“In the animal realm, it is very different. Their trait is ignorance. Not knowing samsara, not knowing karma; just living and dying, eating and shitting. Underneath that, we find hungry ghost realm. In this realm, no one is ever satisfied. The special trait is greed. In the hungry ghost realm, they say, creatures have huge stomachs—but their mouths are the size of a pin. They want more and more, but can never be satisfied.
“Okay. Are you ready? The hell realm. Here, the trait is anger. Anger is the worst emotion. The human being has so many problems already that getting angry, we say, is like building up the fire under a boiling kettle. So we call this place, where everyone is angry, the hell realm. Burning, torture, misery. Everyone in terrible pain, always very . . . furious. A very bad place. Okay? Understand?”
There was a vague suspense in the room, wondering if the questioner would challenge the Rinpoche again on this point. But he remained silent.
“So. One final realm. The one realm I didn’t mention. Hmmm? What about the human realm? Human realm comes between demigods and animals. What is our trait?”
“Desire,” Rebecca blurted half-consciously.
“Desire.” The Rinpoche nodded. “Humans feel desire. Desire can be negative: wanting this, lusting for that, a strong attraction to objects, people, reputation, money. Like the artist lady said before. But desire can also be a good quality. If the desire for liberation is strong, it can create a powerful attraction to Buddhism. A strong attraction to meditation and dharma practice. So desire can also be very positive. Very useful. For this reason, a rebirth in the human realm is the best.”
He raised his arm and jabbed a finger at his inquisitor. “But your question—I didn’t forget!—do these realms really exist, or not?
“Maybe if you search some kind of outside place, like in the sky or underground, they won’t exist that way. But you will find that our inner experience visits all six of those realms—arrogance and jealousy, ignorance and greed, anger and desire—every day. And not even in one day! In one hour! In ten minutes! Our minds continually go up and down, up and down, from heaven to hell.”
I remembered Chokyi Nyima’s earlier words: We are demons; we are buddhas. We contain the cause of samsara; we contain the cause of nirvana. Here was a parallel concept: that we unwittingly manifest, many times each day, the conditions that either edge us toward liberation or drag us into despair. The purpose of the Buddha’s teaching, I was beginning to understand, is to train our minds toward cultivating the former, despite an inexplicable attraction toward the latter.
“So. These six karmic realms exist,” the Rinpoche concluded. “But not outside. They exist right here.” He tapped his chest, then his head. “No need to search elsewhere. God realm and hell realm, animal realm and hungry ghost realm: all here. All inside. Okay? Satisfied?”
The Swiss man was satisfied. I was satisfied. We were all satisfied.
“Good. Then for today, finished.”
A few people stayed behind to ask personal questions. I stayed as well. When the last student had left, I approached Chokyi Nyima. He smiled with what seemed, in my eager mind, to be special affection.
“So, Giraffe, please travel well. And practice well! Both important.”
I took his right hand in both of mine. “Thank you for everything, Rinpoche. Meeting you has been a privilege.” I looked into his eyes. The lama’s calm, amused face seemed absolutely familiar; too familiar, certainly, for our relatively brief acquaintance.
“Don’t forget to write,” he said.
“I will. I promise.”
“And next time you come Nepal, you see me first thing. Understand? Go through customs; put bag in room; go to toilet; take shower; then here. Any other thing, don’t do. Okay?”
He squeezed my hands and released them. “Kali pei.” It was the traditional Tibetan farewell: Go slowly.
“Kali shú,” I replied, completing the exchange. Rest easy. I blotted my eyes with the corner of my kata, pressed my palms together in a final salute, and left the room.
20
The Boxer
FROM A DISTANCE, the field appeared to be filled with clean, white laundry: sheets and towels, blouses and undershirts, clipped onto clotheslines and billowing around a weathered old farmhouse. As my perceptions shifted into Nepali, though, I realized what I was seeing: acres and acres of white prayer flags, flapping from dozens of strings and poles.
I pulled up on the loose gravel and set the kickstand. Grace got off the motorcycle and stretched, her joints a bit stiff after two days in bed. The village of Pharphing was just ten miles south of Kathmandu, but the bike was small and the road an acned expanse of potholes, fallen rocks, and dung. The trip had taken the better part of an hour; even I was saddle-sore. It felt good to be on my feet again. Grace led the way eagerly, skipping along a brick path toward a distant wooden farmhouse.
