figurines, prayer rugs, prayer flags,incense, postcards, and thangka paintings. At the moment, though, they sold nothing, because of the strike. Instead of selling goods and wares, the merchants were sitting around, and so was everybody else, except for a few kids playing cricket in the street because—for once, he realized—there were no cars and trucks to stop them, except that on occasion someone blasted through on a motorcycle, taking, he supposed, a political chance. Young guys, reckless and cavalier, always with a passenger, sometimes two. As soon as they passed, things fell quiet again. It was a hot morning in early May—dogs asleep in the shade, garbage reeking. And beggars everywhere. Some were lame and sickly, immobile and imploring, but most were urchins who trotted along next to him, trying to look and sound more pathetic than they were. Not that they weren’t pathetic. Half naked, unwashed, they naturally and inevitably plucked at his heartstrings. But, still, he wished they wouldn’t tap his hip eight thousand times in a row while saying, “Sir, sir, money, money,” or otherwise, in their half-intelligible ways, pleading their insistent cases. He decided to pretend that these child-beggars didn’t exist, that he didn’t hear or see them, but this was even more infuriating, because it embroiled him now in self-examination, and in pondering the conclusion he was rapidly coming to—that you couldn’t win in a case like this. That, no matter what you did, you were wrong.
Beset this way, he came to the Ring Road. The Maoists had taken control of it, he could see, by clogging the intersection. In red shirts and bandannas, they milled with restless zeal, listening to a speaker exhort them through a bullhorn. Except for a few motorcycles, some oxcarts, bicyclists, watertrucks, and a couple of ambulances, the Ring Road was, for the moment, pedestrians only. In a way, that was lucky: he wouldn’t have to dodge traffic. Trying to look full of confidence, bold, he crossed it and pressed on toward the hospital. Now his way felt unimpeded. He’d left the tourist zone of Boudhanath behind, which meant fewer beggars, con men, and touts. Once, he saw an air-conditioned bus coming at him with a large sign on its windshield reading TOURIST ONLY , as if that were a talisman that could thwart tossed rocks. As far as he could tell, the sign was working. The bus seemed to have carte blanche, despite the strike. But then he saw that, behind the bus, there were two jeeps full of soldiers in blue camo fatigues. They had weapons in their hands and slung across their shoulders. On he walked, with sweaty duress, bulling past the frowns of red-shirted teen-agers, some of whom brandished long, thick staves. Troops had taken up positions. Some kept watch behind sandbagged outposts, while others stood or crouched in the shade, or bounced past in fast-moving, canopied carriers. Well, it wasn’t his business, whatever was going on. None of this had to do with him. But then he came to what his map called a river—mud, plastic bags, garbage, shit—and the road he was on became a bridge blocked by Maoists. Fortunately, they were letting pedestrians cross, except that, when
he
tried to cross, a caramel-skinned and gaunt, tense teen put a hand on his chest to check his progress. They stood like that, facing each other, the Maoist with his imposing stave, he with his sunscreen, water bottle, and hat. While other pedestrians passed in droves, the reality of his circumstances soon became clear to him: he had to go back, he couldn’t cross.
He retreated, but only by fifty yards—back to the first patch of shade he could find—and stood there, wondering if he should get out his wallet, produce a wad of Nepalese rupees, and try, again, to cross the bridge. He was considering this when someone tapped his hip—a boy a little older than the average child-beggar, whose English was coherent but far from perfect. “America,” he said.
Beset this way, he came to the Ring Road. The Maoists had taken control of it, he could see, by clogging the intersection. In red shirts and bandannas, they milled with restless zeal, listening to a speaker exhort them through a bullhorn. Except for a few motorcycles, some oxcarts, bicyclists, watertrucks, and a couple of ambulances, the Ring Road was, for the moment, pedestrians only. In a way, that was lucky: he wouldn’t have to dodge traffic. Trying to look full of confidence, bold, he crossed it and pressed on toward the hospital. Now his way felt unimpeded. He’d left the tourist zone of Boudhanath behind, which meant fewer beggars, con men, and touts. Once, he saw an air-conditioned bus coming at him with a large sign on its windshield reading TOURIST ONLY , as if that were a talisman that could thwart tossed rocks. As far as he could tell, the sign was working. The bus seemed to have carte blanche, despite the strike. But then he saw that, behind the bus, there were two jeeps full of soldiers in blue camo fatigues. They had weapons in their hands and slung across their shoulders. On he walked, with sweaty duress, bulling past the frowns of red-shirted teen-agers, some of whom brandished long, thick staves. Troops had taken up positions. Some kept watch behind sandbagged outposts, while others stood or crouched in the shade, or bounced past in fast-moving, canopied carriers. Well, it wasn’t his business, whatever was going on. None of this had to do with him. But then he came to what his map called a river—mud, plastic bags, garbage, shit—and the road he was on became a bridge blocked by Maoists. Fortunately, they were letting pedestrians cross, except that, when
he
tried to cross, a caramel-skinned and gaunt, tense teen put a hand on his chest to check his progress. They stood like that, facing each other, the Maoist with his imposing stave, he with his sunscreen, water bottle, and hat. While other pedestrians passed in droves, the reality of his circumstances soon became clear to him: he had to go back, he couldn’t cross.
He retreated, but only by fifty yards—back to the first patch of shade he could find—and stood there, wondering if he should get out his wallet, produce a wad of Nepalese rupees, and try, again, to cross the bridge. He was considering this when someone tapped his hip—a boy a little older than the average child-beggar, whose English was coherent but far from perfect. “America,” he said.
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