Mountains Painted with Turmeric

by Lil Bahadur Chettri

  Mention is made in the novel of a council that is referred to sometimes as the pancha and sometimes as the panchayat. The panchayat system of national government, which consisted of a pyramidical structure of elected councils from village to national level with the king at its apex, was not established in Nepal until 1962, some five years after this novel was written. Therefore these terms are being used here as Turner defines them in his 1930 Nepali dictionary: as a “committee, jury, body of arbitrators” or “a caste-committee to discuss any matter concerning caste” (359). The panchayat council consisted of the most senior and powerful men of the village and was dominated by the headman and his baidar.

  THIS TRANSLATION

  The anthropologists and historians whose writings constitute the bulk of the material on Nepal that has been published by foreigners since the country opened to researchers in the 1950s have paid scant attention to the work of Nepali writers. Thus the representations of Nepali society and history that appear in Nepali works of fiction remain little known beyond their Nepali readership. The truism that “literature is a mirror of society” is often quoted in Nepali, but creative literature is of course more aptly described as a lens that may distort an image by playing up particular aspects of a social reality for its own purposes while ignoring others. This it is fully entitled to do, because a novel or a short story is never intended, expected, or required to impart unbiased, factual truths. Nonetheless, the portrayals of socioeconomic issues and processes that may be found in such texts are of great value and interest in themselves. The way a family’s dispossession and flight from Nepal are represented in a popular novel such as Basain tells us something about the historical fact of migration from the Nepalese hills, as well as revealing an author’s attitudes to that fact. Both are significant for an understanding of the relationship between Nepal’s past and its present. This was my first reason for translating Basain.

  A foreign reader who associates South Asian literature with novels written by Booker Prize winners who write only in English may find the characters of this novel—the humble farmer, the rapacious moneylender, the innocent girl, the wily soldier—somewhat stereotypical. My advice to such readers is that they should approach the story in the manner in which they might approach a chronicle or a parable. The remorseless process of Dhané and Maina’s impoverishment, exploitation, dispossession, and banishment represents the opening up of a deep division in their society: between those who enjoy some measure of prosperity because they can exploit the poor and those who submit to this exploitation, become increasingly impoverished, and eventually leave. It unfolds against a background in which social relations remain profoundly unequal and are still based on considerations of caste and gender. An anonymous reviewer of an earlier version of this translation wrote that in view of the then-ongoing political crisis in Nepal it seemed strange, at first glance, to consider publishing a novel written in 1957 that was not overtly political. But the reviewer then went on to write that “on further reflection it began to seem highly relevant. Basain is a moving story, depicting in wonderful rich detail the round of village life: the daily farmwork and chores, the gossip chain, the weekly market, the limited opportunities, the rapacious rich preying on the poor, and women’s particular vulnerabilities…. Reading this story could contribute to understanding why poor villagers would join the Maoist cause, if they were given a gun and told they could shoot or drive off Nande and the Baidar on behalf of the revolution, instead of leaving everything they owned.”

  Moreover, this is a story that has struck a chord in the hearts of hundreds of thousands of Nepali readers since it was first published. In fact, Basain is one of a handful of Nepali novels that almost every Nepali reader knows well. Its events and characters are familiar to schoolchildren and their parents alike, and any outsider who cares for the people of Nepal and wishes to understand them better would do well to look into their society through the window this novel provides. In my view it deserves to be better known not only for this reason but also because it is a beautiful, empathetic, poignant story. The style of its telling draws, humbly and without pretension, on the music, intimacy, and wit of the Nepali language, and it succeeds purely on its own terms.

  This translation, like all translations, has had to choose between different options at many a juncture, and it is therefore inherently imperfect. In particular, the Nepali used in the dialogue contains many rustic figures of speech, which are difficult to replicate in translation, though I strive to reflect them wherever possible. Also, the novel’s characters regularly address one another by using kinship terms instead of personal names, and the translator must decide whether to retain the original Nepali words (daju, bhai, jetha, didi, kanchi, bhaujyu, etc.) or whether to translate them (“elder brother,” “younger brother,” “firstborn son,” “elder sister,” “last-born daughter,” “sister-in-law”). Eventually I opted for the former course of action in most instances, and I have also tried to reflect the fact that the meaning of an epithet such as “Kanchi” can vary slightly, according to who is applying it to whom. I must record my thanks to Indra Bahadur Rai for answering many queries, to Larry Hartsell for sending me a copy of his own translation of this novel, and also to Kamal Dixit, the original publisher, who read an early draft and provided some useful advice.

  Michael Hutt

  Tring, England

  1

  This night was not as cold as it usually is in the high hills during the month of Phagun.1 The sky was overcast, and the cold breeze did not blow from the peaks, so the night was still. Although it was the bright half of the month, all the moon’s light could not reach the earth, and there was only just enough light to see by.

