by Adam Popescu
7
DRESSED IN OUR BEST, THICK COATS OVER YAK WOOL SWEATERS, itchy, but warm, under red sashes and white khata scarves blowing in the wind, my whole family marches past neighbors who bow and press their hands together and whisper congratulations of “namaste.”
At the center of our procession, the two brides, cheeks painted crimson, our heads covered by pill box hats trimmed with fox fur tickling my ears with each step, our necks weighed down by long-shaped pieces of bone set into metal grooves, protective necklaces worn to keep evil spirits from rising to the head. Over that, strung coral beads, studded with heavy stones supporting jantar box amulets, more weapons to ward off the evil that lives all around us.
“For protection against mountain spirits,” my mother says. “Always eager to snatch the body of a wayward bride. Don’t even think of taking those stones off until you’ve said your vows and your marriage has been sewed. Understand?”
I nod, my jaw still sore but covered with makeup, the redness from my bruises makes my cheeks even brighter. I’m not so sure I believe in these stories—or the power of what I’m wearing—but it is tradition. And in my next life, my life with Norbu and my bride sister, I welcome all manner of help to keep me safe.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Nyi, my second sister giggles, and I force a smile in reply as my mother yells: “Quiet!”
We have been transformed—for once we look pretty—fully women. Worth being wanted. All around, every step, every tradition and ritual, is made to protect us. My sisters carry lightly burning juniper branches, the smoke flowing over us in the wind, part of our ceremonial cleansing.
My mother—with Sixth strapped to her back—carries our dowry, a silver box encrusted with two large pearls, she strums a blue-green turquoise necklace, fingers rubbing the beads, lips whispering good fortune prayers. And my father, in a long black cloak, felt fedora angled up on the crown of his head, riding on the back of a black pony he borrowed from a neighbor, even he looks transformed—almost happy. Two steps closer to lay-koh.
Tomorrow will be the ceremony, a feast, many glasses raising with the chant “che, che, che,” arms linked in dance, the exchange of gifts, khatas, vows. We’ll eat meat, surely we will, the first time I’ll taste it since…I don’t remember when. Then, our bellies full, my sister and I—we will be transferred to Norbu’s house. What follows after that, the work, the responsibilities, I know I can manage, but the idea of giving myself to a man is terrifying. I remember watching Norbu work, heaving stones with hands so big it’s hard to imagine that they could be gentle.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
The deal is already set, if either side backs out now much shame would come, and neither family would be able to save face. And yet, today is for both families to give the other one last look, to make absolutely sure. And if there are any other details to settle—there couldn’t be another sister added, could there?—then they will be made today.
And so here we are, on display for all of Khunde to see our “virtuous beauty,” as my Mother calls it. We walk slowly, slow enough for all to lay eyes on my sister and I—us—the living prize. We walk for three hours on a path that should take half that time, that’s how much we stop, sharing tea with neighbors who come out of their homes, pressing their hands together and bowing, Father never getting off his pony, trailing behind his flock like a shepherd. Everyone wishes us “tashi delek.” Good fortune. A fortune that’s tested when we finally come back to Khumjung, the first time we all return as a family, the first time in almost four years we’re all so close to our brother Ang—our old home still forever buried, none of us look that way—don’t look back. We stare forward, in the present, back at Norbu’s parents’ home, we’re greeted by an old woman, her face holding as many lines as the mountain has stones. Beside her, her husband, a stick of a man with a wide fedora that swallows his small head, its brim almost touching his bony shoulders. They bend with bowed legs, smiling with missing teeth, beckoning us in, and we bend back and follow, both sides holding our smiles as we enter.
My father steps down from the pony, his coat long enough to conceal his limp and cane, high leather boots trudging over ice and rock. He stops and looks at me for a moment, and I’m that little girl again, if only for a moment. And then he keeps moving, shuffling to the door. It’s time.
Inside, animals on the bottom floor, family above, we climb a small set of stairs, past the shrine room, a kitchen, an indoor bathroom. Merely a hole cut into the floor, but a luxury beyond our means. Even the wood and mud that make up the walls, the floor, everything looks shiny, newer than I remember it. Being here, I feel as if I’m from another caste altogether.
