After lunch, instead of coming to English class, suddenly the ani-haru are hacking away at the road with pickaxes and lifting rocks, and some Nepali laborers show up to pour cement. There is never any predicting what turn the day will take. I come into Boudha and buy a copy of Peter Matthiessen’s The Snow Leopard, and sit on a rooftop café reading and eating momos and watching the sun sink over the stupa’s white belly. At first not liking the book’s too serious, overly reflective tone, but now I have settled into it and can't put it down.

Evening: The Eghara are fighting over my hair. They comb it with their fingers, push bobby pins in and out, elbow each other and bellow. I submit to their pokings and roarings because I love the feel of their hands on my head.