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The Collapsing Old House and Chamsuri’s Pain

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The Villagers’ Awakening 

The village of Vedanpur had finally understood what was really happening, but the truth was hard to swallow. The spectacle was over. The audience had dispersed. Chamsuri was left standing on a stage of her own making, the boards now rotten beneath her feet. Her dance, once a triumphant performance of dominance, had become a desperate, shuffling routine to maintain the illusion.

The “reckoning” was not a single, dramatic event, but a slow, inexorable erosion. The Brahmin patriarch and the Magar matriarch, the twin pillars of Chamsuri’s power, were now gone. Their passing left a void not of grief, but of unchecked accountability. With them died the last vestiges of unquestioned authority that had shielded her.

The Unforgivable Blow from Dile’s First Write Up

The final, unforgivable blow came not from a village gossip, but from the written word. Dile, from his life in Kathmandu, published a poignant account of his life. A heart-wrenching narrative of a son’s longing for a love and recognition that was always withheld. A stark detailing of the systemic injustice that favoured one branch of the family over the other.

The essay was a seismic shock. In Vedanpur, photocopies were passed from hand to calloused hand. The villagers, who had once whispered, now read the unvarnished truth in black and white.

Chamsuri and Nakkale were shaken to their core. The carefully constructed narrative of their superiority was collapsing faster than the old house. In a fit of insane rage, Chamsuri did the unthinkable. She went onto the Nepal Touch website where the essay was published and wrote a furious comment, wishing for Dile’s death. “He has spat on our family’s honor!” she shrieked, her digital vitriol a permanent testament to her fury. “May he perish for this betrayal!” She then furiously called Nakkale’s uncles’ daughters, both in Nepal and abroad, repeating her venomous wishes. This was her pattern. She had always boasted of her wealth, a fortune built on the sacrifice of Putali and Dile, and took a perverse happiness in every struggle and sorrow they endured. Now, exposed, her happiness curdled into public, crazed hatred.

The House on Shaky Ground

With the patriarch and matriarch gone, the full, unvarnished truth of the inheritance was laid bare. Dile, true to a lifetime of principled silence, had never set foot in Vedanpur to claim a single inch of land. He wanted nothing from the father who had given him nothing. Not love, not security, not a shred of paternal duty. The entire estate, including everything the patriarch had earned in Mumbai (money that was rightfully part of the paternal wealth to be shared between both sons), was now firmly in the grasp of Nakkale and Chamsuri.

This should have been their ultimate victory. Instead, it became their prison.

There was one final, symbolic piece of the “paternal property”: the old, dilapidated house and the small, rocky plot that the patriarch had originally allocated to his first wife. It was the site of Putali’s suffering, a place of painful memories for Dile, and a crumbling eyesore for Chamsuri.

A cruel irony began to gnaw at them. To finally silence the villagers and perhaps their own stirring consciences, they wanted nothing more than for Dile to come to the village, formally register this worthless plot in his name, and absolve them of it. They believed that if Dile accepted this neglected property, they could finally boast that they had, after all, “handed over” his share. It was the ultimate act of rewriting history, and his refusal shattered the possibility.

The Second Exposure

Chamsuri’s public comment and venomous phone calls were the final straw for Dile. Her hatred, now documented for all to see, pushed him to write again. This time, he did not write a sorrowful letter, but a devastating chronicle. He published “Dance Chamsuri, Dance,” laying bare the entire village drama. The manipulation by Jhumri. The tyranny of Chamsuri. The weakness of Nakkale. The cabal of villagers like Chankhe who fueled the flames. The story of the naming ceremony, the unjust land division, the stolen earnings from Muglan. It was all there, laid bare with a dignity that made their past complicity feel shameful. For a lifetime, Putali had tried to express her hardships to the villagers. They would listen with feigned sympathy, only to rush to Chamsuri’s in-laws, exaggerating her words and painting Putali as a bad-mouthed, ungrateful woman. Now, Dile’s words forced them to finally reckon with the sorrows they had helped perpetuate.

