by Adam Popescu
“Have you made him promises with your body?”
Whack!
“Already given it to him?”
Whack!
“Broken your honor?”
Whack! Whack! Whack!
The goat bleats, the swine squeals, chickens flutter. My mother stays out of the way. Second, watching with such disgust, I’m waiting for her to start kicking me, too. Fifth, my favorite, is crying. Third and Fourth shake their heads at their dishonorable sister.
I knew this beating was coming. I could feel it, sitting there while we watched the television, and on the walk home when Father didn’t say a single word, back on the pony, the vein in his neck pulsing like it had a life all its own.
“Why would you dishonor us?” Again.
“Why dishonor your sister?” And again.
He keeps going, again and again and again, but I feel it as if from afar, as if it were someone else’s body. I curl into a ball and go deep inside.
Om mani peme hung, om mani peme hung, om mani peme hung.
I repeat the mantra over and over, rolling on the floor. Its meaning sounds so strange now: the true sound of truth, words made to invoke compassion and peace. What is the jewel in the lotus flower?
Father stands over me, exhausted, but I can tell he’s not done yet. Maybe this is the best way to get rid of another mouth. One step closer to lay-koh…
Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!
I don’t know how much time passes. It’s all a warm glow, new bruises forming over old ones, the familiar taste of blood in my mouth. Father is out of breath. Tired from beating me longer than usual, those veins in his neck still pulsating with each hungry gulp.
How hard would it be for me to rise and slice that neck open with my kikuri?
When I saw Norbu last, by chance, for ten minutes at the cyber cafe, we traded hellos, then bowed our heads to each other. No secret deal. No words. Now I’m suffering as if I’d planned it all, like a mindung, a soothsayer.
We are all bees in this world, buzzing alone. Father is back on his feet, and with strength I didn’t think he still had, he lifts a heavy bag of grain up and over me. I imagine, suddenly, that this is my end, on the dirt floor of our home, a day before my wedding, killed by a bag of barley. I suppress a laugh, it’s all so absurd.
Om mani peme hung, om mani peme hung, om mani peme hung.
I think back to the picture of His Holiness at Norbu’s home: we do not have any effigies here, no pictures of the great lama, so none can witness this shame. I’m not even raising my arms to try to deflect the blow. Animals stop fighting when they know it’s over.
Father’s eyes are red, bubbling. He hangs over me, panting, a pose he’s struck so many times, only this time he’s going to crush me, maybe even take out his kikuri—but he drops the bag. It falls with a thud, dust clouding the room. Father staggers, whole body trembling as he grabs the bottle, tilts it, filling that hole inside him.
Om mani peme hung, om mani peme hung, om mani peme hung.
With the beast occupied, Third, Fourth, and silent Fifth all rush over. I feel wet rags on my swollen face, soft hands helping me up. And then Second comes close, touches my face with her fingertips, her nails lightly raking my cheek. Mother, having watched silently, at last turns to Father. “It’s not her fault! Do you think she wanted this?”
He lies on his side, wipes his mouth with a still shaking hand, points his finger threateningly at her. Mother walks forward with such purpose, we’re all startled, Father most of all, but she heads towards me, picks me up. My legs wobble as I stand, thinking of those old women at Norbu’s home, stroking their beads, circling the prayer wheel. When you die, will faith alone help you ascend to a human body instead of an insect or a goat or something worse? When I die, what happens to my consciousness? Maybe nothing, maybe this is all there is. And if it is, what a fool I am to listen to others.
My mother is speaking to me now. “Do you want to be reborn as a lesser being?”
No, Mother.
“Do you wish to forever swim in the ocean of sadness?”
No, Mother.
If only life were as simple as a mantra. If we did just think and live in the moment, what would it all be like?
“Eldest! Eldest!”
I want to respond, but I can’t. I look up, my mother and sisters all around me, getting smaller and smaller, like I’m falling through the earth, to Naraka. Then I can’t see anything. The room goes black.
