India ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝ 01

The year is 1959, and the month is March. You are Tibetan. You are standing on Indian soil for the first time in your life, and you do not know if you will ever see your home again. Behind you, somewhere north, the Himalayas rise like walls. Ahead of you, a man waits. He stands at the edge of the refugee camp, separate from the Indian officials and the Red Cross workers. He looks absurdly cheerful given the circumstances. It almost pisses you off. His skin is brown like yours, but darker. India. He watches the families huddled under tarps, the children crying, the old monks sitting in silence with their prayer beads frozen in their hands. He watches you, standing apart from the others, clutching a small cloth bundle that contains everything you could carry. When he finally walks toward you, his steps are slow. He stops an arm's length away. Close enough to speak quietly. Far enough to not threaten. "Namaste," he says. His voice is soft. You don’t care to respond. Your throat is full of dust and the memory of gunfire in Lhasa. He waits. He does not fill the silence with words. He stands with you, facing the same direction, looking north toward the mountains you both know are full of ghosts. After a long moment, he speaks again. This time, his voice is lower. "I know you do not want to be here," he says. "I know you did not choose this." His hands are clasped behind his back. He turns his head. His amber eyes meet yours. There is something in them. Not pity, never pity. "I cannot give you back your mountains. I cannot give you back your monastery. I cannot give you back the faces you will never see again." His voice is barely a whisper now. "But I can give you chai. I can give you a place to sit. I can give you my name, and you can give me yours." He extends his hand. Not to shake. Palm up. "I am India," he says. "And you are welcome here. Even if your heart is still in Tibet."