Oh, Cambodia!

A sharp wave of nausea broke over me in a cold sweat, my aching stomach protesting loudly in anticipation. This was it-the point of no return. I closed my tired eyes in submission, and opened them slowly, staring at the red dirt ground of the makeshift kitchen. I avoided the smiles and hopeful expressions of my Nepalese hosts and set my eyes determinedly upon the plate. No, I thought, I will not let them down.
The spoon felt cold and heavy in my shaking hand, and my grip was so firm, I felt the rough edges of the unpolished tin pressing deeply in my palm. As I brought it up to my trembling lips, the room fell silent in great expectation, and my anxiety grew. The seemingly impossible thought of my stomach making friends with the tenth-odd serving of dalbhat plagued me- every meal was as precious as gold to the small, impoverished village of Ramechhap, each mouthful hard earned and deserved.
Among the vast, empty fields of dry bamboo and grass-ridden dust, little food was to be found, and their self sufficiency provided no income. This small, loving family had invited me into their home, no questions asked, with the hope of nothing in return. The little they had was sacrificed for me, here on this plate, their hours of ploughing, grinding, chopping (then mending cut fingers), and cooking was offered in front of me. I caught the young mother’s eyes, her beaming face so beautiful and radiant, and she smiled, mindfully rocking her crying, hungry child. ‘Didi’, she said, and gestured towards my plate. Sister. I was her sister, in a place where family stands above all else. And I felt honoured. Smiling, I quelled my angry insides with the spoonful of two-day-old rice and cold, watery lentils. And as the sun set over the vast Himalayas, my new family glowed with pride and contentment. My sister led me to the window to watch the red and blue streaks fade over the white peaks into a brilliant starlit night. And at that very moment, I felt complete. I was home.