Forget Me Not

He wore nothing but a pair of red Baywatch shorts, climbing onto the roof of his father’s house, I watched his breath like smoke signals fade into sunrise. He was harvesting honey for my breakfast, it would be my last in Sukekot. I ate it with sel-roti, masala and eggs, and although I had eaten the same thing everyday for two months, I missed it with every swallow.

I gathered the last of my things, assessed the size of my bag, and decided I would need another motorbike just to carry it. There were only three motorbikes in the whole village and I had the privilege of using two. Before leaving I wanted to drink in the last of the Annapurna ranges; my looking glass, my nothing, my anchor. I walked the winding paths that navigate the community, taking a mental picture of every thatched roof and mud brick home, every wrinkled face, every toothless child.

Purple-Daphne-lays were being sewn madly by mothers and daughters as I walked past. I was stopped to pose for photos, snapped on old Nokias, my face blurred like a distant memory. But I was still there? I kicked dust, breathed deeply and squeezed every little soul that came to bid me farewell.

A procession of people: my uncles, aunties, brothers and sisters came to face me, one by one. Wiping red tikka on my forehead, cheeks and chin, each placing a lay around my neck. We would Namaste, hug or handshake- our final connection.

I climbed upon my chariot- a rusty Honda dirt bike. Khum gunned the motor and I clung to his waist, crying into his back the whole way to Bhimad. Red tikka and tears streamed and pooled.

I’ll never forget the day that I left Sukekot.