When last stateside, Marjorie had hurriedlyflown home to be with her critically injured' Too thin and f o u r 2m1o-nyethasr-porledgnsaonnt,. friends fattened her up, treasured a few moments together and warned her o f the dangers o f giving birth outside the antiseptic West. After attempting to assuage theirfears, megavitamins in hand, she returned to her home in Kathmandu, her “new frontier.” Marjorie’s last work in the CSQ was “Smoking Chandu” in the Spring, 1981, issue. LETTERS FROM NEPAL By Marjorie Nashpati The sun is beautiful today. I should be out in it, but will get to before it goes down. The barnyard scene before me is restive. The women are squatted backs to the sun, braided uncut hair woven with bright red ribbons. The two cocks are black. The cows soft brown, earth colors. Hay, a little green. The air is not free enough of clouds to reveal the mountains. I just spied pale pink blossoms on the tree I thought was bare. Am I really seeing that? It’s only the beginning of February. Yes, it’s true. I went downstairs to check. Good. Omens of hope. The tree bears a winter fruit called nashpati. It’s like a winter pear. I have just returned from the garden with Tommy, transplanting flowers into pots for the house. We have quite a collection now. The light is almost gone, and I wanted to take advantage of the little left to finish this letter since there is no electricity now. Whole families are walking to their homes in colorful clumps. Tam- poos zoom past. The cows are coming home to their small shelters. The valley is sweet, the people naturally good-natured. Flutes play frequently and beautifully. They are cheap and every boy learns how to play well. They are made of bamboo. The children all sing in strong voices, in that odd Oriental sing-song tone. They have just serenaded my house and I gave out apples. I just do whatever comes to mind or hand. They always giggle no matter what I do. We have fun with the children here. They are friendly, happy, and bright. I know street kids who speak a bit of all the European languages, and a smattering of Japanese, Hindi and English is spoken widely and well. The Living Goddess I have an excellent photograph of “the Living Goddess,” Kumari, who is five years old. She lives in a palace downtown, as have 400 years of girls before her, until she bleeds. This blood can even be from the loss of a tooth. Often it is the menstrual blood which displaces her from her goddess class, so they are usually very young. The Kathmandu Kumari now is six, the same as the Baktapor one. They always come from the same caste of Narwari, the artisans of the valley. They are chosen by which girl shows the least fear when taken into a dungeon and scared by masked demons, and a severed buffalo head that speaks! The reason she exists is a lustful former old-time king longed for a pre-pubescent girl child for lovemaking. She died and the king was so shamed and grieved that he made the Living Goddess a symbol of purity of young girls. Though to this day 8-year-olds are married in Nepal. My maid married at twelve! Her husband is the same age. Thank small favors. The Kumari’s feet must never touch the ground. She is borne throughout the street in the chariot with an umbrella on top. She is wearing a lot of gold. The crowd of men who worship her have visible erections. A mysterious phenomenon occurred in a village near here, called Patan. There lives a Kumari who is 29 years old and has not bled yet! Imagine? There is a legend that one Kumari lived to be thirty-two and died never having bled. Pashupati A full band is marching past the house. I hear a predominant trumpet, cymbals, bells, drums, flutes. Cars honking to get by the procession. It’s petering out, it’s out of sync. It’s a Hindu marriage. They carry lanterns. The trunk of the taxi, carrying the bridal couple, is open, displaying the booty. Demure, she is never to raise her eyes, for about three days. She is loaded with genuine gold ornaments, flowers, make-up. The groom indulges in make-up himself. Also, the lepers that travel have arrived from the south. They have a mate they push in a wood cart affair. The more diseased friend is carried in a crude chaise lounge, made of wood, with wheels. The new moon of this month will bring Shivarati, the festival of Shiva babas converging on Pashupati, where the baby was laid to rest. So the halt and the lame, those who worship Shiva, are descending upon Kathmandu. I saw some yesterday, all dressed in red and orange. Their uncut hair in a top-knot, with staff, and plastic shoes that turn up at the toe. They range in age from very young to old, old men. All men, I think. (Though women are in many cults also. Buddhist monks have females. Some other orange-turbaned sect has women.) Here comes the second wedding parade since I’ve gotten up. I hear the distant trumpet. This is marriage month. Their year is 2037, the month Marg. Puja Day The last three days have been devoted to animals. First it’s crow puja day, the dog puja, which was yester-. day. The maid came in in the morning while we were still sleeping. Neatly arranged on a plate were a sugar mixture, red puja powder, and a slice of bread. Oh! and the marigold necklace she wove for the dogs. They all get this offering. She mixed the sugar paste and puja powder together, put a tika on the dog’s forehead, then tied the necklace of yellow flowers in place. Really looked fantastic to see! All the neighborhood dogs all dolled up. One Afghan hound across the street looked hilarious with his necklace hanging recklessly around his neck, and today is cow puja day. They now are all going around with flowers on and tikas in place. Beautiful. Yes, the people are religious, but it’s celebrated in such a happy way. All festivals, all enactments to do with the crops, the demons who bring disease, romance, the usual, are included, but the religion is one of laughter. There is even a day to worship yourself! It’s complete. I’m not speaking of Hinduism per se, but the unique-in-the-world mixture of Buddhism and Hinduism that works. Here, a temple may as well be a playground. The children ride the sacred cows of stone, guarding the god who uses it as a vehicle. At night in the old city, the main downtown biggest temple turns into a moo-moo stand. It is a sort of Nepali ravioli. Cheap, hard on the guts, filled with spices and buff mince. Taxis line up and order through their windows like at a drive-in, but it’s so different anyway. During the day, souvenirs are displayed on the temples, fruits and vegetables sold from them, at night the moo-moos and the homeless sleepers are there. Sati Remember the story I told you about the monkey that died in a praying position in front of the Hanaman temple, the monkey temple. He was given a full Hindu funeral pyre. Then the other day in the Indian press, a woman was bitten by a snake, a cobra, and died. They took the snake and secured it in a cage to constrict it, because they cannot kill it. The snake escaped, and as the body of the woman was burning on its pyre, the snake committed sati, by throwing it44 Clinton St. Quarterly
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