(Part 3/5) “We were raised in dire conditions. We all lived in straw Goths. During monsoon, things would float inside the Goth as water would take over the floor. There were no clothes to wear. We would sleep on wet mud. We had one pan to cook and one brass pot. We all ate from that. Father would leave in search of food and we would wait for him almost ready to die in starvation. That man is still living but Mother died 20 years ago. She was a good woman. I remember she would collect mustard seeds already drained of oil and boil it in water and give it to us. Every time I think about that, the bitterness in my mouth returns. No one should have to eat that. And then sometimes I had to go to the Rolwaling village to collect potatoes seeds. Without shoes, in snow. The body is iron.
One day I remember, I took the goats to pasture. The only thing that covered my body then was a piece of decaying cloth. And then while in the forest, it started raining with all its might. The cloth got wet and the knots I have used to tie it up around my body snapped. I had no choice but to bring back the goats with no clothes on. But I was happy I did not die that day. I was 12 years old. When my mother saw me she could not believe her sight. Her little boy was shivering in cold and had gone pale. She pulled me next to the fire and warmed me with her cries and tears. I told you all of my life in shortcut. In a palatable way. To talk about it and to actually bear it are two different things.”