The Road Back

by Liz Harris

  He felt a sharp stab of guilt, followed by a rush of anger at himself: he’d missed a valuable opportunity to make his family notice him.

  He’d behaved like a baby, running off across the plateau like that. But he wasn’t a baby – he was eight years old – and he should have been playing a full part in the life of the family. He was always saying that he wanted to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brothers for the rest of his life. It wasn’t his brothers’ fault that that was never going to happen, but it had been his fault that it hadn’t happened that day.

  A lump came to his throat and he swallowed hard. He should be happy for Tenzin that he was getting married – and he was happy for him – and he should have been doing everything he could to make it a lovely day for him, but he wasn’t.

  It wasn’t that he hadn’t done anything towards the wedding preparations: he had. He’d helped his mother to roast the barley from the fields, grind it into ngamphe and then mould the flour into the thick brown loaves that everyone would eat for breakfast during the three days of the wedding. After that he’d helped her to make the salty butter tea that they’d drink with the bread, and that they’d drink whenever they weren’t drinking chang.

  But it wasn’t much in the way of help, and he felt ashamed.

  Tearing his eyes away from the frosty peaks that pierced the sky, he pulled his thick, home-spun robe more tightly around him, tugged at the fur ear-flaps that hung from his sheepskin-lined hat and started to make his way back across the stony plateau to his village. When he got back home, he was going to make himself really useful, no matter how miserable he felt.

  Glancing to his left when he was still some distance from his village, he saw that he wasn’t far from the isolated, lime-washed house where the missionary teacher and his family lived. He stopped for a moment and stared at the house. It looked very lonely, standing by itself on the plain. There was no sign of the missionary, who’d moved into the house that summer, nor of his wife and son. Kalden knew that he had a wife and son because he’d seen them in Alchi when he’d gone there with his family soon after the missionaries had come to the area.

  His family had been ambling along the steep, winding streets of Alchi that day. He’d been trailing behind them, sniffing the pungent odour of tea and spices that was drifting on the air, when he’d caught sight of the missionary family coming out of the dark interior of one of the wooden shops that lined the street. He’d immediately noticed them because of how funny they looked, and he’d stopped, open-mouthed, and stared at them.

  They’d started to walk along the veranda in front of a group of shops further up the hill and then they’d paused. The boy stood a little to one side, leaning against one of the wooden posts that supported the roof of the veranda, hugging himself and rubbing his arms with his hands. He looked as if he was cold, Kalden had thought scornfully. He, himself, hardly ever felt the cold, and nor did his family or the other people in his village.

  The missionary man had been wearing a short jacket and long trousers made of the same material as the jacket. He had a white shirt under his jacket. His father had never worn anything like that. His father always wore a long, straight robe and a tall, sheepskin-lined hat or a cap, like all the other men in the towns and villages. But the missionary didn’t have anything on his head, and he had very short, fair hair. He looked very funny.

  And the missionary’s wife looked peculiar, too. She was wearing a dress the colour of the sky on a summer’s day, with a short, brown, knitted jacket over it. She didn’t have anything on her head, either, and there were no beads of turquoise or coral around her neck, no silver pendants, no conch-shell bracelets on her arms. They couldn’t have much wealth, he thought.

  If the mother and father had looked strange, the boy had looked really strange! He hadn’t been able to stop himself from grinning at the sight of a boy with very white skin and fair hair, who was dressed in a woollen hat, a cream-coloured, loose, belted dress that went down to his knees, and knee-high socks of the same colour. He looked just like a Ladakhi boy, except that he looked funny and Ladakhi boys didn’t.

  A broad smile on his face, he had run a few steps to catch up with Tenzin. Pulling on Tenzin’s robe, he’d glanced quickly at the boy again, then turned back to his brother. Laughing, he’d opened his mouth to say something about the way the missionary’s son looked, but Tenzin had stopped him with a glance.

  ‘Be kind in your thoughts, Kalden,’ he’d said gently. ‘We may not want them here, but they’re living amongst us now and it’s right that they want to look like us and do what we do. The boy will soon know how to wear our clothes and will then be comfortable in them.’