  From a distance, Dhané Basnet looked as if he were asleep, bundled up from his feet to his head in a dirty quilt that was torn in places. But he was not sleeping. He was trying to set aside the flood of emotions that was tumbling down on him, so that he could welcome the goddess of sleep. But his efforts were all to no avail. One moment he would shut off the flow of thoughts and try to sleep, but the next second those feelings would revive and come back to surround his brain. So Dhané got up, went to the fireplace, plucked out a glowing ember from the ashes, and lit a stub of tobacco wrapped in an angeri leaf. As he blew the tobacco smoke out into the room, he sank back into his thoughts. Questions, objections, answers, and then more questions arose one after the other in each corner of his heart.

  “The old baidar2 is prepared to give me a buffalo, but he’s asking a terribly sharp price—and then of course I have to pledge my plowing oxen as security. If I don’t pay off the interest each and every month I’ll get no peace at all. ‘Four-legged is my wealth; do not ever count it,’ they say.3 If anything goes wrong I’ll lose the oxen and everything else as well. But what could go wrong? The buffalo’s pregnant, and she’s already got a sturdy calf. And she gives plenty of milk, too. In a year or two the calf will grow up. And if we get another female calf the next time she gives birth, that will be better still. My little boy will get some milk to wet his throat as well. If we put a little aside for a few days we’ll have ghee, and we’ll surely make a few annas.4 That would be enough to pay the interest, and we’ll keep the buttermilk. If the maize is good this year I’ll use it to pay off half the debt, and we’ll just live on millet.” His thoughts raced by like a powerful torrent. When the tobacco was all gone, Dhané, “the wealthy one,”5 wrapped himself in his quilt again. Half the night had passed already, and he yawned.

  2

  Dhan Bahadur Basnet is a young man: he has just turned twenty-five. His frame attests to the mountain air and the nutritious food of his homeland, but his handsome face is always darkened by clouds of worry, like black clouds sullying a clear night. He has just one life companion: his wife, Maina, who supports him through his times of sorrow and rejoices when he is happy. In Maina’s lap there plays the star of Dhané’s future, a three-year-old boy. The family also includes a girl of fourteen or fifteen, Dhané’s young
est sister, Jhumavati, whose marriage Dhané has not yet arranged because of his financial difficulties. The boat of Dhané’s household bobs along bearing its little family of four, facing many storms on the unfathomed seas of the world.

  Dhané’s crisis may be likened to the black clouds and moon of this night. The moon wants to cut through the net of clouds and spread light throughout the world, making it blissful in the cool soft joy it provides. But it is unable to do so: the clouds have reduced its light to nothing. Dhané wants to burst through the net of his money problems and bring his little family happiness and the cool shade of peace. He longs to restore the foundations of the roofpoles and posts that the termites of his debts to the moneylenders have made rickety. For that he has relied on his industry and labor. He works hard, he is industrious. For every four cowries6 he is willing to lay down a bet on the last breath of his life. But his hardships do not change.

  The rotting posts of his house just go on rotting. Like mist rising up to join the clouds, the land owners and moneylenders of the village add to his problems. The sharp interest rates they charge, the way they snatch the security pledged if a promise is broken: in Dhané’s life these are like the blows of staves on a man who is already unconscious. But despite all this he has not admitted defeat. He hides his sorrows and goes on treading the path of labor.7

  3

  “Hariram! The price of the buffalo is 120 rupees, the interest must be delivered to Hariram’s house at the end of every month. And listen! If you are late by even a day during the months that you owe money to Hariram, I tell you I’ll remove the oxen and the buffalo from your shed! There, what do you say? Make a mark with your thumb on the agreement.” So said the baidar, who wore a fresh mark of white sandalwood paste on his brow.

  The baidar was an old man, a firm traditionalist who paid great attention to matters of purity and touchability. He ate nothing that had not been prepared by his own Bahun cook. So that the name of Ram might always be on his lips, he sprinkled everything he said with his pet word, “Hariram.” His mornings passed in ritual and scripture, and he considered the giving of alms and feasts to Bahuns to be the highest duty. But he was always on his guard when the poor and suffering of the neighborhood came to borrow something petty. He did not forget to crank up the interest when someone borrowed a rupee or two, and the wages for all his hard work were earned by extracting high rates of interest from his creditors. Dhané knew the baidar well. Even though he knew that dealing with him was like setting his own house alight, he held his peace and made his mark on the paper.

  It was time to let the livestock out to graze. The farm workers were making their way down to the fields, carrying baskets and ghums.8 Dhané came back to his yard, dragging the little calf behind him. The buffalo brought up the rear, bellowing as it came. Maina hurriedly scattered a handful of hay to one side of the yard, and the buffalo sampled it casually.

  4

  Dhané expected to profit from the buffalo in every way. “After a year or two my bad days will be over and my good days will begin,” he thought. But if things always worked out as they were envisaged, no one in the world would ever have blamed fate for anything. It was only about two weeks since Dhané had bought the buffalo. He came out that morning to milk it, carrying a milk pail with a little butter smeared on its rim. He went over to untie the calf, but then he saw that it was lying with its legs spread out and that one of its legs was quivering. He had tethered the calf in a hurry the previous evening, and when he saw it like this he nearly lost his senses. He told Maina and then went up the hill to call Kahila Dhami from the big house.9 The dhami came quickly, and when he had fingered the grains of rice in the tray for a long time he said, “It seems that Bankalé has got it.10 You just light incense for the deities of the house, and I’ll conduct an exorcism.”

