She sits in a small hut somewhere in Nepal’s rugged mountain world, hiding from the scorching April sun. A slender woman with matted hair. A single streak peeks out from underneath her battered towel, which she has wrapped around her head like a majestic turban.
Next to her on the dusty floor rests a greasy, once-white jerry can. One of those used to transport gasoline. Attached to it is a brittle rope that helps haul the bulky beast.
As I approach to share Karmila’s shade, she walks off to the adjoining snack shop to get a cigarette. A moment later, she returns with the smoldering affair.