Teacher Training in a Tiny Nepalese Village
Sezgi Yalin, Cyprus
Sezgi Yalin earned her MA in teaching English as a foreign language at the University of Illinois in Chicago. She holds a BA in Journalism and English Literature. She worked as an English teacher and teacher trainer in US and Poland, and also gained experience in the same field in countries such as Spain, Egypt, China, Nepal, Tibet, Vietnam and Turkey. Now, she works as CELTA trainer at the English Preparatory School of the Eastern Mediterranean University in North Cyprus. Her research interests are teacher training and writing. E-mail: sezgi.yalin@emu.edu.tr
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Part 1
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I rest with five Nepalese teachers outside a café drinking banana lassi by the side of the only asphalt road in Kawasoti, a small town in West Nepal. It is also a modest celebration of the end of my two-day voluntary training of primary school teachers from the province of Nawalparasi where Kawasoti is located.
The training session ends with a closing ceremony where in shaking hands, the branch president of my sponsoring organization presents me with a candle and a white wool shawl called 'dosala' usually gifted to academics who 'lighten the way to knowledge'. I remember seeing the same kind of the candle always lit at the opening ceremonies of any kind of teaching session in Nepal.
“It opens the path to knowledge,” explains Tirtha, the organizer of the training session in Kawasoti, emphasizing its importance in Nepalese culture.
A 'thank you' certificate and some beautiful Chinese roses given after the candle and the ‘dosala’ are enough to turn the tap of my tears. This is one of the most emotional ceremonies I experienced during my twenty-day teacher training in several different remote areas of Nepal organized by NELTA – the Nepalese English Language Teachers Association. I meet more than four hundred teachers for usually two days in seven different provinces and help them with their professional development in the field of teaching English as a foreign language.
I promise the teachers that I would come back one day to Kawasoti.
“Nepal has become my second home,” I hear myself say in the midst of the excited applause of teachers, and my heart goes ‘click’, attaching itself more tightly to this very poor country nestled in the Himalayas.
As we continue sipping our lassis at the café, a strong man Krishna, with bright and ambitious eyes and hanging tightly to his black bag, walks toward us. His face is muscular exhibiting infinite number of wrinkles tightly wrapping his face.
A 52-year-old English teacher and farmer, Krishna is from a tiny village called Ranibas in Gulmi district of West Nepal and travels five hours only to pick me up from my present location in Kawasoti.
Krishna is dedicated to making some changes in remote Nepal. Five years ago, with the help of the Australian embassy, he started a non-governmental organization called Book Bank Nepal. Lots of families cannot send their children to school because they cannot afford to buy textbooks. Krishna collects money from different donors and uses it to buy textbooks from bookstores. He then, through Book Bank Nepal, lends these books to children who cannot buy them.
In addition to my plan of giving a two-day training session to primary school teachers, one of the other reasons why I go back to Ranibas with Krishna is to donate 1,000 US dollars I collected last year at the university I work for in my country Northern Cyprus to help the Book Bank.
Krishna is a gentle, well-mannered Nepalese who believes in helping people.
“This is why we are on this earth,” he says and continues to tell me about his dreams for Book Bank Nepal as we stand on the road to hitchhike from our current location Kawasoti to a bigger town called Butwal.
“I want to start a Book Bank in every town and village of Nepal,” he says with excitement growing in his eyes and voice right at the moment when a truck stops to pick us up.
We go through the green hills of West Nepal crowned by clouds and mighty jungles. I am drawn into the mesmerizing beauty of Nepalese countryside and Krishna probably back into his never-ending thoughts about Book Bank Nepal.
When we stop for lunch at a restaurant in Butwal, Krishna continues telling me more about his dream for Book Bank Nepal. The restaurant is in a typical hotel where Nepalese truck drivers stay. Under a painfully slow moving fan, our hands dip into our traditional Nepalese dish dal-bhat mixing rice with dal and bitter gourd, jackfruit and okra. Krishna is determined not to waste any single grain of rice.
“I won’t let go my dreams very easily either,” he chuckles, still not quite sure if I enjoy my lunch as much as he does.
After lunch, as we wait for a land rover to take us to the tiny village, Krishna's 20-year-old son Ganwali joins us. He is studying health in Butwal and wants to do his higher studies in a foreign country.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have enough money,” he says sadly reminding me of many other students and teachers I have met in Nepal who are all in the same position. I am saddened again to remember that there are some brilliant people in Nepal as like in many other places including my own. But the difference between Nepal and some of the other places is that the Nepalese might never get a chance to step out of their country - not even once.
