ABSTRACT
I’m up at seven, reluctantly pushing back the heavy quilts that warm me through the night. On the coldest nights, I’m dressed as though I’m winter camping in the Rockies: wool socks, long underwear, flannel pajamas, fleece hat. Upstairs, from the puja room on the roof, I hear the tinkling bells as Mrs Pandit, who, with her husband, owns the house I live in, concludes her morning worship. Boiling the water for tea, I watch the soft morning light fall on the distant shape of Swayambunath, the holy temple on the other side of the city, and beyond that, the glitter of snow and ice on the ridges of the Ganesh Himal. In the courtyard below, the kids at the Christian mission school are washing faces and brushing teeth at the outside tap, hopping to keep themselves warm in the crisp morning air. My Nepali teacher, Sushila, arrives at eight. Over tea and biscuits, we struggle with syntax and idiom. Sushila says I’m doing OK for an old person.
