tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81802962024-03-07T15:40:19.174+05:45The Fiction of truth, the truth of fictionShort stories, non-fiction reportage, book reviews, interviews, and other literary tidbids from Kathmandu, NepalSushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.comBlogger218125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-37535191501894803642020-01-21T20:33:00.002+05:452020-01-21T20:34:35.994+05:45Art As A Call To Action<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8V7JWWqEN5NmmDYLOSwycbalH3eS3D1HVpYO3uggxYmFaALYM51IU4A1lu3epSNlvx7yDrHJy5zI_Fj3p-sZM-fD87Y5DJxv5HUPpaOmGVVMmGjiUNWDQLTLFq3__ISD0jgJJ0w/s1600/artasacalltoaction.jpg" /></div>
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<br /><a href="https://www.artofresilience.art/action/">https://www.artofresilience.art/action/</a></div>
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You can read about my art <a href="https://www.artofresilience.art/gallery/the-quake/">"The Quake"</a> in the "The Art of Resilience" exhibition</div>
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at the World Bank. </div>
<br />Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-15646737547117309462020-01-01T21:38:00.002+05:452020-01-01T21:38:36.200+05:452020-2030: The decade of hope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">Scroll down to find out what I think this decade is about.</span></div>
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<span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">***</span></div>
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<span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">Happy new decade, everyone!
We will phase out </span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/fossil?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#fossil</a></span><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"> fuel in 2020-2030.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2trp4eKEHDb9nnMBw9beMvbN1kyKod__75nI90r_y-e2rJnv1ytNzQkj-MVWLSLOkpm2twTqDBxVOT7PJb6pA6m6-2sQO4Bj1gSBkKpOrIo_Namxgu1ubmS9bGRVyYlt_D3_zyw/s1600/greenenergydecade2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="215" data-original-width="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2trp4eKEHDb9nnMBw9beMvbN1kyKod__75nI90r_y-e2rJnv1ytNzQkj-MVWLSLOkpm2twTqDBxVOT7PJb6pA6m6-2sQO4Bj1gSBkKpOrIo_Namxgu1ubmS9bGRVyYlt_D3_zyw/s1600/greenenergydecade2.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">2020-2030: More room for greenery, flora and fauna; less room for billionaire </span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/CEOs?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#CEOs</a></span><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"> and TNCs.
I hope this </span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/decade?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#decade</a></span><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"> also becomes the decade when the world stops loving big </span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/corporations?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#corporations</a></span><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYgBwfJVMrJmIywX_yKvi-ofZ_fabYcXGWAMiSUkFPGliSA6_sOp4oiOwhdMsgXCC2Bn5u5Inlr94Xd7OJWF_zhEdan98w_YI6zUYh0e95UBdSQ36P6zoRvRP-IuxbbGkadJiOtw/s1600/2020solarenergy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="288" data-original-width="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYgBwfJVMrJmIywX_yKvi-ofZ_fabYcXGWAMiSUkFPGliSA6_sOp4oiOwhdMsgXCC2Bn5u5Inlr94Xd7OJWF_zhEdan98w_YI6zUYh0e95UBdSQ36P6zoRvRP-IuxbbGkadJiOtw/s1600/2020solarenergy.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">2020-2030: The decade of </span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/solar?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#solar</a></span><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"> energy.
Lithium batteries, molecular solar thermal storage, solar panels that can be pasted like stickers or unfold like flowers...!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrP8yVxaK1dpmps_5uTXzIJh3oXrfdWG_NHoFermUK30mUW8YVy0lhzhe9AHXGbaHpMU0LGZwcaEpEJAVbqUIBOGr6Vsg8TEAQKvdKkkUAAYGOPOGfX7ajuE31qmjrZC3moStwaQ/s1600/2020rewildingdecade+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrP8yVxaK1dpmps_5uTXzIJh3oXrfdWG_NHoFermUK30mUW8YVy0lhzhe9AHXGbaHpMU0LGZwcaEpEJAVbqUIBOGr6Vsg8TEAQKvdKkkUAAYGOPOGfX7ajuE31qmjrZC3moStwaQ/s1600/2020rewildingdecade+copy.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">2020-2030: The decade of </span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/rewilding?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#rewilding</a></span><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVQaBVexQZg8XOG3025YkIk_FHWu9eqPXyk0iZda-LpMEeP9eCN7aohrJCzWqNj-rdC7dd-UxWI7ffHQtfi832Q6Io6CP7VnZXK3oLwMC8DbglWaRyvgV-jDsxIZ4-ZD351Llj5g/s1600/2020naturalagriculture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="502" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVQaBVexQZg8XOG3025YkIk_FHWu9eqPXyk0iZda-LpMEeP9eCN7aohrJCzWqNj-rdC7dd-UxWI7ffHQtfi832Q6Io6CP7VnZXK3oLwMC8DbglWaRyvgV-jDsxIZ4-ZD351Llj5g/s1600/2020naturalagriculture.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">2020-2030: The Decade of </span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/Natural?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#Natural</a></span><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"> </span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/Agriculture?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#Agriculture</a></span><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">.
No more tons of </span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/glyphosate?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#glyphosate</a></span><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"> dessicating millions of acres of lands and setting off apocalyptic fires as in Canada and Australia.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEVU6LH4KdZGGZnwirfkQSxQSJY4mq9xglu6pt-IprL2kts70iJx2AtDFdZPvJ_zTVW-kOtcPq_aXg_M0X73NPoYoagTp6kb-iB5tq_nqabjJHWGdsVNj54Oeut4qIIcnE7VfvHg/s1600/2020amchow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="502" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEVU6LH4KdZGGZnwirfkQSxQSJY4mq9xglu6pt-IprL2kts70iJx2AtDFdZPvJ_zTVW-kOtcPq_aXg_M0X73NPoYoagTp6kb-iB5tq_nqabjJHWGdsVNj54Oeut4qIIcnE7VfvHg/s1600/2020amchow.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">2020-2030: The decade in which people start to question whether </span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/technology?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#technology</a></span><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"> is eating their brains for lunch.
</span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/surveillance?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#surveillance</a></span><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"> </span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/techfascism?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#techfascism</a></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXB8E-NTpbVLhFhNPcNk7MNhP3a2Ii9w15QKGh-s0BR1_RmbeNh_XT1kPAGdxsgvhsQkbe1LTWzuMEOvhHgiSmNkcxVdDc8GeVoKmYj21taUaFQ0mj06FDk31bPoTXkWRzFJaGqw/s1600/2020-harmonywithnature2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="216" data-original-width="648" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXB8E-NTpbVLhFhNPcNk7MNhP3a2Ii9w15QKGh-s0BR1_RmbeNh_XT1kPAGdxsgvhsQkbe1LTWzuMEOvhHgiSmNkcxVdDc8GeVoKmYj21taUaFQ0mj06FDk31bPoTXkWRzFJaGqw/s1600/2020-harmonywithnature2.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">2020-2030: The decade of living </span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/harmoniously?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#harmoniously</a></span><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"> with </span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/nature?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#nature</a></span><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">.</span></div>
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<span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">2020-2030: The decade of </span><span class="r-18u37iz" style="-webkit-box-direction: normal; -webkit-box-orient: horizontal; background-color: #f5f8fa; color: #14171a; flex-direction: row; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19.6875px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="css-4rbku5 css-18t94o4 css-901oao css-16my406 r-1n1174f r-1loqt21 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" data-focusable="true" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/peace?src=hashtag_click" role="link" style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1b95e0; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3125; list-style: none; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; white-space: inherit; word-wrap: break-word;">#peace</a></span><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0" style="background-color: #f5f8fa; border: 0px solid black; box-sizing: border-box; color: #14171a; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Ubuntu, 'Helvetica Neue', sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 19.6875px; margin: 0px; min-width: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">.
When the military-industrial complex finally goes out of business.</span></div>
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<br />Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-74375155365499243732019-10-15T20:19:00.000+05:452020-01-21T20:20:04.760+05:45The Art of Resilience <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2QYH4OQ8znCKRFOi73YgBd8BhkD0UBehSwcPSrc-PTQ5iZHQWrpZWxyv3uy-Fe-sx0JLiFZpMz-0kzOJvEgdKM9yrOPVMFDZCSjhZLgoZ3sl3iD3J6Erq6ggke8GGlIfj2o7ntw/s1600/Art+of+Resilience_Invite_EXTERNAL+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2QYH4OQ8znCKRFOi73YgBd8BhkD0UBehSwcPSrc-PTQ5iZHQWrpZWxyv3uy-Fe-sx0JLiFZpMz-0kzOJvEgdKM9yrOPVMFDZCSjhZLgoZ3sl3iD3J6Erq6ggke8GGlIfj2o7ntw/s1600/Art+of+Resilience_Invite_EXTERNAL+%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-22824015888610052562019-09-08T14:19:00.001+05:452019-09-08T14:19:33.061+05:45IN SEARCH OF RUBIES<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<i><b>Published in Emanations, November 2018</b></i></div>
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I stood at the window of the hotel for a
long time, staring at the full moon. I was in Yangon! The unreality of the moment was breathtaking.</div>
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<span lang="EN-US">How does a
woman from Kathmandu find herself alone in Yangon, traveling across South East
Asia, with the express purpose to write a book? The statistical impossibility
of such an event made me pause. If I had been an European or American traveler,
I may have seen that moment as a little adventurous, perhaps exciting, but
nothing too much of the ordinary. After all, people like me would have done it
a thousand times before. Almost all documented explorers, travelers and travel
writers are white males (and sometimes females), and thousands, perhaps
millions, of them travel to Yangon all the time. A man from my well-educated
Brahmin community could find himself in Yangon, and perceive it as a little out
of the normal course of the path of achievement prescribed for him, but nothing
drastically out of the way.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">A woman who
grew up in a secluded family in Kathmandu, however, has perhaps one in a
million chance to make it to Yangon. How many of my brethen had made it out
here, under the full moon, to appreciate the clamor of Yangon at dusk? I would
hazard a guess that I may be the first traveler of my ilk to stare down at the
Sule Pagoda. I didn’t have to go to the moon. This was already on the scale of
a lunar journey for me. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In the clamor of dusk, near the Sule
Pagoda, buses slide by in endless procession—old, beaten up buses, the kind you
see in India and Nepal. Below me on the wide pavement, young boys sell small <i>chat</i></span><span lang="EN-US">-like salad snacks that taste like bitter mud mixed with peanuts and
tomatoes. I know how it tastes because I just ordered a plate half an hour ago.
Two spoonfuls are hard to swallow. I’ve never had this much difficulty eating
food. Is this what the people of Yangon eat on a daily basis? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I look around me. The tiny kintergarten
sized tables with baby-sized plastic stools in bright primary colors, four to
five at one table, are filled with middle class people, enjoying their evening
meal. I am not at the bus-stand with weary travelers from villages. I am in the
middle of the city, in the thick of life, tasting the bitter taste of Myanmar. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I see an older woman sitting under a tree
growing in the middle of the pavement now. She appears to be staring at me. She
has white hair and looks like a ghost, sitting underneath a small tuft of
greenery. She gets up and bends down to cross the twelve-inch elevation of the
pavement—stooping, she grabs the kindergarten table, then descends. Before I
know it, she’s in front of me, with that unmistakable gesture of supplication.
The brash young vendor who’s taken my order gives me my change. The notes are
soiled and falling apart, and taped in three or four places with cellophane.
The edges are ragged, like ancient papyrus. I want to get rid of them as fast
as possible. I give 200 kyats back to the vendor and make a “half” motion with
my hand, then gesture to the old woman and another elderly beggar who has
materialized before me. The vendor smiles approvingly. I drop 100 kyats into
the bags of each, wondering if 100 kyat is too much, or too little, to give. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It is getting to be dusk. I walk to the
Sule Pagoda, which is covered with scaffolding and what appears to be straw
while renovations take place. The scaffolding makes it look primitive, like an
archaeological excavation—not the soaring gold spire depicted in postcards and
travel guides. I pause at the entrance and hand over my other ragged 200 kyat
note to the jasmine garland girl. She looks at me and I see she has two strips
of white powder on her cheeks. Then she counts out my jasmine strands—a
veritable bouquet. The couple before me has just handed over 200 kyats, so I
don’t have to ask for the price. Already I know. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Unfortunately, I don’t follow the couple
closely enough. Lost in the fragrance of the jasmine, I am halfway up before I
see everyone is in bare feet. Thinking of lax Thai temples, where Addidas
wearing teen tourists walk up shod to the inner sanctums of sacred shrine Wat
Saket, I continue to walk up the last few remaining steps. I think, in my <i>lassez
faire</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> Nepali way, that there must be a place to
take off shoes at the top. How wrong I am! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A young woman in her twenties catches
sight of me. “Foreigner? Fee!” she says authoritatively. “Fee.” She marches me
towards a table, then somewhat in the same moment, she notices my leather
sandals. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Shoes! Shoes!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Alarmed, I back off. “I’ll go down and take it off,” I
suggest, but she has started to say, in a loud commanding voice: “NO! NO!” I
walk down the steps hastily. The girl attending shoes, who I hadn’t noticed
before, materializes from behind a pillar. “Donation?” she asks. From above,
the gatekeeper informs her: “She came up here with her shoes!” or the equivalent,
in Burmese. It is clear I have violated a sacred taboo. A loud hub-bub started
with two women sitting on the stairs joining in the chorus. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The shoe-keeper looks at me accusingly.
“She went up wearing her shoes?” she seemed to say, in confusion and feigned
outrage. She is at fault here for allowing me to walk up unnoticed. The
situation was spiraling out of control. I had committed some unforgivable
crime. Myanmar’s temple beaureaucrats were at the point of deciding on a
suitable punishment. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Forget it,” I say, taking this
quintessential American expression out of my vocabulary in this moment of great
discord. I swing my jasmine in my hand as I march out to the loud murmur of
opprobation. I can hear the gatekeeper calling to me in a commanding voice, and
perhaps with a note of conciliation, as if she regretted scaring away a genuine
devotee. But I was already too shaken by the combined censure of the temple
guardians to return. So this, then, is the world, the tightly regulated world
of Myanmar, where one deviance quickly becomes an unforgivable error. This is
the world I’d be glad not to know too much about during my visit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As I crossed the busy road, I felt
jarred. I didn’t like how that little encounter had gone. As I looked down from
my window onto the world below, I felt like I had made the right decision to
walk away. The Buddha’s spirit doesn’t reside in a place that is intolerant.
The Buddha’s statue might be up there, but the spirit that infuses life into
the image—all those Thai people reverently burning incense and offering white
lotus buds at Wat Saket come back to my mind’s eye—was missing in this giant
shrine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In Thailand, the glitter and the
ostentatious displays had dismayed me. A few years earlier, in one of my first
visits to Thailand, I had walked through Wat Po as it went through its
renovations. The colored lacquer on the temples was hallucinatory. The golden
glitter was unbelievable. The laborers appeared tired as they slept in the
heat. I had been distressed. And as if to echo my distress, an Indian couple I
had met there had said: “Thailand’s temple tourism has become so commercial and
crass. Wait till you get to Burma. Its so unspoilt there.” And perhaps it was
those words that had stayed with me and taken me, finally, to my own
destination to Burma. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But here in Burma I realized how wrong I
had been. I had been blinded by the gold leaf and forgotten how extreme concern
for others, tolerance and compassion permeated every aspect of Thai life. Just
because they liked lavish displays didn’t mean they were not practicing
compassion and equilibrium of mind. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">On the way back to my hotel, I stop at
the<i> panwallah</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> and ask for a <i>pan</i></span><span lang="EN-US">. The very fact that there is an Indian-looking panwallah selling
betel leaf in Burma surprises me. I don’t know what I had expected Burma to be
like—perhaps more South East Asian, perhaps more like Thailand. What I hadn’t
expected it to look like was India from forty years ago. Yangon appeared to be
an older, poorer, more run-down version of Mumbai. It is as if Burma was an
extension of South Asia, a little bit of Nepal and India that had continued
upwards from Assam. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In a Hindi dialect, he asks me if I am
Indian. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Nepali,” I answer. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Pakistani?” he queries, as if he doesn’t
understand “Nepal.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> “Nepal,” I repeat. He hasn’t heard of Nepal. He rolls me a
tiny pan and won’t accept any charge. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I ask him, in my fumbling stumbling
Hindi, where he’s from. He says: “We are from right here.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“But your ancestors were from India?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“We are from right here.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Bangladesh!” I hazard a guess.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“No.” He laughs a little. “From right
here.” His wife, her head covered with black, nods. They are from right here.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And there was more than people who looked
the same as me to remind me that the subcontinent was present in Burma. The
hush in the immigration section of the airport reminded me of Kathmandu in the
80s—the hush of an omniscient state, the hush of officials who appeared
indifferent, detached, with the quietness of the constantly surveilled. Airport
immigration officials everywhere are not the friendliest of people, but there
was something else about these bureaucrats that frightened the passengers as
they clutched their passports and waited in line. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It reminded me again how fraught that
moment is, when you enter the border of a foreign country, and in this case,
the country happened to be Myanmar—with its own rules and regulations, its own
universe. Perhaps the people working in the airport may be nice middle class
bureaucrats who‘d be great fun to meet at a tea-shop, but right here right
now all I wanted to do was avoid eye-contact. It was clear that almost everyone
in the line felt somehow guilty, and we weren’t even sure what that crime was.
