Before They Were Titans, Moguls and Newsmakers, These People Were ... Rejected

by Santosh Shrestha 26. March 2010 04:18

At college admission time, lessons in thin envelopes.

Few events arouse more teenage angst than the springtime arrival of college rejection letters. With next fall's college freshman class expected to approach a record 2.9 million students, hundreds of thousands of applicants will soon be receiving the dreaded letters.

 

Teenagers who face rejection will be joining good company, including Nobel laureates, billionaire philanthropists, university presidents, constitutional scholars, best-selling authors and other leaders of business, media and the arts who once received college or graduate-school rejection letters of their own.

Both Warren Buffett and "Today" show host Meredith Vieira say that while being rejected by the school of their dreams was devastating, it launched them on a path to meeting life-changing mentors. Harold Varmus, winner of the Nobel Prize in medicine, says getting rejected twice by Harvard Medical School, where a dean advised him to enlist in the military, was soon forgotten as he plunged into his studies at Columbia University's med school. For other college rejects, from Sun Microsystems co-founder Scott McNealy and entrepreneur Ted Turner to broadcast journalist Tom Brokaw, the turndowns were minor footnotes, just ones they still remember and will talk about.

Rejections aren't uncommon. Harvard accepts only a little more than 7% of the 29,000 undergraduate applications it receives each year, and Stanford's acceptance rate is about the same.

 

 

"The truth is, everything that has happened in my life ... that I thought was a crushing event at the time, has turned out for the better," Mr. Buffett says. With the exception of health problems, he says, setbacks teach "lessons that carry you along. You learn that a temporary defeat is not a permanent one. In the end, it can be an opportunity."

Mr. Buffett regards his rejection at age 19 by Harvard Business School as a pivotal episode in his life. Looking back, he says Harvard wouldn't have been a good fit. But at the time, he "had this feeling of dread" after being rejected in an admissions interview in Chicago, and a fear of disappointing his father.

As it turned out, his father responded with "only this unconditional love...an unconditional belief in me," Mr. Buffett says. Exploring other options, he realized that two investing experts he admired, Benjamin Graham and David Dodd, were teaching at Columbia's graduate business school. He dashed off a late application, where by a stroke of luck it was fielded and accepted by Mr. Dodd. From these mentors, Mr. Buffett says he learned core principles that guided his investing. The Harvard rejection also benefited his alma mater; the family gave more than $12 million to Columbia in 2008 through the Susan Thompson Buffett Foundation, based on tax filings.

The lesson of negatives becoming positives has proved true repeatedly, Mr. Buffett says. He was terrified of public speaking -- so much so that when he was young he sometimes threw up before giving an address. So he enrolled in a Dale Carnegie public speaking course and says the skills he learned there enabled him to woo his future wife, Susan Thompson, a "champion debater," he says. "I even proposed to my wife during the course," he says. "If I had been only a mediocre speaker I might not have taken it."

Columbia University President Lee Bollinger was rejected as a teenager when he applied to Harvard. He says the experience cemented his belief that it was up to him alone to define his talents and potential. His family had moved to a small, isolated town in rural Oregon, where educational opportunities were sparse. As a kid, he did menial jobs around the newspaper office, like sweeping the floor.

Mr. Bollinger recalls thinking at the time, "I need to work extra hard and teach myself a lot of things that I need to know," to measure up to other students who were "going to prep schools, and having assignments that I'm not." When the rejection letter arrived, he accepted a scholarship to University of Oregon and later graduated from Columbia Law School. His advice: Don't let rejections control your life. To "allow other people's assessment of you to determine your own self-assessment is a very big mistake," says Mr. Bollinger, a First Amendment author and scholar. "The question really is, who at the end of the day is going to make the determination about what your talents are, and what your interests are? That has to be you."

Others who received Harvard rejections include "Today" show host Meredith Vieira, who was turned down in 1971 as a high-school senior. At the time, she was crushed. "In fact, I was so devastated that when I went to Tufts [University] my freshman year, every Saturday I'd hitchhike to Harvard," she says in an email. But Ms. Vieira went on to meet a mentor at Tufts who sparked her interest in journalism by offering her an internship. Had she not been rejected, she doubts that she would have entered the field, she says.

