Lost in the Woods

A Story by Nestar

A true tale (originally written in Nepali) of growing up in a remote village and a special friend

Lost in the Woods

Things were very different back then. We had mud up to our knees. We hated wearing shoes in the monsoon, so the spaces between our toes were always infected. There would be sand in our hair. We loved taking baths in the dirty river by the jungle. The buffaloes bathed in the same river. We did not care! There was a small cliff on the bank of the river, and we often competed over who could jump from higher. Namma was always the winner. It seemed that he was one of the buffaloes himself; he was that strong. Never hurt by anything. I don’t remember him ever breaking or twisting any part of his body. The rest of us would have broken thirty eight ribs if we were that reckless.

We kids loved to throw rocks at the beehives. Then run. We would shelter under the tree, beneath a black umbrella, or underwater. The bees would follow and not leave for long. We would suffocate and sometimes even get stung when we came out of the water for a breath. Somehow, it all seemed worth it. Until this one day, when I was stung by twenty-six bees. I am not making up the number; we counted the stings the next day. I am not sure if I would be living to write this if not for the lady who came with a log of fire and scared the bees away. There were more of our shenanigans. We liked throwing rocks and sticks at the dragon in the jungle too. I heard that its tail was quite poisonous. Looking back, I can’t believe we did all that.

I loved taking the cattle to the jungle. The cows and buffaloes would graze all day and, meanwhile, we kids could play all sorts of fun games. None of the games needed any equipment, like a bat or ball or anything. Just people! My favorite game was hiding a small chip of wood under the clay and guessing where it was. We played it wherever we saw a dry heap of clay. While the cattle were grazing, we would also pick wild mushrooms, truffles, and one-leafed green plants. All of these tasted pretty awesome! Deep in the jungle, you could find many timber plants like cotton trees, rosewood trees, and mimosas. We would pluck the baby plants and replant them in our backyards. Having a lot of rosewoods in the backyards was a matter of social status.

During the intense summer, all the grasses around the village would dry out, so we would have to go deeper into the woods to find fresh grass for the cattle. A big chunk of the forest had been cut down by the time I was in primary school. A few kilometers northeast from the village, there were small green mountains that were famously rich in grass for the cattle. They were called “kharka”. Sometimes people had to be there for as long as three months while the cattle were grazing. This land was also very fertile. People had to live very close to the streams for water. They would only return to the village once in a while, if the rice and lentils ran out. They always traveled in a group of at least four or five to keep the wild animals away. Women and children would stay home while the adult men were gone.

What would the men do all day at the kharka? Some extracted fiber from the trees and made ropes, some would chop wood to make plough or axe handles, and others made fire or extracted honey, etc. etc.

This one time we kids also expressed interest in going to the kharka. At first, the adults were very reluctant to take us there, but after we insisted, they agreed and thought we’d learn something too. So, we six kids followed them. Barefooted! Flip flops in our bags. I, Brother, Namma, Egya, Khadkya and Patya. Patya was already big by then but the rest of us were still tiny.It was very exciting for a kid that young to go so deep into the woods and up on the mountains and to live there overnight. Not just for one day but several days!

We embarked on the narrow dirt road supine north and south along the stream east of our village, Olani. The road took you directly to “gohaar” (a big open land where people hung out while their cattle grazed in the jungle), wriggling only a few places in the middle.

Olani was my birthplace. A small, cozy village in the midst of Kailali district of rural Nepal. It was rustic, far away from the humdrum urban world. From the courtyard of our clay house, we could clearly see the Chure mountain range. The three colors of the mountains were very distinct: green, blue and gray. It felt like you could touch those mountains with your hand. The trees on the top of the green mountains stood there, like a row of monsoon frogs. Once in a while, the buses on the concrete roads around those mountains would flash a light and we would all go, “Hey look, a bus!” In winter, we would occasionally see wildfires on the mountains, which glowed incessantly like lighthouses in the middle of a dark sea. They never grew big enough to burn the entire jungle. Usually they would disappear after a few days, and then we would see another wildfire at a different spot.

The road was rather dusty due to the arid summer weather; so as we walked, the air around us would settle on our hair and our clothes. Stopping by every mulberry tree we saw on the way and plucking a few mulberries each time, we finally reached the gohaar. There were only a few cattle left. The marks for the “tikka” game on the ground had faded. The volleyball court also looked dead and abandoned as a graveyard. In place of a net, there was a thin rope tied between two wooden poles. A cute tiny calf was pooping with his tail up in the air. The humongous “simal” (silk cotton tree) in the corner of the gohaar had spread countless red flowers on the ground. Stepping on the simal flowers, we walked towards the stream that separated the gohaar and the jungle. It was named “chakle kholaa”, the wide one. It was dry at the moment with barely any water in it. During the monsoon, this stream is notorious for its demonic form and its mighty roar; people often compared its rapidity with the “tandav”, a dance performed by Lord Shiva. It not only challenged the villagers but also scared the crap out of them.

