Nepal: Three generations broken by earthquake
Mohan Bahadur Tamang grieves in front of the grave of his grandson Lakhma, who was four months oldwhen he was killed by the April earthquake. (Express Photo by: Tashi Tobgyal)
The two spots are less than a hundred metres apart, under the cover of pine trees. There is no discernible path between them, just footprints in the red earth covered by dry grass. The first spot is a patch of black, with three red leaves from the trees above. The patch is less than two feet wide. There was only a cradle and two sets of clothes, each smaller than the length of a hand, to burn.
Lakhma’s mother Phulmaya, who has not been able to bring herself to visit the grave; nor has the boy’s father Kamal (in blue shirt) though both he and his wife have been busy at work. (Express Photo by: Tashi Tobgyal)
A little higher on the mountain slope is another mound, slightly larger. There is no black here but freshly upturned earth. Many pyres have burnt in the forests of Sindhupalchowk over the past few weeks. Lakhma Tamang was buried on April 26, a day after the first of two massive earthquakes devastated Nepal, too young to be cremated. He was four months old.
Every morning, Mohan Bahadur Tamang, 65, walks two kilometres off the paved road that leads to Sindhupalchowk, to pay homage to his grandson. He sits next to both mounds for 10 minutes. Lakhma had two cradles, both of which his grandfather had built out of bamboo. “We burnt one cradle, with Lakhma’s clothes next to it. We threw away the other cradle. It brings honour to untie him from this world,” he says, as he sits next to the makeshift grave.
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A kilometre away, as his father mourns in the forest, Kamal Tamang stares into his blue phone. Constantly, he switches between two grainy photographs on his small screen. The first has a child wearing blue overalls with white flowers. He is smiling, in the arms of his mother Phulmaya. The second is the same child, still and lifeless.
“I was in Kathmandu when I was called and told that Lakhma was trapped when our house fell here. I work as a cook at Ratna Park Hotel, and asked for my dues and left for home. While I was coming I asked them to take a photograph and send it to me,” says Kamal Tamang. He refuses to say any more about his only son. Every day, as his father walks to the grave at noon, he turns and looks, asking silently if Kamal will walk with him. “One day, I will,” he says.
Pieces to pick up
The Tamangs wake at 4:30 in the morning, and ever since Lakhma died and his father rushed back from Kathmandu, they have been doing the same thing as long as there is light — salvaging what they can from their destroyed home.
Kamal is seen with his father trying to salvage whatever he can from the ruins of their home. (Express Photo by: Tashi Tobgyal)
Three weeks after the earthquake brought down their house of cement and stones, even the rubble has a semblance of order. The square grey cement tiles that formed the sloping roof have been stacked neatly to one side. Three thick log beams have been put to one side, to be used later. So have large stones that have retained their rectangular shape. Clothes, crops, straw mats and utensils that could be used have found their way into their makeshift tent. And there is still work to be done.At 1 pm, Mohan Bahadur begins a search for any wire that can be used. He spots what used to be the electricity cable, nailed to a log damaged beyond repair. Kamal jumps in to help, and they use their hands to straighten each nail. They put the log aside in a corner where all other such items have been collected. “When we build again, all of this will come in handy. I have heard the government is giving us a Rs 15 lakh loan over six years. I want to pass the monsoon months under the tent, and then we will build. But all of this will minimise cost,” Mohan Bahadur says.
At 1 pm, Mohan Bahadur begins a search for any wire that can be used. He spots what used to be the electricity cable, nailed to a log damaged beyond repair. Kamal jumps in to help, and they use their hands to straighten each nail. They put the log aside in a corner where all other such items have been collected. “When we build again, all of this will come in handy. I have heard the government is giving us a Rs 15 lakh loan over six years. I want to pass the monsoon months under the tent, and then we will build. But all of this will minimise cost,” Mohan Bahadur says.
The family is convinced that in their attempt at reconstructing a pucca home, they will be left to their own devices. “Other than giving us a loan, the government will be of no help. Since the earthquakes, the only relief has been food, supplies and medicines and some trucks. I’m not sure if they are from Nepal. But I know that nobody will help with rebuilding. We are 75 km from Kathmandu, so high that we can see the white mountains. Nobody will care about here. They only care about the capital,” Mohan Tamang says.
Over the next half-hour, father and son map out what has been buried where in the house. Pointing towards a pile of bricks and stones, Mohan Bahadur says, “The TV and radio will be destroyed so there’s no point digging for those. But that is where the sacks of maize are. And that other part, near the broken cabinet, is where most of our utensils are.” Quietly, Kamal too points: “That is where Lakhma was.”
As Mohan Bahadur sits down on one of many logs strewn around, he is joined by Heera Tamang, another one of the 17 families that live in Deorali village. Their conversations have largely been the same over the past few weeks. They discuss the small fields of maize and vegetables they own, and agree that as in every other year, they will only produce enough to provide for their families for six months and there will be little left to sell. They speak about what jobs they will get in Kathmandu at their age when they go there for three months in the winter. Of the ten goats that the former owned, five were killed in the earthquake, while Heera lost a cow.
