This story was told by a fourth young man. He tried to live with my father and his friends, but he found their lifestyle too grubby. He claimed that the three had only two good shirts. According to him, the lawyer always needed a shirt and the doctor (my father) and dentist wore white jackets while on duty. Father, however, needed a shirt for house calls. At night, the three arranged their dates so that the two of them could use the white shirts. The fourth young man said that he never found out when my father and his friends washed the shirts.

Our family's fortune rose rapidly after the mid-thirties. But my father never passed up a sick person because s/he lacked funds. He always made it a point to charge them something so that they would not lose face. I remember going with him to the big charity hospital where he gave service half-a-day each week.

My interest in literature started during the sixth standard, when my friends and I visited the library for the first time. In the beginning, I could not find a book I wanted to read. And then I discovered the sports' section. I was passionate about American football and started reading in earnest as much as I could on the subject. I remember reading a book about a mile runner. It was called Iron Duke. I found the passages in the book describing the young runner's psychology interesting. He came to a famous college from a small town named Wellington. His background and tenacious courage gave him the nickname "Iron Duke".

I was a mediocre student at school. I think my family's movement from one place to another - I studied in three different primary schools in the first three grades - shaped for me a poor educational base. My father's serious liver infection also impeded my progress as a student. Then again, perhaps it was the long hours I spent on the football and baseball fields!

The second primary school I attended used the "modern method". They kept the students printing their letters through second grade. They had a theory that this practice of writing in the printed letter would prepare children for reading later on. But in my third school, the children had been writing in a cursive script for a whole year. During the first week, the teacher muttered to me something about "I have no time to teach you." It was not until the fifth standard that my father realized one night that I didn't know all the letters. He put me on his lap and taught me the ones I still hadn't learnt. I think my poor spelling is due to this faulty beginning.

Then the time came for me to attend high school. My parents were doubtful if I would be able to get into Loyola Academy, the best high school in the city. Later on, I thought that my first encounter with the Jesuits was the sole reason that got me admitted to the school. I was sitting nearby the entrance in the front seat - a nervous 13-year-old - while a huge father in a formidable black cassock paced up and down the examination room. As I was filling out the first page, I got stuck at a blank which asked for my mother's name. I had always seen my father's doctor's nameplate, so I knew his name. But my mother's name? Somewhere in my mind I remember vaguely others calling her "Margaret" or maybe "Mary", but I wasn't sure. So I stopped the black figure. His "Yes!" was more of a command than a question. I explained my problem to him. He glared at me and said, "Well, what do you call her?" I said simply: "Mother."

He laughed at my reply and told me to write anything. Afterwards, I felt that this Jesuit had remembered the little boy who only knew his mom as "mother". I was lucky to get into Loyola. My freshman teacher taught me the basics of creative writing. Each week we handed in a 100-word essay. He received the essays each Friday and gave them back on Monday with helpful corrections and suggestions. Although I wrote for our freshman paper, I did not join the school newspaper. I loved playing football and the practices were demanding; I spent a lot of time in the fields. In my second year, I made the first eleven; the rest of the team were all fourth years. But unfortunately, a bad knee one year, a lung infection the next year, and an injury in another knee made it difficult for me to give my best efforts and keep up with my coach's training. Somehow though, I think, in a way, my bad knees re-directed me to spend more time on something that I've always enjoyed doing - reading the classics: English literature, and history.

A guiding principle of my life came after one game during my second year at school. My father took the time out from his medical practice to watch the game. As we were driving home from the game, he turned to me and said, "You know, Charlie, you play your best when you forget everything that the coach teaches you." Often I feel that when some creative thought for a poem or essay comes along, I have a doubt - "It seems extravagant, outlandish; no one will like it," then I remember my father's words, and I say to myself, "Forget your fears, just go with it."

I was offered football scholarships by various colleges, but I chose to go to one where I could pursue a good education. This time, I joined the college newspaper. I also got interested in a students' social action group and I wrote for their newspaper. I wrote the movie column and it was called "Law on Movies". I remember thoroughly enjoying my writing experience, as movies were another passion of mine. This combination of social service and writing has been part of my life ever since.

During my second year at college, I decided to join the Jesuit priesthood. My mother and father supported me although they felt reluctant to see me leave home. A friend and I flew down to the city where we would begin our spiritual training. I wanted to see one last movie; it was the last one for me for the next four years. We saw the classic Old Man River and, at that time, I wished I could have written one last column for "Law on Movies". But it was too late; we had only ten minutes before the deadline.

I found the two years of spiritual training tough but rewarding; the Jesuits stress the development of the humanistic person. Then we began our two years of literature studies, and I feel those years also gave me opportunities to explore my writing interests. I was able to publish many of my stories and articles in our college magazine Ripples.

There is, however, one thing I can never explain to people - my dual interest in studying literature and science. To readers it must seem like the two ends of a spectrum with nothing in-between. After studying literature for two years, I decided to choose to study physics and pursued my college studies in science. I had this idealistic notion that in some way or the other, I would be able to contribute something to this important field (as I would experience afterwards), which few Jesuits took up. Also, I was probably encouraged by my father's "Forget what the others do, follow your own star."

