On Christmas Eve, in the late afternoon, the streets of the town were bathed in a pale violet light. The mountains to the north had lost their brilliance. Black crows flocked across the sun as it added crimson and tangerine ripples to the feathered cloud. We had come to collect the children from school. Dawa and Yeshe, Dombie's children, had left their lessons early so that we could arrive at the winter house by dusk. Gondo's son, Dorlo, had been truanting again. Tsedup had found him in a video hall watching Kung Fu films and had threatened to leave him behind if he didn't behave. Dorlo swore he would.
Before hitting the road, we took the children to a restaurant. They were delirious with excitement, having been told they were getting presents, and nearly choked on the noodles in their haste to depart. Dorlo was having particular problems controlling himself. Unable to avoid the question threatening to implode his brain, he was forced to blurt out through spluttering lips, 'Is mine a gun? Is mine a gun?'
Tsedup laughed at him. 'No, it's a doll,' he teased.
'I know it's a big gun,' beamed Dorlo.
'You'll find out tomorrow,' I said. Thank God we had bought him a gun.
Yeshe, his junior, remained polite and restrained, kicking his legs under the table and blowing bubbles from his nose. For such a small boy he had a peculiar sense of propriety. He drove the food leisurely round his plate with one chopstick, as he surveyed us all curiously. His sister, Dawa, chattered and giggled and sniffed; snapping open and shut the pink, plastic purse that hung round her neck. The children were all dressed in their tsarers for the journey to the grassland. We would all have to go by tolla, as their parents weren't coming on the bikes until tomorrow.
Tsedup hailed one of the three-wheeled tractors on the street, as I waited with the children in Annay Latuck's momo shop. We warmed our hands on her stove. Dusk was falling and it was freezing outside. Annay Latuck ran the shop like an eccentric brigadier, shouting orders to the girls behind the curtain in the back kitchen. She was a no-nonsense woman, but her beady eyes twinkled and her wry smile betrayed a kindly nature. She was the mother of our friend Tamding Gyalpo, who now lived in Switzerland. She hadn't seen him for eight years and missed him terribly. We would often sit and talk as she held my hand and I assured her he would come home soon. He was waiting for his Swiss passport to enable him to travel. The scenario was all too familiar and I felt for her as I had for Tsedup's mother. Now, she placed a pile of shabala, meat fritters, in front of us and commanded me to eat. 'Sou, Namma Kate! Sou!' I wasn't hungry, but I knew that there would be no escape if I didn't attempt her offer of sustenance. She always looked after me. Yet, half-way through our greasy snack, we were summoned to the road.
The tolla ride was predictably uncomfortable. The track resembled an ice-rink in places and we skidded precariously for most of the way, juddering in the back as the engine thundered in our ears. At one point we stalled after crossing a frozen stream and Dorlo decided to jump off. He ran away from us wielding a gun-shaped stick and mock-firing at us, crying, 'Dddddrrrr, dddddrrrrr!' like a machine-gun. Then the Chinese driver pumped the gas and the engine burst into its own rapid fire. Without waiting, he continued driving up the hill, as Dorlo, shocked at being abandoned, shouted obscenities in his high-pitched voice and chased behind until he got a grip on the tailgate and we pulled him in. That boy was a liability.
In the evening we congregated at our house. Annay held the fort as the children shrieked and fought together in the limited space. It was rare for all the cousins to be united and tonight it was mayhem. Two of Rhanjer's children, Samlo and Rinchenchet, had also turned up to stay the night. Although their own house was only a hundred yards away, there was no way they were going to miss out.
At bedtime the boys went to our hut outside. Gorbo was in charge. He supervised as Rinchen, Samlo, Dorlo and Sanjay squabbled together under the quilts. Yeshe did not want to join them. He had specifically asked Tsedup if he could sleep with him on top of the dung mountain outside. Tsedup was delighted. We wrapped them up in sheepskins as they lay together in sub-zero temperatures on the small summit, with only their noses poking out. Tsedup told me later that they spent a long time watching the shooting stars and then, thinking his uncle well travelled, Yeshe had asked him if he had ever been to the moon. It hadn't been such an unreasonable suggestion, since England seemed just as far away to Yeshe.
'When you went up in a plane, you must have been really close to the stars,' he had said. 'Did you see people and houses on them?' Tsedup had told him yes, and Yeshe had decided to go there when he grew up.
