Silks
Lhasa, Tibet
Soldiers visit Nima’s classroom when she’s sixteen years old. The one with medals decorating his uniform stands behind the wooden lectern. Sunlight pouring in from the window hits his spectacles, completely washing out his eyes. Nima can only observe his smile as he waits for his men to file in.
Cold sweat beads under Nima’s clothes because of their closeness. Close enough to note how short their nails are, the number of buttons on their jackets, the foreign text stitched on their chests. Guns are strapped to their bodies, and if she concentrates hard enough, she could smell gunpowder. The wood beneath her palms is getting foggy - Nima wishes someone would take her hand and lead her away.
Nima struggles to follow the bespectacled soldier’s words. His voice is powerful, but his accent is thick. They’re the People’s Liberation Army set to free her people, bring unfathomable riches, and retire old thinking. She remembers her parents whispering about this with scorn, enough to recognize that his words are empty—fluffy promises designed to make them appear benevolent.
The soldiers leave gifts. Portraits of their leader are hung high on the classroom walls, forcing Nima to tilt her head up to study them. Round face, tall forehead, a smile that doesn’t quite meet the eyes. For a moment she believes the real man is monitoring them from behind the gilded frames. Nima’s teacher walks to the window and watches the cargo trucks drive away, then takes the portraits down and throws them in the trash bin. The sound of shattering glass jolts Nima into realizing how ridiculous that idea seems.
Nima heads home with the muffled jingle of medals still echoing in her mind. She can’t help glancing over her shoulder, searching for men in uniform, but Barkhor is always bustling with people. Her feet are driving her through the crowd quickly, past the rich in silks, monks swathed in crimson robes, shopkeepers calling to prospective customers. Derelicts squat against the edges of the path with faces leathered by years in the sun. They don’t beg for money or food even when they have children. Their eyes merely meet Nima’s before moving on to the next, resigned to a life she has never known.
There is no time to linger, however, because the sinking sensation in her chest is a bad sign. Sweat gathers on her brow as she rushes uphill, where the white and red brick of the shopping district separated by trees and patches of land. Nima’s thighs burn but she can’t afford to slow down. The flat roofs of her home breach the sky - no cargo trucks. No tire tracks impressed on the ground. Nima finally comes to a stop and takes a deep breath.
Someone calls her name. “Why are you back so soon?”
Geleg, her family’s servant, approaches her from the stable with a pail swinging from his gloved grasp. Nima straightens out her braid and wipes her brow to hide the grimace scrunching her nose. The pail may be empty but she knows what had been inside. “Teacher ended the day early.”
She doesn’t know why the rest of the story clings to her tongue, refusing to spill from her lips. Perhaps the acknowledgement would make it all real. The soldiers who had been in her life’s background are breaching the forefront. Before, their cargo trucks had reminded Nima of the ants she had squatted over as a little girl. Tiny but noticeable when she had dropped crumbs of pa in the courtyard. Unsettling to watch but forgotten once inside. Nima realizes now that the ants bite.
“Are you hungry? Want some po cha?” Geleg asks, choosing to not pry. Nima almost wishes he did.
“Po cha would be nice.”
When Geleg serves her butter tea in the sitting room, his work gloves are gone. Nima is reminded of when she had prayed for Geleg’s hand in the classroom. Despite the calluses and scars, she had found it comforting when he had walked her to school and picked her up after the day was over.
“Geleg, have you visited Choyang recently?”
His eyes immediately brighten. The mention of his son’s name is enough to wash away the day’s fatigue. “I went to see him with your father this morning.”
“I take it he’s doing well?”
“Yes, and his appetite for momos is beyond expectation.”
Chatter from outside interrupts their conversation and Nima turns around, peeking out the window. Women adorned in colorful silks spill into the front yard like falling flower petals. They are some of the most influential women in Lhasa - business owners, wives of politicians and military officials, relations to the religious sect. She spots Mother amongst them in silks the shade of the galsang flowers growing in their garden.
