For the past few weeks, I was privileged to travel to Kathmandu, Nepal, for the wedding of my Nepalese son, Subodh, and his longtime love, Sabina. Subodh came to the U.S. to attend college in 1998, and lived with my family for nearly four and a half years. He's a very important part of our lives, and now I've finally met his family in Nepal. The dispatches pasted below are email letters sent to family during my journey. Enjoy. Namaste.
Dec. 4, 2009
Dearest ones:
It is early morning on day four in Kathmandu. The trip here was not as difficult as I imagined. Doha airport was quite comfortable and the flight to Kathmandu from there was full of cheerful Nepalis, trekkers, and Sherpas, all straining for first glimpse of the Himalayas. They appeared out the right-side windows, jagged and white against blue sky, looking small and far away. Then I realized the white patches at what seemed to be the base were not fields of snow but clouds. And as we drew nearer, still flying at 37,000 feet, the peaks looked nearly as high as our plane. We were still 200 miles away.
Kathmandu is the wildest, most complicated place I've ever visited. The city is in the throes of so much change and turmoil — constant and uneasy changes in government, a population that has doubled in ten years — and yet, ancient cultures and traditions remain at its core. I am staying in city center in a lovely, spacious rooftop apartment, hosted by Subodh's Aunt Prava, a formidable businesswoman who has spent the week so far abstaining from eating in her home as she is in an "impure" state, observing the mourning ritual for her husband's deceased uncle. Her son Akshay and his American wife Jenara reside in the apartment above hers and live as modern ex-pats, thus my ready and functional internet access.
Traffic here is insanely congested with thousands of motorcycles and tiny Suzuki taxis competing for road space with Kathmandu Tuk-Tuks (rattly three-wheeled vans), and buses of every shape and size. They all belch black exhaust and tend to ignore any marked lines on the road. There are no traffic signals, and yet, no collisions since I've been here. Unmarked roads tend to wind and climb across districts with no planned intersections or destination. When I ride with Subodh from one place to another, we inevitably end up on curvy alleyways, racing over potholes and crumbling pavement to the back of somewhere. Needless to say, I have not ventured out into the city on my own.
I have spent most of my time with Subodh's family, observing intricate wedding preparations. Everywhere I go, I am ushered to the seat of honor, offered tea, and refused the right to help with anything. I have met aunts, cousins, the revered grandmother, future in-laws, and countless friends, all of whom have been so incredibly kind and genuinely hospitable that I feel some of their grace rubbing off on me. The traditional greeting here — hands in prayer, "Namaste," lowered eyes — is offered hundreds of times a day and feels, each time, as fresh as the last.
The wedding preparations included preparing vast numbers of trays of gifts to be presented to Sabina, the bride-to-be, in a ceremony we attended last night at her home. Subodh and his parents are not allowed to mingle with her before the actual ceremony, so the aunts and cousins act as emissaries and I was allowed to go along as an honorary family member. A female Newari priest (their ethnic group, their particular form of Buddhism) performed all the rites of blessing on the gifts, and that ceremony culminated in the presentation of the wedding sari, exquisite swirls of red and gold, to Sabina. She then left the room and all of us to wait and see whether she changed into it or returned in the sari she was wearing before. A few minutes later she descended the stairs in her wedding sari, her arms laden with bangle bracelets, a gold amulet hanging over her forehead. She was indescribably beautiful.
Each day scores of people swirl throughout the house setting up tents, cooking massive pots of daal and curry, cleaning, conversing, and planning, and the atmosphere is inevitably cheerful and calm. :Yesterday the family learned that the reception will have to be rescheduled as the Maoists have called a general strike for the day it was originally planned. In spite of having already invited some 1,000 guests, the plans were changed, voices were not raised in anger or frustration, and the whole incident quickly became fodder for jokes.
In the midst of this riot of activity, a woman arrives twice a day to massage Subodh's sister Sukriti and her newborn baby boy (30 days today) with mustard oil. They retreat to the rooftop where mother and son are massaged in the sun and left to warm. Sukriti has returned to her mother's household, per Newari tradition, for a month of care. She wears only soft, warm fabrics, loosely draped, and the baby is snugly wrapped in blankets and a soft cotton diaper covers his uncircumcised loins. No pins. No sticky tabs. Every morning he receives a ritual face wash with breast milk. There is no emphasis on infant stimulation, only on comfort and serenity. He is passed from the arms of his mother to one loving aunt or grandmother to another with no fuss, one arm supporting him below, the other crossed over, hands joining in the middle. To hold him with both hands cupped beneath with no protection above, I'm told, is a bad omen.
Today we will visit Kathmandu's Durbar Square (the historic city center) and temples in Patan to the south of the city. I will think of all of you as I soak up the swirl of history, culture, and humanity surrounding me.
I love you all.
