The Waiting Land (19 page)

Shortly before the slaying started the buglers and the brass band had begun to play different tunes simultaneously; one could just discern that each was murdering a popular European march, yet the musicians themselves were obviously being reduced to paroxysms of joyful pride by their own performances.

At about 7.45, when the three privates had got well into their stride and lots of blood was flowing smoothly, a Very Important Person wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a benign expression came wandering alone into the arena. At once the killings stopped and everyone began to salute wildly, like so many toy soldiers gone mad. Then twenty men who had been mingling with the crowd, clad in ordinary Nepalese costume, plus swords, agitatedly began to unsheath their weapons – and as these no-longer-bright swords were held aloft in a crooked row one could see that at some stage the dew had rusted them. The brass band now stopped playing and while the buglers blew a fanfare the VIP, looking faintly embarrassed, solemnly turned to salute the empty sofa and chairs. Then, as the fanfare blasted its uncertain way to its ragged end, the swords were lowered and the VIP lit himself a cigarette and sauntered over to talk to a group of men just below us.

Now the tempo of the ceremony quickened, as more and more
animals were led in for sacrifice and the kukris flashed faster and faster and gory men ran around the flags with their carcasses, instead of walking, and piled trays almost obscured the flag-staffs. Then, to augment the excitement, two members of the brass band exchanged their instruments for ancient muskets which they frequently fired deafeningly in the air – while their colleagues and the buglers
continued
to vie with each other by massacring Sousa.

Smells are always a prominent feature of Nepalese events, and this morning these were cumulative. When we first arrived at the Kot it was permeated merely by the everyday stench of stale urine: but then people began to burn incense on tall, bronze stands beside each row of flagstaffs, and soon we couldn’t decide which was the worse – urine or urine intermingled with incense. Next came the pleasant pungency of clouds of gunpowder smoke and, as the ceremony proceeded, steaming rivulets of fresh blood thoroughly confused the issue. Yet – oddly enough – by that time the total effect was quite appetising.

An old Rana army officer was sitting beside me, looking gloomy, and when I made some enthusiastic remarks about the general scene he said curtly that this ceremony is not what it was. During the Rana regime it had been compulsory for every citizen of Kathmandu to sacrifice
something
– if only a pigeon or sparrow – in honour of the Goddess Durga, but now tiresome democratic ideas have infected the atmosphere and the King has announced that only those who really wish to placate the goddess need do so. Possibly she is feeling a little peeved as a result, because it is estimated that the number of sacrifices has dropped to about 25 per cent of the pre-1951 figures; yet she may realise that this is a consequence of prices rising, rather than of devout fear diminishing. In 1950 a chicken cost half a rupee, but now an egg costs three-quarters of a rupee and a chicken twelve or fifteen rupees.

When we left the Kot at nine o’clock the slaughtering was still in progress – the original three privates having been replaced by three others – and Donbahadur said that it would continue for many hours; but the air of festive excitement had already faded and one felt that the rest of the ceremony would be a mere routine killing of animals such as might occur in a butcher’s yard.

Donbahadur now announced that he was going to buy a chicken to do
puja
for Memsahib’s car. He explained that all the valley’s
motor-vehicles
are included in todays’ ceremonies, to ensure that Durga will not use them during the coming year as instruments in her destruction campaign; and considering how recently motor vehicles were introduced to Kathmandu this reveals surprising adaptability on the part of Nepalese Hinduism. The chicken was duly bought on our way back to Jawalkhel and Donbahadur spent the next hour threading a long garland of yellow flowers to lay on the car bonnet, mixing the inevitable coloured powders with water from the sacred Bagmati River and sharpening the carving-knife. Then the three of us processed out to Sigrid’s little beige Volkswagen – closely followed by Puchare, who is always interested in chicken killings from irreligious motives.

Donbahadur opened the ceremony by sprinkling coloured holy water all over the car and laying flowers and fruit along the front bumper. Next he laid the garland on the bonnet, before drawing with his fingers weird hieroglyphics on the dusty doors and wheels, while praying
sotto voce
. Then came the big moment, when he took the chicken from Sigrid and cut its neck over the flowers and fruit. Finally he again went slowly around the car, letting the blood trickle onto the roof, sides and wheels – obviously where Durga is concerned it’s always a case of ‘the bloodier the better’.

