Ralo

Tsering Dondrup Translated by
Christopher Peacock

I don’t look forward to this blank page before me, where I must write down the story of Ralo. When I think of him, that thick yellow snot hanging from his nose starts to swing back and forth before my eyes.

His mother was the only family he’d ever known. When he learned how to talk, some cruel men from the village would have a laugh by asking him who his dad was. As far as Ralo was concerned, this was a question for his mother.

“Mom, who’s my dad?”

“Don’t ever mention that word again.” His mother slapped him and then squeezed him tightly to her breast. Before long, however, a man began to appear at their house in the evenings. Later on, he started to visit during the day, too, and eventually he simply moved in with them. “Ralo, my darling, this is your dad,” his mother lovingly informed him. But, unlike the other dads in the village, this man never gave his son a single sweet or a single kiss. On top of this, whenever Ralo came near him, he would recoil in disgust: “Hey! Look at that snot—get away from me.” Ralo’s snot was like running water: as soon as he wiped it away, it came flowing right back. “His brains are dripping out again,” his mother always said.

Before Ralo knew it, he was fourteen years old, but the snot hanging from his nose was even thicker and longer than before. By this time, all the other kids of his age could ride a horse and shoot a bow and arrow. He was the only one who still didn’t dare to ride a tame horse on his own—he still had to ride in the saddle with his mother. “Ralo, you riding in your mom’s lap again?” the others would tease him.

One morning the family was preparing to move to their winter camp. As Ralo clung to the guide rope of the yak that his stepfather was loading, the animal started bucking. “Hold on tight!” his stepfather said.

With a line of snot running from his nose into his mouth, Ralo grit his teeth, bit his lip, and clung on to the yak for dear life.

“It’s always better to have a man than a dog,” said his stepfather with satisfaction. “Hold on tight, hold—” but before he could finish, the yak reared again and Ralo was tossed to the ground face-first, losing his grip on the guide rope. The old yak bolted like a thing possessed, flinging its saddle down to its belly and scattering the family possessions, which were all trampled beyond salvation.

You’re angry at the yak, but it’s the horse that gets the whip, as the saying goes. The stepfather charged over in a fit of rage and screamed, “You useless snotty little goat! Can’t even hold onto a yak properly!” With that he delivered two hard slaps to Ralo’s face, causing the snot on the boy’s chin to drip down to his chest. “Don’t you dare hit my son!” called out his mother, running over to them. “If you lay a finger on my son again . . . you won’t have a home here anymore!”

“Ha! The only reason I stayed here in the first place was because I felt sorry for the two of you. I’m leaving.” And his stepfather did indeed set off on his way.

“Don’t let dad leave . . .”

“Shut your dog mouth! What dad?” His mother slapped him and held him to her breast. Both mother and son burst into tears.

How many people there are in this world! But apart from his mother, Ralo did not have a single relative, just as his mother had no one apart from Ralo. And yet, the Lord of Death had not the slightest bit of compassion for the two of them. Like a wolf pouncing into a flock of sheep, he came to pluck Ralo’s mother from the multitudes of the world and lead her into the next life. Though Ralo and his mother had no family but each other, when the villagers heard about his mother’s death, there wasn’t a single dry eye. No doubt, this was out of compassion for Ralo.

In the summer of the year that Ralo’s mother died, a few decent folks from the village got together and decided to send Ralo off to board at the district primary school. In reality, this was not so much in order for him to learn to read and write as it was to put a roof over his head.

As it happened, I started school that same year, so Ralo and I became classmates. But Ralo was five years older than me. In fact he was older than everyone else in the class.

At first, Ralo was a great student. He memorized the thirty letters of the alphabet before any of the other students in the class, causing the teacher to declare, “Everyone should learn from Ralo.” However, a few days later when the teacher asked us to write each letter on the board, Ralo couldn’t even write the first one, prompting the class to fall into hysterics. “No one should learn from Ralo,” the teacher said.

“No one should learn from Ralo.” This phrase spread throughout the school.

