the land beneath the cloud and remembered the family running out of the tent to watch a passing plane. Planes hardly ever flew over the Tibetan plateau, so it was always an exciting event. 'One day you'll be inside and you'll look down at us and wave,' they had said. But, needless to say, they were not on our flight path.
Back in London I wore my
But it was good to see my family and our friends again. To gossip and drink and be understood. We confined ourselves only to those who understood. For there were plenty of people who couldn't comprehend the kind of life we had led. The trip had brought Tsedup and me closer together than we had ever been. Now when he talked of the land and his people, I understood his passion and was able to share it with him. It had always been hard to live with him, knowing he would rather be somewhere else. Now I wanted to be somewhere else as well. But I hadn't forgotten that, not so long ago, he had extolled the virtues of western society to his friends in Tibet. It was true that the grass was always greener elsewhere.
In the spring I became pregnant. I will never forget the day I found out. I was sitting in the kitchen enjoying the warm breeze that trailed in from the back door. I had unloaded the shopping: fresh prawns, soft mangoes. I had been walking my brother's dog in the park, watching children playing in the sandpit. Then I had decided to do a test. I had a strange feeling inside. When the line went blue, I went pink. I looked at myself in the mirror, clutching my cheeks. Did I look any different? I had a life inside me. I paced up and down, talking to myself, laughing. I went to the back door, to the sunlit garden, where the voices of next-door's children trilled over the fence. I cried. Then, when Tsedup came home from work, I followed him along the hallway asking him how his day had been. He was half-way through a short soliloquy about infuriating customers in his shop, when I began giggling. I tried to cover my mouth, but was out of control with irrepressible excitement. He knew. His eyes twinkled in anticipation of my next few words. He went white then he smiled.
Both our families were overjoyed. When we phoned to tell Tsedup's parents, we learnt that Sirmo was pregnant too. I was thrilled to know that our child would have a cousin the same age and I couldn't wait to see Sirmo. A hospital scan revealed that I carried a son, and in the summer we took him for his first trip to Tibet. He was five months old in the womb. When we arrived the whole family ran out of the tent to greet us. I was euphoric as I went inside. Everything was just as it always had been, but the tent seemed bigger somehow. Shermo Donker smiled warmly at me. She was more beautiful than I had remembered. Tsedo looked wilder, with long, tangled hair and a beard. I hardly recognised him. After the first few tentative moments, everyone fell back into the old familiar humour, joking and laughing together. The children jumped all over me again, although they were told to be more careful this time. Dickir Ziggy was at school now and came back to see us one weekend, boasting to her brother and sister of her accomplishments. Dickir Che and Sanjay examined the contents of her satchel methodically and fought over the coloured pencils. It felt good to be home. Somehow the grassland looked different, strangely autumnal for this time of year. There were fewer flowers and it was not as lush as I remembered it last summer. The stream had cleaved a new path in the bank and a small waterfall gushed close to the tent. We lay and listened to it each night, inside the new tent that Amnye had made for us.
Being pregnant in the grassland was a revelation. I was treated differently this time. There were new rules. Annay explained carefully to me that I was not allowed to visit any other tents in the tribe apart from Rhanjer's and Annay Urgin's. Even in their homes I was not allowed to eat anything. I was baffled as to the reasons for my confinement, but Tsedup told me that it was a custom here: the nomads believed that the unborn child might be harmed by malevolent spirits associated with other families. He told me to be especially careful in Annay Urgin's tent, as the Kambo household had powerful deities. I bore it in mind. Also, on a practical level, Annay wanted to protect the baby and me from contamination by food. Only she would cook for me, she said. Sometimes I felt like an invalid, but at least it saved me from the hectic Tibetan social whirl.
I had to wear my costume differently too. Shermo Donker showed me how to tie it below my swollen stomach, which made me seem even more voluminous, but despite the discomfort, I was happy to be pregnant here. The women were always gently touching my bump and asking if I was all right. The scan picture, which I had brought especially to show them, provoked amazement. They had never seen anything like it. 'The western doctors are incredible,' they said. Annay asked if she could keep the image of her grandson.
