Found this article in Nepali Times. Sarita’s family: The hopes and struggles of this remarkable household represent Nepal in a microcosm RUPA JOSHI in UDAYPUR From Issue #327 (15 December 06 - 21 December 06) Sarita Nepali and her seven children sleep without blankets on straw mats on the latticed bamboo floor of their small thatched house. All night, the Sun Kosi murmurs relentlessly nearby. Through where the mud has peeled off from the bamboo slats of the wall, you can see the river as it makes an S-turn eastward between Khotang and Udaypur. I made the mistake of calling it a khola. A fifth grader at the Shree Jalpadevi Primary School reprimanded me: “Yo khola ho ta? Yo ta kosi ho!” Dhaplang is on the bend of the Sun Kosi that borders Trijuga municipality and Gaighat. For the visitor, it is pleasantly remote. There is no electricity, no shops. Everything has to be walked down from the roadhead in Sauney, a steep hour-and-a-half away. In Dhaplang, close to trails that lead to Khotang and Okhaldhunga, portering is the main source of income. Life on the banks of the winding Sun Kosi looks beautiful, Sarita’s husband used to carry loads when he was not working in the field. After he died nine months ago following a brief illness, Sarita’s family of six daughters and a son is struggling to survive. They grow just enough food for three months, the rest of the year they work. When Sarita is out carrying loads, the older girls do the tougher housework: fetching firewood and water, cooking and washing the dishes. The younger ones mind the youngest siblings and help with sanak sinik (tidying up the house). The older sisters are enrolled at the local school, but of late there has been no time to attend classes. Kopila, 16, has joined the groups of youngsters who carry loads up to Diktel, a six-day walk north. Every kilo she carries up and down the mountains fetches just Rs 20. Kalpana, 13, has been accompanying her mother, carrying loads shorter distances. But it is a struggle to come by even the simplest meals To catch up with the workload Sarita and the older girls wake up as the roosters begin to go off at 4.30. The stars are still out and the Sun Kosi is veiled in mist. The younger ones get up at staggered intervals after that. The girls fetch fodder for cows and goats—but none of the animals belong to them. They feed the livestock and in return get to own the firstborn and use the milk until the cows and goats get pregnant again. Food is scarce. The children cook and eat makai ko roti and tori ko saag. The meal is meagre, yet at mealtime passers-by are graciously offered some. Meat is a monthly delicacy and fruit is rare. Equally scarce is clothing. All the girls who are registered at school wear the uniform day and night. The seams are ripped, buttons have fallen off, and the blueis faded. Little Muna, just two, tags on to her mother whenever she is around, suckling on the sagging, wasted breasts. Her older brother Milan, five, is as spoilt as the sisters let him be. He seems to sense that he is special and is already learning to bully his sisters. Thirteen-year-old Kalpana, whose only clothes are her fading school uniform, spends more time working to provide for the family than studying. Kalpana, her sister Kopila, and their cousin Anjali are setting their sickles to work on the golden ripe paddy when other children clutching exercise books rush down to the school by the river. Kalpana’s glance flicks towards them as she quietly and methodically cuts the paddy and lays it out to dry in neat rows. The hard work is already taking a toll on Kalpana’s back. The fact that the daughters have to work worries Sarita. “They keep complaining that they will be taken off the school register,” she says, “but what am I to do? There’s all this work. And going to school means money, a dot pen costs Rs 5 and does not even last a week." “I’ve told them: this is all I can offer you. Now grow up and carve out your own destinies.” I ask Kalpana what she wants to grow up to be. She fiddles with her nails and looks away as if exasperated with the futility of the hypothetical exercise. When I persist, she answers softly: “I want to become a Miss.”