HOMELESS

Rinchen Tsering

NORBU:

I haven’t been home for 1,527 days. I’ve just realised this as I’m sitting now in this small countryside eatery, looking at the calendar on the wall.

A week ago I was in Marmo Leb, a busy commercial town towards the west from here, where I helped a driver to load his lorry with cardboard boxes. His name was Lobsang, a very kind man. He let me sleep on the lorry, in a nook among the boxes, for four nights while he paid for a hotel room in the South County and also in the following town. Jangma Lung is the place he was born, he told me, a village not far away from where we are now.

‘Today I’m going back to Marmo Leb for delivering more boxes.’ Lobsang says, sitting across the table. ‘You can come with me and we’ll be doing the same kind of thing, if you like?’

It’s midsummer and the weather is nice these days. I prefer the countryside when the weather is pleasant. There’s no rush here; everything drifts on time like a feather riding a gentle breeze. Marmo Leb is much busier compared to the countryside: more cars, more shops and, obviously, more people. I’m not in a mood to see strangers, can’t stand it when I feel them staring, but pretending to be contemplating something else.

‘I don’t mind staying here for some time,’ I say, ‘I can sleep by the riverside as I’ve done for the previous nights.’ And I ask him if he minds giving me another cigarette. He withdraws one cigarette from the silver-coloured packet, lights it by pressing against his cigarette end and hands it to me. He throws the newly opened packet on the tabletop as he hands me the cigarette.

‘The clothes I let you wear,’ he says, ‘you can keep them, if you want. I’ve got new ones from home this time.’ He takes a long drag on the remains of his cigarette, squeezes it between the thumb and the index finger, and turns his face towards the ceiling with half closed eyes. As though he’s just found a subject to talk about, he says: ‘Where are you going from here?’

‘I like it here, you know.’ I say. ‘I feel more home here than some other places.’

‘Well, do as you pleased. Probably not a bad idea.’ As he says this, he unzips his jacket front and fumbles for something in an inner pocket. ‘Here’s some money for you. Hope it helps a bit.’ He puts it on the table, next to the cigarette packet. After staring at my face for a second or two, seeing that I don’t move a muscle on my face, he takes his wallet from the back jeans pocket. Some more notes. ‘I’m leaving now. All the best.’ With that, he leaves. I watch him waving a hand, and closing the door.

At the table. The notes and the cigarette box are glaring right into my eyes.

LHAMO DOLMA:

‘I can never feel home in Dochen.’ He said to me. All I hoped was that he would return to his normal self and forget all this “not feeling home” business.