I’m not, of course. Even Sherpas do not marry below their station, but compared to our home, this is opulence. And instead of exciting me, as it does Second—her eyes shining—I feel fear as we sit on pillows scattered all over the floor, looking too ornate to use. I find a place in between my father and mother, Second through Fifth around us, little Sixth bouncing in my mother’s lap.
The woman of the house serves us each a cup of steaming black tea, and when I look at her and her husband, I’m less sure that they’re so different from us. Not much on their bones, the drought, the years of struggle, it’s hit them just as hard as it has us, life’s unfair fairness balancing the scales. Blessed and cursed all the same, like all people.
All the faces in the Norgay household are old—there are no children here, all married off, but it’s still too small for the family to take on two brides. A grandmother and two aunts sit in the corner of the room, watching, stroking mugju prayer beads, sipping their tea. Above them, a picture of the fourteenth Dalai Lama and his unceasing smile, with the ancient kingdom of Kham in the background, where all Sherpas originally come from. His image gives me courage. Norbu is nowhere to be seen. Could he be gathering his own courage right now?
My mother and Norbu’s mother exchange katas. My mother hands over the silver box, Norbu’s mother opens it, revealing shiny jewels I didn’t even know we owned. My father unfurls a brightly colored prayer carpet from his long coat—how did he manage to hide it in there and how did I not notice? I can hear my mother’s stern voice: “Do not dwell on the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate on the present.”
Words of the Buddha, whispered to my sister and me. Words usually filled with compassion sound like a harsh warning now as I hear them repeating in my mind. I would be calm, I should be calm, but my mind is a jumble. Where is the bridegroom? I turn to Second, she looks a bit worried, too.
My mother feels our tension. “Steady,” she whispers.
Norbu’s parents flash that happy smile full of holes. We smile back. And then he enters.
Norbu Norgay, my—our—future husband. No holes in his smile, he has all of his teeth, and they’re all still white. A round face, cheeks with a dab of red, flushed, he is nervous, too. His hair, as black as a volcanic stone, is slicked back. He—he’s handsome, and this realization makes me smile my first real smile of the day.
Norbu holds a bottle, fills glasses. I can’t stop looking him over, even though I’m not supposed to, not before we’re kyo-ka kye-man. Glasses raised, the men buzzing “che, che, che,” then “chang toong-na go-na, ma-toong-na nying na.”
The bottle is quickly emptied, the warmth from the tea and the chang surging. Norbu sits across from me, close enough that I can inhale that pungent mountain smell of manhood that reminds me of the day when he pulled me in close as Father’s leg was being set. A day that feels so long ago. His darting, smiling eyes have a childlike aura to them. The very opposite of my father’s eyes. But there’s so much I don’t know about Norbu, so many questions that make me unsure whether I could love this man.
Mother doesn’t say a word. Neither does Father nor my five sisters, and not a peep from Norbu’s family, just the sound of steaming black tea being poured again, Norbu’s mother filling all of our mugs. She doesn’t even let us put in our own sugar, she
does everything. The process takes at least ten minutes, but it’s still hot when I put it to my lips.
Good tea.
I put the mug down, I don’t want to conceal my face—but I also don’t want him to notice my bruises. Mother painted me over using crushed leaves of meshming pati. He’s examining me, and I examine him in return. Under a yak fur coat, he wears a long-sleeved robe that falls slightly below the knee. Even with a shirt on, he looks muscled, like a workhorse. Well-fed. Ready.
Maybe I was wrong about him.
Our eyes catch. I want to look away, and I do. He doesn’t. I finish the tea, place it down in front of me on the table. And then it happens, before I even realize what I’m hearing. He pronounces my name softly in a way my parents do, looking at me straight on before turning to my father. “Only Nima. Same amount of yaks, only Nima.”
Only Nima.
