The Barefoot Surgeon

by Ali Gripper

  first school holiday.’

  Sonam gave his son a long firm hug and walked away. As

  Sanduk stared at his big hat and tall frame filling the doorway, every fibre of him wanted to run and throw his arms around

  his father. But the trek had changed him. He knew his father

  would be ashamed of him if he seemed so afraid, so he stood

  stock- still beside his bunk. Sonam turned around, gave him a long, lingering look, as if he was trying to memorise his son’s face, then walked away.

  Sanduk didn’t want anyone to see him crying, so he sat

  down in a corner and put his head in his hands. He got the

  red- and- white bag his mother had given him and nibbled

  some of the biscuits and cheese she’d made, but it was of

  little consolation. He couldn’t work out how he was going to

  get through the day.

  Father Mackey found him. He reached down and held

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  Sanduk’s hands, helped him stand up, and led him into the

  kitchen to make some tea. ‘You’re a very brave boy. You’ve

  come from far, far away.’

  Father Mackey tried to cheer Sanduk up by pinching his

  cheeks, which were bright red, because of the altitude of

  Walung, and seemed to be able to tell instinctively when he

  was bereft with homesickness. ‘His nickname for me was

  “Apples”. He always kept an eye out for me.’

  The worst part of boarding school were the holidays.

  Although his father promised to come back as soon as he

  could, it was three years before Sonam finally made it back to St Robert’s. Until then, Sanduk was the only one left behind

  at the end of every term. He was told his parents weren’t

  coming, because they were too far away, but he would sit in

  the corner as all the parents arrived, and forlornly stare at them collecting their children. He kept hoping, in his secret childish way, that one day someone would come for him.

  When everyone had gone home, he would seek solace in the

  garden, crushed with disappointment and homesickness. He

  could see Mount Kanchenjunga from there and would try to

  imagine what his family was doing. His mother would probably

  be spinning yak wool, and his father would be preparing for

  another trek into Tibet for salt. His sisters and brother would be playing by the river. He’d fantasise about his homecoming.

  Father Mackey was always sensitive to how desperately

  lonely Sanduk was feeling and would give him tasks to

  distract him.

  ‘He’d ask me to sort out a stack of books, or water the

  garden, or chop up vegetables for dinner. He took me for

  long strolls through Darjeeling. We spent hours inside the

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  Himalayan Mountaineering Institute, learning about Tenzing

  Norgay, the first Nepalese to summit Mount Everest. We

  went to the zoo, and looked at the snow leopard, the red

  pandas and black bears. He gave me my first real instructions about politics—trying to explain why India and China were

  fighting. I’ll never forget the time and attention he gave me.’

  He also showed Sanduk the library at St Robert’s, the door

  to other worlds. He had that treasure trove to himself for

  weeks at a time. He would close the door and pore over maps

  of the world for hours, and sit enthralled reading stories

  about great explorers such as Marco Polo.

  Father Mackey told Sanduk, ‘It’s very important that you

  read, Sanduk. And it’s important that you remember what

  you read. And that you apply what you remember.’

  Father Mackey was the first of a series of father figures for Sanduk. He loved the richness of friendship with someone

  older than himself, someone who could impart wisdom,

  and who had so much to offer. He felt he had so much to

  learn. The only language Sanduk spoke when he arrived at

  St Robert’s was a Tibetan- style dialect spoken by the tribes who lived around Kanchenjunga. At first, the lessons meant

  nothing to him as he knew neither Nepali nor English. ‘I

  remember sitting up the back, scratching my head, not

  understanding a word anyone was saying. I was close to

  tears. I felt so small. I’d put my head in my hands. Every-

  thing just looked like strange squiggles on the page. I didn’t talk to anyone. I had absolutely no confidence at all.’ As

  usual, Father Mackey tried to make things easier. He gave

  Sanduk some books meant for younger children that were a

  lot simpler to read.

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  It was six months before the squiggles on the page began

  to rearrange themselves into recognisable letters, and for the letters to become words, and finally for the words to become

  sentences. Seven months after he’d arrived, he could under-

  stand most things the teachers were saying in Nepali, and even raise his hand in class and ask a few questions. By the end of the first year, he was doing extremely well. Despite being a

  relatively inexpensive school, the curriculum first established by the 16th Jesuit, Ignatius of Loyola, meant Sanduk received a thorough education.

  Sanduk rose at 6 a.m. for physical exercises, followed by

  lessons all day: French, Latin, English, maths, geography and history. Bells punctuated the day—bells to start lunch and

  bells to finish, a bell for dinner and a bell for bedtime.

