Fiction: Did Kanchhi escape to the city from her village in Nepal, or did the civil war claim her?

Kanchhi was sixteen when she disappeared. Sixteen. The age apsaras are when gods send them to lure sanyasis out of their deep, meditative state. Sanyasis who are supposed to be old and wise and beyond the pettiness of love, lust and seduction. A knock on the window. A romp in the hay. A dance in the millet fields.

A sanyasi.

A future a Nepali teacher once read on her fingers. That or a king, he had said. Both were extremes. One gives up everything that is power and pleasure, the other hoards them in abundance. Both of whom Kanchhi had weighed the possibilities of becoming. Neither, she wanted to become – especially not a sanyasi. A sanyasi was forged out of tragedies. Tragedies that Maiju, her mother, had hoped an old, rusty razor blade would forestall. A chipped and blunt, handleless barber’s blade that once belonged to Kanchhi’s grandfather. Maiju had left it out all night outside Kanchhi’s room, out by the pillar supporting the porch roof. Its job was to stand guard and ward off evil. When Kanchhi left, she had taken it with her, along with a clear instruction from Maiju to leave it in the bag until she reached Pokhara. It did not work. Kanchhi disappeared.

That was the year 1995. Month: mid-November. A Monday. Two days after incessant rainfall wreaked havoc across Nepal, killing more than sixty people. In Torikhola too, a tiny hamlet in the district of Parbat, it caused a side of a slope and a wall of an abandoned house to cave in. Fields were waterlogged, millet plants flattened and trees uprooted. Maiju’s front yard was littered with broken branches and tiny puddles where swarms of earthworms floated dead.

Otherwise, it was a beautiful, moonlit morning. A little past three. No fog. Just crisp and dark, vast mountains with their own noises. The moon, waning and gibbous, hung low on the horizon. Both Maiju and Kanchhi could see its light, a dim white floating in the space between the yard and the porch roof. Kanchhi from her room, Maiju from inside the kitchen, where a fire burned on the floor in front and within a small brass lamp on a shelf behind her. Some of the firewood was still damp from the rainfall. The logs hissed and dripped water as Maiju pushed them into the fire.

In Kanchhi’s room, Kanchhi sat at the edge of her bed, ready and packed for the journey. In front of her, a lamp fashioned out of an ink bottle burned on the windowsill. The bed was already made – the sheet was straightened, the quilt was folded lengthwise and the two pillows, one without a cover, both dark and dirty, were on top of the quilt like stones on a shrine. When Maiju walked in with five pieces of millet bread wrapped in a rag and a glass of tea, Kanchhi was wrapping herself in a grey woollen chadar.

“Here.” Maiju gave her the bread. Kanchhi lifted the flap of an orange cloth bag sitting next to her and tried to cram it in.

“Gently,” Maiju said. “Did you pack some tangerines too?”

“No.”

“Why not? I told you to pack some.”

“There’s no space left.” Kanchhi showed her the orange bag. It bulged with her clothes. Another bag, a checkered plastic one on the floor, was full of her textbooks.

“That’s not an excuse,” Maiju said. “You have to take something for your aunt. You have to always take something whenever you go see someone, understand? Finish drinking the tea and get some from the attic.” Maiju placed the tea on the windowsill and headed towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Kanchhi asked.

“To the latrine,” Maiju said.

Kanchhi got up and followed her outside.

“You don’t have to go now,” Maiju said. “Drink your tea first.”

“No, I’ll get it done. How many should I bring down?”

“Fifteen–twenty.”

“Fifteen, twenty? That’s too many.”

“Just do as I say,” Maiju said and began to cross the yard. The latrine was two terrace fields below, on her right.

Maiju walked Kanchhi all the way down to the Setikhola river, past a small bazaar on its bank called Bagar and up to a point where a monsoon creek, now flowing because of the recent rainfall, met the river. It took them forty minutes – slightly longer than usual – because it was still dark, and the path was still muddy and slippery in places. Kanchhi showed the way with a flashlight. Maiju followed behind, carrying the checkered bag on her back with a tumpline. Both relied on walking sticks. Both remained quiet. The mountains were still sleeping, except for the crickets and cicadas, the brooks and the creeks and the occasional whimpers and barks of dogs far away. Sometimes, when they passed by houses, they could hear people sleeping, snoring, coughing or just breathing. A few times, they heard them clearing their throats. Both Maiju and Kanchhi whispered when needed, like when a section of a path was particularly slippery or when they had to fill up a canteen or when a door of a police station creaked and Maiju had to shush at Kanchhi to stop. Only after they crossed the bazaar and reached an isolated riverbed of the monsoon creek did they let their guard down.

“Listen, Kanchhi,” Maiju said, resting on a boulder. “Don’t buy street food or water, understand? Eat the bread and the tangerines instead. Don’t talk to any strangers. Don’t dawdle. Call your aunt as soon as you reach Pokhara. Ask her to come pick you up. If she does not, use the directions to her place. Remind her you are Kal’s daughter. Once you reach her house, call the bazaar here and leave a message. If the line is broken, write a letter. Send two copies in case one gets lost. Just say you’re well, and I’ll understand. Now, don’t be a nuisance to your aunt. Help her with the household chores and the kids. Tolerate her for a few months. No matter what she says, don’t raise your voice at her. Don’t do what you did here. Come back for the SLC exams. When are they again?”

“In two months.”

“Good. Once you are done with the exams, you can go back again, this time for jobs. No matter how hard life gets, don’t come back until the exams, understand? Are you scared?”

“No.”

“No need to. Just keep to yourself. And throw the blade away after you get to her house.”

Maiju reached inside a fold in her patuka and took out a note. One thousand rupees.

“Where did you get it?” Kanchhi asked.

“Doesn’t matter. Don’t lose it.”

“Why would I?” Kanchhi took a pouch out of her cholo pocket and tucked the note in.

“What time is it?” Maiju asked.

Kanchhi flipped her wrist to look at her watch. A second-hand HMT watch given to her as a gift. “A little past four,” she said.

“Eh. Eh.” Bayarghari by noon, Pokhara by three, Maiju calculated. “Leave a message by five,” she said. “Someone will get it.”

“Okay,” Kanchhi said and adjusted the tumpline around the checkered bag. “Don’t you need this? I can use my shawl.”

“No, take it. Bring it back with you,” Maiju said.

Kanchhi lifted the checkered bag on her back. Maiju threw the other one on top.

“Don’t forget the stick,” she said.

Kanchhi yawned.

“Don’t fall asleep on the way either,” Maiju said. “You’ve got to look after the bags.”

“All right, all right. I’m leaving now. Don’t let anyone use my room.”

“Who’ll want to use it?”

“I don’t know.” Kanchhi turned around and began walking up the riverbed. In the distance, the path turned left and disappeared up the mountain.

“Walk carefully.” Maiju raised her voice a little.

“Okay,” Kanchhi said and plodded on. Soon, she reached the bend and turned around. The flashlight was the giveaway. It was directed at Maiju and glowed like the tail of a glowworm. Then, it was gone.

That was the last Maiju saw of Kanchhi.

Excerpted with permission from Kanchhi, Weena Pun, Hachette India.