Binita, 16, squatted by the open doorway of her family’s modest village home, pretending to grind spices with a pestle. Her eyes, however, were fixed on the jagged peaks of the Himalayas, visible in the distance between the rooftops. The late afternoon sun painted the snow-capped giants in hues of orange and purple. Her younger brother, Bijay, 12, played with a makeshift wooden truck nearby.
Her mother, Kamala, a stern-faced woman with hands gnarled from years of work, emerged from the kitchen. “Binita! Are those spices ground yet? Your grandmother will be here soon, and we need to start making dinner. You know how she gets upset if the dal is not perfectly spiced.”
Binita sighed, a barely audible puff of air. “Almost, Ama. Just a little more.” She glanced back at the mountains, a longing ache in her chest. Kamala followed her gaze. “Still dreaming of those mountains, eh? What’s with you and those barren rocks? It is not a place for girls, Binita. You know that. Stay here, learn your duties. A good husband will want a wife who can manage a home, not one who gazes at lifeless rocks.”
Binita bit her lip, clenched her jaw. “But Ama, don’t you ever wonder what it’s like up there? To see the world from so high? Don’t you ever wish you could know what’s beyond the village?”
Kamala snorted. “The world is here, my dear, in this village, not in dreams. Now, move those hands. And stop filling your head with these fanciful ideas.”
Binita reluctantly returned to her task, thudding the pestle. But her gaze kept drifting back to the mountains, a silent promise forming in her heart that she would, someday, go beyond her village.
A couple of weeks later, Binita had made up her mind.
The air was cool and still, save for the distant barking of dogs in the darkness of the midnight.
Binita, dressed in her brother’s old, worn trousers and a too-large shirt, gazed at her reflection in a cracked piece of mirror.
She had cut her long hair short and messy with kitchen scissors. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she tried to deepen her voice, practicing a low, gruff tone.
“Jeevan… yes, Jeevan. That’s my name.”
“Heavy load? No problem. I carry. Always.”
She coughed; her throat not used to the strain.
She tied a faded bandanna around her head, tucking away any stray wisps of hair. She flexed her arm muscles, trying to look stronger, more masculine. She imagined the weight of a heavy load on her back, the burn in her legs.
It was a risk, a huge one. What if someone from the village saw her? What if she got caught on the trails? What if someone realised she was not a boy? A wave of fear washed over her.
But then she thought of another day confined to the village, the endless grinding of spices and waiting for a suitable husband. The thought of another day of suppressed yearning, another day without seeing what’s out there beyond her village was unbearable.
It was a burden heavier than any she would carry on the trails.
“I can do this,” she whispered to herself, her voice steady. “I have to do this; I must do this.”
She slipped her small, tarnished silver locket, a gift from her late grandfather, into her pocket. It was her only reminder of her true identity, a secret she would now guard fiercely.
Tomorrow, before the stroke of dawn, she would walk out of this village, not as Binita, the dutiful daughter, but as Jeevan, the rebellious porter.
***
The air was crisp in Pokhara, filled with the excited chatter of trekkers and the rhythmic calls of porters. Binita, now “Jeevan”, stood awkwardly among a group of men, hoping to blend in. She clutched a worn rucksack, trying to appear nonchalant, as if she had done this a hundred times.
Her smaller frame was a disadvantage, making her seem lost in the crowd, but she carried herself with a feigned confidence that she hoped no one would see through.
A trekking guide, a stout man named Narendra, surveyed the porters. His eyes skimmed over Jeevan, then backtracked just before moving forward. He squinted from a distance.
“Who are you? I haven’t seen you here before, boy. Are you new to the trails?”
Binita’s heart thumped against her ribs. This was the moment she had feared, and this was the moment she had prepared for.
She deepened her voice. “Jeevan, Sir. Yes, new here, from the lower villages in the east. Looking for work. New but Strong. Can carry anything. Fast.”
Narendra eyed her sceptically, a hint of suspicion in his gaze. “You look a bit… slight for a porter, Jeevan. The loads are heavy, and the air is thin up there. Are you sure you can handle it?”
“I’ve carried heavier in my village, Sir,” Binita insisted, in a gruff voice, trying to sound confident more than she felt. “Firewood, water, sacks of grain, spices. Give me a chance, Sir. A small trail to start work.”
Just then, two women, distinctly foreign, approached Narendra.
They were in their 50s, with practical trekking gear and had an air of quiet elegance. One, with short, silver hair and kind eyes, introduced herself as Eleanor. The other, with fiery red hair and a more reserved demeanour, was Margaret.
Eleanor gestured towards their luggage, two modest rucksacks. “We need a porter for our trek to Poon Hill. Not too heavy, just our essentials. And some books.”
Narendra looked from Jeevan to the women, then back, a faint smile playing on his lips as if he had made a quick decision. He shrugged, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Alright, Jeevan. You’re with these ladies. They don’t have too much gear. Don’t disappoint them. And don’t make any trouble.”
Binita felt a rush of relief, quickly followed by trepidation. She nodded, trying to project a confident, masculine stride as she moved to pick up their bags.
She glanced at Eleanor and Margaret, noticing their comfortable ease with each other, a silent understanding passing between them. Their presence sparked a flicker of curiosity in her, a world beyond her own, hinted at in their calm, assured manner.
Binita, nay Jeevan, picked up their bags, and got on to the job in a jiffy.
Later that afternoon, Binita, still “Jeevan,” sat huddled in a corner of a teahouse, nursing a cup of lukewarm tea. She was exhausted, her muscles aching from the day’s climb, but a deep sense of satisfaction hummed beneath her fatigue. She had done it. She had made it this far.
