wanted them.
Farid and I did not look at each other. We could hear the children downstairs, getting ready for school.
“What do you think?” I asked Farid, breaking the silence.
“I do not know,” Farid said. He looked at Hari. “What is your opinion, Hari? Is there something we should do? You think it is true? They know where we are?”
Hari hesitated, clearing his throat a couple of times before speaking. “Farid Brother, I think you and Conor Brother maybe think about leaving Nepal. It is not very safe here. If Maoists come, you can do nothing anyway—they have guns, they take the children. Maybe better you are with your own families. We can take care of children here, me, Bagwati, Nanu—we have done it before, it is okay, no problem for us,” he said. He did not make eye contact with us.
“No, Hari. Thank you, I understand why you’re saying that, but we will stay here as long as we can,” I said, looking to Farid, who was nodding his head. “But what do you think, Hari—your own opinion. There is no right or wrong. Do you think they would come for the children?”
Hari waited a long time before answering. He usually tried to give the answers he thought we wanted to hear. I saw him wrestling with this instinct now. “Conor Brother, I tell you my opinion. It is only my opinion, I do not know,” he said slowly. “In my opinion, we are safe here. Maoists will never take risk here in Kathmandu Valley—too much risk for them, too much easy opportunity outside Kathmandu.”
Farid turned to me. “I believe this also, Conor. I think the children are safe here.”
I trusted their instincts. “Okay, then,” I said, getting up. “Let’s get the kids ready for school—they’re running a bit late, no?”
W ith the increasing frequency of the bandhas, the children often stayed home from school. Farid and I rarely left the orphanage. That meant a lot of time on the roof. Godawari was at a slightly higher altitude than the capital, but even in February it was still warm during the day, provided you stayed in direct sunlight. The winter in Kathmandu, lasting from December to February, brought temperatures ranging from forty to fifty degrees Fahrenheit during the day. After that it got progressively warmer until August, when temperatures reached into the seventies before gradually cooling. With virtually no artificial heating or air-conditioning indoors, one was sensitive to even slight changes in temperature.
The flat roofs that topped every home in Nepal served an important purpose for precisely that reason. Families spent more time on their roofs than inside their homes, at least during the day. Clothes were laid flat to dry on roofs; wheat was stacked and stored there. Little Princes was no different, except that a low wall ran the perimeter of the roof terrace to prevent falls. With the exception of the rainy season, which blasted Nepal from early June to late September, the children practically lived on the roof.
The broad roof of the orphanage provided us with an ideal lookout post. We could keep an eye on the children with us, see down into the garden, and even over to the nearby field where the children played soccer, dodging and weaving between grazing cows. We leaned against the railing and drank milk tea and spoke, mostly, about Nepal, undistracted by Nuraj and Raju using us as a kind of jungle gym. When we weren’t talking about Nepal, we were talking about food. Farid missed French food like a prisoner misses sunlight, though he had never in his life been anything but skinny. He could hold forth on the different types of saucisson, dried sausage, for literally an entire hour—the best regions for it, the best ingredients, the kind of bread that should accompany it ( un boule ) and the one meal he would have if he could have anything at that precise moment ( saucission, boule, and as many French fries as would fit in the room).
Farid spoke little about himself and his life in France before
Farid and I did not look at each other. We could hear the children downstairs, getting ready for school.
“What do you think?” I asked Farid, breaking the silence.
“I do not know,” Farid said. He looked at Hari. “What is your opinion, Hari? Is there something we should do? You think it is true? They know where we are?”
Hari hesitated, clearing his throat a couple of times before speaking. “Farid Brother, I think you and Conor Brother maybe think about leaving Nepal. It is not very safe here. If Maoists come, you can do nothing anyway—they have guns, they take the children. Maybe better you are with your own families. We can take care of children here, me, Bagwati, Nanu—we have done it before, it is okay, no problem for us,” he said. He did not make eye contact with us.
“No, Hari. Thank you, I understand why you’re saying that, but we will stay here as long as we can,” I said, looking to Farid, who was nodding his head. “But what do you think, Hari—your own opinion. There is no right or wrong. Do you think they would come for the children?”
Hari waited a long time before answering. He usually tried to give the answers he thought we wanted to hear. I saw him wrestling with this instinct now. “Conor Brother, I tell you my opinion. It is only my opinion, I do not know,” he said slowly. “In my opinion, we are safe here. Maoists will never take risk here in Kathmandu Valley—too much risk for them, too much easy opportunity outside Kathmandu.”
Farid turned to me. “I believe this also, Conor. I think the children are safe here.”
I trusted their instincts. “Okay, then,” I said, getting up. “Let’s get the kids ready for school—they’re running a bit late, no?”
W ith the increasing frequency of the bandhas, the children often stayed home from school. Farid and I rarely left the orphanage. That meant a lot of time on the roof. Godawari was at a slightly higher altitude than the capital, but even in February it was still warm during the day, provided you stayed in direct sunlight. The winter in Kathmandu, lasting from December to February, brought temperatures ranging from forty to fifty degrees Fahrenheit during the day. After that it got progressively warmer until August, when temperatures reached into the seventies before gradually cooling. With virtually no artificial heating or air-conditioning indoors, one was sensitive to even slight changes in temperature.
The flat roofs that topped every home in Nepal served an important purpose for precisely that reason. Families spent more time on their roofs than inside their homes, at least during the day. Clothes were laid flat to dry on roofs; wheat was stacked and stored there. Little Princes was no different, except that a low wall ran the perimeter of the roof terrace to prevent falls. With the exception of the rainy season, which blasted Nepal from early June to late September, the children practically lived on the roof.
The broad roof of the orphanage provided us with an ideal lookout post. We could keep an eye on the children with us, see down into the garden, and even over to the nearby field where the children played soccer, dodging and weaving between grazing cows. We leaned against the railing and drank milk tea and spoke, mostly, about Nepal, undistracted by Nuraj and Raju using us as a kind of jungle gym. When we weren’t talking about Nepal, we were talking about food. Farid missed French food like a prisoner misses sunlight, though he had never in his life been anything but skinny. He could hold forth on the different types of saucisson, dried sausage, for literally an entire hour—the best regions for it, the best ingredients, the kind of bread that should accompany it ( un boule ) and the one meal he would have if he could have anything at that precise moment ( saucission, boule, and as many French fries as would fit in the room).
Farid spoke little about himself and his life in France before
Similar Books