“I am 52, have never been abroad and probably would never be able to,” Krishna confirms my thoughts.
The trip to the tiny village lasts for about five hours in a very old English Land Rover. Three of us are tinned in with thirteen other people. The only part of my body I can move is my hands, and that is when I have to use them to peel a banana Ganwali buys for us when the Land Rover stops for a restroom break.
The winding road we follow takes us higher into greener hills held in place by breath-taking color of the red soil. When we arrive in the main town of the Gulmi province where our village is, my legs are paralyzed. They, however, become alive once we start walking for about an hour to Ranibas, the village where Krishna lives and the home of Book Bank Nepal. As Krishna and Gwanali confidently walk through puddles of water and carrot-colored mud, I have to constantly watch not to get stuck or lose my black slippers in the mud.
The house which becomes my home for the duration of my stay in the village overlooks green terraced hills almost forming the zigzagged back of a giant dragon.
As Krishna’s son Gwanali drops my heavy bag pack on the ground, the owner of the house, Krishna's 68-year-old uncle Laxmi, walks out to greet us.
“Namaste,” he softly says as he holds together his palms and places them over his heart.
My host family’s house is brown mud from the red soil dramatically painting the area where the village is located. Inside including the floor all is mud. Outside, the upper part of the house is painted blue and below is brown mud. When you sit in front of the house on a straw mat on the ground, green hills, many rose bushes, trees of banana and papaya momentarily transfer you into a paradise.
Krishna tells me that my host Laxmi, like several other Nepalese who usually have to seek their livelihood abroad, worked for the army in India for twenty years. His wife Bhagawati, of Brahmin caste like her husband, is sixteen years younger and looks very Aryan with her long thin nose with a bridge and slanted green eyes.
“It is quite normal for younger women to get married to older men in Nepal,” Krishna responds to the quizzical look on my face.
The couple’s 20-year-old tall and hot chocolate-skinned son Shurish is a carbon copy of his mother and as handsome as his father. Tall and athletic, right before the darkness of each day starts falling on us, Shurish climbs one of the trees facing the house to cut branches with a machete for our dinner fire.
The whole family is very welcoming, treats me as I was a family member for the rest of my stay and hosts me in Shurish’s room facing the green hills of the village and also sheltering a tiny mouse sometimes keeping me awake in the middle of silent nights in the village.
“They are honored to have you as a guest,” explains Krishna as I am slowly surrounded by beautiful children who live close by and follow and giggle at my every move.
“The whole village knows you are here,” says Krishna worried that I might not like this. Becoming the center of entertainment in the village, however, amuses me.
“ 'Milk' = 'dut', 'banana' = 'kira',” the children teach me proudly as I walk with them to watch Bhagawati, the mother of the house, milking a water buffalo in the shed behind the house.
“Dut – for dinner,” explains Shurish to satisfy my curiosity wanting to know how buffalo milk usually tastes. Bhagawati’s skinny and muscular fingers gently and skillfully kneed the animals’ breasts worth more than gold for the family. Two minutes of endeavor equals to a bucket of cotton white milk.
After the milk show, the village children continue giving me a tour of the house and its surroundings. They all take pride in being a tour guide to a foreigner. We climb one of the hills behind the house to see their 'mantini' - a Hindu temple where one the gods - Shiva- resides. The children excitedly point to the statue of Shiva and one of them rings the bell inside, showing respect to Shiva, the god of destruction.
Our tour also takes us to the house of Krishna’s younger uncle. The younger uncle is a primary school teacher and also plans to take part in my teacher training sessions to be held in this tiny village.
“Come, come,” he invites me inside his house, suddenly pushing into my right hand the textbook he uses with his students. He avoids eye contact with me, being shyer than other Nepalese men I meet who usually look at others with genuine curiosity and respect.
“I do not know, I not know,’ he says pointing to one of the exercises in the book, wanting me to clarify a language point for him.
As I end my long explanation of why present perfect is usually used in English, it is cut short by Krishna’s cry outside asking us to come back home for dinner.
“The best dal-bhat I have had so far is here,” I tell Krishna who with happiness of a child translates to my host family while we all sit on the straw mat of the kitchen floor.