Our part in the ceremony brought it to a companionable conclusion. A little pile of rice lay on the sacrificial brass tray and when this had been mixed with blood Sigrid knelt before Donbahadur, who stuck a lump of the concoction on the middle of her forehead and put a red flower in her hair. My turn came next, before Donbahadur applied the same treatment to himself. The blood congeals very quickly and even now (10.30 p.m.) my piece is still in place – which indicates that Durga will not destroy me during the year ahead. Unfortunately, however, Sigrid’s mark fell off quite soon, so now poor Donbahadur is slightly apprehensive about the fate of his beloved Memsahib.

To complete our celebrations we had the chicken for lunch; it was very tastily curried, but conspicuously anaemic.

Quite suddenly my ribs have begun to mend; today I needed no painkillers and my seat to Pokhara has been booked for the day after tomorrow.

This afternoon I took a test-walk to Patan, and on the way, while passing along a narrow street of three-storey, mud-brick farmhouses, I saw a madwoman dancing and singing – with distinctly lewd
overtones
– in front of one of these houses. She was surrounded by a little group of smiling, but not leering, onlookers, and many other interested spectators were leaning far out over their carved balconies up and down the street. Almost everyone was dressed in festival style – complete with vivid
tika
marks in the centre of the forehead, garlands of fresh flowers around the neck and bright blossoms in the hair – and one immediately sensed that the madwoman’s display was being accepted – not cruelly, but casually – as a sort of bonus minor entertainment quite suitable to a day of relaxation and rejoicing. Lunatics are a common enough sight in a country where there are no mental homes, and many of them reveal their insanity by these frenzied and often slightly
risqué
outbursts of song and dance. In Europe the sight of a madwoman roaming the streets would now arouse the most extreme pity, embarrassment and horror, so it does seem a little strange at first to observe onlookers enjoying this pathetic exhibition. Yet though they laugh, and sometimes engage in what appears to be deliberately provocative repartee, one is aware of no derision or real unkindness; indeed the onlookers are obviously sharing in the lunatics’ crazy pleasure in singing and dancing – and one wonders if some of these mad men and women are not better off than our hidden lunatics, who must live for ever in discreet isolation from their fellows.

At Patan the Durbar Square was thronged with holiday crowds, full of the joys of life, and on walking up a statue-lined side-street I met an extraordinary little procession slowly making its way towards the main temple in the Square. It consisted of fourteen men dressed up as women, each wearing a huge, painted mask from which hung fantastic
cloaks of waist-length horse hair, dyed red, green, pink, yellow and brown. These goddesses were preceded by two men, one of whom held aloft an enormous blazing torch, from which flames were leaping dangerously over the heads of the crowd, while the other carried in his arms a sheaf of bay-leaves surrounding what was evidently a very ancient, precious and sacred bronze plaque depicting Durga in various contortions of rage. The goddesses were walking in single file, with curious rhythmic jerky movements, and each one was accompanied by a normally dressed man who held ‘her’ right hand with his own left hand, while a large sword was carried jointly by the couple. The procession was followed by a man playing on a drum decorated with two pairs of mountain-sheep horns and at frequent intervals, when cymbals joined the drum, the goddesses stood still and their escorts moved away a few paces. Then, waving their swords, the goddesses danced briefly with slow, solemn motions of the arms and legs. At the conclusion of each dance devout people came forward from among the crowd and ritually fed the performers by pushing tiny wafers of wheaten bread under the masks into their mouths, and presenting them with water in what looked like earthenware coffee-cup saucers, which the goddesses smashed on the ground after drinking.

Even without these halts progress would have been slow, as the narrow street was packed with excited, reverent, laughing spectators who were continually pressing forward to touch the goddesses – and who were especially anxious to bring their babies and small children into contact with these divinities. I followed the procession for almost an hour, being accepted by the crowd with that gay friendliness so characteristic of Kathmandu.