They walked very fast. We kids had a hard time catching up. The silence of the jungle was at times disturbed by the echo of a woodpecker pecking a tree. Only Egya was wearing flip-flops; the rest of us were barefooted. Besides the woodpecker, the tapping of Egya’s flip flops was the only other sound echoing back from the jungle. Our tiny feet were making beautiful footprints on the dusty road, like a row of ants. Patya’s feet were all black with mud. That showed how hard working he was, at least in my eyes. His armpits emitted a sour pungent smell of sweat. It was not gross to anyone. Sweat was the symbol of hard work, and no villager was ever self-conscious about body odor.

We kept walking relentlessly. The woodpecker’s sound became fainter and eventually vanished in the atmosphere. By the time we started climbing the small hills at the beginning of the mountain range, the sun had already set, and it started getting dark. We kids were really scared of ghosts back then. Snakes were another huge threat, especially at night. To appease the fear a little bit, we were singing loudly. The adults were far ahead of us now but they had a rough idea of where we were. Our servant Kanso looked behind from time to time to check on us. Namma was singing his favorite song:

“Pahadaka dangaa dangaa aago dhama dhama
Kaali….”

Suddenly, there was a loud strange noise from behind. The first thing that came to my mind was a tiger. I took Brother’s hand and ran like crazy. Namma had already reached way ahead of us, leaving his favorite song unfinished.

We tried to get the hell out of there. Brother wasn’t very fast, so I grabbed his hand and dragged him to where Kanso was. We took a long breath and looked back. A monkey was trying to jump from one tree to another. The branch wasn’t as strong as he thought, so he slipped. We were very scared though!

In a minute, we were back on our stroll. This time we were only a few steps from the adults. Namma had started another song already.

As we climbed up the hill, the paths became more daunting. Sometimes we had to step on big rocks. Where the adults were taking one step, we kids had to take three or four tiny steps. But I had been even further up once before. This whole mountain range is popularly known as Maala Daanga (Maala Hills). Maala provided many daily necessities for six or seven other villages besides ours. From dry leaves for the cattle to fiber to make the ropes, Maala was the only source for us. We kids, however, came here for gooseberries, jamun (Java plum), and amatha (a sour, wild fruit similar to an Indian hog plum).

For a while, there was a silence. I started sinking in imagination, forgetting the dread of the deep jungle and the exhausting hike…I wished Khagya was there. It would be fun. The entire village knew of the camaraderie of us three friends: Khagya, Namma, and I. We did everything together. During bhailo*[1], the three of us always collected the most rice. After I moved to Dhangadhi, Khagya and Namma were alone. In the beginning, I came to the village every Friday and stayed the entire Saturday, but later it slowed down. Still, I was at least home for the two months of monsoon vacation. That was our reunion. Those were always the shortest two months ever. I grew up in the village for the first six years of my life, so nothing was more intimate to me than village life.

We went fishing all the time in the monsoon. When the rod did not do much, we’d build a dam in the canal and empty the water to catch fish with our hands. Then we’d divide them equally into three. Sometimes, we’d also get frogs and snakes. Namma was fearless; he bravely took out fish from the holes in the mud, despite the risks of poisonous snakes inside them. Later, I started doing the same. Sometimes Khagya and Namma were busy helping their families with farming. I also had a lot of fun planting rice in the mud, especially throwing the stack of seedlings in the air and watching them splash and scatter across the irrigated fields.

I was angry that Khagya could not come with us today. It was not his fault though.

Khagendra Prasad Bhatta was my neighbor and best friend. Back then, I was not even aware of romantic love. I did not care about parental love either. I took parents’ caring for us and supporting us for granted, as it was their duty. So Khagya was my first love. Our love was pure. Back then, we kids often had fights and would hold grudges for weeks. With some, I would not speak for a year. With Khagya, though, it never lasted more than overnight. Khagya was always jolly and smiley. When the photographer Kharyal was over for a photoshoot, Khagya would always ruin the pictures by jumping in from behind. Then he’d giggle and run away. He entertained us a lot on our way to school. He was himself always laughing. His four middle teeth were big and yellow, almost twice as big as his other teeth. I never saw him with a toothbrush. Sometimes he would brush his teeth with coal or with a twig from the neem tree. On our way to school, he carried a Nepali notebook that cost a rupee. The brand’s name was “Swan”, and he modified it to make it “Swani” (meaning ‘wife’ in our native language, Doteli). That was funny to us. Khagya was obviously very creative. We were always impressed.

Khagya was a year younger than me and a year and a half older than Brother. His voice wasn’t fully mature yet; he called me “Tayi” instead of “Tari”. Khagya’s family was poor. I remember eating only bread and water at his house this one time when the cow was pregnant. When I brought him the 3-buck “mama” noodle, and I saw his face glow with excitement. This one time, I took him to Dhangadhi. He looked exhilarated. Even more so riding our uncle’s jeep. He had only been on a bullock cart and on the dumper truck of a fellow villager. He was extra smiley that day.

When we reached Dhangadhi, I asked my uncle for five bucks to buy Fanta. It was the first time for Khagya. He liked it a lot. It kept us very cool on that hot, dry summer day. Whenever Brother and I shared a glass bottle of Fanta, one of us had to pour it in a separate glass. He always fought with me over who would get to drink it from the bottle. Khagya was also younger than me, so I gave him the bottle and drank from a steel glass myself.