“I have to go prepare their horses, Nima. Make sure you finish drinking before it gets cold,” Geleg says, witnessing the foggy hand print left on the wooden table as he shuts the door behind him.
Nima completely empties her teacup. In moments like these, where the house is quiet and no one is around, the weight of her solitude pushes on her shoulders. She can say anything she wants, do anything she wants, but time passes. Nima stays in her seat. She suspects what her mother’s meeting was about.
Sunlight hits the Buddha statue sitting on the altar, creating a halo around his form. Nima approaches the side of the altar and lights some incense, then folds her palms against each other. Nima prays.
When Mother arrives with more tea, Nima accepts another cup and a kiss on the forehead with gratitude. Mother sits across from her and raises a brow. “Geleg tells me you were home quite early.”
“I didn’t skip if that’s what you’re thinking,” Nima says, cheeks flushing.
“No, but your palms get sweaty and your bottom lip quivers when you’re hiding something,” Mother replies.
The warm spice of the incense thickens around the room. Nima’s voice teeters on the cusp of her teeth until Mother takes her hand. Nima feels her muscles relax as her knuckles are massaged with a soft thumb.
“Soldiers came to school today,” Nima admits. Words hanging in the air, Mother’s eyes stare at her intensely. Encouraging her to keep going. And Nima does so, her body becoming lighter after each sentence.
A few days later, Nima discovers that she isn’t going to class anymore. Her teacher, the one who threw the portraits in the trash bin, is nowhere to be found. As punishment for dissent, the PLA must’ve arrested her or worse. The world is beginning to spin around Nima like a line of prayer wheels. How has life taken such a drastic turn? No, something dangerous has infallibly lurked in her country for years. Something her parents had inherited, and now Nima must help shoulder the burden.
Father continues her studies at home. They had offered to send her to an English school in Darjeeling, but Nima had refused. It felt like she was abandoning them. Harvesting and herding, selling their produce, managing the house - Nima crushes her discomfort, disgust, and exhaustion to become a woman who can do it all on her own.
The only task left is getting married. Nima had turned down various arrangements until she read the name of an old classmate on the piece of paper Father handed her. She remembers his face, his temperament, and who his parents are. Rabten is the boy who’d always offered Nima a shapale during lunch. Mother tells her that Rabten’s father had recently resigned from the Kashag - the PLA had discovered his connections to rebellion forces.
“They could be leaving for India any day now. Of all the men I suggest, you pick the worst option,” Mother chastises.
Nima raises a brow. “And despite everything, we’re discussing him today. His mother comes over for your meetings, right?”
They share a look.
“I think it’s time I start pulling my weight,” Nima declares.
Before leaving for Rabten’s home, Nima spins the prayer wheels in the courtyard with her parents. The three of them pray together in silence, and when Nima opens her eyes she notices an ant line crawling inches above her toes.
Geleg comes by to notify them of the monks’ arrival. His irises are particularly shiny and energy is pulsing out of his body as if he didn’t herd the yak that morning and collect the manure for fertilizer. Nima smiles as Geleg leads them to the front yard where three robed men are waiting, already guessing who’d be there.
It would’ve been difficult for a stranger to tell them apart, but Nima recognizes Choyang immediately. He had been sick, too sick to work outside, so Geleg and Nima’s father had sent him to a monastery hoping it would heal him. Nima had loved sneaking extra momos from her plate after dinners, bonding with the only other child in the entire house. The image of him grown and ordained, head shaved and a rosy glow to his cheeks, is irrevocably different from the memory of Nima’s childhood.
The journey is taken on foot because a well-dressed woman on a horse attracts too much attention lately. Nima and Rabten have a private ceremony at nineteen, blessed by family and the monks. It doesn’t truly dawn on her that she’s part of a new household until her parents, Geleg, and Choyang are no longer by her side. As Rabten shows Nima around, all she sees is the unknown. She wishes she had been more prepared, more ready to let go of her old life.
“Can I hold your hand?” Rabten asks, bringing Nima back to the present.
