Snake Lake

by Jeff Greenwald

  There was only me, sitting under my Chinese umbrella on a damp wooden bench.

  Not a hint of life was visible beneath the surface of Snake Lake. If any nagas lived here, they kept a low profile. In all the years I’d lived in this neighborhood, I hadn’t seen a single devotee pour any kind of offering into this lake.

  Which begged the question: Were there nagas here at all? Or was this an atrophied shrine, the site of an ancient encounter lost to obscurity? Was Nag Pokhari still a holy, percolating abode of snake gods, or a mere historical marker, like the commemorative plaques outside abandoned adobes and New England inns-turned-steakhouses?

  I threw a silver mohar, a half-rupee coin, into the water. It sank without a ripple. I shuddered, wondering about its destination—and wondered if the very fact of my wondering was perhaps the point. Maybe Nag Pokhari existed, and always had, as a reminder of unseen depths, the serpentine uncertainties of life. Were Nepalis that subtle? I couldn’t put it past them. This was, after all, Asia, where things often turned out to be far more complex than they appeared, and even the simplest objects might be onions of spiritual symbolism, their true meaning obscured by layer after layer of metaphor.

  A lotus, for example. In America, the word lotus has very specific meanings: It’s either a flower or a sports coupe. Throughout Asia, however, the lotus—padma, in Sanskrit—is the universal symbol of the awakened mind. Rooted in the muck and mire, the determined stalk makes its way upward to blossom in the lush light of day.

  The lotus is the throne of the Buddha, and the symbol of his teaching; it is the womb from which Padmasambhava (“lotus-born”), the great Indian mystic, emerged. To gaze at that single blossom yawning upon the dark surface of Nag Pokhari, or to see a lotus anywhere, was to be reminded of meditation’s goal.

  A lotus is unambiguous. But can the same be said for snakes? Not in Kathmandu, not in Asia, maybe nowhere. In the East and West alike, snakes are charged and variable symbols. It’s impossible to see one without feeling a sense of wonder, or dread.

  The gulf between Eastern and Western snake symbolism is profound. In the Judeo-Christian tradition, snakes are evil and cunning, promoting the slimy emotions that tempt and wreck our souls. In Nepal, snakes are so well loved they have their own festival. Nag Panchami falls during the summer monsoon, whose sustaining rains are controlled by the nagas.

  When one examines the Western prejudice, it’s clear how superficial and misdirected it is. Our loathing of snakes seems to date back to a single morning in Eden, when a magnanimous episode of serpentine generosity was falsely cast as a duplicitous dare.

  “Ignorance,” that archetypal naga cautioned Eve, “may be bliss; but it is also ignorance. God knows this, I know it, and that impressive brain of yours knows it, too. But don’t take my word; have a bite of this fruit.”

  And Eve, whose defiant courage would be twisted into a betrayal of everything high and holy, helped herself.

  Was the snake wrong? The snake was right. Yet despite that mythical serpent’s sacrifice, something in us that yearns for dependency, and the innocence of the cradle, remains bitter. A snake got us chucked from our little garden, and we’ve been bashing them with shovels ever since.

  The sages of antiquity knew the truth about snakes. Using gematria (the art of tagging letters with numerical values), they seeded their language with mathematical ciphers. Secret messages were buried within words, accessible through a kind of linguistic alchemy.

  In kabala, the mystical tradition of Jewish wisdom, each Hebrew letter is assigned a number. Every word thus has a numerical value. In his Introduction to the Study of the Tarot, Paul Foster Case reveals that, according to gematria, the numerical value of the Hebrew word for serpent—358 —is identical to the word for messiah.

  It’s a shocking affinity, but it makes sense. Both snakes and messiahs, after all, are masters at the art of liberation. A snake literally sheds its skin, emerging as a rejuvenated being. A messiah offers the same opportunity, in metaphor: a chance to invent ourselves anew.

  I fished in my daypack and found a Miles Davis tape. Old Miles actually reminded me of a cobra: smooth, regal, and venomous. His playing was circuitous as well, slithering from phrase to phrase with a fluid confidence. Now it rose up and swayed inside my skull . . .

  When a Nepali mentions a naga, he or she isn’t referring to a garden snake. The classic naga, a snake god, is the hooded cobra: the Arnold Schwarzenegger of the serpent world.