Before enjoying the delicious traditional dal-bhat eaten daily almost everywhere I have been in remote parts of Nepal, I watch Bhagawati, crouched on the floor of the kitchen, first turning corn in a stone grinder into cream-white flour and then using it to make roti – the Nepalese flat bread. In choking smoke, with teary eyes, she later grills the roti on fire built by pieces of wood gathered earlier the same day by Shurish. Served on spotless clean steel plates, three pieces of roti, are savored on the kitchen floor, with our hands and some very delicious fried onions and potatoes. The buffalo milk I watch earlier Bhagawati milk washes our food down, and tiny sweet bananas from a tree outside sweeten our after dinner palates.
“I could stay here forever,” I tell the family, very content with the meal directly presented to us from the bosom of the family’s garden.
“Asthai,” says Krishna, emphasizing the temporariness of all in life and encouraging me to enjoy my stay with my host family as much as I can.
It is almost impossible to communicate with my family but their smiles guide me throughout my stay. Very peaceful, welcoming and giving even under grim poverty, all they want from me is my smile in return. As we all sit on the straw after our meal, I feel that this tiny village and its people are my preferences over several other cities like Kathmandu in Nepal.
At the end of my first peaceful night under an infinite number of stars, I wake up to welcome a fresh morning.
“Ok, ok?” says Laxmi, the father of our house, with a broad smile as I walk out of my room. Like his wife Bhagawati, he is constantly worried that I might be uncomfortable staying in their humble house.
After a breakfast of roti dipped into fresh buffalo milk I enjoy under Bhagawati’s motherly eyes, I sit in the beautiful garden sometimes reading, sometimes studying Nepalese with the kids of the neighborhood and sometimes watching the uncle joking with the kids. He carries an enlightened Buddha-like face and always seems content with his life.
Whenever he takes breaks from fiddling with the kids, “Ramhru cha? Ramhru cha? Good? Good?” he asks me several times, elongating each of his fatherly questions, to make sure I am happy.
At ten of the same morning, I walk to the primary school to visit the office of Book Bank Nepal. The dirt path I follow, winding through spectacular scenery of sweet green terraced fields and cotton white clouds, also transports kids going to school at the same time. All of a sudden, as I enjoy my walk breathing the surrounding beauty, I feel, right behind me, the very close presence of more than thirty students in their white and navy colored uniforms. They push each other to catch a glimpse of me. When they catch my looks, they all shyly smile and the moment becomes theirs forever. Some divert their looks and start whispering something in Nepalese into each other’s ears.
When I walk with my tail of thirty students into the schoolyard where the Book Bank is located, I am surrounded and curiously watched by more students, this time hundreds of them. I see heads coming out of school windows and doors, staring at me, smiling. They follow my every move. They look at everything I have on me; they scrutinize my bag, rings, bracelets, necklaces, my glasses, and my green eyes.
Krishna, with great enthusiasm, greets me with several textbooks in his arms and takes me to the office of Book Bank Nepal. In a tiny room, there is only a cabinet with several books inside and a new computer donated by the Australian embassy. One of the walls carries pictures of the person from the embassy who took the initiative to help Krishna set up the Bank.
Krishna closely watches my reaction in the office and wants to see his pride for the Bank in my eyes, too.
“Sezgi…Sezgi - I want to start a library for English teachers, too,” he starts, again with bubbly enthusiasm.
“To help them improve their English,” he continues.
“We should then find donors to send books,” I say responding to his enthusiasm to help others.
As Krishna goes to find some students to whom Book Bank Nepal has lent textbooks, I sit in front of the office on a balcony facing the courtyard of the school. Realizing that I am now outside the room, the students approach the balcony and look at me from below. All I see are the navy and white colors of uniforms and tiny faces with eyes bursting with curiosity. When I take the photo of navy and white curiosity moving below me like a wave in a deep ocean, I hear “Uuuuuuhhhhh…” rising from students exhilarated with happiness of becoming a part of my photo collection.
My photo session starts being interrupted by students shyly approaching me in small groups that borrowed textbooks from Book Bank Nepal.
“We have books. No money for books, happy,” some say timidly. The others only watch with a shy smile. When I ask them questions about their school and village, they giggle looking at a confident student to translate for them. Even the translator struggles with deciphering my English. The only English they hear is of their Nepalese English teacher’s and that too in isolated words.
Our chat ends when Krishna comes back to take me for lunch to the only diner of the village at 10:30 am. Lunch in Nepal is usually at 10 am and breakfast at 3 pm. The meal at 3 pm is light. The 10:00 am meal is called lunch because the Nepalese usually start their day as early as 5 am, and therefore, need lunch earlier than usual.
