Hot

The oscillating fan in my office noisily blows around hot air, while sweat accumulates--very unladylike, but what can you do?--in the armpits of my professional dress and under my chin. The small gathering of homeless guys outside have gotten punchy, not dealing with conflict very well (even worse than usual), waiting for the lunch line to open up. The rest of the usual crowd has moved somewhere cooler. In this advanced country, there are people in the inner city that still have to make do with a fan instead of air conditioning.

' Reminds me of the border crossing at the end of spring term, Sunauli waiting for monsoon. I found the picture on Facebook. 30 years later we came through the same border post and I could swear it was the same government officials there on the Indian side. We even took the same picture, sitting around the table, under the fan slowly circling above our heads, filling out endless forms for everybody in the travelling party. I vividly remember sweet talking the grumpy, overheated border guard into stamping our exit visas, legally, without a bribe, just to hear a white girl speaking Hindi. I wonder how many times our parents did have to bribe them to get across on schedule.

I remember one trip that Ko Man Singh brought us right onto the train during a general strike so my mom could get me to school on time. A few rupees must have changed hands that time: bringing the Land Rover across the border without the proper permissions, so we wouldn't have to ride the public bus. Ko Man Singh met every train two days later until he could escort my mother safely into Nepal again.

Diplomacy in Hindi really only worked because it usually impressed them enough. It gave them something to talk about for a couple of months, until we came back through the crossing for the start of next term. Not because my Hindi was any good. It's kind of the same way the homeless guys look at me, now with silver speckling my hair, when I say, "Good morning!"