Story of Artless and Maya
The village of Gatlang, Nepal is a VDC, a Village District Committee, halfway up a ridge along the Himalayan line. Like a baby, it is beautiful and small. I remember when I first saw it as our guides Zeke and Sujan drove us over a hill and as vain as it sounds, desperately thinking that this kind of beauty must be preserved. The mountainsides and hills which loomed and rose like petrified waves stood as wards; stoic guardians around the small village. Among its residents, there was a girl, same age as me. She came running to me as we arrived at our homestay and gave me a hug of warmth over the layers of clothes. She said she remembered me from last year and I said I did too, but really I didn’t. She held my hand and said it was okay if I didn’t remember her. That was all it took for me, and everyone, to be taken by her.
First thing that amazed all of us was that she was fluent in both Nepalese and the indigenous Tamang language, while also possessing strong English skills. She had memorised the entire bible as that was the one English text she had from some NGO worker a few years ago. Bearing in mind no one else in the village could speak both Nepalese and Tamang, let alone English, even though they shared bathrooms with neighbors that speak the other language, we weren’t surprised when she started jotting down notes as soon as our teammates spoke in Korean. I spent the entire trip with her as a friend, as a guide, and as a source of inspiration. Her name is Maya.
She started off as a primary teacher in a nursery on the other side of the mountains, a two-day distance from Gatlang. She was the niece of the guest house owner in a nearby village. This was a great privilege, as the guest house owners in the VDCs of Nepal are often well-respected and relatively comfortable. Maya had a promising future ahead of her because she was going to pursue further education by attending college in Kathmandu. Her uncle, the guest house owner, was helping her save money from her work as a primary teacher.
I was leading Team Artless to film a documentary which we would use to help raise funds to rebuild the destroyed Rastriya Secondary School in Gatlang, Nepal. I have no doubt that Maya was the key to our later success. We went to her house, we took pictures, and we recorded videos of her family. Yet throughout the days of our filming, she rarely let go of my hand. It was simply impossible not to feel inspired by her presence alone. She radiated mirth; I remember thinking that if I could offer such an overwhelming sense of happiness to other people, I would have lived a successful life. Her ambitions, dreams, and hopes differentiated her from others in her VDC.
Her full name was Sar’Maya Tamang. “Sar” meant love in Nepalese, while “Maya” meant star or universe in Tamang. Her name meant “Universe of Love” in two languages present in the village, which was exactly what she was.
I can still remember Maya running down to our group every morning, calling to us as sisters and brothers from the greens above. Behind her, the sun wreathed her in light, setting her colourful, grass-stained skirt aflame with brilliance. She exploded outward, pure energy and joy.
Juri would whisper, “She heals us, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah, she sure does.”
By the third day, Maya had already opened herself a great deal to us, and to me especially. She brought us to her secret alcoves in the mountains which overlooked the sunrise, to the ledges which made me feel like I could kiss the mountaintops. She told us about her dreams and her life. We sat in her room and she spoke about her family, how they loved her and raised her to love others. With an embarrassed chuckle, she told me how she was born in her grandfather’s stables with sheep. Then she said that the stable had burnt down. She told me her uncle, the one who provided for the family financially, was crushed to death within his home during the earthquake, how it shook the foundations of her world.
I need this on camera, I thought. As she recalled the burning of her world, I quietly waved over Juri. Maya stopped talking as Juri came with the camera and I reiterated the questions which she just answered.
“So Maya, What happened to your uncle?”
I watched her face wilt. A flutter of her eyes beat aside a tear. She looked at the camera, then back to me, then back at the camera again. I felt a part of myself die when her eyes flattened with confusion. Maya’s gaze silently lashed me: “Oh, right, I almost forgot I’m a tool.”
That was when it hit me. Did I really need this? Was the video really more important than our friendship? Our relationship? No. A thousand times no. Capturing this moment was a betrayal of the experience itself. I then saw that these moments are raw and emotional, precious and real – like Maya.
Later that day, as the sun was falling beneath the ridgeline, Maya suggested that our group join her atop a neighbouring hill for the sunset view. In Gatlang, when the sun fell, there was no light. To us, we had the eyes of novices. We were blind to the boulders and roots which could trip and ensnare us during our descent back to the village. But Maya held my hand all the way back, just as I held Juri’s and she held Ryan’s, and so on. Walking down the mountain, Maya showed me that the journey of life is about more than the views at the top. It is the journey up, and the descent back to the camp. It is stumbling through the dark, hand in hand with those we love, in search of safety and the warmth of a place to call home. Whether they are tents or houses, with family or friends, Maya helped me see a truth of life: we must never make the journey alone, we cannot make the journey alone. In a universe of love, we glow in darkness together. Our light makes us stronger, it gives us purpose and hope. I wish more than anything that I could share that with others the way that Maya shared with me. I wish I never tried to capture that lesson on video, and I am hesitant to write it now. Its meaning is beyond the most eloquent of words, the deepest of songs, or the highest of praise. Its meaning can only be felt in the heart and embraced in my mind. As we walked past the place where Maya came every day for years to cry after her grandparents died, and again after her uncle died, I heard her quiet sob. Even after years, the pain was still fresh in her heart. The mountains of Gatlang were Maya’s feelings and memories, but it amazed me how I felt them too. Maya’s fingers squeezed my hand and mine squeezed Juri’s, and Juri’s to Ryan’s. By the time we reached the village, our entire group was drying tears. We shared the journey, the memories of that descent.
