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The Proud Menchchhya — A Diary of Indira Chongbang
I am a proud Limbuni ( Menchchhya)— proud of my birth, my blood, my roots. Proud to be born into the rich and resilient Limbu culture. I love my traditions, my language, my songs. And above all, I love myself — for holding onto my identity, even when the world tried to make me forget.
People may speculate. They may question my choices, my journey. But I know who I am. I believe in myself, in my nation, and in the sacred origin from which I come.
I have always dreamed of soaring high — like a bird in the wide blue sky. But dreaming to fly never meant forgetting the soil that raised me. Growth doesn’t mean erasure. Progress doesn't mean abandonment. One can rise in life and still remain deeply rooted in their origin — their motherland, their people, their truth.
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| Indira Chongbang |
Since I was a little girl, I carried within me many silent voices. My childhood was wrapped in hardship, surrounded by a toxic environment that left scars. But I never gave up. I dreamed not just for myself — but for my parents, for the life they deserved. I wanted to build a home, a safe space, a peaceful world for them.
My father — oh, how I remember his sacrifice. A man who chose to walk away from the city lights and comforts to serve the forgotten corners of his village. He returned to his birthplace, determined to light the candle of education in the lives of the uneducated. He poured his soul into the community, never once thinking of his own children’s future. His dream was larger than himself — a dream that every child in his village would learn, grow, and succeed.
And they did. They learned. They rose. And then… they turned their backs.
Jealousy is a strange enemy — it creeps in where gratitude should be.
They plotted. They hurt him. They made him run from the very village he had given everything to. He fled to Kathmandu, only to end up in a tiny blackened room — the kind where even dreams dare not breathe.
People he had taught… people he had raised… they had buildings, businesses, but no space for the man who once lit their path. That image broke me.
I left Nepal — not because I didn’t love my land, but because I couldn’t bear its pain.
With Yuma’s grace, I stepped onto foreign soil — chasing not luxury, but healing. My education became secondary. My parents became my mission. I worked. I studied. I fought every day — for a little peace, for a place where they could sleep without fear, live without rent, and breathe without shame.
And finally, I gave them that. A cottage. A home. A place of their own.
But my father… he waited for a grandchild in his arms. When I finally brought him my baby, his hands had already grown cold.
He left.
I still remember that moment — the silence, the loss, the breath that never came.
But I hold no regrets. I did everything I could. I still do. For my mother. For his memory.
I am not just a daughter. I am the blessed child of a heavenly father.
And through it all, my love for being a Limbuni Menchhya has never faded. When I hear the Limbu tongue, something inside me awakens. When someone sings Palam, I can’t help but hum along. I feel like Dhanchan, like I’m part of Hakpare’s melody. I feel whole. I feel home.
My dream still lives — to return, to contribute, to dance, to sing, to be free.
Life is short. But I hope to live enough to feel the fullness of what it means to be me —
A proud daughter,
A determined mother,
A Limbuni,
A soul shaped by struggle and spirit.
— Indira Chongbang
Created on 07/18/2025
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