I put the girls to bed next to the clay stove. Dickir Che, Ziggy, Dawa and Rinchenchet were all inside one huge sheepskin that had been sewn together like an enormous sleeping-bag. I threatened to tickle them all and they retreated to the bottom of the bag, screeching and writhing to escape me. I left them breathless and giggling together. Then their mumblings became silence as they fell asleep. But just as Tsedo, Shermo Donker, Annay and I were about to bed down for the night, Dorlo burst into the room, tears pouring down his cheeks. He flung his arms round his grandmother.
'What's wrong?' Annay asked.
'There's a ghost out there,' he sobbed. 'Cousin Gorbo told me.'
We laughed as she hushed and rocked him, then let him settle in her bed on the floor. His gunslinging bravado had disappeared, and Dorlo was not the big man he professed to be, just a child. In fact now, a more lovable one.
I woke on Christmas morning to Dorlo climbing inside my tsarer. 'It is a big gun, isn't it?' he said. I had to give him top marks for persistence, but I wasn't going to give in. It reminded me of my own Christmases as a child. The anguish I had suffered, waiting for my parents to wake up and make the tea, then drink it, before my brother and I were allowed to open our presents. Now Dorlo would have to learn the same patience. I went outside to check on Tsedup and Yeshe. They were still sound asleep on top of the dung heap. The early-morning frost sparkled on the mound of sheepskins. Not even a nose was visible. I hoped they had been warm enough in the night. We prodded them awake and Annay and I laughed at them as they emerged, blinking, from the pile. It was the most bizarre location for a bed.
When we were all assembled we went down to Rhanjer's home for the party. He lived with his wife and three girls in a smart brick house at the side of the railway-arch dwellings. Although he had five children, his two boys stayed in town. The eldest, Tinlee, was a monk and lived in the monastery, and the younger, Samlo, was at school in the week and lived with his uncle, a teacher. As we arrived at the house, Gurra, Rhanjer's eldest daughter, ran out to escort us past the dogs. Her father stood on the porch, grinning festively. He was proud of his home. It was much larger than ours, with steps up to the front door and brick floors throughout. He guided us in to where his wife, Shermo Domatso, was busy preparing for the festivities. She was a diminutive woman with a wide smile of perfectly white teeth and laughter lines fanning out from soft eyes. She spoke gently and melodiously. 'Losar zung!' she said in greeting, as I walked in. It was the closest thing to 'Happy Christmas' in the nomad vocabulary, but really meant 'Happy New Year'. Losar was their biggest annual festival, and Tsedup had told them that Christmas in England was like Losar in Tibet. In terms of seasonal status, this was true, but I was to discover that the nomads' idea of celebrating was quite different from our own.
The house had been festooned with silver decorations and the table was piled high with sweets, fruit, boiled meat and drinks. In the back room, several hundred momos awaited. We all went to sit down on the platform. Azjung sat in front of the table, the sunlight from the window mapping out the lines on his old skin with shadow. He thumbed his prayer beads. As we entered he smiled and motioned for Tsedup and me to come and sit with him.
'Why do the westerners celebrate Christmas?' he asked Tsedup curiously.
Not wishing to instigate a full-blown theological discussion, Tsedup found an analogy to make himself understood. 'It is their Buddha's birthday,' [1] he explained.
Azjung nodded carefully. Tibetans didn't celebrate anybody's birthday, so no doubt he found this answer strange. I had always found it strange that they did not count birthdays. Here, everyone automatically advanced in age at the same time every New Year, which was around February. Sometimes this led to confusion for me: it meant that a baby born in January would be called a year old a month later. This was probably why nomad children always looked much younger than their western counterparts.
Many years before, when Tsedup had applied for his Indian passport to leave for England with me, he was supposed to have produced a birth certificate. He had had no idea what they were talking about. When I had explained, he had said, ‘I exist. I don't need a piece of paper to prove it.' Nevertheless, the authorities seemed to think it was important. He had remembered his mother telling him he was born in winter, so he had picked a date at random: 2 December. From then on, to the outside world, he had existed. It had been Tsedup's first taste of the infuriating bureaucracy of modern society and it hadn't stopped there, for they had also asked his surname. Tibetans don't use their family names as we do in our everyday life in the West. In Tibet everyone is known by their first name. Although his family name was Kambo-Wasser, Tsedup had never used any other name but Tsedup. In his culture it simply wasn't necessary.