It turned out that we really shouldn’t learn from Ralo. By the time we moved up to the next grade, Ralo still couldn’t write the alphabet. He was terrible at his studies. His hygiene was terrible—snot constantly dripping from his nose—and he was always smoking. He was terrible at following the rules, too. So in the end, he was held back. But as far as Ralo was concerned, none of this was anything to be worried about because there was no one who would reproach him for it. The main things Ralo cared about were where he would stay for the summer holidays and how he was going to get cigarettes once all the teachers and students had gone home. He found a way: in the end, Ralo got all his cigarettes in exchange for cleaning the teachers’ houses, washing clothes and getting food for the older students, and by subbing for his classmates when it was their turn to tidy up the classroom.

Students from nomad areas had a bad habit of not coming back for the start of term on time. At the end of the summer and winter holidays, there was often a delay of five or six days before classes could begin in earnest. Ralo, however, never once took leave to go back home, and moreover he always arrived at school before the new term even began. On this point, everyone really should have learned from Ralo.

A few fights are always going to break out in any school, and ours was no exception. Some of the troublemakers would deliberately shout “No one should learn from Ralo!” within his earshot. Ralo would chase them madly, but if one stopped to face him and looked like he was up for a fight, Ralo would say, “Teacher said I’m not allowed to fight,” and like that his nerve would be gone. But as soon as the boy turned to leave, Ralo would pursue him once again demanding to know “Why shouldn’t you learn from me?” and butting him with his shoulder. One day, a student seven years younger than Ralo shoved him to the ground and jumped on his back. “Look how fast my horse is!” the boy yelled, bouncing on Ralo and pretending to ride him. “Ah—Teacher . . .” cried Ralo, his flowing tears mixing with his snot, which in turn glued together with the dirt on his face. No matter how much he bucked, he couldn’t shake the boy. From that point on, everyone knew that Ralo might be big physically but he didn’t have an ounce of strength. And so the bullies multiplied.

When we moved up a grade for the second time, Ralo could just barely recognize the thirty letters of the alphabet but he still couldn’t write any of them, so he was held back again. The third and fourth years were the same. But whenever the teachers needed a sheep slaughtered, Ralo was indispensable, so it seemed that there wasn’t any harm in keeping him around.

At the end of the fifth year I finished primary school and moved to the County Nationalities’ Middle School.

One morning in the middle of winter, as a typical snowstorm of the northwest highlands was dancing in the sky, I was in my office stoking a fire in the stove.

Suddenly, a nomad charged in without even knocking. “Is this the People’s Court?”

“Yes, can I help you with something?”

“Well, well! Aren’t you Dondrup?”

“Yes, and you . . .”

“Don’t act like you don’t know me!” He dragged a stool over to the stove and sat himself down. “You become a cadre and you forget your old classmates, is that it?”

Wait, was this Ralo, my classmate from ten years ago? Ah tsi, he really had aged. His forehead was lined with wrinkles and a cluster of uneven whiskers sprouted around his mouth. What hadn’t changed was the thick yellow snot coming from his nose.

“Ah, well of course I know you. Is something the matter?”

“Of course something’s the matter!” Ralo said, sucking in his snot before continuing. “Someone stole my wife. He’s called Sonam Dargye. He’s the most terrible man in the village. If you don’t believe me, just go down to Drakmar village—ask anyone there, and they’ll tell you the same thing. Last year the bastard stole Aku Rapgye’s horse, and this year he sold Ani Tsokyi’s old dzo to some Muslim! And then yesterday, he beats me up and steals my wife, like it’s nothing. Doesn’t your court have the power to punish him, or are you afraid of him? Is your People’s Court going to help Ralo the proletarian, or aren’t you? I want to know today!” As Ralo went on and on, the snot ran down his chin.

“Of course you’ll get help, but this is the criminal court, you need to take your case to the civil court.”

“I don’t understand this criminal civil stuff.”

Ralo was getting angry.

“If you’re not afraid of Sonam Dargye, then go arrest him and get my wife back! Come to think of it, you can arrest her, too, while you’re at it.”

“Don’t get all worked up,” I said.

I passed Ralo a cigarette.

“Ralo, my old classmate. We haven’t seen each other in years. How about we catch up first? What have you been up to all this time?”