This was our farewell outing, the last time we’d be together for an unknown spell. Grace had chosen this destination; it was one of her favorite places in the valley. We walked until we reached a series of narrow dirt dikes separating dry rice fields. Grace continued on a zigzag heading toward the ancient, apparently empty dwelling.
“Who lives there?” I asked.
“A very high lama.” We jumped down into a paddy to let a boy pedal by. His one-speed Hero was balanced expertly on the high, narrow hump of dike. “His name is Urgyen Tulku. That’s his monastery, up there.” She pointed across the road, to a gleaming white building on a nearby hill. “Have you met him?”
“No . . . I’ve never even heard of him.”
“Really? He’s Chokyi Nyima’s father.”
“His father . . . ?” What surprised me most was the notion that the Rinpoche had parents at all. It had never occurred to me. “Is there any chance of meeting him?”
“No, he’s at Nagi Gompa for the month, giving Lhosar teachings to the nuns. But sometimes you can find him here. He’s a trippy guy. He looks like one of those old lamas from Magic and Mystery in Tibet: the guys who could levitate, and melt ice with their inner heat.”
Entering the lama’s property, we stepped into a vast kinetic sculpture. Bolts of white fabric hung in rectangles and squares, block-printed with prayers and mantras, dancing like pearlescent flames as they filled the air with a deafening gallop. The Tibetan word for prayer flag is lung ta—“wind horse”—and many actually bore the image of a strutting colt. Others portrayed Tara, the protector goddess of the Kathmandu Valley; Chenrezig, the overworked bodhisattva of compassion; and Padmasambhava, who had subdued Tibet’s animistic gods and made the high plateau safe for Buddhism.
The wind swelled, and the stampede with it. I stood still, imagining the prayers swirling upward in dizzy corkscrews. Blessings filled the air like snow, or fallout; we inhaled them with every breath.
Scraps and rags from tattered flags littered the ground, snagged on brambles and stones. I picked up a stray flag and flattened it out against my jeans. A block-print of Tara was visible on the cotton gauze. I wanted to keep it. Would that be a sin?
Grace was a few yards away, picking up what looked like a strip of torn cloth. She turned toward me and shouted, “Take a look at this!”
It was a perfect snakeskin: a gossamer stocking as brittle and translucent as winter frost. She lifted it toward me in her outstretched hand, applying the slightest pressure to keep it from blowing away.
“That’s fantastic,” I said, wishing I’d found it first. “Maybe it belonged to a nagaraja—one of the original snake kings who migrated from the lake when Manjushri drained it with his sword.” I touched it lightly. “It’s an amazing omen . . .”
“Of what?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“It’s yours,” she said. “If you can get it home in one piece.”
“Really? Don’t you want to keep it?”
She shrugged. “I thought you liked snakes.”
“I do, I do . . .” I took it from her hands and cradled it betwe
en my cupped palms. We walked together into the nearby village, where a shop-keeper sold me a cardboard tube. He watched with amusement as we slid the molted naga skin into the cocoon.
GRACE AND I had dinner plans that evening at Rhoda and Kunda’s. My packing wasn’t quite finished, but it would be bad manners to cancel. Grace climbed onto the motorcycle seat behind me. Her left hand gripped my belt; her right balanced a pie. “I know you’ve never met Rhoda,” she said. “But do you remember meeting her husband, Kunda Mainali? The journalist ?”
“Of course. It was the same day we met—at the doctors’ strike, two weeks ago. He’d told me you were friends with his wife. I’d had no idea she was American.”
“A New Yaw-ker,” Grace added. “Yeah, they’re a strange couple. She’s pretty manic, and he’s . . . I don’t know, almost shy. They met at school, in the States. But I have no idea how they got together in the first place. Her parents are very Jewish. I’m sure they were thrilled.”
“His parents were delighted, I’m sure. I mean, their grandchildren will have American citizenship.” I kick-started the bike, and away we went, chugging up the road toward the overgrown shrine at Bishalnagar.