I listen to Krishna’s dedication to Book Bank Nepal and the underprivileged children while eating some fresh mangoes and smoking cigarettes in the back room of the diner. It all overwhelms me once again. As tears well up my eyes, he tells me how he has found his purpose in life and nothing can stop him from now on.
“People in my village do not like me very much,” he tells me, staring at the hills through the small window of the diner.
“They question people 'doing' something for others with nothing in return,” continues Krishna.
“Those dedicated to making a difference are suspected of their good deeds?” I question him, watching him slowly nodding his head.
After a lunch which injects me with Krishna’s enthusiasm and fills Krishna with the happiness of sharing his feelings with a stranger, we walk for about twenty minutes to another school in the same area. We climb up and down through some hills, living side by side with spectacular natural beauty. Even though stronger than me, Krishna starts calling me 'iron lady' surprised that I do not easily tire.
“Your strength must be coming from your dedication to help me with Book Bank Nepal and support the primary school teachers in their professional development,” he tries bringing in his own explanation.
“I am a real village man, always fully using what God has given me - my body and the natural food from the fields,” Krishna says with a smile.
“You are from a European country but not very different from me,” he continues in a happy tone.
“Am I?” I ask, questioning if I am as strong as Krishna and if my dedication to helping others as solid.
I am in a tiny village called Ranibas in Gulmi district of West Nepal with 52-year old English teacher and farmer Krishna who is dedicated to making some changes in remote Nepal. Five years ago, with the help of the Australian embassy, Krishna started a non-governmental organization called Book Bank Nepal. Lots of families cannot send their children to school because they cannot afford to buy textbooks. Krishna collects money from different donors and uses it to buy textbooks from bookstores. He then, through Book Bank Nepal, lends these books to children who cannot buy them.
In addition to my plan of giving a two-day training session to primary school teachers, one of the other reasons why I am in Ranibas with Krishna is to donate 1,000 US dollars I collected last year at the university I work for in my country Northern Cyprus to help the Book Bank.
At one of the schools we visit in Ranibas, I lend students their textbooks for Book Bank Nepal. The money for these particular textbooks comes from my monetary donation. Before giving them the books, I talk to the students.
“Do you like reading?”
“Yes,” they all usually say if they are not shy to respond or if they understand my question.
"Reading is good,” I say, after handing out their books. Some ask me to sign my name in the book.
“Happy reading! Good luck!” I usually sign their books as others nervously wait for their turn.
At the end of the textbook distribution in the tiny teachers’ room, I chat with the teachers themselves. Even though it is very difficult to hear them under an aluminum roof not soundproof to the heavy drops of the rain pouring outside, we chat about differences between my country and Nepal.
Even though a puddle is formed around my chair from the leaking roof and my sneakers get wet, I try to answer their questions with equal enthusiasm.
“You are a non-native speaker of English but still a teacher trainer,” they say not able to contain their surprise.
“You should be an inspiration to all of us,” one adds, all of a sudden becoming more confident that non-native speakers of English like themselves could become a teacher trainer and travel to other countries to professionally support other non-native English teachers.
When the rain slows down, with an umbrella a teacher lends me, I leave the teachers and Krishna to go back to my host family’s house where I stay during my whole stay in the tiny Nepalese village. It takes me two hours to find my way back home up and down the hills, through the fog draping me and my surroundings and making me feel like I am trapped in a giant marshmallow. I manage, however, with no incidents to reunite with my family and a huge plate of dal-bhat and some pickled mango.
As I happily devour my dinner and think about the happy smiles of the children to whom I lent textbooks for Book Bank, I realize I have not taken a shower for days and the color of my clothes have faded. I also feel that some lice now live with me in my hair, and I don’t know what my face looks like anymore either. But “what does it matter?’ I ask myself. I won't remember the color of my clothes or the dirt in my hair in the next years or so but the amazing experience I had so far in Nepal especially in this village carved in my mind for the rest of my life.
Mostly in the afternoons or nights, other family members come to visit my host family. At nights, they sit on a mat on the ground outside in the smell of Pakistani nights - a flower that blooms and smells at night but dies during the day.
The younger Nepalese, when greeting the elders, always touch their foreheads to the feet of the older ones. The married women wear crimson red saris and necklaces of shiny beads. They all seem happy as they drink sweet milk tea - dut chai - and seem not to have worries but instead choose to live in the moment. As I watch or listen to them speaking in Nepalese in front of the mud house facing the green hills, I feel I am transported into a National Geographic documentary. Everything and everyone looks romantic.