“OK. Alright then.” Ralo gradually calmed down and we started to talk.

Despite the fact that Ralo still couldn’t write the alphabet, he had grown older than most of the teachers at the school and there was just no way he could stay on, so in the end he was expelled. The reason given for his expulsion was that he had knocked on a female teacher’s door late one night. After being expelled, with no home and no family, what choice did Ralo have but to become a drifter?

At first, Ralo staved off the cold and hunger by stopping at any house he came across and volunteering to do manual work or put the cattle out to pasture. Once, an old man at one of these houses thought to himself, “Eh, it’s about time for our daughter to get a husband. This drifter Ralo can’t control his snot, but he’s not a bad herder, and at least he doesn’t have sticky fingers. If we get him as our son-in-law, we won’t have to get any betrothal gifts, either. Not bad!”

For Ralo, this was most welcome indeed.

The strange thing was that Ralo, as if he’d been bewitched, gradually stopped doing any work at all, and wouldn’t even go graze the cattle. “I’m your son-in-law, not your slave,” he would say. This infuriated the old man. “Gah! The ingratitude of it! If I don’t teach that snot-nosed bum one hell of a lesson, then I’m no man!” Ralo paid the old man no mind and carried on doing whatever he pleased. Though there was nothing he could do about the snot, his cracked lips seemed to be healing and his face began to emit a red glow. Every day he combed his short, fine marmot-tail braid, as he drew out his speech into a slow, aristocratic drawl: “Ah . . .” “Oh . . .” “Really . . .” “Strange . . .”
“I’ve never heard that before . . .” “There’s an old saying . . .”. You’d never think that this was the same man who’d been a snot-nosed drifter only a few days before.

But how could Ralo know that “one hell of a lesson” awaited him?

For a few days, the family had been stockpiling beer, cigarettes, and sweets, making bread, and slaughtering sheep and cows, as if they were preparing for a grand celebration. When Ralo asked what was going on, they said that a great lama was coming to visit.

“Oh, what good fortune for us!” said Ralo, combing his braid.

Ralo had a habit of getting out of bed very late in the morning. That day being no exception, it was almost midday before he was up. Putting on his fur-lined coat and exiting the tent, he saw a great many horses tied up outside and heard the sounds of raucous laughter and singing. Thinking to himself that the lama had arrived, he immediately fastened his belt and rushed over, but on entering the other tent he found everyone staring at him curiously. Puzzled, Ralo looked about and discovered his wife, decked out in her finest splendor, kneeling next to another young man. “What’s all this?” he demanded, even more puzzled now.

“Our family is getting a son-in-law,” his wife’s younger brother replied.

“Who are we getting a son-in-law for?”

“My sister, who else? He’s not for me.” Everyone burst out laughing.

“Is having two husbands allowed?”

“What? What two husbands?”

“Me, him.”

“Hahaha! A snotty little bum like you who gets drunk without even drinking? You’re the family’s sheep herder, how could you be her husband?”

“This is impossible! You can’t insult someone like this! If I don’t die right here in front of you, then I’m no man!” Ralo brandished his fists and leapt forward as the crowd struggled to restrain him. You can’t stop a mad dog, and you can’t restrain a madman, as the saying goes, and Ralo worked himself up into an even greater frenzy. “Haha! Have you never heard of the royal genealogies of the Ralo family? My fathers were kings, and my mothers were queens! If I don’t bathe this village in blood today then my name’s not Ralo! I’m Ralo, you . . .” Ralo ranted on and on until the snot running into his mouth finally brought him to a halt.

The crowd, moved to hysterics by this absurd scene, let him go. Ralo didn’t dare raise his fists to the brother, so he just butted him with his shoulder. “It’s my sister’s wedding day, so I’m not getting in a fight with a snotty little bum like you. Get a grip on yourself and piss off back to wherever you came from,” said the younger brother. But Ralo simply wouldn’t leave him alone and continued to butt him with his shoulder until the brother, his patience exhausted, grabbed Ralo’s braid and tossed him to the floor, pulling the braid out at the roots as he did so.

