it is just a three hour walk from Ranke Bhanjyang to Melbothe. just three and a half hours. maximum four hours of walking if we are brisk. and we walked and we walked and we walked. the tea plantations on either side of the dirt road; the evenly tall plants that seemed as flat as cardboard and that in their greenery mad eyou wish you were floating through the enormous floatation of the dark and the light under the limelight of a early morning sun. but then you told me they were not tree plants at all. tea does not grow in such cold a slimate. yes it was freezing. where do i have the energy to venture out into this artic wilderness through the cold and shivering plants that are static and sedentary and finally boring and bland in their conformity. i need the blue the red and the yellow and the voilet and the pink. but the road curved just a bit and the mountains zommed in and out behind curved and the figures of eagles and the piegons fluttered through the mountains until i could walk no more. "the sun is in my eyes." it is just three hours more, keep on walking and when we reach melbothe i will start a fire with the twigs that will crackle and burn and in the glow of the small fire and the altar of warmth i will cook lentil soup. you like lentil soup? sure you do. walk and we will reach there before the evening and walk and through the ridges of the mountains we will carve our way in to the trees; the pines and the firs and we will walk through the bamboes that line the side of this dusty road. and walk. the fire... see the fire in the fireplace- it is warm and it burn. it crackles as the twigs twitch and turn and turn to glowing embers of heat and love. i love you and i loved your parents because they were my fellow countrymen. but look at my shadow...it is getting longer... the evening is falling, the birds in perfect streamline arrowhead flying home to illam and to falemetar, we are going home too... do not tire my child. do not tire. i am your mother. the sun is no longer in your eyes is it? now walk and here hold my hand, we will walk together...the afternoon is the best time of the day don't you think? the color of the afternoon shines even these bland plants to majesty! and those mountains... see those... those glint on the other side of the hill... those are tin roofs of the houses in melbhote... they glisten in the sun so...they charm my heart. and we stopped there by the bhangyang and she took a water bottle out and took a easy, graceful swig. it looked as if she was already in the warm kitchen of our house, our family house where our ancestors had been born and where they had died. what is it with people coming to their homes to die? i had a flash when i reached home, i too will die. the water tasted cold, so cold it sent a shiver down my spine. just three more hours and we are home. walk walk , we are so near just there there see those tins roofs are our houses and walk walk walk we are there just four hours max. and we will drink some hot tea with lots of milk, warm warm warm tea lots of pure cow's milk and thick milky tea...see your shadows it is so long and the sun is setting walk walk just three hours more... we are doing good time. and the birds are going home too. down by the river i looked up at either side and the mountains rose higher than i could see. this was lonely. the river made so much noise. i will smoke and dream here. i can dream in this silence, this barren water noise is strangely silent. i can dream and smoke here but we just have three hours to walk and we are home. it is already dark but we will use this torch light and i will tell you a story. uncle thakur was a strong man. he built the dam and irrigated his corn all by himself and night and day night and day and night and day he worked on his fields. he was a strong man. he had arms that big, he did not need to lift weights, he worked the land. but then one day right here by the river he lost his strength and he fell to his knees and he cried. he has been a wuss since. he cannot do a thing by himself. when he dies i will not cry because that will be deliverance. but that is the end of the story, now the trees look like ghosts, they are dark and tall and they make the chilling noise on the wind...they are ghosts of all the river spirits... the river carries the dead they carry the spirit the spirit of ancestors who do not find home. the tress see they are ghosts scared of themselves scared of the spirits that roam the river. you are going to be a spirit if you do not reach home to die. --- mG.