Under the Jackfruit Tree I was born in May 1972 at Kafleytar, in Sarpang, Bhutan. My mother says I was born under a jackfruit tree. She was working in the garden when I popped out. That is how she told it to me, and I have never had any reason to doubt it. I like that my life began amid ordinary work, outdoors, with soil still on my mother ’ s hands. I was the youngest of ten sons. Six of my brothers died before I was born, so I never met them, and only four of us remain. My mother also had three daughters. The eldest could not stand, walk or talk, and from what my mother told me, I understood that she had Sturge-Weber syndrome. She died when she was around ten. Two of my sisters are still around, both older than I am. I have often thought about what it must mean to raise a last child after losing so many. My Father, the Pandit My father was the local Pandit. He had studied in Varanasi, returning home with a degree in Sanskrit and a deep standing in the community. His work took him...
Once, in a dream, I chased a colour, beautiful, and softly hued. It cooled my fingers when I touched it, and then I woke, and it was gone. The years went by in ledgers, in numbers, in rooms far from the hills, and I forgot the dream had ever asked for anything but to be held. Then Tihar came, as it always does: lamps along the window ledges, marigolds strung like small suns, a rangoli blooming at the door. And you, my sister, with the plate in your hands, seven colours laid in careful lines, drew a rainbow on my forehead, and it was cool, as it was in the dream. This time I did not wake. A garland round my neck that would not fade, sweets pressed into my palm, a prayer for my long life spoken lightly, as if love were an ordinary thing. They say a sister's blessing once turned Death himself away from the door. I believe it. I have seen what a plate, a lamp and a steady hand can do. So let the cities turn to clones, let the old customs thin and fade. Whe...