Perhaps this news was coming. I looked hopefully at the Rinpoche, but he placed his hands on my shoulders and raised his eyebrows.
“That’s all,” Chokyi Nyima said gently. “Clear?”
If there are no irrational taboos to be found in Buddhist philosophy, there are no easy comforts, either. I nodded, and bowed my head for the Rinpoche’s blessing.
BELOW THE MONASTERY, a dirt road and numerous footpaths led to the labyrinth of rice paddies and thatched huts that marked the limits of Kathmandu. The weather was hot and dry, and a pall of dust hung like a lens over the city. Grace doesn’t live here anymore. Never had the descent into samsara seemed less inviting.
I stood still for a moment, taking in the view and absorbing the Rinpoche’s teaching. Wondering what I would do with it. And it occurred to me, in a flash, that I could do absolutely nothing. What was called for now was surrender. Complete surrender, as at Boudha, when I’d turned out my pockets and thrown my coins into the air.
The realization was startling, but true. I had nothing left to give. Jordan was gone. My service to him, of whatever value, had come to an end. Grace had left as well, seeking an urgent redemption of her own. I wished her every happiness, and could offer no more. As for Nepal . . . it would stumble and fumble, without elegance or apologies, toward fulfillment or futility, liberation or anarchy. There was nothing I could do.
My pockets were empty. But the air was warm, and smelled of juniper. I drew it deeply into my lungs.
That was it. That was all. That was what I’d come for.
A steady breeze moved my hair. Cords of prayer flags flapped above the nunnery, their colors bleached by the sun. A group of anis sat on the grass of the monastery’s shaded courtyard. Some were sewing; one leafed through a copy of People magazine. The scene had a timeless quality, slightly skewed, like Masami Teraoka’s paintings of geishas devouring Big Macs and ice cream. On the gompa’s roof, a group of monks in high yellow hats blew into long-necked trumpets. There was no puja today; this was evidently a practice session. Long, low blasts reverberated down the valley, like the trumpeting of adolescent elephants.
In a nearby yard, a girl in a tattered dress chased a goat in circles. A black mastiff lay nearby, watching with weary interest. The family garden was protected by a lattice of sticks, flimsy in appearance but no doubt quite robust. Still, its powers of protection were limited; the lettuce leaves within were layered with dust. I squinted at the sky and started down a footpath, wishing I’d brought my hat. And then remembered that I had; I’d stowed it before my audience with the Rinpoche. I stopped in midstride and shrugged off my daypack, kneeling down to fiddle with the zipper.
Behind me, the flank of Shivapuri roared into the sky like a massive green wave. To the east, the long ridge of Nagarjun might have been a mirage; I could barely see it through the haze.
I stood up and shrugged the pack back on, waiting for a dizzy spell to pass. Then something caught my eye: a flash of motion above me. Two shapes were moving against the clouds, far beyond the lines of prayer flags, dipping and swooping at great speed. I stared at the scene for a full minute before my mind made sense of what I was seeing.
In the vast emptiness above the valley, a thousand feet over the irrigated fields and mud-walled cottages, a golden eagle rode a thermal updraft. Clutched in its talons, lashing and twisting, was a snake. At a point nearly level with the clouds, the eagle paused—and dropped its prey. The snake fell toward the Earth. Its ropelike body seemed to move in slow motion, as if falling through water.
The eagle jackknifed in the sky, rocketing downward with incredible speed. It swooped upward beneath the serpent, snapping it from free fall. Now the bird climbed again, wings tipped and wide, lost for an instant against the sun. Again, it released the snake. This time the eagle waited, tempting gravity with cool arrogance. Then it dived again, expertly reclaiming its prize.
I watched the raptor with limp arms, stunned by its virtuosity and grace. There was no cruelty, no pathos in the scene. It was the unfettered expression of eagleness: a guiltless display of the bird’s singular genius. The serpent, no mere victim, was a partner in this dance. I remembered the mysterious temple at Shantipur—the sacred mandala, written in naga blood, that brought the monsoon rains. This snake had a role to play, as well. Stolen from its hiding place, carried into the light, its sacrifice unlocked the eagle’s true nature.
In an instant, I understood. The eagle soared above me. I wanted to call out, but there was no way my voice would carry; no hope that my brother would hear me, above the galloping of prayer flags and the wailing of the monastery horns.
