Namaste, Stranger
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 4
By the end of Jack’s second week, the rhythm of the assignment had begun to take shape—not smooth, not predictable, but at least familiar enough that he no longer woke up startled, expecting a different ceiling.
Most mornings began with a cup of milk tea handed to him by Sarita and a cheerful greeting from Nisha, who had decided Jack was best nagged into eating breakfast “properly.” From there, he walked to the small municipal building where the team gathered, notebooks tucked under his arm, practicing new Nepali verbs under his breath.
The man formally known as Rajendra Bhatta—”Raj” to the volunteers, “Raj sir” to everyone else—always arrived crisply dressed, with the air of one who wanted things done right but had grown accustomed to compromise. He watched Jack closely, not unkindly, but with an attentiveness that reminded Jack he was still being assessed.
On this particular morning, Raj reviewed the week’s goals: school visits, community workshops, and a preliminary report on runoff patterns after last monsoon’s floods.
“You should start with Bhirkot Primary,” Raj said. “The older students are curious. But remember—keep things simple. Visual. Less technical language.”
“Got it,” Jack said, though the knot in his stomach tightened. Simple, visual, less technical. In his previous life, he had jobs where people expected jargon from him. Now even the everyday vocabulary felt like a tightrope.
Bhirkot Primary School was cheerful chaos—children running everywhere, stray goats nosing around the yard, teachers trying valiantly to impose order. Jack and a young science teacher, Mr. Sharma, set up an outdoor demonstration on soil erosion using a plastic tub and two slopes: one bare, one covered with leaves to simulate forest ground.
The kids gathered around, wide-eyed. Jack felt a flicker of confidence. This, I can do.
He poured water down the bare slope. Muddy runoff splashed into the basin.
“Yo hernus,” he said proudly. Look at this. “Eutaa—uh—problem.” He realized belatedly he had forgotten the word for “erosion.”
He looked desperately at Mr. Sharma.
“Bhaṅgan,” Mr. Sharma supplied.
Jack repeated it, but too loudly, accidentally shouting the word with exaggerated emphasis. Several kids giggled. One imitated him. Then another. Soon half the group was happily shouting “Bhaṅgan! Bhaṅgan!” like a chant.
Jack put a hand over his face. Mr. Sharma chuckled.
“Children enjoy enthusiasm,” he said diplomatically.
Despite the stumble, the demonstration worked, and the students seemed genuinely curious. When Jack poured water down the leafy slope and the runoff stayed clear, several children clapped. One boy raised his hand, speaking rapidly. Jack didn’t understand a word.
“He wants to know if this is why landslides happen,” Mr. Sharma translated.
Jack brightened. “Yes. Exactly.” That one boy’s question buoyed him the whole walk back.
Later in the week, he met with a youth environmental club led by a university student named Pratish. These were older teens—sharp, direct, and unafraid to tease.
“Sir, why Americans walk so fast?” one asked, trying to keep up while Jack led them along an inspection route.
Before Jack could answer, Pratish laughed. “He does not walk fast. We walk slowly.”
Another student added, “He walks like he is late for a plane.”
“Trust me,” Jack said. “You never want to miss a plane out of Dulles Airport.”
They stared at him blankly. Pratish translated. The group erupted in laughter, probably not because the joke was good but because Jack was trying.
Still—progress.
At the Friday check-in, Raj reviewed his notes, nodding here and there.
“You are engaging well,” he said. “But sometimes ... slower. Not the walking,” he added, glancing at Jack’s expression. “The instruction. You give too much information at once.”
“Right. I’ll work on that.”
“And,” Raj continued more softly, “remember—this community had a difficult monsoon season. Many families are still ... sensitive. Listen before you propose solutions.”
Jack nodded, feeling a flush of mild embarrassment. But none of it felt like reprimand—more like gentle steering.
“Thank you for the guidance,” he said.
Raj’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “You are learning.”
In contrast, Tom had become a local favorite seemingly overnight. Children waved to him in the street. Shopkeepers asked after him. Today he leaned back in his chair at The Blue Daal café, arms crossed, grin smug.
“You know what your problem is?” Tom asked as Jack sank into the seat opposite him.
“I suspect you’re going to tell me regardless.”
“You’re trying too hard,” Tom declared. “Slow down. Smile more. Stop looking like you’re expecting a pop quiz.”
Jack groaned. “I do feel like I’m expecting a pop quiz.”
Tom raised his tea in a mock-toast. “Then relax. You’re here for two years. Trust me—you’ll mess up so many times you’ll stop noticing.”
Despite himself, Jack laughed. “Thanks. That’s ... oddly comforting. I suppose.”
“You’re welcome. And hey,” Tom added, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smirk, “I heard you found out who the mystery blue-door girl is.”
Jack nearly choked on his tea. “What—how—”
“Kids talk. And so do host families. And definitely so do neighbors. Relax, man. I’m not teasing you about that yet. I’m teasing you about how you turned red when I asked.”
