What They Did For Me, In Secrecy
While Wanting Nothing In Return
In a time of need, these four unexpectedly became very important to me.
Each one is from a different caste here in Nepal (something worth reading about if you’re unfamiliar).
Only the eldest—DiDi, bottom left and wearing all red—speaks a few words of broken English.
Even still, on the daily, we tried our damndest to communicate through charades and the kind of playful eye contact that sometimes made language feel unnecessary.
Though I will admit, there were a handful of moments I so badly wished I could’ve better expressed my curiosity and gratitude. I desperately wanted to know more about each of their lives… and also let each of them know just how much their generosity and kindness had truly meant to me.
In moments like those, when heartfelt feelings and emotions are involved, Google Translate just won’t cut it—and that’s where the value of a shared language while traveling can truly be needed… and missed.
So who are these four women?
I’m glad you asked.
These are the four “housekeepers” at the guesthouse I stayed at during my recent medical emergency while in Kathmandu.
And as I watched them do backbreaking work—day in and day out—scaling the building’s steep staircases while meticulously cleaning room after room, these women never once complained or seemed ungrateful.
Yes, they were “housekeepers” by trade.
But what I was lucky enough to be on the receiving end of went far beyond that.
Because of my unexpected illness—and the necessary visa extension that followed—I ended up staying in Kathmandu much longer than anticipated.
57 days, to be exact.
But, as with most every travel faux pas, there would end up being several silver linings that came from my misfortune—and these women were four of them.
Every day, they went out of their way to do things for me they didn’t have to do.
Quiet, thoughtful, under-the-radar things.
Things they asked me not to mention to other staff members, because if word got out, they could get in trouble. Or even worse, they could lose their job.
It’s a well-known fact that finding work in Kathmandu is extremely difficult these days, so I took their request to keep their favors “silent” extremely serious.
The owners and management at this guesthouse made it clear that they had zero qualms with any of their male staff mixing with or befriending the guests. They encouraged it, actually.
But for these women?
Any sort of mingling that wasn’t tied directly to their cleaning duties was considered grounds for immediate termination—no questions asked.
And while that certainly feels unfair, this type of mentality is so deeply woven into the culture and belief system here, wanting it to be any other way would be nothing more than a waste of my time and energy.
One of the benefits of my intricately decorated “Stupa Room” being on the top floor was that the owners and management very rarely climbed the 100+ stairs it took to get to the rooftop.
Even still, while doing anything their male bosses might not approve of, one of the girls always remained near the stairwell to be “on the lookout.” They worked as a unified team and looked out for one another like that.
Any time one of the male staffers started to head upstairs, whoever was on lookout would then whistle like a bird, echoing a warning to the other girls—wherever they may be.
Motherfuckin’ Girl Power.
Sadly, in a country like Nepal, small survival tactics like these are sometimes necessary in order for women to maintain any sense of momentary independence.
Though the vast majority of our time together was spent safely on the rooftop—out of harm’s way—for me, there was always a slight concern that one of the fellas might come sneaking up undetected.
I do wanna say, I was cool with all of the guys downstairs. From the boss, to the manager, to the service workers. In fact, we often shared a cup of masala tea or a few momos on the street together.
However, my allegiance, unequivocally and unapologetically, was to these four women.
And here’s why:
Even at the risk of getting in trouble or losing their job, any time I happened to be passing by, they would insist I stop and sit with them—sharing whatever homemade food they had with me on the rooftop during their lunch hour.
In the beginning, for as badly as I wanted to avoid them getting scalded or fired, “No thank you, I already ate,” was never accepted.
“You sit. You eat,” DiDi would always say, then nod toward one of the others to go guard the stairwell door.
Once we got in a routine, if I hadn’t yet passed by, and they knew I was still in my room, one of them would, like clockwork, gently tap their fingernail on my door—notifying me that it was time to eat.
And I’m not talking once or twice a week—this happened damn near every day.
In their minds, if they were eating, I was gonna need to eat something too—family-style.
Even on the days I’d tell them not to worry about cleaning my room, I’d come back upstairs to find fresh linens, folded towels, and handfuls of soap, toothpaste, and tiny bottles of body lotion tucked just inside my door (several of which are currently buried in the bottom of a toiletry bag somewhere near).
Oh, and they got such a kick out of hiding extra water bottles and packets of instant coffee under my pillows and sheets.
The first time they did it, it scared the shit out of me when I crawled into bed that night.
It quickly turned into a running joke between the four of them, so every few days after they’d do it again—when they’d see me in the hallway or lobby—they’d each smirk and offer the slightest head nod, inconspicuously signaling:
“Today’s extras have been delivered to their hiding spot.”
I’m smiling from ear to ear just typing this. Thinking about how serious they took their second “job” of looking after me—doing so while keeping it top-secret.
Not to be overly dramatic, but the truth is: these four women took an enormous amount of pride (and joy) in taking care of me.
In a time I so desperately needed it.
A time that turned out to be one of the scariest stretches in all my travels.
And because of that—because of their unwavering love, kindness, and stealth-mode secrecy—I will never, ever forget them.
Ironically enough, after a few months of not hearing from any of the girls, I got a message a few days ago from Shoba—the one standing behind me in the selfie below.
“Do you remember us?” she asked.
Instantly, everything they’d risked—and everything they’d done to take care of me—came flooding back.
I paused, smiled, and let the warm nostalgia rush through my bones.
I reread the message one more time, “Do you remember us?”
I couldn’t help but laugh and think to myself:
Girl, if you only knew.
⚡️
If the kindness and compassion within this story resonates with you in any way, I’d be honored if you’d share it with someone in your world who might also appreciate it, or who could use a little pick-me-up—warmly delivered straight from a rooftop in Kathmandu.
Please know this: I’m out here doing my damndest to generate and spread LOVE. I’d be deeply grateful if you’d help me do the same by sharing my work.
With Gratitude & With Gusto,
Adrian ⚡️
Actually, it was a typo, however, a huge yes for Pushpa!
I call people who appear like this—when it’s least expected and so needed—my travel angels. It’s as if the universe orchestrates to place these people in your life at the divine time. So grateful to know you had them. And love that you rebelled with them!