Transit in New York

He had just landed in New York. Eight long hours of transit stretched ahead of him, and he had no idea where to go.He decided to wander toward the domestic terminal.

It was already 11 at night. In Nepal, it must have been around ten in the morning.The hour felt voiceless.His thoughts pressed against him so hard he couldn’t tell if he was happy or sad.On the stage of his mind, his mother appeared—then vanished again.

The packets of instant noodles she’d told him to eat on the way were still inside his bag.

Outside, the night shimmered. Neon light had conquered the darkness.

“When I sit alone, I get scared, Mother,” he used to say when he was small.

“Why be afraid?” she would answer. “We are never alone. Wherever you go, God walks with you.”

“But please keep me with you always,” he would plead. “I’m scared to be alone.”

Her eyes would brighten then, and he would run into her arms, the warmth of her love wrapping around him like sunlight.

“Now you say that,” she’d tease, “but when you grow up, you’ll leave me behind and go somewhere far away.”

“I’ll never leave you,” he’d promise.

She would smile, reach into her cotton blouse, and hand him a piece of rock sugar.

“This is what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

He’d pop it in his mouth and race into the wind, laughing.

Her bright eyes would chase after his feet, and from behind he’d hear her gentle scolding:

“You’ll fall! Don’t run so fast!”

Now his mouth was dry.

He wasn’t hungry, yet hunger still gnawed at him.

He hovered between eating and not eating.

He opened the book he’d brought to read on the journey—then closed it again.

He wanted to read, but didn’t. He wanted to sleep, but couldn’t.

The floor beneath him was warm from the air conditioning.

There were no chairs to sit on, no rooms to sleep in.

Eight hours of transit felt like an endless road to nowhere.

A man passed by. He was dark-skinned, his hair curled like dried gundruk.

He seemed lost in his own thoughts too.

Maybe he was thinking of his country. Maybe of his mother.

Love for one’s country, he thought, grows deeper only after leaving it.

People might ask: If you loved your country so much, why did you go abroad?

But don’t sons who love their mothers also leave the village to work in the city?

The man walked closer. “Hi,” he said, smiling.

“First time?”

He nodded.

“Me too,” the man said. “Missing my country and my family.”

“Me too,” he answered, smiling faintly.

The man took out his phone. His eyes lit up as he pressed it to his ear.

“Mom, how are you?” he said softly.

Waves of love, he thought, must move the same way all over the world.

He whispered to himself: I miss my mother too.

Since his father’s death, his mother’s days had been heavy with loneliness.

“My visa came, Mother!” he had told her, his voice full of joy.

“Why go abroad?” she had asked quietly. “You’re doing fine here.”

“It’s time, Ama. Let me go.”

He had expected her to be happy for him, to share his excitement. But she wasn’t.

Her eyes had said what her lips didn’t:

Don’t go. Stay. Hardship is only a guest—it comes and goes.

Still, she said aloud, “If you must go, then go. I’ve carried this much pain for your happiness already.”

Her eyes, though, had already begun to run away from his.

Tears are hard to control.

When he cried as a child, his mother used to say,

“Only cowards cry. You’re strong—don’t cry.”

He had believed her. His mother was the strongest person he knew.

Life had made her cry countless times, yet she had never let him see it.

An announcement broke his thoughts.

The huge digital screens blinked and flickered in silence.

The airport was nearly empty.

He looked around—the man from before was sitting far away, still talking on the phone.

“Excuse me.”

A voice interrupted him. A woman stood there—fair-skinned, probably Korean or Chinese, dragging a suitcase.

“Yes?” he said with a polite smile.

“Do you know where is the domestic airport?” she asked.

Her English carried a Chinese rhythm. He guessed she was from there.

God made them fair, he thought with a half-smile, and left me this color.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m new here too.”

She laughed, her white teeth shining even brighter against her face.

For a moment, he wanted to ask for a selfie with her—but his mind refused.

This was a city of too much freedom, he reminded himself.

Here, you can’t do anything without permission.

He turned his bag into a pillow and lay down on the floor.

A few others nearby were doing the same—travelers from somewhere, going somewhere.

He couldn’t sleep.

Part of him was afraid someone might steal his things.

But another part whispered: No one will. This is America.

They said the crime rate here was low.

Back home, thousands of criminals walked freely.

But just arriving in America doesn’t make your heart American.

The heart, he thought, stays Nepali forever.

Still, this frightened heart—this one he must change.

Before getting the visa, he had believed: The visa is everything. It’s the proof of success.

Now he knew the truth: Family is everything. Country is everything. Happiness is everything.

In this life where you can’t live without money,

he thought, you must still find a way to stand tall before those who think money is the only victory.

Even when you fall, smile, and keep walking as if nothing happened.

He remembered how many people had drifted away from him during his failures.

Failures, he realized, are the moments when you finally see who stays and who leaves.

His mind kept circling these thoughts until sleep finally caught him.

When he woke, the airport was crowded again.

He stood up, stretched, and walked toward his gate.

He had a destination to reach.

In the queue ahead, he spotted the same girl from last night—the one who’d asked for directions.

She was standing in line, suitcase beside her.

He almost ran toward her, a grin breaking across his face.

He wanted to ask,

“So, what soap do people use in China?” But he stayed silent.

Even if he used that soap, he knew—he would never become fair like her.

He smiled at the thought, picked up his bag, and joined the line.