I’ve been here a week and by yesterday it was time to head to Kaski for the weekend. Pascal and Aidan have their exams this week, but I like taking one or both of them with me when I can. In Pokhara, there is too much sitting. When Didi and Bishnu where 9 and 11, they spent all their non-school hours working, carrying, cooking, washing, or studying by the little kerosene lamp. Aidan and Pascal should examine bugs and trip on roots while running over the terraced fields.
Pascal said he wanted to come along, so I told him to show up at 4:30 the room I’m renting this summer. He was here and ready at 4, and Aidan showed up a few minutes later. While I put my things together, they explored my little apartment, and I suggested they take the opportunity to try out the private shower with its shiny hot and cold faucets. The boys are used to bucket bathing. Pascal gave the shower a go (very refreshing, Laura-chiama), but Aidan ran out of time. The sky was gathering a storm and we had to get to the bus park.
We arrived just in time to cram ourselves in to the last Friday bus. The bus to kaski is always crowded and always an adventure, but Friday evenings are the worst. I found a spot up near the front of the bus with my back to the driver – I was sitting, so that’s a plus – and Aidan wiggled up on to my lap. The bus was packed well beyond capacity, every knee and elbow and hip bent to accommodate a body part belonging to somebody else, a situation made worse by the rain that had started. With all the windows closed it felt like oxygen was being consumed faster than it could be collected, and the window panes fogged up with body heat, leaving everything slick and heavy. Aidan was hot on my lap, and I wished I’d shoved him in to the shower. Then again, he was my only shield against the sea of limbs and sweaty brows, and at least his sweat is familiar. For a 5’8” American, I can pack myself in to a pretty small space in a crowded Nepali bus, but this ride was set to put my capabilities to the test.
Up we went. Switchbacks.
By the time I peeled Aidan off my lap in Kaski, dusk had settled soft and blue on the hills. We emerged outside into the cool wide air, suspenseful with pending rain, and ran through the corn stalks to the house (Laura-chiama, the corn is so much taller than you!). Aamaa put dinner on our plates, and sitting on the floor, we arranged our knees to fit in the narrow kitchen. The electricity went out. The very same kerosene lamp Didi and Bishnu studied by all those years (my single favorite object in the house) lit up the clay walls and the boys’ faces in the kitchen, where I feel happy.
Aidan and I are both partial to the new kitten, a bony sliver of a thing that always seems hungry and cold. Aidan likes to pet its fragile spine with two fingers, the only thing I’ve ever seen him do gently. Normally Aidan moves too fast, is covered in bruises, and breaks everything. But he feeds the kitten little bits of rice on the clay floor while we eat. When we get in bed, the kitten wants to cuddle with us and I let it nestle on to my shoulder while I read. It purrs in to my neck. Aidan is delighted, but Aamaa and Pascal are displeased. The cat is a feral beast with no business in a bed. It is here to eat mice. Poor little thing.
During the night, I wake up every time I have to roll over because I don’t want to smush the kitten. Aidan jabs his knee in to my back. Around 4am, the kitten poops exuberantly onto the blanket. I take the kitten and the blanket off the bed and go back to sleep.
I wake up my favorite way: gradually, lazily, inside the conical mosquito net drifting up to the ceiling, with rain pattering on the tin roof. Aidan is already gone out of bed. Saturday stretches out before us, a long summer meadow rustling and flowered.
Narayan with his other American gift
I come out on to the porch and Aamaa is serving milk tea. Milk tea! Aamaa sold the buffalo a few weeks ago and we are milk-less.Where did the milk come from? But Aamaa knows that I forget about black tea halfway through, and it gets cold sitting on the porch. Somehow this morning she is pouring creamy milk tea in to a tin cup and everything is perfect.
Narayan comes over from next door, and within a few minutes, Aidan has broken the toy I gave Narayan: a set of Velcro pads and a Velcro ball to play catch with. The boys set to fixing it. Aidan recruits some tape from someplace, I can’t imagine where, and Pascal has taken a sickle to a piece of bamboo. He is making a walking stick. They want to watch TV and Aamaa tells them that’s fine so I unplug the TV and hide the remote and tell Pascal to go wield a sharp object too close to his hands, like the rest of the kids.
I walk over to Govinda dai’s house for is sarad, the anniversary of his mother’s death. I get there just as the priest is arriving to start the puja, and he asks after how I am doing. The priest knows me partly because I stick out, and also from my project documenting death and mourning rituals. I have sat and listened to him and taken his photo and written about him and sought explanations from him often. The house fills with incense and stillness and an oil lamp is lit. Sulochana doesn’t want me to leave; she asks for some henna on her hands, and I’m surprised this is allowed on sarad, but Govinda’s father doesn’t seem to mind.
In the afternoon little Narayan takes a break from his exploits with Aidan and Pascal to bring me down to his mother’s fields where Aamaa is helping plant rice. I follow his tiny frame along the edges of the flooded rice paddies, and through the part of Kaskikot where the students I taught in 2003 are from. Their families know me as Laura-miss, and I spend less time in this area, so people might only see me every couple of years, but I sense a certain look of recognition when I pass somebody who knows me as the teacher of their kid. “Eh!! Laura, Laura right?” She is going to cut rice, they shake their heads, isn’t that delightful? Yes yes, it’s Laura. I have a weird life, I think, and it is pretty great. After all this time, it is still magical to be known on a wooded stone path winding down to the rice paddies.