  Kalden had let go of Tenzin’s robe, feeling very ashamed of himself. His steps had slowed and he’d let his brother walk ahead and catch up with the rest of the family.

  Turning towards the shop again, his eyes had met the eyes of the boy. The boy had smiled at him, and then swung his body around the veranda post. Kalden had stood in the middle of the narrow street, watching him. The boy had come to a stop, facing him. He looked about the same age as he was. They stared at each other.

  He sensed that the boy wanted to talk to him – he looked lonely, and Kalden knew what it was like to feel lonely. He decided to go over and make friends with him. He took a step forward.

  ‘No, Kalden.’ His mother had put her hand on his shoulder. He’d been startled; he hadn’t known she was there. ‘These strangers have come to teach us to believe what they believe. But we don’t want to be taught their beliefs. We know what is right, and we have our own monks and lamas to perform our ceremonies for us. We don’t want these missionary people in our land. If we stay away from them, they’ll go back to their home.’

  And she’d taken Kalden by the hand and led him up the hill to where his father and brothers were waiting for them.

  The only other time that Kalden had seen the strange boy was one afternoon when he’d been returning home after visiting his brothers on the high mountain pasture. He’d been passing quite close to the stream of melt-snow water that led to the missionary’s house when he’d caught sight of movement by the low drystone wall surrounding the house.

  Curious to see what was going on, he’d gone closer and seen that the boy and his father were trying to make mud bricks. Even from a distance, he could see that they were mixing too much straw with the soil that they were putting into the wooden moulds, and he’d laughed out loud at how silly they were. They’d heard him, and had turned and seen him standing there.

  The missionary man had smiled at Kalden. ‘Ju-le. Come over and help us then,’ he’d called out in halting Ladakhi.

  Kalden’s eyes had returned to the wooden moulds and to the pile of straw on the ground, and he’d laughed scornfully again. The boy had run off and hidden behind the wall, and he’d felt a moment’s disappointment. The missionary had put down his scoop and walked over to where his son was crouching. Kalden had turned around and run all the way back to his village.

  That night, as he’d lain beneath his yak-hair blanket, listening to the steady breathing of his brothers, he’d wondered why he felt so annoyed with himself, and so guilty. He shouldn’t be feeling guilty – it wasn’t up to him to help the missionary family make bricks that would keep the cold out of the house. They weren’t Ladakhi so he didn’t have to help them, and his mother had said that he should keep away from them.

  He’d turned over on to his side and closed his eyes tightly against the guilt that refused to go away.

  After that, every time that he’d crossed the plateau, he’d wondered whether he’d see the boy again, but he never had. And he’d never gone near their house again.

  He turned away from the missionary house and continued his journey back to the village, his steps getting faster and faster. Soon he was in easy reach of the chorten that he had to pass on his way back home. Its pile of white-washed stone and mud, tapering to a peak topped by the crescent moon cradling the sun, told him that he
didn’t have far to go. He glanced up at the sky. Dark was falling. The most important part of the wedding would soon begin, and then they’d have all of the celebrations.

  At the thought of the night ahead of him, misery welled up in him again.

  He clenched his hands and pushed his fists hard into his eyes: he was going to drive back his sadness. He wasn’t going to think about himself at all during Tenzin’s wedding but was going to be a good brother to him. Dropping his arms, he ran past the chorten towards the cluster of white houses that nestled beneath the watchful gaze of the monastery that clung to the steep, rocky slope behind the village.

  As he came close, he saw that the wedding guests were already on the frosty fields outside the wall, laughing and singing as they sat on the carpets that had been placed on either side of twelve huge pots filled with chang. Panting hard, he ran towards Anil and Rinchen, who were moving up and down the lines, filling everyone’s cup with the barley beer taken from the large pots.

  Just before he reached them, he stopped and anxiously scanned the crowd for his mother. She’d be upset that he’d disappeared for so long on such an important day. He wished he’d got back sooner.