Dec. 6, 2009
Dearest ones:
Yesterday the Maoists unexpectedly called a strike, and bustling Kathmandu came to a near stand-still. From the balcony where I send emails, above a busy street, the only sounds below were human voices and bicycle bells. The news explained that the banda was to protest the government's expulsion of thousands of squatters from the national forest — a group of what they call "landless" people here, our homeless, supported by the Maoists. The action is against the government, but all of Kathmandu's transportation (buses, taxis, motorcycles) and all businesses, except those on alleyways, are stopped.
For me it was a break from sightseeing. The previous day had been an orgy of temples, as we'd rented a car and visited the historic (durbar) squares of Patan and Bakhtapur, both near Kathmandu. So much beauty and history was hard to comprehend in a day, but the sights were marvelous: magnificent stone work from the 12th and 13th centuries, ancient royal palaces, classical Newari architecture with its intricately carved wooden doors and windows, idols and gods surrounded by piles of marigolds, and the gorgeous Nepali people at ease in a sacred place. Here the men walk hand in hand, the women with their elbows entwined. Little kids scamper up and down the massive temple steps and sit astride the stone elephants and lions that guard them.
At sunset on that day, our driver took us to Boudanath Stupa, the largest Buddhist stupa in this part of the world, the one with the seeing eyes most often depicted in photos of Kathmandu. Rumors claim that a bone of Gautama Buddha rests inside. I pictured it on a hillside somewhere outside the city, but the massive square where it sits is surrounded by busy streets and commerce. Once inside the square, the atmosphere is simultaneously festive and worshipful. We entered the sweeping crowd of Tibetan Buddhist monks, Nepalis, and tourists, slowly walking clockwise and occasionally reaching out to spin one of the thousands of brass prayer wheels around the perimeter. As the sky darkened and the seeing eyes withdrew from our sight, thousands of ghee candles began to sparkle across the square. I didn't even know what I had experienced, but I was filled with lightness when we left.
Yesterday, we walked first to a nearby oasis called The Garden of Dreams, the recently restored grounds of a former Rana general's palace, then to Subodh's house. We saw a small group of protesters sitting stone-faced, wrapped in red Maoist flags, in the middle of the street. Further down, we saw a group of school boys squatting on the curb, resting from a mid-day game of street soccer on one of Kathmandu's busiest streets. A friend taunted them in jest, chanting anti-Maoist slogans and lobbing rocks at them, smiling broadly. I found throughout the day that whatever inconvenience the strike caused, it was met with a mix of frustration and good humor.
At Subodh's, we packed the masala bags, gifts that he will present to guests from Sabina's side at his wedding ceremony. Our small assembly line of Ganga didi (Subodh's aunt), brother-in-law Amrit, Subodh, and I stuffed cinnamon bark, dates, walnuts, pistachios, dried coconut, cloves, cardamom pods, chewing gum, chocolate bars, and digestive candies into 150 pouches. Walking back to my host's apartment after dinner, we looked up and saw the stars. The daily two-hour power blackout, in concert with a day free of belching engines and dust roused by spinning wheels, had washed the sky black.
Today, I will read a little, shop a little, and do whatever Subodh needs or wants me to do on the last day before his wedding ceremony. The bride's family's ceremony and groom's family's ceremony are held separately, hers in the morning and his in the afternoon. It will, no doubt, be another day of wonders.
I send you love,
Dec. 10. 2009
Wedding day (Dec. 8) started at around 9 a.m. and didn’t end until 9 that night. Because of the transportation strikes called by the Maoists, Subodh’s family had to change their original date for his ceremony and the date of his reception. This involved having the invitations reprinted and hand delivering them all. The rearrangement put his ceremony on the same date as hers — Sabina’s in the morning, Subodh’s in the early evening, each at their respective family home.
That morning, motorcycles, taxis, and private cars rolled in by the dozens, loaded with men in western suits and women in pink, maroon, orange, and red saris emblazoned with marvelous gold embroidery and beads. Women whose husbands had passed away wore blue. My host, Prava, had wrapped me early that morning in an exquisite fuchsia creation. I felt like a girl playing dress-up. Walking wasn’t so difficult. Reaching, kneeling, squatting, and standing from a sitting position were more problematic. I have newfound respect for all the women in Nepal who stoop, clean, cook, sell their wares, and do all manner of work in saris, still the predominant national dress for women. (Catching on quickly are Indian kurtha serals, loose-fitting tunics over blousy pants, also in bright prints, and the godforsaken American blue jean among younger girls.)
At Subodh’s, I sit in the living room among a flock of pink swans, their elegant fingers carefully wrapping wedding gifts in sheets of bright cellophane. One holds the wrapping in place and the other applies the tiniest piece of tape. It would be a waste to use the entire roll. One carefully handled gift is a piece of gold brocade that will be draped across the roof of the bride and groom’s car when Subodh and Sabina return from her house to his, to indicate that the bride is present.
