The River and The Hills

The rooster crowed before the dawn, its voice ringing over Sindhupalchowk hills. The dawn's early light stretched over the ridges, catching the dripping leaves and transmogrifying them into tiny sparks of gold. Mist clung low in the valley, and for a moment it looked as if the whole area was still half-asleep, holding its breath until the day could really begin.

Reluctantly, the village stirred to life. Smoke wafted from kitchens where women prepared daal in blackened, heavy pots, the sharp whistle of pressure cookers breaking the silence. Men were already out, some pulling grass on their shoulders, others cutting it and mixing khole for goats and cows. The bleating and clanging of tin buckets blended with morning gossip. Children rubbed their eyes, dragging their feet out from under bedclothes, trying to shake off the cold.

To outsiders, the village appeared peaceful—beautiful even. But for people who lived there, it wasn't always so. The hills appeared too steep, too close, like fences that walled in individuals. Days went by, almost the same. Work, food, school, sleep. A routine that hardly ever got broken.

Inside one of the mud huts, Ama stirred the pot when the roof was still wet from the previous night's dew. Her bangles jingled as she moved, mixing with the impatient hiss of the cooker. The youngest, Aarati, was already awake, hanging onto her rag doll beside Ama. Sam Bahadur Thapa and his brother Ram were still beneath the old blanket.

"Sam! Ram! How long do you plan on sleeping? Food won't cook itself!" Ama's voice sliced through, sharper than the whistle.

Sam's eyes snapped open, gazing upwards at the smoky ceiling. The same scolding, the same mornings, the same life—it rooted him. He hurt with that burden but remained silent, swallowing it down as he always did.

He splashed water on his face and emerged into the cold of the air. Along the border of the yard, the vegetable garden waited in ambush. He pulled beans and greens and scraped the dirt from his hands and washed his hands in a bucket and chopped them up roughly before offering them to Ama.

Back inside, he helped Ram pull on a shirt with a missing button and smoothed Aarati’s messy hair with his fingers. He packed his own books into a worn school bag. The smell of daal and steamed rice filled the room as Ama set the plates on the floor. They ate fast, hardly speaking, and once finished, the children slung their bags over their shoulders and ran down the narrow trail to school.