still

The heat bears down on my body like a thick, heavy blanket, and I can feel beads of sweat trickling down my calf from the back of my knee. I sense the rain gathering above, ready to burst from darkening clouds. Everything is in a state of constant dampness; my clothes, my skin, the bed linen— but somehow one adjusts, and gets used to it. Coming back to Boudha feels like coming home after a long trip— I'm surprised by the number of times I've received a "Hey! I remember you from long time!" and a "So nice to see you again." I've missed this place. I've missed the eyes of the Stupa, I've missed the smell of burning juniper, I've missed the flicker of butter lamps, and most of all, I've missed the smiles on the faces of strangers and friends. Though the Saturday Café has been relocated, an obnoxious, blinking red electric sign announcing the temperature has been erected by the Stupa, and several buildings have risen where once lay muck and wild Cannabis, little has changed. The mornings are still as magical as the first morning I awoke to, two summers ago. Amala still giggles while serving her homemade momos, the crows and pigeons still battle for the mound of the Stupa, and the tide of people circumabulating the great monument remains as strong as ever.