8
I GET UP, QUIETLY, AS IF IN A DREAM. MY HEAD IS POUNDING, AND IT’S still dark, but I’m wide awake now. Careful not to stir my sisters, or the light-sleeping goat and pig—I could reach out and touch Second, despite all that’s happened today—her future traded for a television, she sleeps in peace. So does quiet little Fifth and Third and Fourth, all so young, all so in need of more than this.
I take off my amulets, my strung coral beads and tengura necklaces, placing them on the bed. Walking on my toes, I dress in my warmest yak scarf and sweater, creeping through the dark room, moonlight from the window guiding my steps. My bruised fingers dig into the bag of barley that almost killed me, and I stuff my pockets with that dried grain, then snatch cubes of hard dried cheese, millet. I fill an empty plastic bottle with water—the water makes a splash. I look up, expecting six pairs of eyes to open. Nothing. Everyone, even that goat, still sleeping.
Sweat collects on my temples and under my arms. I feel dizzy as I bend and grab my kikuri, gloves, knit cap, down coat—it will be cold tonight—and shove it all into a cloth knapsack I sling across my back. Then I slip my feet into Father’s boots, still almost brand new and too big for me, but I lace them firmly. Good.
In two steps, I’m at the door, toes swimming inside the big boots, but I stop before letting in the cold night. One more thing. I turn and creep back towards father’s bed. Standing over him, watching the up-down, up-down of his chest, another deep and drunken slumber. I put one hand on that chest, feel how weak he truly is, how easy it would be. My other hand touches the kikuri, fingers dancing on the blade’s hilt.
No, not like this. My hand moves down to the foot of the bed as I crouch, searching, outstretched fingers scanning. My pointing finger hits it and I hear the sharp ting of metal.
I raise my head—nothing, no one noticed—then duck back down. Inside the box are the mobile phone and my father’s prized flashlight. I grab both. Then something else. Money.
Probably the last bundle of bills Father made, he kept it buried in his boot since the day we lost Ang. I may burn in Naraka for this, but it doesn’t matter.
Mother always said a being is only born into that hell as a direct result of their accumulated actions. Their karma. Mine is ripe, I know it. I take a breath and then take three hundred rupees. I stick the bills into my pocket, place the box back under the bed, rise, and my heart stops.
Greeting me are two eyes, staring back in the moonlight. Mother. But her lips remain sealed. She doesn’t even raise her head off the pillow. She doesn’t call out, doesn’t yell or try to grab me. We exchange a look of knowing, and in seconds we exchange a lifetime of unspokens. Then she closes her eyes. Go.
Out the door, into the night.
The wind sings, every note a high one. It sounds like my mother’s voice, like her cries.
But I haven’t heard her cry in almost four years, not since my brother died, and I don’t look back. I keep going.
Bundled up, the wind still rips through my clothes, stinging my bruised flesh.
Kang gyok—like a body possessed—I race down the path. Mother woke up Father and told him. He’s coming after me. No. She didn’t. He’s not coming. My pain, all of my suffering, she saw it in my eyes. Years of holding back, years to make up for, my buffer.
I have until the morning. Every few feet, turning at every rustle, every hoot and howl, every flutter of feathers, I don’t know where I’m going, I just know I’m going down. Down the mountain, using the same trail I’ve walked so many times. But
never like this. My feet hurt already, toes bunching together with each step. I shorten my stride, but the blisters are already forming. With the wind screaming and everything dark, the lepchas and yetis that I laughed at as a girl come alive. Anything can be real when you walk sightless, alone at night in the Himalaya. The moon helps, but after how long, an hour?—I have no way to keep time—Father’s prized flashlight goes out, and I’m nearly blind again. Useless, I drop it to the ground and I hear it bounce off a rock and fall into oblivion.
When I pass a ridge that blocks the moon, it becomes so dark, I stop from fright. I’m cold. My face, my ribs, my whole body hurts. And around every corner, steep cliffs and sheer drops, I’m such a fool to be out here. I thought the weather would numb the pain. Instead, it feels like the wind is dancing on my wounds. I want to curl up, go deep within, my eyes are icy and burning, I wipe them and keep going.