This second exposure shook the couple’s foundation to dust. The essay was a mirror held up to their lives, and the reflection was monstrous. Now, their misdeeds were not just implied. They were named, detailed, and immortalized. Every word Dile published thereafter, on any topic, sent them into a fresh spiral of paranoia. They became convinced that every new essay, every social media post, was another coded expose, another chapter dedicated to unveiling their lifelong sins to the world. This constant fear festered into a genuine mental affliction, a shared psychosis where they saw their own condemnation in every line Dile wrote.

The Psychological Cage

Now, the old house became more than just a building. It became a monument to their bad karma, a physical representation of the suppression and oppression “Dance Chamsuri, Dance” had revealed. Every monsoon, they heard reports from their loyal spies, Indre and Burche: “The roof sags more,” “The wall has a new crack,” “It will not survive the next storm.”

The house’s impending collapse became an obsession. Chamsuri, who once boasted of building empires, now spent her nights agonizing over a collapsing mud-and-tile roof. Nakkale, who had never questioned where the money came from, now lay awake, paralyzed by a new, terrifying fear.

“They will blame us if it falls,” Nakkale would mutter, his face pale. “They will say we neglected it on purpose, that we couldn’t even preserve the one thing that was rightfully his. It will be the final proof of everything he wrote.”

“Let them talk!” Chamsuri would retort, but her voice was now a hysterical whisper. “We are not building him a new house! Why should we? He got nothing in his life, he gets nothing now!”

But her defiance was a mask for a more calculated fear. The truth was, they desperately needed the house to stand. Its continued existence, however fragile, was their only evidence. They could point to it and tell the villagers, “See? We have offered it to him. It is there for him. He is the one who is too proud, too ungrateful to accept it.” The crumbling house was their shield against the court of public opinion. If it fell, that shield would vanish, and they would be exposed as the people who had not just stolen an inheritance, but had callously let the last symbolic shred of it turn to dust.

So Chamsuri and Nakkale were trapped. Letting the house collapse would make them the undeniable villains. Saving it meant financially acknowledging a debt they refused to pay. The house had to stand, but it could not cost them a thing. It was an impossible equation that churned in their minds day and night, a perfect, maddening circle of anxiety born from their own poisoned legacy.

The Courage to Write: Truth-Telling in Nepali Community

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In our culture that often prizes harmony over honesty, writing truthfully feels like walking a tightrope without a net. Every word risks offending someone, challenging tradition, or exposing uncomfortable realities we’ve collectively agreed to ignore. Yet this is precisely why we need writers willing to take that risk.

The journey of truth-telling in Nepali communities comes with invisible burdens. As Chitra Pradhan often observes in his thoughtful social media commentaries, those who don’t understand you may attack you first. But his wisdom reminds us that beyond the initial resistance lies potential for meaningful dialogue – if we’re brave enough to persist through the discomfort.

The reality of writing truth in our communities comes with invisible price tags. Like Chitra Pradhan experienced, there’s a special kind of isolation that comes with voicing uncomfortable truths. Social media becomes a theater where friends cheer from the shadows but refuse to stand beside you in the light. They’ll message privately – “I agree with you but…” – while their public profiles show conspicuous silence. The same people who egg you on to be bolder will be first to whisper “I knew he’d get in trouble” when backlash comes.

I’ve felt this tension personally. My own wife, my most honest critic, frequently asks with concern: “Why write what will make people angry?” Her worry reflects our collective conditioning – we’ve been taught that keeping the peace matters more than speaking truth. When corruption masquerades as tradition and injustice gets dismissed as “just how things are,” breaking the silence does make you a target.

Yet beneath this surface of enforced harmony flows an underground current of solidarity. The private messages that arrive like secret handshakes – “You said what I couldn’t.” The knowing glances from acquaintances in Tim Hortons. These moments reveal our society’s painful contradiction: we punish public dissent while privately craving someone to voice the truths we all see but dare not name. In this sense, those who dare to write about these community issues are black rams! 

Writers like Punya Sagar Marahatta embody this necessary courage. Through his incisive commentary on issues like “unknown candidates” in our elections or the “fake refugees” phenomenon, he demonstrates how truth-telling can illuminate our collective shadows. His work, like that of many others, faces the predictable cycle of initial resistance followed by grudging recognition – exactly as Chitra Pradhan describes.

