The hail has turned to rain by now, but the droplets felt just as cold and biting on the skin, on the face, the fingers, those worn out fingers. He was wearing a thin, long sleeve shirt, also worn out, with a lot of holes and patches his wife had sewn on. His son was bored, chipping away the plaster on the wall with increasing reluctance but dared not complain. The boy was only seven, and he was more interested in staying in their hut than being in the cold. He didn't understand why they had to do this, why now, chipping away plaster from a wall.
Prakash was the man's name. He could have been born under different circumstances, to a different family, to a different caste, a different country, perhaps. But he was here, as his destiny had dictated. He was here with his son, Vishnu, whose destiny was also written before birth as dictated by the previous life. Prakash will try to be good this life, not knowing exactly what he did wrong in the last. He was chipping away the plaster of the walls on this old house so that a new layer could be put on later. With the help of the seven-year old's hands, they could finish this by the end of the day, and tomorrow, when it stopped raining, hopefully, he could put on a new layer of plaster. He had never paid attention to this old house, which was only 15 minutes walk from his hut.
The house is situated at the foothills of the northern slope of the mountain locals call Rohtang. It was an old mansion owned by a local Muslim business man before the British took over. The state government had decided to finally renovate the abandoned house and turn it into a tourist attraction since it was on the path for a lot of Westerners coming here to enjoy the Himalayas. Prakash had seen some of them, and he never stopped being dazzled by them, in more ways he could even understand himself. And yet, he understood at least that those aliens from afar lived their own lives, far removed from his, and he was looking at them not in very different ways from the way he looked at the lives and characters in a Bollywood movie. The reality, for him, was to help renovate this house, paid in pittance by the government but still much more than he had been earning. He was lucky to land the job; he accidentally helped one of the local mafia boss's sons back home after he had gotten lost trying to hike the area around here. He was grateful beyond measure for this opportunity to earn some money. It was a clear case of karma.
His own son, on the other hand, hated the experience of having to work in dirt. But it had little to do with his the arrival of the opportunity, but rather, it was a coincidence that he had turned seven, and his dad decided that it was time for him to help out the family. His brother, eleven, was already going to the market everyday, including days when there were two feet of snow, to sell potatoes the mother had been harvesting.
Today there was no rain. It's the summer, the start of the summer, the monsoon had arrived but its rain was freezing cold. Prakash finally told Vishnu to join him under the awning of what used to be the main entrance to the inner court. They both got out their Tiffens, which were metallic containers stacked on top of one another, each with a small serving of food inside. They were quiet as they wiped their dirty hands, tore off a piece of naan, and started grabbing the lentil before putting the whole thing in their mouths. There was also potatoes, chickpeas, and some spinach with cheese. The Tiffens were inside insulated containers, and so the food was plenty warm, but not for long, as the weather was very cold, even in the middle of June. Prakash looked at the northern slopes that disappear into the clouds so that none of the peaks were visible. There was a temple up there, in the clouds. He and Vishnu had gone up many times, along with the rest of the family. He looked at his youngest son, who was busy eating. His arms were tiny, hardly any muscles, but he would have to start carrying the broken bricks from the western corner so the masons can put new ones in later this week.
Prakash looked up the slope again. His eyes darkened a little. It was on that slope that he had helped the mafia boss's son get unlost. Perhaps the temple's god, the monkey god Hanuman, was looking out for him. But he wasn't sure. Up the road from the temple was a school. He would like Vishnu to be in school, but he had no money. It was a private school, the only real school worth going to, and besides, the much worse public school was very far away, so that the walking time alone would have been better used for working and getting family some income. Hanuman never sent any signs for him to take his son to school. Working here would get them some money, but not enough to send the boy to school up there, and the opportunity cost of sending him was even greater.
He wiped the last bit of sauce and food from all the Tiffens with his last bit of naan, and he took another look at Vishnu, who did not seem happy that with the end of lunch they would have to go back to chipping off plaster and removing broken brick in the freezing rain. But he would probably not have been happier in a school. Prakash was confused, but it was time to get back to work. He sighed at the northern slope, where the clouds have started moving more rapidly with the advance of the winds that surely would bring more rain.
