Kristance Harlow
Chetan Dolma, a brilliant fifteen-year-old nun who is fluent in English, touches her hand to her head and then lifts it toward the sky. A storm is coming. She says it’s a dragon walking and when its legs release the thunder, it will start to rain. It never rains around here. It’s been almost two months and I’ve only seen one rainfall. Even without the dragon’s rain, the fields stay green in the summer. The Himalayas are always releasing snow and pouring it down the mountainsides, keeping the stream behind the nunnery filled with fresh water.
Penba Lhamo is hiding behind her balloon and I can see tears welling up in her eyes. As soon as she notices my gaze, she fades away into the corner and wraps herself deep in her dark red robe. As I watch her, my own eyes mirror hers. Normally Penba is the class clown, the one girl I can count on to make me smile. Today she is having as hard a time as I am. This is our last day together.
Holding a reflection of Penba in my eyes, I turn to watch Tenzin Paldon and Tenzin Kaldon release their balloons into the air. They are always together, both shy and sweet. They run over to where I sit on the wooden bench and bounce the balloons towards me. I laugh through my misted eyes and all I see is a blur of blue and orange. I grab a balloon and tie a string to it. The Tenzins squeal with delight and rush off to play.
Little Sonam Puti slowly approaches me. “Ka la ta ta rah,” she whispers and gives me a hug. “I love you too,” I whisper back. Not yet a nun, she wears a tunic and her head is covered with an white cloth. As she reaches up to pick at a scab, Tondup quickly stops her and applies a healing white cream to the sore. Tondup is Penba’s other half. Only three years younger than Penba, 13-year-old Tondup is constantly making everyone laugh. She and Penba make a hilarious duo.
Suddenly, Sonam Dolma is snuggled under my arm. Only eleven, she’ll soon be a nun. Like Chetan Dolma, she learns quickly. Over a month ago, I was sitting on the steps outside the kitchen reading a novel, when Sonam’s brilliance came to light. She leaned over my shoulder to look at my book. She began to read it aloud, pronouncing even the most difficult English words. Ever since, even though she goes to school in the village, she joins our classes on her days off. Today has nothing to do with classes. I’m learning about unconditional love. Sonam Dolma smiles up at me and, not wanting me to see her cry, hides her face in the crux of my arm. I am grateful to be called a sister and thankful for their love.
I’ll be starting the long journey home tomorrow. Ahead of me is a nine-hour jeep ride to Manali, below the Himalayan tree line. I’ll rest for two days in that beautifully green town and hope to see Sonny, a young shoe-shine boy who was so eager to learn about school in America. After that, a 14-hour overnight bus ride will take me to Delhi. After two nights rest, I’ll take a 24-four-hour flight back to my country, far from my new Himalayan home.
Chetan Dolma is a quick learner and leader, she is respectful and daring. She engages the class in complex dialogue and is always willing to translate for us. I would like to be even a little bit like these women, with their genuine kindness. There is something different about the wind, the thunder, and the lightning in Spiti. Golden Blue Tara gazes down from the spaces in the clouds. Being this close to the heavens, I know that Chetan Dolma must be right about the dragon. Just a gentle stroke in the sky and the lightning reverberates in an eerie rustling in the air.
