The morning of my Bratabandha, after hours of prayers and rituals, three younger female cousins on my mom’s side began shaving my hair. An uncle held onto a few locks in the back as they finished cutting the rest. Dozens of relatives began streaking yogurt and mustard seed on me, and I saw a new face in the mirror. For a moment, I saw Prince Zuko.
The “Bratabandha” is a Nepali coming-of-age ceremony for young men, representing a spiritual introduction to adulthood. When a boy completes his Bratabandha, he can leave home to pursue an education. He can get married and start a family. He can perform the ultimate spiritual duty: his parents’ funeral blessings. It’s difficult to express how meaningful my Bratabandha felt; these exciting possibilities and heavy responsibilities came alongside my family treating me like a “real adult.” These were all possibilities of the future; they were (and are) difficult to understand. The only thing that felt real was my bald head with one patch of hair, just like Zuko.
Prince Zuko, banished son and Lord-to-be of the Fire Nation, has long been my favorite fictional character. Avatar: The Last Airbender nerds know the complexity of his character: a bitter and exiled teenager, permanently scarred from a duel with his father, grows to become the tempered leader of a nation once bent on world domination. Before his emotional transformation, he is nearly bald, and the single patch of hair is a symbol of his shame.
I’ve always wanted to be Zuko for two reasons. The first, as you might imagine, was that I wanted to shoot fire out of my hands. The second was that I thought our lives were similar. Unlike Zuko, my father never burned me and my mother never disappeared—in fact, I’m glad to say my relationship with my parents is quite strong. Nevertheless, I’ve always wished it was warmer and less tense.
Much of that coldness is the result of where I spent my childhood. Although I was born in America, my parents were working in the service industry and preparing to enter graduate school. Feeling that they could not support me, they made a great sacrifice and sent me to live with my dad’s parents in Nepal. All my earliest memories thus involve my grandparents. And although they often remind me they aren’t actually my parents, I’ve always called them “aama” and “baba,” mom and dad. So, when my real parents decided it was time for seven-year-old me to return to America, I was extremely resistant to the idea without any meaningful way to express it.
I became extremely weepy for several years. I cried if my parents were late to pick me up from school. I cried if I received a mediocre grade. I cried if I spilled milk. Especially impactful was the memory of my mother repeating, “We didn’t bring you back to America so you could cry.” My mom recently told me how much she regretted saying that; it hurt to know that we were both carrying that emotional burden for years. Nevertheless, when I think back to those moments, I realize how much I wanted to push away my big elementary school emotions.
At that time, I was cognizant enough to understand Zuko’s life struggle. Like him, I felt like my place in my family was volatile. I had to be sufficiently resilient to remain a valued member of the unit. But what I couldn’t see was how constant attempts at emotional strength consumed him. The entire show’s B-plot is Zuko repeatedly attempting to be tougher and colder than he is, and failing every time. Once he finally pleases his father, the inauthenticity it took to get there consumes him.
Like Zuko, I was quick to anger and constantly eager to prove myself. It turns out, my parents never needed me to do that. I remember bringing home a report card full of Bs, sobbing (with a great deal of shame) at the thought that they would be angry. When they didn’t react, telling me to just “try harder next time,” I thought they didn’t care at all. So, like Zuko, I kept running into a wall.
In the end, his salvation is largely thanks to the grace of his gentle uncle Iroh, who follows Zuko on his impossible quest to capture the Avatar. Oddly enough, I think my younger brother became my Iroh. I returned to America from Nepal when he was born because my parents felt it would be wrong to separate us. They were right.
I taught him how to read, how to put on a bandaid, how to beat the Ender Dragon, and how to love math more than I ever could. My parents were excited to let me do all this and more; they smile widest when I’m teaching my brother something new. They always let me use the car when he and I want to go somewhere together. They call me to ask how they can better connect with him.
Thanks to him, my parents and I have learned how to show each other love. It might look lukewarm and confusing from the outside, and we still make blunders from time to time, but all the little things we do make sense to us. That’s all that counts.
I think back to the very end of my Bratabandha ceremony. My mom tied a gold chain around my neck, and my father followed with a dubo mala, a large grass garland. Both their hands lingered as they tied them on, supposedly “missing” the clasp more than they had to. The photographer began taking photos and yelled out, matter of factly, “Now, you have done your job; you have raised your son.” Perhaps it sounds awkward in English, but in Nepali, it was just what my parents needed to hear. They asked for the tears to be edited out in post, but I have the originals saved somewhere. I’m not brave enough to print them out yet, but I think I will become strong enough to be honest enough one day. Perhaps that will be the last way I really relate to Zuko. After all, these sorts of things can take three seasons and a spinoff sequel to finally be put to rest.
