T H I S+W E E K

Burma or Bust
By Joshua Cohen
A charmed traveler in China takes the hard road to a forbidden border.

D E P A R T M E N T S

The Surreal Gourmet
By Bob Blumer
A fruity, non-boozy, end-of-summer smoothie

Mondo Weirdo
By Don George
Strange bedtime tales from Thailand, Peru and Ecuador

> Passages
A Simple Gift
By Robert J. Matthews
A touching encounter with a leper in Nepal

Readers' Tips and Tales
Great Railway Journeys

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LA S T+W E E K

Tuesday, August 19, 1997

Sleeping with elephants
By Don Meredith
Earth-shaking encounters in Kenya

A full list of all
Wanderlust articles

| E X C E R P T |

Travelers' Tales: Nepal
Collected and edited
by Rajendra S. Khadka
Travelers' Tales, Inc.
398 pages, Nonfiction

BY ROBERT J. MATTHEWS

+ + + + + + + +

it was almost winter, and nearing the end of my stay in Nepal, much of my time was occupied with saying good-bye. I had gotten to know many new people on this particular visit, but those persons whom I most actively sought out were those whom I had gotten to know the least.

They were waiters, merchants, black-market money changers; they were little children and old women who sold single cigarettes and matches along damp, narrow streets. I certainly did not know these people as one knows a friend or even an acquaintance, but for the past several months they had been my landmarks along countless streets and in innumerable restaurants, and they were by now as familiar to me as any back home. It was this collection of faces, brief greetings and equally brief conversations that always endeared Nepal to me.

Upon finding one of these persons prior to my departure, I rarely would actually say good-bye. Instead, I found that all I really wanted to do was just look at them once more; to memorize them in their world, perhaps foolishly thinking that the moment could later be recalled with the same life and clarity as the original.

Sometimes, in my marginal Nepali, I would say that I am returning to my own country. Most often the reply was simply a smile, accompanied by the characteristic little sideways nod of the head which in Nepal means understanding. And that was all.

One person with whom I did speak was an old man I used to see almost every day. He seemed to spend most of his time just sitting in the sun on a small, raised wooden platform next to an outdoor marketplace where aggressive women with clumps of wrinkled and faded rupees in their fists deftly negotiated the cacophonous buying and selling of fruits and vegetables.

The first time I saw him he smiled at me. He said nothing, nor did I stop to speak with him. I recall giving him a rather cursory smile in return, and then continued on my way without another thought. A few days later I saw him again, still seated in the same place. As I passed him he smiled at me again just as he had before. I was taken by how sincere this man's expression was, and also how peaceful he seemed to be. I smiled back and offered the traditional namaste, which he returned. I could not quite explain why, but it was that ingenuous smile of his that many times made me detour just to see him and say hello.

Eventually I found that he spoke a few words of English, and sometimes we would have a cigarette together and exchange pleasantries. Sometimes, after dinner, I would walk through the silent streets that were now only sporadically lit by the weak light filtering through greasy restaurant windows. Then I would come upon him, still seated in the same place. He would be sitting quietly, smoking, and sometimes drinking tea out of the ubiquitous glass tumbler that someone had probably bought for him.

One evening, on my way back to my room after dinner, I saw him in his usual spot, and I stopped to say hello. For the first time since I had known him, I glimpsed his feet protruding from under the rough woolen blanket that always covered him. They were severely misshapen and deeply ulcerated, and the toes were unusually short and seemed strangely small for his feet. I remembered having seen similar symptoms during a brief stint of clinical work I had done several years earlier. No doubt it was very difficult for this man to walk, and it was now apparent why so much of his time was spent sitting. He had leprosy.

Some time after this I again stopped to greet him. He smiled and appeared glad to see me. We spoke easily now; he in his broken English, and I in my fractured Nepali. Out of respect I now called him daju, or "older brother," as is the custom. The first time I addressed him as daju his expression did not change, but from then on he called me bhai, or "younger brother," as though he had been doing so for years.

I cannot explain the feeling, but there has always been something exquisitely heartwarming about being referred to as "bhai" or "daju" by the Nepalis. Perhaps these words were intended to convey nothing more than simple courtesy to a foreigner, but countless times I have been struck by the intimacy these words implied, and the genuine affection with which they were spoken.

We talked for a few more minutes, and when I left I gave him a couple of cigarettes wrapped in a five-rupee note. He accepted this graciously and with dignity. I said good-bye, but resolved to continue to see him until I had to leave.

This I did, and in the course of my last few days in Kathmandu we would talk frequently. I would do as much as I could manage in Nepali, but we usually relied considerably more on English. We sometimes had a glass of tea together in the pale afternoon sun, limiting our conversation to superficial things, but enjoying it nevertheless.

It gets cold at night in November, and prior to leaving I wanted to bring the old man a pair of heavy woolen socks that I had brought for use in the mountains. On my last night in Nepal, I found him sitting in his usual place. It was a very cold night. I approached him and said that tomorrow I was leaving. I then said that I wished to give him my socks. He said nothing. I felt awkward, and as gently as I could I lifted the blanket that covered his legs. I put the socks on what remained of his feet and tried to explain that I would be pleased if he would keep them.

For a long moment he did not speak. I feared that I might have made him uncomfortable, but then he looked at me with marvelous compassion in his eyes and said, "God bless you, bhai. No one has touched me in a very long time."
Sept. 2, 1997

Robert J. Matthews is a mathematics teacher and a freelance writer in San Francisco.