DON'T LOOK DOWN

I first learned of the avalanche upon my return from the two-hour hike it takes to reach the nearest forest from our house in Khumba. I had left early that morning for firewood.  The basket strapped to my back was packed with as many branches and leaves as it could hold, and the length of the wood doubled my height, requiring of me both strength and balance. I had grown stronger this past year and could now manage close to double the weight I had carried the year before. The Sherpa are a proud people and I knew this would please papa.

I had just entered the boundary of my parents’ property when my little sister Thami ran to greet me, as she often did. This time I did not see her usual bright smile.   

“Nanga! Nanga! Papa says the mountain has come down! He says Lhakpa could be in it!”

I listened to Thami and then patted her gently on the shoulder. I frowned to myself but did not show my sister.  I continued to the shed where I could lay down the wood. Thami followed close behind me and watched as I sat and leaned back in the hay so I then could release the basket. 

“Nanga! So many branches you have this time!”

I smiled. It was true. But then I thought of my mother. She must be sad. She won’t let it surface and appear on her face but I will know. This worry had come once before.  That other time, we received news that Lhakpa had been far from the danger on the mountain, but the worry had been the same as I was sure it must be now.

“In the house, Thami, be good to mama, will you?”

I saw darkness come to Thami’s face as she looked at me. But when I touched her cheek with my hand, she brightened. We walked together to the house. Yes, I could see papa’s yak, Sahib, in the pen. When papa was not in the fields, he would be in the kitchen with a bowl of house-made beer, laughing with mama. Not so on this day.

“Papa?”

My papa sat on the floor of our greeting room with the kitchen set back in the corner.  Papa’s eyes, so filled with his concern, were fixed on the door to the room where he and mama slept. My mama must be there, I thought.

When papa turned his eyes to see me, he used a hand to say come sit with me. 

“Thami, will you see that Sahib has fresh water in his pen and then sing to him? I see how he rejoices when you sing.” 

Thami smiled and nodded eagerly.    

When she was far enough from our words, I went to papa and sat to look at his face.

“Papa, Thami said the mountain has fallen.”

Papa nodded. “Again, the avalanche.  We do not know where your brother is. It is the same as it was the last time. You know he waits to share his plans with family until after the trek is done and his pockets are full.”

I glanced at the door to their room. “Mama?”

“She seeks her peace in rituals. If she alone cannot protect her children, she will call on the gods for their mercy.”

I nod again and speak no more. Papa continues.

“Namche will offer Thukpa to the gods with the traditional noodles and broth the monks prepare so well. Did you not hear the music coming from the Abbey along your way? The gods now give their attention to your brother Namche and the other monks as they pray for protection and Lhakpa’s safe return.”

I flinch in my heart and mind at the pride I hear in papa’s voice. His eyes are alight and dance to the song of joy that comes with a son devoting life and service to divinity and spirit. 

But papa has always allowed himself to be fooled by his middle-born son, who wants merely to avoid the work in the fields and being told what to do. Now he will never have a home, a wife or children, or money or property, but still, he will not have to work. I wonder where is the glory in this?   

I resist more of my impure thoughts. I am keenly aware of the karmic effects such a wandering mind can breed, as we are taught to prepare for the next life as we live in this one. So, instead, I bring to my mind the hope my brother Namche has grown pure in his heart because he is not lazy but he is forthright. Buddha will see this and will know. Buddha also knows of Lhakpa’s fate.  I just pray, for mama and papa, our family, Lhakpa has not left this life.

I have love for both my brothers. Lhakpa is the youngest son, whose thoughts always ventured beyond our gates. He spoke of wealth. He spoke of learning to speak English. Why? I would ask him. Why? Mama would ask him. There is but one way for Sherpa to earn money, he would say, if not through trade. That is the mountain. He was of a mind and will to claim this life for himself and vowed he would share his future earnings with his family.

By the way of katwal, we often hear the messages being relayed from village to village. Our neighbors would receive news from far away and all could hear. We once learned a postal pigeon had flown from Kathmandu with word there were jobs aplenty for Sherpa Guides.  That was all Lhakpa needed. Off he went. 

Now, he takes a room in a boarding house in the Sherpa District of Kathmandu, Nepal’s capital city. He speaks English and has become a popular, busy guide for tourist expeditions on Everest. Imagine, people come to Nepal just to be able to boast climbing the great and fearsome Mt. Everest.  