Perhaps for the group of Spanish going in to help poor children and who would
leave the country weeping, the crime would be to help the poor. For the
Scandinavian UN official over there holding out his blue passport, and looking
the poster boy of casual, it might be thinking liberal Western thoughts of
democracy. For me, I had a niggling sense that the video camera that I carried,
along with my plans to write a book, was somehow not sanctioned. Were writers <i>persona
non grata </i></span><span lang="EN-US">in Burma? As I stood there in the airport
line, clutching my video camera, somehow I couldn’t remember if I was within
the bounds of legal behavior or not. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> Of course, my double consciousness as a Third World citizen
also made me see from the bureaucrats’ eyes—how ridiculous some of the
Europeans appeared, tight groups of them holding on to their evangelical
contact numbers and with the breathless sense of urgency that somehow they were
saving all of Burma. It must be annoying, if you are a middle class Yangon
resident working a small but important job at the airport, to see all these
people descend upon your country with the express purpose of saving your
countrymen from you. I could imagine that the slight tone of sarcasm I note in
one bureaucrat’s voice originated from the weariness of this moment. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The woman who takes my passport takes a
look, then starts a causal chat with her colleague. It is just enough pressure
to get my paranoid imagination to start imagining freaky scenarios. But then
she writes something on the side of my visa, then stamps me in. In the gratitude
of the moment, I fail to see that she’s given me one month, not the three weeks
I think I have remaining since I got my visa a week ago at the Myanmar Embassy in Bangkok. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Waiting outside that line of men in
longyi, holding placards of various hotels, just like in Kathmandu. Except
these men look slightly less aggressive and desperate. Kathmandu’s madhouse
airport welcoming scene has become more aggressive by the day, as the free
economy welcomes tourists from all over in even more competitive ways. I spot
“Sushma Joshi” within two minutes. This is the first time I’ve seen my name on
a placard at the airport. It gives me a warm feeling. Usually I am the only
haggling with local taxidrivers or waiting for the bus as the Japanese
corporate salarymen and the Korean businessmen get zipped off in their
limousines. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The driver looks like a character out of
“Burmese Days.” He has a Chinese-looking face, with a slightly shy smile. There
is a certain obsequiousness to him that makes me uncomfortable. He tells me to
“wait!”, then vanishes to fetch the taxi. The tree down the road, a banyan,
makes me feel at home. I feel like I’ve just gone down to some provincial
outskirt of India, not a whole new country. Old beat-up taxis pick up foreign
tourists. The tourists, or should I say travelers? ( only a tourist with a
nefarious scheme up his sleeve would take a vacation in Myanmar), all look
shuttered, discreet—as if they didn’t spend the past few weeks reading at great
length about the repression and violence of an authoritarian military state.
Perhaps they are here to topple the military regime. On the other hand, they
could just as well be traveling to buy opium or steal some gems from the gem
market. One can hardly tell.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The sadness I felt as I zipped up the long
highway towards the center of the city was a complicated mixture of emotion.
The people looked reedy thin, ill-dressed and tired—a shocking contrast to the
buzzing cosmopolitan heart of Bangkok where food was laid out in every cart and
where cheap clothing lay piled up on sidewalks by the sackloads. At the same
time, a sense of nostalgia arose in me as I saw the smaller city of Yangon, and
saw in it the shadow of what my hometown Kathmandu used to be before two
decades of unregulated urban growth demolished it, turning it into a cancerous
modern city imploding from the inside out. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As we drove past a large, ornate and
glittering pagoda, the driver turned back, smiled, and said: “Shwedagon.” This
was the famous Shwedagon Pagoda that I had already heard about from many
sources. Oddly, the story that came back to me was the story from our program
advisor, a jolly Filipina lady in her sixties who had run our fellowship
program for many years. Her
bubbling laughter came back to my mind as we passed the pagoda. “We were at the
hotel near the Swedagon Pagoda! Oh my god! I can’t tell you how terrified I was
there during the nights we stayed there. I don’t know what it was, but I felt
like someone was watching me during the night. I woke up during the night and I
swear somebody was standing at the bottom of my bed, watching me. I couldn’t go
to sleep the whole night. People said to me the next morning: what happened to
you? You look white as a sheet!” I swear there was a ghost in that room that
night.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> “Maybe somebody from the state was watching you?” I suggest. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But she shakes her head adamantly. “It
was something otherworldy. A ghost. Something must have happened there in that
room.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">My Nepali colleague, whose academic
credentials included an impressive Ph.D in political science, had rolled her
eyes at me, as if she couldn’t believe the kind of conversation being initiated
by the director of our fellowship program. As for me, I was intrigued.
Definitely intrigued. “Tell me more about the ghost,” I said. The ghost story
was repeated once, then twice, with lots of jolly laughter. The story came back
to me as I passed the Pagoda. What was the ghostly presences stalking this
particular edifice? Tomorrow I would come to find out. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">After about thirty minutes, we were by
the Sule Pagoda. Ko Mya Aye of the Grand Sule Hotel, a young man in his late
twenties, was very kind. “Oh, there is only one of you?” he asks, surprised.
“But you booked a double room.” “Yes, its only me,” I say. “I read on the
Internet that I should get the double room,” I hasten to justify my
extravagance and my lack of a partner. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A part of me, however, is secretly glad
to be alone. All the dramas of relationships are best left at home when you are
traveling light, with one bag and a computer, trying to write a book. On some
level, a boyfriend is extra luggage. Most times men are heavier than a
computer, and you have to drag them around with the same annoyance you feel at
the extra 20 kgs that you added onto your luggage at the last minute, and which
you wish you hadn’t. My experience of traveling with a man told me that the
best way to end a relationship is to travel together in tough situations in new
countries. If you last beyond the train ride on Mumbai, and the rickshaw ride in
Dhaka in July, then you are probably good to go. That’s where people should go
for honeymoons, for a quick reality check. If you fail those obstacle tests,
then your relationship will probably not last the test of time. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Of course there’s also the question of
whether any writing gets done while you are traveling with romantic luggage. My
prior experience told me that sex and romance are distractions which don’t work
very well with the writing schedule. Liz Gilbert of “Eat, Love, Pray” fame
abandons Felip alone in the Atlanta Hotel, drinking his beer by the poolside,
while she goes off to Vietnam to interview grandmothers. Writing takes time—it
is slow, careful, meticulous, laborious work done for hours and hours in the
dead of night. The first night, under the light of the one fluorescent bulb, I
wrote in my little notebook from 7pm to 10pm, with a 30 minute break for
dinner. I deducted thirty more minutes for <i>Lonely Planet</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> reading, tooth-brushing, moon-gazing, checking out of the bathroom
window to see there’s no people staring at me from the other building, turning
the TV on and off, et cetera. But that’s still two hours of continuous writing
that would surely have not been possible with another jet-lagged person
talking, arguing, TV channel flipping and initiating sex in the same room. Not
to mention all the paranoid theories we would no doubt have come up with about
the Burmese state and surveillance if there had been two people to inflate the
danger of the new surroundings.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But of course, no matter how
self-sufficient and how daring any traveler is, at the heart of it we all long
for a companion to share the beauty of the moon. Which is what I wished for, as I looked outside and saw
the stark circle of a large moon outside my window.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> Money is strange in Burma. I hand over $60 and I get 51,000
Kyats in exchange. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This is still less than what I would get
in Indonesia, which goes into digits that is not in my usual counting range. A
million becomes a mundane unit. At certain moments in Bali, I became
disoriented and handed over 100,000 rupiah notes when I was supposed to hand
over 10,000. In Indonesia, there had been a feeling of reckless disorientation
as my dollars melted into million rupiah pools. I felt rich as Caesar. But in
Burma, the wads and wads of cash gave me another feeling altogether—a sense
that I was carrying around play money which I was handing out as if I was
playing Monopoly. The sense of unreality persisted throughout my trip. Perhaps
it was the wads and wads, all new, bound with the recycled paper band in the
middle, straight from the state printing press, which made me wonder if there
was some scam going on to insert new notes into the economy. It seems
foreigners all got crisp, fresh-off-the-press currency, while the regular
people had to make do with notes disintegrating into shreds of grime. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“It is 860 Kyats to the dollar,” Ko Mya
Aye says to me. “Shall I exchange it for you?” I have read it is better to
exchange at the hotel than outside with the moneychangers, so I say: “All
right.” The fat wad of notes he holds, smelling of new ink, looks unreal. He
carefully extracts half of the notes from an even bigger wad by just looking at
the beginning and end of the serial numbers, and hands it over to me. I look at
him, suspicious, uncertain. Are these real notes? Why does he have stacks and
stacks of them? Am I supposed to count the notes to make sure there are 51 of
them? He smiles at my discomfiture. Later I will realize the Burmese are
probably the most trustworthy people on the planet. Ko Mya Aye would never do
something so undignified as shortchange me during currency exchange. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The $30 I am paying for my room is
another matter. The hotel feels claustrophobic and small, and so does my room.
I feel overcharged. I’ve slept in far better deals in Bali, for instance, where
I had a giant room with a giant garden and an exquisite Balinese family tending
the gods every day. But Yangon is not Bali or Bangkok. Everything including
food, I realized, costs thrice as much as Bangkok, but the quality is thrice as
low. Anyways, I was not here to be a tourist. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Having said that, I took back my words
because my very next trip, the day after, happened to be to the Gems Museum.
Why was I obsessing about gems, you may ask. Well, to answer that question I’d
have to take you back to my trip to Bangkok and how I got scammed at the gems
market, a full year before. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So lets backtrack a bit, to 2009. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I had applied, and been accepted to, the
Ubud Readers’ and Writers Festival in Ubud, Bali. Unlike most people on the
planet who hold a passport that allows them to waltz through borders without
bothering with visas, I hold a passport for which each move has to be
calculated months in advance. In order for me to travel, I need a visa to
Indonesia stamped on my passport, unlike tourists from Western countries who
just show up and pay $25 for visa-on-arrival at the border. For this, I had to
travel to Bangkok, adding three extra days of accommodation, plus a $45 visa
fee, to my budget.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Having wept, stonewalled, thrown hysteria
fits, and once attempted to stamp my own passport (a story I will recount
later) on my way through border points at various points in my life, I know
that the Nepali passport is trouble. Nepalis are, to use a biological term, the
lowest scum on the food hierarchy of border crossers. Perhaps Somali and
Sudanese may have more trouble, maybe Syrians and Iraqis. But the green Nepali
passport definitely does not make life easy for its holder. Indonesia wouldn’t
let me in easily, I had a suspicion. I was prepared for battle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I was right. I got to the Indonesian
embassy around twelve, which was lunchtime. The man behind the glass window
stares at me blankly when I say: Visa? His stare seems to imply I am in the
wrong place. Perhaps he almost shakes his head in the negative. I ask again, to
re-confirm: “This is the Indonesian Embassy, isn’t it?” Clearly it is, and I am
inside the compound. But these men aren’t co-operating. “Yes,” he says, after a
long pause. “I’d like to apply for a visa,” I say. “Which country you from?”
“Nepal,” I respond. Nepalis surely are not moving en masse to Indonesia for migrant
labor. Please god, say it ain’t so. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I’m used to unfriendliness from embassy
staff—I would have been surprised if I’d been welcomed with open arms. I smile
at the hostile man, and push the festival schedule through the window. “I am
going to the literature festival in Bali,” I say, extra chattily. “I’m a
writer. Here’s my book.” I pull out my book and flash the cover through the
glass opening. He reads the schedule. “Writers’ meeting? Like journalist?
Political?” “Nothing political,” I assure him fervently. “Only fiction.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Fiction. The word lies between us, with
its own special weight. He considers whether to believe my words about fiction.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He picks up my passport and leafs through
it. “Writers from all over the world are coming. Wole Soyinka, he won the Nobel
Prize!” I babble. I don’t know if Wole Soyinka would have liked me using his
name to cross a border, or at least cross from the glass window of the
unwelcoming security guards to the actual visa section, but I figured this was
as good a use of a Nobel Prize as any. Later, having met Mr Soyinka, I figured
he would probably wouldn’t have minded. The man frowned. He was probably
wondering if the Nobel Prize was political. In desperation, I said: “The man
who wrote Slumdog Millionaire—he’s coming!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This seems to cinch it. “Okay, you need
ticket to apply,” he announces. “Come back with ticket, then it’s a perfect
application. Come back today. Otherwise, you lose your visa fee.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> As I walk in, I reflect on this tiny moment of profiling.
Because I don’t have a white face, he thinks I am not the right profile for a
visitor to Indonesia. What he doesn’t know is that I am a Nepali traveler with
erratic income but reckless spending habits who will soon drop $2000 in Bali’s
economy in the next month. I will buy a large amount of junk, everything from
batik to fake pearls. I will take art classes and Balinese dance classes. I
will do all sorts of weird things that sustain the tourist industry. Racial
profiling is so bad for the economy. That’s why the Thais don’t do it. And
that’s why their economy is rocking. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I spent the afternoon rushing around
booking my ticket online, and went back huffing and puffing to the embassy to
drop off a ticket by the time the consulate closed. The visa officer, upon
seeing me, was fussy. He said I may not be able to get my visa. They would have
to see. It would take time. But anyways, I should come back in two days’ time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In two days’ time, I had my visa. “How
much does yours cost?” I asked the Australians lining up for their
visa-on-arrival in Bali’s small airport. “Twenty five US dollars,” said the
sun-tanned man in shorts on his way to a good time in the beaches. I was
miffed. “Mine was $45,” I said, huffily. I felt I’d been charged an unfair
Third World tax. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He took a look at my passport. “But you
got 30 days!” He said, impressed. “We only get two weeks. How did you do that?”
Doing the math, I realized he would have to pay $50 for a month. So I guess I
had nothing to complain about, in the end. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">With the visa safely inside my passport,
I decided to do a little pilgrimage of Wat Po. Wat Po is one of the oldest and
largest Buddha shrines in Bangkok. It is located right by the Chao Phraya
river. People usually arrive by boat, which you get at Saphan Taksin station.
So this is what I did. After a pleasant ride from Ratchathewi to Saphan Taksin
on Bangkok’s famous sky-train, I
walked down, bought my obligatory share of fresh papayas and mangoes for 20
baht, then wandered down the piers. The air was fresh and cool, and the water
slightly choppy. I felt happy as the boat zipped past the many landmarks of
Bangkok, from the Mandarin Oriental Hotel to the wooden floating homes on the
river’s edge. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">At Wat Po, I bought a bouquet of white
lotus buds as an offering for the Buddha. The buds were smooth and white,
soothing to the eye. Wat Po has the image of the Sleeping Buddha as he lies on
his deathbed, on his final parinirvana stage. The statue is gigantic. I
circumbulated the image, marveling again at the good fortune that makes a
pilgrim from Nepal find herself at Wat Po. Then I walked around the different
courtyards. Wat Po has multiple courtyards and some of them lead into complexes
with hundreds of golden Buddhas. It is all a little overwhelming. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Of course I got lost. I found myself in a
part of the wat complex where the renovations were taking place. The roofs were
being painted bright red. Mirrors and colorful enamel pieces were being inlaid
in mosaics on the temple walls. Some of the workers were lost in work. Others
were napping in the heat. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">After a while, all the glitter started to
weary me. Was it just me, I wondered, or did the other people wandering around
also sense that the dazzling array of images were destroying their own
spiritual power through the sheer volume and intensity of the image-making
enterprise? And this is precisely the moment when the Indian couple walked down
the two steps from one courtyard to the next, as if they wanted to address the
question in my mind. Something in my gaze must have struck them, because they
smiled. We stopped to talk. I don’t remember any of our small talk, except for
this. “Thailand has lost its charm,” they said. “Its too commercial.” “ Too
much gold,” the woman said, frowning. “Wait till you get to Burma,” the man
said, and the woman agreed. “It is still so wonderful there.” As I looked at them, I had an image of
old wooden, moss-covered Buddhas, entirely hidden inside trees. A sort of
mystical Angkor Wat hidden in the forests rose in my mind. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There is always the seed of a moment, an
event, an encounter, which has taken me to far-away places. My Burma visit, I
feel, stems from this precise encounter. I don’t remember the couple very well,
except that they were middle-aged, well spoken, possibly a professional couple
with time and money to spare. What, I wondered, lay in Burma? I read Amitav
Ghosh’s “The Glass Palace” from front to the last, but I couldn’t get any
answers. How did the Indian history intersect with Burma? Why did so many
Nepalis come from there? The son of my father’s friend had married a Nepali
woman from Burma. To the entire marriage procession from the groom’s side, the
Burmese contingent had handed out a little purple Thai orchid as well as a gold
coin as a gift. Kathmandu talked about that purple orchid and that gold coin
for months afterwards. What was the strange dichotomy which would make a people
spend extravagantly on marriages on one side, then eschew gold on Buddhas on
the other? Where did all that gold come from, anyways? The whole thing was
baffling. I would have to go there myself to find out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">All that walking made me thirsty. I went
into the little cafeteria to get a bottle of water. That’s when I saw the
fortune-tellers. There was a whole line of them, telling people’s fortunes,
right by the little counter with bottled water, the cans of Red Bull and the
sachet of sunflower seeds. I sat down and observed them. An old man around
eighty got my attention. He had bright blue eyes, a strange thing to see on a
Thai man. He was bright and alert as a bird. He was telling a young Western
woman’s fortune with great sweetness and charm. His English was broken but his
energy was impeccable. I wanted him to tell me my fortune. So I waited. The
young man by his side caught sight of me, made small talk with the old man,
shifted his little papers and apparatus around. I refused to catch his eye. My
fortune would be told by this old man, and this old man only. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Finally, he was free. “Ahhh," he
said, smiling. He took my date of birth, time of birth, and place of birth. He
calculated for a good long while, filling up a little sheet with data. Then he
started to speak. “This year of the cow. You 36 years old. Your brain,” he
said, putting his thumbs up. “Very good.” Anybody could tell from a glance at
me that I was a nerd. No points for that one.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“You good heart,” he said, tapping his
heart. “You good communications.” Then he paused. “Mars, Mercury, Venus,
Jupiter,” he said. “Good ideas, good adaptation. Sometimes one job, two
job—good planning.” This wasn’t very encouraging. My unsteady and erratic
employment history, which frequently included two jobs at the same time, was
causing me some stress. “You like freedom and independence. Sometimes hot
temper.” I grin at this one. The Joshis were famous for their short
tempers. I seem to have inherited
that family legacy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> Then he said: “Past two years, up and down.” I nodded. Yes,
the past two years had been very rocky indeed. The jumbled nature of which
involved love, broken hearts, a $50,000 dollar grant to start an organization,
and a coup in which I was ousted from said organization, the publication of
three books, and the piracy and unsatisfactory distribution of all three of
them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The old man smiled happily, as if he knew
all this. “From 37 to 39, good.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Well, at least I
got a couple of years of reprieve.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“After November, new love, new marriage.
