|[My mother and sister Karma at Gelephu, 2014]|
Moving through the upper rooms of the Ogyen Choling museum, and reaching the kitchen exhibits, I see the fireplace. I see my mother brewing ‘ara’, her hands chaffed, eyes watery, smoke darkening the already dark room. She peers at me through the dim of the light and smiles.
“Come Dawa. Did you eat? I've some leftover from lunch”. I smile back, as my eyes brim with tears.
And it all fades away. My mother isn't here. She isn't here. There is just this empty kitchen.
I am reminded very much of my home today. I am reminded of the voice of my mother, speaking in our mother tongue. “Come Dawa”.
Have I come home? I have, because this ancient palace reminds me of my home.
The light snow capping the distant mountains, and the rain-soaked leaves fighting to dry off.
This is home. This is home.
[Note: I wrote this piece on 24th March, during a beautiful afternoon in the dining room of Ogyen Choling museum]