“Yes,” she consents.
His palm is slightly sweaty, just like hers. Nima perceives the fluttering pulse beneath his wrist.
“This is new for us both. We’ll be okay,” he reassures her.
Nima spends time tending the garden with her mother-in-law, preparing po cha for her father-in-law, and buzzing with anticipation. Rabten had left Lhasa to work in the east for an important general. He periodically sends letters to Nima about conditions in Amdo and Kham, which depresses her by the day. Casualties are steadily increasing and rebellion forces aren’t withstanding the pure numbers and ammunition of the PLA.
One of these letters is being passed around a wooden table embellished with half-drunk wine. Women in colorful silks are seated in each chair. Nima is sitting at one end of the table while her mother is directly across from her.
Mother sighs. “Well, we’ve already made our contacts last winter and secured a couple thousand arms.”
“Yes, and I think that’s all we’ll get,” a woman in teal says, head of a major trade house in Lhasa. “People are also starting to experience shortages. No flour, no butter, no meat. The capital is getting crowded.”
“Refugees from the east keep pouring in because of the war.” Nima retrieves the letter and folds it back into her striped pangden, symbolizing her new status as a married woman. “Can we distribute some of our own produce
Soon after Rabten had returned home, his parents revealed to the couple that they must move to India. He knows that it’s for their safety, yet the pain of parting with family burns strongly. Nima holds Rabten’s hand when she catches him alone in the dining room, surrounded by empty glassware, or when he shares how worried he is for her.
“I don’t plan on going anywhere,” she reassures Rabten. Her words and presence are enough.
A PLA official visits their home one evening and Nima has to prepare tea. It’s amazing how years of growth can escape her in the face of fear. Did they catch on? Have they gotten to her parents? Rabten’s parents? She peeks outside the window to count the soldiers stationed outside. Definitely over ten. It takes Nima back to when she was sixteen in the front row of her classroom. Taking a deep breath, she shakes her head and pours the tea into cups. Serving them is the limit; Nima can’t imagine what Rabten is going through.
The man in the sitting room is decorated in medals, his red-starred cap perched neatly on the table. He isn’t the bespectacled soldier from back then. Nima sets the tray between him and her husband. Rests a hand on Rabten’s shoulder for a second, meeting his fleeting gaze. Smiles and bows her head to the official before shutting the door. Nima expects to sink down to the floor but her legs are steady. She splays out her fingers and they aren’t quivering. Perhaps Nima had underestimated her own composure.
Rabten recounts the conversation in their bedroom when the moon is high in the sky, shedding gentle light against his brown hair. If he swears allegiance to the PLA, he can start working in the Kashag as a spy. They pitch the opportunity as a way to atone for the actions of his father and protect his wife.
“It’s the perfect chance to make a change from the inside, Nima,” Rabten whispers.
“It’s too dangerous. If they find out the truth, then you’ll certainly die. I can’t accept that.”
“They may find out regardless. And if I refuse…”
By December of 1958, Lhasa was teetering between perceived stability and war. The PLA no longer attempts to look friendly, not as Tibetan guerillas and civilians have troops locked in skirmishes right outside the border. They threaten to release bombs, and heightened unrest amongst the people is reaching its peak. Nima’s praying more than ever as the fate of her loved ones, her birthplace, continues to slip out of her grasp. But there’s also a seed of dread beginning to sprout in her chest - she’s pregnant.
To quell that foreboding, Nima seeks a blessing from Choyang. Tea is all she can offer when Choyang arrives, as barley was too scarce to make pa. His palms are dry but uncalloused when he holds her hands. So different from Geleg’s, and yet they provide the same sense of protection she felt as a child. After praying for Nima’s health and safety, Choyang ties a red-yarn bracelet around her wrist. He lights some incense and circles the light smoke around her body, filling up her lungs with the warm scent of spice.
As they kneel to drink the tea offering, Choyang confesses that he’s joining the rebels with his robed brothers. The PLA had threatened to shell their monastery if they didn’t surrender to the Republic. Looming bombs over Lhasa was the final straw that made them renounce their vows.