I would think to myself, men are not mountain goats.  They were not born with cloven hooves with pads for gripping that the local Tahr make use of every day to live above the tree line so the nannies can raise their kids in relative safety.  The climbers do not fear the snow leopard as they should. They give their wealth to men like my brother and depend on them to guide and protect them, to risk their lives to climb up and then back down, and for what? Some words to speak in truth and attract the admiration of strangers.  Now, women and children climb Everest as well.  And I believe more die than live to see their name in newspapers.  I do not view my thoughts in this regard as unkind or impure, just sound judgment.

I am not educated like my other brothers. I help mama and papa with the property.  We have fields of farmland to sustain us. I fetch wood and keep the fire lit in the house while papa rides six days to Tibet for trading. I help load Sahib and our two other yaks with sacks of rice, salt and wool for papa to trade. Mama is sure he carries handfuls of rice to offer to the gods for protection as he travels. He is nearly 50 years now and mama tells him not to leave thirsty as she makes him drink ladle after ladle of butter tea.

Then there is only mama, Thami and me. Thami attends school miles from our house.  We once had many cattle. There was one heifer of such a gentle nature, we could ride her to Thami’s school. Then papa had to trade the cattle to help us survive an especially long and brutal winter. Now I walk with her to the school and then walk back again to fetch her at the end of the day. 

As we walk, I pretend to hear the Yeti. I want to teach Thami to listen for danger, so when I am not with her I will know she is alert. I question her about what she would do if certain things were to happen. She is still young but smart.

As I sit with papa and wait for mama to come or for news to arrive, I am afraid to think of the avalanche and to see my brother in it, so I fix my mind on the future, my future. One day I will have a wife with a dowry. Then I will have a home of my own and a wedding. The wedding is about property and possessions, but I only consider who will be my wife. There is a girl in the next village whose name is Amala. I see her smooth, radiant skin. She has doe eyes and a smile that ignites within me such feeling . . . 

I turn my head when mama appears, looking like mama. I search her face.  She will know I am afraid for her, so she speaks before I can.

“Ah, Nanga! I am glad you have returned. Were you able to gather enough wood from the grove I told you about?”  

I bow to her wish that we not speak our true minds.

“Yes, mama. It was where you said it would be. And I was able to carry much more than this time last year.  Just ask Thami.”

My papa smiled a great smile, his eyes merry in his face.  He grabbed my shoulder with a hand and pressed. This warmed my heart. 

The door opened and Thami ran in, full of urgent excitement.

“Come, Papa. Come, Mama.  Katwal karaune!”

News!   We all went outside.  Winter had not yet come but I could smell it in the distance. I knew I would leave early in the morning for another load of firewood.  I glanced at the tall, imposing mountain range to the rear of papa’s land and thought of Lhakpa. What good is wealth if you have to pay for it with this life and the suffering of your family?  

I looked to mama. She and papa were watching our neighbor Mingma Sherpa.   He was holding a paper in his hands, staring at it.  Mingma could not read. He must be waiting for his son, Kami, to come read it for him. We waited.

Soon, Kami came out from the house. He was much younger than I and two years beyond Thami. They had been playmates since they were babies. It is good they go to school and can read and write.

Mingma handed the paper to his son. Kami then whispered to his father what he read so that Mingma’s strong voice would carry the message as far as it could reach.

“I have an announcement! The avalanche that has taken place on the south side of Mt. Everest has reached the Khumbu Icefall. The estimated death toll is 13 . . .”

Mingma hesitated. Why was he hesitating?  I held my breath.   

“. . . 13 Sherpa.” 

Mingma’s voice dropped as he said this. He then cleared his throat and continued. I could see he was in a struggle to keep his voice strong.

“The victims are just now being identified and their families will be notified once this information can be verified.”

At first, none of us moved. Then papa touched mama’s arm and guided her to the house.

“Nanga, you and Thami look after the animals, will you?”

“Yes, papa.”

* * *

Two days later there came the Jhyali Pitne. For miles you could hear the rhythm of the beating drum that signaled all villagers to gather for an important announcement.  

The Sherpa victims of the Everest avalanche had been identified.  There were eight names listed that did not include Lhakpa. For us, this relieved nothing. The next five names were, because the initial investigation had been concluded, the names of those not recovered but presumed dead. That was where my brother’s name came to our ears. 

In the days since we knew of the tragedy, there had not been a word one way or the other of Lhakpa's fate, and hope is always a welcome guest. Now it was time to see hope to the door and to begin preparations for my brother’s funeral.

