The beating drums and ringing bells wake me up before the sun rises. I twist and turn to crack my back after sleeping on the thin, hard cot and check my phone. It’s already 5:30 a.m., so I untuck my mosquito net and roll out of bed. Heading downstairs to the shower, I pass my Nepali father, or baa, loudly reciting different mantras to worship the gods. Opening the bathroom door, I slip on the bathroom flip-flops and take a quick, cold shower. After I get dressed, I pack my bookbag and lock my door. My key is large and old-fashioned, resembling the type of keys worn as necklaces. I head downstairs and slip on my house shoes before heading into the kitchen. I get comfortable in my seat while my Nepali mother, or aamaa, starts preparing my tea, or chiya, on the gas stove. Steam rolls out of the pressure cooker and whistles loudly as the vegetables cook. Meanwhile my aamaa mixes and kneads the dough for my bread. Grabbing a roller and stone plate, I roll out the dough. One by one I hand my semicircles off, and she throws each piece of dough onto a frying pan and then piles them into a little basket. After heating my metal plate up, I wash and air-dry my hands so I can use them to chow down on my food. I finish eating and quickly wash my dishes and any others in the sink.
