I still vividly remember that he used to frequently hum was: Ma mahuri hun Radha, timi anpa manjari hau, meaning I am a bee, Radha, you are a beautiful flower.
मलाई मज्जाले मात्न मन छ आफ्नै गाउँमा गाईको मोही पिएर
र बाहिर आँगनमा बाँसको कप्टेराले मेरा बाले आँपको बोट आडैमा
बनाएको खाटमा गुन्द्री ओछ्याएर, उपर खुट्टी लाएर
नजिकै टाट्नामा त्यहि बकाईनाको घाँस खादै गरेका
रहरलाग्दा बाख्राहरु हेर्न मन छ ,
छेउमा कालो कुकुर आफ्नो पुच्छर लुकाउदै हिड्दै गर्दा ,
आफ्ना चल्लालाई लिएर पोथी कुखुरो चर्दै गर्दा
मलाई मेरै श्रीमती र आमाले बनाएको,
साँदेको गुन्द्रुकको अचार खान मन छ ।
“Because Dhido builds up your muscles,” he said, swallowing Dhido in such a way that I could clearly see the lump going down his gullet as his Adam’s apple moved up and down. My mother chuckled hearing my father’s explanation. My sister started having fun trying her best to swallow Dhido, saying, “Dada, dada, brother, look at here I swallowed it.” I imitated them with the hope that I would make my muscles strong but the lump-like Dhido got stuck in my throat.
The house stored beehives and bees; I used to run eating and sucking honeycombs with both of my hands, honey dripping off of my elbows and my mouth painted with sticky layers of honey, which when dried coated my face with a filmy layer of translucent sweetness.