AFTERWORD
FOR THIRTY YEARS I had glimpsed Nepal’s Royal Palace only through its high gates, or beyond the tall trees that sheltered the grounds from view. But in February 2009, the building and its gardens opened as a public museum. Checking my daypack and passing through security, I felt like a Chinese peasant, entering the Forbidden City after the Qing Dynasty fell.
It was thrilling to approach Narayanhiti and climb the marble steps flanked by statues of horses and mythical beasts. But as grand as the building appears from the outside, the inside is dark and cold, filled with shabby décor that looks as though it hasn’t been changed for fifty years. With its small windows, narrow corridors, and stuffed tigers (not to mention crocodile skins and rhinoceros heads), the place has a strange juju. One cannot use the word comfy to describe a single room.
There are the usual salons with useless gifts from visiting dignitaries: bronze medallions, filigree peacocks, a crystal paperweight from New York City mayor Edward Koch. The walls are lined with photographs of visiting heads of state, the most humble of them more influential than their host. But the grounds are spacious and quiet; you can hardly hear the horns blaring on Durbar Marg.
The palace—designed in the 1960s by American architect Benjamin Polk—is grand, without conveying any sense of inspiration. I did, however, find myself impressed by the opulent Gorkha Hall, with its soaring, Gaudi-esque columns and—most important—Ceremonial Throne. Every king needs one of these, and this one is a beauty. More than half a ton of silver and 30 tolas of gold (nearly a pound) were used to build the settee-sized, velvet-cushioned seat of power. Silver elephants support the legs. A canopy of nine gold nagas shaded the king’s head, and thick gold serpents served as his armrests.
King Birendra’s personal office was as modest as the Throne Room was gaudy. He’d sat behind a large desk, a world globe behind him, a stereo in a nearby cabinet. The shelves are filled with an odd assortment of books: Freedom in Exile, by the Dalai Lama; 1001 Wonderful Things, by Walter Hutchinson; Hindu Castes and Sects by Jogendra Nath Bhattacharya. There is a picture of Tibet’s Mount Kailash on the wall.
Birendra, of course, is no more. On June 1, 2001, the drunk and besotted Crown Prince Dipendra allegedly went insane—gunning down his father, Queen Aiswarya, and many other figures who populate the background of Snake Lake. The venue for the infamous Royal Massacre was a separate building: an older complex of rooms on the grounds behind the palace. That structure has now been demolished. Only the foundation remains, as if it were an ancient ruin. Cardboard signs indicate, by number, the overgrown sites where the murders occurred—including the little garden bridge, still standing, upon which Dipendra reportedly took his own life. These landmarks are weird abstractions, and a sobering reminder of how the new government immediately destroyed every shred of evidence that might shed light on the real motives for (and perhaps the real perpetrators of) the killings.
If one visits Narayanhiti looking for mystery, or an aura of godliness, one leaves disappointed. There is little sense of majesty at the former palace, few signs of greatness at any level. One gets the feeling that King Birendra—though not a cruel or uneducated man—lacked any shred of imagination. I left with the feeling, which I’d had often during the 1980s and 1990s, that he was simply filling a seat: hoping to be an adequate king, with as little effort as possible.
IN THE DECADES since 1990, Nepal’s character has changed dramatically. In 1995 the Maoists, long dismissed as a fringe group, began a systematic drive to overturn Nepal’s political hierarchy—an insurgency that became a full-fledged civil war and would claim some twelve thousand lives. The Royal Palace Massacre, falling in the middle of that conflict, was an almost unbearable tragedy. Though mocked and reviled by many of his subjects during Jana Andolan, King Birendra had ultimately become a beloved symbol of Nepal’s unity and neutrality. His grisly murder, ostensibly by his eldest son and heir, threw Nepal into a state of shock from which it has still not recovered.
There have been positive notes, as well. The ten-year Nepal Civil War ended in 2005, with Maoists winning pivotal positions in the government. But Gyanendra Shah, King Birendra’s sourpuss brother—who was out of the country during the Royal Palace Massacre—was still in the palace, consolidating his power. This inspired a second “People’s Movement,” more rapid and peaceful than the first. In May of 2008, Gyanendra was deposed—and the ancient Hindu kingdom officially became the Federal Democratic Republic of Nepal.