The resistance we face says less about our writing and more about how uncomfortable growth feels. Every cultural shift begins with someone saying aloud what everyone knows but won’t acknowledge.

As readers and writers, we face a choice: will we continue whispering our truths in private while maintaining polite silence in public? Or will we create spaces – in our conversations, our social media, our communities – where honest dialogue can flourish?

The next time you read something that challenges but resonates, consider this: your silence protects the status quo, but your engagement – a like, a comment, a conversation – helps change it. The writers brave enough to speak truth need readers brave enough to stand with them.

After all, a society that only tolerates comfortable truths will never grow beyond them. Our collective future depends on having these uncomfortable conversations today. Who will you support in speaking them?

When Political Loyalty Distorts Reality: A Sign, Some Laughter, and How We See What We Want to See

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Introduction: The Delight of Linguistic Discovery
I never expected my playful observation about a political sign would spark such controversy. There it was—a conservative leader’s campaign board reading “Axe the Tax on Homes,” its words awkwardly divided across two lines. To my linguist’s eye, the accidental double meaning was irresistible: “Stop Sales / Tax Homes!!” The irony was perfect—a tax-cutting slogan that, through clumsy design, could be read as advocating precisely what it opposed. I shared this humorous linguistic discovery online, anticipating fellow word enthusiasts might enjoy the joke. Instead, I witnessed how quickly language play collides with political tribalism, and how our capacity for humor evaporates when ideology enters the conversation.

The Battle Over Meaning
The responses fell into distinct camps. The first commenter, a linguistically-inclined friend, set the tone with measured analysis: “When the given sentence is divided into two sentences, then you are right! Otherwise, I do not agree.” His distinction was crucial – he acknowledged the design’s ambiguity without dismissing the intended policy. My reply – “They divided it (for a reason), not I!” – highlighted how the sign’s formatting created the double meaning. His follow-up (“This is design, not a divide”) further clarified his view.

Then another participant offered a diplomatic perspective: “Yes, both of you are correct. It’s a very ambiguous sentence.” This comment was a quiet masterstroke, validating both perspectives while modeling how to depoliticize language.

The Spectrum of Reactions
The literalists analyzed the sign as a communication failure. One noted: “It should read ‘Axe the sales tax on new homes,'” pointing out how line breaks create unintended meanings. The defenders reacted as if I’d launched a political attack rather than a grammatical observation. “You’re misleading people!” insisted one particularly vocal participant, who later escalated: “It was deliberately made misleading by you… Someone like you shouldn’t do this seriously.” This revealed a deeper pattern – for some, any interpretation diverging from party orthodoxy wasn’t just wrong, but malicious.

The Psychology Behind the Responses
What fascinated me wasn’t the disagreement, but how predictably it followed documented psychological patterns. One defender shifted the conversation completely: “Nepali people never change, even in Canada! If you don’t understand English, try French!” Where some saw typography, others saw ideology.

Another participant’s evolving position was particularly telling. They first dismissed the conversation as “AI-generated info,” but later conceded it was simply “a design problem.” This reversal mirrored the classic pattern of conspiracy thinking – initial defensive outrage giving way to reluctant acknowledgment of facts.

The Conversation Spirals: Defensiveness and Distortions
The discussion took revealing turns when certain participants:

  • Framed sarcastic remarks as honoring cultural heritage
  • Made striking accusations completely absent from the original post
  • Sought validation from respected community figures

One observer’s graceful refusal to be drawn in – “Don’t drag me into the dirt” – and another’s probing questions – “Where were Indigenous people defamed?” – underscored how far the conversation had diverged. The most insightful commentary came from those who understood political language operates on multiple levels: “Are we looking at formal or lexical semantics?”

Language as a Political Weapon
The campaign sign wasn’t just policy – it was a rhetorical Rorschach test. Supporters saw their preferred meaning, critics saw the clumsy messaging, and the campaign benefited from the engagement either way. This phenomenon isn’t unique to Canadian politics; similar vague, feel-good phrasing appears in slogans worldwide.