'When will you bring him to Amdo?' she asked.
'Next year, when he's a bit bigger,' I replied. 'Maybe a year and a half old.' I wanted him to know them all, to learn the language, to ride yaks and run naked in the grass as his father had when he was a child. And to be proud of his nomad heritage. That summer was the first time I felt our son move. On hot days I lay in our tent watching the sheep shimmering in the midday heat. The children sat around me staring at my stomach, as the baby kicked inside. They put a stick on my belly to see if he could knock it off. 'He moved! He moved!' cried Sanjay, each time the stick quivered. Our boy was already part of the family.
I wanted him to be named in the traditional Tibetan way. A lama usually performs a divination to determine every Tibetan child's name, so Tsedup asked our monk friend Aka Tenzin for help. We waited anxiously for a few weeks as the monk went to consult the boy lama, Jarsung, in Labrang Monastery. You might think it reckless to leave the naming of our son to a thirteen-year-old child, but we felt it was the right thing to do and spent the time fantasising as to what the name would be. It was a bit of a lottery. When he returned Aka Tenzin sat us down and smiled broadly, as was his fashion. He looked at me as I grinned with anticipation and then he simply said, 'Gonbochab.' I turned the name over. It would be a mouthful for his relatives in England, that was for sure, but I loved it. 'It means 'Blessed by the Saviour',' said Tsedup.
That summer, Sirmo was allowed home at last. The joy of our arrival seemed to have prompted Amnye to relent and he gave his permission for her to visit. It had been ten months since her elopement and her father hadn't seen her since she had left. The residue of those angry days still remained. Everyone was nervous as to how he would react to her and her husband. We all ran out at the sight of three horses in the distance, straining to see them, and as they rode closer, the children flocked around them laughing and shrieking. Sirmo smiled weakly and her husband, Chuchong, was silent as they dismounted with the mediator. The goblin man had come again to offer his diplomatic assistance, but after his last encounter with Amnye he looked a little nervous. They were ushered into the tent, where Chuchong took his place of honour on the carpets by the fire. I was shocked at how young and vulnerable he looked as he listened politely to the elders' talk. He cast furtive glances at Sirmo as she stood on the women's side of the fire in her old place. She looked splendid in her finest clothes and jewellery, but also tired. She was heavily pregnant and her skin was discoloured with the dark patches women sometimes have, but she was ecstatic to be home.
It was clear that Amnye was moved to see her again. He remained calm and even smiled once or twice. Goblin was visibly relieved. Once the formalities of the reunion were over, Tsedo took Chuchong off to play volleyball and Sirmo busied herself with serving tea and bustling around the tent. Amnye spoke softly to her, calling her 'Babko', her child's name, and fussing over her. We were relieved that everything was back to normal. In his own quiet way, he had mellowed and forgiven her. Time was a great healer.
Over those few days of Sirmo's visit, the tribe were in the middle of a summer picnic. A huge white tent had been erected in the middle of the encampment and all day they played and ate and danced. There were water fights and everyone was thrown into the stream. Everyone except Sirmo and me, of course: we were forced to be more restrained. Although we were permitted to enter the communal tent, since it had no harmful spirits, we were instructed by Annay not to eat anything. We sat quietly together holding hands, as the rest of the tribe rioted in traditional fashion. We compared stomachs and appetites and moaned about our tiredness. It was touching to be able to share the intimacies of our changing bodies. Even Ama-lo-lun, who had fully recovered from her illness, joined the party and teased the young men, waving her stick at them and challenging them to throw her in the water. The crazy atmosphere reminded me of our last Christmas.
Before we left Annay took me walking in the grassland. Tsedup had told me it was something to do with the baby and we would be going as far as the boundary fence, so I was curious as I set off with her. She led me through the grass carrying a bucket containing