Man from another country. You happy.” At this point I tried to slow him down
and ask him which November he was talking about, but he continued: “From 40-41,
so-so, sometimes better job. But 42-54, very happy.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“From 29 to 41, you work very hard. Very
hard work.” I had often wondered myself why I worked so hard for so little
gain. My book of short stories had been rejected in 2002 by publishers, and
here I was, still plugging away at trying to get it published a full ten years
later. I had written another five books of short stories, and two novels. I had
written four film scripts. I had written three plays. All of them unpublished. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“From 55 to 56, take care of health,
family. Maybe operation,” he said. “But no drink, no problem.” He cackled in a
jolly way. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“From 57 to 74, happy old.” I like the
way the Thais say “happy.” They lengthen out the “p” until it sounds trippy. <i>Happpppy.
</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“On 75, go on holiday around the world.
You long life. No accident. Buddha take care of you. You live old, like me.”
Then he leant forward, and suggested: “You buy land, buy property, buy house.
Sell in old age. You have three houses, like me.” This property advice wasn’t
what I had come to find out about. Forget about three homes, I barely had one.
My parents, traditional Brahmins, who never discussed property, planned to
leave every square inch of their land to my brother and his son—just as they
had given every single rupee for his education. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He takes out a magnifying glass and peers
at my palm. “You three children, two boys and one girl.” Then he starts to
calculate my lucky numbers and my lucky colors, things I don’t really care
about. I wait impatiently for him to finish, so I can ask him more about this
foreign boyfriend. “Red,” he proclaims. “And orange. Very good. Number four is
bad for you.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I start to ask him a question, but he is already moving on. “You live another country. You make
money, better than office job. After October, moving another country, very
good. Different nationality, good boyfriend.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I wondered if Thai astrologers always
told women that they would find a foreign boyfriend, go live in another
country, and have three homes. That could very well be a Thai girl’s dream.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; border: none; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-pagination: none; padding: 0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US">All these
things weren’t satisfactory. As I peeled off 1200 bahts, I thought: “At least I
got some good advice on savings and investment. I don’t know when I’ll get
married, but here’s $30 for property investment advice from a smart Thai man.”
Mr Sawong Kontong handed me his card, clipped to my little chart with all the
dates and figures.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Now come the strange story of rubies. I
exited Wat Po, feeling a little heady thinking my two rocky years were behind
me. I sat down at the bus waiting station, and opened my Bangkok map. I was
trying to see if I could get a bus to go downtown. This, I realized later, was
my biggest mistake.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The big dark man who showed up was on top
of me in almost a minute. He probably waited for clueless tourists right at
this spot. “May I help you?” He said. I must have looked up, and I must have
caught his eye. From that moment on,
his voice took on a weird booming quality. I could see his finger
pointing to various points in the map as he showed me how I could get to where
I needed to go. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“What a nice man!” I remember thinking.
“What an extraordinarily nice man. So helpful!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Here is the place you need to go,” he
says, pointing to the map. “But do you know today is the birthday of the Black
Buddha? This is where the Black Buddha’s temple is. Don’t forget to stop there.
And here,” he says, pointing at some place in the map, and looking me directly
in the eye: “Is where the jewelry expo is happening. There are many shops and
you should stop by and see all the gems being displayed.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Yes, but I don’t really want to go
there,” I say. I’ve been warned by various guide-books about gem scams. “I just
need to get to Wat Saket.” I try to sound firm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“No bus to Wat Saket, but tuk-tuk will
take you.” He looks again at the map. “Very grand expo,” he says. “Very good
gems. You should see. No buy, just see. Big expo.” He looks at me for a moment,
then he says: “You should get a ruby. Ruby very good for you.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But I did not want a ruby. I smiled at
him, because I didn’t want to let him know what I thought. “A ruby,” he
repeated, looking at me deeply in the eye, become hailing a tuk-tuk for me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">My new Thai friend now says something to
the driver in Thai. The driver
breaks into a broad grin as he looks at me. “This driver, he very honest. He no
cheating. He take you to Wat Saket for forty baht.” Now, any idiot in their
right mind would have realized that forty baht was too low to get from Wat Po
to Wat Saket. But I was not in my right mind. It occurred to me that forty baht
was indeed a major bargain. I got into the tuk-tuk. In my hand, I had a paper
bag containing a few small essential oil bottles I had picked along the
sidewalk. They said: “Lotus” and “Lavender” and “Ylang-Ylang” on their labels.
I broke these open and smelled them, and then in the sudden euphoria I poured
the oils on myself. The tuk-tuk driver looked at me curiously at the mirror. I
feel like a princess as the wind blew through my hair. All of a sudden, a
restless excitement had seized hold of me, as if I was on a major journey. I
was racing through Bangkok on a tuk-tuk, not with worry and gloom, but a great
excitement that I was being driven towards an unknown but fabled destiny. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The tuk-tuk driver drove into a side
street. “Black Buddha,” he said. I
felt annoyed and angry. I did not want to go to the Black Buddha! I wanted to
go to Wat Saket. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Now let me state here that I was in this
odd mental state where my entire being was telling me something was wrong with
this moment. I was in a heady mixture of excitement and fear. I didn’t trust
the tuk-tuk driver. I didn’t want to enter the wat. What if I was going to be
robbed while inside? What was inside? It was a quiet wat—I didn’t see a single
soul walking around as I entered the premises. Could I call out to the monks if
something happened? I looked around for monks and didn’t see a single one. The
other part of me worried the tuk-tuk driver would take off while I entered this
abandoned looking shrine. Every nerve of my body was shrieking and telling me
not to enter the wat. On the other hand, I didn’t know what else to do. It
would look absurd if I made a fuss. However, despite all this, I still did. “I
don’t want to go in,” I say to the driver, not budging from my seat. “Take me
to Wat Saket.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“You see, you see!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“No, Wat Saket!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Nice Buddha, Black Buddha.” I feel from
his expression that he can’t believe I am being so paranoid. I have nothing to
fear, his disbelieving stance implies. So reluctantly I get down from the
tuk-tuk.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“You coming in?” I asked. He gave me a
look that almost amounted to fear. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“No, no,” he said. “I wait here. You come
quick.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Inside, it was quiet. A single man was
kneeling, head bowed, praying in front of the large assortment of different
Buddhas. I rush in rather breathlessly. I want to get this over with fast. The
man turns back and looks at me. His face is dark with some inner tension. He
appears to harbor a deep sadness. I ignore his stare deliberately—I don’t want
to start a conversation at this moment. The man gets up, and starts to go
around the shrine. I kneel, and bow before the rather nodescript looking black
statue of the Buddha. As I am about to get up and leave, the man starts a
conversation from the far corner.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Where you from?” I stop in my tracks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Nepal.” Something makes me answer him
very, very reluctantly. I feel I am being very rude, but I don’t want to talk
to him. The Asian feeling of politeness, however, comes to the fore. I cannot <i>not</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> answer him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“You traveling alone?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I am traveling with friends,” I lie.
Whenever I find myself alone, I lie and create whole contingents of travel
companions—the computer industry husband, the two twin children I invented in
2005, groups of friendly travel companions.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“What do you do?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I write books,” I say.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Book writer?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Also I make films.” I can feel myself smiling too exuberantly. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“What kind of books?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Short stories, novels, film scripts.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I am sure you become very famous one
day,” he says, with great intensity. “Your book very famous, like Harry
Potter.” He looks at me, a little withdrawn, a little awed, a little envious,
as if he’s seen a ghost. A very rich ghost. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I don’t think so, but thank you,” I say.
I laugh. “Thank you.” I thought of my little book of short stories and to the
major publishing drama in which my Nepali publishers hadn’t given me royalty
despite the books selling well for months. I was burnt out fighting them in the
Copyright Office. Little did he know. I was hardly likely to be J.K Rowlings
anytime soon. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I am sure. Sure,” he insists. “Your film
very big in Hollywood.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I laugh. I am still feeling giddy, rushed
and heady. For a moment, I see myself in his eyes—someone with a wildly
successful Hollywood film. It is a dream I have never had before, but from his
gaze, he makes it appear possible. I could one day have a wildly successful
Hollywood film! The thought enters my mind and surprises me. It surprises me
because it had never been my own dream—until now. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">That’s when he adds. “You need a ruby,”
he says. “A ruby will help you to make dream come true.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Now let me tell you reader, that although
I am a young woman with a fair amount of common sense, and although I make
quick connections very fast, the thought that both these men had told me I
needed rubies appeared to be isolated events at that moment. In my head, this
man was telling me a new story—not one that the booming-voiced man had told me
in the bus station.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I walk out. I get into the tuk-tuk.
“Ready?” the driver looks back at me. “Lets go.” The tuk-tuk drives for about two or three minutes before it
swerves into a side lane again. The tuk-tuk driver insists I get out and enter
the door of a quiet store. I protest again, saying I don’t want gems. But he
has stopped the tuk-tuk, and there is no way for me to walk but in. With a
great deal of reluctance, I enter the place. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The store is full of jewelry in glass
cases, but the place is empty. Then a girl rushes up to ask me: <i>How can I
help you?</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> I feel uneasy, stifled and uncomfortable.
I don’t know why I am here. I feel furious. And then, of course, there is a
woman behind the curving display case. She has on a yellow silk outfit and a
tight matronly smile. It seems impossible to escape interacting with her. I
don’t like the pressure of the girl’s ostentious welcome, and I don’t like this
moment. But again, there is no way to walk but towards the woman who sits there
behind the counter with a benign alligator smile.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Before I know it I am seated in a leather
stool in front of the display case, sweating. The woman is showing me ruby
rings. She quoting figures as high as ten thousand dollars. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I laugh. I say I don’t have that much
money. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She stares at me with disdain. “Well, how
much money do you have?” I have a money belt strapped to my waist, with the
exact amount of three hundred dollars. I still thank my lucky stars I wasn’t
carrying more on me. Then she has
a ring in her hand. “Only three hundred dollars,” she says
contemptuously. I can’t afford the fabulously expensive rings, but someone on a
cheap budget like me could buy a
cheap ring, her tone implies. I felt embarrassed and humiliated. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The ring is curved. It has a tiny ruby on
it. I feel myself taking out my money from my moneybag, knowing something is
very wrong. I don’t even like jewelry, and I find all jewelry flashy and
unnecessary. But here I am, taking out all my money to buy one. All of this
appears to happen very quickly, within a few seconds. I ask, as a last and
desperate measure: “Can I get a receipt?” A receipt, I feel, will somehow
protect me from what I know is clearly an illegal transaction. I can report this, I remember thinking.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She glares at me. “We don’t give receipts,”
she says with great disdain, as if I am asking her for her private bank account
number. “But you can take this certificate of authenticity.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The certificate is in my hand. So is a
little blue velvet box containing my ruby. My three hundred dollars are gone. I walk out a little
desolately. The tuk-tuk driver snickers as I walk out. He drives for a while. I
am sitting there in the tuk-tuk, somber, as I try to process what just happened
to me back there. Then, in a moment of human sympathy, he asks me: “You alone?
You have friends?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It is as if he knows that he just took
part in a scam to skim a tourist off all their cash, and that I could end up
without any money in the hotel. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I have friends,” I lie. I don’t want
this tuk-tuk driver to rob me en-route of my three essential oil bottles and my
bag holding my passport. The tuk-tuk stops somewhere close to the river. “It
very far to Wat Saket,” he says. “I have to make big turn. You take the boat
here in the klong.” I feel desolate as the tuk-tuk driver drives away, clearly
on his way back to collect his share of the loot. I feel strangely berefit. I
have been to this klong before, and I have taken a boat here before, I
recognize. As a boat rushes past me on the klong, I feel like I am seeing a
scene from “Don’t Look Back.” I shiver a little, because I am not sure if the
tuk-tuk driver will come back to kill me. The boat arrives. I get in. The dirty
water sprays in my face, and the boat attendent walking up and down on the
gangplank raises the plastic covering. As I look at all the Thai people inside,
I wonder if all of them are part of a giant hypnotic scam, and soon I will find
myself in a place far away from my destination. The middle class people
clutching their bags of groceries look like actors in a giant swindle. I am to
sit in this boat and be abducted to some faraway place, where they will maybe
rip out my kidneys and my eyes. I have never been so relieved when the boat
arrives at a familiar destination. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A year after this episode, when I had
recovered somewhat from the emotional shaking of this episode, I took the ring
to the jewelry shop on Durbar Marg in Kathmandu, and I asked them to value it
for me. The man took out his magnifying glass. He took a look. “This is a
heat-treated ruby set in white metal,” he said. “The price shouldn’t be more
than $10.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Ten dollars?” I asked. I wasn’t sure I
had heard right.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Ten dollars,” he confirmed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But I am an optimist, in many senses of
the word. I had been scammed of $300, it was clear. I had been taken on one of
Thailand’s famous wild goose chases. Three men and two women had worked in
tandem to hypnotize me, make me open my moneybag and take out $300 for a tiny
piece of heat-treated gemstone. I had never thought I'd become one of those
tourists who'd fall under the spell of a mesmerizering scamster. But then, in
that unexpected way, I'd become one of those victims. But as a writer, I had a
story. Maybe it wasn’t the story I had been looking for. Maybe it was totally
unexpected. Maybe the ruby had shown me how gems had always deceived people,
and how their colors and their iridescence promised more than they gave up. But
yet, at the same time, it gave me a story to pursue. Now, I thought, I wanted
to know about the ruby. Where did it come from? What did it signify? Why did
people think that having a ruby would bring them great creative powers—as
obviously these men were insisting to me? What, in other words, was the lure of
the ruby? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">April 4, 2012</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Rubies, it appears, come from Burma. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I don’t know when I became aware of this
fact. Or when I started to link my curiosity of Nepalis living in Burma with
the fact that they appeared to be mining rubies there. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I encountered rubies on my first day in
Yangon. I am not sure how a traveler makes a decision to orient themselves to a
new city, but mine was to go to the museum. There has to be a starting out
point somewhere, and being a New Yorker for some years, cultural institutions
like museums have always been my favorite places.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The National Museum of Myanmar, however,
was different. It was, first of all, completely empty, except for one or two
foreign tourists wandering through the desolate haunted rooms. After taking a
quick peek at treasures mentioned in the <i>Lonely Planet,</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> I almost rushed out after twenty minutes of traversing each floor
of the five storey building. Each floor got spookier the higher I climbed. The
building itself reminded me of
state-run institutions in Nepal in the Eighties which no longer exist.
The empty rooms echoed with shadows and treasures nobody comes to see. The
owners are long dead, and nobody cares about the objects or identifies with
them as their own heritage. Unlike Europe, or parts of Asia, Burma’s
institutionalized state museum lacked one vital ingredient-life. No crowds
surged or thronged around in devotion, as I had seen people do in Spain, as
they lined up outside the Prado Museum to see masterspieces of Rembrandt. No
young people wearing jeans and earphones crowded around, creating noise and
energy as they do in Bangkok. The security people are indifferent, merely there
to sit through eeiriely quiet days, with no sense of respect or responsibility to the objects on display. They seem
to command people to go away. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Perhaps the spookiest moment in Myanmar’s
National Museum comes when you hit the top floor, where there is an entire
floor dedicated to the different races of Myanmar. The long room is shrouded in
gloom, but one can see life-sized models of all the different ethnic tribes of
Buma, standing in spectral silence. They stand there, folorn, with limp arms,
like voodoo dolls who have been frozen by the state for its own purposes. On
the sides are written state slogans about good behavior. I stood there by the door, too scared
to enter the haunted room, then quickly made my way downstairs before the
attendant could wonder why I wasn’t in there, admiring the greatness of the
artwork. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">On one of the floors, there is an entire
range of royal jewelry. And everywhere I turn there are rubies and sapphires,
carelessly sprinkled on spittoons and little jeweled boxes. It is magnificent.
I wondered why no Burmese entrepreneur had minted a fortune yet taking these
models and creating new versions of them for the international market. How
interesting it would be to take these beautiful objects and carefully recreate
the years of royal splendor of a bygone age. The only problem, of course, is
that anything newly minted would be manufactured in a factory in China with
imitation paste instead of gems, and the girls who made them would be paid a
pittance and the final product would be sold in Walmarts for $6. Or if they
were mined out of a mine, it would be impossible to ever figure out if the
workers were treated fairly and paid a fair price. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">On the first floor are royal garments of
silk and brocade. It makes me think of my friend Prabal Gurung, who has now
become a fabulously famous fashion designer who makes beautiful clothes for
Hollywood actresses. Some of the clothes are startlingly modern, unusual cuts
ready for the runway. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">On my way out, as a man politely tried to
push on me a souvenir about the museum, I just as politely refused. I had
already paid $5 to support this institution, and I felt I had done my part.