'What is your father's name?' the official had persisted.
Tsedup had stood confused. 'Karko,' he had said.
From that day, it had been Tsedup's surname and then mine.
The western Buddha's birthday was in full swing by mid-morning. Dombie and her husband Tsering Samdup, Gondo and Tseten had now arrived, having finished their morning chores at home. It was a rare thing for the women to come away for a whole day and night, and was only possible thanks to their neighbours, who had agreed to round up the animals at the end of the day. I was glad that they had made it. With all the family and half of the tribe competing for space in the parlour, it was time to distribute the presents. They had been stacked up on the family altar since we had arrived and the children had sat patiently, staring with saucer eyes at the bulky yellow-paper packages. It felt almost ceremonial as we began to give them out. Tsedup and I had chosen a different gift for each child and we felt around the shape of each parcel to determine what was inside, then gave it to them. Each time, nine other pairs of eager eyes followed the parcel to its destination. The children shrieked with delight when the contents were revealed. When Dorlo received his long-expected rifle, he jumped around hysterically on the platform. He loaded the plastic bullets into the cartridge with professional ease and cocked his weapon, ready to fire. He took aim at Yeshe and before anyone could stop him, he pulled the trigger. Annay screamed. But nothing happened. He squeezed the trigger again. Still nothing. Unbelievably, the gun was faulty and, feeling cheated and frustrated, Dorlo collapsed in tears as everyone tried to calm him. The excitement of Christmas was just too much for him. It was too much for little Sanjay too. Among other things, we had given him the plastic dinosaur and when he peeled back the paper and saw the hideous creature inside, he dropped it and ran away in shock.
The children's mothers collected up all the presents for safekeeping as soon as they were opened. I thought it strange that they didn't let the children play with them now, since that was what Christmas Day was all about. But they were shrewder than I. They knew that if today was to be anything like the Losar they were used to, those presents would shortly be garbage.
I soon saw what they meant. The nomads really knew how to party and, sure enough, I watched the day progress from the initial chatting and sipping of drinks into a full-scale riot. Most of the tribe had arrived to join in by now and since there was a severe overcrowding problem in the house, everyone spilled outside. It was a warm day, the wind had settled and the sun shone favourably from the sapphire sky. There was nothing to prevent a game or two out in the yard, I thought. Perhaps a football match with Samlo's new ball. But they had something less sedate in mind. The nomads like to wrestle. The women were the real hell-raisers and left most of the men inside with their beer. I watched as they chased the teenage boys, performing perfect rugby tackles and bringing them down in the dust. Grandmothers grappled grandchildren and nephews attacked aunts. Dombie, who was normally so quiet, had transformed into a raging Amazon and had her cousin Donkerchab in an armlock, as he cried for mercy. I saw Shermo Donker writhing and screeching on the ground, as Dado rubbed her head in the grit of the paddock floor. Dolma had been pinned to the floor by two young tribesmen and screamed and kicked as they tried to tether her to the yak ropes. The ensuing tumult whipped up a dust-storm in the yard and, one by one, the fighters retreated to rest by the porch, panting and covered in filth. They were crazy, and although a part of me wanted to join in, I found it hard to come to terms with the fact that at the end of the frenzy there would be no shower. I watched and laughed, absorbing their boisterous energy, and wished I had their freedom of spirit and blatant disregard of muck all over my body.
As they played, I thought of Christmas in England. Right now, my family would be dozing on the couch with a bellyful of bird, while the TV flickered and the fairy-lights winked on the tree. I couldn't have been further from them. I missed them, but not the familiar trappings of our festive season. These days, the excitement was mostly for children while we adults just sat around achieving various stages of inebriation. Here, the adults were content to behave like children sometimes. They knew how to have a good time.
I had heard other stories of their wildness. Last New Year the men from our tribe had driven a truck to the next valley. The men of that tribe were away and our men had kidnapped all of their women and brought them back to our valley for a joke. In retaliation, the abandoned husbands had then ridden over the ridge to claim back their stolen wives, along with our women. A mock battle had ensued with much wrestling and frivolity as Atung's wife, Annay Tseko, had ended up running around naked. She was certainly one grandmother with a sense of fun. Some day I would stay for New Year in Machu.
