Namaste, Stranger
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 11
Morning came softly, with the clatter of dishes and the smell of ginger and onions warming in oil. Jack lingered in his room longer than usual, listening to the rhythms of the Subedi house as if they were a language he finally understood.
“Jack-ji,” Sarita called, her voice firm but unhurried. “Chiyaa.”
He stepped into the kitchen to find her already busy, hair pulled back, bangles chiming as she moved. She didn’t pause to explain what he should do or where he should stand. She simply handed him a cup.
“Careful,” she said. “It’s hot.”
The casualness startled him more than any ceremony could have.
Madan sat at the table, scanning a newspaper. Suman was half-awake, Nisha already chattering about school.
Sarita glanced at Jack. “What do you think?” she asked, nodding toward the window where laundry fluttered uncertainly on the line. “Rain again today?”
Jack blinked, then smiled. “Maybe later. The clouds feel patient.”
Sarita snorted. “You sound like Ama Goma.”
Madan looked up, surprised. Then amused. As for Jack, he felt something settle inside.
While breakfast unfolded, Sarita corrected Jack’s Nepali with brisk efficiency.
“No, no,” she said, tapping the table. “You are not hungry-ing. You are hungry. English and Nepali are not cousins.”
Jack laughed. “Distant relatives?”
She rolled her eyes. “Very distant.”
Suman grinned. Nisha giggled outright.
For the first time, Sarita laughed too—not polite, not restrained, but full and brief and real.
A bit later, as Jack gathered his bag for the day, Sarita followed him to the door.
“You will be late?” she asked.
“Probably,” Jack said. “The school visit might run long.”
She nodded, then hesitated. “If the rain starts early, take the long road. The slope near the shops is still weak.”
Jack paused. She wasn’t instructing him. She was looking out for him.
“I will,” he said.
Sarita studied him for a moment longer, then adjusted his collar without asking.
“Eat well today,” she said. “You work like someone who forgets.”
Jack stepped outside into the morning, the door closing softly behind him. For the first time since arriving, he wasn’t a guest passing through the Subedi household.
He was someone expected to come back.
The invitation came folded, creased, and nondescript. Sarita handed it to Jack that afternoon as he was washing his hands at the outdoor tap.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Small festival. For the neighborhood.”
Jack glanced at the paper, then back at her. “For ... the project?”
She shook her head. “No. For us.”
The distinction settled gently but firmly.
The courtyard behind the temple glowed with late-afternoon color—marigolds draped along railings, chalk patterns blooming under careful hands. Children darted between adults, bells chiming softly from somewhere near the shrine.
Jack arrived with Madan and the kids, dressed simply, carrying nothing official. No notebook. No camera. No expectations.
A few people nodded to him. One elderly man gestured for him to sit. No one explained where he belonged.
That, he realized, was the explanation.
He spotted Anjana near the edge of the gathering, helping adjust a banner that fluttered stubbornly in the breeze. She wore a simple kurta, hair pulled back, expression intent. When their eyes met, she smiled—small, easy.
“Hi,” she said, stepping closer. “You came.”
“So did you,” Jack replied.
She shrugged. “I live here.”
He laughed softly. “Right. That.”
They stood together for a moment, watching children light candles along the path.
“Busy lately?” she asked.
“Always,” he said. “You?”
She nodded. “Always.”
That was all.
They parted without ceremony, each pulled gently back into separate conversations. Jack noticed something then—not the absence of whispers, exactly, but the presence of indifference. People passed by them without lingering looks. No one tracked their distance. No one leaned in to listen. They were visible but unremarkable.
Jack felt a quiet, almost startling relief.
As evening settled, music began—soft drums, a harmonium finding its patient melody. Jack sat cross-legged on the ground, accepting a plate of food from someone whose name he didn’t yet know.
He looked around. This was not acceptance announced. It was not permission granted. It was something slower. Something that grew when no one was watching.
Across the courtyard, Anjana caught his eye again. She raised her cup in a brief, wordless gesture.
Jack lifted his own in return.
The festival continued—unfolding, unhurried. Jack felt not like a visitor learning the rules—but like a neighbor who already knew them.
It was on one seemingly innocuous Tuesday evening that a line was crossed.
The message lingered on Jack’s screen long after the typing bubble disappeared.
Anjana:
Some things are too quiet for a phone.
He understood what she meant before he found the words. They had been circling something for months now—careful, restrained, building intimacy in fragments. Messages could hold reflection, humor, even vulnerability. But they couldn’t hold the weight of a choice.
Jack:
I think we need to talk in person.
The reply came quickly.
Anjana:
Yes.
A very weighty pause followed.
Anjana:
Lakeside? Somewhere public.
Jack imagined the cafés along Phewa Lake—boats drifting, backpackers passing, conversations blending into the air. Neutral ground.
Jack:
Tomorrow afternoon?
Anjana:
After my shift.
A simple agreement. No hearts. No softening. Only intention.
They signed off with the gentleness that had become habit.
Anjana:
Goodnight, Jack.
Jack:
Goodnight.
The room felt different once the phone went dark.
Jack sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on his knees, listening to the house settle. The Subedis were already asleep—Sarita’s quiet cough, Madan’s measured breathing through the wall, the distant bark of a dog beyond the lane.
This wasn’t anxiety, exactly.
It was gravity.
He thought of what he could say. What he couldn’t promise. Of the rules he lived within—written and unwritten. Of the way her name felt now when he thought it.
He wasn’t afraid of her. He was afraid of the moment when care had to become clarity.
Outside, the neighborhood had gone still. Even the wind had eased, as if the night were holding itself.
Jack lay back and stared at the ceiling.
Two years ago, he had fled from endings. Now he was walking toward a beginning that required honesty.
Sleep came slowly, but without resistance.
He wasn’t certain. Just ready.
The café they’d chosen sat just above the lake, its open front framed by prayer flags and faded travel posters. Boats drifted lazily across Phewa’s surface, their reflections breaking into soft fragments. The air carried coffee, cardamom, and the low murmur of travelers passing through.
Jack arrived early. He chose a table near the railing, where the lake widened and the hills rose beyond it, patient and unmoving. He ordered tea he didn’t drink. He watched the path.
When Anjana appeared, he felt it before he saw her—the shift in his attention, the way the afternoon sharpened. She wore a light jacket over her kurta, hair loose from the day. She hesitated at the entrance, then spotted him.
They smiled. Not the easy smiles of neighbors—something steadier.
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