The village of Gatlang, Nepal is a VDC, a Village District Committee, halfway up a ridge along the Himalayan line. Like a baby, it is beautiful and small. I remember when I first saw it as our guides Zeke and Sujan drove us over a hill and as vain as it sounds, desperately thinking that this kind of beauty must be preserved. The mountainsides and hills which loomed and rose like petrified waves stood as wards; stoic guardians around the small village. Among its residents, there was a girl, same age as me. She came running to me as we arrived at our homestay and gave me a hug of warmth over the layers of clothes. She said she remembered me from last year and I said I did too, but really I didn’t. She held my hand and said it was okay if I didn’t remember her. That was all it took for me, and everyone, to be taken by her.
First thing that amazed all of us was that she was fluent in both Nepalese and the indigenous Tamang language, while also possessing strong English skills. She had memorised the entire bible as that was the one English text she had from some NGO worker a few years ago. Bearing in mind no one else in the village could speak both Nepalese and Tamang, let alone English, even though they shared bathrooms with neighbors that speak the other language, we weren’t surprised when she started jotting down notes as soon as our teammates spoke in Korean. I spent the entire trip with her as a friend, as a guide, and as a source of inspiration. Her name is Maya.
She started off as a primary teacher in a nursery on the other side of the mountains, a two-day distance from Gatlang. She was the niece of the guest house owner in a nearby village. This was a great privilege, as the guest house owners in the VDCs of Nepal are often well-respected and relatively comfortable. Maya had a promising future ahead of her because she was going to pursue further education by attending college in Kathmandu. Her uncle, the guest house owner, was helping her save money from her work as a primary teacher.
I was leading Team Artless to film a documentary which we would use to help raise funds to rebuild the destroyed Rastriya Secondary School in Gatlang, Nepal. I have no doubt that Maya was the key to our later success. We went to her house, we took pictures, and we recorded videos of her family. Yet throughout the days of our filming, she rarely let go of my hand. It was simply impossible not to feel inspired by her presence alone. She radiated mirth; I remember thinking that if I could offer such an overwhelming sense of happiness to other people, I would have lived a successful life. Her ambitions, dreams, and hopes differentiated her from others in her VDC.
Her full name was Sar’Maya Tamang. “Sar” meant love in Nepalese, while “Maya” meant star or universe in Tamang. Her name meant “Universe of Love” in two languages present in the village, which was exactly what she was.
I can still remember Maya running down to our group every morning, calling to us as sisters and brothers from the greens above. Behind her, the sun wreathed her in light, setting her colourful, grass-stained skirt aflame with brilliance. She exploded outward, pure energy and joy.
Juri would whisper, “She heals us, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah, she sure does.”
By the third day, Maya had already opened herself a great deal to us, and to me especially. She brought us to her secret alcoves in the mountains which overlooked the sunrise, to the ledges which made me feel like I could kiss the mountaintops. She told us about her dreams and her life. We sat in her room and she spoke about her family, how they loved her and raised her to love others. With an embarrassed chuckle, she told me how she was born in her grandfather’s stables with sheep. Then she said that the stable had burnt down. She told me her uncle, the one who provided for the family financially, was crushed to death within his home during the earthquake, how it shook the foundations of her world.
I need this on camera, I thought. As she recalled the burning of her world, I quietly waved over Juri. Maya stopped talking as Juri came with the camera and I reiterated the questions which she just answered.
“So Maya, What happened to your uncle?”
I watched her face wilt. A flutter of her eyes beat aside a tear. She looked at the camera, then back to me, then back at the camera again. I felt a part of myself die when her eyes flattened with confusion. Maya’s gaze silently lashed me: “Oh, right, I almost forgot I’m a tool.”
That was when it hit me. Did I really need this? Was the video really more important than our friendship? Our relationship? No. A thousand times no. Capturing this moment was a betrayal of the experience itself. I then saw that these moments are raw and emotional, precious and real – like Maya.
Later that day, as the sun was falling beneath the ridgeline, Maya suggested that our group join her atop a neighbouring hill for the sunset view. In Gatlang, when the sun fell, there was no light. To us, we had the eyes of novices. We were blind to the boulders and roots which could trip and ensnare us during our descent back to the village. But Maya held my hand all the way back, just as I held Juri’s and she held Ryan’s, and so on. Walking down the mountain, Maya showed me that the journey of life is about more than the views at the top. It is the journey up, and the descent back to the camp. It is stumbling through the dark, hand in hand with those we love, in search of safety and the warmth of a place to call home. Whether they are tents or houses, with family or friends, Maya helped me see a truth of life: we must never make the journey alone, we cannot make the journey alone. In a universe of love, we glow in darkness together. Our light makes us stronger, it gives us purpose and hope. I wish more than anything that I could share that with others the way that Maya shared with me. I wish I never tried to capture that lesson on video, and I am hesitant to write it now. Its meaning is beyond the most eloquent of words, the deepest of songs, or the highest of praise. Its meaning can only be felt in the heart and embraced in my mind. As we walked past the place where Maya came every day for years to cry after her grandparents died, and again after her uncle died, I heard her quiet sob. Even after years, the pain was still fresh in her heart. The mountains of Gatlang were Maya’s feelings and memories, but it amazed me how I felt them too. Maya’s fingers squeezed my hand and mine squeezed Juri’s, and Juri’s to Ryan’s. By the time we reached the village, our entire group was drying tears. We shared the journey, the memories of that descent.