As we approached the Square the throng became even denser, so for the sake of my ribs it seemed prudent to escape and I found a seat, on an elephant-god’s pedestal, from which to see the ceremonial entry into the temple courtyard. Here I was surrounded by laughing, teasing, curious children – some of them quite old friends – who were flying balloons and eating sticky sweetmeats and whose ambitions to climb all over me had to be checked by an explanation that I was not in my normal state of resilience. Soon the big bronze bell in the centre of the
Square began to toll – with a sweet, mellow solemnity incongruously reminiscent of a European church bell – but though this was meant to herald the appearance of the procession there was neither sight nor sound of the goddesses half-an-hour later. It was now getting dusk and, as I feared for my ribs when walking home through rough, unlighted laneways, I reluctantly said goodbye to the children and left. Then, a few moments later, I passed the fourteen goddesses reclining on the verandah of a very scruffy teahouse, with their masks and wigs on their laps and cigarettes in their hands, while tea was being brewed to sustain them for the last lap to the temple.

On arriving back here four days ago I experienced a very strong ‘coming home’ feeling: and since then it has been doubly difficult to accept the fact that soon I will be leaving for ever. I had expected to suffer the usual pangs when parting from the Tibetans, but only now do I fully realise the strength of my affection for Pokhara Valley in general and Pardi village in particular.

Tashi gave me a deliriously warm welcome and importantly led the way home from the camp – though after my long absence I had been prepared to find her allegiance at least partially transferred back to Ngawang Pema and his family, whose guest she had been. From her point of view my return was most inopportune because yesterday, incredible as it may seem, the precocious little hussy came on heat. Granted everyone and everything matures quickly in this climate, but for a few inches of puppyhood to come on heat at the age of five months and ten days really is taking precocity to extremes. Naturally I wasn’t prepared (nor, presumably, was Tashi) so I’m very much afraid that the worst has happened. Yesterday afternoon she came in, after one of her gambols with the local hounds, looking slightly distraught – but at the time I attributed this to some tiff with a buddy and thought nothing of it. Yet now that the penny has dropped I suspect that she had just then lost her virginity and was registering a seemly degree of emotional upheaval. This afternoon, when she was taken for a frustrating walk on a chain, I had to use a stick in defence of her probably extinct virtue. One hates to thwart young love, yet altogether apart from the silly little thing’s immaturity the legal implications of this situation are quite petrifying. It is difficult enough to import ‘a
domestic pet of the canine species’ into Ireland in an unmarried state – but the imagination boggles as it has never boggled before at the prospect of importing said domestic pet plus innumerable progeny; and they would be innumerable if Tashi’s fertility were to match her precocity, just as they would be too adorable to leave behind if they took after their mamma.

Now the nights are really cold here – and the days indescribably beautiful, with clear skies over the Annapurna range – so Tashi insists on coming into my sleeping-bag. At first I protested, thinking that she would suffocate, but she refused to take ‘no’ for an answer; and obviously she had had it all worked out beforehand, because on admission she immediately burrowed down to the end and curled up at my feet. Whereupon I decided that this was really quite a good idea, since she forms a hot-bottle that never gets cold.

All last night it rained heavily and the downpour continued until 3 p.m. today, like a revival of the monsoon. The locals say that this is freakish in October, though from mid-November onwards the valley does have occasional severe hailstorms.

Now that the so-called war is over tourists are again coming to Nepal, and almost every day during this past week a special plane has flown from Kathmandu to spew out on our airstrip a rigidly regimented group of ‘Round-the-Worlders’. These groups of course comprise the bravest tourist spirits – the ones who have taken a deep breath and, against their friends’ advice, decided to risk two or three hours in Pokhara, bringing hygienically packed lunches with them and drinking very little at breakfast-time because – ‘My dear, we were
warned!
There simply
aren’t
any toilets in the place!’ It is most unkind to laugh at such groups – but impossible not to do so, when they emerge from their planes wearing that same expression of bemused weariness, thinly veiled by a spurious joy at the excitement of ‘exploring’, which I have so often seen on the faces of similar groups being spewed out of luxury coaches in my own ‘beauty-spot’ home-town; and inevitably a regiment of Round-the-Worlders looks even funnier in Pokhara than it does in Ireland. I feel
delightfully integrated with my neighbours when we stand in a row near the airstrip, being hypnotised by the latest Paris or New York fashions which, seen from a Central Nepal angle, appear even more grotesque than they actually are.

