I'd like to talk about my grandfather, who's eighty-one and still lives in a village about two hours outside Kathmandu, in Nepal. I'm a software tester in the city, so our lives could hardly be more different.
When he was young, his life revolved around the land. He left school at about ten to help my great-grandfather farm millet and maize on terraces cut into the hillside. There was no road to the village then, so any trip to the market meant a full day's walk with goods on his back. He married at nineteen, had six children, and didn't see a television until he was well into his forties.
Compared with that, my life is incredibly comfortable. I've got a degree, I sit in an air-conditioned office, and if I want something I can order it on my phone. But in some ways his life was richer. He knew every family in the village and depended on them, whereas I barely know my neighbours in our apartment block. He also had a much stronger sense of the seasons; he still knows when it'll rain just by looking at the clouds over the ridge.
What I've learned from him is mostly about patience and gratitude. He's never complained about the hardships, and he gets genuinely excited about small things, like a good harvest or a phone call from a grandchild. Whenever I get frustrated because my internet is slow or a project's delayed, I think of him carrying sacks along those mountain paths, and it puts things in perspective. He's also taught me that community isn't something you can download; you have to build it slowly by showing up for people.