New tales of the Gobi desert
CIS, Haani Jetha, Fiction: Group 3
I
was once an ordinary kid. Like other ten year olds, I played, rode horses bareback, and
went to school. But one day, something out of the ordinary happened to me, and my life
changed forever.
I should tell you my name: Bolad Temur is Mongolian for “eternal hope”. I was born in a
yurt, nestled beneath the parched dunes of the Gobi desert. My father, who gave me my name, died
when I was four. I never really got to know my father. All I have are memories. Since I was very
young when he died, what I remember is not much. My mother tries to keep him alive with stories.
I have no brothers or sisters. I live with my grandmother, who is my mother’s mother, and my
mother, who always tells me I am her true hope.
Every day after school, I would run back home, to be greeted by my grandmother. She would
always have my favorite piping hot dumplings, fresh off the stove, and my glass of cold yak’s
milk waiting for me. We would sit on the floor of the yurt and talk about my day. Grandmother
had a harsh childhood. As a child, she spent most of her time on the farm, where she developed a
hunched back and gnarled hands. She had a wrinkly face, and onyx eyes. She only had five teeth,
which were all yellowish brown.
When the flames of the sun had faded, mother would be back with her tögrög; it was barely
enough to pay for our food for the week so sometimes we ate less. We could not rely on her
earnings, as weavers did not earn as much money as many of the townspeople. I dreamt of
feasting on a lamb stew, but this only happened once a year when we celebrated the harvests.
At nightfall, my grandmother and I would sit on her wooden rocking chair, and drift to sleep
with the sound of her chanting ancient Tibetan mantras.
It all changed that afternoon. Two nights before, mother told grandmother and I that she was
going to take the steam engine into town this morning. She wanted to find work that would pay
more, so she could send me to a better school. She told us that she had saved the money for the
train fare, and was leaving at sunrise.
I ran up the hill and expected to see grandmother waiting by the yurt. There was no sign
of her. I dashed past the herds of sheep and flocks of cattle and over withered shrubs, finally
bursting through the door of the yurt. Loud cries and wrenching wails filled the room. I saw
grandmother, sitting in the rocking chair, spinning her Khor frantically as a stream of tears slid
down her weathered cheeks. Many people I barely recognized crowded around her. I pushed and
shoved to make my way to the front. I peered down in shock. It could not be mother. “Mother is
dead!” Grandmother shrieked, “Mother is dead!”
Grandmother later told me what had happened to mother. I could only imagine Mother sitting
in her compartment, suddenly having the train wheels jump off the track with her compartment
exploding into a fountain of flames.
If mother hadn’t gone, maybe she would still be with me.
I had no choice but to assume the responsibility of becoming the family breadwinner. There
was nothing we could do, Mother was dead. Grandmother could not go out and work, she was too
frail and old. I began my search for work the next day. I went into the village. I passed by the
weaver where mother had worked before she had been killed in the train accident. He took pity on