There were whole chapters in <i>Lonely Planet</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> about
the ethical implications of paying money to state-run institutions in Myanmar,
since the money would go to the junta and therefore continue the repressive
political system. I hoped the $5 would go for soap and toilet paper at the
toilet which I had used in the museum, and which had no soap or toilet paper,
and not to buy a bullet for the military.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> I spy a woman who’s also been wandering through the museum
ahead of me. She has white hair, and looks about sixty. I catch up with her and
start a conversation. I am bursting to discuss the haunted-house museum. Her
name is Elsie and she’s from Holland. She’s been to Myanmar in the past, this
is not her first time. “I almost had a panic attack in there,” I say. “It’s a
mausoleum.” She laughs and admits that its not the best kept museum in the
world. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Elsie knows a good restaurant close to
here, she says. Would I like to join her for lunch? The restaurant is indeed
nice and clean, with bamboo furniture and seating in the garden. I order an
aubergine salad and ice tea, both of which are excellent. The prices are
entirely reasonable and I feel cheered up to discover this beautiful restaurant
with excellent food. Elsie and I have one of those interesting conversations
that you can often strike up with intelligent women you meet in strange places,
where both of you realize that you
share the same intellectual heritage but probably will not spend more than an
afternoon together. Both of you enjoy the conversation, without expecting it to
stretch beyond a few hours or perhaps a day or two that you will overlap in the
same city. Elsie pays for lunch, and we have an interesting discussion about
the concept of “going Dutch” which she said was an American misunderstanding of
Dutch mores. As we finish lunch, Elsie says: “I am meeting my friend this
afternoon at the Gems Museum. Would you like to go with us?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Elsie says: “Three thousand” in a firm
voice to the taxi driver, and he instantly agrees. The taxi-drivers in Yangon
appear to be a lot more pleasant than those in Kathmandu, whose level of
truculence and aggression has increased over the past seven years. With Nepal’s
political change from authoritiatve monarchy to political anarchy has come a
free-for-all economy. Taxi-drivers have taken full advantage of this shift,
often refusing to move at all unless offered a substantial chunk of cash. The
meters which regulated fares in Kathmandu have long been tampered with, with
the government office that calibrates the meters taking Rs.2000 per “call” to
wind it up beyond the legal limit. Some sort of taxi order, however, seems to
prevail in Yangon. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As an Austrian had said so approvingly
this morning at the hotel: “Myanmar people, they have discipline. I never go to
India because Indians, they talk very loud and fast and I think there must be
chaos.” I ask him if he’s ever been to India, and he admits he hasn’t. He’s
just imagining the chaos—but in some senses, he’s right. Even the Indians of
Burma appear calm and phlegmatic, not the hyper-excited citizens of Delhi or
Bihar. People in Burma, in general, exude a hushed silence that could be
interpreted in multiple ways—as a free-thinking democrat from a louder Asian
country, you could say the people were repressed by the military state, or as a
Vipassana practitioner you could say they were calm and balanced, or as an
European tourist you could say they were well-behaved. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The Gems Museum is located at 66 Kaba Aye
Pagoda Road. It takes us a while to get there. Elsie's friend Gretchen
instantly starts to shop at the two floors of small stores, all lined with
precious gems. Rubies and emeralds and sapphires are carelessly strung on
cotton threads in the haphazard stores that line the two floors, like they are
so many colorful beads, strung like Christmas ornaments. Gretchen cannot be
persuaded to move upstairs: her hands are full of cheap pearl necklaces and
rubies earrings. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So eventually I wander up to the third
floor, which houses the Gems Museum. Once there, looking at the giant rocks cut
in half, showing their precious jeweled insides, I begin to wonder about the
unreality of it all. All these giant boulders, with precious sapphires, rubies
and emeralds showing from their neatly sliced interiors, make me wonder about
the nature of precious stones. Why do we consider these crystallized rocks,
pressured by time and the earth's volcanic weight into beautiful colors and
shapes, to be so precious? Why are people willing to kill for these things?
What is it about the hallucinatory colors and shapes of these stones that makes
us believe we are rich? Then I look up from the stones I am staring at, I
realize with a shiver the Gems Museum is empty, and silent, as an abandoned
mine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">***</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">At the Shwedagon Pagoda, where I went the
next morning, I felt that silence. All around me, people murmured as they ate
lunch, rested or chatted with friends inside the many pavilions. The elderly
looked shrunken, as if they didn’t have enough to eat, but the young looked
like the young everywhere—beautiful in their youth, flirting with boyfriends
and girlfriends, laughing at silly jokes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The Shwedagon is a strange place, filled
with child-faced Buddhas, neo-mythical
creatures that appear to be modeled on the sphinx, Buddhas with closed
eyes with circular spinning neon lights behind them, farcical caricatures of
Englishmen, and pagodas in various architectural styles. A very large crocodile stretches down
as the steps descend into the outside, adding to the atmosphere a slight sense
of danger. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A man detached himself from the shadows
and started to follow me around. “Where are you from?” He asked. My instinct
was to avoid touts, and I walked ahead, but he didn’t seem to mind, and kept
following me. So finally, I answered: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Nepal.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> “This pagoda was built by Nepali people,” he said, pointing
to one where there appeared to be a lot of Buddhas. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I don’t think so,” I said, contradicting
what I thought was his “you stupid, gullible tourist” line. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Yes,” he says earnestly, seemingly
unperturbed by my disbelief. “They made money trading rubies and jade. Now many
live in Bangkok. This pavilion has 64 Buddhas.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> “Oh,” I say. Perhaps he was telling the truth. Maybe the
Nepalis did build this pagoda—it was plausible. I’d just spied a Nepali
grandmother, wearing her choli, and with the <i>dhungri</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> and<i> bulaki</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> jewelry, only a few
minutes ago, walking around near the shrine before she vanished.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I’m a driver,” he says. “My car, it is
being repaired. So I have no work now for two weeks. I thought I’d come to
pagoda.” That’s why I am free to show you around, he says, in a friendly way.
Of course, I should have been suspicious, and I was. But it is hard to shake
off touts. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He takes me to a Buddha statue, and asks
me to pour water on the statue nine times. He hands me a silver cup. I’m happy
to do it. All I can think, as I pour the water over the Buddha, is this:
“Please free the people of Burma from suffering.” I feel a tiny bit of
uneasiness with this wish—I do not want to be like the people with the White
Savior Complex (as Teju Cole has wittily coined), and it is not my place to
wish just one people to be free of suffering. On the other hand, the slow pace
of the old people, looking down with hopeless eyes, the young people laughing
around me, exquisitely vulnerable in their naivete, the young children with
troubled eyes who wanted to know what existed beyond these pagodas—all of them
move me. I don’t know if the alternative to what exists now—the rush of global
transnational capitalism that will flood this country—will necessarily bring
more peace. But what is clear is that something is amiss here, and I wish it to be changed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I think of the cute little boy who’d just
looked at me with that troubled look that seem so familiar to me—the look that
must have been on my own face as a child as I’d seen the tourists and notice
their sense of ease, comfort and mobility. Those qualities had appeared so
foreign, so distance, so inaccessible, to my eyes. I was a little Brahmin girl,
shuttered within high walls with no hopes of leaving. And yet, through that
glimpse of that other world, a new life had finally presented itself to me. I
wonder how much of those high walls that shielded me inside a gated compound
still remains inside me—perhaps it is a lifelong process, chipping away at the
sense of “self” and “other” engrained by a cloistered upbringing. Perhaps that
sense of distance can only be cancelled with Buddhist awareness and compassion
of our common human nature. The lectures of the Tibetan rimpoches which I’d
attended over the years came back to me. The Tibetan Buddhists have a
remarkable ability to see the common nature of our suffering, and through it,
our common humanity. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Does Vipassana meditation, which I’d
learnt from SN Goenka’s tradition, allow for this kind of universal connection? I closed my eyes and am back again in
the green sunlit hilltop of Pokhara, where by the lake we listened once again
to the voice of our teacher teaching us a technique he said went back to
Gautama Buddha. And then I remembered again what the essential core of that
teaching had been for me—the awareness of going back to that molecular level,
in which all ego dissolves into the universal transcendence of understanding
that we are all a manifestation of the same energy. We are all a flow of energy
connected to each other. Goenka-ji had learnt the Vipassana technique from a
Burmese monk. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">How on earth did a culture steeped in
this tradition of universal connection become the home of a military junta? In
one way, it makes perfect sense. Vipassana, the core of the Hinayana Buddhist
tradition, emphasizes perfect control of the mind, which is not to be disturbed
by any ripples of greed, hatred, anger, envy, jealousy et cetera. The external
circumstances do not matter. What matters is the equilibrium of the mind. So
human rights abuses, violations against minorities, slave labor—none of this
can bring outrage because outrage disturbs the mind. This sense of Hinayana
Buddhism being a pure tradition, one above and beyond all spiritual pathways,
may then have led to the downfall of Burma. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The Mahayana Buddhists as found in Tibet,
on the other hand, have boddhisatvas with long swords who fight off demons. The
boddhisatvas are enlightened beings who have chosen to return to earth to save
people who need their help. Ingrained in this idea is the notion that all is
not perfect on Planet Earth, that people often do hurt each other, and that a
spiritual tradition must have a way to deal with demons and oppressors (whether
through tough love or compassion), and cannot simply focus only on one’s own
mental impurities. In Tibet, the tradition of ahimsa or non-violence has been
so ingrained the only way for people to protest against the Chinese regime is
self-immolation. And yet even in this violent act is the acknowledgement that
an action is needed—and that one cannot sit there passively waiting for one’s
own mentally equanimous mind to deal with external injustice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Reading “<i>George Orwell in Burma</i></span><span lang="EN-US">” by Emma Larkin, you would think the giant repressive military
junta regime gets its entire inspiration from British colonialism. She gives so
many examples it is hard not to be convinced that the repressive military
system is solely the fault of the British. But why it took on this uniquely
Burmese form is of course left unanswered. Why did the Indians, who also
experienced British colonialism, not exhibit the same repressive system later?
Although the confluence of spiritual traditions which constitute Hinduism is
the place where the notion of the perfect, balanced mind started, Hinduism also
has a vocal tradition of fighting against injustice. In fact, two of its most
important religious epics, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, are magnum opuses
of wars fought in the name of justice. And perhaps the very loud Indians who argue
endlessly about all social issues are one reason why a military junta was never
able to take over power in India.
Some may argue and say secular India, not Hindu India, keeps at bay a
military junta. This is entirely possible—except secularism by itself is not
the defining factor to stop a military junta. There are many secular countries
in the world where the military is very powerful at the top-most levels. Of
course, India’s democracy is not perfect either—with army violence against
Kashmiris and ethnic minorities in the north-east paralleling those of the
abuses of Burma’s army. But at least the political system hasn’t been seized by
the military, as it has in Burma. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I open my eyes again. My guide is telling
me about the giant bell in one of the pavilions. He says: “The British try to
steal this bell, but it heavy. It fall into the river. Then the Burma people
bring it back.” I gathered the bell had lain at the bottom of the river. Nobody
could budge it. The British officers told the Burmese they could have it back,
if they could dredge it out of the bottom of the river. Which is what they did,
using simple manpower. He hands me a long wooden pole and shows me how to hit
the bell to make it ring, perhaps to scare away the ghosts of colonialists of the
past. The three adorable children sitting underneath the bell like little
pixies move away, giggling. I try it once, twice. It makes a long hollow boom,
like the booming sound you hear in Tibetan monasteries. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The Tibetan Buddhists chant: <i>Om mani
padme hum. Om is the jewel in the lotus. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Om is the sound of universal connection,
the primordial sound that encompasses the universe. The lotus is the Buddha
dharma. And Om, therefore, is the jewel in the lotus. Perhaps I’d found my ruby
in this simple line.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">***</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><b>IN SEARCH OF RUBIES</b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I stood at the window of the hotel for a
long time, staring at the full moon. I was in Yangon! The unreality of the moment was breathtaking. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">How does a
woman from Kathmandu find herself alone in Yangon, traveling across South East
Asia, with the express purpose to write a book? The statistical impossibility
of such an event made me pause. If I had been an European or American traveler,
I may have seen that moment as a little adventurous, perhaps exciting, but
nothing too much of the ordinary. After all, people like me would have done it
a thousand times before. Almost all documented explorers, travelers and travel
writers are white males (and sometimes females), and thousands, perhaps
millions, of them travel to Yangon all the time. A man from my well-educated
Brahmin community could find himself in Yangon, and perceive it as a little out
of the normal course of the path of achievement prescribed for him, but nothing
drastically out of the way.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">A woman who
grew up in a secluded family in Kathmandu, however, has perhaps one in a
million chance to make it to Yangon. How many of my brethen had made it out
here, under the full moon, to appreciate the clamor of Yangon at dusk? I would
hazard a guess that I may be the first traveler of my ilk to stare down at the
Sule Pagoda. I didn’t have to go to the moon. This was already on the scale of
a lunar journey for me. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">In the clamor of dusk, near the Sule
Pagoda, buses slide by in endless procession—old, beaten up buses, the kind you
see in India and Nepal. Below me on the wide pavement, young boys sell small <i>chat</i></span><span lang="EN-US">-like salad snacks that taste like bitter mud mixed with peanuts and
tomatoes. I know how it tastes because I just ordered a plate half an hour ago.
Two spoonfuls are hard to swallow. I’ve never had this much difficulty eating
food. Is this what the people of Yangon eat on a daily basis? </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I look around me. The tiny kintergarten
sized tables with baby-sized plastic stools in bright primary colors, four to
five at one table, are filled with middle class people, enjoying their evening
meal. I am not at the bus-stand with weary travelers from villages. I am in the
middle of the city, in the thick of life, tasting the bitter taste of Myanmar. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I see an older woman sitting under a tree
growing in the middle of the pavement now. She appears to be staring at me. She
has white hair and looks like a ghost, sitting underneath a small tuft of
greenery. She gets up and bends down to cross the twelve-inch elevation of the
pavement—stooping, she grabs the kindergarten table, then descends. Before I
know it, she’s in front of me, with that unmistakable gesture of supplication.
The brash young vendor who’s taken my order gives me my change. The notes are
soiled and falling apart, and taped in three or four places with cellophane.
The edges are ragged, like ancient papyrus. I want to get rid of them as fast
as possible. I give 200 kyats back to the vendor and make a “half” motion with
my hand, then gesture to the old woman and another elderly beggar who has
materialized before me. The vendor smiles approvingly. I drop 100 kyats into
the bags of each, wondering if 100 kyat is too much, or too little, to give. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It is getting to be dusk. I walk to the
Sule Pagoda, which is covered with scaffolding and what appears to be straw while
renovations take place. The scaffolding makes it look primitive, like an
archaeological excavation—not the soaring gold spire depicted in postcards and
travel guides. I pause at the entrance and hand over my other ragged 200 kyat
note to the jasmine garland girl. She looks at me and I see she has two strips
of white powder on her cheeks. Then she counts out my jasmine strands—a
veritable bouquet. The couple before me has just handed over 200 kyats, so I
don’t have to ask for the price. Already I know. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Unfortunately, I don’t follow the couple
closely enough. Lost in the fragrance of the jasmine, I am halfway up before I
see everyone is in bare feet. Thinking of lax Thai temples, where Addidas
wearing teen tourists walk up shod to the inner sanctums of sacred shrine Wat
Saket, I continue to walk up the last few remaining steps. I think, in my <i>lassez
faire</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> Nepali way, that there must be a place to
take off shoes at the top. How wrong I am.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">A young woman in her twenties catches
sight of me. “Foreigner? Fee!” she says authoritatively. “Fee.” She marches me
towards a table, then somewhat in the same moment, she notices my leather
sandals. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“Shoes! Shoes!” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Alarmed, I back off. “I’ll go down and take it off,” I
suggest, but she has started to say, in a loud commanding voice: “NO! NO!” I
walk down the steps hastily. The girl attending shoes, who I hadn’t noticed
before, materializes from behind a pillar. “Donation?” she asks. From above,
the gatekeeper informs her: “She came up here with her shoes!” or the equivalent,
in Burmese. It is clear I have violated a sacred taboo. A loud hub-bub started
with two women sitting on the stairs joining in the chorus. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The shoe-keeper looks at me accusingly.
“She went up wearing her shoes?” she seemed to say, in confusion and feigned
outrage. She is at fault here for allowing me to walk up unnoticed. The
situation was spiraling out of control. I had committed some unforgivable
crime. Myanmar’s temple bureaucrats were at the point of deciding on a suitable
punishment. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“Forget it,” I say, taking this
quintessential American expression out of my vocabulary in this moment of great
discord. I swing my jasmine in my hand as I march out to the loud murmur of
opprobation. I can hear the gatekeeper calling to me in a commanding voice, and
perhaps with a note of conciliation, as if she regretted scaring away a genuine
devotee. But I was already too shaken by the combined censure of the temple
guardians to return. So this, then, is the world, the tightly regulated world
of Myanmar, where one deviance quickly becomes an unforgivable error. This is
the world I’d be glad not to know too much about during my visit. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">As I crossed the busy road, I felt
jarred. I didn’t like how that little encounter had gone. As I looked down from
my window onto the world below, I felt like I had made the right decision to
walk away. The Buddha’s spirit doesn’t reside in a place that is intolerant.
The Buddha’s statue might be up there, but the spirit that infuses life into
the image—all those Thai people reverently burning incense and offering white
lotus buds at Wat Saket come back to my mind’s eye—was missing in this giant
shrine. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">In Thailand, the glitter and the
ostentatious displays had dismayed me. A few years earlier, in one of my first
visits to Thailand, I had walked through Wat Po as it went through its
renovations. The colored lacquer on the temples was hallucinatory. The golden
glitter was unbelievable. The laborers appeared tired as they slept in the
heat. I had been distressed. And as if to echo my distress, an Indian couple I
had met there had said: “Thailand’s temple tourism has become so commercial and
crass. Wait till you get to Burma. Its so unspoilt there.” And perhaps it was
those words that had stayed with me and taken me, finally, to my own
destination to Burma. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">But here in Burma I realized how wrong I
had been. I had been blinded by the gold leaf and forgotten how concern for
others, tolerance and compassion permeated every aspect of Thai life. Just
because they liked lavish displays didn’t mean they were not practicing
compassion and equilibrium of mind. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">On the way back to my hotel, I stop at
the<i> panwallah</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> and ask for a <i>pan</i></span><span lang="EN-US">. The very fact that there is an Indian-looking panwallah selling
betel leaf in Burma surprises me. I don’t know what I had expected Burma to be
like—perhaps more South East Asian, perhaps more like Thailand. What I hadn’t
expected it to look like was India from forty years ago. Yangon appeared to be
an older, poorer, more run-down version of Mumbai. It is as if Burma was an
extension of South Asia, a little bit of Nepal and India that had continued
upwards from Assam. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">In a Hindi dialect, he asks me if I am
Indian. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“Nepali,” I answer. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“Pakistani?” he queries, as if he doesn’t
understand “Nepal.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> “Nepal,” I repeat. He hasn’t heard of Nepal. He rolls me a
tiny pan and won’t accept any charge. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I ask him, in my fumbling stumbling
Hindi, where he’s from. He says: “We are from right here.” </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“But your ancestors were from India?”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“We are from right here.” </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“Bangladesh!” I hazard a guess.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“No.” He laughs a little. “From right
here.” His wife, her head covered with black, nods. They are from right here.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">And there was more than people who looked
the same as me to remind me that the subcontinent was present in Burma. The
hush in the immigration section of the airport reminded me of Kathmandu in the
80s—the hush of an omniscient state, the hush of officials who appeared
indifferent, detached, with the quietness of the constantly surveilled. Airport
immigration officials everywhere are not the friendliest of people, but there
was something else about these bureaucrats that frightened the passengers as
they clutched their passports and waited in line. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It reminded me again how fraught that
moment is, when you enter the border of a foreign country, and in this case,
the country happened to be Myanmar—with its own rules and regulations, its own
universe. Perhaps the people working in the airport may be nice middle class
bureaucrats who‘d be great fun to meet at a tea-shop, but right here right
now all I wanted to do was avoid eye-contact. It was clear that almost everyone
in the line felt somehow guilty, and we weren’t even sure what that crime was.