And broadcast journalist Tom Brokaw, also rejected as a teenager by Harvard, says it was one of a series of setbacks that eventually led him to settle down, stop partying and commit to finishing college and working in broadcast journalism. "The initial stumble was critical in getting me launched," he says.

Dr. Varmus, the Nobel laureate and president of Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in New York, was daunted by the first of his two turndowns by Harvard's med school. He enrolled instead in grad studies in literature at Harvard, but was uninspired by thoughts of a career in that field.

After a year, he applied again to Harvard's med school and was rejected, by a dean who chastised him in an interview for being "inconstant and immature" and advised him to enlist in the military. Officials at Columbia's medical school, however, seemed to value his "competence in two cultures," science and literature, he says.

If rejected by the school you love, Dr. Varmus advises in an email, immerse yourself in life at a college that welcomes you. "The differences between colleges that seem so important before you get there will seem a lot less important once you arrive at one that offered you a place."

Similarly, John Schlifske, president of insurance company Northwestern Mutual, was discouraged as a teenager when he received a rejection letter from Yale University. An aspiring college football player, "I wanted to go to Yale so badly," he says. He recalls coming home from school the day the letter arrived. "Mom was all excited and gave it to me," he says. His heart fell when he saw "the classic thin envelope," he says. "It was crushing."

Yet he believes he had a deeper, richer experience at Carleton College in Minnesota. He says he received a "phenomenal" education and became a starter on the football team rather than a bench-warmer as he might have been at Yale. "Being wanted is a good thing," he says.

He had a chance to pass on that wisdom to his son Dan, who was rejected in 2006 by one of his top choices, Duke University. Drawing on his own experience, the elder Mr. Schlifske told his son, "Just because somebody says no, doesn't mean there's not another school out there you're going to enjoy, and where you are going to get a good education." Dan ended up at his other top choice, Washington University in St. Louis, where he is currently a senior. Mr. Schlifske says, "he loves it."

Rejected once, and then again, by business schools at Stanford and Harvard, Scott McNealy practiced the perseverance that would characterize his career. A brash economics graduate of Harvard, he was annoyed that "they wouldn't take a chance on me right out of college," he says. He kept trying, taking a job as a plant foreman for a manufacturer and working his way up in sales. "By my third year out of school, it was clear I was going to be a successful executive. I blew the doors off my numbers," he says. Granted admission to Stanford's business school, he met Sun Microsystems co-founder Vinod Khosla and went on to head Sun for 22 years.

Paul Purcell, who heads one of the few investment-advisory companies to emerge unscathed from the recession, Robert W. Baird & Co., says he interpreted his rejection years ago by Stanford University as evidence that he had to work harder. "I took it as a signal that, 'Look, the world is really competitive, and I'll just try harder next time,'" he says. He graduated from the University of Notre Dame and got an MBA from the University of Chicago, and in 2009, as chairman, president and chief executive of Baird, won the University of Chicago Booth School of Business distinguished corporate alumnus award. Baird has remained profitable through the recession and expanded client assets to $75 billion.

Time puts rejection letters in perspective, says Ted Turner. He received dual rejections as a teenager, by Princeton and Harvard, he says in an interview. The future America's Cup winner attended Brown University, where he became captain of the sailing team. He left college after his father cut off financial support, and joined his father's billboard company, which he built into the media empire that spawned CNN. Brown has since awarded him a bachelor's degree.

Tragedies later had a greater impact on his life, he says, including the loss of his father to suicide and his teenage sister to illness. "A rejection letter doesn't even come close to losing loved ones in your family. That is the hard stuff to survive," Mr. Turner says. "I want to be sure to make this point: I did everything I did without a college degree," he says. While it is better to have one, "you can be successful without it."

Write to Sue Shellenbarger at sue.shellenbarger@wsj.com

 

Source: http://finance.yahoo.com/college-education/article/109165/before-they-were-titans;_ylt=As1XWLxVeJH7BUCI4Hchb3.7YWsA;_ylu=X3oDMTFhZGc4NzBxBHBvcwM0BHNlYwNwZXJzb25hbEZpbmFuY2UEc2xrA2l2eWxlYWd1ZXJlag-- 

