Sahaj Shrestha
My parents, Badri and Bhuban, weren’t storybook characters. They weren’t wealthy and famous, but they were the authors of the most profound story I’ve ever known. It wasn’t a tale of grand adventures or epic battles, but a tapestry woven with threads of love, sacrifice, and unwavering belief in the power of good.
My Father, the head teacher, wasn’t just a dispenser of knowledge, he was a sculptor of minds, shaping young hearts with the chisel of ethics and the trowel of honesty. He saw potentials and possibilities, where others saw limitations and poverty. His love for his students mirrored his for his four children. He’d spend evenings hunched over lesson plans, the scent of chalk dust clinging to his worn suit, yet still find time to weave fantastical bedtime stories filled with brave princesses and mischievous dragons.
My Mother, the store owner, was a warrior in an apron. She juggled bills, battled suppliers, and raised us with the ferocity of a lioness protecting her cubs. Her store wasn’t just a source of income, it was a community hub. She listened to woes, offered solace, and dispensed advice seasoned with a sprinkle of her mischievous wit. Every wrinkle on her face spoke of battles fought and won, every calloused hand a testament to the weight she carried with grace.
Their struggles were real, their sacrifices profound. They gave up on luxuries, scrimped on meals, so we could have books, uniforms, and dreams bigger than our tiny small room. They’d sit at the kitchen , a single deem bulb casting long shadows, discussing not just how to make ends meet, but how to raise kind, compassionate humans.
Father, with his quiet intensity, would say, “Remember, children, honesty is a shield, truth your compass. Let kindness be your weapon, and love your armor.”
Mother, her eyes sparkling like the stars peeping through the roof, would add, “And fight for what’s right, even when your voice trembles. Never let anyone dim your light, my darlings. Shine brighter than the sun, and chase your dreams with the ferocity of a tigress.”
They weren’t perfect. They argued, they worried, they made mistakes. But through it all, their love for each other, for us, was a constant melody, a lullaby that soothed our fears and fueled our ambitions.
One October, the melody fell silent. Father, his spirit worn but heart ablaze, left us with a final, “Remember, my dears, be the change you wish to see.”
Three months later, as if echoing his words, Mother, her eyes holding the wisdom of a thousand moons, whispered, “My little flames, never let your fire die.”
Their absence left a gaping hole, but their legacy filled it with warmth. We, their children, became the threads, each carrying a piece of their tapestry. My brother, the Executive Director of Nepal’s Casino industry , his kindness a balm to suffering hearts. My sister, the teacher and Business women , her father’s passion burning in her eyes as she ignites young minds. My other brother, the graphic designer,his mother’s fighting spirit his shield as he defends the voiceless.
And me, the filmmaker/Environmental journalist , weaving their stories with ink and memory, ensuring their love story, their struggles, their triumphs, are forever etched in our hearts and shared with the world.
Theirs wasn’t a grand narrative, but in its simplicity, in the quiet heroism of everyday love, lies the most profound truth: that a legacy isn’t built on wealth or fame, but on the love we give, the values we uphold, and the fire we ignite in the hearts of those we touch.
And as I look at my siblings, united not just by blood but by the tapestry woven by our parents, I know their love story isn’t over. It’s just beginning, a new chapter written with every act of kindness, every whispered memory, every dream pursued with the unwavering belief that we can, we must, be the change they always knew we could be.
This, my friends, is the story of Badri and Bhuban, two ordinary souls who wrote an extraordinary love letter in the lives they touched. It’s a story that will forever remind me that the greatest legacy isn’t one we leave behind, but the one we carry within, a burning ember passed from generation to generation, lighting the way for all who dare to dream, to love, and to fight for the world our parents always knew was possible.
Shrestha is senior journalist and former president of NEFEJ.
प्रतिक्रिया लेख्नुहोस्:-