Minnesota’s temperature is 90 degree Fahrenheit. Yesterday it was windy, it mashed the garden. The danger of the storm has passed away, so says Fox, but oho, this summer’s heat, I cannot stand it. I hear the Himalayas calling, smell mountain air, feel coldness on my skin.
In my living room, they are sitting opposite me, a map spread before us, Lonely Planet in my hand. I have pulled the blinds, yellow sunrays
are falling over the Indian subcontinent. I can see a thin edge of froth in China. I don’t remembering emptying my coffee. Perhaps, it evaporated, or had I dozed off?
“I’d always wanted to see the
Taj Mahal. What a wonderful thing the British have built there,” Christine says.
Maybe this map was printed before the 18th century. My friends don’t get an idea of the place
I’m going to this summer by looking at this. Perhaps the iPhone will show tell them better.
“Wow, the Himalayas!”” Susan is pretty excited. “Are you going to Everest? I suppose they have installed cable cars there.”
Why should I laugh, I don’t see any point in laughing. They have never been out of the continent. I don a serious face. “Actually, cable cars cannot be installed in the Himalayas. It is windy out there. But I hear they have bullet train that takes you to the summit.
“Really?” The girls look amused. I laugh until I feel like throwing up.
In the evening, when I’m consumed with the packing, the girls show up again. They had been Googling, they knew Nipol.
“The Communists are all over the country.” Christine’s concern moves me. “Are you sure, you want to go there? You are putting yourself in danger. Make sure you don’t get hit by bullets,” she adds. I can understand Christine’s fear; she is more terrified of Communists than of Bin Laden. She is a second generation Cuban.
“What if you meet a Communist?” Susan is quite a
sceptic. “And if they kidnap you?” Susan’s father is a Vietnam Veteran. She has told me her father’s story numbers of times.
“Katmandu” was not an ordinary destination for my friends. The
country did not exist in their American minds until I told them I would be going to Nepal. First time they heard me say so, they thought I was going to Naples.
“Why Naples, and not Paris,”
they reacted simultaneously.
Later, when I showed them the map, they were excited.
“Maybe one day I will be in the Kumbha mela,” Susan said. I knew she’d been blown away by images of naked shadus they had been showing on TV recently.
I zoom in the map.
“So Kathmandu is in Tibet,” Christine says.
In Kathmandu, the common people straddle between myths and realities, uneven development and modernity. Whereas the politicians lumber with free market and guided market. I hear and see the anguish of raw democracy.
I walk from Lazimpat to Kupondole because there is a strike. Everything happens so suddenly in this country that nobody knows who called the strike and what are the demands, but they oblige.
I’m smelling. I ask the hotel manager when water will be available. He does not give me an accurate answer, he is more interested in my iPhone. He is not only willing to pay for it, but also offers to give me heavy discounts on lodging charges.
My laptop needs recharging.
I want to know when power will
be back.
“I can find a buyer for your Mac,” the manager answers. I look at Kathmandu through the window. I don’t see Kathmandu as beautiful, but I believe this could have been the world’s most alluring place. The ancient city trying to wear a modern face has so much going for it in its wonderful temples, monasteries, and palaces. The setting is spectacular, and the atmosphere very subtle. Why don’t they preserve their rivers and ancient architecture?
Though the traffic jam is not as bothersome as in Bangkok, Kathmandu’s streets top my list of the most dangerous. In my inbox, however, I find my friends’ best wishes. They’re hoping for my safety in Nepal, and I treasure their messages.
“CNN says Nepalese infected Haiti with cholera. Make sure you don’t catch cholera or typhoid. Did you ride on the rhinoceros?” wrote Christine.”I hope you’re mellowing out in Tibet.”
“Perhaps you could have taken bullet proof jackets with you. Don’t let the terrorists get you,” said Susan. “Yesterday, I heard a train collapsed, were you hurt?”
In Kathmandu, I get more attention, on the streets, around the royal palace arcade, in the temple proximities. The people are always smiling; their welcoming smile makes me think of them as amiable people. However, they also appear as beggars to me, always stretching their hands before White Westerners. Some of them make me so angry. The city guide thinks I won’t mind if he kisses me and the person I befriended thinks he can have me. The rickshaw puller tries to smooch my boobs, a pedestrian smacks my ass, and they are damn sure that I will love it.
I queue at the Immigration Department. I see impatient people everywhere, their expressions say, ‘Why on earth do they make this process so bothersome.’ I can hear them swearing. They hate being in this country, and yet they want to get their visas extended.
I return home.
“Did you take pictures with the Dalai Lama, I’m coming to see your pictures.” Susan says to me over the phone. She knew where the Dalia Lama lived, but thought the Dharmashala was in Kathmandu, or perhaps Kathmandu was in India.
“Yes,” I said with much ado. Nepal, India, what’s the difference—I heard her thoughts—after all they are the same country.
And there is Christine in my room.
“The Buddha boy, did you see him,” she was fervid. She knew
about the boy who’d been meditating without food and water for months, thanks to a programme in the Discovery Channel. “Did you
talk to that girl, what do they call her?” And she knew about the tradition of worshipping a girl, kept alive for more than two centuries. Thanks to Google.
At the threshold of the Kumari Temple, pigeons’ droppings welcomed me. Next time I walk around the temples in Kathmandu, I will make sure I have an umbrella, or perhaps wear a helmet. What will they think? Kuerani has gone mad, ha...ha...
- Vinaya Ghimire
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