To the Kingdom of Nepal

Now we come to my involvement in Nepal. I remember in the beginning I wasn't sure whether I would be interested in living and working outside the States. During my interview to enter the Jesuits, I recall the father asking me a routine question: "Would you like to go to the missions?" I know I startled him with my quick and strong reply, "Not at all."

But one morning during my first year of spiritual training, I woke up and suddenly thought, "I want to go to the missions." I often wonder if this was a direct intervention of God. But I have always rationalized to myself that my belief in choosing to do something (in my case, social work) that requires selflessness and a tremendous willpower and effort to do so is in itself a spiritual journey that brings me closer to God and makes me glad to know that I have served mankind well.

After my science studies, I received my letter of approval. I had volunteered for India and was expecting to be stationed in that country. Then one day I received a letter from my superior asking me if I would be interested in going to Nepal instead of India, and that, if I would agree to the change of plans, he explained that a new school - St. Xavier's Godavari - had just opened up and they needed teachers, especially a good science teacher. This became the answer I could have given to people back in my college days when I had decided to take up science studies! It seemed to me, that in a strange way, God had intervened again and, with a purpose. I wrote back to my superior saying it was fine with me. Nothing appealed more to me at that time than to set out for this unknown destination - I had to go out and buy an atlas that same day and search for the location of Nepal on the global map!

I have never regretted this decision of mine. If I could live out two parallel fictitious lives - one in the States and the other in Nepal - I am confident that the one in Nepal would have attracted me as being the best in terms of my emotional needs. I think I would have led a good life in the States and worked with people with social problems (homeless, domestic violence, abuse, etc.) or with young people in the education sector. But in Nepal, I saw something else. I would now like to tell readers about two important experiences that gave me a deeper insight into the lives of the Nepalese people.

One day, I and three other young Jesuits went on a picnic to the edge of the Kathmandu Valley. Two boys came up to us and began talking in Nepali. We replied haltingly. They asked what we taught. I said, "Science." They pointed to their school on a distant hill. One of them said that they had no science teacher and asked me if I could come and teach at their school. When I returned to Godavari, I asked one of the older fathers if I could go. They debated the issue and would have liked to let me go, but they felt that I would not have enough experience as I had only been in Nepal for one year. The idea, however, of going out and teaching science in a local school stayed with me throughout my years as a young priest.

Later on, my life's wish came true. I went to a village to teach science in a local school. I stayed in a village for six months. I stayed in another village for four years. I lived alone, slept on the floor, ate with a family, took my recreation in the local teashops, listened to politics, saw many social problems, and finally learned about the courage and joy of the Nepalese people. They had more than made up for any little inconvenience such as not having an air conditioner, hot water, or a good road infrastructure - things which I would have taken for granted in the States.

I also began to realize that, besides teaching, the students also needed help with their lives, not just with their studies. I organized and gave workshops on psycho-spiritualism. We had a question box and two questions kept recurring. One question was about the problem of evil. For example, it raised issues as to why some people got sick whereas others stayed healthy or why some people died young. Based on these points, I wrote a small book Why Suffering?

The other question could be put in a single sentence: how do you form good habits? I went back to my psychology classes and wrote Motivation. Finally, I wrote a longer and more general book, The Challenge of Your Personality. All of these books sold out. I think a writer who is only interested in being able to see his/her name in print has misplaced priorities. They should be able to write about what comes from their hearts! Although I was busy overseeing my classes and taking charge of the hostel, I discovered a new outlet for my interest in writing - articles for the government daily, The Rising Nepal. I wrote many articles on motivation, habits, personality, and psychological problems.

Then one day I sat in my room for a short break. I held my pen over the paper. But nothing came. I was too tired to write and revise a long essay. So I jotted down a poem. For two or three days, I changed and revised my poem; I added text to it. And finally I had a complete poem. I directed my energy into these creative efforts and, after writing a few more pieces, I sent them off to a Jesuit magazine.

I was a little disappointed that all my poems were rejected. But the comments and suggestions from the magazine were good. I changed my style a bit and revised my poems. After I added a few more of them, I sent them all off again. This time, the editor ran two pages just on my poems. He gave them the title "Common People". So I have been writing poetry ever since, sometimes getting published, sometimes just sending them to friends and benefactors in my thank-you notes.

I continued writing articles on social subjects for local newspapers. Right about that time I added another dimension to my writing process by asking a friend of mine to translate my articles into Nepali. I think social and political articles have a wider readership in Nepal when they are written in the national language. Eventually I had to return to the city because the school management there needed competent manpower to continue its educational commitment to St. Xavier's School. I will, however, always look upon those years in a Nepalese village as the happiest days of my life.

I often wish I could get all my poems published in a book. But publishers say that poetry books don't sell nowadays. I remain content and sometimes wonder about, "How much talent do I have?" But that doesn't seem to signify anymore, especially when I see the wretchedness on the streets - the poverty, isolation of human beings - and sometimes, the cruelty, brutality of others, which fills me with much sadness. I think I would have to be made of stone not to want to express my pathos to other people about the pain I feel in witnessing such sights.

Some people speak in broken English; some speak in broken Nepali. Perhaps I speak in broken poetry and, at the same time, realize that the suppressed and exploited in Nepal don't really have a voice to express the realism of their pain and hardships. But I do wish to speak for them, in loud and poetical verses. It all goes back to what my father said that Sunday afternoon: "You know, Charlie, you play your best when you forget everything that the coach teaches you."