Ama Sonam built another floor to her house, blocking my sunlight completely. It's not just her. Almost everyone has added another floor to their house even though the number of people living in the refugee camp is falling by the day. While I rot amidst the concrete shadows, the lucky ones get their ticket to the US or Canada, whether it is through a relative, tourist visa, or contractual marriage. One has to be excessively good at telling tales in order to get a green card. Immigration officers do not appreciate the stories of mundane struggles like joblessness and loss of hope. You have to add masala; less Tibetan, which is bland but honest to the actual taste of the food, and more Nepali, so spiced everything else is masked and undetectable.
Every time someone left, Tashi was next to me. Our goodbye waves becoming more limp with every new departure. It hadn't been long since her husband had left and she had years to wait before she could follow him to the US. But out of nowhere, her visa got approved. Apparently, the earthquake helped speed up the process.
We were lamenting our fates in the tent under the hot sun when she got the news. We discussed Mentok's marriage to Tashi. Tashi was the prettiest of us all. She did not have one pimple throughout high school. She was born pretty and will most likely die pretty as well, while Mentok had always been better known as nabzar (booger boy). I would have taunted him less if I knew he was going to be as resourceful as he is.
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