“Ah ho, my braid! It’s worth a whole yak . . .” Ralo rolled about on the floor in a fit. “If you don’t repay me for my braid then I’m not going anywhere!”

“If you don’t leave I’ll cut your ear off.” Unsheathing his knife, the brother stepped toward him. Ralo jumped to his feet and ran like the wind.

Ralo wasn’t worried at all about his wife getting married to someone else. What he was worried about was how he could face other people without his beautiful braid. But before long his stomach was empty, and he had no choice but to return to civilization once more.

Ralo passed through many different villages and stayed at many different houses. At first, he would volunteer to do manual work or put the cattle out to pasture at any house he came across. But as soon as his belly was full, he’d give up his herding duties and start talking with that slow drawl: “Ah . . .” “Oh . . .” “There’s an old saying . . .” Some houses kicked him out with a “Get lost,” while he left others of his own accord.

One day Ralo arrived at a monastery. As the monastery was in the process of being rebuilt, it just so happened that they were taking in monks.

“There was never any point in drifting through the mundane world anyway, and since that asshole cut off my precious braid, I’ve really got no way to face people. I might as well become a monk, that way I can at least chant some scriptures for my dear old mother.” With these thoughts in mind, Ralo shed his lay clothing and adopted the robes of a monk, taking as his Dharma name “Choying Drakpa.”

Choying Drakpa didn’t miss a single assembly, and he memorized the Vows of Refuge and other elementary chants before any of the other monks. “This chanting scriptures business is much easier than what we did in school. This is my kind of studying!” he thought to himself. His continued devotion to his studies earned him the repeated praise of the disciplinarian, praise that almost reached the level of that phrase from his youth: “Everyone should learn from Ralo.”

But gradually Choying Drakpa came to know of the “secret activities” and “open deeds” of certain lamas and monks. “If that’s the way it is, then what’s the point?” he thought. From then on, he was only at the monastery if there was something to eat and drink, or if there were families of the deceased offering donations to the monks. The rest of the time he spent in the nearby town watching movies, smoking cigarettes, and even drinking beer (which he called “fruit juice”), and so that other phrase from his youth once again reared its head: “No one should learn from Ralo.”

Worse than that, one afternoon a rumor blew through the monastery that Choying Drakpa had been chasing after a girl down in the village. Soon this rumor also reached the ears of the disciplinarian and some of the old monks. “Choying Drakpa might be lazy,” thought the disciplinarian, “but he has renounced worldly existence and turned his mind to the sacred Dharma, so there’s no way he could get up to such shameless things. Perhaps it’s nothing but lies and slander. I’ll believe it when I see it with my own eyes!”

But there were two monks who did indeed see it with their own eyes. Choying Drakpa had gone down to the banks of the Tsechu to drink a “fruit juice.” It was a summer afternoon and the rays of the midday sun were streaming over Tsezhung county. Amidst the soft green grass of the highlands great bouquets of globeflowers were blooming—from a distance it looked just like someone had laid out a green carpet dotted with yellow. Through this whole scene the Tsechu River flowed gently. If anyone with even a single artistic bone in their body were to come here, then the strains of “The Blue Danube” might naturally drift into their ears. No matter what angle you looked at it from, the Tsechu really was just as lovely as the beautiful Danube.

Just then a girl from the village over the river came to fetch water. She was just as beautiful as the river. As she drew water she cast a glance at Choying Drakpa from the corner of her eye, and he fell like an animal into a trap. “At the end of the day, the most beautiful thing in the world is a woman,” he thought. Seized with a sudden impulse, he struck up a Malho love song:

Can the wild yak climb

On the misty mountain?

Can the little goldfish swim

In the emerald lake?

Can I have the company

Of the enchanting girl?

Without giving it much thought, the water-fetching girl responded with her own Ganlho love song:

The black clouds with the yellow lining

Are made up of frost and hail.

The monk who’s neither clergy nor layman

Is the enemy of Buddhist teachings.

Because she sang quickly, Choying Drakpa didn’t quite get the gist of the song, nor did he stop to give it much consideration. “Usually it’s pretty rare for girls to sing to boys,” he thought to himself, “but this one replied to me straight away. She must be into me!” Overcome with joy and completely forgetting both the disciplinarian and his vows, he plowed into the Tsechu without even taking his off his boots.

