Little Princes Read Online Free PDF Page A

had not yet risen above the tall hills behind the orphanage. The only source of heat in the village was direct sunlight, so I waited. At exactly 7:38 A.M . the sun flashed into the window. I got up and wandered downstairs.
    Farid was sipping milk tea outside in the sun, his breath steaming in the morning chill. As I sat down next to him, a woman entered the gate, straining under the weight of an enormous pot, filled to the brim with what looked to be milk.
    “Namaste, didi !” he called to her, lifting his tea in greeting. “She is our neighbor,” he explained. He had a thick French accent that took me a minute to get used to. “She brings milk every day from her cow for the children to put in their tea.”
    “What did you call her? Dee-dee?”
    “ Didi. It means—do you speak French?”
    “A little. Not very well I’m afraid,” I apologized.
    “It is okay—I must improve my English, I know it is very bad,” he said. “So I saying? Ah yes— didi . It means ‘older sister,’ it is a polite way to greet a woman, as we might say madame or mademoiselle . The children call you ‘brother,’ yes?”
    “Yeah.”
    “In Nepali, they call older men dai —it means ‘older brother,’ but it is a sign of respect, like didi . We taught them the English word brother, so they use that.” He took a sip of his tea. “You know, it is quite useful, saying brother . It means you do not have to remember everybody’s name.”
    That was useful, and prophetic. One of the boys came outside at that moment and plopped himself down on my lap.
    “You remember my name, Brother?” he asked with a grin.
    “Of course he remembers your name, Nishal!” Farid said. “Go get ready—we’re going to the temple soon for washing.”
    I liked Farid immediately.
    Going to the temple was, I learned, a Saturday tradition. Weekends in Nepal were one day only and the children savored them. Each Saturday they would begin the morning by cleaning the house together. The bigger boys would drag the carpets outside and the little boys would sweep with brooms made of thin branches tied together with twine. Then another group would finish by mopping the floor, which made the concrete at least wet if not exactly clean. Sandra told me that it was the act of the chores themselves that was valuable. If these children had been with their families, they would be tending to their homes and fields many hours per day.
    With the house marginally less dirty, we walked to a nearby Hindu temple, a fifteen-minute stroll through the royal botanical gardens that happened to be just down the path from the orphanage, past the mud homes that made up the village of Godawari.
    The temple was housed in a walled courtyard a little larger than a basketball court. Taking up half of that space was a shallow pool about three feet deep, constantly refilled by five spouts carved into the stone wall. Several villagers were already there, all men, leaning over to wash themselves under the spouts. (Washing at public taps, naked except for underwear, was the most common way of bathing. In Bistachhap, I had washed myself wearing only a pair of shorts at the single public tap in full view of the village, while local women waited patiently with a basket of laundry, giggling to one another and pointing at my pale skin.) Once finished, the men would dry off and go through a small gate in the back of the courtyard, where there was a grotto that housed the Hindu shrine. They would reemerge with a red tikka—rice with sticky red dye—on their forehead, then ring a large bell before leaving the temple.
    The children obviously loved this place. They stripped down to their underwear, except for the two girls, Yangani and Priya, who watched from the sidelines. The boys dove in, splashing around and trying to dunk one another. One by one they would pop out and run to Farid, who would dole out a dollop of liquid soap to the older boys. The younger ones would wait patiently while Farid