That night as the revellers straggled home, Rhanjer invited Tsedup and me to sleep over. With so many relatives staying, there was no room at home or inside his house, so we settled for the railway arches. Shermo Domatso made us a fire and brought enough dung for the night's fuel. She put down fresh straw on the earth floor and gave us sheepskins as bedding. Then she left through the curtain covering the doorway. The freezing air blustered in from outside and we wrapped ourselves in the skins and drew closer to the iron stove. The shadow cast by the flames danced mysteriously around the mud walls and between the clefts and ridges of the concave stone ceiling. It was a weird place, a cave full of memories. We shared a cigarette and Tsedup told me that these buildings had been part of a labour camp when he was a boy. His parents had worked here. All day he had been left in a tent, unsupervised, with the other children. He explained that no fire had been allowed in the tent. There had also been no food; that was supplied in the main mess, where strict rules governed eating times. I wondered how it had felt to be abandoned in such a way. His elder brother Tsedo, aged about nine, had looked after all the younger ones in their family until ten o'clock at night when his mother and father came back. Exhausted, his parents then sat reading from The Little Red Book. They might be asked to quote random passages from it in the morning and there would be trouble if they couldn't remember. Of course, like many nomads, Annay was illiterate. Those like her had had to learn the book by heart – or by head: their hearts had had nothing to do with it. Amnye had read it aloud to her.
As I listened, I felt the family's sadness. The gloomy interior of the hovel we now lay in served only to enhance the sense of misery for the strange time that they had suffered. I was glad that things were different now. They were all together and such fear had gone. The riot and elation of our Christmas Day had revealed their resilience. The past was past.
We lay quietly for a while. The straw and skins were warm and the fire crackled as stray sticks popped and split. I looked at Tsedup as he stared at the shadows, drawing pensively on his cigarette. I was full of love. His experience of life was hard to imagine because it was so far away from mine. He shared a sense of drama with all the people of this land, which I could only guess at, but I was grateful to be a part of him. He had enriched my life. I touched his face and turned his eyes to mine. Then I gently asked him the question I had wanted to ask for some time. 'Shall we have a child?' I said.
Even in the dim light of the room I could see the colour drain from his face. He choked on the smoke and laughed nervously. 'A child?' he spluttered. 'But we have no money, darling. How will we survive in England? If we lived here it would be easy. I would be happy to have as many children as you like. Here, you have people to help you look after the baby. In England it is so much harder. We live on our own.'
I knew he was worried about the idea of supporting a family. Although he had been in England for four years, he still didn't feel confident in his capabilities. He was the stranger without the right education and he didn't fit into a box. A regular, fulfilling job seemed impossible to find. The acting work had been too sporadic and he had taken up shop work in the hope of increasing his income. I had often seen him stripped of his dignity by a lacklustre people who did not appreciate him for who he was. Only our closest friends and my family cared about his unique cultural heritage. I had always known that he was an extraordinary person, like no one else. But he knew I could not live here for ever. I had grown to love it and knew I would always pine for it, but the cultural leap was too great for me to stay. The segregation of genders would always pose a problem for me, as I enjoyed the equality of modern society. Also, I would miss my family. And, for all its faults, neither of us could quite relinquish our grip on the western world. We would have to compromise and live between the two worlds. Our base would be England. That was our plan. But I knew it was merely a sensible compromise for a homesick man. I carried the guilt.
'We can do it together. We will help each other,' I said, ever the optimist. Tsedup and I had been through more difficulties than the average couple – in fact, the odds had been probably stacked heavily against a relationship like ours surviving. But over the years we had grown in strength and understanding. Whatever obstacles we encountered, things had always worked out in the end. He was the worrier, and I was the soother.
He smiled at me and said, 'Well, you're not getting any younger, are you?' It was just plain old nomad-speak (with, perhaps, a tinge of irony: I knew that he was well aware of the sensitivity of the subject of age in the West). I would be thirty-one tomorrow; a pretty average age for having a baby in my culture, but ancient in his. I could almost hear the cogs of his mind turning as he pondered the idea of fatherhood. 'Maybe we should have a child,' he resolved, accepting his challenge. He embraced me and we lay still, listening to each other's breathing.
The western Buddha's birthday was over, but the next day it was mine. I had always thought that Boxing Day was a bad time to be born, but this year was different. Tsedup took me to town in the afternoon and suggested we go to a karaoke bar in the evening. I felt like having a hot date with my husband and agreed. Then he left me waiting in a hotel room. I sat watching a wailing Chinese opera on the battered TV and took solace in a packet of biscuits. But after two hours I decided I was getting tired of his disappearing act. There would be some serious confrontation when he returned. I was just warming up for a showdown when he finally appeared and simply said, 'Come with me.'
