“I spent 5 years in the foothills of the Ganesh Himal with my father. We moved from Kharka to Kharka – the Gothen Kharka, Somdang Kharka and the Jaisur Kharka. My father, though I have lost him now to a disease that no doctors have found a cure of, was a good man, a strong man who could understand the Yaks and the hunger of his children. He taught me many things about the Yak and the ways to look after them. To make them strong for their meat and for their milk. To keep them or to sell them. He taught me how to tie the strongest of knots so that they would not flee. Towards his end, he grew weak and he could not look after his Yaks. While I flattened dough to make roti, I would hear him mumble, “Who will take care of my animals when I am gone?” He knew he was sick and he had very less time. My heart ached to see him deal with his own uncertainty for just a few years ago he was one of the strongest man in the village. I knew that I would not be able to take care of the Yaks on my own. When he died, and just like he had imagined his Yaks all went astray, some never returned and some were sold by the family for money. Moss took over the shed and I returned to the village home to live with my mother. The old house that father built was also taken by the earthquake recently. You must have heard. Today, we are just surviving growing some potatoes and beans. The yield is not so much with no men in the house to assist us in the fields. Without father and his Yaks, life has changed. I try and stay strong and try not to cry in front of mother. I cook her good food and tell her about the merchants who come in for black tea. Even though, I think of father all the time, I know he and his Yaks will never return. You have not heard of a river return have you?”
The Never Returning River