Rhoda and Kunda lived in an airy one-story house in a small but beautifully planted compound surrounded by a low brick wall. Vines draped into their yard. The inside was decorated with large wood carvings, two framed color photographs by Mani Lama, and thick, expensive Tibetan carpets. Rhoda had prepared a classic expat meal: “buff” lasagna with mushrooms and spinach. Grace contributed an apple pie; I’d supplied a liter of elaichi pista ice cream.
Unavoidably, the main topic of conversation was politics. It seemed obvious the Jana Andolan had hit a pocket of stale air. The bandh itself had been a success. But the anarchy that followed, with its lasting memories of broken windows and smashed streetlights, was a very bad sign. There were strong suspicions that the roving bands of troublemakers had actually been mandaleys, thugs and hooligans hired by the Palace to discredit the movement. If this strategy continued, there would be trouble. The majority of Nepal’s population were poorly educated farmers, small merchants, and hill dwellers, who would quickly equate democracy with chaos.
Kunda, born in Kathmandu, had been sent by a well-connected uncle to study in New York for two years. The same uncle had secured him a post at the Shaligram, where Kunda, quasi-reluctantly, was creeping slowly toward the editor’s chair. Like most people who read the newspaper every day, he had a bleak take on recent events.
“Whether or not Jana Andolan succeeds, Nepal will face unrest and political confusion,” he declared. “For a decade, at least.”
“That’s a cynical view,” Grace mumbled, refilling his glass from a two-liter bottle of table wine. “Let’s hope it’s not a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“People in this country don’t understand the concepts of leadership and democracy,” he shrugged, spooning ice cream over his pie. “It’s simply not part of our tradition. There’s no precedent of give-and-take, and no concept of political compromise. Political compromise in Nepal, a hundred years ago, meant beheading your brother instead of poisoning him. Compromise for this king means . . . what? Putting out his cigar before going to bed?” Kunda drained his wine. He’d been mixing it with ice, but drinking steadily. “Agreeing to rent the latest Meg Ryan video, instead of his beloved Bruce Lee?”
“Shhhhhh!” Rhoda slapped his arm. “The house could be bugged.”
“Enter the Dragon!” Kunda shouted, casting his vote to the hidden mikes. “Go with Bruce!”
“You won’t think it’s so funny,” said Rhoda, “when they deport me and make you stay here.”
“She’s uptight,” Kunda confided to Grace, “because she won’t drink while she’s pregnant.” He tipped a defiant splash into his glass. “Here’s the basic problem. Democracy in Nepal could mean anything. Right now, the only opposition comes from the Congress Party. Ganesh Man Singh. He’s safe, and predictable. But they aren’t the only activists in the country; far from it. For now, the other banned parties have put away their differences, to create the illusion of a united front. But this is only temporary. If there is a revolution, and democracy does become the law of the land, who’s to say the communists, or socialists, or even the Maoists won’t disrupt the process—or, God help us, win an election?”
“Maoists?” Grace was incredulous. “I thought they went out with twenty-mule teams.”
“In this country,” Rhoda said, “they still have twenty-mule teams.”
“They’re a fringe group,” Kunda assured us. “Small, but passionate. And well organized.”
I helped myself to a piece of pie. Pie, it occurred to me, hadn’t been part of Nepal’s tradition, either—and they’d certainly gotten that right. “It’s highly unlikely that a fringe group will get any traction here, much less win an election.”
“Probably.” Kunda nodded. “But the communists and socialists aren’t extremists. What if they win a majority and decide to nationalize the hydroelectric and mining? How will Nepal’s neighbors react? Relations with India have never been worse. China, as you know, has closed its grip on Tibet; they’re already starting to pull strings on this side of the Himalaya.”
“So what are you saying?” Rhoda asked. “That democracy is a bad thing for Nepal? You want to keep bowing to this useless king?”
“Of course not.” Kunda spanked his ice cream with the back of his spoon. “All I’m saying—for the benefit of our esteemed foreign correspondent”—he nodded at me—“is that if democracy does come to Nepal, it will have its own learning curve, just like all the other imported gadgets. Electric heaters, power saws, Toyota sedans, they all appeared practically overnight, and Nepalis made all kinds of tragic mistakes learning how to use them. Democracy will be the same. After ten or twenty years, we may get the hang of it.”
“The main problem with democracy,” Grace speculated, “will be getting people involved. Most of Nepal’s population is illiterate, and lives far away from the population centers. I don’t see how they’ll learn to make intelligent decisions.”