  Nagas pop up everywhere in Hindu and Buddhist lore, savvy brokers between the spiritual and elemental worlds. Lord Vishnu, the great preserver of the Hindu trinity, dozes on the infinite coils of Ananta, a serpent-cum-couch, for eight months of the year (during the remaining four, he extricates humanity from its deadlier dilemmas). Shiva, the potent creator/destroyer, source of the Ganges, wears live cobras in his hair. Nagas are the wardens of the monsoon rains, and safeguard the Earth’s trove of diamonds, jewels, and underground treasures. And it was Muchilinda Naga, a seven-hooded cobra, who sheltered the Buddha from the sun and rain during his seven weeks of meditation on the banks of the Anoma River.

  Nowhere is the Asian respect for serpents more evident than in tantra. In these “secret teachings,” snakes symbolize the deepest source of spiritual power. The kundalini lies coiled at our lowest psychic center: the root chakra, located between our legs at the base of our spine. Through specific meditations and practices—like measured breathing, sexual yoga, and the recitation of mantras—we invite that snake to dance. It climbs the spine, electrifying the six internal chakras. It reaches the ajna chakra, right between the eyes, then rises higher still, penetrating the cranium. There it illuminates the sahasrara chakra, the Lotus of a Thousand Petals, which hovers like a gnat above our skulls. When your kundalini hits that point, you know you’ve arrived: You embrace, with a single glance, all the manifestations of existence.

  Once again, you’ve taken a bite of that big, juicy apple. And again, you have a snake to thank for it.

  AND WHAT ABOUT Jordan? Maybe all he needed was a good snake dance: something to revitalize his long-dormant kundalini. I’d be home in less than a week—but I wondered if I might somehow convey, through telepathic alchemy, a real-time blessing from the Earth itself.

  Ramana lay on a blanket inside the brick shed beside the shrine house, dozing beside his flea-ridden mongrel. I put my hand on the caretaker’s shoulder and shook him gently. The dog growled, but hardly stirred. The shrine-keeper rose reluctantly.

  “Ramana . . . Malai naga puja garna manlaagchha.”

  He looked at me quizzically. What need had a Westerner for a snake puja? Aside from their mythic role in the monsoon, nagas were petitioned when ground was broken for a well, or a house, or when any new construction was about to begin. The offering was essentially a protection payoff, in hopes the local snakes would steer clear of the enterprise. Nonetheless Ramana nodded at my request, and ducked into the tiny brick building. A moment later he emerged, handing me a small brass flask filled with buffalo milk. He topped the rim with a nasturtium, muttering a brief prayer. I handed him a 20-rupee note and returned to my bench.

  The mist was beginning to break. Shafts of light shot through the branches of a nearby eucalyptus tree and stenciled the green water. I couldn’t see more than a foot down. How deep was this pool, anyway? What, or who, lived at the bottom?

  Did I really want to know? It was a disturbing thought. As I peered over the pond’s edge, I understood something. There is more to this snake thing than the idea of transformation. Snakes have another quality, as well: They abide in the depths. Black water is their domain, and we summon them out at our peril.

  So what was Nag Pokhari, then? It wasn’t the pathetic pool in front of me, covered with scum and algae. It wasn’t the cartoon cobra with a goofy expression and forked tongue, peering archly from its capital. It wasn’t the clogged jets ejaculating lamely from the reservoir’s corners. It wasn’t the benches, or the lotus, or the little temple by the en
trance gate. It wasn’t even the snakes themselves, assuming that any still lived here.

  This domain of the nagas, this Snake Lake, was nothing less than a double-edged allegory for everything ecstatic and horrific about the prospect of liberation. The nagas and their domain are mythic metaphors, warning buoys on the unexplored waters of our psyches. Lacking sufficient wisdom, or the proper training, we plumb these depths with fear and awe: The transition from bondage to freedom, no matter how one approaches it, has a terrifying aspect. We are suddenly responsible for ourselves.

  Our best shot, our only shot at liberation, lies within the liquid mystery of our own bodies. It’s lurking in our depths, dozing in the silt, slithering between the smooth black fingers of the lotus roots, coiled between our legs. Until we plunge in, with a torch in one hand and a flute in the other, we’ll never charm it awake.

