(Part 1/2) “Mother had lost a daughter and a son. Her daughter lived for a few years while her son for a few months. Born the third child and living beyond mother’s expectations, I became a mother’s worry. The thought of something bad happening to me did not sit well with her. Even though Father wanted me to start school, mother delayed it. You see, the only primary school in the region was in another village. One had to take the cliff and cross two rivers. And during monsoon, the rapids turned angry and swallowed cattle and men never to be found again. When I turned 10, finally, father took me to school. Up until then, he taught me the alphabet and the poems he would sing at home. You see, my father was a self-learned man. He knew the Hindu religious text by heart. And he also knew to read the ceremonial scriptures with melody. So, when I was asked to read a verse in Nepali before the school took me in, I did it with ease. The schoolmaster said, “He can join the 2nd grade”. Father was happy and I could not hold my excitement of being with other kids. Life was normal. Mother and Father were afraid of a loan so we did not have to live in fear of someone knocking at the door. Mother and Father had a farm and a field so they did not have to go toil in someone else’s land. They’d sell a pig a year, make just enough for two meals a day. We led a normal life of a village family, up until that fateful day in the spring of 1982.”