We all participate in a brief blessing ceremony and receive tikka, a red paste of rice and dye powder, a dollop placed on our foreheads, enhanced with a flourish of silver glitter.
Our entourage loads into cars and busses and piles onto motorcycles for the cross town trek to Sabina’s home. We are only slightly delayed by a rickety three-wheeled cart parked in the alley, piled to overflowing with fresh vegetables. A chorus of honks alerts the cart’s porter, a skinny, snaggle-toothed, hunchbacked old man who rushes out and, with the strength of a small horse, maneuvers his load to the side so that we can pass.
It’s now past noon and we were scheduled to leave at 10:30 a.m. No one cares. This is wryly referred to as Nepali time.
A wreck, the first I’ve seen in a week, causes a massive traffic jam. We are stuck behind a big Bolero SUV with a red window decal that reads “Om shanti shanti om.” A bright orange billboard extols the modern conveniences of Siddhartha Bank. Along this section of sidewalk, an area thick with travel agencies, are signs for Buddha Air, Yeti Air (the yeti is the mythical Nepalese “Bigfoot”), and Shangri-La Air. Motorcycles zip and weave past our car and all the other paralyzed four-wheel vehicles. A woman in a red sari, her black hair and gold bangles gleaming, her marketing bag wedged between her hip and the driver’s back, sits side saddle on the back of a Honda that sweeps past us.
On these streets, the swarm of humanity encompasses every imaginable type of person and activity. Laundry women scrub, dogs sleep, street merchants peddle, children play, executives strut, shoppers stroll, young Communists brood, grannies hobble home from temple, vehicles honk and belch black smoke, and down the middle of the street, a sleepy-eyed cow weaves through traffic.
We arrive at Sabina’s where strings of blinking colored lights have been hung, interwoven with garlands of paper flowers, across the courtyard. We watch the ceremony from the steps above the courtyard—Subodh and Sabina seated on red cushions, her cousin (the equivalent of a maid of honor) there to guide her in protocol and keep her elaborate adornments in place; the priest chanting over oil lamps, bowls of curd, trays of marigold and poinsettia blossoms; Sabina’s mother and aunt and uncle busily keeping things moving; Subodh’s father and brother-in-law and cousin making sure that all of his family’s offerings have been made and are in place; and various others wandering in and out to get a better look or snap a photo. The only music is the constant tinny chime of cell phones ringing. No call goes unanswered.
The ceremony resumes with many ritual presentations of food, flowers, and religious artifacts. Bride and groom drape one another’s necks with flower garlands, heavy neck pieces of dried grass, and gold necklaces. They exchange rings. Loved ones call out when the spirit moves them. Solemnity has no place here.
Subodh joins us as we break for lunch—rice and daal, vegetable and meat curries, roti, greens, chutneys—on the roof, up seven narrow stairways, while Sabina stays behind to receive gifts. Subodh’s uncle, the well-known sitar player, waxes philosophic over life and youth and old age. “They are the rising sun,” he says, gesturing toward Subodh’s friends, young scholars and entrepreneurs. “We are the setting sun. Nobody worships the setting sun, only the rising sun.” He has toured in the U.S. and observes that Americans have everything. But, he urges, patting his heart, “here you are poor. Our poorest have nothing, but here,” a finger to the heart, “they are rich.” He concludes that in a better world, the world of tomorrow, a 50-50 compromise would work best for all.
We retreat downstairs and I am ushered to a chair in the living room where the television is tuned to overwrought Indian soap operas. The women flutter about me, offering tea. “Please. Sit. You must be tired.” They have worked for days staging this event and I have done nothing but watch.
We leave Sabina’s, ritually, of course. Sabina’s uncle takes Subodh by the hand and arm and marches him three times around the wedding car, hired for the day, before he can enter it with his bride. We trek back across the streets of Kathmandu to Subodh’s house where bride and groom are greeted ritually. Water is sprinkled on the path leading from the car. Subodh’s mother, Siddhi, extends the handle end of a silver spoon to Sabina, and gently pulls her through the gate into her home.
Upstairs, on the roof terrace, Subodh’s family’s ceremony begins. Subodh’s relatives greet the bride, one by one. She bows to each, deeply to elders, and passes them a packet of beetul nuts while they slip her cash through namaste hands. The men of his family are all seated on floor cushions, in a line next to the bride and groom. They are served rice beer, hard-boiled egg, smoked fish, and little piles of ceremonial food on plates woven from palm leaves. A small mountain of food is placed before the bride and groom and they pinch a portion of each item (traditionally there are 84), bless it, and set it aside for the gods. The priest chants. Caterers serve the guests trays of snacks and glasses of orange Fanta and Coca-Cola. Everyone talks and laughs. The men peck at their cell phones. Finally someone whispers to me, “Here is the most important part of the ceremony.”