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Namaste: One Teen's Look at Nepal

by Santosh Shrestha 11. November 2009 06:57


Every year The Goldman Sachs Foundation and Asia Society recognize US high school students that demonstrate in-depth understanding of key issues in international affairs. Sarah from Westlake Village, CA is one of the 2008 winners of a $10,000 scholarship. She created a video comparing her life and those of her peers with people she met in Nepal, finding different definitions of necessity, wealth, and happiness. Sarahs video included footage she shot while in Nepal with a media team documenting human rights issues and the recent historic elections. While there, she filmed an interview with the rebel leader at the time, Prachanda, who has since become the Prime Minister of Nepal. Sarah has also completed video projects for her local symphony orchestra and continues to follow the evolving political situation in Nepal. For more information on the prize, check out http://askasia.org/students/gsfprizes.html

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Colleen's post featured in wordpress

by Santosh Shrestha 16. October 2009 10:51

My Friend, Colleen's blog post was featured in WordPress's home page today. Very Impressive.

Here is the original post:
http://americanepali.wordpress.com/2009/10/15/happy-diwali-president-obama/ 

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Krishna Gone Missing

by Santosh Shrestha 16. September 2009 08:22

A Nepalese woman’s 53 hours lost on the streets of Queens.


Krishna, on Queens Boulevard.  
(Photo: Jeff Riedel)

 The park should have been right there. A long set of stairs, leading through a children’s playground to a track where Krishna Gurung was planning to jog. She was running every day now, trying to lose the twenty pounds she had gained since coming to New York from Nepal. She looked around in frustration. It was seven o’clock on a Friday morning and raining again, as it had been for what seemed like weeks. Who knew the U.S. had a rainy season? No matter—she would jog with an umbrella.

 The 53-year-old Krishna had come here, to Woodside, Queens, to visit her daughter Anu, whom she hadn’t seen since Anu moved to the States twelve years ago. Krishna had been here for a couple of months now, and Anu and her husband, Shyam, had taken her on family outings around Manhattan and down to Washington, D.C. Krishna’s native Pokhara is a city of 200,000, but New York was a different story. Krishna spoke no English; her tongue refused to form those mushy R’s and meowing vowels. Even the street and building numbers had to be translated for her. The Nepali language has its own way of writing numbers, insidiously close to ours but not identical. The numeral 1 looks like 9, 4 like 8, 5 like 4. To help keep Krishna safe, Anu and Shyam had defined a kind of comfort zone for her. Roosevelt Avenue, shaded by the elevated track of the 7 train, formed its southern boundary, and Broadway the northern one. The house, on 62nd Street, represented the area’s westernmost point; the intersection of Roosevelt Avenue and Broadway (the two streets merge) its eastern one. The area spans less than twenty blocks, and as long as the 7-train tracks were in sight, Krishna could find her way home by following them. Anu had also outfitted her mother with an emergency kit: a cell phone with the home number preprogrammed, some cash, and a laminated card with Anu’s home address in English on top.

 The park with the jogging track sits on a green hill on Woodside Avenue at 54th Street, a fifteen-minute walk from Anu and Shyam’s house. There is basically one turn required to get there—a right on Roosevelt. But something—the early hour, the rain—disoriented Krishna. She followed 62nd Street toward Roosevelt Avenue, as intended, and that’s where she made her mistake. Instead of turning right, toward the park, she turned left. Believing she couldn’t get lost if she kept the train tracks in sight, Krishna marched on. When she arrived at the corner where Roosevelt meets Broadway, she recognized it as the eastern tip of the safety zone. If she turned left there, she could be home in ten minutes. But left was now right, and Krishna turned in the wrong direction, spinning out of the neighborhood.

 She was confused now. The avenue looked familiar, but only in the sense that it looked like every other avenue. The city was like a mountain range, cartoon-simple from a distance, indecipherably complex up close. After a bit of wandering, Krishna passed a Hindu temple, Satya Narayan Mandir on Woodside Avenue, where Anu had once taken her. Krishna was Buddhist, despite her name, but spoke Hindi well. There were people inside the temple who could have helped her, yet the sight of it only strengthened Krishna’s feeling that she was close to home and didn’t need help. She looked around, saw a distant bridge that resembled the elevated 7-train tracks, and set off for it.

