We were relieved to discover on our last visit that we were to sleep in our own tiny room in a small separate building which Netra had financed with his salary from his first teaching position.
The mud walls are plastered with posters, ads from various magazines, photos, even some immunization posters, crudely drawn, no doubt contributed by Elina, the youngest sibling, who is studying nursing. We are housed in this room again, sleeping on two narrow, wooden plinths covered by very thin (totally inadequate for my bony body) foam mats. We have the wooden shutters over the window wells open all the time, although I am a little disconcerted by the various scurryings occurring during the dark hours. We never learn where all the members of the extensive family sleep; we do know that mother curls up on the mud floor next to the open fire and dad shares the open byre up the hill with his water buffalo to guard them from the tiger which is supposedly in the area. The outhouse is situated on the lower terrace, down some steep , uneven steps. Its only one of 3 or 4 in the village. It even boasts a tap and a large, vicious looking spider in a web over the low door. These spiders are poisonous so one has to be wary.
The family perform their ablutions under the tap situated between their house and uncle’s. They are almost obsessive about dental hygiene, too, cleaning their teeth at least twice daily, each armed with their own tube of toothpaste as well as toothbrush. We prefer more privacy so armed with bowl and camp suds we make our way to a steepish section of the ridge above the house. It’s an open, airy place, the water gurgles noisily through the black 2in pipe which has snaked its way for many miles before descending the hill into the village. It’s relatively easy to pull apart the pipe, joined at this point by a strip of bamboo but harder to put it together without soaking clean, dry clothes. The view, especially from upside down with one’s head in the bowl, is spectacular; ridge upon ridge into the misty distance, threads of rivers and boiling clouds far below.
Lakpa
Ishwor, Netra’s older brother, when last we met him, was
in the process of arranging a suitable marriage for himself. Two
years later he is boasting an attractive, confident, bustling wife and
an enormously fat, four and a half month old baby girl named Shristie(
nature).There’s a little wide eyed boy attached to the family whom Netra
dismissively refers to as the “baby sitter”. I am taken aback as Ishwor
is a kindly, thoughtful progressive. He laughs when I question Lackpa’s
role. “Oh yes”, he says “he helps with the baby after school”. He
is apparently a foster child from a very poor Tamil family. His love
for the baby is so deep and genuine. He rocks the little basket which barely
holds her and carries her around where ever he goes. He sits by me far
longer than the other children as I do an inventory of the books we have
brought with us. He is entranced. I ask him to chose one to keep and he
does so without hesitation. No smile or thanks, such niceties are foreign
to him but he is obviously overwhelmed. I’m sure he has never received
a gift before especially one of such a perceived high value.