July 26th, 2016

I drink some of my chai tea while waiting for Angmo to come back. Rigzin has just arrived and looks disoriented – all of the class is already grouped and ready to start the lesson of the day. “Come here, sister!” Angmo screams and immediately goes to greet her as she regrets being that loud. She hates being loud.

“You are never loud enough, sister,” says Rigzin as she sits next to me. Although she is just a year older than Angmo, she protects her like a mother. “So sorry for being late, miss. Won’t happen again,” she says while turning her head towards me. I tell her not to worry and we start our lesson. Today is Speak Out day, and rather than learning a new language rule, we try to have a fluent conversation in English. However, Rigzin is more agitated than usual and continues to call on Angmo until the unbelievable occurs: she speaks back. “Stop now, sister. You are that, a sister. Not a mother. You are not mother.” The rest of the class stares at us intrigued: almost none of them has ever listened to her voice until now. I look at both of them and suggest getting a snack to calm our nerves down. We leave the room while dozens of eyes follow us until we walk through the door. Still, I might be the most surprised of them all –during my first week here, they were so shy we stayed most of our lessons in complete silence. Although they trust me enough to speak in English with me, the longest conversation we have had until now was regarding my nationality. “So you tell us you are not Indian?” they kept asking me in disbelief as I explained I come from a small country in South America. “Absolutely. I am not Indian, at least not that I know. I am “mestiza” though, which means my ancestors came from different countries, so I could be a little Indian. Do you know what the word “though” means?”

And once they told me they didn’t, we continued our lesson. This new agitation of them makes me wonder if something has happened. Angmo is leaving Phey next week to take her high school final exams and pursue her dream of becoming an architect. Many architecture students arrive each year to learn about sustainable design, and she loves to ask them questions. I have been encouraging her to speak to them in English but she insists she is not ready yet. “But I am ready for my high school tests. First Urdu, my favorite subject, and then I graduate,” was the reply I got at the time. As her traveling day is approaching, she might feel nervous, so I decide to address this possibility. “You are a smart girl, Angmo. I am sure you will excel in your exams. Have you packed your”—Rigzin quickly interrupts me to let us know she is going to eat naan. Something is definitely going on but I cannot figure out what it is, nor does Angmo. We remain silent for the longest three minutes of my existence before Rigzin asks me to go look for notebooks for an English lesson here. Confused, but certain the sisters need some space on their own, I agree and leave the kitchen. I don’t have any lesson planned for today –we don’t even use notebooks during our regular classes– and feel completely lost. I take a couple of steps before remaining still, trying to figure out what to do. Should I go where the rest of the volunteers are until the lesson is over? Or should I stay close in case the girls need anything? I start considering going to my room when a cold, intense breeze surrounds me. I take a deep breath and look through the Himalayas in the background. It is so quiet outside that I listen to my heartbeats, filled with joy and gratitude from being here, at this moment. The feeling fades away as I listen to a quiet cry coming from the kitchen. Although they are speaking in Ladakhi, I identify Angmo’s pain and Rigzin’s desperation in their voices. My heart starts beating faster from concern instead of joy. Whatever happened, it is not good news. Still confused from what is going on, I decide to leave and keep myself busy. I go to the common area where Paul, another volunteer, is about to host a workshop on composting. I barely pay any attention since I cannot stop thinking about Angmo crying. I ask Gyatzo if he knows anything as nonchalantly as possible but fail: anyone can see how stressed I am from the look on my face. “This is about Angmo crying, I know,” he whispers back, “someone got killed in Kashmir and no one can enter the city. The situation is tough.” I remain silent and assimilate what he just told me. Angmo will not be able to travel to her school headquarters to take her tests. After some intense preparation months, Angmo will not graduate this year.

“Don’t forget to take your good luck pen,” I screamed to Angmo before she took the bus. I went back as a volunteer the next summer, after the Kashmir incident occurred. There is something about those mountains and people that made me feel the purest form of joy I have ever felt. Angmo was a different person: her hair was longer and her teenager cheeks disappeared, but most importantly, she was loud. She told me she wanted to become a lawyer to fight for girls’ education in areas of conflict. She was confident, extroverted, and a bit tough. I gave her a hug before saying goodbye: I was flying to New Delhi the next day to go back home and start medical school. We cried together and did a final chant while holding hands, wishing the best for one another. She finally went inside the bus where Rigzin was already seated, waiting for her little sister on her quest to follow her dreams. That was the last time I saw either of them. It has been ten years and every once in a while, I wonder if Angmo ever became a lawyer. I close my journal from the trip and try to focus as Adrian approaches my office to let me know my next patient has arrived. There is something about the village where I am working now that sometimes, when the sun is down and the birds are singing while I see the jungle in the background, I feel the purest form of joy that Phey once gave me.