Perhaps for the group of Spanish going in to help poor children and who would
leave the country weeping, the crime would be to help the poor. For the
Scandinavian UN official over there holding out his blue passport, and looking
the poster boy of casual, it might be thinking liberal Western thoughts of
democracy. For me, I had a niggling sense that the video camera that I carried,
along with my plans to write a book, was somehow not sanctioned. Were writers <i>persona
non grata </i></span><span lang="EN-US">in Burma? As I stood there in the airport
line, clutching my video camera, somehow I couldn’t remember if I was within
the bounds of legal behavior or not. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> Of course, my double consciousness as a Third World citizen
also made me see from the bureaucrats’ eyes—how ridiculous some of the
Europeans appeared, tight groups of them holding on to their evangelical
contact numbers and with the breathless sense of urgency that somehow they were
saving all of Burma. It must be annoying, if you are a middle class Yangon
resident working a small but important job at the airport, to see all these
people descend upon your country with the express purpose of saving your
countrymen from you. I could imagine that the slight tone of sarcasm I note in
one beaureaucrat’s voice originated from the weariness of this moment. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The woman who takes my passport takes a
look, then starts a causal chat with her colleague. It is just enough pressure
to get my paranoid imagination to start imagining out-of-control scenarios. But
then she writes something on the side of my visa, then stamps me in. In the
gratitude of the moment, I fail to see that she’s given me one month, not the
three weeks I think I have remaining since I got my visa a week ago at the Myanmar Embassy in Bangkok. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Waiting outside that line of men in
longyi, holding placards of various hotels, just like in Kathmandu. Except
these men look slightly less aggressive and desperate. Kathmandu’s madhouse
airport welcoming scene has become more aggressive by the day, as the free
economy welcomes tourists from all over in even more competitive ways. I spot
“Sushma Joshi” within two minutes. This is the first time I’ve seen my name on
a placard at the airport. It gives me a warm feeling. Usually I am the only
haggling with local taxi-drivers or waiting for the bus as the Japanese
corporate salarymen and the Korean businessmen get zipped off in their
limousines. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The driver looks like a character out of
<i>Burmese Days</i>. He has a Chinese-looking face, with a slightly shy smile. There
is a certain obsequiousness to him that makes me uncomfortable. He tells me to
“wait!”, then vanishes to fetch the taxi. The tree down the road, a banyan,
makes me feel at home. I feel like I’ve just gone down to some provincial
outskirt of India, not a whole new country. Old beat-up taxis pick up foreign
tourists. The tourists, or perhaps I should say travelers, all look shuttered,
discreet—as if they didn’t spend the past few weeks reading at great length
about the repression and violence of an authoritarian military state. Perhaps
they are here to topple the military regime. On the other hand, they could just
as well be traveling to buy opium or steal some gems from the gem market. One
can hardly tell.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The sadness I felt as I zipped up the
long highway towards the center of the city was a complicated mixture of
emotion. The people looked reedy thin, ill-dressed and tired—a shocking
contrast to the buzzing cosmopolitan heart of Bangkok where food was laid out
in every cart and where cheap clothing lay piled up on sidewalks by the
sackloads. At the same time, a sense of nostalgia arose in me as I saw the
smaller city of Yangon, and saw in it the shadow of what my hometown Kathmandu
used to be before two decades of unregulated urban growth demolished it,
turning it into a cancerous modern city imploding from the inside out. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As we drove past a large, ornate and
glittering pagoda, the driver turned back, smiled, and said: “Shwedagon.” This
was the famous Shwedagon Pagoda that I had already heard about from many
sources. Oddly, the story that came back to me was the story from our program
advisor, a jolly Filipina lady in her sixties who had run our fellowship
program for many years. Her
bubbling laughter came back to my mind as we passed the pagoda. “We were at the
hotel near the Swedagon Pagoda! Oh my god! I can’t tell you how terrified I was
there during the nights we stayed there. I don’t know what it was, but I felt
like someone was watching me during the night. I woke up during the night and I
swear somebody was standing at the bottom of my bed, watching me. I couldn’t go
to sleep the whole night. People said to me the next morning: what happened to
you? You look white as a sheet!” I swear there was a ghost in that room that
night.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> “Maybe somebody from the state was watching you?” I suggest. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But she shakes her head adamantly. “It
was something otherworldy. A ghost. Something must have happened there in that
room.” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">My Nepali colleague, whose academic
credentials included an impressive Ph.D in political science, had rolled her
eyes at me, as if she couldn’t believe the kind of conversation being initiated
by the director of our fellowship program. As for me, I was intrigued.
Definitely intrigued. “Tell me more about the ghost,” I said. The ghost story
was repeated once, then twice, with lots of jolly Filipina laughter. Her Thai
program assistants had chimed in with their own stories of how they felt
Shwedagon was haunted. The story came back to me as I passed the Pagoda. What
was the ghostly presences stalking this particular edifice? Tomorrow I would
come to find out. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">After about thirty minutes, we were by
the Sule Pagoda. Ko Mya Aye of the Grand Sule Hotel, a young man in his late
twenties, was very kind. “Oh, there is only one of you?” he asks, surprised.
“But you booked a double room.” “Yes, its only me,” I say. “I read on the
Internet that I should get the double room,” I hasten to justify my
extravagance and my lack of a partner. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A part of me, however, is secretly glad
to be alone. All the dramas of relationships are best left at home when you are
traveling light, with one bag and a computer, trying to write a book. On some
level, a boyfriend is extra luggage. Most times men are heavier than a
computer, and you have to drag them around with the same annoyance you feel at
the extra 20 kgs that you added onto your luggage at the last minute, and which
you wish you hadn’t. My experience of traveling with a man told me that the
best way to end a relationship is to travel together in tough situations in new
countries. If you last beyond the train ride on Mumbai, and the rickshaw ride in
Dhaka in July, then you are probably good to go. That’s where people should go
for honeymoons, for a quick reality check. If you fail those obstacle tests,
then your relationship will not last the test of time. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There’s also the question of whether any
writing gets done while you are traveling with romantic luggage. My prior
experience told me that sex and romance are distractions which don’t work very
well with the writing schedule. Liz Gilbert of “Eat, Love, Pray” fame abandons
Felip alone in the Atlanta Hotel, drinking his beer by the poolside, while she
goes off to Vietnam to interview grandmothers. Writing takes time—it is slow,
careful, meticulous, laborious work done for hours and hours in the dead of
night. The first night, under the light of the one fluorescent bulb, I wrote in
my little notebook from 7pm to 10pm, with a 30 minute break for dinner. I
deducted thirty more minutes for <i>Lonely Planet</i></span><span lang="EN-US">
reading, tooth-brushing, moon-gazing, checking out of the bathroom window to
see there’s no people staring at me from the other building, turning the TV on
and off, peeking under the bed to see there were no Burmese spies lurking, et
cetera. But that’s still two hours of continuous writing that would surely have
not been possible with another jet-lagged person talking, arguing, TV channel
flipping and initiating sex in the same room. Not to mention all the paranoid
theories we would no doubt have come up with about the Burmese state and
surveillance if there had been two people to inflate the danger of the new surroundings.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But of course, no matter how
self-sufficient and how daring any traveler is, at the heart of it we all long
for a companion to share the beauty of the moon. Which is what I wished for, as I looked outside and saw
the stark circle of a large moon outside my window.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> Money is strange in Burma. I hand over $60 and I get 51,000
Kyats in exchange. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This is still less than what I would get
in Indonesia, which goes into digits that is not in my usual counting range. A
million becomes a mundane unit. At certain moments in Bali, I became
disoriented and handed over 100,000 rupiah notes when I was supposed to hand
over 10,000. In Indonesia, there had been a feeling of reckless disorientation
as my dollars melted into million rupiah pools. I felt as rich as George Soros.
In Burma, the wads and wads of cash gave me another feeling altogether—a sense
that I was carrying around play money which I was handing out as if I was
playing Monopoly. The sense of unreality persisted throughout my trip. Perhaps it
was the wads and wads, all new, bound with the recycled paper band in the
middle, straight from the state printing press, which made me wonder if there
was some scam going on to insert new notes into the economy. It seems
foreigners all got crisp, fresh-off-the-press currency, while the regular
people had to make do with notes disintegrating into shreds of grime. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“It is 860 Kyats to the dollar,” Ko Mya
Aye says to me. “Shall I exchange it for you?” I have read it is better to
exchange at the hotel than outside with the moneychangers, so I say: “All
right.” The fat wad of notes he holds, smelling of new ink, looks unreal. He
carefully extracts half of the notes from an even bigger wad by just looking at
the beginning and end of the serial numbers, and hands it over to me. I look at
him, suspicious, uncertain. Are these real notes? Why does he have stacks and
stacks of them? Am I supposed to count the notes to make sure there are 51 of
them? He smiles at my discomfiture. Later I will realize the Burmese are the
most trustworthy people on the planet. Ko Mya Aye would never do something so
undignified as shortchange me during currency exchange. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The $30 I am paying for my room is
another matter. The hotel feels claustrophobic and small, and so does my room.
I feel overcharged. I’ve slept in far better deals in Bali, for instance, where
I had a giant room with a giant garden and an exquisite Balinese family tending
the gods every day. But Yangon is not Bali or Bangkok. Everything including
food, I realized, costs thrice as much as Bangkok, but the quality is thrice as
low. Anyways, I was not here to be a tourist. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Having said that, I took back my words
because my very next trip, the day after, happened to be to the Gems Museum.
Why was I obsessing about gems, you may ask. Well, to answer that question I’d
have to take you back to my trip to Bangkok and how I got scammed at the gems
market, a full year before. </span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; border: none; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-pagination: none; padding: 0in; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So lets backtrack a bit, to 2009. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I had applied, and been accepted to, the
Ubud Readers’ and Writers Festival in Ubud, Bali. Unlike most people on the
planet who hold a passport that allows them to waltz through borders without
bothering with visas, I hold a passport for which each move has to be
calculated months in advance. In order for me to travel, I need a visa to
Indonesia stamped on my passport, unlike tourists from Western countries who
just show up and pay $25 for visa-on-arrival at the border. For this, I had to
travel to Bangkok, adding three extra days of accommodation, plus a $45 visa
fee, to my budget.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Having wept, stonewalled, thrown hysteria
fits, and once attempted to stamp my own passport (a story I will recount
later) on my way through border points at various points in my life, I know
that the Nepali passport is trouble. Nepalis are the lowest scum on the
hierarchy of border crossers. Perhaps Somali and Sudanese may have more
trouble, maybe Syrians and Iraqis. But the green Nepali passport definitely
does not make life easy for its holder. Indonesia wouldn’t let me in easily, I
had a suspicion. I was prepared for battle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I was right. I got to the Indonesian
embassy around twelve, which was lunchtime. The man behind the glass window
stares at me blankly when I say: Visa? His stare seems to imply I am in the
wrong place. Perhaps he almost shakes his head in the negative. I ask again, to
re-confirm: “This is the Indonesian Embassy, isn’t it?” Clearly it is, and I am
inside the compound. But these men aren’t co-operating. “Yes,” he says, after a
long pause. “I’d like to apply for a visa,” I say. “Which country you from?”
“Nepal,” I respond. Nepalis surely are not moving en masse to Indonesia for
migrant labor. Please god, say it ain’t so. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I’m used to unfriendliness from embassy
staff—I would have been surprised if I’d been welcomed with open arms. I smile
at the hostile man, and push the festival schedule through the window. “I am
going to the literature festival in Bali,” I say, extra chattily. “I’m a
writer. Here’s my book.” I pull out my book and flash the cover through the
glass opening. He reads the schedule. “Writers’ meeting? Like journalist?
Political?” “Nothing political,” I assure him fervently. “Only fiction.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Fiction. The word lies between us, with
its own special weight. He considers whether to believe my words about fiction.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He picks up my passport and leafs through
it. “Writers from all over the world are coming. Wole Soyinka, he won the Nobel
Prize!” I babble. I don’t know if Wole Soyinka would have liked me using his
name to cross a border, or at least cross from the glass window of the
unwelcoming security guards to the actual visa section, but I figured this was
as good a use of a Nobel Prize as any. Later, having met Mr Soyinka, I figured
he would probably wouldn’t have minded. The man frowned. He was probably
wondering if the Nobel Prize was political. In desperation, I said: “The man
who wrote Slumdog Millionaire—he’s coming!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This seems to cinch it. “Okay, you need
ticket to apply,” he announces. “Come back with ticket, then it’s a perfect
application. Come back today. Otherwise, you lose your visa fee.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> As I walk in, I reflect on this tiny moment of profiling.
Because I don’t have a white face, he thinks I am not the right profile for a
visitor to Indonesia. What he doesn’t know is that I am a Nepali traveler with
erratic income but reckless spending habits who will soon drop $2000 in Bali’s
economy in the next month. I will buy a large amount of junk, everything from
batik to fake pearls. I will take art classes and Balinese dance classes. I
will do all sorts of weird things that sustain the tourist industry. Racial
profiling is so bad for the economy. That’s why the Thais don’t do it. And
that’s why their economy is rocking. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I spent the afternoon rushing around
booking my ticket online, and went back huffing and puffing to the embassy to
drop off a ticket by the time the consulate closed. The visa officer, upon
seeing me, was fussy. He said I may not be able to get my visa. They would have
to see. It would take time. But anyways, I should come back in two days’ time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In two days’ time, I had my visa. “How
much does yours cost?” I asked the Australians lining up for their
visa-on-arrival in Bali’s small airport. “Twenty five US dollars,” said the
sun-tanned man in shorts on his way to a good time in the beaches. I was
miffed. “Mine was $45,” I said, huffily. I felt I’d been charged an unfair
Third World tax. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He took a look at my passport. “But you
got 30 days!” He said, impressed. “We only get two weeks. How did you do that?”
Doing the math, I realized he would have to pay $50 for a month. So I guess I
had nothing to complain about, in the end. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">With the visa safely inside my passport,
I decided to do a little pilgrimage of Wat Po. Wat Po is one of the oldest and
largest Buddha shrines in Bangkok. It is located right by the Chao Phraya
river. People arrive by boat, which you get at Saphan Taksin station. So this
is what I did. After a pleasant ride from Ratchathewi to Saphan Taksin on
Bangkok’s famous sky-train, I
walked down, bought my obligatory share of fresh papayas and mangoes for 20
baht, then wandered down the piers. The air was fresh and cool, and the water
slightly choppy. I felt happy as the boat zipped past the many landmarks of
Bangkok, from the Mandarin Oriental Hotel to the wooden floating homes on the
river’s edge. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">At Wat Po, I bought a bouquet of white
lotus buds as an offering for the Buddha. The buds were smooth and white,
soothing to the eye. Wat Po has the image of the Sleeping Buddha as he lies on
his deathbed, on his final parinirvana stage. The statue is gigantic. I
circumbulated the image, marveling again at the good fortune that makes a
pilgrim from Nepal find herself at Wat Po. Then I walked around the different
courtyards. Wat Po has multiple courtyards and some of them lead into complexes
with hundreds of golden Buddhas. It is all a little overwhelming. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Of course I got lost. I found myself in a
part of the wat complex where the renovations were taking place. The roofs were
being painted bright red. Mirrors and colorful enamel pieces were being inlaid
in mosaics on the temple walls. Some of the workers were lost in work. Others
were napping in the heat. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">After a while, all the glitter started to
weary me. Was it just me, I wondered, or did the other people wandering around
also sense that the dazzling array of images were destroying their own
spiritual power through the sheer volume and intensity of the image-making
enterprise? And this is precisely the moment when the Indian couple walked down
the two steps from one courtyard to the next, as if they wanted to address the
question in my mind. Something in my gaze must have struck them, because they
smiled. We stopped to talk. I don’t remember any of our small talk, except for
this. “Thailand has lost its charm,” they said. “Its too commercial.” “ Too
much gold,” the woman said, frowning. “Wait till you get to Burma,” the man
said, and the woman agreed. “It is still so wonderful there.” As I looked at them, I had an image of
old wooden, moss-covered Buddhas, entirely hidden inside trees. A sort of
mystical Angkor Wat hidden in the forests rose in my mind. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There is always the seed of a moment, an
event, an encounter, which has taken me to far-away places. My Burma visit, I
feel, stems from this precise encounter. I don’t remember the couple very well,
except that they were middle-aged, well spoken, possibly a professional couple
with time and money to spare. What, I wondered, lay in Burma? I read Amitav
Ghosh’s “The Glass Palace” from front to the last, but I couldn’t get any
answers. How did the Indian history intersect with Burma? Why did so many
Nepalis come from there? The son of my father’s friend had married a Nepali
woman from Burma. To the entire marriage procession from the groom’s side, the
Burmese contingent had handed out a little purple Thai orchid as well as a gold
coin as a gift. Kathmandu talked about that purple orchid and that gold coin
for months afterwards. What was the strange dichotomy which would make a people
spend extravagantly on marriages on one side, then eschew gold on Buddhas on
the other? Where did all that gold come from, anyways? The whole thing was
baffling. I would have to go there myself to find out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">All that walking made me thirsty. I went
into the little cafeteria to get a bottle of water. That’s when I saw the
fortune-tellers. There was a whole line of them, telling people’s fortunes,
right by the little counter with bottled water, the cans of Red Bull and the
sachet of sunflower seeds. I sat down and observed them. An old man around
eighty got my attention. He had bright blue eyes, a strange thing to see on a
Thai man. He was bright and alert as a bird. He was telling a young Western
woman’s fortune with great sweetness and charm. His English was broken but his
energy was impeccable. I wanted him to tell me my fortune. So I waited. The
young man by his side caught sight of me, made small talk with the old man,
shifted his little papers and apparatus around. I refused to catch his eye. My
fortune would be told by this old man, and this old man only. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Finally, he was free. “Ahhh," he
said, smiling. He took my date of birth, time of birth, and place of birth. He
calculated for a good long while, filling up a little sheet with data. Then he
started to speak. “This year of the cow. You 36 years old. Your brain,” he
said, putting his thumbs up. “Very good.” Anybody could tell from a glance at
me that I was a nerd. No points for that one.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“You good heart,” he said, tapping his
heart. “You good communications.” Then he paused. “Mars, Mercury, Venus,
Jupiter,” he said. “Good ideas, good adaptation. Sometimes one job, two
job—good planning.” This wasn’t very encouraging. My unsteady and erratic
employment history, which frequently included two jobs at the same time, was
causing me some stress. “You like freedom and independence. Sometimes hot
temper.” I grin at this one. The Joshis were famous for their short
tempers. I seem to have inherited
that family legacy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> Then he said: “Past two years, up and down.” I nodded. Yes,
the past two years had been very rocky indeed. The jumbled nature of which
involved love, broken hearts, a $50,000 dollar grant to start an organization,
and a coup in which I was ousted from said organization, the publication of
three books, and the piracy and unsatisfactory distribution of all three of
them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The old man smiled happily, as if he knew
all this. “From 37 to 39, good.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Well, at least I
got a couple of years of reprieve.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“After November, new love, new marriage.