Rhoda shook her head. “I think that argument is overused. People can be intelligent without being literate. Many illiterate people are surprisingly shrewd. They’ll understand the issues, believe me.”
“But what about logistics?” I asked Kunda. “When we talked at the strike, you said that even if you published an article, people wouldn’t be able to read it because they speak different dialects. What will that mean for campaigning? Not to mention the difficulties of having fair elections in remote villages, days from anywhere. How is anyone supposed to campaign? Or vote, for that matter?”
“Those are two different things. Yes, it’s true, the different dialects and remote areas make it difficult for the movement to reach a flash point: a moment when everyone bands together, and by sheer force of ‘people power’ overthrows the king. But once the country is liberated, voting won’t be a problem. Even now, we have a very effective political infrastructure. You’d be amazed at how politicized the people are, even in remote villages.”
Rhoda had rented Brazil from the British Council library, but I had a full night ahead. I helped with the dishes and said my farewells. Grace left with me. We rode to my place, waking up the Shrestha’s hell-hound. Inside the flat, we drowned out the barking with a tape of gamelan music.
Grace had been unusually quiet all day. She used the bathroom while I scanned the chaos of my bedroom. Socks, books, toiletries, incense, brass-ware, pashmina scarves, statues, prayer flags, trekking gear, cassette tapes, notebooks, computer batteries, travel pillows, film canisters, and newspaper clippings were strewn across every surface, waiting for the sleight of hand that would enable them to fit into my suitcase. It was too much to face. I considered leaving all of it behind. What liberation that would be! To travel without baggage, unfettered as the wind. The aspiration seemed as unlikely for me, in this particular lifetime, as enlightenment. I suspected that they were related
.
Grace opened the bathroom door, vanquishing any illusions I might have had about a productive night of packing. She was wearing a satin teddy, black stockings, and a musky, infinitely erotic perfume that reminded me of my high school girlfriend.
“Hi.” She leaned against the jamb, flaunting an irresistible silhouette.
“Whoa. Where did you find that outfit?”
“Where do you think? I brought it with me.”
“How come I’ve never seen it before?”
“You talk too much.” She moved to the nightstand, lit a candle, and shivered. “God, it’s freezing in here.” She jumped onto the bed and threw the blanket over herself, scattering my folded shirts across the floor. “Hey, sailor.” She wiggled her toes. “Wanna have some fun?”
I lit a kerosene heater and carried it into the bedroom. Grace lost the blanket, and the room warmed up fast.
MAYBE IT’S NERVES, but it had become a tradition: Every time I visit Kathmandu, I spend part of my last night walking the streets. It’s a final, intimate immersion into the city: my way of saying farewell. At midnight, as Grace slept, I slid out of bed and dressed.
Despite Friday’s strike, there was no curfew. I moved briskly, shivering slightly until the heat pooled inside my jacket. My legs carried me past Nag Pokhari; past the pointy, guarded gates of the Royal Palace; down Tridevi Marg through Thamel; and past the empty, fluorescent-bathed bandstand in the center of Chhetrapati. I gave a wide berth to a pack of dogs, and spied two young bulls nosing at vegetable scraps.
A frantic dust bowl by day, Kathmandu is transformed at night. The shadowy ancient lanes, garnished with pipes, wires, and poles, call to mind Allen Ginsberg’s “Sunflower Sutra”: the busted, rusty funk of worn-out industrialism, reflecting humanity’s natural slouch. I traipsed past crooked tenements propped up with bug-eaten struts, the delicately carved lattices askew in their window frames; past illuminated signs hawking cigarettes and soy milk, instant noodles and the Cosmic Language Institute. Someone poured a bucket of slop out a window, and I leaped backward, narrowly avoiding the amoebic splatter. From a tiny room, high in one of the cramped buildings, a radio blared Hindi film music. An infant’s cries filtered from another. What is life like for these urban Nepalis, nestled so close together that the sound of every conversation, argument, squeal of laughter, or moan of passion is public knowledge? Have they developed an inner ear-lid that allows them to shut it all out, hearing nothing, self-conscious of nothing? Or is each guthi a single, intimate family, codependent and cocounseling, a vast human apiary?
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