Peekaboo

by Niharika Aggarwal (Hong Kong)

Making a local connection India

We were standing by the Zanskar river in a valley protected by the towering Himalayas. She looked up at me with curious eyes as I squeezed paste onto my toothbrush. She managed to look adorable even as her nose leaked onto her oversized handknit sweater. I shivered as I gargled the icy river water and quickly spat it out. She giggled. I turned to face her, feeling accomplished to have made her laugh. She ran off at once. This was my first morning at Yougar village, two thousand miles from my home in Hong Kong. I would spend the next three days in this remote Indian territory setting up solar electricity as part of a volunteering project during my sabbatical. The villagers gave our team a ceremonial welcome, expressing their enthusiasm for moving away from traditional kerosene lamps. The little girl I met by the river joined the welcome ceremony with her grandmother, baby sister, and an army of toddlers. I approached the overwhelmed old lady to tell her how wonderful her grandchildren looked. “How old are they?” I asked, enunciating every word as we tried to converse using a combination of broken Hindi and Ladakhi. “This one was born last month,” she said, swinging the baby in her arms, “the others I don’t remember.” Throughout the first day, our team took breaks from hammering bulb holders to interact with the shy but excited residents. I found her hiding behind her father, stealing glances in my direction but avoiding eye contact. “What’s her name?” I asked the father, as she clung onto his woolen lowers and spun around his legs. “I am not sure,” he said with a guilty smile, “I have a lot of children, sometimes I forget their names.” I struggled to return his smile, suddenly discovering how hard it was to empathize with their circumstances. “You could call her Tenzin, I guess,” he said offering a popular Ladakhi name to ease my discomfort. The next two days ticked along as we installed solar panels, batteries, and bulbs in the mud houses. When we connect the final circuit, the village would light up. Tenzin would no longer be exposed to toxic fumes from oil lamps when she starts studying her alphabet. I wondered though if she would ever get the opportunity to study. The construction of their village school was abandoned halfway when no teachers could be employed to make the daily trek to Yougar. It sat deep in the valley, several hundred miles from the nearest town. Boys in the village were sent off to a resident monastery school when they turned six. Girls were left in limbo. The last house we worked in happened to be Tenzin’s. There she was, cuddled in a corner behind her mother, pulling down on her multicolored wool hat to cover her face. My teammate took that as an opportunity to engage her in a game of peekaboo. She peeked and she giggled. She slowly emerged from behind her mother and offered him a small plastic kettle she was hiding in her fist. Being in the safety of her own home seemed to make her less scared of the new faces around her. I joined her play time. We taught her to count on her fingers – count to five then high-five! The room was echoing with her claps and laughter. Her father took a seat next to me, seeming to enjoy the jolly atmosphere. “Take her with you,” he said, softly. “Where would you like me to carry her to?” I asked, unsure what he meant. “No, take her with you,” he repeated, his expression suddenly grave. I nervously laughed it off, but my stomach churned. He’s surely joking. He loves her, doesn’t he? He’ll look after her, won’t he? Perhaps I heard him wrong. I reasoned with myself as I struggled to refocus on the final bit of work. The valley erupted with cheers when we plugged in the circuit. The village lit up almost festively. Our work here was done. I stood by the Zanskar river one last time, holding my toothbrush, waiting for Tenzin. I had to leave, without a goodbye. It felt like I left something behind.