The trail narrows, and I shorten my stride even more, a chore to raise my heavy boots, careful steps over loose rocks, then, so slippery, it must be black ice, I can’t see—almost dragging my feet now, careful, careful, it’s perfectly dark, and I don’t want to slide on the ice. Slide right off the mountain.
The trail changes, the rocks becoming more jagged under me. I know this trail even if I can’t see it, but still I bump my head on something hard and sharp. I’m not injured, and I reach out to touch a sheer rock face overhanging the trail. I’m lucky, my discomfort saved me—if I was traveling any faster that would have been my end.
With my right hand hugging the rock face, I feel the ground under me change again, from hard stone to slick ice. I pick one foot up, and then I feel my other leg lift into the air as I push off. For an endless moment, I’m flying. Then I feel my body turn and I hit the ground.
I’m on my back, more scared than hurt. No. That’s not true. I take off a glove, touch my head with trembling fingers, feeling warm, sticky blood. A choir of wolves sings a sad chant. They must smell my tears. I wrap my shaking arms around my knees, pull them in close, and rock forward and back, curled up so nothing can harm me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting, rocking back and forth, when I touch the lump on the top of my head, the cut has hardened and scabbed. And I’m missing one of my gloves—my hand has gone numb—and again, I’m lucky, I find the glove, it’s on my lap. But my hand is so swollen, I can’t even get it on.
Get up.
I blow into my palm, massage and flex my fingers to get the blood moving, then open my jacket and stick my hand in between my arm and my side.
Get up. Now.
I no longer hear the wolves. Just the wind, a sharp cold hum that stings my ears. I pull my cap low over my ears. I can’t go back even if I wanted to. It’s too late, too dark, and I’m too tired to climb uphill—I couldn’t take another beating.
Get up.
If death is what I face either way, I choose death below. In the valley.
Now.
I take my hand back out, manage to finally get the glove on. I try to rise, but my legs are too weak. I just want to lie back, my whole body is so tired.
You’re going to freeze to death if you don’t get moving.
It’s said that before you die from cold, your mind and body transform—a warmth flows through the body before the end. Peace.
Get up.
Is Ang still cold, forever buried in that underground tomb?
I SAID GET UP.
I rub my thighs, calves, ankles, wiggle my toes in the too-big boots. Keep going. I plant my gloved hands on the ice-cold ground and raise myself up. The force of my movement sends loose stones over the side of the trail, just centimeters away, down, down, down, sinking into nothingness. I can’t hear the stones hit, hundreds, thousands of feet below. But everything hits bottom eventually.
The wind returns, stinging my face with shards of ice. My steps are even shorter now, more uncertain. I trip on something in the path, but I don’t fall this time. I pick up a birch branch and use it just as the blind would. And that’s what I am, walking blind, pace slow and measured—but I can’t stop, I’d freeze in place—and so I walk on.
Swallowed in the darkness, not a single light shines behind me. Good. Lights would mean that they’re up, and if they were up this late, it could only be because they knew I was gone. But no one knows and no one is following me. I’m alone on this dark mountain, seeing without my eyes. What I can’t see in front of me, I see in my mind’s eye peaks that make rivers foam, the Dudh Kosi, the milky cascade that drains Jomolangma herself. I can hear its waters far below, the river snaking down like me, winding through the valleys, twisting and turning past some villages and around others. The waters run parallel to the trail now, and I follow past a still sleeping Khumjung, our old home, then on to a groggy Namche Bazaar—built into the lap of the mountains, home to nearly a thousand Sherpas, a hub I’ve visited many times to barter for supplies and wares. Then the river hides behind another valley, and I turn and trot past the waking village of Monju, just a speck on the side of the road.
Thousands of feet lower than when I started, below the tree line now, dust and rocks replace snow and ice. I pass wooden houses and empty fields that in a few hours will be filled with bent villagers. Birch branch in hand, I limp along like my father, toes pinched together and blisters swelling. Then the sun joins me, and when it comes, I’m so happy to feel its warmth.
