Fiction: Two cousins in Nepal face the challenges of pending womanhood in a country of men

It had been Sumnima’s idea to steal the mangoes. Everything of any real consequence always seemed to be Sumnima’s idea. And now here she was, racing ahead, charging through the trees, leaving Rita trailing behind, and all Rita wanted to do was to cry out. But her breath came in squeezing, muted gasps. Her ankles repeatedly twisted and buckled, the uncertain slap slap slap of her feet thundering at the centre of her ribcage. A hard outline of something sharp pierced through the worn sole of her rubber slipper. Then, an untimely thought: this Dashain, the biggest festival season of the year, when gifts were given and blessings received and the smell of charcoal-hot meat laced the air, she would ask Aama, her mother, for a new pair of slippers.

Ones with thick soles, made with fresh white rubber and bright blue straps that stuck out like ears. Ones that made you feel like you were permanently walking upon lightly packed soil that was just turned. Sumnima would, of course, laugh at the thought if she ever got to know. After all, it could never happen; Aama certainly didn’t have an extra rupee to spare. And now she could feel Dhire...

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