Man from another country. You happy.” At this point I tried to slow him down
and ask him which November he was talking about, but he continued: “From 40-41,
so-so, sometimes better job. But 42-54, very happy.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“From 29 to 41, you work very hard. Very
hard work.” I had often wondered myself why I worked so hard for so little
gain. My book of short stories had been rejected in 2002 by publishers, and
here I was, still plugging away at trying to get it published a full ten years
later. I had written another five books of short stories, and two novels. I had
written four film scripts. I had written three plays. All of them unpublished. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“From 55 to 56, take care of health,
family. Maybe operation,” he said. “But no drink, no problem.” He cackled in a
jolly way. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“From 57 to 74, happy old.” I like the way
the Thais say “happy.” They lengthen out the “p” until it sounds trippy. <i>Happpppy.
</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“On 75, go on holiday around the world.
You long life. No accident. Buddha take care of you. You live old, like me.”
Then he leant forward, and suggested: “You buy land, buy property, buy house.
Sell in old age. You have three houses, like me.” This property advice wasn’t
what I had come to find out about. Forget about three homes, I barely had one.
My parents, traditional Brahmins, who never discussed property, planned to
leave every square inch of their land to my brother and his son—just as they
had given every single rupee for his education. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He takes out a magnifying glass and peers
at my palm. “You three children, two boys and one girl.” Then he starts to
calculate my lucky numbers and my lucky colors, things I don’t really care
about. I wait impatiently for him to finish, so I can ask him more about this
foreign boyfriend. “Red,” he proclaims. “And orange. Very good. Number four is
bad for you.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I start to ask him about this foreign
boyfriend, but he is already moving on. “You live another country. You make
money, better than office job. After October, moving another country, very
good. Different nationality, good boyfriend.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I wondered if Thai astrologers always
told women that they would find a foreign boyfriend, go live in another
country, and have three homes. That could very well be a Thai girl’s dream.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; border: none; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; mso-pagination: none; padding: 0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US">All these
things weren’t satisfactory. As I peeled off 1200 bahts, I thought: “At least I
got some good advice on savings and investment. I don’t know when I’ll get
married, but here’s $30 for property investment advice from a smart Thai man.”
Mr Sawong Kontong handed me his card, clipped to my little chart with all the
dates and figures.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Now come the strange story of rubies. I
exited Wat Po, feeling a little heady thinking my two rocky years were behind
me. I sat down at the bus waiting station, and opened my Bangkok map. I was
trying to see if I could get a bus to go downtown. This, I realized later, was
my biggest mistake.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The big dark man who showed up was on top
of me in almost a minute. He probably waited for clueless tourists right at
this spot. “May I help you?” He said. I must have looked up, and I must have
caught his eye. From that moment on,
his voice took on a weird booming quality. I could see his finger
pointing to various points in the map as he showed me how I could get to where
I needed to go. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“What a nice man!” I remember thinking.
“What an extraordinarily nice man. So helpful!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Here is the place you need to go,” he
says, pointing to the map. “But do you know today is the birthday of the Black
Buddha? This is where the Black Buddha’s temple is. Don’t forget to stop there.
And here,” he says, pointing at some place in the map, and looking me directly
in the eye: “Is where the jewelry expo is happening. There are many shops and
you should stop by and see all the gems being displayed.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Yes, but I don’t really want to go
there,” I say. I’ve been warned by various guide-books about gem scams. “I just
need to get to Wat Saket.” I try to sound firm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“No bus to Wat Saket, but tuk-tuk will
take you.” He looks again at the map. “Very grand expo,” he says. “Very good
gems. You should see. No buy, just see. Big expo.” He looks at me for a moment,
then he says: “You should get a ruby. Ruby very good for you.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But I did not want a ruby. I smiled at
him, because I didn’t want to let him know what I thought. “A ruby,” he
repeated, looking at me deeply in the eye, become hailing a tuk-tuk for me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">My new Thai friend now says something to
the driver in Thai. The driver
breaks into a broad grin as he looks at me. “This driver, he very honest. He no
cheating. He take you to Wat Saket for forty baht.” Now, any idiot in their
right mind would have realized that forty baht was too low to get from Wat Po
to Wat Saket. But I was not in my right mind. It occurred to me that forty baht
was indeed a major bargain. I got into the tuk-tuk. In my hand, I had a paper
bag containing a few small essential oil bottles I had picked along the
sidewalk. They said: “Lotus” and “Lavender” and “Ylang-Ylang” on their labels.
I broke these open and smelled them, and then in the sudden euphoria I poured
the oils on myself. The tuk-tuk driver looked at me curiously at the mirror. I
feel fabulous as the wind blew through my hair. All of a sudden, a restless
excitement had seized hold of me, as if I was on a major journey. I was racing
through Bangkok on a tuk-tuk, not with worry and gloom, but a great excitement
that I was being driven towards an unknown but fabled destiny. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The tuk-tuk driver drove into a side
street. “Black Buddha,” he said. I
felt annoyed and angry. I did not want to go to the Black Buddha! I wanted to
go to Wat Saket. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Now let me state here that I was in this
odd mental state where my entire being was telling me something was wrong with
this moment. I was in a heady mixture of excitement and fear. I didn’t trust
the tuk-tuk driver. I didn’t want to enter the wat. What if I was going to be
robbed while inside? What was inside? It was a quiet wat—I didn’t see a single
soul walking around as I entered the premises. Could I call out to the monks if
something happened? I looked around for monks and didn’t see a single one. The
other part of me worried the tuk-tuk driver would take off while I entered this
abandoned looking shrine. Every nerve of my body was shrieking and telling me
not to enter the wat. On the other hand, I didn’t know what else to do. It
would look absurd if I made a fuss. However, despite all this, I still did. “I
don’t want to go in,” I say to the driver, not budging from my seat. “Take me
to Wat Saket.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“You see, you see!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“No, Wat Saket!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Nice Buddha, Black Buddha.” I feel from
his expression that he can’t believe I am being so paranoid. I have nothing to
fear, his disbelieving stance implies. So reluctantly I get down from the
tuk-tuk.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“You coming in?” I asked. He gave me a
look that almost amounted to fear. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“No, no,” he said. “I wait here. You come
quick.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Inside, it was quiet. A single man was
kneeling, head bowed, praying in front of the large assortment of different
Buddhas. I rush in rather breathlessly. I want to get this over with fast. The
man turns back and looks at me. His face is dark with some inner tension. He
appears to harbor a deep sadness. I ignore his stare deliberately—I don’t want
to start a conversation at this moment. The man gets up, and starts to go
around the shrine. I kneel, and bow before the rather nodescript looking black
statue of the Buddha. As I am about to get up and leave, the man starts a
conversation from the far corner.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Where you from?” I stop in my tracks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Nepal.” Something makes me answer him
very, very reluctantly. I feel I am being very rude, but I don’t want to talk
to him. The Asian feeling of politeness, however, comes to the fore. I cannot <i>not</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> answer him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“You traveling alone?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I am travelling with friends,” I lie.
Whereever I find myself alone, I lie and create whole contingents of travel
companions—the computer industry husband, the two twin children I invented in
2005, groups of friendly travel companions.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“What do you do?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I write books,” I say.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Book writer?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Also I make films.” I smile. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“What kind of books?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Short stories, novels, film scripts.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I am sure you become very famous one
day,” he says, with great intensity. “Your book very famous, like Harry
Potter.” He looks at me, a little withdrawn, a little awed, a little
envious. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I don’t think so, but thank you,” I say.
I laugh. “Thank you.” I thought of my little book of short stories and to the
major publishing drama in which my Nepali publishers hadn’t given me royalty
despite the books selling well for months. I was burnt out fighting them in the
Copyright Office. Little did he know. I was hardly likely to be J.K Rowlings
anytime soon. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I am sure. Sure,” he insists. “Your film
very big in Hollywood.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I laugh. I am still feeling giddy, rushed
and heady. For a moment, I see myself in his eyes—someone with a wildly
successful Hollywood film. It is a dream I have never had before, but from his
gaze, he makes it appear possible. I could one day have a wildly successful
Hollywood film! The thought enters my mind and surprises me. It surprises me
because it had never been my own dream—until now. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">That’s when he adds. “You need a ruby,”
he says. “A ruby will help you to make dream come true.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Now let me tell you, reader, that
although I am a young woman with a fair amount of common sense, and although I
make quick connections very fast, the thought that both these men had told me I
needed rubies appeared to be isolated events at that moment. In my head, this
man was telling me a new story—not one that the booming-voiced man had told me
in the bus station.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I walk out. I get into the tuk-tuk.
“Ready?” the driver looks back at me. “Lets go.” The tuk-tuk drives for about two or three minutes before it
swerves into a side lane again. The tuk-tuk driver insists I get out and enter
the door of a quiet store. I protest again, saying I don’t want gems. But he
has stopped the tuk-tuk, and there is no way for me to walk but in. With a
great deal of reluctance, I enter the place. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The store is full of jewelry in glass
cases, but the place is empty. Then a girl rushes up to ask me: <i>How can I
help you?</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> I feel uneasy, stifled and uncomfortable.
I don’t know why I am here. I feel furious. And then, of course, there is a
woman behind the curving display case. She has on a yellow silk outfit and a
tight matronly smile. It seems impossible to escape interacting with her. I
don’t like the pressure of the girl’s ostentious welcome, and I don’t like this
moment. But again, there is no way to walk but towards the woman who sits there
behind the counter with a benign alligator smile.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Before I know it I am seated in a leather
stool in front of the display case, sweating. The woman is showing me ruby
rings. She quoting figures as high as ten thousand dollars. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I laugh. I say I don’t have that much
money. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She stares at me with disdain. “Well, how
much money do you have?” I have a money belt strapped to my waist, with the
exact amount of three hundred dollars. I still thank my lucky stars I wasn’t
carrying more on me. Then she has
a ring in her hand. “Only three hundred dollars,” she says contemptuously.
I can’t afford the fabulously expensive rings, but someone on a cheap budget
like me could buy a cheap ring,
her tone implies. I felt embarrassed and humiliated. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The ring is curved. It has a tiny ruby on
it. I feel myself taking out my money from my moneybag, knowing something is
very wrong. I don’t even like jewelry, and I find all jewelry flashy and
unnecessary. But here I am, taking out all my money to buy one. All of this
appears to happen very quickly, within a few seconds. I ask, as a last and
desperate measure: “Can I get a receipt?” A receipt, I feel, will somehow
protect me from what I know is clearly an illegal transaction. I can report this, I remember thinking.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She glares at me. “We don’t give
receipts,” she says with great disdain, as if I am asking her for her private
bank account number. “But you can take this certificate of authenticity.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The certificate is in my hand. So is a
little blue velvet box containing my ruby. My three hundred dollars are gone. I walk out a little
desolately. The tuk-tuk driver snickers as I walk out. He drives for a while. I
am sitting there in the tuk-tuk, somber, as I try to process what just happened
to me back there. Then, in a moment of human sympathy, he asks me: “You alone?
You have friends?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It is as if he knows that he just took
part in a scam to skim a tourist off all their cash, and that I could end up
without any money in the hotel. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I have friends,” I lie. I don’t want
this tuk-tuk driver to rob me en-route of my three essential oil bottles and my
bag holding my passport. The tuk-tuk stops somewhere close to the river. “It
very far to Wat Saket,” he says. “I have to make big turn. You take the boat
here in the klong.” I feel desolate as the tuk-tuk driver drives away, clearly
on his way back to collect his share of the loot. I feel strangely berefit. I
have been to this klong before, and I have taken a boat here before, I
recognize. As a boat rushes past me on the klong, I feel like I am seeing a
scene from “Don’t Look Back.” I shiver a little, because I am not sure if the
tuk-tuk driver will come back to kill me. The boat arrives. I get in. The dirty
water sprays in my face, and the boat attendant walking up and down on the
gangplank raises the plastic covering. As I look at all the Thai people inside,
I wonder if all of them are part of a giant hypnotic scam, and soon I will find
myself in a place far away from my destination. The middle class people
clutching their bags of groceries look like actors in a giant swindle. I am to
sit in this boat and be abducted to some faraway place, where they will maybe
rip out my kidneys and my eyes. I have never been so relieved when the boat
arrives at a familiar destination. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A year after this episode, when I had
recovered somewhat from the emotional shaking of this episode, I took the ring to
the jewelry shop on Durbar Marg in Kathmandu, and I asked them to value it for
me. The man took out his magnifying glass. He took a look. “This is a
heat-treated ruby set in white metal,” he said. “The price shouldn’t be more
than $10.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Ten dollars?” I asked. I wasn’t sure I
had heard right.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Ten dollars,” he confirmed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I am an optimist, in many senses of the
word. I had been scammed of $300, it was clear. I had been taken on one of
Thailand’s famous wild goose chases. Three men and two women had worked in
tandem to hypnotize me, make me open my moneybag and take out $300 for a tiny
piece of heat-treated gemstone. I had never thought I'd become one of those
tourists who'd fall under the spell of a mesmerizering scamster. But then, in
that unexpected way, I'd become one of those victims. But as a writer, I had a
story. Maybe it wasn’t the story I had been looking for. Maybe it was totally
unexpected. Maybe the ruby had shown me how gems had always deceived people,
and how their colors and their iridescence promised more than they gave up. But
yet, at the same time, it gave me a story to pursue. Now, I thought, I wanted
to know about the ruby. Where did it come from? What did it signify? Why did
people think that having a ruby would bring me great luck—as obviously these
men were insisting to me? What, in other words, was the lure of the ruby? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">April 4, 2012</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Rubies, it appears, come from Burma. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I encountered rubies on my first day in
Yangon. I am not sure how a traveler makes a decision to orient themselves to a
new city, but mine was to go to the museum. There has to be a starting out
point somewhere, and being a New Yorker for some years, cultural institutions
like museums have always been my favorite places. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The National Museum of Myanmar, however,
was different. It was, first of all, completely empty, except for one or two
foreign tourists wandering through the desolate haunted rooms. After taking a
quick peek at treasures mentioned in the <i>Lonely Planet,</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> I almost rushed out after twenty minutes of traversing each floor
of the five storey building. Each floor got spookier the higher I climbed. The
building itself reminded me of
state-run institutions in Nepal in the Eighties which no longer exist.
The empty rooms echoed with shadows and treasures nobody comes to see. The
owners are long dead, and nobody cares about the objects or identifies with
them as their own heritage. Unlike Europe, or parts of Asia, Burma’s
institutionalized state museum lacked one vital ingredient--life. No crowds surged
or thronged around in devotion, as I had seen people do in Spain, as they lined
up outside the Prado Museum to see masterpieces of Rembrandt. No young people
wearing jeans and earphones crowded around, creating noise and energy as they
do in Bangkok. The security people are indifferent, merely there to sit through
eeiriely quiet days, with no sense of
respect or responsibility to the objects on display. They seem to
command people to go away. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Perhaps the spookiest moment in Myanmar’s
National Museum comes when you hit the top floor, where there is an entire
floor dedicated to the different races of Myanmar. The long room is shrouded in
gloom, but one can see life-sized models of all the different ethnic tribes of
Buma, standing in spectral silence. They stand there, folorn, with limp arms,
like voodoo dolls who have been frozen by the state for its own purposes. On
the sides are written state slogans about good behavior. I stood there by the door, too scared
to enter the haunted room, then quickly made my way downstairs before the
attendant could wonder why I wasn’t in there, admiring the greatness of the
artwork. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">On one of the dark, quiet floors, there
is an entire range of royal jewelry. And everywhere I turn there are rubies and
sapphires, carelessly sprinkled on spittoons and little jeweled boxes. It is
magnificent. I wondered why no Burmese entrepreneur had minted a fortune yet
taking these models and creating new versions of them for the international
market. How interesting it would be to take these beautiful objects and
carefully recreate the years of royal splendor of a bygone age. The only
problem, of course, is that anything newly minted would be manufactured in a
factory in China with imitation paste instead of gems, and the girls who made them
would be paid a pittance and the final product would be sold in Walmarts for
$3. Or if they were mined out of a mine, it would be impossible to ever figure
out if the workers were treated fairly and paid a fair price. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">On the first floor are royal garments of
silk and brocade. It makes me think of my friend Prabal Gurung, who has now
become a fabulously famous fashion designer who makes beautiful clothes for
Hollywood actresses. Some of the clothes are startlingly modern, unusual cuts
ready for the runway. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">On my way out, as a man politely tried to
push on me a souvenir about the museum. I just as politely refused. I had
already paid $5 to support this institution, and I felt I had done my part.