 What Krishna thought was the train trestle was actually the BQE overpass. She crossed under it and walked alongside Queens Boulevard. She marveled at the garish colors of Pop Diner and was briefly startled by a lifelike, if green, deer statue in front of the nearby Queens Borough Elks Lodge. But all these new sights didn’t quite add up, and Krishna didn’t know what to do. She had left the house wearing American jogging clothes—later to be described on a missing flyer as a burgundy top, black velvet track pants, and white sneakers with blue and yellow stripes. She was also wearing a $1,000 gold chain around her neck, $4,000 worth of gold bracelets on her right arm, and a pair of bulky gold earrings (Nepalese women tend to wear their wealth). What she didn’t bother to bring was the preprogrammed cell phone or address card Anu had given her. Or cash, a credit card, or any I.D. It was past 8 a.m. now, and Krishna was gradually coming to terms with an undeniable set of facts. She was thousands of miles from home, unable to communicate with anyone, alone, without money, and hopelessly, utterly lost.

 


 

Krishna is a Gurkha, a member of a Nepalese people famed for its tireless trackers and fearless soldiers. The British had used Gurkha battalions since 1817, and still do. Even in the modern U.K., their regimental heraldry includes a fully functional kukri knife. She wasn’t scared, not yet anyway, so much as determined. She was faced with a task and set out to accomplish it: I’m going to find home.

 She wandered the stretch of Queens Boulevard for a time, poking around side streets with alien names like Jacobus and Ireland. Krishna still believed Anu’s home was just around the corner. In reality, she was now in Elmhurst and heading toward LeFrak City.

 Krishna knew the word home. She also knew help—Anu had taught it to her as part of her emergency-training boot camp. Somehow, from the depths of memory, a third word appeared: mistake. Perhaps these words could be fashioned into something useful. “Help, mistake, home.” No, even better: “Help, home, mistake.” This could work. She approached a friendly looking man with it, but he recoiled. Am I saying it right? “Help, home, mistake.” She tried it again, on a woman with a small child, but got the same reaction, plus a few unintelligible words over the shoulder as the woman speed-walked away, pushing her stroller. This was hopeless. Even if someone understood her, she wouldn’t be able to understand the response.

 At about 10 a.m., Krishna saw two girls in tracksuits and sneakers, walking purposefully in front of her down Queens Boulevard. She concluded they were going jogging in the same park she had been headed for. The scale of the city was still incomprehensible to her—she didn’t even ponder the idea that there could be other parks. So she followed the girls around the corner and down Grand Avenue, for a dozen blocks. When Krishna began to lose faith in the effort, a promising thatch of greenery appeared in front of her, and she hurried toward it. But it wasn’t a park. It was a Catholic cemetery. Shocked by the size of it, Krishna missed the moment when her accidental tour guides abruptly disappeared. Steeped in the supernatural lore in Nepal, she assumed the two girls were apparitions. Cemetery ghosts. She kept walking.

 Soon it was past noon. Her feet were beginning to hurt. Hunger made itself known. Having wandered for five hours, she was now nearly five miles away from home and more uncertain than ever of how to find her way back there.

 

Back in Woodside, Anu, who works as an au pair, had awakened around 8 a.m. By 9, she knew something was off—her mother should have been back from her jog. Another hour later, Anu called Shyam, who was at work in New Jersey. He took the rest of the day off and returned to Queens.

 Anu’s first thought was a robbery gone wrong. After all, Krishna was wearing all that jewelry. Anu had never been mugged herself but was convinced, from films, TV, and press, that this sort of thing happens all over the place and to everybody. “In New York,” she says, “you see this story every time you read the newspaper.” Shyam assumed the voice-of-calm role, but Anu was still worried. Even if there wasn’t a robbery, so what? Her mother, the mother she had brought all the way here, the mother who had, upon her arrival, essentially become a child—naïve, vulnerable, dependent on her—was gone.

 The Gurungs, like many Gurkhas, prefer to exhaust all other options before involving the police, but by 6:30 p.m. the couple had become concerned enough to call 911. Almost an hour later, when no one had showed up at the house, they went to the police themselves. The Gurungs’ house, it turns out, stands near the border of three precincts, and an hour or so was wasted on jurisdictional back-and-forth. When the family finally got to the right precinct, they were told the officers were waiting for them at the house. To Anu’s shock, the police began by conducting a full-blown search, looking under the bed and into the closets while a detective started by asking if she and her mother had had an argument recently. At 9 p.m., the police filed a missing persons report. They told Anu that they would begin calling hospitals and checking for a Nepalese Jane Doe matching Krishna’s description. They suggested the family do the same.