  Ramana watched with amusement as, with a halting prayer, I poured the offering onto the algae-rimed surface of Snake Lake.

  18

  Playing in the Bandh

  COAL AND CLARICE met me at the Telecom office. We rode our wobbling rented bikes down the long hill passing the National Stadium and leaned right onto Tripureshwar. Bandh days, despite their implicit menace, had become something to look forward to. It was amazing how even a few hours without trucks and buses could completely clear the air. Not only that; there was a jubilant camaraderie among the scores of people riding bicycles, and a musical quality to their bells.

  A kilometer and change down the road, Tripureshwar became Kalimati. “Here we go,” Coal announced, pulling over. “A single glorious spot free of cow shit, oil drips, or potholes. I believe I’ve found God’s Little Acre.” It seemed as good a place as any. Clarice and I pulled our bikes beside his, carried our daypacks to the middle of the road, and unloaded our supplies.

  Clarice grabbed the ends of a bedspread and snapped it flat. The cloth lofted over the pavement, settling like a magic carpet. A puff of air lifted her hair, obscuring her glasses, and she brushed it back with long fingers.

  Clarice was, in almost every way, the polar opposite of Grace: private, discreet, deliberate in her movements. She was tall and slender, with a sculpted neck and narrow waist, while Grace’s body had the sleek economy of a seal. Adorable and energetic, Grace made me dizzy with desire, but Clarice’s poise took my breath away. I knew that Coal knew this. And I think we both appreciated how, in a way, my attraction to his wife gave their relationship an added charge.

  The thin cotton bedspread was printed with bold motifs in red, orange, and black: fish, pineapples, and anorexic dragons. Clarice smoothed down the corners and weighted them with our daypacks and sneakers.

  “I’ve always wanted to do this,” she said. It was almost a sigh. “Don’t ask me why.”

  “Why, Clarice?” Coal sat cross-legged on the sheet, extracting sandwiches, snacks, and a tall water bottle from his pack.

  “For the same reason people climb mountains, I suppose. Because it is here. Because no one else has done it. Isn’t that right? Has anyone else done this? I shouldn’t think so. Impossible, really.”

  The idea had been hers: to picnic in the middle of Kalimati, the busiest road in the Kathmandu Valley. On any other day, the plan would have been suicide; even crossing the street was life-threatening. This afternoon, though, the strike had cleared Kalimati of traffic. There were bicycles and pedestrians, as usual, and the occasional scooter buzzed nervously past. But any bus, truck, or tanker that dared the bandh would have its windshield smashed and be set upon by prodemocracy mobs.

  Clarice often surprised me. She was pessimistic, almost mocking, about Nepal’s prospects for revolution; years in Africa had nurtured her cynicism. Her attitude made her seem conservative. But she was actually a realist, with a keen sense of the absurd. She was also (like all teachers, some more successfully than others) a performer. Her bright earrings, bangles, electric blue scarf, and colorful blanket were a costume, jarring against the gray of the buildings and the blackened road. Clarice would never admit it, but this picnic was performance art: street theater. Her stage was Kalimati, a symbol of Nepal’s degradation and dependency; in the center of it, like a distant but reachable island, she was building an oasis of freedom.

  “Who’s got the cushions?”

  “Me.” I worked them out of my pack. “I brought four. You want two, Coal? Clarice?”

  “Thank you, no, you take it. Where’s Grace?”

  “She’s sick. Some bacterial infection. The worst is over, but she’s lying low.”

  “That’s what you get, eating out every night in Thamel.” Clarice waggled a finger. “It’s worth having a cook.”

  “It wasn’t Thamel; it was some official banquet. She ate shrimp.”

  “Shrimp?” Clarice shook her head. “Might as well drink the tap water.”

  “While we’re on the subject . . .” Coal probed the sandwiches. “What have we here? Why . . . it’s seafood! Tuna, tuna, and tuna. No, my mistake; this third one’s tuna. Would anybody care for a tuna sandwich? Jeff? Or perhaps you would prefer tuna?”

  “No. Tuna’s fine.” I turned to Clarice. “What makes us think this canned stuff is safe?”

  “Blind faith,” Coal answered.

  “Tuna. Tuna. Tuna.” Clarice repeated the word and raised her eyebrows. “If you say it four or five times you can’t believe it’s really a word.”