At the end of each day, before we are swallowed up by darkness, Krishna visits and takes me for long walks. We follow man-made dirt paths and catch glimpses of several neighboring villages up in the hills, down in the valleys, and on high terraces of rice fields. The soil is red and all else is infinite green. Patches of white clouds in the sky sometimes break the beautifully orchestrated monotony.
Whenever we are back home, Krishna shares some beer and cigarettes with me in my room, and we eat rice puffs with curried beans spread out on the straw mat on the floor. During our walks and snack times, I am fortunate to encounter Krishna’s wisdom, character and determination. He sometimes makes me laugh.
“You have inspired me to do more for Book Bank Nepal and never give up,” he says to me, shocking me that I am the one inspiring him.
“But Krishna, you are the real inspiration,” I say with a tone of surprise.
“You have reminded me that people like you still exist,” I continue.
“You remind me of my late father,” I share with him, watching the growing happiness in his eyes being compared to someone special in my life.
“‘If we don’t serve the people, who is going to do it? If we do not believe in making a difference, who is going to do it?’ my dad used to tell me when I was a child,” I continue.
“I love where I was born and I am going to die here,” Krishna nods, hoping to answer my father’s rhetorical questions.
“I want to leave my village only because I want to learn more in other places and bring back what I gain.”
Later the same night, my roti and fried okra with potatoes taste more delicious with the strength of Krishna’s 52-year-old heart. He is a learner for life. He is an optimist and nothing and no one can discourage him. But more importantly, he holds a mirror to my own self. My vision of myself is clearer than ever. I want to be Krishna. I want to live life with a purpose.
“Krishna - I thank destiny that has brought me to your village,” I tell him during dinner.
“I felt that something has been waiting for me in this part of the world, and I found it,” I explain further.
“And we found you – the mother of Book Bank Nepal,” he responds, his infinite number of wrinkles seeming to disappear forever in that one moment.
The second day of training is a long and challenging one with the primary teachers. This is one of the groups with the lowest language skills I encounter in Nepal where I spend twenty days teacher training in several different remote areas of Nepal organized by NELTA – the Nepalese English Language Teachers Association. I use very simple English and some of the teachers themselves cannot speak English. The weakest ones are especially from the lower castes. The teachers at the training sessions I encounter are usually from upper castes but Krishna tries his best to encourage lower caste teachers in his own and surrounding villages to attend sessions.
When they are in groups working on an activity, I watch the mud classroom floors and benches and desks in dust. Not much light enters the room from glassless grilled windows, and the lonely electric bulb dangling from ceiling sheds dim light on the inhabitants of the room when there is electricity. It is very difficult to write on the board. I feel that I am trying to do the impossible, carving with a chalk into the very hard bark of a tree trunk. I confirm to myself that this place is where I am definitely needed the most.
Krishna celebrates the end of the second day of training by taking me to his family home. We reach the house at the bottom of a deep lush green valley in two hours. His mud house built with his hands is in the middle of rice fields surrounded by trees of mango, papaya, lychee, guava and roses. There is a river by the house, and Krishna himself built a pool and he has carp in it. When the family chooses, they eat fish instead of dal-bhat. A progressive and eccentric man in a tiny village in remote Nepal, Krishna uses solar energy for electricity and produces gas from buffalo dung.
“My foreign friend who used to teach in our village said that I think outside of the box,” Krishna says as he sees the surprise in my eyes when he hands me some wine he himself made from rice, corn and sugar.
While watching sunset with wine, Krishna tells me more about his ideas to develop the Book Bank. His thoughts always seem to dwell on it.
“I do not want my family to spend money for my funeral one day but use it instead to help students buy textbooks,” he says, reconfirming the big place Book Bank Nepal has made in his heart.
Nothing can stop Krishna from talking about Book Bank Nepal. Even though our return to my host family's house from Krishna’s takes about two hours and it is a climb back up from the deep valley, Krishna is never tired. As a lifelong leaner, Krishna asks me a lot of questions: Why are there lightings? Is there life on other planets? Do teachers in your country volunteer to help the others?
It is also quite hot in Nepal in May and we sweat a lot climbing, but the fact that we can almost touch the stars cools us down.
There are millions of stars in this remote part of Nepal where there are not many distractions of ‘civilization’. Some are lights of mud houses decorating the dark hills like Christmas trees.