The girl had at first thought that the monk was just kidding around with her, so she wanted to kid around with him, but as soon as she saw Choying Drakpa rushing toward her, boots still on and snot running down to his chin, she thought to herself, “This monk must be crazy!” Throwing aside her water bucket, she fled in terror.

When they witnessed this farcical scene, the monks who had been studying by the river couldn’t help but burst into laughter. At that moment, Choying Drakpa came to his senses and stood dazed in the middle of the river.

The sun set, and the monastery became even more still and peaceful.

The greatest burden in the world isn’t having work to do, but having nothing to do. It was indeed as if Choying Drakpa was suffering under the weight of having nothing to do. He got up late in the morning and couldn’t get to sleep at night. The water-fetching girl’s alluring features and that sidelong glance (which he took as flirtatious) refused to disappear from his mind. Heaving a sigh, he left his monk’s quarters.

The curved sickle moon hung in the southwest sky like an old man leaning on his walking stick. The sound of dogs barking drifted over from the village on the other side of the Tsechu, and looking in that direction Choying Drakpa could see each of the homes clearly. One place had a fire going in the stove, and he could see it even more clearly than the others.

The face of the water-fetching girl appeared before Choying Drakpa’s eyes like a film projected on the screen of his mind. He returned to his room, took off his monk’s robes, and put on his old fur-lined coat.

It was just over two kilometers from the monastery to the village over the river, so Choying Drakpa arrived there in no time at all. He turned toward the home with the blazing lamplight, and tiptoeing up to the flap of the tent he peeked inside, but there was only one person in there. It was a woman, but sadly it wasn’t the water-fetching girl. She was sitting by the stove with her head in her hands, as though something were weighing on her mind.

Choying Drakpa forgot about the water-fetching girl entirely and couldn’t help but enter the tent. The woman jumped up in fright, an “Ah ma!” escaping her mouth. After a moment she calmed down, and asked who he was.

“I’m a passer-by,” Choying Drakpa answered with a grin. “Can I stay the night here?”

The woman sized up Choying Drakpa in detail. He was tall and skinny with thick eyebrows and a purplish complexion.

“Ah tsi, of course you can.” She got up, and with a smile poured Choying Drakpa a cup of tea. “Have a seat on the mat.”

Choying Drakpa took a seat and examined his surroundings, and gradually his gaze came to rest on the woman. She was around thirty, with dark red cheeks and a high nose. She was plump and had a bulging chest. Choying Drakpa felt his skin tingle with desire. “Is it just you here?” he asked her, flushing.

“Eh . . .” she sighed, and a forlorn expression appeared on her face. “I had a good-for-nothing husband, but he left me and ran off to become a monk.”

“Ah, how terrible! Most monks are shameless like that. I can’t stand monks.”

“Absolutely. There’s no one in the world who loves to eat and hates to work more than a monk.”

“Rubbish!”

“Huh?”

“Oh—I mean those monks love to talk rubbish, too.”

“Do you smoke?” The woman asked.

“Of course not . . . oh . . . yes, I do, I do.”

“Give me one, would you? This loneliness has made me take it up.”

After expounding for a while on the joys and benefits of smoking, Choying Drakpa fished around in his pocket. “Oh—too bad! I didn’t bring any today.”

Choying Drakpa and the woman talked for some time, and now and then he would send some compliments her way. After a while their intentions began to align.

“Ah, you know what they say, ‘There’s no suffering in the recitation hall, but you have to sit ‘til your butt’s numb, and there’s no happiness in samsara, but you can still dispel your troubles.’”

“What? You’ve been in a recitation hall?”

“I was before, it was pointless. What if the two of us could be together our whole lives, wouldn’t that be great?”

“If that’s what you want, then it’s easily done.”

“Of course that’s what I want! But we can’t stay here, because . . .” Choying Drakpa recounted all of his troubles to her. After hiding out at her place for a few days, he helped her gather up all of her necessities, and under the cover of the moonlight they headed for Choying Drakpa’s home town.