There were whole chapters in <i>Lonely Planet</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> about
the ethical implications of paying money to state-run institutions in Myanmar,
since the money would go to the junta and therefore continue the repressive
political system. I hoped the $5 would go for soap and toilet paper at the
toilet which I had used in the museum, and which had no soap or toilet paper,
and not to buy a bullet for the military.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> I spy a woman who’s also been wandering through the museum
ahead of me. She has white hair, and looks about sixty. I catch up with her and
start a conversation. I am bursting to discuss the haunted-house museum. Her
name is Elsie and she’s from Holland. She’s been to Myanmar in the past, this
is not her first time. “I almost had a panic attack in there,” I say. “It’s a
masoleum.” She laughs and admits that its not the best kept museum in the
world. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Elsie knows a good restaurant close to
here, she says. Would I like to join her for lunch? The restaurant is indeed
nice and clean, with bamboo furniture and seating in the garden. I order an
aubergine salad and ice tea, both of which are excellent. The prices are
entirely reasonable and I feel cheered up to discover this beautiful restaurant
with excellent food. Elsie and I have one of those interesting conversations
that you can often strike up with intelligent women you meet in strange places,
where both of you realize that you
share the same intellectual heritage but probably will not spend more than an
afternoon together. Both of you enjoy the conversation, without expecting it to
stretch beyond a few hours or perhaps a day or two that you will overlap in the
same city. Elsie pays for lunch, and we have an interesting discussion about
the concept of “going Dutch” which she said was an American misunderstanding of
Dutch mores. As we finish lunch, Elsie says: “I am meeting my friend this
afternoon at the Gems Museum. Would you like to go with us?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Elsie says: “Three thousand” in a firm
voice to the taxi driver, and he instantly agrees. The taxi-drivers in Yangon
appear to be a lot more pleasant than those in Kathmandu, whose level of
truculence and aggression has increased over the past seven years. With Nepal’s
political change from authoritative monarchy to political anarchy has come a
free-for-all economy. Taxi-drivers have taken full advantage of this shift,
often refusing to move at all unless offered a substantial chunk of cash. The
meters which regulated fares in Kathmandu have long been tampered with, with
the government office that calibrates the meters taking Rs.2000 per “call” to
wind it up beyond the legal limit. Some sort of taxi order, however, seems to
prevail in Yangon. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As an Austrian had said so approvingly
this morning at the hotel: “Myanmar people, they have discipline. I never go to
India because Indians, they talk very loud and fast and I think there must be
chaos.” I ask him if he’s ever been to India, and he admits he hasn’t. He’s
just imagining the chaos—but in some senses, he’s right. Even the Indians of
Burma appear calm and phlegmatic, not the hyper-excited citizens of Delhi or
Bihar. People in Burma, in general, exude a hushed silence that could be
interpreted in multiple ways—as a free-thinking democrat from a louder Asian
country, you could say the people were repressed by the military state, or as a
Vipassana practitioner you could say they were calm and balanced, or as an
European tourist you could say they were well-behaved. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The Gems Museum is located at 66 Kaba Aye
Pagoda Road. It takes us a while to get there. Elsie's friend Gretchen
instantly starts to shop at the two floors of small stores, all lined with
precious gems. Rubies and emeralds and sapphires are carelessly strung on
cotton threads in the haphazard stores that line the two floors, like they are
so many colorful beads, strung like Christmas ornaments. Gretchen cannot be
persuaded to move upstairs: her hands are full of cheap pearl necklaces and
rubies earrings. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Eventually I wander up to the third
floor, which houses the Gems Museum. Once there, looking at the giant rocks cut
in half, showing their precious jewelled insides, I begin to wonder about the
unreality of it all. All these giant boulders, with precious sapphires, rubies
and emeralds showing from their neatly sliced interiors, make me wonder about
the nature of preciousness. Why do we consider these crystallized rocks, pressured
by time and the earth's volcanic weight into beautiful colors and shapes, to be
so valuable? Why are people willing to kill for these things? What is it about
the hallucinatory colors and shapes of these stones that makes us believe we
are rich? Then I look up from the stones I am staring at, I realize with a
shiver the Gems Museum is empty, and silent, as an abandoned mine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">***</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">At the Shwedagon Pagoda, where I went the
next morning, I felt that silence. All around me, people murmured as they ate
lunch, rested or chatted with friends inside the many pavilions. The hush
permeated the edifices. The elderly looked shrunken, as if they didn’t have
enough to eat, but the young looked like the young everywhere—beautiful in
their youth, flirting with boyfriends and girlfriends, laughing at silly jokes.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The Shwedagon is a strange place, filled
with child-faced Buddhas, neo-mythical
creatures that appear to be modeled on the sphinx, Buddhas with closed
eyes with circular spinning neon lights behind them, farcical caricatures of
Englishmen, and pagodas in various architectural styles. There are statues of
giant owls. A very large crocodile is the balustrade of the steps that descend
to the outside, adding to the atmosphere a sinister sense of danger. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A man detached himself from the shadows
and started to follow me around. “Where are you from?” He asked. My instinct
was to avoid touts, and I walked ahead, but he didn’t seem to mind, and kept
following me. Reluctantly, I answered: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Nepal.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> “This pagoda was built by Nepali people,” he said, pointing
to one where there appeared to be a lot of Buddhas. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I don’t think so,” I said, contradicting
what I thought was his “you stupid, gullible tourist” line. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Yes,” he says earnestly, seemingly
unpeturbed by my disbelief. “They made money trading rubies and jade. Now many
live in Bangkok. This pavilion has 64 Buddhas.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> “Oh,” I say. Perhaps he was telling the truth. Maybe the
Nepalis did build this pagoda—it was plausible. I’d just spied a Nepali
grandmother, wearing her choli, and with the <i>dhungri</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> and<i> bulaki</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> jewelry, only a few
minutes ago, walking around near the shrine before she vanished. In the course
of my travels I would come to find out my intuition in following the ruby had
been right—the Nepalese had a very strong historical connection with rubies
indeed. The primary area in Burma where it was mined, Mogok, was controlled by
a company which only hired Gorkhalis since British colonial days. Nobody else
was allowed in this area. The reason, I was told, is because the British and
then the Burmese junta only trusted the Gorkhalis with this precious commodity.
Each time I asked people about Mogok though, they told me tactfully foreigners
were not allowed into this restricted area. I would not visit Mogok, but I
would come to meet many of those who originated from there, and I would realize
that many people who originated from Nepal had become wealthy trading in rubies
through the last two hundred years of Burmese history. But that, dear reader,
is another story. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I’m a driver,” he says. “My car, it is
being repaired. So I have no work now for two weeks. I thought I’d come to
pagoda.” That’s why I am free to show you around, he says, in a friendly way.
Of course, I should have been suspicious, and I was. But it is hard to shake
off touts. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He takes me to a Buddha statue, and asks
me to pour water on the statue nine times. He hands me a silver cup. I’m happy
to do it. As I pour the water over the Buddha, this thought comes to me:
“Please free the people of Burma from suffering.” I feel a tiny bit of
uneasiness with this wish—I do not want to be like the people with the White
Savior Complex (as Teju Cole has wittily coined), and it is not my place to
wish just one people to be free of suffering. On the other hand, the slow pace
of the old people, looking down with hopeless eyes, the young people laughing
around me, exquisitely vulnerable in their naivete, the young children with
troubled eyes who wanted to know what existed beyond these pagodas—all of them
move me. I don’t know if the alternative to what exists now—the rush of global
transnational capitalism that will flood this country—will necessarily bring
more peace. But what is clear is that something is amiss here, and I wish it to be changed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I think of the cute little boy who’d just
looked at me with that troubled look that seem so familiar to me—the look that
must have been on my own face as a child as I’d seen the tourists and notice
their sense of ease, comfort and mobility. Those qualities had appeared so
foreign, so distance, so inaccessible, to my eyes. I was a little Brahmin girl,
shuttered within high walls with no hopes of leaving. And yet, through that
glimpse of that other world, a new life had presented itself to me. I wonder
how much of those high walls that shielded me inside a gated compound still
remains inside me—perhaps it is a lifelong process, chipping away at the sense
of “self” and “other” engrained by a cloistered upbringing. Perhaps that sense
of distance can only be cancelled with Buddhist awareness and compassion of our
common human nature. The lectures of the Tibetan rimpoches which I’d attended
over the years came back to me. The Tibetan Buddhists have a remarkable ability
to see the nature of our suffering, and through it, our common humanity. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Does Vipassana meditation, which I’d
learnt from SN Goenka’s tradition, allow for this kind of universal
connection? I closed my eyes and
am back again in the green sunlit hilltop of Pokhara, where by the lake we
listened once again to the voice of our teacher teaching us a technique he said
went back to Gautama Buddha. I remembered again what the essential core of that
teaching had been for me—the awareness of going back to that molecular level,
in which all ego dissolves into the universal transcendence of understanding
that we are all a manifestation of the same energy. Goenka-ji had learnt the
Vipassana technique from a Burmese monk. Burma, for those of us who got our
first taste of Buddhist meditation via Vipassana, had become known as the land
where Buddha’s original teachings had been preserved intact. Burma, therefore,
was the ultimate pilgrimage place.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span lang="EN-US">How did a culture steeped in this
tradition of universal connection become the home of a military junta? In one
way, it makes sense. Vipassana, the core of the Hinayana Buddhist tradition,
emphasizes perfect control of the mind, not to be disturbed by any ripples of
greed, hatred, anger, envy, jealousy et cetera. The external circumstances do
not matter. What matters is the equilibrium of the mind. So human rights
abuses, violations against minorities, slave labor—none of this can bring
outrage because outrage disturbs the mind. This sense of Hinayana Buddhism
being a pure tradition, one above and beyond all spiritual pathways, may then
have led to the downfall of Burma. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The Mahayana Buddhists as found in Tibet,
on the other hand, have boddhisatvas with long swords who fight off demons. The
boddhisatvas are enlightened beings who have chosen to return to earth to save
people who need their help. Ingrained in this idea is the notion that all is
not perfect on Planet Earth, that people often do hurt each other, and that a
spiritual tradition must have a way to deal with demons and oppressors (whether
through tough love or compassion), and cannot simply focus only on one’s own
mental impurities. In Tibet, the tradition of ahimsa or non-violence has been
so ingrained the only way for people to protest against the Chinese regime is
self-immolation. And yet even in this violent act is the acknowledgement that
an action is needed—and that one cannot sit there passively waiting for one’s
own mentally equanimous mind to deal with external injustice.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Reading “<i>George Orwell in Burma</i></span><span lang="EN-US">” by Emma Larkin, you would think the giant repressive military
junta regime gets its entire inspiration from British colonialism. She gives so
many examples it is hard not to be convinced that the repressive military
system is solely the fault of the British. But why it took on this uniquely
Burmese form is of course left unanswered. Why did the Indians, who also
experienced British colonialism, not exhibit the same repressive system later?
Although the confluence of spiritual traditions which constitute Hinduism is
the place where the notion of the perfect, balanced mind started, Hinduism also
has a vocal tradition of fighting against injustice. Two of its most important
religious epics, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, are magnum opuses of wars
fought in the name of justice. Perhaps the very loud Indians who argue
endlessly about all social issues are one reason why a military junta was never
able to take over power in India.
Some may argue and say secular India, not Hindu India, keeps at bay a
military junta. This is possible—except secularism by itself is not the
defining factor to stop a military junta. There are many secular countries in
the world where the military is very powerful and juntas have ruled supreme. Of
course, India’s democracy is not perfect either—with army violence against
Kashmiris and ethnic minorities in the north-east paralleling those of the
abuses of Burma’s army. But at least the political system hasn’t been seized by
the military, as it has in Burma. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I open my eyes again. My guide is telling
me about the giant bell in one of the pavilions. He says: “The British try to
steal this bell, but it heavy. It fall into the river. Then the Burma people
bring it back.” I gathered the bell had lain at the bottom of the river. Nobody
could budge it. The British officers told the Burmese they could have it back,
if they could dredge it out of the bottom of the river. Which is what they did,
using simple manpower. He hands me a long wooden pole and shows me how to hit
the bell to make it ring—I wonder if it is to scare away the ghosts of
colonialists of the past. The three adorable children sitting underneath the
bell like little pixies move away, giggling. I try it once, twice. It makes a
long hollow boom, like the booming sound you hear in Tibetan monasteries. The sort of hollow boom that breaks your
body open with its aural power, making you shiver—<i>from the top of your head
to the tip of your toes</i></span><span lang="EN-US">, I can hear Vipassana guru
Goenka’s voice intoning--like you are falling apart into atoms.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The Tibetan Buddhists chant: <i>Om mani
padme hum. Om is the jewel in the lotus. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Om is the sound of universal connection,
the primordial sound that encompasses the universe. The lotus is the Buddha
dharma. And om, therefore, is the jewel in the lotus. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I looked out at the mis-en-scene in front
of me—the serene Buddhas, the pagodas signaling imperial ambitions, the thin
elderly people taking their evening walks, the laughing women under their
umbrellas, and then the smiling tout in front of me who is surely going to
overcharge me heavily for his volunteer tour services—and wonder if I have not
found my ruby in this simple line. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><i>You can purchase Emanations here:</i></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><i>https://www.amazon.com/Emanations-Chorus-Pleiades-Carter-Kaplan/dp/1729772536</i></span></div>
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Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-7617831584730016822019-09-04T13:34:00.001+05:452019-09-04T13:34:15.042+05:45 DIVINE TREES<i> Sushma Joshi, Shangri La Inflight Magazine, 2019</i><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">The spiritual heart of Hinduism is deeply
entwined with eco-consciousness. It is no surprise therefore to find out that
trees are central to the daily worship and evocations of the divine. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The <i>kalpavrikshya</i></span><span lang="EN-US">, or wish-fulfilling tree, is one of the three valuable treasures
that appeared during the churning of the oceans, according to Vedic scriptures.
The other was Kamadhenu, the wish-fulfilling cow which fulfilled a supplicant’s
every desire. The churning of the oceans or<i> samudra manthan</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> was a contest that took place between the gods and the demons in
their search for <i>amrita</i></span><span lang="EN-US">, the nectar of
immortality. Indra, the lord of the heavens, claimed this divine tree as soon
as it appeared, and took it to his abode. Some scriptures describe the <i>kalpavrikshya</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> as a metaphor for the Milky Way in the sky. The night-flowering
jasmine, or<i> parijat </i></span><span lang="EN-US">tree, is one of the many
trees on this material realm associated with the kalpavrikshya. In my own
house, the intense perfume of these flowers still fills my bedroom from a tree
which leans onto my roof from my uncle’s garden, and is a daily reminder of the
divinity residing within floral forms. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The most visible trees of the Hindu faith
is the peepul tree, which is worshipped as the form of Lord Narayan himself.
The peepul, or <i>ficus religiosa</i></span><span lang="EN-US">, once used to be
part of a dyad with the banyan (<i>bar</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> in Nepali)
tree. The two were planted together to create a chautari, or resting place
where travelers weary from the hot sun could rest. The sprawling foliage of the
two trees provided a cooling shade. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">According to Tirtha Bahadur Shrestha, a
plant ecologist and bio-geographer, people in villages used to marry the two
trees in a marriage ceremony with a big bhoj feast and music, “just like people
did with their children.” This
chautara tradition has now died out with the rise of modern transport and
automobiles. “But the peepul tree continues to remain a central part of each
tole where it is worshipped with red tika and sacred thread, including in my
Sanepa neighborhood,” Tirtha-ji told me. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">For the Buddhists, the banyan holds special
importance, for it is under a banyan tree in Bodh Gaya that the Buddha gained
enlightenment 2600 years ago. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Tirtha Bahadur Shrestha, now 82 years old,
received his Ph.D from the University of Grenoble in 1977, and worked for the
Department of Plant Resources for 35 years. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">He’s also a life member of the Nepal
Academy. He mentions the Pancha-Pallava as another important way in which
leaves intertwine with Hindu religious practice. The leaves of five trees are
dried and tied into a bouquet (known as a “mutha”), and then sold in shops
selling religious items. These can be purchased around Dashain or Navaratri.
Pancha-Pallava is used for<i> shanti swosti</i></span><span lang="EN-US">, or for
a ritual to bring about peace. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">One of the leaves used in the
Pancha-Pallava comes from the <i>chaap</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> tree.
According to Tirtha-ji, local mythology says the famous deity of Changu-Narayan
was born under a <i>chaap</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> tree. The leaf of the aap
or mango tree is another. These leaves are used to decorate the jagge or mandap
created out of bamboo to conduct vedic fire rituals, including weddings. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The rudrakshya tree is sacred to ascetics
and sadhus who wear a garland of these beads to show their adherence to the
Shaivite path. It is also sacred to laypeople who believe a rudrakshya can ward
off serious disease and bring about prosperity and good luck. Rudra is the angry form of Shiva.
