Today at tea, only seven ani-haru—everyone else in Boudha. With Uppal gone, things got even rowdier than usual. One ani, holding up a piece of fried dough in the shape of a woman’s labia, says slyly, “What this?” I pretend I don’t know what she means. She goes on, “Eight people here, all have.” Is it an eye, I guess, or an ear, a nose? The other ani-haru laughing hard. Yangzum Bhuti, literal as always, informs me crossly, “Is lips. For loving, for babymake.”

At English class, the ani-haru learned the word ugly, and have been calling each other ugly with great enjoyment ever since. One ani was voted the ugliest, and the others explain to me why: “Her nose big, eyes close together, she little bit no-tall. This ugly.”

But my nose is big, I remind them, and a much funnier shape than hers too. Am I ugly?

“You touristpeople. Big nose suit touristpeople. Nepali, not suit,” Palsung says tactfully. The “ugly” ani (who I've always thought strikingly attractive) flies into a rage, her eyes sparking, frowning fiercely. She stomps and shouts, “Yes, yes, I so ugly! Palsung beautiful!”

They ask me which ani I think is the most ugly. “Very hard question,” I tell them solemnly. “You are all so ugly, how can I choose?”

Poor ani Nani has plantars warts all over her feet: she picks at them all through tea, and I tell her that they’re very contagious. She seems to understand, but keeps right on picking at them with a worried look on her face. I try not to think of those same hands touching our food, the other ani-haru’s hands and faces. Several of the other ani-haru have warts on their hands and feet too. I will get them some nailpolish—nothing else works as well: a dot of polish and like magic they’re gone in a week or two.