The Week, forever and always

Dreams do come true, you just need to believe in them and believe in what you’re doing. That’s the lesson I’m taking with me after working 19 months in Nepal, after having realizing my dream of becoming that reporter that I always wanted to be.

I remember the first time I walked into Republica’s office, a day after I returned to Nepal. And then I knew that I was working for the paper from the next day. And from Jan 3, 2010 to this date, Republica and especially its weekend edition The Week has been an integral part of my life.

The first time I walked inside the newsroom, I recall the strange faces of my future colleagues, some of them who have just transformed into what you call close friends. Without The Week, and without these group of friends, trust me, my life in Kathmandu would have been depressing. I would now be suffering from some frustration syndrome or something.

From that first story that I did for The Week to my last one from Kathmandu, I have matured as a reporter, I now respect my profession more, and don’t even get me talking on the passion: it’s life for me. I recall my first story—I had to go and meet NPR’s Jay Allison for a story, and that too in an area that I had never heard of. Thirty minutes of losing track of where I was going, and 15 minutes of frantic asking around, I arrive at the place 45 minutes late. But in these 19 months, I don’t think I’ve made any excuses for being late because I tried not to—I always respected the value of time and deadline. I’ve had frustrations over time—people not showing up for interviews, making me wait for more than two hours or bailing out when I am already there, but I just took it as a challenge of working in Nepal. And yes, how can I forget those press conferences where the host starts an hour late assuming the journalists will be hour late and the journalists reach an hour late assuming that the hosts will start late!

Then a series of stories that I have written over these 19 months, the people I met and came across, the interviews—they’ll always remain close to my heart for the amount of love, passion and dedication that I’ve put in those stories. There have been stories that I just didn’t know how to start, some were boring, and some just not so cool, but I did them all, and I think from every story and my sources, I have learned something.

Also, it’s The Week that gave me an opportunity to explore my own country. I mean, I would never have trekked up to the Everest Base Camp, visit a rural village in Solukhumbu, go on a overnight trip to Birgunj or even go visit Salyan in Midwest Nepal. But it was all work, and I’m glad I got an opportunity to see these places, meet some amazing people there and then delve into stories that made sense. And oh, how can I forget my grand South Africa work trip and then that amazing Bryan Adams concert that I got to write about—too bad we couldn’t interview him.

So I’ve talked a lot about The Week, but believe me, it’s the people who work at The Week that makes The Week what it’s like. It’s an amazing group of team and the teamwork and the effort we all put, the outcome of which you read every Friday.

Inside the newsroom, at The Week cubicle, there’s just an amazing energy. There’s always music. There’s always someone laughing—well, that’s me most of the times. We whine, complain, bitch but at the end of the day don’t mind staying until midnight on Wednesdays to finish our stories and then past midnight on Thursdays for the production of The Week.

Oh Thursdays. I remember my first one and here’s apparently my last one today. Thursdays at The Week is synonymous to so many things: deadlines, stress, getting mad at the designers, I mean crazy mad, proofing and then of course HUNGER. It’s Thursday nights late in the newsroom, we are always a bunch of hungry people. So if you’re a fan of The Week, someone reading this, please deliver food in the newsroom late Thursday nights!

Arpan, thank you for being the amazing editor and a friend that you have been. I know that a lot of people don’t get along with you or vice versa, but you’re just yourself. You are definitely on the list of the coolest bosses.

Sumina Karki, where do I even start from? It’s like we’re twins. I don’t know how the hell in the world we share similar clothes—talking about colors, prints, styles! I know you’ll do well, and I’ll miss your fashion show. But we’re meeting soon in that city!

Ujjwala, I’ll kinda miss pulling your hair and then poking with you pens and coming to you and saying, “Have you finished your story?!” Keep posting the videos of your poetry performances, and I’ll enjoy it there!

Shreya Thapa. Hmm. Should I write something about you? Hehe. Well, I know I’ve irritated you a lot, and when I say lot, a lot. Maybe a little less than Sumina, but I admit you have been a victim too. And I am sure you will miss that. And thanks for all those comics. I’ll flaunt them with pride to everyone in London. You never know, I might just get published!

Alok, well sometimes your blabbering is just too much and I’m like—STOP. But well, we need sometime who can just help us laugh and pass on those gossips and news from the world of celebritydom while we’re lunching or sipping tea at our regal Hyangs.

Pravat or Parabhat. The snobby, snooty little princess. Well, we didn’t even talk for a few months when you joined and now we’re a part of the three musketeers—you, Sumina and me. I hope you find the third partner but remember, I need someone who can replace me though you guys said I am irreplaceable! And oh, how can I thank you for all those drunken drop offs. And that speeding was scary—only once but scary!

Kanchan, well I think I’ve irritated and annoyed you enough as well. But seriously, the newsroom does miss you. That’s all I got to say.

And dear Shitu sister, you’ve been an inspiration. That’s all I have to say. And thank you for the GPI gig and the lunch boxes that you bring to office. Oh god, this makes you seem like an old lady. But hey all, she isn’t old.

Oh wow, as it seems, I am really going to miss the newsroom. I’m going to miss my cubicle. And I’m really going to miss the moments I’ve spent here. It’s my second home, literally. We spend like so much time here that my house has become like a guest house or something where I just go and crash in my bed and eat and then shower.

Working at The Week has never been work for me, it’s always been something fun, something that I was waiting for. I’m so glad that I chose to come to The Week and not go anywhere else—the experience wouldn’t have been the same, I bet. And the opportunities and the flexibility The Week has, it’s just unbelievable. I mean, I can come to work in my green shorts, orange tshirt and yellow shoes!

Well, as I am moving on, I’d like to thank the entire The Week team and then our editor-in-chief for Republica for having the trust on me and letting me work the way I wanted. But moving on doesn’t mean that I am leaving The Week. I’ll always remain a part of the team, wherever I am. I’m still going to be writing and you can still count on me if there is anything. I’ll always be ready to join the bandwagon called The Week and its “Mahan Gaurabshali Team.”

Thank you all. It’s been one helluva joyride. And I still say, I absofreakinglutely am in love with my job!