Namaste, Stranger
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 8
The saplings arrived late. They always did.
Jack stood at the edge of the clearing with his sleeves rolled up, watching as a battered pickup truck crawled into view, its bed stacked with thin, hopeful trees wrapped in burlap. The driver cut the engine and climbed down without ceremony.
“No rush,” Jack said in Nepali, though no one had been hurrying him.
A few men nodded. Someone smiled faintly.
The site was a narrow strip of land just above a washed-out footpath—an awkward place for a project, too rocky in places, too steep in others. It had been chosen not because it was ideal, but because it was available.
Symbolic in the most practical sense.
The elders arrived quietly. They didn’t step into the clearing. They stood beneath the shade of a remaining sal tree, hands clasped behind their backs, faces unreadable. Their presence was not approval or disapproval—it was assessment.
Jack noticed them immediately and adjusted his posture without thinking, making his movements smaller, less declarative.
He resisted the urge to explain. Instead, he picked up a hoe and began working beside the youth volunteers, breaking soil carefully, stopping often to test depth and angle. The ground was stubborn, packed down by years of rain and foot traffic. The work progressed slowly.
That, Jack realized, was part of the point.
There was no ribbon cutting. No speeches. Each sapling was placed by hand, its roots eased gently into the earth. The youth argued quietly about spacing. An older man corrected one of them with a gesture rather than words.
Jack demonstrated how to build a small berm around each tree—just enough to catch rain without trapping it. He didn’t insist when someone modified the shape. He let the land and the people negotiate together.
“This one might not survive,” a boy said, eyeing a sapling that leaned slightly.
Jack nodded. “Many won’t.”
The boy looked surprised. “Then why plant them?”
Jack smiled. “Because some will.”
Halfway through the morning, one of the elders stepped forward. He didn’t address Jack at first. He spoke to the group.
“These trees are not magic,” he said. “They will not stop the mountain from moving.”
No one argued.
“They will slow water,” the elder continued. “They will teach patience.”
His gaze shifted to Jack—not challenging, not welcoming. Simply acknowledging.
Jack bowed his head slightly in response.
That was all.
By midday, the saplings stood in uneven rows, their leaves trembling in the breeze. The youth wiped sweat from their faces, proud and exhausted.
The elders drifted away without comment.
Jack rinsed his hands in a nearby stream, watching the water curl around stones, thinking of how long it would take for roots to take hold, for soil to remember them.
This was not a turning point. It was not even a success, not yet. But it was work that would remain after he left the site.
As Jack gathered his tools, he felt the quiet satisfaction of having planted something without needing to see it grow.
Some things, he was learning, asked only for time.
Jack was rinsing mud from his boots at the edge of the path when he sensed her before he saw her.
Ama Goma stood a short distance away, her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders despite the warmth of the afternoon. She leaned on her walking stick, watching the newly planted saplings with an expression that was neither pleased nor doubtful.
Simply patient.
“You worked slowly today,” she said.
Jack smiled faintly. “The ground insisted on it.”
She nodded, as if the earth had spoken directly to her as well. They walked together a short way, the path uneven but familiar to her feet.
“The young ones like to see change quickly,” Ama Goma said. “They think speed is strength.”
Jack considered that. “Back home, speed is usually how we prove something matters.”
“And does it?” she asked, not unkindly.
Jack exhaled. “Sometimes. Not here.”
She stopped walking and turned to him then, her gaze steady.
“Roots take longer than walls,” she said.
Jack frowned slightly. “Walls?”
“Yes. Walls go up fast. Everyone sees them.” She tapped her stick against the ground. “Roots stay hidden. They hold when rain comes.”
Jack felt the words settle somewhere deeper than his thoughts. They stood in silence for a moment, watching a boy adjust a sapling’s support stones with great seriousness.
“I thought impact meant being useful,” Jack said finally. “Leaving something behind.”
Ama Goma smiled, the lines in her face deepening. “You will leave many things behind. Footprints. Words. Mistakes.”
She lifted her stick and pointed toward the hillside.
“But endurance,” she continued, “is when the land remembers you kindly.”
Jack swallowed. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed to hear that.
Ama Goma began to turn away.
“You worry too much about being seen,” she said over her shoulder. “And not enough about being woven in.”
Jack watched her walk down the path, unhurried, as if time itself bent slightly around her. He looked back at the saplings—thin, vulnerable, already part of the place.
Suddenly, Jack understood that change here would not come from being noticed. It would come from staying. And from trusting that what took root quietly would hold longer than anything built to be admired.
Raj chose a table near the back of the office, away from the windows and the constant movement of the street. He spread Jack’s field notes between them, smoothing the pages with deliberate care.
“You did not rush,” Raj said.
Jack waited. He had learned that praise from Raj came wrapped in precision.
“You did not push for visibility,” Raj continued. “You did not make promises you could not keep.”
He looked up then, meeting Jack’s eyes. “That matters.”
Jack felt the unfamiliar sensation of being evaluated—and found sufficient.
“I tried to follow local pace,” Jack said. “Even when it felt ... slow.”
Raj nodded. “Especially then.”
The conversation shifted to logistics—reporting schedules, coordination with NGOs, school follow-ups. Raj’s tone remained neutral, but the content told a different story.
“We will reduce weekly check-ins to biweekly,” Raj said. “Unless something changes.”
Jack didn’t hide his surprise.
“And,” Raj added, “your movement restrictions are lifted. Use judgment.”
The unspoken message was clear: trust, extended cautiously, but real.
Jack inclined his head. “I will.”
Raj gathered the papers. “Consistency is difficult here. Many arrive with energy and leave with disappointment.”
He paused. “You are still here.”
Later that afternoon, Jack ran into Eric and Natalie near the supply depot. They greeted him politely, as always. But there was a subtle shift—a pause that invited conversation rather than closing it.
“Heard the school project’s back on,” Eric said.
Jack nodded. “Small steps.”
Natalie adjusted her bag. “Raj mentioned your approach in the meeting. About letting locals lead.”
Jack hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s their land.”
Eric smiled faintly. “We could probably learn from that.”
There was no invitation to socialize. No sudden warmth.
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