Jack forced himself to focus on his tea, but the warmth in his chest had very little to do with the drink. He wasn’t ready to talk—not even close—and Tom seemed content to drop it, at least for now.
Instead, Tom launched into a story about a miscommunication at his own placement site involving a broken water pump, three goats, and an overly optimistic electrician. By the time the two parted ways, Jack felt lighter again.
Work was still difficult. Confusing. Full of missteps.
But he was settling into it.
And, unexpectedly ... he was settling into here.
As week number four rolled around, Jack found himself slipping into small routines without fully noticing them at first. Morning tea with the Subedis. Midday check-ins with Raj. Evening walks through the neighborhood. And, increasingly, a quiet awareness whenever he neared the lane that led to The Phewa View Guesthouse.
He didn’t always see Anjana. Sometimes the front courtyard was empty, chairs stacked from the day’s heat. Other times he glimpsed her through the window behind the reception desk—head down, typing, her braid trailing over one shoulder. When she wasn’t there, he felt an odd pang of disappointment he didn’t want to name.
Their messaging had remained light. A few exchanges about the weather. A joke about goat mischief. A shared complaint about unreliable Wi-Fi.
Nothing bold. Nothing improper. But something ... gently growing.
The neighborhood itself seemed to grow more observant as Jack’s routines stabilized. Children called out “Hello sir!” whenever he passed; adults looked up from their stoops or gardens with guarded curiosity. Not unfriendly—just measuring him, deciding what kind of man he was.
Some evenings, he spotted two older men playing cards on a short table near the road. They always paused to watch him walk by, then resumed their game. Women carrying vegetables from the market often gave him a brief nod before hurrying on.
He understood it: the presence of a foreigner, especially one living among them, invited scrutiny. Every step he took was a reminder that nothing about him blended.
One evening, as he walked back from town, a group of children trailed behind him, whispering and giggling. He turned and smiled.
“Namaste,” he said.
They erupted into delighted laughter, as if the foreigner speaking their language was the funniest thing they had ever encountered.
A girl stepped forward. “Your Nepali is good!”
He blinked. “No, it’s not.”
“It’s funny,” she clarified with perfect earnestness.
He laughed—because she wasn’t wrong. Then he let them escort him halfway home before they scattered off like birds.
Late one afternoon after a training session with the youth club, Jack found himself walking past The Phewa View Guesthouse. He told himself he wouldn’t stop. He didn’t need anything. He wasn’t looking for her. He would walk right past.
He slowed down anyway.
Through the open window, he could hear music, something light and modern. And then a voice. Her voice. Talking to someone at the counter.
He hesitated. He could keep walking.
But then she looked up, spotted him outside, and for the first time ... her face lit up.
Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just a small, unmistakably genuine spark of recognition that warmed him more than it should have.
She stepped to the doorway. “Jack.”
He swallowed—more affected than he wanted to show. “Hey. I was just ... passing by.”
“Of course,” she said, with a tiny smile indicating she knew perfectly well that people rarely “just passed by” this particular lane.
“How’s the project going?” she asked.
“Better,” he said. “I managed to say the word for ‘landslide’ without shouting today.”
She laughed. “Progress.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “You busy right now?”
“Not too much. Only one guest checking in.” She lowered her voice an inch. “A French couple who think they invented trekking.”
Jack snorted. “Sounds like my people.”
Their eyes met—light, brief, but connected in a way that made him more aware of the space between them. She shifted her weight, as if feeling it too.
From across the courtyard, one of the guesthouse aunties called for Anjana. She gave Jack a small nod—regret mixed with duty.
“I should go,” she said.
“Right. Of course.”
“Good to see you though.”
“You too.”
And just like that, she disappeared inside.
Jack walked away slowly, aware of two shopkeepers across the road watching him with the same mild suspicion one might give to a stray dog sniffing too close to their garden. He kept his head down and reminded himself there was nothing to see here. Nothing to talk about.
Nothing happening.
That night, after dinner and a round of homework helping with Suman and Nisha, Jack sat in his room, reviewing tomorrow’s teaching plan. His phone buzzed.
Anjana:
I hope you didn’t think I was trying to avoid you earlier. The French couple needed help finding a SIM card.
Jack smiled.
Jack:
You weren’t avoiding me. I know how it is. Travelers and their accessories.
Also, what does SIM card mean in French?
Anjana:
Chaos.
(At least with these two.)
Jack laughed, quietly.
Their conversation drifted—nothing remarkable, just easy. He told her about the chanting schoolchildren; she told him about a guest who insisted Pokhara sunsets were “too orange, unnaturally so.”
The messages slowed ... but didn’t stop. Finally she sent:
Anjana:
Good night, Jack.
Also ... thank you for stopping by.
He stared at the last line longer than he should have.
Jack:
Good night, Anjana.
He set the phone aside and leaned back on the pillow, a knot of conflicting feelings forming beneath his ribs.
He wasn’t here for this. He wasn’t supposed to be here for this.
Yet here it was.
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