* * *

I did not attend the cremation of the recovered bodies of the eight Sherpa guides. I knew most of them as children and what this ritual would entail. The bodies would be set on fire as Buddhist monks beat drums, crashed cymbals and chanted prayers. It was a sacred rite I respected and my other brother Namche, of course, would be one of those present to perform the service. I could not go. I simply could not. I humbly begged what forgiveness I might be entitled to for my mortal weakness, and then braced myself for the funeral itself.

Ten days later, with nothing to dissuade us from going forward, my brother Lhakpa’s funeral began .  

My mama finally abandoned the brave face she had worn and surrendered to her grief. Death was well defined in our culture and as sacred as life.  My mother recited all four stages to us so that we could be as close as possible to our fallen, beloved Lhakpa. These were the stages:

1.    Losing weight, signifying earth.

2.    The drying of skin, signifying water.

3.    The loss of heat or body temperature, signifying fire.

4.    Cessation of breathing, signifying air.

Three days following these eventualities, there would be a release of “fine breath” as it was known, or “lung.”  These were all words that meant the same thing: Lhakpa’s soul is released. 

My brother, in 48 days, would then return to the earthly plane. In what form would be determined by his behavior in this life. We are taught as children that, as we go through our lives, it is as if we have two bags propped on either shoulder. When we perform a good deed, a white pebble is deposited into one bag.  Then, for every bad deed, a black pebble is placed into the other. Upon death, the bags are weighed and used to determine the form of reincarnation we have earned.  The Lhakpa I knew would have a much heavier bag filled with white pebbles; I was sure of it.  

Sherpa funerals are a three-day affair.  Namche brought the thankas, sacred wall hangings borrowed from the monastery, and hung them in our greeting room. We had the table laden with offerings for the gods, dishes of rice, lentils, potatoes and relish. The monks were dressed in orange robes and filled the air with their chants.  The village felt rich with the scent of incense, spirit and prayer blessings.

The second day involved the giving of Kataks, prayer scarves, to mama and papa, to show respect and bestow blessings. 

On the third day, toward the end of my brother’s funeral, while candy and cookies were being offered by the Monks prior to the villagers returning to their homes, I slipped from the house unnoticed. 

There was a distinct chill in the air this day and I gathered my robes tightly around me. I needed to face the mountain that had taken and held so many lives, and not only the Sherpa.  I did not see any beauty in its grand, majestic face or the brilliant blue of the sky surrounding it.  What I saw instead was the tomb of my brother. 

* * *

A year has passed since the day we heard of the avalanche that would become my brother’s time of transformation.  His body by now had become one with the mountain that had claimed it.   I knew Lhakpa's soul was free, and not a day would pass that I did not look for him. 

I saw him in the yellow-billed chough that flew overhead as I chopped wood for the fire.  I saw him in the beetle I watched effortlessly climb up and down the tree bark.  I saw him in the moss and lichen that came during the late winter thaw, and in the sun that warmed my back as I worked alongside papa in the fields. I never stopped looking, and so I never stopped seeing him, at least within my heart. If I was fooling myself, believing these things, I was a willing fool.

It took time for me to make peace with Lhakpa’s choice to climb, for money, the very monster that would take him from us. But I would see the deep worry lines cross papa’s brow when rice was in short supply or his trade did not provide what he hoped, and then I could begin to understand. Money had value, like it or not.

There also came a time when I could no longer control a selfish rage I had denied and buried just below my surface. I would lash out in Buddha’s name with angry outbursts.  I began to question everything, and I was losing faith.  I once raised my voice and threatened Thami when she had only tried to charm me away from my foul mood.   

This so worried mama, she sent word to Namche to come. The monks are allowed two weeks of the year to visit friends and family. Namche used this time at our house and spent most of it with me. He was patient. He counseled me, taught me chants to sooth my heart and revive my soul. By the time he returned to the monastery, my faith was fully restored. 

I witnessed myself my brother’s calling was genuine and, from that moment on, I was as proud of Namche as mama and papa.   

* * *

Our family bond has continued to strengthen and thrive.  We celebrate Lhakpa’s life at every opportunity and, today, when I look upon the mountain that remains the backdrop to our lives, I think of my beloved brother and his worthy goals, and how the rest of us, together as a family, have conquered Mt. Everest without ever having set a foot on it.  

THE END