A is for Amala

October 4

Amalas. They’re weird little fruits that look a lot like grapes and get their name from “amilo” (sour), which describes their taste perfectly. The first time I was handed one by my teacher, I popped it into my mouth thinking it was its sweet, plump look-alike. I couldn’t be more wrong.

It was hard, like candy, and should be sucked, not chewed, which I learned the hard way after almost chipping a back molar. The teacher must have noticed my mouth pucker in surprise because she laughed and said (a little too late), “Amilo! Amilo! Dheri amilo!” As the sour juices hit the back of my throat, I was immediately reminded of the contests Bobby and I used to have with sour Cry Baby candies. On the scale of sour raspberry to black cherry, this one topped them all.

In Gorkha, amalas are as common as apples, and students present handfuls of them to their teachers as gifts. By the end of first period, the pocket of my uniform was bulging with these sour treats. “Amala mon parcha?” my students asked, excitedly. “Do you like amalas?” I replied yes, stretching the truth a bit, figuring that the taste would grow on me after I finished the pile stashed against my hip. However, this may not have been the best response –they brought even more the following day!

While the gifts of amala may have been an act of pure goodwill, I realized later they could also have been a means of softening me up for the chaos that was about to ensue in the classroom. Like in the states, my students’ attention span has been getting shorter and shorter as the holidays draw near. And let me assure you, it’s even more difficult when you don’t have the proper language skills for classroom management! By Thursday, it was all I could do to keep my 5^th graders from flying out the door. They could only be entertained by making play-dough replicas of their Dashain feats (other than being blue, their roti, chow mein, and momo sculptures were spot on!). And Friday, the teachers didn’t even attempt to teach and instead held a school clean-up day, which lasted half of first period. Before leaving, my students crowded around to shake my hand and offer a “Happy Bijaya Dasami, Miss!” The smile on my face was bigger and cheesier than usual as they danced me out the door and waved goodbye, their bookbags flapping behind them as they raced home.