 The Gurungs brought with them from Nepal a deep belief in astrology and fortune-telling. On Friday night, a friend of Anu’s went to a local fortune-teller, who told her Krishna was “under water.” Anu began to cry. Shyam tried to convince her that “under water” might mean “in the rain”—it was, after all, still raining. But he, too, began to imagine the worst.

 


One of the 500 MISSING flyers Anu made for Krishna.  
(Photo: Hannah Whitaker/New York Magazine)

 Krishna, meanwhile, had spent most of the afternoon gradually wending her way south. At one point she wound up in Brooklyn. She then picked up on the same cue that had already betrayed her—the elevated train tracks. Although Krishna didn’t know it, she was now following the J line back toward Queens. She still assumed that walking under the trestle would eventually get her home.

 As darkness fell, around 8 p.m., Krishna found herself in East New York. She walked into the enormous bus depot at the intersection of Jamaica Avenue and Broadway and roamed among empty buses until someone shooed her away. Several more times she tried to approach people with “Help, home, mistake.” It didn’t do any good.

 Later, she wandered up a ramp and onto the Jackie Robinson Parkway. Cars whizzed by, dangerously fast. After another bit of walking, she came across a second cemetery. This one was bigger than her native village. It seemed bigger than Kathmandu, the capital. Its size, stretching toward the horizon, made the mind ache: a city of the dead nestled inside a city of the unresponsive living. She spent hours wandering in the dark, and all she saw were graves.

 Anu didn’t sleep that night. By the morning, she was convinced Krishna was dead. It was all her fault—dragging her mother to America, tossing her into this vast concrete maze. Shyam kept telling Anu that her mother would come home any minute now, but after 24 hours, that was getting harder for anyone to believe.

 A burst of hope came directly from Nepal. Krishna’s husband, Maita, spooked by, but mistrustful of, the American psychic’s prediction, went to a different astrologer in Pokhara. That one saw Krishna “in a park near the water.” This was vastly preferable to the “under water” vision. Maita called Anu and relayed the vision. The family went searching the East River waterfront.

 Krishna told them what she had seen— the city of the dead, the green deer, the ghosts in tracksuits.

 

Midway through the night, Krishna had found her way out of the cemetery. Led by the light of a distant McDonald’s billboard, she walked along the cemetery border, past darkened gas stations and body shops, until she came upon a 24-hour coffee shop. The shop was deserted except for a single middle-aged waitress whiling away the graveyard shift behind the counter. Krishna opened the door, triggering the chime, and sat down in the booth closest to the door. The waitress offered her a sandwich and a glass of water, but Krishna was too proud to accept food from a stranger. Couldn’t they tell from the gold? She was no beggar. She had a perfectly lovely home; she just couldn’t find it at the moment. After a moment of silent negotiation with herself, Krishna took the water.

 She felt her head grow heavy and dozed off, waking to a rude shove a couple of hours later. The waitress’s shift was over. The man who had come to relieve her yelled at her, probably for letting a vagrant in, and kicked out Krishna. Krishna slept a little more on a cemetery bench, woke with the sunrise, and decided to retrace her steps, orienting herself by the light from the east to walk north, the direction she believed would lead her home. A friend of the Gurungs’ would later report a sighting of her in Ridgewood. He saw her from afar and didn’t realize she was lost.

 By Saturday afternoon, Krishna had gotten herself back on Queens Boulevard. She looked for the green deer, but couldn’t find it, and hatched a new plan. Off in the distance, about four miles away, the Citigroup tower loomed, the tallest building in the borough. Krishna decided that the tower marked the city’s center or main square. So she marched to Long Island City, narrowly bypassing Woodside on the way. She’d been gone now for almost a day and a half.

 Just a few blocks north, the clan was pulling together to find one of its own. The call was put out to the Gurungs all over the United States. Uncles, aunts, and cousins were streaming in from Boston, Baltimore, Virginia, and South Carolina. The house on 62nd Street became a center of almost martial operations. Small teams trawled Woodside, Maspeth, LeFrak City, Hunters Point, Astoria (where a subset of the Nepalese community resides). Point persons were assigned—Anu, Shyam, Anu’s sister Babita and Shyam’s friend Pravakar. A rotating team of volunteers stayed at Anu and Shyam’s home, in case Krishna unexpectedly called or came back. Anu went to the corner store and used the copy machine to print out 500 missing-person flyers in English and Nepali. Each showed a photo of Krishna taken on the family trip to Washington, D.C., looking characteristically stoic, with the Capitol in the background.

