9.4 Tuesday
Rainfall
throughout the night peters off as light returns to earth. The men-boys continue sawing, making molds
for huge shelves, the Chinese women in room five continues to sleep after she asked to be woken at sunrise. It’s 9am.
Breakfast number one, a black tea, handfuls of roasted corn, Suraksha comes by for a few
chocolate raisins. Trying to upload a
photo on FB here takes forever for a forever weak connection it is we have
going on at the end of the building.
Soon the
men-boys will reinforce the door and install a new lock. I have decided to stay put to keep an eye on
this accumulation of personal wealth on the chair under a blanket. Why, who wouldn’t take a book about Mother
Teresa, or Oakleys that have their first scratch, an ebony Buddha I picked up
in Sri Lanka eight years ago and which a antique dealer in Seattle offered a
cheeky offer for, a stained and patched and ripped pair of blue jeans, eleven
year old t-shirts, this two-year old computer…several of the men-boys
apparently were caught eating cucumbers from the fields, why not take my
trekking permit with my photo in it?
I don’t fear
for anything being taken. It is a sunny
day, cool breezes, cherry licorice is hidden somewhere under the bed
sheet. The sawing gets closer.
And before
you know it, the day has passed. Prakash
is an interesting character I mention in passing. Twenty-four years old he has taken a vow of
not knowing what to do with his life.
While in his teens he took drugs that left him wearing a maroon tunic
to wander his country. This evening I
told him what I expected to happen at the end of this year. “It’s quite possible I am wrong but my instincts
and a spirit tell me not to give up hope."
Prakash stumbled out into the night.
He probably thought he was the only one in this place who was crazy.
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