The crowded throngs of people surge through the narrow brick alleys, bumping and tumbling to their destination.  My new friend M has just helped me purchase, in broken Hindi, an order of chatipati, puffed rice tossed with vinegar, onion, potato, chili, “sauce”, peas, and fried soybeans/kidney beans.  A traditional street food in Nepal it is eaten out of a paper cone off of a broken piece of phone card (complete with serial numbers and prices on the front).  It tastes of spicy, dusty, and sour rice – much like if rice crispies were made savoury, spicy.

We munch as we bump our way up the crowded alleys.  After our snack I puzzle over the remaining paper cone and shard of calling card.  I allow myself to ask the ridiculous question – “where do I put this?”.  The quick response from the group is, “toss it on the ground”.  I know they are right.  It is what everyone does.  There isn’t a garbage can on every corner to shuffle away my trash while I sleep at night.  But I have trouble tossing it aside.  I carry it dutifully the rest of the walk home and clutch it in my hands in hopes of seeing a trash can.  And sadly, I end up making it someone else’s problem by leaving it on a restaurant table, inadvertently but somewhat subconsciously.  But I cannot spend two years leaving my garbage on someone else’s table…something I will need to sort out over the next few weeks.