Down By the River
By Anya Vaverko

One of my favorite things about living in McLoud-Ganj, India was going to the river up in Bhagsu village. I used to walk up there all the time to wash my clothes, like many of the locals did. It wasn’t a chore at all because it was an excuse to swim, wash, and lie in the sun as your clothes dried. Another thing I loved about going there was that I often met people: families that invited me to picnic with them as their clothes dried on the stones or groups of Tibetan monks washing their robes and bathing.

On one particular day, I met group of young Tibetan girls. It must have been a weekend because the river was so crowded with clothes-washers. The girls found a spot next to where I was laying around, waiting for my clothes to dry. They caught my eye right away because they were alone, no elder with them. Right away I was amazed by how mature and childlike they were at the same time. They dutifully washed and scrubbed their ragged clothes on the rocks, but also giggled and splashed around like little kids.

Slowly, they warmed up to me. I helped pour water on their heads as they washed the soap out of their hair. I washed a few of their clothes that were struggling with. Then, when all their duties were over, we started to play cards, which I had brought with me. They spoke no English besides “A B C…” but I had mastered a handful of useful Tibetan phrases and was an expert at traveler’s sign language from communicating so often with people whose language I did not speak. I taught them a few games and then they taught me. We played and joked for a while, and then they ran off alone, playing in the river. Eventually, the girls returned and we ate momos, dumplings that Tibetan women come to sell at the river for all the people washing and picnicking there. I really had to insist that they eat because Tibetans typically refuse the first few times out of politeness.

After my clothes had dried, I started to leave, and the girls left with me, following me like Mother Goose. We walked through the village and all the way back to town, everyone looking on, giggling, and teasing me because I was walking hand in hand with five adorable girls. I still did not know much about them because of language limitations, but I knew they were kind and caring. They told me to come to their home with them, which turned out to be the Refugee Reception Center for newly arrived Tibetan refugees, children and adults alike, who had not yet been placed in a school or job.

Right away, two of the girls took charge of me and arranged that the other girls run and buy a watermelon, with these girls’ own money. One placed it in front of me and another one of them brought me a knife to start eating with. They themselves had just tiny bites of it, trying to make sure that I got the most. Then they arranged for their blanket to be rolled out on the floor, so I could sit comfortably, even though I tried to refuse because they were making such a fuss about it. It was a scene so perfect that it is hard to describe now. They were fretting, trying to make everything perfect, shouting orders to each other, rearranging their corner of the big room where all the women and children slept.

The other refugees staying there, families, lone children, and adults, all looked on cautiously at first and then warmed up to me, as they saw me play with the girls, look at the drawings they showed me, and joke around. Then these two girls asked if they could come to my home. It was very close and so I brought them there. They refused any snacks I tried to offer them, in the typical Tibetan manner. They were amused with my pet fish and drew pictures in my sketchpad with colored pencils. They asked if they could sleep there, and though I did not mind, I thought this might cause some trouble at the Refugee Center, so I told them no. They did not seem to be hurt. A bit too early the next morning, there was a knock at my door: the two girls. There was a knock at my door almost every day after that for the next week or so. Together, we hung around my apartment and often went to the Refugee Reception Center to visit with each other. I was happy that I was allowed inside the Center, where foreigners normally do not go.

In this time, I got to know more about these two stunning girls through the translation help of Tibetan friends. Their names were Phurpu Choezom and Tenzin Lamo, and they were both eight years old. They had been neighbors in Lhasa, capital of Tibet, when their parents sent them with a group of refugees (they only children among this group) and a paid guide to try to escape Chinese control. They walked for eight days and took buses to finally get to Nepal. After two months there, they finally arrived to McLoud-Ganj, Dharamsala, India, where His Holiness the Dalai Lama resided and taught. Soon they would be going to near-by Mussoorie, where they would be enrolled at a school for Tibetan refugee children. The girls plan in life was what the Dalai Lama told all the arriving refugees- to study hard and then return and work to improve the situation in their home country. These girls wanted to grow up to be teachers.

One day, I arrived at the Refugee Center to visit them and everyone there was dressed up and running around, excited. Today, many of them would have their turn to meet their respected leader, H.H. the Dalai Lama. Phurpu Choezom had already had her turn, but now Tenzin and many of the other children I had gotten to know would have theirs. We all went down to the temple, watched and waited for His Holiness’s arrival from his teaching in Canada. After we saw him arrive, the large group waiting to meet him went in. They came out inspired.

Just a few days after, their girls left for school in another town. When they were telling me their story earlier through an English speaking friend, they asked him how they would see me once they left to Mussoorie. I told them we probably wouldn’t. They paused for a minute, and processed the idea in their heads. I left them with photos we had taken together and a few friendship bracelets and lots of predictable advice like “study hard” and “be good.” What else could I say? They left me with a vivid memory of how strong and remarkable children can be. And with the hope that we will meet again.