At this writing, Nepal’s political climate is in such flux that anything I write here may be obsolete in a month’s time. A new constitution is currently being drafted, and contentious debates are raging as to how the country will be redistricted and governed.
And it desperately needs good governance. When I returned to Kathmandu to complete Snake Lake in early 2010, the city hovered on the brink of chaos. Corruption was rampant, and the valley hung under a pall of smoke and soot from nearly half a million cars, trucks, and motorbikes. An uncontrolled building frenzy saw lovely traditional homes being destroyed (along with countless trees), and ugly cement high-rises popping up everywhere. Drivers swerved madly around children and garbage piles, blasting their horns and obeying no one’s rules but their own. I was reminded of ecologist Garrett Hardin’s 1968 paper, “The Tragedy of the Commons,” which described an all-too-familiar situation: Individuals, acting out of pure self-interest, destroy a shared resource—though their actions cripple their society as a whole.
As much as I still love Nepal, it’s hard to visit the once charming valley without thinking about Hardin. Modern Kathmandu appears to be the product of fifty years of selfish choices, one right after another. The situation has reached a point where the journalist Barbara Adams (long a Kathmandu resident, and now an honorary Nepali citizen) believes the country requires a third Jana Andolan: a revolution of ethics and morality, to turn back the tide of greed destroying this once mythic setting. I fully agree.
Despite its unabated turmoil, Kathmandu remains the most fascinating and magnetic place I have visited during this particular lifetime. Many of the places described in these pages—the Bead Market, the Boudha stupa, the view of Pashupatinath from the benches above the Bagmati River—are as wonderful as ever. And even in the midst of decay, the Nepalese have somehow maintained a sense of humor, and show wonderful kindness toward the visitor. Twenty years after the revolution, my prayer is the same as it was in April 1990: that the people of this astonishing country find the wise and compassionate leadership they deserve. I continue to believe that Shangri-la is not some imaginary Himalayan paradise, but a vision of the best possible future.
Jeff Greenwald Kathmandu, March 2010
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
SNAKE LAKE WAS a process that included numerous false starts, retreats, and phoenix-like resurrections. A great number of people came to my aid, in infinite ways—from providing creature comforts in Kathmandu to reading raw (sometimes very raw) drafts of the manuscript.
Among my muses and allies in the United States I sincerely thank Christina Ammon, Rob Brezsny, Richard Cember, Jeanie Daskais, Sheila Davies, Sallie Fischer, Miriam Goderich, Maia Hansen, Jane Harmon, Laurie King, Marianne Betterly-Kohn, Usha Lama, Elliot Marseille, Patrice Mulholland, Wes Nisker, Karen Nuñez, Michael Pedroni, Christi Phillips, Alexandra Pitcher, Amod Pokhrel, Suzie Rashkis, Mary Roach, Patty Spiglanin, Joan Walsh, Linda Watanabe-McFerrin. Special thanks and love to the wonderful Kristina Nemeth, snake charmer Laurie Wagner, and my cherished mother and sister: Roslyn Greenwald-Miller and Debra Greenwald.
My community of friends in Nepal has also served as a great inspiration to me. I place my hands together in gratitude to Carroll Dunham, Nick and Chrissie Gregory, James Hopkins, Thomas Laird, Lisa and Ravi Pradhan, the late Mahesh Regmi, the Venerable Chokyi Nyima Rinpoche, Dr. David Shlim, and the gifted Alison Wright. I also wish to thank Barbara Adams, Mukunda Aryal, Ian Baker, Kunda Dixit, James Giambrone, Frances Howland, Thomas Kelly, Frances Klatzel, Lucy Needham, Ray Rodney, Eric and Marcia Schmidt, Ang Rita Sherpa, and Diane Summers.
Michael Conner, a Renaissance djinn and harmonica genius, helped me coax this book out of hiding and into a presentable form. The brilliant and tireless Marcia Williams, who reads (with comprehension!) more books in a month than I do in a year, steered it into the best possible hands. It has been an honor and a privilege to work with Counterpoint Press, and with the legendary Jack Shoemaker. Jack, in turn, had the wisdom to sit me down with Roxanna Aliaga—an editor with vision, skill, and great powers of diplomacy.
