Curiosity is the seed of knowledge!

By Sanman Thapa | 09-23-2024 | 9:35 pm

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Growing up on a farm in Nepal, my days began with the unapologetic crowing of roosters and were filled with hard labor, plowing fields and praying to the weather gods that this season, for once, would be kind. It was the kind of life that built character—and calluses. Like many young people, I couldn’t wait to leave it all behind. Farming was unpredictable, unforgiving, and entirely dependent on forces beyond anyone’s control. So, I did what any ambitious young Nepali would do: I fled to find a future that didn’t involve mud and manual labor.

Fast-forward three decades and a few thousand miles, and there I was, in a bustling life in New York,  comfortably distanced from any association with farming, plowing, or even plants that needed watering. That was until the world hit pause in 2020, and the pandemic forced us all into isolation. Suddenly, the vibrant city life I had grown accustomed to felt more like a concrete cage. With nothing but the endless loop of grim news updates, I started losing my mind, wondering if I had binge-watched the entire Netflix catalog.

During one of those aimless days, my dad called from Nepal to check on how we were doing. He had spent some time with us in the states in 2016 and 2017 before ultimately deciding to return home, unable to adjust to the quiet solitude of a foreign land. He asked me casually if I had kept up with the gardening plot he had started during his stay. I admitted I hadn’t, imagining the empty plot outside gathering more neglect than greenery. It wasn’t just a plot of land—it was my dad’s effort to find solace in a country where he felt completely uprooted.

You see, my dad had found his comfort in gardening while he was with us. It was his way of feeling useful, of keeping his hands busy and his mind from wandering too far into the loneliness of a place where the language was foreign, the community strange, and the connections few. Back in Nepal, he was always out and about, from dawn to dusk, a respected community figure who never lacked company. Here, his days stretched long and empty, punctuated only by my mom’s conversations and his quiet, solitary trips to the garden. However, it wasn’t enough. Eventually, the isolation became too much, and he chose to return home, leaving behind the Green Card (permanent residency) I had worked so hard to get for them.

So there I was, during the pandemic, staring at the same plot he once nurtured. With no more TV shows left to binge and social media anxiety reaching new heights, I needed an escape. I decided to give gardening a shot. Gardening seemed like the perfect, socially-distanced activity. But it wasn’t like I leapt off the couch and ran to the garden shed. Nope. I procrastinated. It took a few Google searches, from “What vegetables grow in North America?” to “Do tomatoes need friends?” Spoiler: they do. I also looked for a dusty copy of “The Old Farmer’s 2017 Almanac,” to understand the seasons and what types of vegetables grow when and where. It also required some pep talk before I finally picked up a shovel. The first turn of the soil felt like reconnecting with something long buried.

What started as a reluctant hobby quickly became my refuge. I found a strange comfort in the repetitive nature of gardening—turning soil, planting seeds, watering, waiting. Watching life grow from the ground felt almost rebellious against the backdrop of a world that seemed to be falling apart, a small comfort over the uncertainty that threatened livelihood outside my doorstep.

I began to understand my dad’s solace in those small acts of cultivation. Gardening wasn’t just about the plants; it was about finding a rhythm when the world had lost its beat. It was about nurturing something when so much felt beyond nurturing, a way to find peace during a noisy and chaotic world.

Eventually, my efforts paid off—I had more vegetables than I knew what to do with. I proudly called my dad, eager to share my newfound harvest. For a moment, I felt connected to him across the miles and the years, as if by tending to the soil, I was also tending to the roots we both shared. His simple acknowledgment felt like a nod to our shared resilience, to finding comfort in familiar things even when everything else seemed foreign.

In those small, quiet moments of gardening, I found a kind of salvation. It wasn’t just about producing fruits, vegetables, and herbs; it was about reconnecting with something fundamental I had run away from. And maybe, just maybe, that’s something we all searched for during those isolating times—a return to something simple, something that reminded us of who we are and where we come from. So, while the world turned upside down, I found myself returning to the one thing I thought I had left behind, only to realize it was a part of me all along. 

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Watch me trying to answer Aiden’s question about why tomato vine has fuzz but measurably failing: Click here