  Father Mackey never discussed his own religion. Instead,

  he asked Sanduk about his family’s Buddhist faith. ‘He never

  tried to convert me to Christianity, which I respected him

  for. I remember the hymns on Sunday morning in the high-

  ceilinged chapel, and how everything seemed so clean and

  bright. There were crucifixes and scripts of the Bible on the walls throughout the school grounds. The priest would give

  me confession, and I tried communion a few times, kneeling

  at the altar and taking the wafer representing Christ’s body.’

  All this meant little to Sanduk, but he admired their belief

  and their sincerity. No matter how kind Father Mackay was,

  however, Sanduk was bullied at school. He was called bhotey, meaning country bumpkin. He would be given a big hard

  whack on the back of his head, and have his woollen jumper

  yanked off. ‘No-one comes to take you home in the holidays,

  do they, hey, bhotey?’ the bullies taunted.

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  The shy country boy was an easy target. He found it a

  strain to sit up straight at the dining table, let alone use a knife and a fork. He was used to the river and rhododendrons. Instead he was surrounded by concrete buildings,

  paved roads and timetables. He put his head down, fell into

  line, followed the rules, spoke to no-one for a month, and

  hugged his misery to himself like one of his father’s thick

  sheepskin jackets.

  During one of the holidays in his third year, Sanduk hit an

  all- time low. He developed a fever which became so bad that

  he had abscesses on his buttocks. It was excruci
atingly painful.

  He couldn’t lie down, he couldn’t sit, nor could he walk. All the teachers and students were away on holiday, even Father

  Mackey. The only person living at the hostel at the time was

  the cook, who took him to the civil hospital in Darjeeling.

  Sanduk was horrified by what he saw. ‘There were patients

  lying in dirty sheets, people sitting on mattresses on the floor in the corridor waiting to see a doctor. There didn’t seem to be enough sheets, or blankets, or beds, let alone equipment,

  or staff. They found a bed for me, and put me on antibiotics.’

  Before the drugs kicked in, Sanduk taught himself to control

  the pain by counting. As the pain peaked, he would count to

  ten and hold his breath. As it subsided, he would breathe out again.

  The operation was crude. He had a local anaesthetic, but

  the nerves were exposed. He shuddered and cried out with

  pain as hands held him down while the pus was removed. The

  recovery was agonising as well. Every day he had to have a

  sitz bath, a warm shallow bath filled with potassium perman-

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  manage the pain by clenching his fists, and when it became

  almost unbearable, squeezing his eyes shut.

  Sanduk was in hospital for three weeks but time went so

  slowly that it felt more like three years. He longed for his

  mother and dreamed of her at night. Sometimes she seemed

  so real that it was as if she was standing by his bed, gazing at him with calm maternal love. He felt he could almost reach

  out and touch her red woollen tunic.

  He still can’t remember one friendly face during his stay

  there. He would look to the nurses for reassurance or sympathy but was met with only harried glances. ‘They weren’t unkind,

  they were just understaffed, just run off their feet.’

  Those weeks in hospital gave Sanduk a mental strength he

  never lost. ‘I realised that for someone like me, nothing was ever going to just land in my lap. I had no money, and no

  connections. Life was going to be a struggle. But I was smart.

  And determined. I could work hard, very hard. I vowed to

  myself that once I’d got through this pain and out of this

  hospital I was going to fight hard for a good life.’

  If Kasang couldn’t come to him, he was determined to

  mend as fast as he could, build up his strength and go to her instead. Going home was an all- consuming goal.

  During his time at St Robert’s, his worst affliction was

  homesickness. He tried to fight off the bouts by joining the

  soccer team, attempting to distract himself with the rough

  camaraderie of his teammates. He did eventually go home

  once during his six years at boarding school—but, sadly, it

  was not to Walung. Shortly after he set off for the two- week journey home, accompanied by Dharkey, by truck, then on

  foot, he was given the bad news:the Tamor River had flooded

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  the gorge, washing away several of the houses and damaging

  many, including Sanduk’s family home. With the trade route

  into Tibet now closed, it seemed futile to the villagers to

  rebuild Walung.

  Sonam and Kasang, like most of the other inhabitants,

  salvaged their belongings, and decided to try their luck by

  heading down out of the mountains, south- west to the large

  trading town of Dhankuta. His parents started again, buying

  a piece of land and a small house in the little village of Hille on the outskirts, pretty enough to be called ‘The Darjeeling of Nepal’. They rolled up their sleeves, got to work, and rebuilt their lives as shopkeepers, selling clothes and medicinal herbs.