The stars and light posts of our path are several fireflies. Krishna tells me how electricity came to this part of his region four years ago. And there were apparently lots of Maoists in this area until about a year ago. The aim of Maoists was to replace the country’s constitutional monarchy with a people’s republic, transferring the power of ruling classes to the masses.
As we walk with our tiny flashlight, we feel someone walking behind us.
“Can it be a Maoist?” I joke with Krishna.
“If it were some time ago, you could have been kidnapped as a foreigner,” Krishna jokes back.
At around 9 pm, we finally arrive to find my Nepalese family waiting for me. They offer me rice and fried cabbage with potatoes and cucumber salad. We soak our rice in buffalo milk and add bananas to it. Even though I protest and say ‘Ogayo’ - “I am full,” Bhargawati, the mother of my family, keeps adding heaps of rice in my plate.
“She always eats little,” she complains to Krishna.
I tell Bhargawati that I am going to miss them.
“You should then stay with us,” she responds.
My time with Bhargawati especially in the kitchen is precious.
The morning of the same day, I watch her first make butter in the churn and then rotis. She uses fresh mint from the garden and grinds with tomatoes, salt and spicy green peppers to make chutney.
Bhargawati works very hard like all women in Nepal.
“You work very hard all day,” I say to her.
“We have to eat,” she responds with a peaceful smile. I feel embarrassed by my naïve question. Bhargawati has to make the family meal each day from scratch. There is no refrigerator to keep extra food, and therefore, she has to cook everyday in small amounts.
My limited conversation with Bhargawati takes me back to another morning on the way to school when I walk with Sabita, a lady teacher, who tells me that her husband lives in Kathmandu and has been there for six years. She has to stay behind to take care of her father-in-law.
“This is our culture,” she says.
“It is very difficult for women,” she adds. Other female teachers feeling comfortable with me as a female foreigner approve of what Sabita says. Most of their husbands are away in countries like UAE, Malaysia and India.
“There is nothing we can do,” they all say. “We need money and someone to work abroad to support us.”
“This is our country. We have difficult lives,” the ladies add.
The last day of training, having established rapport with teachers, everything goes on very smoothly. At the end of the session, the teachers ask me for autograph making me feel like a famous film star.
“We have never been trained like this before, Madam, and we never met someone like you with a very different teaching style,” says one of the teachers called Arun very respectfully, who fully participates and tries his best to learn from the sessions.
During one of our breaks, Krishna takes me to a tailor who takes my measurements for a green sari. All the vendors come out of their tiny shops to look at us. They are happy that the foreigner in their village is going to be dressed like a Nepalese woman.
In the closing ceremony at the end of the same day, the lady teachers help me wear my green sari. They tightly wrap me in the sari and decorate me with a green necklace around my neck and two red stone earrings in my ears.
“You are now a Nepalese,” they say after blessing me with a red tika on my forehead and after Krishna and his son add one more necklace around my neck and several red bangles on my arms as gifts from Krishna's wife.
On the motorbike traveling to my next destination Waling, a small town in Syangja province of Nepal, I think about Krishna’s dedication and the village teachers who have no exposure to English and who need the most support. I remember how they all take pictures with me and then all forty of them walk me to the gate of the school.
“Do not forget us,” they say.
“Come back, please,” they plead.
Saying ‘bye’ to my host family is as emotional. I give the children a few of the things I own like my hair pins, scarf and hat, and I hand my thick yellow coat to Krishna so that he keeps warm in winters when climbing up and down the valley between home and Book Bank Nepal. I promise my father Laxmi and my brother Shurish that the next time I am going to stay with them longer. My mother Bhargawati gently braids my hair with her red Nepalese ribbon worn by Nepalese women themselves and then hands me two beautiful red roses from her garden.
Before I get on the bike to cut through some magnificent green mountains fed by long rivers to go to another town in Nepal for another training session, I struggle for words to give Krishna.
“Working in this tiny village has been the most rewarding for me. I will miss you and the wonderful teachers and my Nepalese family,” I want to say but feel they are banal.
Instead I look at him as he looks back. He knows we have no words for each other. I am going to return one day to stay longer and will continue to support Book Bank Nepal, and he is going to wait with the rest of the village for me to come back.
Instead, he looks at me one last time with eyes burning with enthusiasm and dedication to the children of Nepal, turns around and walks away, slowly but steadily.
Please check the From Teaching to Training course at Pilgrims website.
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