He drove me to the bar and I rustled my way in through the plastic fringe curtain hanging over the door. There, in the tinsel, neon glare of the karaoke's interior, stood a huge crowd of people in leopardskin costume. I was shocked. This was not the nomads' usual hang-out. I looked around and realised I recognised every single face. Then it clicked. Tsedup had arranged a surprise party for me. Everyone cheered and smiled at me, ushering me towards an enormous iced cake, complete with candles. All of our friends were there, even my girlfriends from town who never went out. For a people who weren't used to birthdays, these days they were sure having a glut of them. I laughed as the town boys among them, who were familiar with such customs, sang 'Happy Birthday to you' in Chinese. Then Tsering Samdup gave me his jewel-encrusted hunting knife to cut my cake. I made a wish.
It was overwhelming. I had never had a surprise party before. The nomads stood around grinning at me and trying to remain as macho as possible. This was not really their scene and the discomfort they felt at these unfamiliar surroundings only touched me deeper. Then our friend Dontuk approached me, carrying a small box in his hand. He held it out to me. 'For you, Shermo,' he said, and kissed my cheek. Inside was a huge gold ring. I took it out and placed it on my finger. It was heavy; an accessory of medallion proportions. On its flat surface, in relief, was the word Tashidelek', which the Tibetans use as a special greeting or a congratulation. Above the word was a crescent moon and below was the sun rising over a mountain top. On either side of the band, a peacock and a dragon had been engraved in intricate detail. Tsedup explained that it had been their idea and they had all contributed to have it made especially for me. I was speechless and just stood smiling at them all. They never ceased to amaze me and I felt the tears welling in my eyes. When I had finished struggling for composure, I asked Tsedup to translate for me as I thanked them all. I knew that they weren't used to outward displays of emotion, so I kept it short.
'When I came here, I never dreamt I would find so much love,' I said. 'You have given me a home and I will miss you. Every time I look at this ring I will think of you.'
Cheering, they raised their glasses, and through the blur of faces, I saw Tsedup smiling at me. Then one by one the nomads took the microphone and sang the songs of their homeland. We never did use the karaoke machine: its flashy Chinese pop songs were irrelevant to us. It was better to feel the hairs on the back of your neck quivering and to share silence in the face of true beauty.
The evening before we left the grassland I went walking by myself. I wanted to absorb the last deep breaths of Amdo air, to savour the wilderness in which I had been living. It helped me to think. For I knew that sometimes, in the day-to-day routine of life, I had forgotten to register that I was actually here. I had forgotten the pain that we had gone through in waiting to be able to come. I had forgotten that six months ago I had not known these people or this land. I had heard so much about it, but I hadn't really known it. It had been a distant and inaccessible dreamscape somewhere in the deeper recesses of my mind.
That evening, I paused and stood very still. I looked up at the mountains. I listened to the children calling each other. I heard the icy stream rushing over the rocks. I watched flocks of tiny birds rushing up into the dying blue, the buzzards lazily arcing through the waning dusk. I heard the coarse grass rustling at my feet and smelt the dung smoke drifting from the tin chimney. I felt the vastness and irrepressible beauty of this place and I knew that I was home.
The morning we left the grassland, I followed the children to the river and watched them ice-skating in the sunshine. They took it in turns to sit cross-legged on a small wooden toboggan and pushed themselves along with a metal spike in each hand. Each time, they crashed and spun across the thick rutted surface of the ice, laughing. I stood sadly watching them from the bank. I was leaving them today. Tonight we would be staying in Annay and Amnye's town-house, as the car was coming to take us to Lanzhou at dawn the next day. Most of the family were coming to stay in the house with us, but the children would remain here. Perhaps they sensed my sadness, for they called out to me excitedly as they played, 'Come on, Ajay Shermo! You have a go.'
'I'll just watch you,' I replied, too morose to join in.
But Dickir Che was having none of it. 'Come on! Come on!' she cajoled. 'You'll be so happy if you try.' She was mothering me, as she always had from the day I arrived. I smiled at her and squatted down on the tiny sled. She put the picks into my hand and showed me how to dig them into the ice for speed. Then I scooted off and she ran along beside me laughing wildly and skidding in her broken boots. She was right. I was happy.
