Namaste, Stranger
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 2
The first day of the assignment broke clear and warm, the kind of Pokhara morning that seemed gently insistent—bright but not overwhelming, a reminder that the world expected things of you today. Jack left the Subedi home early, nodding to Sarita as she swept the courtyard and mumbling a sleepy “Namaste” to Suman on his way out. His mind was already on the meeting ahead.
He followed the narrow road downhill, weaving around schoolchildren in uniforms and men carrying sacks of rice on their backs. The meeting site—a small district office building with faded paint and a Peace Corps banner pinned somewhat crookedly above the door—sat at the edge of a government compound. Tom was leaning against the wall outside, arms crossed, a familiar half-grin already in place.
“Morning, rookie,” Tom said.
“We’ve been volunteers the same number of days,” Jack pointed out.
“Yeah, but I’ve been awake longer. So, I win.”
Jack snorted, the tension easing a little.
Inside, the meeting room was simple: a long table with wooden chairs, a whiteboard stained faintly from old markers, and a ceiling fan that whirred in a slow, unsteady rhythm. A married couple Jack had met earlier, Eric and Natalie Chen, sat together while speaking quietly. They both wore crisp field shirts and looked professionally prepared, the kind of couple who synchronized even their posture. They greeted Jack politely, warmly even, but with a certain emotional reserve—as if friendliness was allowed but familiarity would take an act of Congress.
Then the door opened, and Raj Bhatta entered.
Raj was in his early forties but carried himself with a maturity that felt older—shoulders straight, eyes alert, every movement intentional. He wore a neatly pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His black hair was trimmed short, peppered lightly with gray. He gave the impression of a man who had seen many volunteers come and go and had learned to expect both the best and the worst.
“Good morning,” Raj said. His voice was deep but calm, controlled. “Let us begin.”
They took seats around the table. Jack sat beside Tom, feeling oddly like the first day of school.
Raj glanced at a folder, then closed it as though deciding he didn’t need the notes after all.
“This district,” Raj began, “has asked for renewed focus in environmental stewardship. You four”—he looked around the table, lingering briefly on Jack—”will be responsible for working with community leaders, school groups, and local committees on several priorities.”
He wrote on the whiteboard as he spoke:
-Forest preservation and anti-erosion education
-Sustainable waste management
-Watershed protection and reforestation projects
-Training local youth clubs
Jack watched the words appear, realizing how deceptively simple they looked in ink.
“These goals,” Raj continued, “sound straightforward. But implementation is ... not straightforward. Some communities are enthusiastic. Others are skeptical. Many are simply busy surviving.”
He met their eyes in turn. When his gaze settled on Jack, it held for a moment too long.
Tom noticed. Jack felt it.
“Local sensitivities,” Raj said, “must be taken very seriously here. This area has received many foreign workers in recent years. Some helped. Some ... created difficulties. The village committees will be watching you.”
Natalie sat forward. “We understand. We’re prepared to follow whatever guidance the district recommends.”
“Good,” Raj said with a nod. “You will each be embedded with different wards. You will collaborate, but you will not interfere in each other’s relationships with the community. Respect and patience are everything.”
Eric raised a hand slightly. “Are there particular issues we should be aware of in this region? Cultural concerns specific to our sites?”
Raj hesitated—only a pause of a second, but enough for Jack to register it.
“Yes,” Raj said carefully. “You are all guests here. The village life is traditional. People may not speak openly, but nothing escapes notice. Foreigners attract attention.” Again, that glance at Jack. “Some of you have placements near neighborhoods that are more ... observant than others.”
Jack felt his spine stiffen. He wondered if rumors had already reached Raj—about the curious neighbors watching last night, or something he didn’t even know he had done. But no, Raj had said “some of you,” not “you, Jack Morgan, specifically.”
Tom tapped a pen silently against the table. A subtle, grounding gesture.
Raj continued, “You must be extremely mindful of your presence. Your behavior. Your interactions. Small things matter.”
The fan hummed overhead, stirring the warm air.
Jack shifted in his chair, uneasy. He had always known the Peace Corps demanded professionalism, but this was the first time he felt the scrutiny as a physical weight. Two failed marriages, a desire for reinvention, and now—somehow—he’d landed in the placement that required extra monitoring. That was ... typical.
Raj then outlined the technical responsibilities, passing out packets filled with maps, committee rosters, site histories, and preliminary action plans. Jack flipped through his copy, feeling more overwhelmed with each page.
Soil degradation models. Local political hierarchies. Nepali terminology he half-understood at best. A reforestation plan requiring coordination with three different committees.
Tom nudged him under the table and mouthed, Breathe.
Raj wrapped up the briefing with final remarks. “You will spend this week observing and listening,” he said. “Not teaching yet. Not leading. Listening. The community will decide how useful you are. Not the Peace Corps.”
He capped his marker.
“That is all for today. We will meet again next week. Questions?”
None were offered. Not because there weren’t any questions, but because there were too many.
Outside, the sunlight felt harsher. Jack stared at the packet in his hands, the maps and notes already seeming to blur. Tom walked beside him, stretching his arms over his head.
“Well,” Tom said, “that was upbeat.”