Usually the regiment is commanded by a buxom blonde ‘guidette’ (a monstrous word with which I have lately become reluctantly familiar) who wears ‘sensible’ shoes and strides ahead clanging an arty bronze bell – ‘typical of Old Nepal’ – to keep her troops in line. Unhappily few of the females follow her good example in footwear and crises become monotonous as the high-heelers get their deserts on our rocky tracks.

A few days ago one high-heeler caused me hours of tormenting curiosity. Her regiment was passing my house, at the non-U end of the bazaar, when she noticed me sitting on my doorstep doing nothing – a satisfying occupation now known to too few Europeans. At once she stopped to stare, as though I were a singularly repellent phenomenon on par with regional odours; then she called after a friend – ‘Betty,
look
! Do you suppose she
lives
there?’ And ever since I have been consumed by a desire to know the content of Betty’s inaudible reply.

Yesterday a regiment of Round-the-Worlders was cut off from its base and trapped in Pokhara overnight by the abrupt change in the weather. I didn’t have the sadistic pleasure of visiting our bug-infested doss-houses while the abandoned troops were quartering there, and my imagination is unequal to visualising their reactions to the ‘service’. But this afternoon I did observe them – unwashed, unfed, and unslept – getting into formation on the airstrip in readiness for the rescue operation: and I must say they looked ripe for rescuing. One could see them cowering before the advancing spectre of dysentery – if they hadn’t already brain-washed themselves into developing it – and their chic ensembles had taken it hard. That regiment will remember Pokhara long after the Taj has been forgotten.

A few days ago I gave my landlord a week’s notice, and ever since there has been a ‘purifying’ campaign in progress in my room. This is being conducted with characteristic Asian disregard for privacy; at any hour of the day a bearded sadhu, laden with joss-sticks, sacred water, flowers, fruit and Sanskrit texts, may come scrambling up my ladder to seat himself in the middle of the floor – completely ignoring my presence – and perform interminable rituals to cleanse this room of the pollution caused by its untouchable resident. Despite his pretence that I do not exist – which may be part of the rite – I have by now become quite attached to ‘my’ sadhu, whose expression is less grim and predatory than that of the average Brahmin priest. The main part of the ceremony consists of long chantings, interrupted at set intervals by the strewing of flowers in the four corners of the room and the placing of a piece of fruit and a small coin on the table right under my astonished nose. At first I wondered if these were presents to me – but apparently not, for they are removed at the end of each session, though the flowers remain to wither in the corners. (This lavish use of fruit, flowers and vegetables is to me one of the most pleasing features of Hindu rituals in Nepal; it gives them a simple beauty and grace quite absent from any of the Buddhist rituals that one sees practised in the camp.)

I have to admit that the general lack of privacy here does become slightly trying after a time. Of course one could simply keep one’s door bolted: yet to do this would be much more than a physical locking-out of the neighbours, and seclusion could never compensate for the damage inflicted on one’s relationship with the village. Unfortunately compromise is impossible on such issues: one must either totally accept or reject local customs.

The weather has been appalling for the past fortnight, and as this is rice-harvesting time these rains are likely to bring considerable hardship to Pokhara. They are also hindering the recently begun seasonal
house-building
activities, which are now giving a great atmosphere of bustle to the whole valley. Men are constantly passing to and fro, leading creaking bullock-carts piled with rocks and stones; and women and children are 
to be seen everywhere carrying colossal loads of grass for the roofs, or of clay for the walls, or forming teams of three or four to transport bamboo poles for the supports. It’s all so simple – one day there is a vacant plot of land and a week later a family is moving into a solid, attractive new home. Of course in the interval even the four-year-olds have been working virtually day and night; it’s enchanting to see them trotting sturdily along behind their parents, carrying miniature dokars of grass – the NSPCC might not approve, but these children look happily proud to be so involved in this important family undertaking. Usually the houses are not completed until their owners have moved in. Then the women plaster the walls and floors with red mud while the men are carving and attaching the wooden doors and shutters, and building an outside stairway of stone or timber, if the ground floor is to be used as a stable.

This afternoon the camp held a farewell party for me, and this was indeed a melancholy occasion. It rained greyly all the time, which seemed appropriate, but the Tiblets insisted on dancing in my honour under the dismal sky, and everyone ate prodigious quantities of delicious
moo-moo
, which had been boiled in oil and syrup, and drank endless bowls of salted tea mixed with real yak-butter.