Eleanor and Margaret sat at a nearby table, sharing a meal of dal bhat. Their conversation was low and intimate, punctuated by soft laughter. Binita subtly observed them. They didn’t touch each other often, but there seemed to be a constant, gentle awareness of each other, a shared glance, a hand resting briefly on an arm. It was an unspoken language she hadn’t seen before in her village.
Margaret was recounting a story about a particularly trying client back in Kirkwall. “Honestly, Eleanor, the woman was impossible. Demanding the finest china at a garden party in a monsoon!”
Eleanor chuckled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, darling, you always were too good for those stuffy village affairs. Remember that time Mrs. Henderson insisted on playing croquet in her full riding habit? ”
Margaret shuddered dramatically. “Oh, don’t remind me! The sheer absurdity of it.”
Eleanor shrugged. “Sometimes, I think the only way to truly breathe is to put a few thousand miles between yourself and expectations, darling.” She looked at Margaret, a quiet, meaningful glance passing between them.
The word “darling” hung in the air, light and natural between them. Binita, despite her exhaustion, felt a jolt of recognition. She had heard whispers in her village, hushed tales of “different” women, of women who live outside the expected norms.
But seeing it, in the open, so unburdened, was different. These women, older, from a faraway land, carried vibes of quiet strength and an unspoken bond of intimacy that radiated from them.
They were beholden to no one, and their combined independence, expressed in their easy camaraderie and shared adventure, was palpable.
Eleanor caught Binita’s eye and offered a warm smile. “You’ve been a great help today, Jeevan. You’re very strong for your age. Do you enjoy the mountains?”
Binita nodded, a shy flush rising to her cheeks. “Thank you, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. Very much enjoy. It’s… beautiful.”
Margaret added, “Indeed. There’s a different kind of freedom here, isn’t there? A sense of possibility and being that you don’t always find in… well, in certain places..”
Binita nodded in silence, unable to fathom what Margaret meant exactly.
“For some reason, you remind us of the spirit it takes to carve your own path,” Margaret continued.
She looked at Eleanor, a knowing look passing between them, a silent acknowledgment of their own journey to carve their path away from the confines of conservative Kirkwall.
Binita did not fully understand their words, but the feeling behind them resonated deeply, stirring a nascent desire for a similar freedom within her.
***
The next morning, Binita, Eleanor, and Margaret stood together, huddled in the pre-dawn chill, waiting for the sunrise. The peaks around them were still dark silhouettes against the pre-dawn sky.
But a faint, ethereal glow was beginning to paint the eastern horizon in golden hues right in front of their eyes, seeming to be at touching distance.
The silence was profound; at times, broken by a whistling wind that aggravated the chill.
Binita pulled her threadbare jacket tighter, shivering. Despite the biting cold, a profound sense of awe washed over her. The mountains, so long a forbidden dream, were finally hers to experience.
Eleanor, seeing Binita shiver, offered her a warm, fleece-lined scarf. “Here, Jeevan. It’s freezing out here, even for us old hands from cooler climes.”
Binita took it, surprised by the gesture. “Thank you, ma’am. It is very kind of you.”
As she wrapped the soft wool around her neck and ears, her hand brushed against the locket hidden beneath her shirt. The movement, a slight snag, dislodged it, and it fell out, catching the faintest hint of rising sunlight.
Eleanor’s eyes widened slightly as she saw the delicate silver locket closely. She glanced at Margaret, then back at Binita’s face, noticing the softer lines of her jaw, the way her short hair still framed her features in a subtly feminine way. A flicker of understanding passed between the two women.
Margaret spoke softly. “That’s a beautiful locket, Jeevan. Very… feminine. Something a young woman might wear.”
Binita froze, her heart pounding, every muscle in her body tensing. She quickly tried to tuck it away, fumbling in the process. “It… it was my mother’s. A good luck charm.” Her voice cracked slightly, yet audibly enough, betraying her.
Eleanor’s voice was gentle. “It’s alright, Jeevan. Or… Binita? Or is the name on the locket not yours?”
Binita looked up, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and surprise. She couldn’t lie anymore. The carefully constructed façade of Jeevan had crumbled around her. She nodded, tears pricking her eyes, feeling a hot flush creep up her neck despite the cold. “Yes, my name is Binita.”
Margaret stepped closer, her expression warm and reassuring. “We thought as much. You have a certain… sparkle that’s hard to hide, dear. Why the disguise?”
Binita hesitated, then the words tumbled out in a rush, a torrent of suppressed dreams finding their way out. “In my village, Ama says.. girls… we don’t go to the mountains. We stay. We learn to cook, to clean, to serve.. We marry the man chosen for us. We obey.. But I… I wanted to see… to feel this.”
She gestured at the vast, silent landscape around them, tears tracing their path down her cheeks. “To feel this freedom, even if just for a little while. They would never allow it if I asked them. So, umm.. I became Jeevan.”
Eleanor reached out and drew Binita into a surprising embrace.
“Oh.. my dear girl,” she murmured holding her tightly. “We understand, Binita. Sometimes, you have to find your own way to the places you’re meant to be, regardless of what’s expected of you.”
She then pulled herself back slightly. “We’ve done it ourselves, in our own way.” She glanced at Margaret, a soft smile on her lips. “Kirkwall can be… stifling, in its own insidious way.”
Margaret nodded in agreement. “Oh, yes. The gossip, the ‘appropriate’ choices, the constant subtle judgment. Not here,” Margaret said. She swept her arm across the emerging panorama. “The mountains don’t care who you are.”
As the first rays of the sun burst over the jagged peaks, painting the snow in fiery gold, Binita felt a profound sense of release. The secret she carried had been seen, understood, and accepted by these two extraordinary women.
In their eyes, she saw not judgment, but a reflection of her own longing for freedom, and a path ahead she might truly be able to walk. Not as “Jeevan,” but as Binita.
***