KRISHNA SHARMA

LIFE IN AMERICA

Laugh at me, if you want. And here is why: A journalist newly arrived in America, whom I had never met while in Nepal, and who boasted of being a top scribe back home, said to me in Hindi, “Look, brother, I am from Nepal. I manage an online journal from here. I employ five journalists in Nepal. I pay them 300 dollars each per month.” I don’t really remember what else he said while I was buying gas and a calling card from him at a gas station that he was working at. One thing was obvious, though: He thought I was from India or Pakistan or Bangladesh, or maybe even Sri Lanka.

“Wow. You are doing awesome. Good luck with your service to the country of your origin” I replied to him in Hindi. I then went back to my car, filled the tank, and drove home. In that foggy and rainy January evening, while I stepped more on the brake than on the gas due to unending bumper-to-bumper traffic, I kept wondering why on earth someone who makes enough money to employ journalists back in Nepal should have to work at a gas station!

I was wondering whether I should tell this interesting story to my wife. I decided not to. I did not want to make this person a laughing stock.

The story, however, did not end there. They say the world is round because we keep meeting. Two days later, we were surprised to see each other at a social function organized by a Nepali community member in Virginia.

He came up to me and asked if I was from Nepal. I told him I was. He took my right hand in both of his, and announced his name with a smile. I could see the tobacco he was chewing when he opened his mouth to speak or smile. I told him my name. “Are you the one who worked at The Washington Post?” he asked. I smiled at him and replied in the affirmative. He looked straight into my eyes for a while. Then he stepped back a little, and said I should write for his online journal.

“How much would you pay for an article?” I asked. The wrinkles on both sides of his eyes became more prominent when he smiled. Then he asked me not to tell a joke. I told him I was not joking, and also that I have seldom written a piece without the prospect of payment. Then he changed the topic, and asked if I knew how to get a press accreditation card to The White House. I told him I had no idea about that, as that I never tried to get one.

His jaw dropped in surprise. I repeated that I had no interest in getting into the White House. He laughed, and said that I was an interesting man.
“I wish I could be an interesting man,” I told myself.

On the way home, my wife asked me about the person I was talking to. I told her who he said he was, because I did not know anything about him except what he had told me.

“How is that possible?” she wondered.

I did not have an answer to that question.

Out of curiosity, I visited his news site upon returning home. The site was a mixed bag of pieces either plagiarized or completely copied from other Nepali news sites. There was nothing to make one go ‘wow’.

Also in the website were a couple of advertisements of law firms, international money transfer agencies, and restaurants. According to a friend of mine who also manages an online journal and publishes such advertisements in his journal, most of them do not pay a single penny for putting up these ads. “We do it to confuse people” I still remember him saying.

To add a dramatic twist to my feelings for him and to this story as well, the so-called journalist called me the other day and asked if he could come to my house the following day. Because that would be Saturday, I said I would be pretty busy with the kids since my wife would go to work. He said he wanted to meet me, and I could not say ‘no’.

When he pressed the doorbell of my tiny townhouse, my hands were wet as I was washing dishes. He and his wife greeted me and talked to my daughter while I finished kitchen chores. His wife came to my rescue when the milk I had set on the stove for coffee spilled and gave off a bad odor.

He muttered from the living room to the effect that I should not multi-task while making coffee. I kept calm. We sipped coffee as the kids played Mario over the WII. It started raining outside.

His wife then said that he wanted to say something, but didn’t know how to say it. I replied that there should be no reason to hesitate. After about a minute’s silence, he spoke up, and told me that what he had said at the gas station was not true.

I replied that I knew that already.

Then he opened up. He said his passion was in audio-visual journalism. I wished him good luck. This time, he did not ask me how he could become a member at the National Press Club, although I knew how


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