The smiles disappear around me, replaced with wrinkled brows, narrowing eyes. Whatever is happening is happening to Father’s surprise—to all of my family’s surprise. Second looks as if an arrow has been shot right through her, she can’t catch her breath. Mother’s eyes go huge. Father adjusts the felt hat on his head with a strangled look on his face I’ve never seen before. Norbu’s father parts his thin lips: “My son wishes to honor our agreement—but he only wants one wife. And I cannot argue with another man’s wish, even if it is my son.”
The veins in Father’s neck bulge. We can hear him gritting and grinding his teeth. But he doesn’t open his mouth, doesn’t say a word.
“What have you done, Eldest?” he suddenly erupts.
I feel dizzy, cut up and set ablaze. Norbu’s father intercedes. “We will honor the agreement, we will still deliver the six yaks as promised—but my son will only take one wife. Know that this was not my choice, I advised against it, but I must respect my son’s wishes—”
“Why? Why do you spit in my eye?” Father asks Norbu, staring directly at him. Norbu drops his head. “Why do you break your promise? Who will want to marry my younger daughter now?”
Tears build in Second’s eyes.
“People will talk, people will say something is wrong with her. What of our suffering? What of the pain you’re causing us?”
With his thumb, Norbu brushes a drop of sweat from his temple. He clears his voice, and when he speaks, he keeps his gaze to the floor. “Most esteemed sahep, I apologize for your pain. I apologize for the dishonor I am causing you and your family. As my father said, we will honor our side of the agreement. I have always respected you, sahep. And I respect your family. If I may say, I feel I have grown quite close to your family in the last few years. I was there in your time of need, and I will be again. And I will take care of your daughter. Forever. But I have to think of my own life. My future.”
The room is so quiet.
My father stands abruptly, and everyone braces.
“Please, sahep, listen, sit, please,” Norbu urges.
Father collapses back onto his pillow.
Norbu swallows, speaking quickly. “It’s normal for Sherpa men to take two wives. Even sisters. My uncle wed two sisters. When I made my decision to wed your daughters, my family wrote my uncle a letter. And he wrote back, asking me to visit him. I hadn’t seen him in years, but he said it was important that we speak by face, not hand and paper. Last month, I made the trip to Gorak Shep. In the five years since I had last seen him, my uncle looked like he had aged five decades. He’s younger than my father, but he looked so old, so tired. And why? His wives. Both had stopped speaking with each other—for the past three years—and barely to him, and yet they still share the same bed. Only one could make children. And only one son was made, and he came stillborn. That’s when the trouble started, the jealousy. They wouldn’t even speak to me when I visited. My uncle wanted me to see this for myself, he wanted me to see one possible future. It was a mistake to marry two women, even worse to marry two sisters. Both of your daughters are beautiful, and I say all of this with respect, sahep, but I don’t want to make the same mistake as my uncle. I apologize for the pain I’m causing, but I cannot change my decision, sahep. Nima. Only Nima.”
My mother grips Second’s hand, her tears having ruined her makeup. The room is spinning. I can see Father’s lips moving, but I can’t hear anything. I feel the heat rising off his body. Norbu speaks again, then his father, but I still can’t hear. I shift my gaze across the room, focusing on Norbu’s grandmother and aunts—help me. I watch their bony fingers, rubbing one hundred and eight beaded bracelets, beads dedicated to mantras and sentient beings, dark beads, made from a tulsi plant or the seeds of a bodhi tree. Their faces are living chortens. Cheeks like over-tanned leather, long and saggy as though they’d once been fuller and became deflated, leaving deep trenches.
I look up at the picture of His Holiness, that cherubic face, forever laughing, as if at me. The eldest of Norbu’s blood, fingering the pearls of life, they smile cautiously, and though I don’t want to live with these mother hens, I smile back. Esteemed aunts, I have not tried to ruin this deal. And even though Norbu’s uncle’s wives did not get along, I would always get along with Second. I wish you could say this to Father, please believe me, I had no idea of Norbu’s wishes.
My father sees my lips curl in deference to my future in-laws. No matter how this will end, one thing is certain in his mind: I’m at fault. The tension feels like the silence before the ru’ strikes.
