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Scribd
of this,Scribd
father, and
her natal-yet-not-natal
although she had lived
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Letters for Mother

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father, and although she had lived with her mother until age seven, several years had passed since they’d seen each other—a veritable lifetime for a child. The truth was, she felt more pity than love for her
mother. Wangmo worried for her mother’s welfare, but she did not miss her.

Second, Wangmo struggled to write in any language but especially in English. The neat line that ran atop Devanagari script seemed to keep the letters in check, tethered them to one another like a rope. They
only had Tibetan class twice a week, and much of this time was spent reciting the alphabet, memorizing prayers, and singing songs. She could find reliable shapes in the graceful lines

of this, her natal-yet-not-natal language, and could reproduce, fairly faithfully, these shapes when asked. But English was unhinged. Shapes turned backward and forward. She couldn’t wrangle the words.

As soon as the teacher turned his back to the chalkboard, Maya poked Wangmo in the ribs. They always sat side by side, sleeves of their crimson blazers brushing up against each other, ankles entwined in a
clandestine hug. This intimate act was made possible only because the classroom was that crowded. The poke meant that Maya would help Wangmo with this impossible assignment.

Maya was Wangmo’s best friend. They were not from the same

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