Subodh’s father stands behind his son and his bride. He takes Subodh’s arm and drapes it across Sabina’s shoulder. He take Sabina’s arm and places it across Subodh’s shoulder. Then he pulls their heads together in a sideways nod and showers their black hair with gold marigold petals. Everyone claps. The bride, who has remained serene and sober all day, is beaming.
The daily power outage hits just as everyone is descending the stairs for dinner, but this is a party and—hooray!— there is a generator. The lights flicker, then shine. A cheer goes up. The banquet table is overflowing. An auntie catches sight of me and ushers me to a chair.
“Please. Sit. You must be tired.”
My love to all of you.
Dec. 15, 2009
Hello all:
I've just returned to Kathmandu from Pokhara, a quiet little mountain town, bordering a glassy lake, with views of the Annapurna Range of the Himalayas.
Since I arrived in Kathmandu, Subodh has insisted I leave the city and see the "real" Nepal.
"This is not Nepal," he says, gesturing out the taxi window at the throngs of people, cars, buses, bicycles, and motorcycles, the dust and smoke and noise. When he left for the U.S. in 1998, Kathmandu was a different place, prior to the prominence of the Maoist movement, the massacre of the royal family resulting in rotating governments and political uncertainty, civil war in the rural districts, and a massive influx of internally displaced and rural poor into Kathmandu. The population has more than doubled in a decade, and the infrastructure hasn't kept up.
At this moment, the process of forming a new and inclusive government for a fledgling egalitarian democracy creeps forward—one step forward, two steps back. Today, UN officials will arrive to supervise the release of more than 4,000 child soldiers recruited by the Maoists, one of many conditions in the tenuous peace accord. At the same time, the Maoists have declared three independent states in the hinterlands, ethnically based, with leaders appointed by party officials, raising the shackles of the sitting parties in Kathmandu who are urging a slower turnover of national power.
Everywhere, people struggle and are afraid: the upper caste, landed, and wealthy with their mistrust of the Maoists and the near certainty of losing their way of life; the poor to feed and shelter themselves, educate their children, and stay out of the political fray.
In Pokhara, I walked and walked and walked on the footpaths bordering the lake, past garden restaurants, small farms, and women doing laundry at water's edge. Past cows out grazing on the narrow strip of grass bordering the water. Past fresh fruit stands and school kids walking arm in arm. Past short, moon-faced Tibetan refugees squatting roadside, peddling their wares—necklaces, earrings, singing bowls—to inquisitive American college students. Past terraced rice fields and kitchen gardens jammed with mature cauliflower, ready to pick.
My planned overnight stay turned into two nights when I arrived at the Pokhara airport yesterday to find that my 3 p.m. plane was delayed and possibly cancelled. It's the weather, the Nepali ticket agent politely explained, but the sun was shining in Pokhara and, according to Subodh, in Kathmandu as well. Air traffic, the ticket agent kindly explained thirty minutes later. It's the prime minister, the growing crowd of stranded passengers growled after an hour. He's shut down the entire airport in Kathmandu for his arrival from India! The prime minister explanation seemed most likely. Just two days before, returning from the village of Nagarkot with my host, Prava, we were crunched in a massive traffic jam upon return to Kathmandu. As our car inched forward on the rocky shoulder of the road, an entourage of police and military vehicles came into view, blocking off all lanes of traffic in both directions. "Look, it's the prime minister," Prava said, pointing to a black limousine flanked by at least twenty vehicles and hundreds of armed guards. Inside the limo, a middle-aged man in a Nepali hat stared placidly at the book in his lap.
So I returned to Hotel Tulsi, my Pokhara retreat, a lazy little place with a garden of rhododendron and poinsettia in bloom, pots of marigolds and chrysanthemums lining winding slate walkways, and trellised archways heavy with greenery. At the rooftop restaurant, I am the only dinner customer, so I take my whiskey nightcap on the darkened terrace with a view of the stars and emotive strains of a local band belting out "Hotel California" pulsing from a nearby nightclub.
This morning I caught the first flight back, delayed only 45 minutes by fog. The view from 12,000 feet was staggering. Deep blue knife-edged mountain peaks cut through the layer of clouds below, and to my left, the glittering snow pack of the Himalayas. Villages, connected by winding dirt roads on impossible slopes, appeared as we began to descend. Then, suddenly, a bowl of haze and the plunge into Kathmandu. Patient Subodh waiting with a hired car.
I have discovered that Nepal is a web of contrasts, and that every human life here is entangled in that web, including mine.
Much love,
Kathryn
This last picture is just amazing ! I just love that view .
http://intercoursex.tumblr.com/
Posted by: Johnharris2oh | December 02, 2010 at 05:51 AM