“I’m so close to losing my family, my baby…must I stand to lose you, too?”
“Don’t you remember how all living things are connected? We could be oceans apart, but we breathe the same air, and sleep under the same moon. We need to feel this way about our homeland, Nima. I’m protecting it, and when I die my body will nurture its soil.”
Only following this blessing does Nima tell Rabten about the baby. His eyes glisten with a cruel mix of happiness and mourning as he places his palm over her flat belly. Rabten whispers to her a name, a name which fosters merit and good karma. Sonam. This is the last time Nima sees him.
In March of 1959, the capital erupted in violent protest. Sick of the fear, sick of the censorship and famine and corruption, a sea of resistance floods the Norbulingka palace to protect His Holiness. Her parents’ final wish is for Nima to follow the thousands fleeing across the Himalayas.
Nima begs for them to come. She can’t do this alone.
Mother holds her shoulders, steady and strong. “I refuse to let them take you. My sun, my hope, you must live on for us. Bring your child back here someday.”
It tears Nima apart to let go, to abandon them as she had sworn not too long ago. The desperation in Mother’s voice and their faces gave her no choice but to acquiesce. Nima didn’t stay to watch the women in silks become Palden Lhamo incarnate - the wrathful goddess revered to be Tibet’s protector. Nima escapes, the mountains incapable of shielding her from the distant, shuddering sensation of falling shells.
Delhi, India
Sonam likes watching the prayer flags dance in the wind while waiting for Mother to finish work. Each one is dyed a color she’d seen in thangkas, those elaborate paintings hung up in temples, their living room, and stores all over Samyeling. Samyeling, their settlement of displaced brothers and sisters. Little Tibet.
Long, braided hair trailing down her back, red-yarn bracelet on her wrist, Mother seems to be a little out of place wearing a plain tank top and skirt. Not because she’s underdressed, but because her silhouette is meant to be wearing something grander. It was just a sense, though. Perhaps Sonam is merely biased.
On the way home, the mother and daughter pair spin the burgundy prayer wheels tacked onto a brick wall lining their path. Sonam wishes for money every time.
“Learn anything new today?” Mother asks.
Sonam shrugs her shoulders. “Yeah, I have so much homework.”
They speak to each other in Tibetan, but Sonam needs to converse in Hindi at her school. Supplementary English classes as well since it’s apparently the most useful language in the world. Mother never refuses to help even when she has a hard time reading the questions.
“Your grandfather became my teacher when I was about your age,” Mother admits.
Sonam’s ears perk up. “Really? Were you a good student?”
“I think so? I didn’t have any classmates to rank myself at that point.”
“Why?”
Mother stares off into the distance, as if she’s seeing the past replay before her eyes. “My actual teacher was arrested and your grandparents wanted to start tutoring me at home,” she shares, shaking her head soon after. “You don’t have to worry about it, just cherish your time at school. It’s a privilege nowadays.”
Sonam tries, but her friend Rohan has a terrible habit of looking at her work before classes begin. He claims it’s to double check, not cheat. It makes her roll her eyes without fail. As the only Tibetan in her class, Sonam was prepared to be alone until Rohan had approached her on her first day. That sense of relief, of connection in a country she doesn’t belong to, is worth the sly glances at her homework.
It’s only a matter of time until their friendship is worn out by distance. Rohan will inevitably go to college and Sonam has to stay in Samyeling. Although her people can find salvation in India, they have no citizenship. College is impossible for her; it hangs over Sonam’s head like a reaper. Knowing her mother works until her hands bleed and her face glows with sweat. Having this little enclave be the only inkling she has of her true home. The stories Mother tells over dinner aren’t enough. Sonam’s dreams of rolling plains and colorful silks and massive temples cannot replace standing there on her own two feet.
