Tracy and Hari’s Story

The meeting of Hari and I was completely random. However, in hindsight, as I often ponder this amazing

friendship, it was not at all. We were connected through a higher power in the universe in a way I

cannot explain. But I’ll try.

When I arrived at Tribhuvan airport in Kathmandu in September of 1990, after traveling through Europe,

riding the Tran Siberian railroad from Helsinki Finland, through Moscow, Lake Baikal, Mongolia and

arriving in China spending 3 treacherous months traveling there, I thought I had the travel game all

figured out. I carried my own chopsticks, was diligent about germs and lice, was a vegetarian with a

piece of paper I would show to anyone serving food, especially in the remote villages, that said “I do not

eat meat, thank you”. (I think I still have that tiny piece of paper, given to me by a young girl in the

Chinese car of the Trans-Siberian. I never once got sick. The only planned itinerary I had was a flight

from Beijing to Kathmandu on September 20 th 1990 to begin a 31-day trek to the Solo Khumbu and

ultimately Mount Everest in the “so called “sweet month”, not too cold and beautiful clear skies in

October.

Arriving in Tribhuvan as scheduled (shocking) after midnight created more problems in an unknown

place that I thought I understood through books and studies of Southeast Asia and Nepal. Well, I was

right about one thing: I knew I would be accosted by taxi drivers, scammers, and others wanting their

fair share of a “sell” to the vendor (hotel/guesthouse) they represented. I was so tired and not really up

for the confrontations and loud voices.

As I exited the airport property, as expected, I was hounded by many little Nepali men trying to make a

buck and get a good meal out of the deal by bringing a tourist to their business proper. Amongst the

high volume of vocals and semi-pawing taxi drivers, a very old gentleman, in his traditional Nepali hat

came close to me. And unlike all others who were trying to yell above everyone else, waving their hands,

and pushing others around in a bit of desperate mayhem, this old man whispered: “come with me, I will

take you just outside the crazy of Thamel. Walkable in 5 minutes. No charge for taxi. No commitment to

stay.” I remember to this day, that at that moment, it reminded me of the ad on TV whose catch phrase

was “If you want to capture someone’s attention……whisper…” (I think it was a perfume ad in the late

70’s) Well, it worked. The gentleman’s’ name was Ashok. He must have weighed all of 90 pounds and

exuded honesty and warmth in his tiny aura. I will say that until the end of my days on earth and

beyond, I will always be grateful for the insight of this man, regardless of if he knew it or not; he started

a lifelong friendship and mission.

Pleasant out of the way, QUIET, unlike the noise and bustle of Thamel, a beautiful back garden and a

person unbeknownst to me, that would change my life…...” Ashok, How much for a room?” “Two dollars

with shared bath, four dollars with private bathroom” “I’ll take it” I said. And as he directed me to the

front desk, little did I know, that I would meet a lifelong friend, soulmate and family member. There he

was. Mr. Hari Prasad Sharma, almost smaller than the counter top he sat behind with a smile and

welcome warmer than the sunshine. Little did I know at this moment that my life would be forever

changed.

That first day, I was tired and really hungry. Tired of Chinese food, I was looking forward to a change in

pallet. I ended up at the Lhasa Tea House with a few other travelers that I met along the way. We went

to the Lhasa Tibetan Teahouse. I craved veggy momos. I ate all of them and they were so damn good.

However, that evening on returning to the Shamballa Guest House, I started to feel feverish and slightly

nauseous. By the time I got to the hotel desk, I thought I might pass out. Mr. Hari was right there to help

me to my room. I felt extremely ill. I had a fever and vomited profusely every 20 minutes. Hari brought

me a bucket as the shared bathroom was often occupied. Hari saw my green face and was overly kind to

not only check on me every hour, brining me cold towels, fresh water and black tea, but to upgrade my

room for free, for a room with its own bathroom. I hugged that Nepali toilet for over 24 hours and was

having serious hallucinations. It was insanely painful, embarrassing and downright exhausting. As Hari

diligently watched over me, I thought to myself: “I don’t even know this person …he is so genuinely kind.