When Choying Drakpa was a monk, if someone called him “Ralo” instead of “Choying Drakpa” he would get angry and butt them with his shoulder. Now that he had returned home, people called him “Ralo” once again, and he let them.

Ralo’s household registration was still here in his village, and his mother’s nomad tent and her belongings were still there in the village storehouse. The Nomad Committee gave him a relief stipend and gathered some sheep and cattle from the villagers for him to tend, for which he had to sign a contract. At first Ralo worked diligently and his house really seemed like a home, but as soon as he had clothes on his back and food in his belly, the seeds of laziness gradually sprouted again. He stopped tending the livestock, stopped working, and went into town to idle around. Eventually his livestock contract was rescinded, and his wife lost all patience with him.

Ralo had been in town for a bender, and after all his money had dried up he returned home to discover that his wife was nowhere to be seen. According to his neighbors, she’d been taken away by Sonam Dargye, so off he went to Sonam Dargye’s house to fetch her back.

“This is my home now,” she said.

“Ah tsi, are you possessed or what?”

“You’re the one who’s possessed!” Sonam Dargye approached him. “She’s my legal wife, what other home has she got except this one?”

Ralo, incensed, started to butt Sonam Dargye with his shoulder. “You’ll steal someone’s wife in broad daylight?!”

“If you think I stole her then go report it to the police. Then we’ll see whose wife she is.”

Only then did Ralo remember that there is a place that can subdue tyrants and protect the weak: a place they call “the courthouse.”

I took Ralo to the civil court and introduced him, then went back to the office.

The civil court summoned Sonam Dargye and the woman to investigate the matter. “It’s true that Ralo and I lived together for a while,” she said, “but we weren’t husband and wife. If he says we were, then where’s the marriage certificate? Isn’t it against the law to live together without a marriage certificate? So my marriage to Sonam Dargye is completely legal.” She produced a marriage certificate from her pocket.

According to the verdict of the court, the woman was Sonam Dargye’s legal spouse. Ralo’s lawsuit had about as much impact as throwing a stone into Qinghai Lake.

Ralo now finally realized the importance of getting a marriage certificate. He felt a deep sense of regret that he hadn’t sorted out this marriage certificate before. He gave himself a slap on the face, and the snot ran down to his chin.

Ralo exited the courthouse and wandered aimlessly down the street. Coming to the door of a restaurant, he realized that he hadn’t had breakfast or lunch yet. He felt a wave of heat in his stomach, which emitted a long rumble. Unable to stop himself, he went into the restaurant. However, while he still had some livestock, he unfortunately didn’t have a penny to his name.

A lot of kids these days will eat without paying for it, but Ralo was not that kind of person—in fact, there was one time he returned 4000 yuan he found on the street straight to its owner without a moment’s hesitation. No one could accuse Ralo of having sticky fingers, unless they were talking about him picking up cigarette butts out of the teachers’ trash back when he was in school.

Ralo stood in a daze, staring at the mouths of the diners. As he stared he found himself thinking back to his time as a monk: the faithful masses would always donate congee filled with more meat than rice, and there would even be raisins and sugar. If ever a family that wasn’t so well off substituted dates for raisins, the monks would say “Hey, they’ve put damn dates in here!” and with no hesitation at all upend their bowls on the table.

“I really didn’t know the value of food in those days,” he sighed. Ralo swallowed a mouthful of saliva and turned to leave, but from his stomach there continued to come the warning sign that he had to eat something.

“Ah—what can I do? I’ve got to get some food, no matter what!” Ralo cast about desperately for a familiar face. “In the old days,” he thought to himself, “I’d sell a sheep or a cow and drink to my heart’s content, then all my classmates and people I knew would be buzzing around me like bees. Where have all those people gone now?” His thoughts turned to the old yak, the one he used to ride. That yak was the only one from his herd of livestock worth any money, as well as his only means of getting around. But what’s more important than your stomach? Don’t all living things, from the lowest ant to the noblest human, rush about madly just for the sake of their stomachs?