When it was time to go we loaded our bags on to Rhanjer's truck. Gorbo had disappeared so we couldn't say goodbye. I guessed he wasn't up to an emotional farewell. That wasn't a teenage boy's style. Then Rhanjer crunched the gears and we lurched off down the pitted track, stopping at the railway arches to pick up a sheep. Namjher was taking it to town to sell. As they hauled it into the back of the truck and we pulled away, everyone in the tribe ran out shouting goodbye. We waved and smiled, hanging on for dear life, as we bounced violently through the landscape, the poor sheep scuttling and skidding over our rucksacks. Way down the valley, my dear Dickir Che was still running alongside the truck, grinning and waving, her cheeks flushed from the sting of the wind. I stretched out my arms to her, but she couldn't keep up any more. Her joyful laughter was the last thing I heard of the grassland, before the truck's engine drowned it and we disappeared over the brow of the first hill.
That night we had our last supper. The small house was tight for space as twelve of us were staying. We talked and drank and laughed together in the hot room as Annay stoked up the fire. Shermo Donker made tanthuk, and Tsedup and I savoured the last bowl of real Amdo fare. Then we went up to the monastery to say goodbye to Ama-lo-lun and Azjung. Tsedup's grandmother lay on the floor of their house covered in yak skins. She was ill. She seemed to have shrunk and her tiny body was swamped by the mound of musty, animal hides. We sat and talked with her and Azjung for a while, and I held her hand. She looked so weak that I was worried we would never see her again. It was so hard to leave her, but she was too frail to talk and we decided to let her rest. As we said goodbye and stepped out of the room, she cried after us feebly, ‘I will see you when the flowers blossom.'
Tsedup covered his face and walked away quickly, guided by Azjung, who saw us to the outer door. As I mounted the bike, the Sky Man gently took my face in his hands and pressed his forehead to mine. Then his cheek to mine. It was the closest thing to a kiss I could imagine. A gesture so spontaneous and pure, with no regard for nomad etiquette, that I would never forget it. 'It is so sad that you have to leave,' he said, over and over.
Tsedup and I said nothing to each other all the way back to the house.
The next morning we woke at dawn and moved quietly about our business. The car would be arriving soon to take us away. Although the house was crowded, everyone moved silently around each other in their long costumes, like a slow, sad dance of swishing skirts. Tsedup and I were dressed for the journey. His family had made him a wine-coloured, woollen tsarer with gold brocade. Amnye had bought the cloth in Lhasa. A huge knife dangled from his waistband in an elaborate silver holster. I had been given a green silk tsarer, with red and gold trim and a soft lambswool collar. The women tucked and tied the folds of fabric until they were satisfied and smiled at their work. Then I was presented with amber jewellery, which had been handed down through the generations. Annay Urgin strung them on to my necklace, then stood back to look at her finished work. 'Amdo Namma.' She smiled. It was like a ceremony and we were as resplendent as a bride and groom. I felt proud to be returning to my culture in traditional Tibetan costume. It felt normal. It was who I had become. I was going back to a grey place, but thanks to Tsedup, I had been blessed with a new knowledge. This was my beginning in a coloured world.
As I stepped out of the house Annay took my arm. We embraced and wept gently. 'Look after each other,' she said to me. Then she went to find her son. I stood alone on the step and took one last look at my new home. The sun had left a delicate thumbprint in the pink morning mist. The milky cloud drifted low over the river basin and the blue mountains smudged the horizon. The first silver slivers of light winked from the town. Out in our field, I heard the clink of the white stallion's bridle and the muffled voices of the farewell party, their leopardskin collars pulled tight against the frost. I breathed in the fresh fragrance of the yarsa weeds, tumbling over the stone wall. It reminded me of the autumn harvest when we had lain laughing in the bales of crisp straw. I picked some and put it in my bag.
Then I walked to the waiting car. All of the family crowded round and many of our friends had come from the town to say goodbye. I moved among the earnest faces; the same faces that had seemed so strange to me when they had greeted us so long ago. Today I knew them all. I was their namma. They were my heart. 'Come back soon,' they cried, as we climbed into the car. As we pulled away, I watched them waving and receding in the back window.
Don't cry, I told myself. You will see them when the flowers blossom.
<a l:href="#_ftnref1">[1]</a> See “Family Tree”