We pass our neighbor Butu bouju. Laura! Did you have milk tea this morning? Aamaa wanted to pay for the milk, Butu bouju says, and I said no, Laura is here from America. Aidan and Pascal are visiting from Pokhara. They should have milk. How was the tea?
For three or four hours, Saraswoti and I stand shin-deep irrigated mud, planting one sprig at a time. The gleaming hills stretch out across the valley, monsoon humidity draped over their shoulders. The edge of my left leg will get burnt below the knee, where my rolled up trousers cease to shield skin against the hot sun. Mostly we work together in silence. Every once and a while Saraswoti looks over and murmurs, bhay chha Laura, bhay chha, it’s good. Or, Laura, how much does a plane ticket cost to get to America? I bet it is scary, being on a plane. I ask if Saraswoti has ever been on a plane, even though I know the answer. Does she think it would be scary? Probably, I think. It would be scary, I guess. Splash, plop. Bhay chha, Laura.
Last Saturday, I think, I was in Connecticut. I try to remember what I was doing…errands?
Starting around 4pm, we could barely hear ourselves for the rain pummeling the tin roof. Sulochana and Narayan were both over. I decided Aidan still needed a shower and began to goad him in to going out in the deluge. Narayan, who is even more of a spaz than Aidan, launched himself into the center of the patio with all of this clothes on and was immediately soaked. Aamaa began screeching at all of us. In this weather! Get inside! Everybody on the beds with the windows closed! Aidan changed in to shorts and came running on to the porch, alight with glee, while Aamaa scolded him loud enough to cut through the noise of the pounding water. There was a curtain of rivulets dripping off the corrugated tin all along the edge of the porch. Aidan stuck his hand out, stuck his toe out, and then finally
I dried Aidan off. See, Aamaa? Now he’s clean-ish.
Narayan spent the rest of the afternoon without his shirt on.
I lay down on the bed to read by the gray light of an open window, because we’d unplugged all the lights and turned off the electric sockets. Lightening has ended more than one life in this neighborhood; in Saano Didi’s family, it was inside the house.
Laura-chiama! Let us use the henna! Please please please….I allow Aidan, Narayan, and Sulochana to decorate my outstretched left arm with henna while I use my right arm to hold mybook on my chest. The three of them hover intently over their work by the light of the window, while the rain continues singing loudly over our heads. It tickles. Sulochana has been learning by watching me, and she makes a lovely flower in my palm. I take my eyes off my book and notice Aidan squeezing the tube of henna lusciously in to a pile of brown goo under the spot where he has scratched out my name below the elbow. Later, this will become a bearded LAURA hat looks like a large bruise. Oh well.
Aamaa and I debate all afternoon over the boys’ exams. They haven’t brought their books, she says, and they should have gone back to Pokhara today to study. Aamaa comes up with all kinds of nonsensical plans such as walking them to Naudanda an hour away to catch the bus. I say that if they want to get on the 3:30 bus from Kaski, we can send them off and Didi will meet them at the bus park. I say we are leaving at 7:30 am tomorrow morning on the first bus. Aamaa says they shoudl be reading now. I ask Pascal how old he is and he says almost twelve and I say, “Do you know you have an exam on Sunday?” and he says yes Laura-chiama! And I say, see Aamaa? They decided not to bring their books and that’s up to them. Aamaa says the bus could be cancelled tomorrow morning, and I say there could be a flood or alien space landing or invasion by Mongols, but generally speaking, the bus leaves Kaski every single morning at 7:30am.
It pours torrentially all night. Waterfalls, oceans, tidal waves coming from the sky, filling every bucket, drum, jug, pot; washing the stones clean; overflowing the planted rice paddies.
Aamaa wakes us up at 5:30am. I scold her from inside my mosquito net. Aamaa! I set my alarm for 6:30am! Why do we need to get up in the middle of the night?! Grumpy, I stay in bed until 6:15. When I get up, the boys are eating heaping plates of rice, vegetables and daal that Aamaa has cooked before 7am. Like she does for me when I am leaving at 9am for the office, when I eat rice because I know how much it matters to her to feed us before we leave the house for the day.
MILK TEA. I fill up my cup twice.
Aamaa wants us to make the hour long walk to Naudanda to take the bus to Pokhara. I roll my eyes. There is a bus leaving from right here at 7:30am! The road will be washed out, Aamaa says, the bus could break down, a million problems could occur. We could be late. The boys have their exams, they haven’t even studied, why don’t we walk to Naudanda? Has Aamaa spoken with my mom lately, I wonder? Moms are all the same.
We go backwards through the drenched corn stalks to Deurali to wait for the bus. Prem sir greets us. The bus is not going this morning, Prem sir says, because there have been some small landslides and the road is blocked.
We have to walk to Naudanda.
Laura-chiama, we have to walk to Naudanda!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!
Everything is soft and cottony in a mist that makes us unsure whether or not it has stopped raining. Even though there is no water coming down, the air is wet, our hair is damp, the road is full of puddles, and the hills float in and out of a white sky. We take photos of the mythical landscape. We find sparkles of radiant purple and red poking out of the clouds in our hands. Some vehicles pass, taking, like us, the opposite route to town this morning due to the blocked road, and I could stop them, but now we are not in a hurry.
Was there a hurry?