 In Long Island City, Krishna was crushed to find out that the skyscraper she had been marching toward wasn’t the city’s focal point. A larger, impossibly larger city opened up behind it, across the river—with dozens, hundreds of skyscrapers filling the western horizon. Exhausted, she made her way to the river and began studying the waterfront. Later, Krishna couldn’t even explain why she thought going over to Manhattan was a good idea that afternoon. She was grasping for anything even remotely familiar; Shyam and Anu had taken her to Manhattan over the Queensboro Bridge, so she had a vague notion that they would look for her along the same route.

 She soon found a grime-covered bridge and crossed it, but the city on the other side was a bit weird. It was small, for one thing, and seemed to have only one street. One of the most notable structures was a huge parking garage. Krishna dutifully walked around the garage and, having wasted an hour or so, decided to return to Queens. She made her way back over the bridge, leaving behind what she had initially taken for Manhattan but what was, in fact, Roosevelt Island. The darkening sky portended another wet night on the streets. Exhausted, she began looking for a place to sleep.

 This is when the hallucinations came. Krishna began to hear the voices of her daughters, Anu and Babita. They were speaking from two different directions, Anu into Krishna’s left ear and Anu’s sister, Babita, into the right one—they were talking over each other. Mostly, they just repeated the word mom: “Ama.”

 With the daughterly din in her head, Krishna moved ahead. She found a fountain in a small waterfront park and drank. She found a public restroom in another park and cleaned herself up (accidentally walking into the men’s room first). She came upon Astoria Park, where Anu had taken her before, and once again felt a trace of hope that she could regain her compass. The voices kept going. Ama. Ama. Later, she’d say she heard Shyam’s voice too, paired with that of Anu’s, but she would just say that to be nice to her son-in-law.

 In the gathering darkness, Krishna left the waterfront and turned east, toward Ditmars-Steinway. Had the sun not set, she might have seen the flag of Nepal hung in the front yard of one house she passed: another missed shortcut home. Instead, she wound up at a power plant that sits on the northernmost tip of Astoria. It looked like the end of the world, a vast landscape of asphalt and silent machinery. Krishna settled on a concrete bench just outside the fence. She pulled a piece of cardboard she’d found under her and fell asleep sitting up, legs crossed, head bowed, her daughters’ calls growing quieter in her ears until they wafted away.

 Forty-eight hours had passed since Krishna had disappeared. At midnight on Sunday, Anu was on her 40th sleepless hour. Shyam was beginning to worry for his wife’s health. He didn’t know it was possible to cry nonstop for almost two days, that a human body had such a pool of tears to dispense. On Sunday morning in Pokhara, Maita went to a different astrologer for a second session, taking along Krishna’s picture for a more accurate reading. The astrologer studied the photo, concurred that Krishna was “in the park,” and added that she was closer than the Gurungs thought. The search party continued combing Queens.

 The birds awakened her. A flock had perched on a small tree next to the concrete bench, chirping like mad. It was 5:30 on Sunday morning, and the rain had passed. The cardboard under Krishna was wet and spongy. Her feet were swollen, and her sneakers cut into her feet.

 She got up and continued walking for six more hours. She saw a man hose down a car in his front yard and asked him for some water from the hose. She saw a guard’s booth at the entrance to a parking lot that said notice in blue and white, an inscription that looked to her like police; she accosted the man inside, mistaking him for an officer. When he didn’t respond, it only fortified Krishna’s newfound belief in the callousness of New Yorkers.

 She was now on the verge of losing consciousness. Even the hallucinations had taken leave of her. She just walked, putting all her concentration into the very process of moving forward while staying upright. The direction no longer mattered—it was all the same everywhere. She would never find home, never see Anu or Babita. She walked some more.

 “Are you okay?”

Did she just miraculously learn English? Is that what happens to people at the last flicker of sanity—total understanding? No, it wasn’t English. Or Nepali either. It was the other language she knew but didn’t think useful here—Hindi. The speaker was a taxi driver. He had pulled up behind her, stopped the car and was now hanging out of the window, concerned. Krishna doesn’t remember what he looked like. She does remember thinking, without a shadow of doubt, that he was a god. She told him so.

