the rain

It is as though time moves with a different pulse in Nepal. Though I have been gone for a year, if I close my eyes and breath in the burnt air, it could be last summer. The metalsmiths have hammered away millions of tinny taps since then, and younger crows are fed by the lady in the bluish house, but to me, as I sit here, they feel the same. The water’s metallic smell is a strange comfort. The threadbare prayer flags, which flutter like delicate butterfies in blue, white, red, yellow and green fill me with a familiar wonder and warmth.

Earlier, I walked around the stupa in the rain, my red flowered umbrella clashing with the old brick buildings in a most pleasing way. I took shelter in a dark passage next to a souvenir shop, and stared into the unblinking eyes of Buddha, painted on the Stupa’s golden tower. I felt something tidal within me, a pulling in my heart and gut. There are a few strands of white in my much longer hair now, more ink in my skin, and I feel... I feel...



I feel like a stranger and I feel I have come home. I feel unchanged and I feel profoundly changed.
I feel I am raining too.