Part 2: Behind the smile: the story of unspoken pain

Part-2

Before beginning the next part of story let me introduce you Sarita basnyat from my viewpoint

Sarita basnyat

I have always felt that I was blessed with two mothers—one who gave me life, and another who gave my life a different meaning.

One is my Janmadine Aama, and the other is my Karmadine Aama. I have never been able to differentiate between them, because in my heart, they both hold the same place.

Sarita Mamu is a bold, strong, independent, charming, and charismatic woman. Almost everyone who knows her loves and admires her. But for me, she is much more than that. She is home.

She works as a senior teacher at Bhuwaneshori Satyal Foundation, but no matter how busy her day was, she somehow always managed to come home before me. She would prepare food, wait for me, and somehow know the exact moment I would arrive. The moment I reached home, she would open the gate for me.

Sometimes I still wonder—how did she always know?

Our relatives would often tease her, saying, “Sarita, Rashmi is not your daughter-in-law; she is your son.”

And she would proudly reply, “Rashmi, you are my son.”

Our relationship never had a proper definition. It was sometimes filled with little fights, sometimes love, sometimes pampering, sometimes endless laughter. But beneath everything was a bond that needed no explanation.

With her encouragement, I learned to ride a scooter. With her words, I learned not to lose hope. She taught me that no matter how difficult life becomes, I must keep moving forward.

Our ordinary days became some of my most precious memories.

She would come home early, prepare food, and wait for me. I would change my clothes, and then we would sit together—watch movies, play games, have dinner, do chores, talk about everything and nothing, and sometimes stay awake talking through the entire night. We even slept in the same room like two little girls who had forgotten the world outside.

In the morning, she would wake up early and prepare breakfast for both of us. She had to reach school by 8 a.m., so I would leave for work after she left.

Nothing about those moments was extraordinary.

And yet, everything about them was precious.

There is always one person in my life who has witnessed my different phases, my changes, my struggles, my happiness, my tears, and my growth—Mr. S.G.

Some people enter our lives through blood. Some through circumstances. And some simply become family without asking for a name or a definition.

Sarita Mamu became that person for me.

Maybe a mother is not only the woman who gives birth to you. Sometimes, a mother is the woman who waits for you to come home, opens the gate when you arrive, saves a plate of food for you, listens to your stories, fights with you, laughs with you, teaches you to keep going—and quietly makes you feel that you are never alone.

 further ahead continuing the story,She was never allowed to go anywhere alone; her maid always accompanied her. Her life was filled with beautiful moments, comfort, responsibilities, and sacrifices. Every wish was fulfilled before she even asked—expensive clothes, branded shoes, elegant bags, and much more.

Everyone in the family loved her dearly and treated her like a delicate flower. Her brothers were especially protective. Once, when some boys teased her on her way to college, her brothers confronted them and taught them a lesson.

She often shared stories of her family’s close relationship with the royal family. She even spoke of Sushila Thapa, whom she remembered as Nepal’s first woman Health Minister.

One story stayed with me. She told me that King Mahendra affectionately called her father “Gyanu.” Once, the King said, “I am very happy with you, Gyanu. Ask for as much land as you want, and I will grant it.”

Her father humbly replied, “Chahidaina, Sarkar. Asto kadaghari ma jagga liyera ke garnu ra?”

His simple answer revealed a man who valued contentment over wealth. Her stories painted a picture of a life surrounded by love and privilege, yet shaped by responsibility, tradition, and sacrifice.

To be continued……….