning 'how are you?'. Ignorance is bliss. Whatever I spoke might not have been that good but my confidence level was always pretty high. Now that I am aware of the language, my confidence seems to be waning. It seems to have been replaced by intimidation, fear, and shame. However, I can't let it reign and put me in a jail. I've got to fight this battle successfully first and win the war later. I've got to make a decisive intervention.

To my right, I see a small grocery shop open. The shopkeeper appears to be a Newar. 'Jojolapa', I greet with a smile. 'Jojolapa' he promptly responds. As I go near, I see a woman sitting near him who is his wife. I try some phrases with them but soon they confide that they themselves don't know Newari well and their very children struggle a lot to speak their mother tongue. Well, that was their case and they seem to be quite happy with that. But for me, their story won't change my story. By hook or crook, I've got to get some Newari for my assignments. So I walk away, not with discouragement, but with fervent hopes that I will find somebody proficient in my linguistic journey. My notebook, two sheets of paper, and pens may have to wait for some time before I find the right person(s).