Norbu’s mother begins to refill everyone’s mugs, but her hands are so shaky that boiling tea overflows onto the wood floor. Steam wafts into the air as Second weeps openly now. This was the start of a new life for her, the start of everything. Now it’s over. She won’t even look at me.
It’s not my fault, I plead, searching for any friendly face.
Third and Fourth look away. Fifth, my favorite, Nga, my silent sister, what of you? Not even a sympathetic nod. They all think I’m part of this plan.
I turn to Norbu, he knows the pain he’s causing. He puts his mug down, bows slightly.
Norbu, make this right.
Will he speak now? Apologize? No, he says nothing. Instead he exits the room. How could you leave me now? How could he do this to me? I can feel Father’s anger radiating off him and I close my eyes, sure that he’ll start beating me right here. But when I open them again, Mother has her hand on Father’s arm. She looks at him in a way that says: these people could still become our in-laws, manage yourself. Norbu’s mother refills the remaining cups, hands firmer this time. No one is drinking.
Norbu returns—thank you—pushing in a black box on wheels. He adjusts it in front of us, positions two long metal ropes, connects a snake-like cord to an old generator.
Ze-nith, I read in glossy silver lettering.
“This can be run on a generator or solar power,” he says, on one knee, cranking the generator by hand. “I haven’t received the solar panels yet, but I will soon. They’re being sent by plane, to Lukla. Very expensive, but I’ll bring them to you, sahep, in a few days. Ah, there it is now, the power is flowing. I’ll show you.” Norbu pulls an object out of his pocket and offers it to my father. Long and black, it looks like a wand wrapped in plastic. “Please,” he says. “It’s for the television, to watch programs on. Please, sahep. Take it.”
Fathers eyes it skeptically, though the intentions are clear: this is a fresh addition to the deal to smooth over the new relatives. Not worth as much as another yak, or the food it will cost to feed my spurned sister, but for a man like my father, who has never owned such a machine, it’s not a complete loss, right?
Father’s not sure what to do. Norbu’s eyebrows dance, as if Father accepting this gift frees him from guilt. Father holds the long black wand cautiously, like a serpent that might snap at his fingers.
“Allow me,” Norbu says. He comes closer—I smell him again, and now I despise that smell—pushing down with his big brown thumb, and like that, the sing-songy drone of the device awakens and the Ze-nith’s glow fills the room.
On-screen, a man with a black mustache and a dhaka topi hat hovers over a woman with a dark red bindi on her forehead. Her arms are folded, and there’s a dramatic rhythm of Hindi drums. Second and I have watched this program before, in the cyber cafe—it’s called Tito Satya, named after the star of the show. I think this is the first time my youngest sisters have seen a television set, but I’m not sure if that’s why they are staring at it with wide eyes, or they’re just too stunned from what’s happened. Perhaps it’s both.
When I turn to look at my father, he seems to be glaring right through the screen, eyes empty, but with a fire burning just behind them. A side glance at Norbu again. Hand on his jaw, sucked in by the sorcery, he looks proud.
The music changes, the drums end, making way for the hum of a sitar and a fat man with a rosette patterned shirt. He’s spewing insults in Nepali, he and Tito push each other, Tito’s wife sobs, her face buried in henna-tattooed hands.
Norbu’s parents look on stoically, sipping their tea. Behind us, the aunts and grandmother keep strumming their beads. My mother bounces Sixth on her lap, she’s getting restless. My other sisters look on ignorantly, half-confused, half-entertained. Second lets out a muffled yelp we all ignore. Then, broken by the glow of the box, slap, the fat man strikes the woman, and a piercing high-pitched laugh: Norbu’s. No one else is laughing, just Norbu.
The veins in my father’s neck look like they’re about to explode.
When we step through the door back home, my father hits me with his cane. Hard. I hit the ground. “What did you do?” he yells, throwing dishes at me, pots, pans, anything he can find. “What kind of pact?”
“I made no pact, Father! I did not know—”
I look up as he raises a gnarled fist and his cane comes down. Will he smash me with the television, so heavy it took three sisters to wheel it back home?