Khagya was fascinated by that Fanta bottle. I knew the shopkeeper well, so he let us keep it. Usually, they took all the bottles back for recycling. I let Khagya keep it at his house. He kept the bottle with care, carrying it to school to drink water from. The bottle cap was already twisted off with the opener, so he used a tiny corn cob to close it. When his mom tried to put mustard oil in it, he fought with her. Sometimes, we’d compete over who could drink more water from the school hand pump. We’d easily drink seven or eight rounds from the 250 milliliter Fanta bottle to win the contest. Fortunately, our bellies never blasted.

One day, I heard that Bishna, who lived four houses north from us, was getting married. However, I was in Dhangadhi, so I couldn’t go. A wedding in the village was like Christmas for us. We could eat goat meat and rice as much as we wanted. That was the only time when we could walk kilometers away from home alone at night and come back with the crowd, dancing. If we had to go to another village for the wedding, we’d stay there overnight and sleep on the tractor trolley or in the hay. It was a lot of fun! That’s why we always hoped the girls of the village got married soon.

After Bishna’s wedding, I could not wait to go to the village and hear about everything from Khagya. Then I heard the very next morning that Khagya was in the hospital. “How is that possible?” Khagya was always perfectly healthy and fit. I was even scared of seeing Khagya now. I did not ask anyone how serious he was. I did not go. I thought that, after he recovered, I’d just go to his home to meet him. Two-three days and no news. I thought he was probably better by now. Otherwise, I’d have heard something. At times, I felt like going to the hospital. Then I’d get scared.

Early the next morning, my uncle was getting ready to go somewhere. They were saying things that were too complicated for a nine-year-old to understand. Then I thought I understood a little bit. I asked to come along, but uncle declined it angrily, “Kids cannot go there!” They feared that I was too fragile to handle Khagya’s funeral. They were right. What would I do there? How would I tolerate Khagya’s dead body in front of me? His mom’s shrieks? Even months later, when his mom cried, it would penetrate my heart deep inside. How could I even bear a second of what I’d see that day? It was too painful to even think about.

I did not drop a single tear that day. It felt like I had hit my head into a wall suddenly. I even forgot I was supposed to cry. Then, the next morning, I cried a lot. I was angry with God. I realized then that God was a lie. Khagya’s death affected the child in me in so many ways. I had never faced the death of someone so close to me. My grandfather had passed away when I was barely one. Khagya’s death made me realize how brutal life was. I was not there at Bishna’s wedding. I wondered, could I have saved him. Pulled him back on that bullock cart when he fell off? Before the gigantic truck crushed him with those ghostly wheels. But Khagya was helpless. No one else on the cart got a scratch. Why did he have to…?

Sometimes I hoped Khagya’s ghost would come to see me. If I saw some shapes in the dark courtyard, I’d wonder if it was Khagya’s ghost. I even pondered if this whole thing, from Khagya’s death until now, was a dream. I woke up a lot in the middle of the night. Khagya haunted me in my dreams. “Tayi, let’s go pluck the berries,” “Tayi, let’s go to Rajinnar’s shop; dad give me fifty paisas”, “Tayi…” Khagya and I used to go to Rajinnar’s shop to buy gud (cane sugar balls). As I said before, his teeth were all yellow.

After Khagya’s death, Namma was my only close friend. The bhailo team had also lost one member and was now down to two. Namma now became even dearer to me. But he could not come to Dhangadhi, and I could not go to a school in the village. At least Namma was there for me when I was in the village�" I was content with that. Four years ago, I heard that Namma had tuberculosis. I was very worried! When I looked at his picture, the Namma who could fight with a buffalo someday now looked incapable of fighting even with a rooster. Back then, I was working 84 hours a week at a gas station. If my work cured his TB, I was willing to help an extra ten-fifteen hours.

Last year when I was home, I heard that Namma had gone to India. I was happy that he had started working again. That meant that he was doing well. If it was up to me, I would invite him to come here to America…

So…this is why Khagya could not come today. Khagya’s favorite bottle of Fanta was now in my hand. It was my responsibility now. I had told Namma the story of the bottle. This bottle had become our common water bottle.

As Namma started his song again, it felt like I had awoken from a deep sleep. We had already reached far high up the mountain, on a plateau. We turned around, and we saw the beautiful panorama of Malakheti town, where we all went to school. The water tower by the school looked like a tiny upside-down flask. We were all competing to find the school first. Everything was hazy. If not for the three big mango trees, the school would be impossible to find. We could not even figure out where our houses would be. The memory of Khagya was very fresh in my mind, so I thought maybe Khagya was also watching from high above in the sky. But how would he recognize us from that far? Even if he did recognize us, what could he do?

We decided to rest there for a little while. Brother was hungry, so I took out gud and uncooked rice from the cotton rag I had tied them inside and gave some to Namma too…

[1] * bhailo = During Depawaali, the festival of lights, kids go door to door to sing songs and collect money and sweets.