I lie, “He does well,” feeling more loyalty to Hari as his friend, than to Arjun as his teacher. “He must do well,” Hari tells me. “Otherwise he’ll end up doing this kind or work.” Hari gestures to his stove. “Small work.” And I hear Arjun’s voice in English class, humming in concentration. Rita, touch your map. Try again, Arjun. That’s not ‘map.’ Sound it out. Milk. Mmmmango. Mmmmouth. Mmmmap! Rita touch your map. What’s after ‘m’? 'O’. Say ‘mo. .. ’ Mouse. Mouth. Rita touch your more. “He does well,” I repeat, already for- seeing Arjun make the tea. W^^eshab Sharma is the Vocational Arts teacher. He teaches farming ■ A to children who have helped in the fields all their lives. Keshab also teaches Animal Husbandry. He shows his tenth graders how to castrate a goat in the volleyball court, a small plot of packed- down earth. It is the only area of the school grounds large enough to hold school assemblies, where we celebrate the King’s birthday and the arrival of local officials. The volleyball court is also just outside my classroom. I draw a sunny scene on the blackboard. “Repeat after me,” I say, pointing to the board. “House.” “House,” the fifth graders mimic, but already the little boys are squirming to look out the window. A tenth grade boy has hustled over to Keshab, carrying a tiny goat. The goat has been borrowed from a neighboring farmer for the lesson. It cries as two boys hold its tiny legs spread. Keshab lectures to the rest of the class, holding a large pair of clippers. “Sun.” I point to the board. “Sun.” “Flower.” “Flower.” The tenth grade girls hide their faces in their shawls. But the boys stare intently at the goat, expressing far more interest in Animal Husbandry than they ever do in English. Pointing to trees and flowers, I wait to hear a change in the goat’s cry, so curiously like a child’s. But there is none. I close the shutters on my window, redirect the attention of my little boys, point to the tree in the picture. “What’s this?” Watching Keshab teach often makes me wonder about the usefulness of my own job. English is truly an elitist subject in the villages, where only a few seniors will pass the entrance exams for college. Of those few, even less can afford to go. How well can the elitist argument for education work in Nepal, when few of my students’ parents can read Nepali? The water carries diseases. There are outbreaks of cholera; malaria is a constant threat in the south. Babies are malnourished. The fuel shortage is critical. Deforestation is causing a serious loss of topsoil. I haven’t seen a piece of fresh fruit in three weeks. “Shit,” I think. “Another Master’s Degree. But which one?” You must stay to the inside when sharing the trail with a donkey train. They'll bump you over the edge, massive weight, without even meaning to. About one o’clock the other teachers and I take our break, leaving the children to volleyball and chaos. “Would you care to take the tea?” Keshab asks me in English. He learned English in India, mostly, and is pleased to use it whenever possible. “Thank you,” I answer, and we head for Hari’s shop. But things are different when thuio manche arrive, “big men” because they are educated and earn a small salary. Teachers are respected in the villages. I am called “Miss” by my students, “Sir” by their parents and by the farmers I pass on the road. Things are different in Hari’s shop, when thuio manche sit down to take tea. Hari is quiet, with a kind of submissiveness painful for me to watch. He rarely speaks. He always agrees. Easier, at these times, to imagine Hari as that busboy in India, skinny-legged, scrambling to bring drinks, watching from the doorway as the foreigners dance. I return to the teashop after school, to restore my sense of Hari, erase my thuio manche status. I offer Hari a cigarette, the unfiltered local brand, and we smoke together. Hari snubs his out halfway down, saves it for later. Sometime in the evening, after the shop is closed down and Arjun is asleep, Hari will smoke the rest. W Wari’s son Arjun is sick. I can hear ■ ahim call to his mother from the JK JL room behind the teashop. Arjun’s 40 Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988
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