A Mirror for Our Digital Age
This micro-drama reflects our broader information crisis. When participants accused me of “deliberately misleading,” they weren’t engaging with the post – they were reacting to perceived threats to their political identity. We’ve become so accustomed to political warfare that even playful analysis gets weaponized.

Conclusion: Playfulness as Political Mirror
This entire episode began with what should have been an uncontroversial truth: language is inherently playful, and design choices create unintended meanings. My amusement at the sign’s ambiguity wasn’t just about the words themselves, but about how they revealed the fragility of political messaging.

The most telling response wasn’t the disagreement—it was the complete inability of some participants to even recognize the linguistic playfulness. Their insistence that “no competent English speaker could misunderstand the sign” ironically demonstrated their own constrained perception. In policing my observation, they revealed how political allegiance can literally narrow what we’re able to see in plain language.

Three crucial lessons emerge:

Humor is ideological – What one person finds amusing, another perceives as attack

Design has politics – Even accidental ambiguities reveal messaging vulnerabilities

Playfulness is power – The ability to see multiple meanings resists political framing

Perhaps the healthiest democratic practice would be embracing—rather than attacking—those who point out clumsy messaging. After all, if we can’t laugh at awkward phrasing, how will we ever confront substantive policy differences? The sign’s true revelation wasn’t its policy position, but how fiercely we’ll defend our team’s sloppy design—and how angrily we’ll attack those who notice it.

Post 2: How I Hook, Line, and Sinker My Clients: The Art of Connection

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Welcome back to my world, where charm is currency, and trust is a tool. In my last post, I introduced myself as the real estate agent who’s more interested in commissions than clients. Today, I’ll pull back the curtain on how I connect with the community and turn innocent bystanders into paying customers.

1. The Friendly Neighbor Act

The first rule of real estate is simple: be everywhere. I’m not just an agent; I’m a community staple. You’ll find me at school events, charity runs, and even your cousin’s wedding. I’m the guy handing out business cards with a smile, the one who always remembers your name (and your dog’s name, too). Why? Because trust is the foundation of my business. If you trust me, you’ll believe me when I tell you that the crumbling house on the corner is a “fixer-upper with potential.”

But it’s not just about being present; it’s about being relatable. I’ll share stories about my “struggles” as a single parent, my “passion” for volunteering, and my “love” for the community. Spoiler alert: most of it’s fabricated. But hey, if it gets you to trust me, it’s worth it.

2. The Social Media Guru

In today’s digital age, social media is my playground. My Instagram is a carefully curated gallery of me holding puppies, volunteering at shelters, and smiling like I’ve never met a commission I didn’t like. My captions are filled with hashtags like #CommunityFirst and #JustHereToHelp. But behind the scenes, I’m calculating every post, every like, and every comment to ensure maximum engagement.

I’ll even share “heartwarming” stories about helping clients find their dream homes. What I won’t share are the countless times I’ve talked clients into buying homes they couldn’t afford or glossed over major flaws in a property. But hey, that’s what filters are for, right?

Bonus Social Media Ad:
Have you seen my Facebook posts on “back-to-back deal close”? Back-to-back deal close tells you how many deals I’ve sealed in record time. Do you think it’s easy to do? No. For that, I always have to go way above the listing price when I’m helping my client to buy a house and way below the listing price when I’m helping to sell the property. Since I’m giving cash back and other incentives to my clients, it’s more than okay to do it. My clients don’t care about anything else when they get cash back and incentives—even if buying a good property at a reasonable price would outweigh my cash back and other incentives. If my clients are happy, who the hell are you to care about my deal-making art?

3. The Free Seminar Scam

One of my favorite tactics is hosting free seminars or workshops. I’ll advertise them as educational events for first-time homebuyers or investors. The truth? They’re just elaborate networking opportunities. I’ll dazzle you with buzzwords like “equity growth” and “investment potential,” all while subtly steering you toward properties that benefit me the most.

By the end of the seminar, you’ll be so impressed by my “expertise” that you’ll forget to ask why I’m offering this advice for free. (Hint: it’s not out of the goodness of my heart.)

4. The Referral Game

Once I’ve hooked you, I’ll exploit your network. I’ll ask for referrals with a smile, promising discounts or incentives I’ll never deliver. Your friends trust you, and I trust you to bring them to me. It’s a win-win—for me, at least.

