sat a tiny village.
‘Why have all the houses got blue roofs?’ At last I asked!
‘They blue so that when we trek, we can see how far left to travel. You see, everything here is green, like trees, like forest. But nothing blue, easy for the eyes to see.’ I should have figured that one out long ago! But Mani looked pleased to be sharing this with me.
‘Easy here in Nepal!’ he continued. ‘We simple people!’
I smiled in agreement.
‘Okay, we must continue, long way before first teahouse.’ Mani turned to begin walking—but stopped, clutching once again at his stomach and letting out a low moan. Again I went to him. ‘Okay?’
He threw a sharp, martyrish glance my way. ‘No problem, just small pain, no problem.’
‘Ghorepani is just down there. We can head back now and be there in no time.’
‘No problem with me. I not want to go Ghorepani.’
‘Well, let me carry the backpack then!’ But this was utterly insulting to him.
‘I am guide-porter. This is my job. I carry bag, you not to worry, I have no problem.’ He spoke with disdain and I saw that I should back down. ‘Okay. We go. Nearly two hours until first teahouse!’ Mani gave an apologetic smile then, and set off again.
In the monotony of step after step after step, I cleared my mind of worry about stomach pain or Maoists, distracted by the veins that protruded from Mani’s legs.
‘You must not forget to give a small donation!’
I was in Varanasi, India, on the rooftop of the Golden Temple, surrounded by a labyrinth of dreary laneways interweaving weathered buildings, bleak and dark from lack of sunlight, stale from overcrowding. Below, on the ghat beside the Ganges, was a smouldering body. From the balcony edge I could see a large family grieving profusely as the body, draped in cloth but with the face visible, burnt upon a bed of chopped wood. It was an awful sight, too upsetting towatch. Those eyes that would never open, that face still fresh. It was a woman who looked little older than my mother.
I turned away from the sight.
‘Donation for what?’ I replied. The person who had spoken to me was a short Indian man, well dressed and confident in his manner.
‘You see,’ he gestured across the rooftop, ‘this is a hospice! You know, place for the dying!’
People of all ages lay everywhere on the rooftop, sickly and awaiting death, their families close at hand, giving as much in the time that they had left to give. So much sorrow. So many people, and not one of them had caught my attention on the way in.
Someone grabbed hold of my hand. Startled, I spun around and looked into the smiling face of a young girl, her eyes sunken, face pale. Her body was thinner than I could ever have imagined. Repulsed, I tugged my hand away from her grip and hurried as fast as I could from the rooftop, stopping only to drop whatever coins I had in my pocket at the feet of an unknown form.
‘Thank you.’
A moan from behind me acknowledged my coins as I sped down the stairs and out into the maze of streets.My heart was thumping frantically and I felt ashamed and upset. The girl’s innocent face lingered in my mind, and the depth of her sadness when I refused her hand. It was a terrible thing that I’d done.
Alone now and unnoticed in an empty laneway, I found myself leaning against a wall, tears falling from my eyes. What more heartache had I caused? Would I always be running away from something I’d done?
‘Need a tissue?’ The woman’s voice was soft and warm. I looked up.
‘I get like that sometimes too,’ she continued lightly. ‘It can be so upsetting to see, can’t it?’ She shook her head sympathetically.
I nodded and wiped my eyes, composing myself.
‘India can bring anyone to tears! So, what’s your name?’
‘I’m Sean. What about you?’ She seemed composed yet lively, with an impressive array of bright Indian jewellery. In the black fisherman’s pants worn by seasoned travellers in India, she looked more
‘Why have all the houses got blue roofs?’ At last I asked!
‘They blue so that when we trek, we can see how far left to travel. You see, everything here is green, like trees, like forest. But nothing blue, easy for the eyes to see.’ I should have figured that one out long ago! But Mani looked pleased to be sharing this with me.
‘Easy here in Nepal!’ he continued. ‘We simple people!’
I smiled in agreement.
‘Okay, we must continue, long way before first teahouse.’ Mani turned to begin walking—but stopped, clutching once again at his stomach and letting out a low moan. Again I went to him. ‘Okay?’
He threw a sharp, martyrish glance my way. ‘No problem, just small pain, no problem.’
‘Ghorepani is just down there. We can head back now and be there in no time.’
‘No problem with me. I not want to go Ghorepani.’
‘Well, let me carry the backpack then!’ But this was utterly insulting to him.
‘I am guide-porter. This is my job. I carry bag, you not to worry, I have no problem.’ He spoke with disdain and I saw that I should back down. ‘Okay. We go. Nearly two hours until first teahouse!’ Mani gave an apologetic smile then, and set off again.
In the monotony of step after step after step, I cleared my mind of worry about stomach pain or Maoists, distracted by the veins that protruded from Mani’s legs.
‘You must not forget to give a small donation!’
I was in Varanasi, India, on the rooftop of the Golden Temple, surrounded by a labyrinth of dreary laneways interweaving weathered buildings, bleak and dark from lack of sunlight, stale from overcrowding. Below, on the ghat beside the Ganges, was a smouldering body. From the balcony edge I could see a large family grieving profusely as the body, draped in cloth but with the face visible, burnt upon a bed of chopped wood. It was an awful sight, too upsetting towatch. Those eyes that would never open, that face still fresh. It was a woman who looked little older than my mother.
I turned away from the sight.
‘Donation for what?’ I replied. The person who had spoken to me was a short Indian man, well dressed and confident in his manner.
‘You see,’ he gestured across the rooftop, ‘this is a hospice! You know, place for the dying!’
People of all ages lay everywhere on the rooftop, sickly and awaiting death, their families close at hand, giving as much in the time that they had left to give. So much sorrow. So many people, and not one of them had caught my attention on the way in.
Someone grabbed hold of my hand. Startled, I spun around and looked into the smiling face of a young girl, her eyes sunken, face pale. Her body was thinner than I could ever have imagined. Repulsed, I tugged my hand away from her grip and hurried as fast as I could from the rooftop, stopping only to drop whatever coins I had in my pocket at the feet of an unknown form.
‘Thank you.’
A moan from behind me acknowledged my coins as I sped down the stairs and out into the maze of streets.My heart was thumping frantically and I felt ashamed and upset. The girl’s innocent face lingered in my mind, and the depth of her sadness when I refused her hand. It was a terrible thing that I’d done.
Alone now and unnoticed in an empty laneway, I found myself leaning against a wall, tears falling from my eyes. What more heartache had I caused? Would I always be running away from something I’d done?
‘Need a tissue?’ The woman’s voice was soft and warm. I looked up.
‘I get like that sometimes too,’ she continued lightly. ‘It can be so upsetting to see, can’t it?’ She shook her head sympathetically.
I nodded and wiped my eyes, composing myself.
‘India can bring anyone to tears! So, what’s your name?’
‘I’m Sean. What about you?’ She seemed composed yet lively, with an impressive array of bright Indian jewellery. In the black fisherman’s pants worn by seasoned travellers in India, she looked more
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