Ralo sold the old yak for 700 yuan. If he had been an experienced trader, there’s no doubt he could have got more for it. But as far as Ralo was concerned, 700 yuan was a most satisfactory sum. Never before in his life had he held so much money in his hands.

10.

“I’m Ralo, and I’m rolling in it! Drink, drink, drink . . .” Ralo was a little bit drunk. He was in a restaurant, waving a handful of 100-yuan bills in the air, and drinking beer in the middle of a crowd. “As for Ralo’s paternal ancestry and maternal ancestry . . .”
he began, snot running down to his chin.

It was dusk, and the restaurant was lit up. A woman kept peeking in through the doorway and looking around. As Ralo was coming back from taking a piss he saw her and stayed outside for a moment to size her up. From the look of her clothes, she wasn’t a local.

“Where are you from?” asked Ralo, staring at her.

“Amchok,” said the woman, turning round to look at Ralo. She was just over twenty years old, her clothes were worn out and she had cracked lips, but her deep-set eyes gave off a sincerity and a purity that called to Ralo’s mind the image of the water-fetching girl from the year before.

“Have you ever been to the Tsechu to fetch water?”

Not understanding the meaning behind his question, she stared at him in bemusement.

“You’ve definitely been to the Tsechu to fetch water.” Ralo interrogated her as though he were a policeman. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to eat something . . . but . . .”

Ralo realized that she must have no money. “I know you. I’ve seen you before. Just wait a second.” He went into the restaurant and whispered a few words to a young man who had the appearance of an official. The man passed him a key, and Ralo returned. “Come on, let’s go eat.”

The woman was hesitant and stayed where she was. “Don’t be afraid,” said Ralo. “I know you.” He tugged on her sleeve and so she reluctantly went along.

Side by side, they went into a narrow alley.

“There’s no happiness in samsara, but you can dispel your troubles!” Ralo blurted out. On top of the proverb, he added: “Let’s get a marriage certificate.”

“Ah tsi! What are you on about? I’ve got a husband.”

“Ah, but after we get a marriage certificate, you’ll be my legal wife. Then no one can interfere, whether you had a husband before or not!”

“Really?”

“Really! I had a wife before too, but she got a marriage certificate with some other guy so the court said she wasn’t my wife, but the other guy’s wife. The Chinese rely on writing, Tibetans rely on their word, as they say.”

“Then it’s up to you. I can’t get along with him anyway. If I could, then what would I be doing all the way out here, wandering around on my own?”

The strange thing was that, in this place, though it was hard to get divorced there were no procedural requirements at all for getting married. As long as both parties consented, then that was it. So Ralo and this virtual stranger went down to the county government and got a marriage certificate, no problem.

Though there was no way that she could be the water-fetching girl, compared to the yellow-toothed partner he had before, she was prettier and a whole lot nicer. So Ralo swore from the bottom of his heart that he would change his bad and idle ways and resolved to spend his days with this honest woman. He even swore off the drink before a lama.

Ralo genuinely fell in love with her. This love was something he hadn’t felt at all with the previous two women. For instance, when he went into the county town to buy grain, he wouldn’t waste a single second messing around and would hurry back as soon as possible with a new shirt or some sweets for his wife. And as soon as she saw Ralo coming back in the distance, she would rush out to meet him, bringing food and drink with her. Things were going well for the two of them. They used the old tent that Ralo’s mother had left behind to store dung, and the brand new one they moved into was filled with the sound of laughter.

11.

Some people said that this woman put Ralo on the straight and narrow. Others even said that she might be the reincarnation of Ralo’s mother. Either way, ever since they’d been together Ralo really had become a different person. There was even less snot on his upper lip than there used to be.

However, one day, two men from the public security bureau showed up completely out of the blue and took Ralo and his wife away to the county town.

According to the court, his wife had committed bigamy, so she was sentenced to six months in prison. Ralo cried until the tears and snot mingled together on his chin. Coming up close to him, she said, “Ralo, don’t lose heart. Six months isn’t that long. I’ll always be yours.”

What sincere and kind words! These words gave Ralo a kind of courage and hope that he had never felt before. Wiping away the snot and the tears, he stood up straight and called out, “Don’t worry, I’ll wait for you!”

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