  It was a big adjustment for Sonam to give up his life as a

  wayfaring trader; he loved being outdoors with the sun on

  his face, travelling across the mountains where he knew every rock, every stone, and every bend in the path. But he dealt

  with the loss with the stoicism the Himalayan people are

  renowned for. The harshness of the landscape and their lives

  forced the Walunga tribe to accept hardship as inevitable and just keep going. Head down, one foot in front of the other—

  that’s how they survived. Sonam and Kasang had a roof over

  their head. They had a livelihood. And they had five healthy

  children. There was much to be thankful for.

  After three years away, Sanduk was in a storm of impa-

  tience to see his family again.

  ‘I can’t remember how many days it took Dharkey and me

  to get to Hille, maybe thirteen days or so. We seemed to walk through the tea gardens and through juniper forests forever.

  Each day, and each hour, I got more and more excited about

  going home and seeing my mother again.’

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  When Sonam and Kasang heard via the postman and trav-

  ellers passing through the region that Sanduk and Dharkey

  were almost home, they sent a boy with hot milk and biscuits

  to greet them, as was the custom. Night was falling as Sanduk and Dharkey finally approached the small settlement of Hille.

  ‘It’s difficult to describe the feeling other than this overwhelming excitement. I could not think of anything else except my

  mother’s face. There was nothing else in my mind.’

  Kasang was standing on the doorway, waiting for him.

  She gave her son a big hug and held him tightly. ‘Oh, you’ve

  grown so tall! And you’re so thin!’

  She’d made a special meal of dumplings, sweet cheese and

  biscuits. All of Sanduk’s aunts, uncles and family crowded into the room to see how much he’d grown and to hear all about

  school. He stayed with his family for three weeks, stealing

  apricots and apples from farmers’ fields with his friends. He revelled in all the comforts of home, sitting by the fire at night, watching his mother knit and gossip with his aunties, and

  enjoying Kasang’s homemade food. He and Yangla spent days

  by the river where she quizzed him about his life in Darjeeling.

  ‘She wanted to know everything about boarding school—

  what I ate, where I slept, whether I’d seen movies, what the big city was like. What the other boys were like. And she sang a

  lot. I always loved listening to her beautiful singing.’ It was a terrible wrench to leave and return to St Robert’s.

  Boarding school came to an abrupt end three years later,

  when Sanduk was thirteen years old. Sonam suddenly

  appeared at the dormitory one morning. The fighting between

  India and China had become so dangerous that the govern-

  ment had requested that the school be evacuated.

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  Sonam had come to fetch his son and bring him back to

  their new home in Hille. Within half an hour, Sanduk had

  packed his trunk and was saying goodbye to all his friends.

  Father Mackey, Sanduk’s advocate to the very last minute,

  left his father with firm parting words.

  ‘Make sure you continue his education,’ he said.
‘This boy

  will do something good in the future.’

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  4

  Yangla’s song

  After he’d moved back to Hille from boarding school, Sanduk

  was not surprised to find his parents’ business prospering. The Himalayan people are exceptionally good traders. With no

  other way to make a living, trading was a skill they’d mastered, and which was passed down the generations from father to

  son. They’re thrifty, too. If the family earns ten rupees, they would spend four and save six. Sanduk’s cousin Tenzing Ukyab

  recalls, ‘That adds up over the years and the family would have a tidy bundle to tide over rough times. They made good invest-ments in gold, silver and jewellery. Sonam was always a good

  businessman, he was very smart, very enterprising.’

  The couple’s three daughters, Yangla, Chhengjing and

  Chundak, were thriving in their new home in the hills among

  the orange trees, bamboo and marigold flowers.

  Sonam began preparing to send his second son Ladenla to

  boarding school.

  Although Sanduk fervently wished to continue his educa-

  tion, he was never to return to St Robert’s in Darjeeling. His 33

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  heart sank when his father told him he had enrolled his son

  at the Siddhartha Vanasthali School in Kathmandu. It was

  400 kilometres away—almost twice as far as Darjeeling.

  Sanduk had learned through bitter experience that homesick-

  ness was more a physical sensation than an emotional one.

  All too often, he would feel he was sinking under waves of

  nausea. He’d have knots in his stomach, and no appetite for

  days. He was only free from its grip when he had a chance

  to go home, something that happened far too rarely for his

  liking—usually once a year.

  There were frequent bouts of dysentery to endure as well

  as he settled into the school’s dingy hostel, where he would

  share a dorm with five or six other students. ‘The food was

  lousy, really terrible: rice and very thin dhal , and the same curry every time. I remember I used to sit for hours under a

  big tree outside the school feeling really unwell.’

  But St Robert’s had toughened him up. By the time he’d