  It was just time to light the lamps in the village houses. The cowherds were busy laying out feed and spreading litter for their livestock. Over by the stream the crickets made the air resound with the music of their ensemble, as if some musicians from the city were playing their tanpuras. Down below, Telu Magar’s dog barked monotonously. Dhané was standing beside the calf, his eyes brimming with tears. The calf turned its eyes toward him and gave a cry of utter misery, as if it wanted to tell him in its mute infant’s language that this was the last hour of its life. Dhané wiped his tear-filled eyes with the hem of his shirt and sat down beside the calf. “Go now, mother, go happily. May your soul find joy in the other place.” The calf gave one strong kick and then gave up its breath, as if it were obeying his command. At milking time, the buffalo kicked out, brandished its horns, and jumped around, and Dhané was unable to touch it.

  It was Phagun, and the fields were empty and bare. Several farmers had just begun their plowing. Dhané had let his buffalo out onto his dry field, and at midday he lay sunning himself on some straw on the open roof of his lean-to. Just then, Leuté Damai arrived in a foul temper.11 Leuté was very wealthy. He reaped a profit from sewing for the whole village, and he also had plenty of fields of his own, so he did not need to defer to anyone. Dhané climbed down from the roof, and Leuté saluted him, lifting one hand to his brow: “Jadau, Saheb,” he said.12 “Have you let your buffalo loose? It’s been through my field, and it hasn’t left a single stem of my buckwheat standing. If my patrons let their stock wander out like this as if they were bulls,13 what will be left of me? Come with me and see the damage your buffalo has done!”

  “It can’t have been in there for long; it was in my own field just now!” said Dhané.

  “I don’t know anything more about it, but I’m going to get the mukhiya to fine you for this. You’ll have to pay whatever he decides.”

  “All right, all right, there’s no need to get so excited, Damai! If it’s destroyed your crop I’ll repay you!”

  “Do you think you can still talk down to me like that when your buffalo has ruined me? I’m going to the mukhiya right now!” Leuté strode off. Very soon he returned with the mukhiya and several other men, and they went over to Leuté’s buckwheat field, taking Dhané with them.

  There was a ravine between Dhané’s and Leuté’s fields. The far wall of the ravine, on Leuté’s side, was very high, and cattle and buffaloes were unable to climb into Leuté’s field. But Dhané’s buffalo had followed the ravine right down to the main path and had then gone around to get into Leuté’s large terraced field, where it had destroyed roughly half the buckwheat. It was resolved that Dhané should pay a fine of three mohars.14 He was made to promise to pay within ten days, and a written record was made of this. When they had secured Dhané’s mark on the paper, the mukhiya and the other men returned to their homes.

  Haay, the ways of fate are strange! One afternoon in the burning sun of Chait15 the buffalo came staggering into the cowshed. Dhané came down from the yard and was about to pat it when he noticed that it bore some bruises, which he guessed had been caused by some blows from a stick. He was speechless. But what could a poor man like Dhané do? Slowly he muttered, “Who hit you like this? You must have got into someone’s crops. That’s just how it is.” The buffalo’s womb had been injured, and four days later its calf was stillborn.

  5

  The sun’s yellow rays fell on the peaks of the next range of mountains, and they looked as if some artist had painted them with turmeric. A cool evening breeze had begun to blow, and out in the alleyways the herders were calling as they brought in their animals. Some birds were creating a din up in the juniper trees and chir pines; it was as if they were singing at the tops of their voices to rejoice at being all together. A day in the month of Bhadau:16 all around one could see nothing but maize, which obscured the narrow houses of the village. Maize grew on both sides of the main path, and those who came and went along it could not be seen from a distance.

  Someone was coming down the hillside toward the village. In such a place his attire was a thing of wonder. He wore belted military khaki trousers, and a khukuri knife hung at his side.
The collar of his white shirt was out over his black coat, and on his feet he wore a pair of red shoes. On his head there was a black pointed cap, in his hand there was a walking stick, and from his shoulder there hung a bag with several rugs rolled up in a belt on top of it. On his young, fair-complexioned face there shone for all to see the arrogant look of a soldier.

  There was a spring on the main path above Dhané’s house. Previously there had been no water there, but one year during the rains water suddenly burst forth. The spring never dried up after that, even when winter came, and the villagers got together and laid down a pointed rock over which the water could run, making the sound “chararar.” They called it the “waterfall spring,” and those who lived nearby drew their water from it.

  The young man reached the spring and stopped to gaze at a girl who was there. She was just like a budding flower! He had seen many such flowers in the city, all smothered in scent and powder. He had seen many young beauties wrapped in silk blouses and blue saris, and he had thought them real nymphs. But could he have imagined such a flower in an ordinary hill village, wearing a common calico skirt, a dirty white cotton waistband, and a blouse torn in three places? He had not known this until today, when he saw such a one there before him. The only difference was that those flower buds in the towns watered their roots themselves, while nature itself watered this one. In the town, they wore rouge and fake roses, but the goddess of nature had endowed this one with every adornment. In the town, the whole environment had been artificial, but here everything was just as it should be.