1.   The Charity Charade

Finally, there’s the charity charade. I’ll sponsor some jerseys for tournaments, but they’ll have my name on them, and the athletes will essentially become walking advertisements for me. It doesn’t matter if people think all those athletes are actually me—what matters is that my name is out there. I’ll also donate to community causes and even organize community clean-ups. But let’s be real: I’m not doing this out of altruism. I’m doing it to build goodwill and position myself as a pillar of the community. And while you’re thanking me for my “generosity,” I’ll be handing you my business card.

6. My Incentives: The Ultimate Hook

I advertise myself as the best realtor in my community. When clients compare me with realtors from other communities, I scare them with tales of linguistic differences and hard-to-deal-with situations. When they compare me with realtors from my community, I show that I have better incentives than anyone else.

Here’s the deal: I give 1-1.5% cash back if they buy or sell property through me. On top of that, I’ll buy gifts for their housewarming party. But the real kicker? Buying or selling property with me is connected to someone very special—me. It’s not just a transaction; it’s an experience. And who doesn’t love cash back and free stuff?

Conclusion: A Call for Change
While this post is written in jest, the unethical practices it highlights are all too real. As a community, we must demand transparency, honesty, and accountability from real estate professionals. After all, a home is more than a transaction—it’s a dream, a sanctuary, and a lifetime investment.

So, the next time you meet a real estate agent who seems too good to be true, remember: not everything is as it seems. And if you ever need help navigating the murky waters of real estate, just remember my motto: “Trust no one—especially me.”

The Story Behind My Profile Picture: A Reflection on Identity, Authenticity, and Oddities 

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As a professor who teaches writing courses—whether first-year composition, technical writing, or professional writing—I place a strong emphasis on genre and genre analysis. Genres, after all, are not just types of texts; they are dynamic responses to social and communicative needs. They shape how we interact with the world, from sending a text message to writing an email to a boss, from Instagramming to expressing grief at a funeral. Each genre reflects social hierarchies, historical contexts, technological advancements, and cultural norms. My Facebook profile picture, an artifact that might seem simple at first glance, is a perfect example of how genres and artifacts can encapsulate personal, social, economic, and even political dimensions of our lives.

The Oddities That Make It Perfect

Let’s start with the oddities. This picture was taken at home by my children, not in a studio by a professional photographer. The lighting isn’t perfect, the background is my living room, and my height—something I’ve always been conscious of—is unmistakably visible. At times, I’ve felt the urge to change it. Friends have suggested, more than once, that I replace it with something more polished, more “professional.” But every time I consider swapping it out, I stop. Why? Because this picture, with all its imperfections, feels like the truest representation of who I am.

The oddities in the photo are a reflection of my life. I’m a professor at a prestigious university in the U.S. and at a college in Canada, yet I chose to get an Ontario realtor license during the COVID-19 pandemic, a time of global uncertainty. The picture was taken in June 2020, just after I earned my Ontario Real Estate License. It was a moment of professional achievement, but also a moment of personal reflection. I didn’t go to a professional photographer for several reasons: the pandemic restrictions, my financial prudence, and perhaps most importantly, my desire to present myself as both a professional and a down-to-earth person. The result is an image that captures my duality—a scholar and a realtor, a professional and a family man, someone who critiques societal flaws while embracing his own imperfections.

A Response to Social Expectations (Carolyn Miller’s Genre Theory)

Carolyn Miller’s theory of genre as social action helps explain why this picture works. Genres, she argues, are not just templates but responses to recurring social situations. My profile picture responds to the genre of professional headshots, but it also challenges it. Traditionally, a professional headshot is polished, formal, and often impersonal. Mine, on the other hand, is homegrown, authentic, and deeply personal. It reflects the social changes brought about by the pandemic, when many of us had to adapt to new ways of working and presenting ourselves. It also reflects my cultural values as a Nepalese individual—values that emphasize humility, modesty, and resourcefulness.

The picture also responds to the expectations of my dual roles. As a professor, I’m expected to project intellectual authority; as a realtor, I’m expected to be approachable and trustworthy. This image strikes a balance between the two. The suit signals professionalism, while the home setting and the involvement of my children add a touch of warmth and relatability. It’s a visual negotiation of my multifaceted identity.

