Scattered wooden beads

It was a long night.

A kerosene-filled metallic lamp flickered, sending up smokes and brightening the room dully. Ap Tshampa struggled to read from the darkened scriptures, adjusting his thick glasses.

Karma, a boy of nine, lay whimpering on the hard wooden floor. He was burning and sweating with fever. He groaned with pain, his little chest heaving under the thick yak-hair blanket.

‘Nothing will happen,’ said Ap Tshampa, ‘he’ll be fine.’

Ap Tshampa said it was the evil spirit. He made ritualistic offerings to the deities and spirits.

Health Clinic was a day’s walk from the village. The boy’s mother considered taking him after the rituals. Ap Tshampa had already charted out a favourable day to go to the Clinic.

Aum Wangmo counted beads, saying prayers through the night.

Towards dawn, the little boy cried out in pain. Looking over a thin steak of light filtering through an opening at the wooden door, he gazed into eternity.

He looked around and saw his mother dozing, her rosary broken, 108 beads scattered in darkness.

He held a piece of bead, looked into the light and smiled.

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