I have now proved conclusively that one pain does indeed cancel out another; today I awoke with such an unprecedented hangover that this afternoon’s dreaded departure from Pokhara meant nothing as compared with the activities of that personal Goddess of Destruction who seemed to be residing in my head.

In the course of a not abstemious life I have only once before had a hangover – at the age of twenty, after drinking a half-bottle of the cheapest Spanish brandy – but obviously it was the mingling of
chang
and
rakshi
that did the damage. Kessang and the Khamba community of Pokhara had invited me to a 6 p.m. Tibetan farewell party at The Annapurna, and a Pardi Gurkha friend had invited me to a 9 p.m. Nepalese farewell party at a Thakkholi eating-house in the village – and having gone to both parties and drunk multiracially I can’t reasonably complain about the consequences.

The weather surpassed itself yesterday; at 4.30 p.m., after a day of heavy rain, Pokhara was subjected to a cloudburst that made the worst of the monsoon downpours look merely damp. This lasted for a whole terrifying hour, before stopping abruptly, as though a dam had been closed. Then we set out for The Annapurna, and Tashi had to be carried all the way; at no point on the track was the furiously tearing water below my waist and at one stage it rose to neck-level and I had to swim to higher ground, gripping Tashi’s scruff with one hand. Perhaps after all it was fortunate that I spent the evening pickled in alcohol: otherwise I might have awakened with pneumonia instead of a hangover.

When Tibetans give a party it is nothing less than a banquet. At first, because of the party to come, I tried to back-pedal when offered solid refreshment, but everything was so delicious that self-control became impossible – and would in any case have been impolite when such an effort had been made for the occasion. By the time I stood up from the meal at 8.30 I could scarcely walk; and some of my fellow guests were quite frankly dozing off with their heads on the table.

The Thakkholi eating-house was scrupulously clean, as Thakkholi homes almost always are, and the ochre walls and floor glowed warmly by the light of twisting flames that came leaping out of a hole in the ground in one corner – rather as though we were on the edge of a baby volcano. There were ten of us officially present for the meal – but innumerable others drifted in and out of the background shadows – and we all sat cross-legged in a circle, on little squares of Tibetan carpeting. Luckily the main meal was not served until eleven o’clock, though we were nibbling incessantly at various tit-bits as we swilled the rawest of raw
rakshi
, ordered specially by my host from his village. He claimed that it was the most potent alcohol obtainable in Nepal (where no alcohol is exactly impotent) and today I am prepared to endorse this.

All the food was served on brilliantly burnished brass dishes of varying sizes – from minute ones for the hors-d’oeuvres to circular trays for the rice – and our ‘nibblings’ in fact amounted to quite a meal. We began with tiny strips of perfectly braised wild-goat meat – among the tastiest savouries I have ever eaten – followed by fried sardine-like
fish from the lake, followed by two hard-boiled eggs apiece, followed by one fried egg, followed by an omelette containing intolerably hot chopped peppers that compelled me to spit it out with more haste than good manners. And all the time we sipped steadily at
rakshi
, more
rakshi
and still more
rakshi
until I felt as though a bonfire were burning in my guts – but by then I had passed the point of no return.

The main course consisted of a gigantic mound of rice, with curried vegetables and dahl. As it was being served the local prostitute wandered in, hoping for a customer at the end of our revels; but she could see at a glance that after this party no one would be in a fit state to patronise her, so she immediately dropped her professional manner and settled down merely to be sociable. I have always thought her the best-looking woman in the village; she has fine-cut Aryan features, fair skin, and glossy, jet hair. By fire-light she seemed quite beautiful – until one noticed that brittle unhappiness and unwomanliness which disfigures even the loveliest of her sisters in every country of the world. From her nose hung an enormous circular gold ornament, which compelled her to smoke her countless cigarettes through the corner of her mouth, and her clothes were ragged and filthy – though of such good material that one suspected them of having been acquired as payment for favours received. One could see that this addition to the party displeased the Thakkholi proprietress – though it was only when her own attractive sixteen-year-old daughter began to talk to the gate-crasher that an indirect protest was made by sharply ordering the girl to bed.