“I don’t remember much of my father. He died when I was 5. But I remember the house would be full. It was a mixed family with several uncles and aunts and their children. And the cow didn’t give enough milk for all of us. My father had made a bamboo container that he used to fill with milk and hide it in a hole he had dug inside the cowshed. And every once in a while, without anyone knowing, he would carry me in his shoulders to the shed and give me milk to drink. Sometimes late at night when sleep seem distant, I quietly walk into the shed, stand there and think of my father.”
(Tika Ram Poudel, Bhalam, Kaski)