  “There are words like that,” Coal agreed. “I’ve always thought that fork was a strange word. Fork. Fork. Fork. Doesn’t that sound odd? Who ever came up with such a ridiculous word?”

  A taxi honked bitterly, but gave us a wide berth. We watched it weave up the otherwise empty street. A moment later we heard shouts, breaking glass, and the screech of accelerating tires. We stayed right where we were: in the middle of Kalimati, our sheet spread over the worn yellow line, spooning potato salad onto flimsy paper plates. Bewildered Nepalis stared at us from the curb.

  “I’m surprised there aren’t more cabs,” I remarked. “Ganesh Man Singh told me that the government bribed the drivers, with money and petrol, to stay on the streets.”

  Coal shrugged. “Can’t put a price on your health. A driver broke the bandh down by Kamal Pokhari this morning; a bunch of protestors beat the shit out of him. Smashed his windows, slashed his tires, and scratched nasty words into his boot. All within sight of the police station. You could not pay me enough,” he declared, “to be driving today.”

  “What’s this about G. M. Singh?” Clarice reached for a tomato. “I thought he was in prison. But you interviewed him, didn’t you? How is he? Poor man.”

  “They released him a few days ago,” I said. “He’s not in great shape, but he still seems tough. And gruff. What an amazing-looking guy: a big, craggy face, like a proud old lion. And a deep, gravelly voice. Every inch the working-class hero. But this is his last shot, and he knows it. The guy has been fighting for democracy since the 1940s. He’s spent years in jail. Now he’s on his last leg, and if Jana Andolan flops this time, he’s out of luck. Finished. His life’s work, for nothing.” I reached for a slice of tomato. Clarice held out the plate.

  “Did he offer you any words of wisdom?”

  “Some.” I pulled my journal out of my daypack. “He seemed hyperconscious about the fact that his remarks were for a Western audience. Here’s a quote I might use:Fundamentally, we want the right to be heard. If opposing thoughts cannot be expressed, democracy loses all meaning. To reach this goal, we intend to make it impossible for the government to function. But our methods will be peaceful.

  “There you are,” said Coal. “And what could be more peaceful than this? A lovely picnic on the tarmac, birds nesting above the Krishna Pipe and Plumbing Concern, a breeze through the power lines. It’s paradise. Shangri-la, some might say.”

  “Here’s what really got his goat,” I said, holding my place with my finger. “It’s so typically . . . Nepali. In the old days, when Ganesh Man Singh met with Mahendra or Tribhuvan—the ki
ng’s father and grandfather—they would greet him with the word basnus: a formal way of saying ‘be seated.’ But when he met with Birendra, the king said baasa: ‘sit down.’ It’s the form of address one would use with a child. That’s what infuriates these guys the most: the lack of respect.”

  “Exactly as we discussed last week,” said Coal. “The history of conflict is all about humiliation. The sensitive male ego.”

  “I don’t know,” Clarice sighed. “I’d like to believe it’s all going somewhere. It’d be lovely if Ganesh lives to see some real changes. But Nepalis are too complacent. They’ve grown accustomed to having their bread buttered by UNICEF, WHO, USAID, the Peace Corps, VISTA, the British Army, and so forth. I know it sounds strange, but as bad as things are in Nepal, at least they’re peaceful. It’s not like Africa, where you have tribal groups slaughtering each other left and right.”

  “I agree with Clarice,” Coal said, searching through a plastic shopping bag. “Did you see the line outside the cinema yesterday? Thousands of kids. Boys, mostly. Lining up to see the latest Bollywood boob-fest. It’s all bread and circuses. Speaking of which, would anybody care for part of this baguette? It’s a bit dry, but we’ll slice some of this cheese onto it.”

  “Singh actually talked about that.”

  “Baguettes? He’s even more cultured than I thought.”

  I found the quote.

  The government has carried the country along with it only by entertaining the people from one ceremony to another. There are so many ceremonies in Nepal, where people are exposed to a circus.

  “It’s true,” Clarice said. “Circuses by the dozen.” I read on.

  We have peace in Nepal—but it is the peace of the graveyard. This is due to the threat of the government. People will shed their fear once the People’s Movement gains momentum. The Nepali people are under great economic hardship; this will be the force that pushes them out onto the streets. And nobody knows in what strength.