Suntala
A memoir by Arbin Timilsina
When Motu, my grandmother, died, I did not cry. Six months later, my daughter asked for a suntala - an orange - at bedtime, and the smell of the peel reached further than the news ever had. Suntala is the book that grew from that evening: her songs, my childhood in Pokhara, the Everest expedition I led at fifteen, and the story I never told.
Motu, my grandmother, poured her days into our family. She stood less than five feet tall, never learned to read, and could sing like breathing - bending old melodies around whatever the day brought: a late monsoon, a neighbor's goat, her kanchu who called vegetables weeds. She died at ninety-one, my mother beside her, and for six months I did not cry. Then one night my daughter asked for a suntala - an orange - at bedtime, and the smell of the peel did what the phone call from Kathmandu could not. Suntala grew from that evening: her songs, my childhood beneath the Annapurnas, the Everest expedition at fifteen, and the story I never told.
Opening Excerpt
"I am hungry," Smera says. Her voice is soft but certain.
We are halfway through the story of Briar Rose and Grace switching places. We have read this chapter so many times that my mouth shapes the words from memory, leaving my mind to drift elsewhere. But Smera anchors herself in the pages, cataloging the details - whether Aurora's dress is pink or blue, whether she is wearing shoes.
"Punku, you've already brushed your teeth," I whisper, watching her eyelids grow heavy. "And you're about to fall asleep."
Her eyes go wide. Her lower lip pushes forward, trembles twice, and holds. She meets my gaze and insists, the way only a child can - possessed by the absolute certainty that this single, sudden need is the most important thing in the universe. She refuses to look away, fighting the pull of sleep, and I surrender.
"Cheddar Bunnies, corn chips, a banana, or an apple?" I offer. "Or suntala?"
"Suntala," she says. The word sounds round and sweet in her mouth.
I hold the first orange. The press of my thumbnail through the peel releases a sharp, bright burst of citrus. It fills the room.
Growing up, I loved eating suntala but despised the peeling - the oils sticky on my fingers, the white pith lodging beneath my nails. Motu, my grandmother, would sit patiently, creating a small pile of perfectly cleaned pieces just for me, humming folk verses she had carried down from the hills.
I work on each segment, pulling away the membrane and clearing every stray thread of white to create that same pile of perfect pieces for my daughter.
When Smera finishes, her eyelids are already heavy. By the time I set the last piece of peel on the paper towel, she is asleep.
About the Author
Arbin Timilsina is a data scientist, physicist, and writer. He grew up in Nepal, attempted Everest at fifteen, earned a PhD in nuclear physics, and is now Principal Data Scientist at The RepTrak Company.
He is the author of infinite void, finite feelings. Suntala is his forthcoming memoir.
More about ArbinThe Shape of Suntala
- Suntala
- Moshan
- Two Mountains
- Pahuna
- Dhat
- Kumudini
- Bright Against the Grey
- The Weight of the Flowers
- Blessings
- Faces
- The Story
- Thick Air
- Stars Already Gone
- Umrica
- Summit
- Home
- Crevasse
- Whiteout
- Cairn
Updates
For updates about Suntala, related or general inquiries, email is the best contact path for now.