Drinking and Shooting

Lakhman Rai was in a grinning mood the day of the wedding march from Mahjkarka to Hakula. He was walking around with balled up tissue paper stuffed in his ears, and a damned heavy pistol, made about 20 years ago by the village blacksmith.

I watched him stand in a small clearing, aiming at imaginary British soldiers charging up the hill - not knowing what to expect as he brought an open flame close to the trigger.

A few nights later, he and the village hunter, Balkumar, prepared a few rounds for us to fire. 'please shoot, *hic*, I really enjoy, *hic*' they implored us between serious bouts of drunken hiccupping.

They left in the darkness, and then soon after a massive boom reverberated through the valley, fluttering the walls of my tent.