It was late afternoon when we checked into our hotel, the Kathmandu Guest House in the Thamel district of the city. The rooms were neat and clean, painted in blues with yellow accents and bamboo floors, with very clean restrooms. One of our rooms had a kitchen with a stove and a refrigerator.
When we arose the next morning, Ram was gone.
“He went to India to take care of some business for us,” Padar said at breakfast. We all peppered him with questions about their plan. He held his finger to his lips. “Quiet, children. You’ll know soon enough.”
He took us shopping for clothes in Kathmandu Durbar Square. The square was magnificent. The king’s palace stood on one edge, shops full of clothes and pottery and artwork and jewelry on the other. Before we went into any of the stores, he warned us that these merchants always had two prices—one for the locals and another for the tourists. He helped me haggle for a good price on a beautiful Nepali sweater, hand-embroidered with colorful flowers.
Padar never carried a change of clothes, so he purchased himself some new pants and a shirt and shoes. My sisters and I each bought a new dress, and Zia bought new shoes.
We strolled the busy streets, taking in the sights like tourists, visiting temples that allowed non-Hindus to enter, running up the steep steps to Swayambhunath Stupa, with its gold-plated gods and multitude of spires. We toured a few palaces and visited the crowded market streets that teemed with shops and stalls. The streets were always crowded with cyclists and backpackers, bicycle rickshaws, and cars.
One afternoon Padar took us to the vegetable market, where he purchased everything he would need to make dinner. He bought some pots and pans, and that evening in the hotel, he cooked for us a dinner like we would have eaten in Kabul.
He taught me to cook chalow with kormas, and kofta, and lamb-chicken kabobs, and Kabuli pulao, and other dishes. We spent the days exploring and spent the evenings cooking and staying up late playing cards.
We had been there nearly a week, and Ram had still not returned. Padar said he would arrive when he was ready and not to worry. It was a rainy day, so we decided to stay in our room and play fis kut while Padar went out for some fresh fruit. It’d been raining all the previous night, and we felt cooped up for the first time since the barn as we sat in a circle on the floor holding our cards.
For the first hour, Zia won every hand, racking up points and ridiculing Zulaikha’s play at every opportunity.
“You’re cheating, that’s why you win so much,” she said, holding her hand to her chest so none of us could see her cards.
“I don’t need to cheat to beat you.” He threw down a trump, gaining more points. “All I have to do is wait for you to make a stupid move.”
“Like that one,” Laila said, picking up his discard and throwing down a three of a kind.
I laughed. Laila was right; Zia did make stupid moves at times. But I also knew that at one time or another over the last two years, each of us had cheated at this game.
“What are you laughing at?” Zia asked, his face turning a little red, thinking that I might be making fun of him too.
“You’re a cheater,” I said, pointing at Zia. “You’re a cheater.” I pointed at Zulaikha. “You’re a cheater.” I pointed at Laila.
Zia tapped his chest with indignation, his cheeks blanching. “Who, me? I never cheat.”
That made me laugh even harder. Laila pushed me over on my back. “You’re the biggest cheater of them all.”
“And you’re all stupid,” I said through giggles, “because you don’t even know all the ways I win at this game while you’re not looking.”
Zulaikha threw her cards at me. Then Zia did the same, and frustrated, Laila jumped on me, trying to pin my arms to the floor. “You wretched thing,” she said. “I’ve had enough of you.”
“You idiot,” I said, trying to push her off me. Zulaikha grabbed one of my wrists so they could hold me down and start slapping me. “Help me, Zia. They’re going to kill me.” He grabbed Zulaikha’s wrist, trying to pry it off me. I screamed when my wrist twisted; Zulaikha screamed; Zia shouted when someone pulled his hair.
Just then the door burst open. And we froze.
“What’s going on here?” Padar said. “Get your hands off each other, before I slap them off.”
Our wrestling ceased. Laila jumped off me. We all stood facing him.
“Haven’t I taught you anything about how to treat one another?” He looked exasperated, disappointed. He set his bags of groceries on the table. He paced for about a minute, then stopped. “Get your coats. I want to show you something.”
We gathered ourselves. I put on my new embroidered sweater with the colorful flowers. The rain had tapered off, and we each had an umbrella that kept the gentle sprinkle off us. We followed Padar through the narrow streets that were like canyons, the buildings were so tall. He walked quickly, turning into one plaza that fed into another, where we passed palaces, temples, and street vendors with their wares laid out on the bricks. Padar turned into a building that at first looked like so many of the others—white pillars across the front, steps leading up to a platform; the entrance was flanked by carved stone elephants, a favorite local deity.
“This is the Garden of Dreams,” he said.
Up the front walk, it soon became evident this wasn’t just another temple. The perfectly manicured lawns were bordered by low shrubs and colorful flowers, with slate walkways that were laid in perfect geometric patterns. This reminded me of the Paghman Gardens in Kabul, one of my favorite places. We entered through the archway at the top of the stone stairs and passed through an iron gate onto a broad walkway. Padar led us beside a lily pond, along a brick walk, past a set of half-circular steps that led down to a grassy amphitheater. A path of stones was set in a lawn that led to a brick-and-glass outdoor café, but we didn’t stop for tea. We followed Padar deep into the garden, into an alcove surrounded by a decorative brick wall with coping painted white.
Trees hung over the walls, and neatly trimmed bushes grew along the edges, with a diamond-shaped fountain in the middle, water trickling soothingly out of its top into the placid pool below. It was a lush green oasis of privacy and charm.
Padar motioned for all of us to sit down on one of the white benches. It was hard and cold but none of us complained. He paced in front of us.
“What do you see here,” he said, expecting that we would understand the lesson he was to teach us.
“It’s quiet,” Laila said.
“It’s beautiful,” Zulaikha said.
I could see that these weren’t the answers he was expecting. “Look carefully, children.” We each eagerly searched the garden, the peaceful surroundings. This was his way of teaching us about life, but his message was lost on me. “Look at the trees,” he said.
“They touch each other,” I said.
“Yes, that’s right, Enjeela.” He motioned toward the two large ones in front of us, where the branches were so close to each other as they reached over the wall, they intermingled. “Do you see them fighting?”
“How can they fight?” Zia said. “They can’t even talk.”
“They’re like a poem, Zia,” he said, raising his hand in the air toward them. “Their actions speak to us without words.”
“They’re symbols,” Laila said.
“Of what?” Zulaikha asked.
“They can touch,” he said. “Yet they don’t fight. They get along.”
“So we’re supposed to behave like trees,” Zia said.