Prakash, dude

2.14.13

The dog who was almost hung from the banyon tree last year barks madly when I pass him at sunrise. He is chained to a tree behind Kali’s shop until it is sunset and then someone takes him up close to the Hilltop café near the mountain gate where hence he is returned the next day.  The look in his eyes is pure insanity, what is wrong or right I don’t know he says but everything pisses me off.

Another spotless sunrise and no job leads. No one is prepared to see me hanging around here until the end of May.  I’ll be dismayed but when you don’t know the direction you’re supposed to be going well, shit, what to do. An interview in Los Angeles to work in Saudi appeals like moldy bread.  Big money though, Lord have mercy, and it would betray my reasons for leaving the Emirates four years earlier.  What a shame, a damn shame, a spiritual misleading in the worst ways.  It’s hard to believe, Lord, it really is.  Ash Wednesday yesterday and now Lent.  Give me a break. I tire of waiting for you to intervene, we’re so weak, confidence doesn’t come from you it comes through a slim illusioned world of social media .  It’s time for tea.

The last of the guests in rooms three, four and five have left.  It’s time to clean if there is a need, if Didi is carrying 40kg water containers from below.  Yesterday she left early to cut wood in the jungle.  Beem is not asking for my help this time. ‘Very deefecult’, he describes climbing up on all fours with sixty pounds of timber balanced on your back with a forehead rope.  Too deeficult for you, he says.

#@*

I know I never mentioned a birthday on the 14^th but being who we are and what we are the cake that came out and the singing that followed coincidences with Vietnamese and the non-coincidental whose name I forget every time I see her and the sudden appearance of another on this date left me believing for a second a message was being conveyed but the day as usual passes without further incidence and all will be forgotten again.

So we drank rum, ate cake and when all were in bed Maya and I carried water from the tap.  Choose your faith, man. 

2.15.13

A grey and chilly morning.  The couples who didn’t know each other from Vietnam have left, a coincidence that they checked in at the same time yesterday, the first tourists from this country to stay here this year. The younger couple showed me photos they took with the Dalai Lama two years ago.  May I shake the hand that shook the Dude’s hand? 

Suman came home yesterday. Today is a day for puja, the god of education, no one eats before the puja, a good idea to focus respect, thankfully I got eggs, potatoes, toast and a cup of tea.  Suraksha takes her books into the kitchen where Maya is performing the puja.  Two Chinese girls wander about taking photos, the old lady who has been trying to play matchmaker for three months sits outside dragging the cigarette, big cameras shutter away.  And away the children go with Maya to school for a function recognizing the importance of education.  Meanwhile Laxman and I remain in the dining room and for the entire day no one comes.  Good thing, after three quarters of rum Laxman would rather not cook and I would rather not fraternize. 

I imagine sometimes big blow outs with Laxman or Maya and I pack my meager belongings and leave.  Right now I have less than five dollars to my name.  It is cold outside now and it looks like rain.  The homeless must die young here. 

2.16.13

Four days ago Prakash lost all hope and took his life.  He was 28.  It is too surreal to imagine we will never see him again. 

People in the village are talking about the meteor in Russia.  ‘Three hundred children dead, a thousand hurt.’  Wherever the information comes from there is speculation and spin until time reveals truth.  I watched the youtube videos this morning from the Urals and no one died.  Another man said the meteor was the size of a planet he heard and I laughed.  I told him it burned up as it entered earth’s atmosphere and was the size of a minivan.  The sonic boom it caused shattered glass and that is interesting.  Imagine an iron rock the size of New York coming at the planet.

Another overcast morning, no tourists yesterday and the rain begins to fall, the third time since October.  In the kitchen Suraksha says I am sad.  Why am I sad how does it look I wasn’t thinking sad thoughts.  Prakash’s mother and father are most seriously sad and to think of their sadness, presumed, perhaps is why empathy might be leaving my countenance down. 

Born on the cusp.  The rain falls harder, clouds cover the Pame valley, the temps drop, and Suman, Suraksha and Suson are restless, there is no peace now.  Laxman went down to Pokhara upon hearing the death of Prakash.  Maya sits across from me and watches the sea of white below, now she moves to a table and begins sewing.  It is impossible for these children to be quiet.  Now Didi scratches paint from windows that are right behind me, it is almost comical, Maya is collecting water and I ran down to room eight for the pashmina and mouse chewed wool shawl.  No Shanti.  Lord with no power I can’t tell the little ones to go watch tv.  The rain falls hard and I can’t tell this woman to go outside and clean windows.  Yesterday I went down to Balarum’s shop and the ladies in other shops mocked my very torn up jeans. It doesn’t bother me whether in Indian bars in Al-Ain or here on a mountain I am an anomaly-the only middle aged white dude in the room- as long as I don’t know what they’re saying  go ahead and make fun.  All I want is to keep my toes warm.

Room eight is warm and silent and in ten minutes the power will go off and I’ll have two candles and my headlamp to guide me to bed.  Prakash, dude, you weren’t right in the head, but you were harmless.  I’m sorry it ended this way for you. Did your spirit leave years ago I don’t know, some aren’t surprised you did yourself in but you weren’t there and no one knew what to do.  Brother, I’m sorry.