enjoyed every bit of it…wonderfully written.
JEMIMA DIKI SHERPA
There are things that happen when you are an upper-middle class girl from Kathmandu.
There is the autumn sun, which takes the chill off the morning and raises a haze of moisture from the prickly grass. There are carpets and blankets and mattresses spread out to air and dry. You lie down on one, your back warming gently, your stomach pressed against musty foam and cotton. It is Dasain, the sky blue dotted with warring kites, and he emerges from the house you are visiting. He is older, but in your eleven-year-old eyes you do not know how much; maybe five years, maybe eight, maybe more. He too lies belly-down, plucking at the spikes of grass, the outside of his elbow bumping yours. He sits up abruptly, his thigh pushing into your side. He takes off his thin jacket and shifts so that his head is resting…
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