Jack huffed. “I feel like I’ve been handed a job I’m not qualified for. In a language I can barely manage. In a place where everyone watches everything.”
“Congratulations,” Tom said, clapping him on the back. “You’re officially a Peace Corps volunteer.”
Jack tried to laugh, but it came out thin. What he really felt was the size of the task in front of him—a steep learning curve, a culture he barely understood, and the unsettling sense that even before he’d done anything, someone, somewhere, was already taking notes.
And day one wasn’t even over. Not by a long shot.
The rest of the day unfolded in a blur of introductions, paperwork, and walks between offices under a sun that grew heavier with each passing hour. Jack spent most of the afternoon shadowing a local forestry officer named Binod—thin, efficient, and polite in the way that suggested he had already formed an opinion of Jack but wasn’t about to say it out loud.
They visited a hillside community where erosion had cut a jagged scar between two terraces. Binod explained the history in Nepali, slowly for Jack’s benefit, though the younger man’s tone carried a faint, involuntary skepticism.
“They planted saplings last year,” Binod said, gesturing to a cluster of stunted trees. “But goats eat them. Always goats.” He shrugged. “People say replanting is useless.”
Jack nodded, trying to shape a response that sounded competent. “Maybe fencing,” he said. “Or working with the herders.”
Binod gave a noncommittal “Hmm,” the sound of someone choosing not to disagree but not agreeing either.
Later they visited a school where the principal barely looked up from his desk. “Workshops,” he repeated when Binod introduced Jack. “Maybe after exams. Or maybe next year.” His tone made it clear: do not expect much.
Community leaders offered polite handshakes. Some smiled warmly, genuinely. Others eyed Jack as if trying to determine the size of the disruption he represented.
At one house, a woman closed her gate the moment Binod and Jack approached—not rudely, but firmly, as if saying, Now is not the time.
By late afternoon, Jack’s shirt clung to his back and his Nepali was fraying at the edges. Every conversation felt like climbing a hill that got steeper the longer he talked. Every polite smile left him wondering what people really thought.
He hadn’t expected immediate enthusiasm. But he hadn’t expected the quiet resistance either.
When the day finally wound to a stop, Jack found himself drifting automatically toward the Blue Daal, drawn by memory of the previous night’s ease. The café’s sign—hand-painted and slightly crooked—swayed gently above the doorway. Inside, Tom was already there, two sweating glasses of something cold and citrusy waiting on the table.
“There he is,” Tom said, raising one glass. “The man, the myth, the future savior of local watersheds.”
Jack dropped into the seat opposite him and let his head tip back. “If by savior you mean ‘confused foreigner being humored by everyone,’ then yes, that’s me.”
Tom grinned. “That’s all of us. Welcome to the club.”
Jack sighed, taking a long drink. The cold hit his throat like a blessing. “I don’t think I’ve felt this out of my depth since ... I don’t know. Maybe high school calculus.”
“Except calculus didn’t involve goats eating your project plans,” Tom added.
Jack barked out a laugh. “True.”
“Look,” Tom said, leaning forward, elbows on the table, “the first week is always like this. People don’t know you yet. They don’t know if you’re sticking around, or if you’ll throw up your hands and quit. Show up consistently, be respectful, learn names, listen more than you talk ... eventually, things warm up.”
“Eventually,” Jack repeated.
Tom shrugged. “Could be weeks. Could be months. Could be never, but that just means you’ll get a different assignment in year two.”
Jack leveled a look at him.
Tom held up a hand. “Kidding. Mostly kidding.”
Jack shook his head, but the tension in his shoulders eased. Tom had a way of making things feel manageable, even when they weren’t. Maybe that was why they had clicked during training—Tom didn’t pretend the Peace Corps was noble perfection. He knew it was messy and frustrating and sometimes absurd, and he embraced all of it anyway.
They talked awhile longer—about Binod, the unenthusiastic principal, the heat, and the way Pokhara seemed different in the late afternoon, as if the mountains themselves grew a little closer when the light softened. Tom told a story about a volunteer who once tried to teach composting and ended up with twelve furious villagers and a small accidental brushfire.
Jack almost spit out his drink laughing.
By the time they parted ways, the sun was low, and the streetlights were flickering awake. Jack felt lighter—not because the day had gone well, but because at least he wasn’t alone in it.
He walked the familiar route back toward the Subedi home, pausing at a corner where the lane narrowed. As he rounded the bend, his gaze flicked automatically toward the house he’d noticed the night before—the one with the pale blue door and the hibiscus plant blooming over the wall.
The door was open.
A pair of sandals sat neatly beside it. Inside, he heard the faint sound of a kettle clicking, and a woman’s voice—quiet, melodic—speaking to someone he couldn’t see.
He didn’t linger. Didn’t slow. He wasn’t even sure why he looked.
Still no interaction. No recognition. Just the sense of a life happening parallel to his, close enough to see but not yet close enough to touch.
He continued up the path toward the Subedi house. Sarita’s silhouette moved inside the kitchen window. A warm glow spilled out onto the lane.
Jack breathed in the evening air, tired but grounded.
Day one had been hard. Tomorrow would likely be hard too.