And then, Bahadur asks the question that normally signals the end of their daily meetings. Drawing in the last of his small Surya cigarette, he asks, “Is the family okay?” Heera nods as always, “It is the same for me as for you.” Sonam Tamang, Heera’s grandson, was one year old. He too was buried on April 26.
The mother
As her husband and father-in-law go about reconstruction, Phulmaya Tamang and her sister-in-law Sangeeta busy themselves in and around the tent the family now lives in. Inside, the floor is covered with straw mats with wooden planks that support the tarpaulin sheet that serves as the ceiling. In one corner are stacks of corn salvaged from the house, in another are twelve cooking utensils relatively undamaged. Behind, in one big bundle, are a bunch of clothes. Most are hopelessly torn but the cloth will fetch some money. Except Kamal, who brought some clothes from Kathmandu, the rest have worn the same clothes for days. Phulmaya has a dark salwar with light print; Mohan’s dark sleeveless vest has many holes.Inside, Phulmaya sifts the bundle of clothes, constantly sorting. She is “around 20 years old” but already the load of responsibility is on her. When the earthquake struck, she had left Lakhma sleeping in his cradle to collect leaves for the cattle from nearby. Like her husband, she will not speak of her son, and has buried herself in work.
Inside, Phulmaya sifts the bundle of clothes, constantly sorting. She is “around 20 years old” but already the load of responsibility is on her. When the earthquake struck, she had left Lakhma sleeping in his cradle to collect leaves for the cattle from nearby. Like her husband, she will not speak of her son, and has buried herself in work.At four in the evening, Phulmaya collects seven utensils in a bamboo basket which she slings on her back, and trudges two kilometres to the one tap in the village. Five are large steel containers, two empty tins of Sunflower oil. The tap is near where her child was buried but she has never returned to the spot. Even on Saturday, Phulmaya gets to the tap quickly, spending half an hour filling every utensil. Some of this will be used for food, the rest given to the cattle to drink.
At four in the evening, Phulmaya collects seven utensils in a bamboo basket which she slings on her back, and trudges two kilometres to the one tap in the village. Five are large steel containers, two empty tins of Sunflower oil. The tap is near where her child was buried but she has never returned to the spot. Even on Saturday, Phulmaya gets to the tap quickly, spending half an hour filling every utensil. Some of this will be used for food, the rest given to the cattle to drink.
As she arrives to the tent an hour later, Kamal goes quickly to her, helping her unload. He sits next to her, talking softly. Within minutes, Mohan Bahadur, who had rushed down, works up a temper.
“What are you doing sitting here? Down there a truck came distributing relief, and you are sitting up here next to your wife? I got a packet of rice, but when I reached for the oil, the packet fell and someone else took it,” Mohan Bahadur says in a stern voice.As he speaks, he looks at others walking up to their tents clutching a packet of rice and oil. “How many times will I tell you, everybody has been affected by the earthquake. Everyone needs food. We have to fend for ourselves. Now Sangeeta will have to cook the corn broth again,” he says glaring, as Kamal looks down at his feet.
As he speaks, he looks at others walking up to their tents clutching a packet of rice and oil. “How many times will I tell you, everybody has been affected by the earthquake. Everyone needs food. We have to fend for ourselves. Now Sangeeta will have to cook the corn broth again,” he says glaring, as Kamal looks down at his feet.
The argument is broken by an aftershock that rumbles through the mountain. Cries of “bhukamp,bhukamp” go up, as the Tamang family and two others that have joined them in the tent rush out. Everyone except Mohan Tamang. This time it is Kamal who raises his voice. “Why didn’t you move?” He gets no answer.Uncertain tomorrow
Uncertain tomorrow
As the sun begins to set, Sangeeta steals some of the dry grass from the goats the family owns, and starts a fire outside to cook dinner. On cue, Mohan Tamang gets up to go and milk the cow and Kamal and his wife use the lighter and kerosene to light a makeshift candle in a glass bottle.
Rama, a friend’s daughter who has arrived to spend the night while on her way to her village in Dolakha, runs quickly to the toilet before turning in. “We are lucky in one way,” Sangeeta says. “If you defecate in the open here, it is looked down upon. Along every hill road in Nepal there are signs that say going to the the toilet in the open is a social crime. But the strange thing is that while our homes were destroyed, our one-room toilets outside are intact. I suppose we have to be happy with what we have left.”
As the clock strikes 7:30, and the mountains go dark, the family carefully ties its cattle a little distance away under a tarpaulin sheet, and close their own tent with another. Any night spent outside is fraught with danger. “There are two things to be afraid of at night. The first is tigers. There are many that roam here at night to stalk cattle. Earlier a wall would separate us and the livestock, but now there is nothing between the tiger and us. Last year, as I took my goats to graze, I saw a tiger attack one and take it away. At night, sometimes you can hear them,” Mohan Tamang says.
“The second thing is ghosts. Inside, we used to have electricity and television and we were safe. There are many spirits in the woods and there is only so much we can do. I have planted a cactus in my fields behind the tent. It keeps them away.”
So for the night, Mohan Tamang and his son take turns at staying awake and keeping watch. They think about what tomorrow will bring, and what they can do to pass the monsoon. Mohan Tamang thinks of a time when he can forget and move on, and stop going to Lakhma’s grave. His son asks himself when he will begin.
Source:: Indian Express