Blood pheasants squawk in the early morning, horses graze, tails swatting the flies that build as the day gets on. Nobody raises their head as I pass. Brown dots cover the hills—only when they move do they come alive, their empty black eyes looking up, horns aimed. Many yaks, and no people. None at all. Everyone is still sleeping.
I cross a suspension bridge trying not to look, the river hundreds of feet under me. Hands clutching the chain-link railings, I bob up and down over the rickety wood and metal, stepping carefully, one foot in front of the other. And then I’m on the other side of the bridge, on solid ground, and my heart is still racing and I’m embarrassed—a Sherpa afraid of heights!—as I turn and head down another ridge, a switchback, up a slight incline, and finally another bridge. This time I look down as I cross.
On the other side, heart still speeding, the river disappears around a bend, again running just beyond the snow white stupa that marks the edge of the last village on the mountain. Every town here has these markers. And I’m thankful to see it.
I pass through the stupa. Hollow inside, it’s big enough to walk through, and there’s a wooden prayer wheel that comes up to my shoulder, its Sanskrit carvings chipped off in places. The wheel is attached to bells, of course, very loud ones. It’s good fortune to spin the wheel, but I don’t touch it, afraid to wake the villagers as much as the gods. On the other side of the stupa is a stone archway, a kani—the arches seen at the entrance of every village in the Khumbu.
I cross from gravel to stone street and walk past stalls and stores, still boarded up, past tea houses, lodges yet to open. Strange restaurants with English lettering and odd names.
Everywhere the word “Everest,” everywhere pictures of the mountain on signs, painted on doors and walls, a town that is an altar to the great mountain. This is Lukla. And this early in the morning, the streets are empty save for a few mongrels who snarl at me hungrily.
I’m tired, hungry, too, but I march through the entire town in less than ten minutes, it’s that small. But so different from my own. Here, everyone is a merchant, every home a place to sell something. These Sherpas are rich. Tourism has blessed them.
Only a few hundred live in Lukla, and most are businessmen—and businesswomen. Many women run tea houses that serve as lodging places and meal houses. All steady jobs with a neverending flow of foreigners. Much better than working in the dirt, tending livestock, lugging a case of Coca-Cola on your head, up, down, all day, every day, for only a few rupees and a short life. This is a good life for a Sherpa. Here. Just sit and wait for the money to come. Wait for the deep- pocketed mikarus. Run a lodg
e, feed the fire, drink tea, eat meat, get fat.
But to run a lodge, you must own a lodge. And to own anything means money—or marrying into it if you’re lucky, a thought that reminds me my fate won’t be that. I don’t know what will happen, but with every step forward things grow more uncertain. If only I could get work and enough money. I could even go down to the capital, to make a new life in Kathmandu. I could study. I could do anything a man could do. And I’d be free.
But I have no skill to offer, no trade to earn. I am a fool’s fool. There’s only so much a woman without a skill can do. If I had walked up the hill, I could have made it to a shedra, a place of teaching. I’m fantasizing, of course, I could never really become a nun. Shave my head, renounce what little possessions I have, never take a husband, never have children, sleep in a meditation box, dedicate my life to learning the Buddha’s teachings, maybe one day become the first female abbot? No. No. That way has never been for me. I’ve tried many times to prostrate myself, to pray to the deities in secret, and still I felt my father’s hand, no matter how many times I invoked the name of the protector. Khumbi Yulha never protected me. And years of offerings to Jomo Miyo Lang Sangma—when we had our altar in Khumjung—it never helped my family.
If only those gods were fair, not even generous, fair would have been enough. But none listened. Instead they acted cruelly if they acted at all. I’m no nun, I can’t enter the world of compassion with a closed heart. I would still be running.
I pass poster after poster of the mountain, a strange reminder of my trap. And then I see the mountain paired with an English word I recognize: “Trekking.” And “Summit.” Yes. Women have done it. I can’t think clearly, I can’t remember their names, but I do remember.
Could I? Am I even strong enough?
A mongrel barks. I turn and a shiver runs through my tired body, waking me from fantasy. The dog lowers his ears and snarls. I snarl back.