  Catching sight of Tenzin’s bride, Deki, he stared at her. She was standing next to her mother, a little way away from the guests, fingering the turquoise-studded perak which was hanging down the back of her head to below her shoulders. One day Deki would have a daughter, he thought wistfully, and she’d pass the perak on to her, just like Deki’s mother had given hers to Deki.

  As he watched, Deki’s mother gently pushed her daughter’s hands away from the perak, then stood aside to let her move over to Tenzin, who was surrounded by guests. She went shyly to him and he stepped towards her, his face breaking out into a wide smile as he gazed down at her.

  Kalden screwed up his hands and again pushed them hard into the sockets of his eyes.

  ‘Here are your kataks, Kalden,’ his mother said, coming up to him. ‘You must throw them around the necks of Tenzin and Deki and wish them luck.’

  He took the white scarves from his mother. ‘Thank you, ama. I’m sorry I didn’t get back earlier to help you.’

  ‘It didn’t matter.’ His mother patted him on the shoulder, her eyes ranging over her guests. ‘The members of the village paspun have done most of the work. They’ve been busy all morning, cooking and serving. And Anil and Rinchen were here to welcome the guests who arrived today, so you weren’t needed. But it’s sad that you weren’t here to race the other children for the coins that Anil threw into the air when Deki arrived at our house.’ She smiled down at him. ‘But you’re here now. Off you go to wish your brother and his wife good luck.’

  Weaving a path between the guests, Kalden ran over to Tenzin and threw one of the scarves around his neck and the other around Deki’s shoulders.

  ‘Good luck, Tenzin. Good luck, Deki,’ he said. But his words were lost in a gale of laughter as, at the same moment, Anil threw a katak around the neck of one of the village girls and drew her to him.

  Rinchen put down his pot of chang and went over to join Anil and the girl, and the three of them began to move in a leisurely circle, swaying gently to the strains of the musicians and the sound of the drums. Gradually, more and more guests joined the circle, their laughter and merriment getting louder and louder.

  Kalden stood for a few minutes and watched the dancing from a distance. It’s not fair, he thought.

  He spun round, ran to the opening in the wall surrounding the village and went quickly through the gap and made his way to his house. As he neared it, the brightly coloured prayer flags that fluttered from the carved upper balcony and roof top seemed to mock him. It’s not fair, he repeated to himself, and he kicked the hard ground as he walked.

  One of the women in the paspun, who was tending the huge cauldrons in front of his door, saw him approach and smiled. The smell of food made him realise that he was hungry, and he went over to her and was given a bowl of rice, goat meat, turnips and potatoes.

  Carefully carrying his bowl, he went into his house, climbed the flight of wooden stairs and walked between the garlanded pillars on either side of the staircase into the large, smoky kitchen. Sitting down on the bench that ran along the far wall, he put his bowl on the low table in front of him and started to eat.

  ‘Why have you come in here, away from our guests, Kalden?’ a voice asked.

  He jumped. Looking up sharply, he saw Anil come into the kitchen. Anil glanced across at him, then went over to the black, clay stove, threw some dried dung into it, blasted the dung alight with the goatskin bellows that hung from the wall, and came and sat next to him.

  ‘I didn’t know you were watching me,’ Kalden said.

  ‘That doesn’t exactly answer my question.’ Anil gave him an encouraging smile. ‘Is there something worrying you, Kalden? You should be outside with everyone else, eating with them, joining in with the dancing, getting under our feet, making us laugh and feel happy that you are with us. Instead you are in here on your own. Why?’

  Kalden ran his finger around the rim of his bowl.

  ‘Tell me what’s wrong. Let me help you. You’re my brother, and I don’t like to see your face so sad.’

  ‘Chi choen – what’s the point? And anyway, there’s nothing wrong. I just wanted to be on my own. The visitors are getting silly. They’re drinking too much chang.’

  ‘A few of them maybe, but that’s no different from every other celebration. They’re enjoying themselves. This is your brother’s wedding. You should be enjoying yourself, too, and helping him to celebrate.’

