By Hannah Clarke
One arm arches towards a blue sky as the young monk pushes off from the ground. Suspended in mid-air, swathes of burgundy red robes sway to the movement of his body, arching with him. At the peak of his upwards lunge, time seems to stand still for a split second. His breath condenses in icy air that feels sharp in the lungs, a light bead of sweat above the brow. And as he rises, the dust rises with him, hazing over a distant Everest, the sunset staining the tip red. Time resumes with a hard hitting blow. He sends the volleyball soaring over the net. He scores.
He extends the ball to me. I raise my tea as explanation of my decline, offering an apologetic smile. It’s milky and too sweet. But it’s warm. They insist. Urging hand gestures and muted nods of reassurance encourage me and the other trekkers to join them. I stamp my throbbing feet, the raised blisters protesting whilst a boy of about seven skips over, all jocular buoyancy. Approaching, he wipes his nose with his jacket sleeve, some playfulness subdued. He holds out the ball, tentative, his arms not quite outreached.
I can’t play well. Nevertheless, we fan out, brown rubble and loose rocks underfoot. A shadow creeps over them as the last light dips behind the mountain. Throwing the ball as high as I can, I bear down on it. It veers left off the field and I run after it, embarrassed. It hits a lone outhouse, one of the many basic stone building blocks that stand in stark relief against the ornate decadence of the pillared entrance to the monastery. The corrugated tin roof rattles on impact.
After the earthquake of 1934, these mismatched structures are the remaining vestiges of tradition and history, fused together with charitable offerings of functionality. I return, ball in hand. A young monk runs towards me, hands on knees, panting. He points to his eyes, then to a spot on the ground over the net. I mirror his gestures and hold up the ball. He offers a muted smile wiping his hands down the front of his habit. Taking his advice, I fix my gaze.
My heart pumps fast from both exertion and the altitude. Deep breaths are tinged with wood smoke. Or incense. Sweat has cooled on my back, crisp. My breathing matches the steady chants emanating from the monastery. A low repetitive thrum that drifts over a re-built sanctuary ravaged by the elements. Where material treasures have perished, the human voice endures. It's teachings as constant as the constants of nature.
I focus on a single spot and try again. The ball manages to clear the net at least. A laugh bellows straight from my belly. I notice the tingling in my fingers and allow myself to embrace the bite of cold in my flushed cheeks. The young monk picks up the ball and offers it to me, his retreating hands swift enough to notice. Again.
Comments