Homesickness rolls in like the thunderstorm that’s brewing just outside my window. It starts with a light rain, small reminders here and there of what I left back home. But these reminders grow with intensity until the strong droplets bite my skin.
Then comes the thunder, a low rumble in the distance, barely noticeable, easy to ignore. I watch, helpless, as it approaches dangerously close by, and then, all of a sudden, it’s right above my head.
The lightning comes last, searing flashes of pain that sizzle deep inside, electric currents of it shooting through my veins.
I count seconds between the thunder and the lightning, as my father taught me how, to see how far away the storm is. Ten miles. Now five. Three, and two, until thunder and lightning are indistinguishable from each other, the chicken and the egg, my body shaking with the force of it.
I have been here for over six weeks now, and while I have missed my home, and my family, and my friends, I haven’t yet been homesick, which is an entirely different thing.
But here, on this dark and stormy Saturday morning, I wake up in a sweat, confused when I don’t feel the familiar fur of my dog next to me, panicked when it finally all comes back. Two more weeks.
That’s why I am so excited when I find out that Laxmi’s family will be joining us on our day trip to Chandragiri Hills.
Despite the rumble in the sky, we set out in a taxi right after breakfast. About half way through the hour-long ride we stop to pick up her younger sister, older sister, and seven-year-old nephew. We squeeze into the tiny taxi, making room by sitting on each other’s laps.
By the time we finally arrive it’s absolutely pouring rain. But we buy our tickets anyways, and wait in the long line for the cable cars. Large, shiny, red orbs, they somehow manage to look both vintage and futuristic at the same time.
Up, up, up we go, over seven thousand feet into the thick frosting of fog. Every once in a while the clouds scatter for just a moment, and our breaths get caught in our throats as we see how high up we are. Buildings shrink to tiny specks in the distance while trees loom up underneath us in a verdant tangle. Every once in a while an approaching cable car appears out of the mist and whooshes past in a shimmer.
Twenty minutes later, when we reach the top, we stand under the building’s overhang with everyone else, shuddering into the driving rain. I’ve been looking forward to this trip for so long, and I’m angry with the weather for betraying me this way. But Laxmi’s nephew Aroon pats my hand and shares his bag of dried masala ramen for a snack. I suddenly feel much better.
The rain begins to let up, and we decide to brave the wet conditions in a mad dash up to the top of the mountain where a Hindu temple awaits. We are all laughing uncontrollably until we reach the peak, where we duck inside a little tea shop to dry off. Laxmi’s diddi (big sister) buys us all steaming cups of milk coffee, and her bahini (little sister) has me take silly pictures of her with my camera.
We are talking, and sharing snacks, and playing with Aroon, and just as my spirit starts to warm up, the sun bursts out from its hiding place and smiles down on us. It is such a fast change that the ground steams and a rainbow appears in the distance.
We take this chance to explore. A view of misty mountains. A temple decorated with bells on bells, golden cows, and marigold flowers. Worshippers receiving tikka, or a red dot in the center of the forehead to honor the gods.
Bahini links her arm in mine as we walk, and kisses my cheek. Aroon sneaks into all my pictures and hugs me around the legs. Diddi tells me about some of the history of this place, and is always on the lookout to make sure we are all in eyesight.
When we finally decide it’s time to head back we walk hand in hand down the slippery path. Once we’ve all piled into the cable car we sing a hiking song, which roughly translates to “I love flying / I love flying / By flying we will reach the peak / I love flying”:
Resham firiri
Resham firiri
Udera jam ki dadha ma bhanjying
Resham firiri
Once we’re back on relatively flat land, we grab some lunch. Sitting on a beautiful porch overlooking the valley, I order dahi (yogurt) and a fruit platter. Everyone else orders plates of momo and chow mein. Normally one to talk, I sit quietly and watch all the beautiful, glowing faces around me. Laxmi and bahini are poking fun at each other in the tumbling sounds of Nepali. Diddi is helping Aroon cut up his chicken, who in turn is stealing pieces of fruit off my plate.
I want to savor this moment, I don’t want to leave. It is magical how comfortable we have all become with each other in the span of just one day. And I realize that it is possible to find a family to belong to no matter how far away from home you go.
I have found one here, in Nepal, and tomorrow if I took off for Egypt or Argentina, I’m beginning to understand that I could find one there too. That maybe there is a little more love to spare in a world that can sometimes make us believe otherwise.