  Kalden threw a glance at Anil, then quickly looked away.

  ‘Is it that you don’t like Deki?’ Anil asked quietly. ‘Are you sorry that she’s coming to live in our home?’

  ‘No, I do like her. She’s very pretty and she likes laughing.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Are you going to marry Deki one day, too?’

  Anil laughed. ‘I don’t know. It’s not something to think about or talk about on Tenzin’s wedding day. Maybe I will. I, too, like Deki. Would you mind?’

  ‘No, not if it’s what you wanted to do, and Deki did, too. And Tenzin was also happy. Will Rinchen marry her, too?’

  ‘I’m not sure that Deki will want to marry the three of us,’ Anil said with a grin. ‘And Rinchen’s only seventeen so I doubt if he’s thinking about taking a wife yet. There’s time for that in the future.’

  Kalden looked at Anil. ‘What about my future, Anil? I want to stay here, too.’

  Anil put his arm around his shoulders. ‘Is that why you’ve been avoiding the wedding celebrations today, because they remind you of the different life you’ll have?’

  Kalden nodded and looked down at his bowl.

  ‘There’s only land enough for three of us, and it can’t be divided up. That’s not the way we do things. You know that, Kalden. It’s true that without land it isn’t easy to marry, but it isn’t impossible. You might be chosen by a girl who has land and who doesn’t have any brothers.’

  ‘But that’s not very likely, is it? We know many people but we don’t know any daughters who don’t have brothers. My father’s lucky that he didn’t have brothers, only sisters. He knew he’d never have to leave the house. And you, Tenzin and Rinchen won’t, either. But I will.’

  ‘You’ll go to the monastery, like the other younger sons,’ Anil said gently. ‘But you don’t have to go this year, even though a lot of boys do at your age; you can wait until you’re grown up. It’ll be up to you to decide when to go. And when you’ve gone, you’ll come back and stay with us – we will want to see you often, and we’ll rely on you to help us at the times of sowing and harvesting. We’ll also call on you for all of our family services. You’ll always be a very important member of the family.’

  ‘No, I won’t. I’m not now and I never will be.’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘Nobody listens to me now. You, Tenzin and Rinchen are the only important ones in the fam
ily because you’re going to have the land. No one says it, but I know it. I want to be important like you are.’

  ‘But you can’t be, my brother,’ Anil said quietly. ‘You’re the fourth son. You didn’t choose to be the fourth son, but that is what you are. Although the life of a monk may not be what you would have chosen for yourself, you must learn to accept your place in the flow of life. If you can do that, you will find contentment.’

  Breathing deeply, Kalden shrugged off Anil’s arm and leaned forwards. His elbows on the table, he hid his face in the palms of his hands.

  ‘You are much treasured, my brother, and you always will be. But you know that already, don’t you?’

  Kalden gave a slight nod.

  ‘And is that not enough?’

  He didn’t move.

  Chapter Three

  London, May 1955: Patricia, aged almost 11

  Patricia stood on the corner of Belsize Grove and Belsize Park Gardens, clutching her leather satchel.

  ‘I suppose I’d better get off home now, Ruth,’ she told her friend. She kicked at a heap of cherry-blossom that had collected in the gutter and watched it float back to the ground. ‘It’ll soon be time for tea.’

  ‘You’re so funny, Pat. You look all miserable. If I had your news to tell my mum and dad, I’d be home by now. I’d have run all the way back from school to tell them.’

  ‘If I had your mum and dad, so would I, but I haven’t.’

  ‘They’re going to be ever so pleased with you.’

  ‘No, they’re not. They won’t be interested. They’ve probably even forgotten what day it is.’

  ‘Of course they won’t have. I wish I’d got grammar so we could’ve gone to the same school.’

  ‘I wish you had, too. I’m going to hate not being with you next year. But we can still be best friends, can’t we?’

  ‘Of course we can, if you don’t think I’m too thick to be your friend. You’ll probably make friends with the other brain boxes at your new school.’