He treated me as if he knew me my whole life. Like a sister.” As he nursed me back to health with his

black tea and ginger concoction I realized that he genuinely cared. As I began to feel more human, we

began to talk about Nepal, about the US, about governments, about third worlds, about religion, the

differences, the expectations, the Nepali government philosophy and processes in place for dealing with

children, with orphans, with education, with the elderly and the more we talked, the more the

conversation kept reverting to the children and mostly their lack of quality education. “What can we do

my friend…….? <SEE JOURNAL ENTRY> I left Southeast Asia almost exactly two years later.

At that time, on that first visit to Nepal, Hari was a student, living in a tiny apartment a bit outside of

Thamel. He cooked me the best dahl bhat I ever had over a Bunsen burner and a kick ass rice cooker. His

“apartment” was cement, cold, dark and scarce, but practical. A small kitchen consisting of a sink, one

Bunsen burner and a small bed. And a photo of his mom and dad. Yet it had all the energy of home.

After completing 4 treks with Hari assisting in the details, busses, permits etc. I left Nepal and travelled

south, leaving Hari with my excess money, my winter clothes, a copy of my passport and my itinerary.

My goal was to return to Nepal in the spring to continue my trekking adventures.

Needless to say, The Gulf War broke out in February of 1991 and I fled to an island in Thailand where I

held domicile until I thought it was safe to travel (about 2 months I think). A tiny island called Kho Phi

Phi.

Although I loved Thailand, I couldn’t wait to return to Nepal, the mountains and my new ‘brother’. I

could never stop thinking about the poor and orphaned kids in the streets of Kathmandu and in every

village I visited along the way. There must be something we can do to help. But what? And how?

I remember the exact day, I decided that something had to be done. As we walked to Durbar Square in

Kathmandu. A young child in rags, barely clothes was “asleep” in the dust on the sidewalk. People

scampering by him, stepping over him, some shaking their heads. I stopped. The flies on his eyes and

feet assured me he was dead. Hari insisted he was not dead, just hungry and tired. “He’s taking a rest”

Hari said. Although I was shocked, it seemed to be such a normal scene to him. He explained his disgust

and frustration and ended with “Ke garne” what to do “miro sathi” my friend? The picture of that boy

will be forever embedded in my brain.

That’s where and when the real conversations started. How can we change this? Hari was just as

concerned as myself. We talked, we walked, we drank tea and discussed the options that we may have

to actually create change in Nepal.

Although it was so many years ago, there is one thing that will remain in my soul forever: Hari and I

were meant to meet. We had met somewhere before in a previous life I am certain. We became family

from that day forward. And we now had a mission: to end the cycle of poverty through a rigorous

educational program combined with healthy food, clean drinking water and a loving place to rest their

heads that they could call “home”. We continued to correspond for years via snail mail, (no email, no

internet, no cell phones, and poor telecommunications options.) Hari trudging to the tiny (hole in the

wall) internet “café” to attempt a connected, uninterrupted phone call to the US. Conversations for as

long as the call would stay connected.

Then I went home to graduate school in Maine. In those two years, Hari and I corresponded over snail

mail “par avion” letters that took months to receive. We send paperwork back and forth. There was no

other way except to travel to Nepal. We slowly and diligently carved out our thoughts, realities about

the situation and the sinking feeling of how difficult of a situation we were tackling and how long it took

to communicate a half a world apart. It was daunting and frustrating and extremely time consuming.

But, collectively, we refused to give up.

Rising Lotus was originally registered in Nepal as “COTS Nepal” an acronym for Children Off The Streets.

Following our licensure acceptance, we talked to everyone who would listen. We secured their

acceptance of our mission and many of them today continue to be involved in our program. We then

secured a building in Bafal (about a 20-minute brisk walk from Thamel).

We persevered, we stayed on point, we stuck together, we held strongly to our beliefs, and our

combined stubbornness and tenacity to actually accomplish this mission and make a lifelong change in

children’s’ lives. We hurdled and conquered the odds, we struggled to write grants, secure donors and

family to believe in our vision. and yes…it took almost 15 years to finally be legit in both Nepal and the

United State as a recognized 501(c)3.

Little did we actually realize, that it would take another 10 to 15 years to ascertain the effectiveness of

our program, how we could sustain it and most importantly, how we would grow it.