A hard bite to swallow

“How on earth did I get this cold?” Paul asks frustrated and bewildered.

I smile back, “Really?”

I remind him of two nights past.

It was our last day at Sugarloaf. We knew something was planned for us earlier in the day when the boys asked us how to spell our names - Paul and Devi. We returned to the house in the afternoon to silence. No playing on the roof. No rough housing in the rooms. Everyone was crafting – some were trying to cover their work with their little elbows, others blatantly asking, “Do you like this? It is for you!!”

We spent the late afternoon christening the rooftop in full glory. Kites were flown, four square tournaments were played and I even played a competitive round of Bullseye Pebbles! Of course, I also saw how easy it would have been to cheat at this game. Bullseye is not just an exercise in hand-eye coordination (which I like to deem luck) but also in counting (which I have a bit more training than the boys at.) Inevitably, all of the little ones would come up to me and confirm their score with me. Finger touched to their nose (the Asian way of pointing to oneself) they would declare,

“120+90 is…….210. I have 110! I have 110!!”

“No, Monesh, it is 210. 120+90 is 210.”

“Huh?! 210! I have 210!?!?” ...Pause.....“I HAVE 210!!!!! I HAVE 210!!!!”

Each one would miscount by approximately 100 points to then be overwhelmed with shock and delight when they realized they were further along than they thought. (Conveniently, they would never forget or miscount my own score, which was often easier to tabulate. Recall: zero)

In the evening, after dal baht and some more rough-housing, the boys started to congregate in a circle. The water tap to the house had broken the night before and you could smell that many of the boys had not yet had a decent wash since then, but they were still ever eager to play and cuddle. As they whispered and some began to sit, I was expecting another of their Michael Jackson dance routines, which had won SugarLoaf first place in an orphanage wide talent competition the previous month (prior to MJ’s passing). We sat with the boys in a circle until the eldest of the group requested that we take a seat on the bench. I was completely ignorant of the Nepali ritual that would consume the next hour. ..

Paul and I sat next to each other, along with Caelie, another departing volunteer. One by one, each boy approached us and put a dab (or a huge blob – depending on the boy) of a sticky rice mixture brightly colored with red dye on our forehead. They took this very seriously, sometimes looking at us in the eye, other times humbly looking down. Others would giggle at their attempts to hold the large rice bowl with their left hand (being sure not to contaminate the rice with their left hand) while trying to put the rice on us with their right hand. The exchange allowed for a special moment with each boy, being able to look at them closely and wonder what they will make of themselves.

Once the rice was placed on our forehead, they ceremoniously exchanged the rice bowl for an apple bowl. With their clean right hand soiled by red dye, they innocently picked up a piece of apple and hand-fed us.

18 little boys.

18 pieces of grimy little apple.

Fed into our mouths.

With an unwashed left hand.

At first, the swallowing did not come easy. Paul and I looked at each other and giggled. 18 boys to feed us, 36 eyes on us. There was nothing to do but grin and bear it.

We walked home with huge smiles, warm hearts, unease in our belly and a mess of red rice all over our face. Even the monks at the monastery could not stifle a giggle when they saw us. The boys had done a number on us – in more ways than one.
Two days later, Paul wondered where he got his cold and I started my first round of Cipro! An experience we shall never forget…