Thirty-Three

If his father were alive, the young Sherpa would be working in some municipal office of Namche. Like his mother does, like his dead father also did. He would work far from the hazards of the high mountain and close to the forklift that, once a week, facilitates the transport of the pieces of the Caterpillar that clears the snow from the footpaths.

The young Sherpa had rejected that family mandate the first time he saw Everest Base Camp. That day – twelve years old, his debut – he helped place the Tibetan prayer flags around the tents: blue, white, red, green, yellow. In that order: sky, air, fire, water, earth. Again and again: sceptre, wheel, lotus, lightning bolt, stone. All around the camp: humility, teaching, meditation, dedication, courage. What the tourists like to call the Sherpas’ coloured flags.

Then he sat down and watched mesmerised as the flags waved over the snow. The wind by way of its manifestations.