Dreams from Nepal

Chapter 2

The Crossroads

Ram carefully put the cart away, as was his responsibility upon the return of each trip to Pokhara. His father looked tired and down-trodden as he plodded away toward their small but well-maintained house. The sun was setting over the high peaks, casting long shadows down across the Newa Sekuwa Pass. It was late autumn, but to Ram, it felt like winter was just around the corner. Ram was feeling cold, even in his long-sleeve shirt and pants. The air seemed to have more of a bite to it already than Ram remembered from previous years.

As was often the case, Ram's active imagination took over. Staring up at the pass, he wished he could go up to Khudi Bazaar to observe and mingle with the trekkers as they stopped at the popular tourist attraction. The tourists would stop to acclimate or just rest before heading higher into the mountains. Ram was fascinated with all the apparent wealth of the visitors. He wanted to follow them and make small talk. Over the years, Ram had picked up enough English to have elementary conversations with them. Maybe someone would even give him a trinket or treat from one of the small tea houses there. He loved meeting tourists; there was something about them that always attracted him. He did not understand why these tourists came from all over the world to his tiny village but he appreciated them being there.

Ram was still looking up toward Khudi Bazaar, wondering what was happening there now, as he led the ox to its small shed that looked like it coud collapse any day. He snapped out of his trance as he looked back toward the house, seeing his mother gesturing for him to hurry and come in. He had been so lost in his captivation with what might be going on up the track he had not heard her repeated calling.

As he entered the house, Ram's nostrils filled with the aroma of his mother's lentil curry, one of his favorites. His father was already sitting at the table, looking as discouraged and forlorn as he had on the trip back from Pokhara. His mother, a quiet woman, smiled at him as she waited for Ram to take his seat.

He bowed his head while his father offered their traditional thanks for the meal. He waited as his mother moved to the table and spooned the thick, savory soup into bowls. Ram was eager to begin, but he knew it was the household tradition to wait for his father to begin. He and his siblings could start after his father did. His mother would then eat last after she served seconds to her husband and children. The woman who spent all her day preparing their food would only eat after everyone else left the kitchen.

Ram joined in as his father tasted from his hot bowl and offered the subtle yet well-known nod that signaled they could begin. Alongside the steaming bowls of the curry was a wooden plate piled with Tibetan bread. It was not one of Ram's favorites, but he was well aware how scarce the food of their meals could be, so he took a piece, anyway. As was his way when this bread appeared, he doused it thoroughly in the lentil broth, knowing his mother's talents in the kitchen could make even this unappealing bread palatable. He made sure the delicious lentil curry covered every inch of the bread before he took a bite.

Most days, his father would have regaled his mother with the day's events, but whatever was on his mind had carried over into the evening. Ram hazarded a sideways glance toward first his father, and then, his mother. His father, much like on the walk back to the cart from the shops in Pokhara, kept his gaze focused downward at his meal. Again, it was unlike what Ram was accustomed to at mealtime. His mother caught his glance toward her and just smiled weakly back, indicating she did not understand what was wrong, but that whatever it was, he was not the cause.

After dinner, Ram planned to retreat to his small room to read his well-worn copy of The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway, which he had gotten from an American hiker years ago. He must have read the thing a thousand times already, but he loved the story and it kept his English sharp. Even after all the times he had read it, there were still parts he could not follow, but each new time he hoped he would pick up more of the language.