She tells all of this to Rohan. Her rickety bike had managed to take her to his house, where she had thrown a little pebble at his window. Rohan teases her as usual, asking why she couldn’t wait until morning to see him. Sonam, however, doesn’t have the strength to snap back. It’s painful to witness the excited light in Rohan’s big brown eyes dim, though her appreciation surpasses that. He listens, unwilling to abandon her when she needs him. Rohan embraces Sonam, grounding her to the present rather than what could have been.
On a Saturday afternoon, Sonam finishes shopping with Mother. A crowd of people block their path home. The odor of fuel is pungent and pricks her nose. There’s a man sitting cross-legged on the ground, soaking wet. At first glance it looks like he had poured water over himself to cool down, but it was thicker, oilier.
A match is lit. The flames are bright, drawing Sonam in. The man wears a peaceful expression despite the heat eating him alive. Bystanders scream and call for police, for an ambulance. The shuttering of cameras continues long after Sonam is pulled away from the scene.
“I don’t understand. Why would anyone do that?” Sonam asks, clenching her fists to hide the trembling. She can still smell it.
Mother sits her down at the table and holds her shoulders, staring at Sonam in the eyes. “I wish I could explain, but it’s hard even for me. Back then, your family was willing to risk everything to protect their country. That man could’ve done it to grieve his lost home, or to seek vengeance against the people who stole it. Maybe it’s both; the truth is that we don’t know for sure.”
“Do you miss it? The homeland.” Sonam looks down at her hands. Her heart sinks knowing Mother had experienced such turmoil in her life. Sonam’s troubles seem minute in comparison.
“Of course I do. But it’s a part of me, regardless of distance.” Mother takes Sonam’s hands and rubs her knuckles with a rough thumb. “Having you as my daughter quells the loss.”
Sonam still waits for Mother to finish work. Only now she tries to picture the women in Mother’s stories, wearing silks the colors of the prayer flags dancing above her head.
California, United States
Sonam and Rohan walk through an open gallery titled The Exiled Man’s Journey. A father and son from the west had compiled hundreds of their film photographs to view on the anniversary of Uprising Day. The photographers had entered Tibet in the late forties and fled in 1959 along with the myriads of refugees, managing to document every stage of the invasion.
It was Rohan who wanted to go, compelled by his desire to learn more about her people and support their baby. Walking past blurry, gray faces that were at once familiar and unknown leaves a strange feeling in Sonam’s chest. Only through the eyes of spectators is she able to see her homeland.
She hears Tashi whine from behind her. Turning around, she chuckles when she witnesses her daughter holding a fistful of Rohan’s thick brown hair. Tashi pouts, her other hand grappling the air for Sonam.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m wearing my favorite silk top today,” Sonam whispers and kisses Tashi’s cheek.
“Please give me a kiss, too. I might end up with a bald spot,” Rohan speaks in the same teasing tone as when they were teens.
Sonam rolls her eyes, unable to hide her smile. Her sight lands on a photo of a woman, young but weathered by the dangerous trek across the Himalayas. The snowy mountain peaks stand high over her head. The woman wears a thick, dirtied robe of many hues - the way the sun reflects off the fabric tells Sonam that it’s silk. A yarn bracelet adorns her wrist, her hair is twisted in long braids. Her arms protect her stomach, and Sonam guesses that the woman is pregnant.
“This is my mother,” Sonam says breathlessly.
“What?” Rohan exclaims, peering closely at the photograph. “She does look just like you, Sonam.”
Tashi’s big brown eyes gaze curiously at her own grandmother. Now Sonam’s family is two generations away from returning home. Tashi, who was born in America, is American but also Tibetan and Indian. Sonam takes her daughter from Rohan’s arms and holds her little hand. “Say hi to grandma, Tashi.”
Tashi giggles as Sonam waves. Mother had been thrust unwillingly into a position of survival and resistance, utilizing the status of her silks to support her people as best as she could. Sonam, who has never touched the land of her ancestors, wears silk on special occasions. Seeing her mother from a different time, Sonam’s freedom is unmistakable, bestowed by the many sacrifices made before her. She hopes Tashi will understand this someday.