Standing at the edge of a small foothill directly above the shoreline of Tamor River, Buddhiman Limbu believed he was at the threshold of purgatory. Few metres behind him, a lone weeping willow cast a little shade on the humid turf. The waxing gibbous in the mid-summer night sky was drifting northwest. There were still a few hours left for the pleasant dawn chorus to harmonise with the humming river. Wearing his tatty, torn shorts, he was ready for a ‘holy bath’ as the phedangma, the witch doctor, called it. He believed a slight improvisation of the ritual would ensure him eternal bliss.

Earlier in the evening, he had benignly asked his wife to make a soup out of the most muscular rooster among a dozen poultry they farmed. Tanked up with local alcohol 24/7, Ujeli, his domineering wife, had repugnantly dismissed his appeal. She then hurled heart-wrenching insults at him.

Squinting at the pastel white spumes in the river below, Buddhiman believed that soon he was going to learn a secret no living man on earth knew.

A gasping cough of a woman at a distance distorted the fabric of his subconscious imagination, and he became cautious of the present. A soft breeze was kissing his face and gently caressing his unkempt shoulder-length hair. Leaves were rustling as the arcing stem of the weeping willow shivered in the breeze. The burbling river was acting like a whispering angel wheedling him into what he believed to be a surreal act of self atonement.

He could now see the approaching silhouette was becoming clearer as he wasted some more seconds wondering how anyone can come this far from the village at this early hour. His pupils dilated. The silhouette briefly paused, possibly for an assessment, and continued walking towards him.

“Evil spirit! It is probably her,” he thought. A deep horror immediately stripped him of his sanity. An unsettling sense of déjà vu rippled his cells, and his mind fell captive to panicking terror. Without a second thought, he jumped into the raging Tamor River.

When Ganga Devi reached where Buddhiman stood before taking the plunge, she found his pullover on the ground.

*****

“Ganga didi, do you have any idea how to abort the pregnancy?” said a visibly anxious Naini Tamang. “I’m extremely terrified, didi. I really need your help. I am worried that if I don’t get rid of the baby, I’ll be expelled from the family and society. I want to live a dignified life, didi.”

“Who is the father of the child?” asked a shocked Ganga Devi.

With a tinge of remorse, Naini whispered, “The father is Buddhiman Limbu.”
Ganga Devi was shocked.

“Oh dear, he is a married man. Why did you have to sleep with a married man?” Ganga Devi asked with a hurried, worried murmur.

After a brief silence, Naini explained, “Love is like the wind, didi—free in its motion. It can blow over snowy mountains, rocky hills, blossoming plains, sandy deserts, and thundering oceans. You never know when it hits you.”
Ganga Devi wondered how the uneducated Naini knew about deserts and oceans. The shiny gold bangle on Naini’s left arm immediately reminded her of Naini’s father, Laure Baa—a retired Indian army soldier—who dearly loved sharing his experiences to his favourite and youngest child.

“If the wind were that free, you wouldn’t feel warm in your room, Naini,” Ganga Devi said. “Some boundaries are meant to protect us, not to limit our freedom. Further, you are a Tamang girl, and he is a Limbu. You know the rivalry between your castes. Do you have any idea what will happen if your family comes to know about it?”
“I’ve realised my mistake, didi. I wish I could go back. All I need now is your help,” Naini pleaded.

“A few years ago, I remember my mother-in-law telling me that there’s a health post in Kathmandu—a fifteen-day-walk from our village, to the west. The doctor there treated her Bhungre fever during her pilgrimage to Pashupatinath.”

“Do you think they have the solution?” asked Naini.

“Let’s hope. Even if the health post doesn’t, there’s nothing to fear. Nobody will know you there.”

“Okay, didi, I will discuss it with him. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Naini, before walking back to her house with the gagro between her right arm and the waist. Slightly tilting her body to the left, she hurried her steps.

The next morning Ganga Devi found a note in a small cavity between the stones of kuwa. She immediately recognised Naini’s struggled writing. Two years prior, the two had attended writing classes conducted by an NGO. Ganga Devi had been quick to learn and had assisted Naini a lot with the basic alphabet. The note read, “We are eloping tonight.”

A sour realisation stirred Ganga Devi. Naini had been one of her closest companions over the last ten years, and now she was leaving forever.

“At least she will be making a family with a man she already knows,” Ganga Devi told herself. “My husband and I didn’t even have real conversations until we bore two children. If he was in, I was out. If I was up, he was down!”

At 7pm on the full moon evening, Ganga Devi caught the faint sight of Naini surreptitiously moving downhill. Heartbroken, she could not resist the urge to see Naini until she disappeared from view. On the pretext of going to grind corn at panighatta, located beside a small waterfall at the banks of Tamor River, Ganga Devi left home and followed Naini.

*****

Hiding behind the weeping willow, Ganga Devi peeked at Buddhiman, who was standing at the edge of the ground. Naini, who was carrying a shawl-wrapped bag between her arms—was a few metres in front of him.
Buddhiman scanned the area, and Ganga Devi immediately scrambled for cover.

“Come here, my dear lady,” he said to Naini. With his welcoming arms and a carefully fashioned smile, Buddhiman projected the aura of a romantic lover.

Naini’s legs inched towards Buddhiman.

“My lady, we will have to walk for days and nights to reach the city. With all the gold you are wearing, I don’t think it will be safe for us,” said Buddhiman.

Naini’s family was the richest in the entire village. They had 97 acres of farmland and seven domestic helpers, just to take care of the family’s cattle, goats, buffaloes and poultry. On top of that, her father received a monthly pension.
Naini happily took out every single jewellery—rings, bangles, bracelet, and ear-rings—and faithfully gave them to Buddhiman to hide and keep safe. Pleased with the trust of her love, Buddhiman turned more romantic.
“My lady, you see this river?” he said.

Standing at the edge of a little cliff, Naini skimmed the river and nodded in innocence.

“You know where it flows?” asked Buddhiman with a side hug, his palms tenderly fondling Naini’s shoulder.
Naini shook her head, her eyes watching lovingly at Buddhiman’s. The curve of her smile was coming to life. The first phase of night had already begun. She was expecting him to say something sweet, when he yelled, “TO PURGATORY!”

Naini’s cells abruptly vibrated with panic at the immediate hoarseness of the sound. Buddhiman then pushed poor little Naini down the cliff.

A frantic cry echoed in the darkness-a heartbreaking symphony of sorrow and goodbye immediately orchestrated out of a confusion between hope and betrayal.A huge splash and everything fell silent again except the burbling river.

Paralysed on the spot, by what she witnessed, Ganga Devi felt her breath pause as her nostrils flared. Her eyes bulged, and the ghastly pallor of her eyes shimmered in ghostly moonlight. Shocked and angered, she started walking towards Buddhiman.