I originated within an underprivileged family context. My early nurturing was lacking, primarily due to the absence of my mother during my formative years. This absence left a profound impact on me, as I encountered challenges and difficulties that stemmed from her early departure. Despite this, I'm certain that she held numerous aspirations and hopes for me during my infancy. I understand that her separation from me during that crucial time was unintentional.
I'm fully aware of the depth of her affection towards me; she likely endured her own ailments while being consumed by concerns for my well-being. The distress she must have felt throughout her illness, coupled with her worries about me, must have been incredibly overwhelming. Her physical struggles were likely matched by the emotional turmoil of being unable to communicate her concerns. At that juncture, her paramount wish was to regain her health and strength, solely to contribute to my proper upbringing.
Dearest Mother, I've attempted countless times to conjure memories of you, dating back to when my cognitive abilities allowed, but regrettably, I've failed. My recollections are void, leaving a palpable emptiness whenever I reflect on that period. Had you not departed prematurely, there would be an abundance of narratives I could share with you. My recollections seem to commence when my cognitive capacities reached a more developed state.
Allow me to recount a tale now, Mother. When I reached the age of five, a realization dawned upon me, and its impact lingered ever since. I was labeled "singza wagtsa" - a child without a mother - and our family was known as "dhugpu" - one deserving pity - within the community. We endured arduous times, struggling even for a basic meal like "ashum thugpa" (maize residue porridge). During those periods, my father and sister would venture out early in the morning in search of sustenance, leaving me behind with my stepmother. Often, they returned fatigued and empty-handed. Occasionally, they would bring back a sack of wild sweet potatoes, which sustained us for a few days.
Our family's routine, often criticized by neighbors, included quarrels that disrupted our mealtimes. Peaceful dining was a luxury we rarely experienced, as disputes between my father, stepmother, and sister would escalate during these moments. While I wasn't privy to the underlying causes, I witnessed the escalating arguments. My stepmother's frustration would lead her to abstain from the meal (the hard-earned wild sweet potatoes), which would grow cold on her plate.
Out of exasperation, she would utter words like, "Don't you deserve better meals?" My sister, equally exasperated, would respond, "We struggle to obtain even this meal. If you can't adapt, you're free to return home to better fare." Father's intervention was stern, warning against complaints and insisting that we make do with whatever was provided. If not, consequences were threatened. My stepmother found it challenging to assimilate into our circumstances.
Gradually, it came to light that she was a newcomer to our family. Following each altercation, she would seek my father's intervention, often enlisting her brother's support. Over time, she acclimated to our situation. During my father and sister's absences, there was no one to care for me, and she became my guardian, overseeing my involvement in household chores.
Several months later, she gave birth to a son. As I found myself adrift, lacking proper clothing and a stable home, I sought refuge among friends and relatives. My existence became a cycle of seeking shelter within the homes of relatives. Father's return from the fields typically occurred in the late evening hours.