Finally I am deeply grateful to Peter Barnes, The Mesa Refuge, and the Ludwig Vogelstein Foundation for providing support during the writing of this book.
GLOSSARY
ani—a female Buddhist nun.
Asan Tole—the center of the traditional market area in downtown Kathmandu.
bandh—a general strike, or work stoppage.
bideshi—a foreigner.
bodhisattva—an awakened being who qualifies for nirvana, but has chosen to be reborn again and again to help all beings attain freedom from suffering. Bodhisattvas appear mainly in Mahayana and Vajrayana, the schools of Buddhism that flourish in Nepal, Tibet, Mongolia, and Bhutan.
Boudhnath—an ancient stupa and pilgrimage place several miles from central Kathmandu, sacred to Tibetans all over the world. The place-name Boudha (also spelled Baudha, or Bodha) can also refer to the larger community of Tibetan gompas, homes, and businesses surrounding the ancient stupa.
chakra—literally “wheel.” The dharmachakra is the Buddhist Wheel of the Law, set turning during the Buddha’s first sermon. Vishnu (see below) also holds a chakra, or fiery disk. The word also applies to the seven main energy centers in the human body.
chiya—Nepali tea (as opposed to Indian chai), customarily served with milk and copious sugar.
dal baht—lentil (dal) stew and rice (baht), served with a helping of vegetables and a sour or spicy condiment: the traditional Nepali meal.
darwa-surwal—the traditional Newari men’s dress, consisting of blousy pants and a matching shirt fastened near the shoulder, a dark vest, and a traditional brimless hat called a topi.
dharma—the Buddhist philosophical system, including the teaching of Buddha and the practice of Buddhism.
dorje—see vajra.
Ganesh—son of Lord Shiva and his consort Parvati, Ganesh (or Ganesha, or Ganapati) is the elephant-headed god of auspicious beginnings. He is also the protector of travelers, and the remover of obstacles. His mount is a shrew. Ganesh’s brother is Kunda, the god of war.
gompa—a Tibetan Buddhist monastery.
karma—literally “deed”; the Buddhist law of cause and effect, holding that any action or thought performed in this or previous lifetimes will have a direct bearing on one’s future process of liberation. Karma is sometimes compared to a seed that ripens during successive lifetimes.
kata—a sheer silk scarf, given as a traditional Tibetan greeting to lamas, rinpoches, and other respected persons.
kora—a devotional circuit, usually performed clockwise, around a sacred temple, mountain, or residence.
Lhosar—the three-day Tibetan New Year celebration. Lhosar is also celebrated as a universal birthday for all Tibetans.
lokta—a vegetable fiber used for paper-making. Lokta paper is a cottage industry in some parts of Nepal. Un
like wood, lokta is easily grown and quickly renewable.
lung ta—prayer flag; the literal translation is “wind horse.” It is believed that hanging these flags on auspicious days generates karmic merit, and carries one’s aspirations and prayers to heaven.
malla—a Tibetan or Hindu rosary, often consisting of 108 beads.
Manjushri—the Buddhist god of discriminating wisdom. Manjushri holds a sutra in one hand, and a sword in the other.
mantra—a sacred formula, written or spoken, used as an aid in meditation practice.
men-drub—literally “liberation through eating.” A specially prepared food consisting of ground herbs and relics, empowered by a lengthy ritual and dispensed by high lamas as an aid to liberation.
mudra—a hand gesture displayed by a Buddhist or Hindu deity, conveying a specific message: protection, calming, exposition, etc.
Nag Hrad—“The Tank of Serpents,” the ancient name of the Kathmandu Valley, when it was an inland sea.
Nag Pokhari—“Snake Lake,” a natural pool just east of Narayanhiti Palace that has been converted into a minor shrine.
naga—a member of the race of sacred snake gods, the original inhabitants of the primordial Kathmandu Valley.
nagmani—sacred, priceless, egglike gems possessed by the nagas, which confer immortality and other riches on their “owners.”
namasté—literally “I greet the God within you.” The traditional Nepali greeting, offered with the palms pressed lightly together.
-nath—a suffix, designating a site as a place of worship (e.g., Pashupatinath, Swayambhunath).
Snake Lake Page 36