Why I Can’t Change It

I’ve tried to change this picture many times. I’ve browsed through other photos, considered retaking it, and even experimented with editing tools. But each time, I come back to the same conclusion: there’s no other picture that represents me as fully as this one. Its imperfections are part of its charm. The slightly awkward pose, the homemade quality, the visible height—they all tell a story. They remind me of where I was in June 2020, navigating a global crisis while pursuing a new career. They remind me of my children, who took the photo and are an integral part of my life. They remind me of my values—authenticity, humility, and a willingness to critique societal norms, as I did in my blog post on the dark side of Nepalese cultural entrepreneurship in Canada.

Friends who suggest changing the picture mean well. They want me to present the “best” version of myself. But what they don’t realize is that this is the best version of me—not because it’s flawless, but because it’s real. It captures my priorities, my circumstances, and my identity in a way that no studio photo ever could.

The Significance of Artifacts in Representing Broader Issues

Artifacts like this profile picture are not just personal; they are deeply connected to social, economic, historical, and political contexts. Scholars like Charles Bazerman and Amy Devitt have emphasized how genres and artifacts mediate social interactions and reflect broader cultural and institutional practices. Bazerman, for instance, argues that genres are tools for navigating complex social systems, while Devitt highlights how genres evolve in response to changing social needs. My profile picture, as an artifact, embodies these ideas. It reflects the economic constraints of the pandemic, the historical moment of global disruption, and the social expectation to present oneself professionally while staying authentic.

Moreover, the picture speaks to the politics of representation. In a world where social media often encourages us to curate idealized versions of ourselves, this image challenges the norm. It’s a statement about embracing imperfections and resisting the pressure to conform to societal standards of perfection. It’s also a critique of the commercialization of professional identity—why spend hundreds of dollars on a studio photo when a homemade image can tell a richer story?

A Reflection on Identity and Society

This picture is more than just a representation of me; it’s a reflection of my family, my society, and my time. It was taken during a historical moment—the COVID-19 pandemic—when traditional norms were upended, and authenticity became more valuable than perfection. It reflects my cultural background, where humility and modesty are prized, and my professional environment, where credibility and approachability are essential. It even reflects my role as a critic of societal practices, as someone who values truth over sugar-coated narratives.

In a world where social media often encourages us to curate idealized versions of ourselves, this picture stands as a testament to the power of authenticity. It’s a reminder that our imperfections are what make us unique, and that the best representation of ourselves is often the one that tells the fullest story.

Conclusion: Embracing the Oddities

So, here it stays—my profile picture, with all its oddities and imperfections. It’s not just a picture; it’s a statement. It says that I am a professor, a realtor, a husband, a father, and a critic of societal flaws. It says that I value authenticity over polish, and that I’m proud of who I am, even if I don’t fit conventional molds. It’s a picture that responds to social expectations while staying true to my identity. And for all these reasons, I can’t imagine replacing it.

In the end, this picture isn’t just about me. It’s about all of us—our struggles, our triumphs, and the ways we navigate the complexities of life. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the most meaningful artifacts are the ones that aren’t perfect, but are perfectly us.

Housing Bubble and Buying a Property in Canada

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Before you buy a house in Canada in general and Greater Toronto Area (GTA) in particular, you need to know about a housing bubble. The reason I keep saying do not just jump into the market yet is because the real estate practitioners are worried whether the bubble is going to burst anytime soon. Remember housing price was at the peak in 2022 and the price was checked with the interest rate rise. It is not that the bubble is burst yet, it is just controlled. It is important to understand it. Let’s talk about what it is. 

A housing bubble happens when housing prices skyrocket, and real estate values become so unsustainably high that eventually the bubble bursts. Housing prices are disconnected from the “intrinsic property values.” Intrinsic property values are prices based on economic factors like income levels, rental costs, and other things that traditionally influence property values. Skyrocketing housing bubble prices occur when several things happen at once. Some of the contributing factors are: Speculation, Limited Housing, Interest Rates, Mortgage Debts, and Increased Development.