By Bunty Avieson
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Additional resources for A Baby in a Backpack to Bhutan
We’re all going to die. She smiles and takes another biscuit. After she leaves I express some misgivings to Mal, who rolls his eyes. ’ he asks. Mmm. Thursday comes and goes and there is no tell-tale mushroom cloud over the monastery roofs to the west. It’s the same serene blue, going on forever. But I think I won’t really believe it until I read Friday’s newspaper, reporting on Thursday’s news, which we will get on Saturday. I scan it anxiously over my morning cup of tea. Not a mention. No-one nuked us on Thursday.
Her face is youthful and her eyes full of compassion. When we tell her I’m pregnant, she looks at me in such an eerie way I feel like she is seeing right into my belly. ‘Aaah,’ she says with a mysterious smile. And nods. I nod too. I’ve never been backward in coming forward but find myself completely gobsmacked and cannot think of a thing to say. Mal, thank God he is here, takes over, explaining that we would welcome any advice on pregnancy and childbirth. She tells me to rub sesame oil on my belly and back twice a week, to walk a lot, and avoid goat and pork.
Instead of waking to a ream of faxes from New Idea’s offices in New York and London keeping me up to date with the world of celebrity, we wake each morning to the sound of tractor trolleys on their way to the tea plantations. The first one thunders past at 6 am, on the dot. Mal and I have happily slept through earthquakes in Delhi, so a tractor trolley doesn’t cause us to stir, but it wakes Kathryn. And the sound of her waking up penetrates my deepest sleep. She is by the bed either in the baby rocker that we carted here from home, or in Mal’s suitcase.
A Baby in a Backpack to Bhutan by Bunty Avieson