 “No, no, ma’am,” said the driver. “I am a man. Do you know where you live?”

 “Woodside” came to her. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. “Woodside,” she said, “Woodside. Woodside. Woodside.”

 The cabbie knew what she meant—the Nepalese neighborhood. It was easy to find. Every other house had a flag in front of it. He would have taken her directly to Anu’s home, but as soon as she saw some familiar landmarks—a Chinese fruit vendor and a Sports Authority sign—she asked the driver to stop the car and let her out. Then she walked the remaining few blocks home.

 Anu’s friend Aarati, manning the home front, heard someone open the door. A second later, she was frantically mashing buttons on her cell phone. It was noon on Sunday, 53 hours since Krishna’s first wrong turn. Anu, Shyam, and Aarati’s mother were methodically combing a local park one more time, on the astrologer’s advice. When Aarati’s call came, they ran to Shyam’s Nissan and sped home. Anu cried in the park, and she cried in the car, and she cried when she saw her mother for the first time in almost three days. Then she cried for a few hours more.

 When she woke up the next day in her own bed, Krishna told the family what she had seen. She told them about the city of the dead, the green deer, the ghosts in tracksuits.

 Krishna soon confided in her daughter that she’d like to go back to Nepal, and left for Pokhara six weeks later—well before her visa ran out. Against all odds, she had developed a mild but persistent claustrophobia. She spent most of her remaining New York nights sleepless, and would often slip outside in the dark. She’d drape a blanket over the top step of the porch and sit there, looking at the night sky and a Buddhist flag flapping on the lawn pole, her head thrumming with the maddening knowledge of the enormity that hid just beyond the corner.

Source:  http://nymag.com/news/features/59009/

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To Archive: Rumee Miss Nepal

by Santosh Shrestha 24. August 2009 18:43

Noticias de Nepal: 

 

La página oficial de Miss Nepal dio a conocer la lista de candidatas que se disputarán la corona de este año el próximo 7 de agosto. Ellas son: Suzan Gurung Lainchour, Rashmi Acharya Sorhakhutte Kusma, Mamta Malhotra Old Baneshwor, Shrismita Amatya Nayabasti, Bimina Ranjit Sanepa, Mahima Bhattachan Baluwatar, Dhartee Sunuwar Baneshwor,  Payal Shakya Nayabazar, Anita Gurung Matepani,  Deepshikha Shah Lazimpat, Shabnam khadka Kalanki, Rumee Singh Kupondole, Rama Maharjan Sainthu Ganesh, Shailja Basnet Jawalakhe, Arati Anand Gharbari Tole, Harina Bogati Dhobighat, Sarah Gurung Dhobighat, Sukriti Baskota Panipokhari y Sadhana Shrestha Kalankisthan. Para más de las candidatas visita la página de Miss Nepal.

Source: http://www.bellezavenezolana.net/news/2004/Julio/20040720.htm 

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Next Time You Drop Your Cellphone in the Toilet

by Rumee 20. February 2009 11:20

I don't know if this works, but here's what NYTimes' article on "Low-Tech Fixes for High-Tech Problems" tells you to do.

It could happen to anyone: you dropped your cellphone in the toilet. Take the battery out immediately, to prevent electrical short circuits from frying your phone’s fragile internals. Then, wipe the phone gently with a towel, and shove it into a jar full of uncooked rice.

It works for the same reason you may keep few grains of rice in your salt shaker to keep the salt dry. Rice has a high chemical affinity for water — that means the molecules in the rice have a nearly magnetic attraction for water molecules, which will be soaked up into the rice rather than beading up inside the phone.

 I am not shoving that cell phone in my jar of uncooked rice!!! 

 Read more low- tech fixes at http://is.gd/k6tp  

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Share The Knowledge...

by Santosh Shrestha 13. November 2008 20:03
I have been programming for a while - professional and fun programming. My favorite languages are JavaScript and C#. In this blog, I am going to document all the findings and development of various app, tips and styles of programming as I dive deeper into the world of programming. I hope this will keep me stay focus and give me a sense of direction. At the same time, I will be contributing something to the world of programming.

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