Beldangi Rain

Every so often, when I am in search of inspiration, or in need of some humility, or perhaps on an evening stroll across the park, alone with my thoughts, only the wind sailing by, or when I’m about to board a plane, or in the warm, snug embrace of a loved one, or whatever it is that takes men to their contemplative nature, I am taken — sometimes in part, sometimes in whole — to that crisp, breezy morning where the skies were dark with approaching rain, and the cool air whistled as it passed through the gaps of our bamboo walls.

I peeked through a gap and saw a tin, rickety van outside. It was the only van I would ever travel in during the first ten years of my life.

I rubbed my eyes and rose from the rocky bed my grandfather had carved for me with his own hands. When I stepped outside, I could hear the soft voice of my mother as she spoke with Babita, our neighbor. Quickly, I realized that I had awakened late.

If it were any other day, I would’ve received, as I often did for my childhood mischief, a good beating from my mother. Every morning, shortly after the rooster crowed, I waited in line to retrieve water from a distant well, a vital part of my daily chores. But that day was different. I wouldn’t need to wait for water any longer.

My mother shifted her attention from Babita Auntie and cast a smile in my direction. Many thoughts lurked behind the curve of her lips.

I remember her gaze, soft and dear.

I nodded in return.

My mother had finished loading our luggage, which, packed thoughtfully over the past month, carried our toothbrushes, clothes, old photos and memories, a holy relic, and sealed in a small pouch — our entire life savings. My father was having a conversation with the driver, when Babita Auntie approached me with one of my childhood delights: a piece of bread and a cup of Chai Masala.

I told her dhanyabad.

I looked into her brown eyes. Her pupils were dilated, her eyelids puffy. I could see tears building in them, only blinks away from flooding.

She wrapped her arms around me and spoke, “You’re welcome, son. This will be the last one I’ll make for you.”

I knew she would miss me — I used to get water for her family, too.

I had built quite a reputation for myself as the local water boy. I took pride in it. People would return the favor with slices of bread, but the Chai came only on very special occasions.

My family waited for me inside the van as I bid farewell to my neighbors and friends. And when I finally climbed inside, the driver introduced himself and gave my family a white bag with two folders in it, one with the U.N.H.C.R. logo on top and the second with the I.O.M’s.

Without much knowledge of its meaning or significance, the bag was something a child of my age would often hear about in the conversations of the elders. And with the consequent fame and chitchat the plastic bag had earned amongst my circle of friends, it had inspired — for the very first time — an unfamiliar light of hope in our dim, adolescent hearts. It was a passport to dream, so to speak.

Now that the bag was close, next to me, on my father’s lap, I sat cozily in the back seat of the van — which was to take my family and me to the airport.

Our life in Beldangi, a refugee camp in Nepal, was about to end. We were going to America.

The skies roared. Lightning struck. A thousand drops of rain drummed on the tin roof of the van. I listened.

It is a sound I miss dearly. The Beldangi rain, unlike rain elsewhere, fell with tumult and pride.

And I listened quietly, to every one of its patters, the sound of wind swaying its fall, the noise of it piercing through the wind. And as the driver started the engine, I turned around and took one last glance back.

I saw my house. I saw its weak walls, its fragile roof made out of hay. The holy Tulasi plant we had groomed, and the papaya tree sheltering our yard as always.

The driver slowly pressed the gas pedal, and our neighbors, our friends, walked mutely behind us — knowing this would be the last time we would ever see each other.

Looking at their faces, I wondered what they were thinking. How would they remember me: as their water boy, or as someone close to them?

Finally, they stopped walking, yet still they waved.

Hours later, our tin-roofed van was replaced by a sleek, modern jet. A Boeing-747, that was to take us from Kathmandu to Dubai, before flying us to New York.

The plane accelerated, its wings trailed to increase lift. Its wheels tucked in. It levitated. We sliced through the air, quickly gaining height. I had never been in an airplane before, and I marveled as we headed toward the clouds.

Staring out the oval window of the plane, I wondered if we would come across any gods flying in their golden chariots, as depicted in the Bhagavad-Gita. What were the chances we would come across one of the thousands of gods of our religion? I waited for the deities.

Our aircraft rumbled. As we hit turbulence, the skies growled louder. Lightning intensified, then calmed, only to strike harder again. Time passed, but they didn’t come. So I began to question.

Are we not high enough?

I had been good all my life, hadn’t I?

Did the gods even exist?

The celestial beings remained silent.

I thought of my grandfather, his thick gray mustache, his jolly paunch on which I used to lie on, how he used to narrate the great epic before I went to bed — causing me, with each passing second, to fall asleep.

When the glowing medallion in the sky appeared the next day, we were flying over Dubai. I had entered another world, like the ones I had seen only in postcards, or in the newspapers with which we covered the gaps in our bamboo walls. I stared in awe, considering what human civilization had achieved outside of the camps — how far we had come, how far we had been left behind.

Nervous and naive and just out of a refugee camp, I thought about simpler things. I thought about home.

How was Babita Auntie faring?

Who fetched the water today?

Who fed the animals?

Did anyone bother to water our Tulasi plant?

My grandfather used to tell me the leaf of a Tulasi plant soaked in Ganga Jal (Holy Water) could cure anything. Gullible as I was, I had believed him.

I’d hated much of the life we were leaving behind: survival in the Camps was a battle we — all one hundred thousand of us living on less than twenty-five cents per day — couldn’t always win. But as I now speak from a better place, careful not to let romanticism elude me, I am grateful for those ten years I spent in Nepal. I’d seen and lived many things there, experienced a certain kind of joy, a joy of giving. A slice of bread tasted better than anything as it was given and received with gratitude. The glass of water we stood in long lines to procure quenched our thirst differently, in a more satisfying way.

Every experience, no matter how bad it seems, holds within it a lesson of some kind. I had heard that from the Buddha, but I learned it truly during those early years of my life.