Various conflicting sources tell the story of how Lord Shiva shed tears--either
in the act of compassion for humanity’s distress, or after killing a couple of
demons. These tears turned into the rudrakshya beads we know today. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Rudrakshya beads rise in value according to
their number of “faces”—a five-faced one is the most common one and sells for
around 5-10 rupees, while an one-faced bead goes for lakhs of rupees in the
market. The beads are supposed to bring great luck and prosperity. They are
also thought by some to have medicinal value. There’s now a thriving market in
fake beads due to their perceived spiritual power. In our own house, we have a
rudraksya tree which rains down piles of five-faced beads each year. The fleshy
blue-black covering is nibbled on by crows and other birds before they are
scrubbed with a solution of soapnut. We then send bags of these beads as offerings
to various tirthasthal or pilgrimage places—sacred spaces of Shiva worship
which we are not able to travel to ourselves. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I asked Tirtha-ji if rudrakshya had
medicinal usages. He said he did not know the specifics, but he mentioned that
most leaves and herbs of Ayurveda have sarvanga usages, and are not just “one
chemical, one medicine” remedies. In other words, leaves, roots, barks, fruits
and flowers of various trees, including sacred ones, are used for the overall
health of the body, and not just for one specific isolated ailment as in the
Western medical pharmacopeia. A trained vaidya or traditional Ayurvedic healer
would know the precise usages, as well as toxicological signs, for each part of
a tree. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The sal tree holds great importance in Nepali
life and culture. Every offering of flowers, colored powders and banana fruit
to the deities is offered in a little leaf bowl stitched out of sal leaves. Sal
(<i>shorea robusta</i></span><span lang="EN-US">) is the only tree whose leaves
remain green even after a few months of being picked. In addition, they are
waterproof and immune to insects. This property has provided people of South
Asia with an easily available biodegradable and disposable leaf on which to eat
out during ritual feasts, child’s rice feeding ceremony, wedding party and
other ceremonial gatherings. Plates (tapari), big bowls (bota) and small bowls
(duna) are stitched with slivers of fine bamboo sticks, known as sinka. Elderly
women of the household gather to create these food vessels. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Unlike plastic, sal leaf plates can be
thrown away with no ecological damage to the environment. Despite the deep
ecological intelligence behind these vessels, Nepalese continue to use
glittering plates made out of plastic, styrofoam and aluminum tinfoil to eat
out in festive gatherings. These non-biodegradable plastic objects break down
into a soup of microplastic, polluting sacred rivers and fertile agricultural
land. The Western scientific worldview which permeates our educational system
makes the biodegradable leaf bowl appear backward, a primitive object made with
little engineering skill and therefore of no value. This devaluing of
indigenous culture has led to life-threatening pollution in the entire region. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The Kapoor or camphor tree is also sacred
to Hindus. It has also been used in Ayurveda, the healing system of the Indian
subcontinent, for over 4000 years. Although it is not worshipped as a form of
the divine like the peepul or the banyan,
the camphor extracted from the tree is used as a sacred offering for
deities. The incense made from camphor is thought to have medicinal value,
especially for respiratory distress and for pacifying the nervous system. It
may also keep away microbes, termites and destructive insects. Nepali incense
(bateko dhoop), which is made out of various herbs tied together in lokta paper
and twisted, always contains camphor. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The bel patra or bel leaf is offered to
Lord Shiva at Pashupatinath, Nepal’s most sacred Shiva shrine. According to
folklore, Lord Shiva loves this leaf the most. The bael tree is believed to be
a manifestation of Parvati, Lord Shiva’s consort. The Shri Shuktam of the Rig
Veda mentions that goddess Lakshmi, the consort of Lord Vishnu and the goddess
of wealth and prosperity, resides in this tree. Since Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva
embody the trimurti or three manifestation of the same divine force, seeing the
tree as consort of both Shiva and Vishnu is not an illogical paradox.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">In a similar fashion, the pomegranate tree
is viewed as the abode of Laxmi, as is the coconut tree. The fruits of both are
offered to the goddess. Both fruits are abundant in nutritional value, and
anybody eating these fruits are sure to enjoy the benefits of prosperity that
comes from being in good health. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The bael (aegle marmelos) tree is also used
in a special ceremony by the Newar community to protect girls against
widowhood. Before a girl reaches puberty, she is married to a bael fruit, in
which Lord Vishnu is thought to reside. Even if her human husband dies, a girl
who has done a Bel Vivaha will never be a widow, since she is the eternal
consort of the divine protector. In a similar fashion, Bollywood star Aishwarya
Rai was widely reported to have married a peepul tree before her marriage to
Abhisekh Bacchan to offset the effects of the planet Mars being placed in an
inauspicious house in her kundali chart. Although this tradition doesn’t exist
in Nepal, it illustrates the belief of the divine presence within sacred trees.
</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">A small amount of sandalwood paste,
consecrated from the puja ceremonies at Pashupatinath Temple, is spread on the
bel patta before it is applied to the forehead. Sandlewood or chandan trees,
both red and white, are very sacred to Hindus. When the wood is rubbed on a
stone surface with water, it produces a milky, aromatic paste which is
considered a gift of Shiva, and which is applied to the forehead to awaken the
inner senses and make one conscious of the presence of the divine. In Ayurveda,
chandan is used to treat skin diseases and also to keep the body cool during
the hot season. The red sandlewood tree takes much longer to grow, and is now
an endangered species whose trade is prohibited by the Convention on
International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES). This
has led to a thriving smuggling trade. In 2011, India had to request Nepal to
stop the smuggling of Indian red sandlewood to China, logs of which were being
smuggled via Nepal. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Hindus revere trees for multiple reasons,
but their primary reason is simple: the divine is not anthropomorphic, but can
shape-shift and enter any form, including those of trees. Embedded in this
worldview is a deeply biocentric view of the world. The samsara or
manifestations of existence is not just seen through anthropocentric or
human-centered eyes, but through the eyes of all beings, whether human, animal,
plant, or tree. How can a tree containing Vishnu the protector be chopped down?
How can a tree which showers the tears of Rudra onto the ground not evoke a
deep universal empathy for the suffering of all beings in the person who wears
a garland of his tears? How can a tree which spreads the essence of dharma onto
people through its perfume not be more precious than gold? </span></div>
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Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-1495695157604872562019-08-12T16:14:00.003+05:452019-08-12T16:16:08.232+05:45Beautifully written Goodreads review by Richa Bhattarai<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; line-height: 21px;">काठमाडौँको एक संभ्रान्त परिवारमा काम गर्न बसेको दश वर्षे गोपीले एकदिन अनौठो खानेकुरा ‘चिज’का बारे सुन्छ । घरको कान्छो छोराले स्विजरल्याण्डबाट ल्याएको सेतो चिज देख्दा उसलाई उकुसमुकुस हुन्छ ः के होला त्यो, एकपटक चाख्न पाए कस्तो हुँदो हो ? तर अन्तिम टुक्रा पनि कान्छी नातिनीले खाइदिएपछि ऊ थुक निलेर हेरेको हे¥यै हुन्छ । अनि शुरु हुन्छ— उसको चीज कल्पना र सपना । त्यसपछिका बीस वर्षमा उसले बाहिरी दुनियाको भेउ पाउँछ, बिहे गर्छ, जागीर खान्छ । तर त्यो रहस्यमय चीजको तिर्सनाले छाड्दैन उसलाई । एक दिन आँट गरेरै चिज किन्छ उसले, दुग्ध विकास संस्थानबाट । वर्षौँदेखिको धोको पुरा हुन लाग्दा गोपीको मनमा जस्तो उथलपुथल होला, त्यत्तिकै मात्रा उत्सुकता जगाउन सफल भएकी छिन पाठकका मनमा पनि यो ‘चिज’ गाथा रच्ने सुष्मा मास्केले । उनको कथा सङग्रह द एण्ड अफ द वल्र्डमा समेटिएको पहिलो कथा चीजले नै उनको लेखन शैलीको झल्को दिन्छ— हरेक घटनालाई मिहीन पाराले केलाएर अथ्र्याउने, आफ्ना पात्रका भावनालाई पाठकसामु उदाङ्गै पारिदिने, आदर्शमा नबगेर यथार्थमै रमाउने ।</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; line-height: 21px;">पहिलो कथामा जसरी गोपीलाई चिज खाने तृष्णा हुन्छ, सङ्ग्रहका अरु सातवटै कथाका पात्रका आ–आफ्ना लालसा हुन्छन्, व्यक्तिगत अभावहरुसँग जुझिरहन्छन् सबै । कसैलाई खोजी हुन्छ मन मिल्ने साथीको, अरुलाई सत्ताको, शान्तिको र प्रायःलाई मात्र दुई छाक भातको । सुष्माले छानेका पात्रहरुले शायद कहिल्यै यी कथाहरु पढ्ने छैनन्, आफ्ना जीवनका सत्य घटना सबैले पढेर चुकचुकाएका थाहा पाउने छैनन् । सुष्माले ती सबै दुखी, निमुखा, भाग्यले पनि ठगेका पीडितहरुको कथा रोजेकी छिन सुनाउन । आफ्ना एकनासे यन्त्रसमान जिन्दगीका हामीले आफ्नै देशका ती बासिन्दाहरु जसको बारे हामी सोच्न भ्याउँदैनौँ र चाहँदैनौँ, तिनको दैनिकी प्रस्तुत गरेकी छिन् कथाकारले । माओवादी जनसेनाबाट भागेर तस्करीमा फँसेको पूर्वमिस्त्रीको, आफ्नो पूख्र्यौली जग्गा बेच्न बाध्य पारिएको किसानको, बेलायती सेनामा भर्ती हुन नपाएको ठिटोको, सुन्तला खान पनि संसारको अन्त्य पर्खनुपर्ने परिवारको, पानी पर्दा बाल्यकाल सम्झेर छट्पटाउने युवतीको ।</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; line-height: 21px;">दोस्रो कथा बिट्रेयलमा शीर्षकअनुसार नै धोका दिन्छ, माओवादीबाट प्रहरी बनेको महेशले आफूले भाइ नै मानेको साथीलाई । अरुभन्दा अलि नाटकीय लाग्ने यो कथामा पनि नेपाली जनजीवनको चित्रण छ ः भारतमा काम गर्ने नेपाली कामदारको, अनेक आशा लिएर जनयुद्धमा होमिएका जोशिला युवाको, बिग्रदोँ राजनीतिक अवस्था र दयनीय सुरक्षा व्यवस्थाका कारण बाटो बिराएका नागरिकको । कथाकारले यी सबै गतिविधि कुनै अग्लो ठाँउबाट नियालेर वर्णन गरेकी छैनन् – उनी संलग्न छिन् पात्रकै क्रियाकलापमा, द्विविधा र निर्णयमा ।</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; line-height: 21px;">अर्को कथा छ वेइटिङ फर रेन । तर यो कथाका गाउँलेहरु वर्षालाई मात्र पर्खिरहेका छैनन्, आफ्ना दिन फेरिन्छन् कि, कुनै जनप्रतिनिधिले मर्का बुझिदिन्छ कि भनी बाटो हेरिहन्छन् । यो पखाई कति निरर्थक छ भनी प्रष्ट हुन्छ उनीहरुकै प्रिय नेताले फकाई–धम्काई गरिब लालुको जग्गा किनेको खुलासा पछि । ल एण्ड अर्डरमा कानुन र अनुशासनको रक्षा गर्न खटिएका प्रहरी जवानबारे पढ्न जति रमाइलो छ, त्यति नै पीडादायी पनि । कैदीझैँ थुनिएर बस्न बाध्य उनीहरु आफ्नो शरीरको, पेटको र आत्माको भोकलाई छुट्याउन नसक्ने अवस्थामा पुग्छन्, आफैँले समात्नुपर्ने अपराधीझैँ हुन्छन् ।</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; line-height: 21px;">सङ्ग्रहको शीर्षक रहेको द एण्ड अफ द वल्र्ड अर्थात् संसारको अन्त्य को आधार हो त्यही हल्ला जसले कयौँ नेपालीलाई त्रसित बनाएको थियो— ग्रहहरु बेमेल भएर पृथ्वी ध्वस्त हुने हल्ला । अलिकति हाँसोउठ्दो र निकै मायालाग्दो प्रतिक्रिया जनाउँछन् पात्रहरुले यो भविष्यमाणीप्रति । पाँचौ कथा म्याच मेकिङको परिवेश अलि भिन्दै छ, भारतमा बस्दै आएको नेपाली परिवारले छोरीको बिहे गराउन रचेका प्रपञ्च बारे । अलि सुखद लाग्ने कथा पनि यही हो सङ्ग्रहमा ।</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; line-height: 21px;">ग्रिन ड्र्यागनफ्लाइ अत्यन्त मन छुने कथा छ— दिदीबहिनीको मायाको, बाढीपहिरोले गरिखान पनि नदिने कष्टकर जीवनको, जस्तै विपत्ति पनि सहन सक्ने आँटिला नेपालीको । अन्तिम कथा द ब्लकेड पनि जानेसुनेकै विषयमा आधारित छ ः बाराको बुद्ध र माओवादीले राजधानीलाई घेर्ने धम्की । भारतमा मजदूरी गरी फर्केको हस्तबहादुरले आफ्नै देशमा भोग्नुपरेका हण्डर, प्रहरी ज्यादती, र विशेष गरी घर पसेपछि देख्नुपरेको दृश्य कल्पन पाठकलाई नै निकै गाह्रो हुन्छ ।</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; line-height: 21px;">यी सबै कथा साँच्चै नै हाम्रा देशवासीका दैनिकी हुन्, कसैका नियात्रा, कसैका आत्मवृत्तान्त हुन् । अलिकति व्यङ्य गर्दै र धेरैजसो गम्भीर नै भएर शब्द चयन गरेकी छिन् कथाकारले, पात्र र परिवेशलाई जिउँदो तुल्याउन । हामीमध्येकै मानिस छन् यहाँ ः सिमलको भूवाझैँ कपला भएका बुढाबा, मार्बलजस्तै टल्किने दाँत देखाएर ङिच्चिने नेता, बाढीले बगाउन लागेको बेला देउता खोज्न फर्केकी अधबेस्री हजुरआमा ।</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; line-height: 21px;">कथाकारले आफ्ना पात्रहरुप्रति देखाएकी सद्भावका कारण पाठक पनि उनीहरुलाई अपनाउन बाध्य हुन्छन् — उनीहरुका पीर–मर्का, सपना, भविष्य सबै बुझिसकेपछि साथी झैँ लाग्छन् सबै पात्र । यही नै हो कथाकारको विशेषता । र उनको अर्को विशेषता हो निस्फिक्री भएर अङ्ग्रेजी वाक्यहरुका बीचमा नेपाली शब्द हुलिदिनु ः गाउँले, कुकुनी, बा, अैया, लाहुरे । कतै शब्दको अर्थ दिन्छिन्, कहीँ यत्तिकै मिसाइदिन्छिन् । एउटा पात्र अचानक गाउन थाल्छ ः तिमी नभए जिन्दगानी काँडासरी छ... । अङ्ग्रेजी माध्यम मात्र भएको छ यहाँ, प्राण छ नेपाली ।</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; line-height: 21px;">हाम्रा देशका प्रमुख घटना, हामीलाई प्राप्त उपलब्धि, समस्या र चुनौति, राजनीतिक अस्थिरता— केही पनि छुटेका छैनन् कथामा । कुनै ठाउँमा जनयुद्धका बारे वा सामाजिक संरचनाबारे अलि बढी नै व्याख्या गरेकी छिन् कथाकारले, कतिलाई पट्यार लाग्न सक्छ कथाभित्र निबन्ध पढ्नुपर्दा । धेरैलाई निराशा र चिन्ताले पनि छोप्ला यी कथा पढेपछि । तर यही नै सुष्माको कौशल हो ः हरेक नेपालीका मनका पीडा र अभावलाई जस्ताको तस्तै, सरल र सुन्दर भाषामा पोख्न सक्नु । </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif;">https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13382178-the-end-of-the-world</span></span>Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-50496624987629008882019-05-07T23:29:00.000+05:452019-05-07T23:32:15.143+05:45HOW THE HINDUS CONTRIBUTED TO THE HISTORY OF SCIENCE<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19.5px;">
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<span lang="EN-US"> </span>Unlike the Western calendar, the Nepali New Year (and a host of other New Years all over Asia, from Thailand to Tamil Nadu to Bangladesh) starts on April 14<sup>th</sup>. Why, you may ask. The reason is astrological. The Sun has completed its path around the twelve signs of the zodiac, and on 14<sup>th</sup> April enters Aries, the first sign, to start the cycle anew.</div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Aries is ruled by the ram, an animal characterized by quick movement and big leaps. Gamboling along, the first sign shows the initiative and drive of new beginnings, the energy to start afresh, and the power of regeneration.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Astrology draws mockery from most people. A jyotish, or astrologer of the East, is casually called “bajay,” or grandfather, with a slight element of condescension. Western astrologers are often thought of as weak-minded women with too many scented candles.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Part of jyotish’s shabby reputation comes from this conflation: at some point, Western astrologers and Eastern jyotish became conflated as one and the same tradition, although they are vastly different in history and nature.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">To point out the most basic difference: Western astrologers and Eastern jyotish do not share the same zodiac. Despite using the same names for signs, the zodiac is at least 23 degrees apart. This means the Aries of jyotish and the Aries of Western astrology are pointing to two entirely different sections of the sky.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">To take an example: Western astrologers say that Saturn is currently transiting in Capricorn, whereas the jyotish say it is in Sagittarius, one sign behind. All of us will assume, due the presumed supremacy of Western science, that the Western one must be correct. But in fact if you consult scientific astronomical sites, you will see that Saturn is close to the real constellation of Sagittarius. In other words, jyotish are following real constellations and real movement of planets, whereas Western astrologers are following an imaginary zodiac in the sky which doesn’t correspond to the movement of heavenly bodies into observable constellations.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I will spare you the elaborate reasonings put forth by Western practitioners of astrology of why they are correct about their zodiac, but it has something to do with the “procession of the equinoxes.” Anyways, it is wholly wrong. Saturn is not anywhere near Capricorn at present. But most followers of astrology don’t care about these nuances. You can see millions of followers watching popular Western astrologers give forth their psychological readings about love and matchmaking on Youtube, whereas the jyotish doing astronomically correct readings get a few thousand views, at most.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Jyotish, the Eastern tradition of computing the movement of stars and planets, is called the “sidereal” by in Western parlance. “Sidereal” means “of the stars.” Jyotish practitioners have always followed the movement of planets into constellations on a daily basis, because the movement of the moon, sun and planets remain central to Hindu cosmology and rules its every second, minute and hour. All of this is somehow obscured and overlooked, and all astronomical findings have passed gracefully as a legacy of sharply observational Western minds. We assume astronomy sprung, like Athena out of the head of Zeus, from the fountainhead of rational Western science. But there is plenty of evidence to suggest that ancient Hindus were observing outer space with great acuity and precision long before Westerners. The Surya Sidddhanta is one such treatise which documents astronomical studies in ancient India.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The recent furor created by the visualization of the black hole by MIT scientists made me realize how much observations of astronomical phenomena by Eastern traditions have been obscured by the allusive language and imagery of Sanskrit and jyotish. The jyotish knew the galactic center, the center of the Milky Way where the black hole is located, as “Mula Nakshaktra.” “Mula” means the root, and it signifies origins, roots and the source of all life. Some have suggested this nakshaktra corresponds to the imagery of the navel of Vishnu, out of which all life came forth.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Mula is ruled by Nirrti, the fierce goddess of dissolution and destruction. It is easy to imagine Nirrti as a proto- Kali. Kali is pictured garlanded with skulls, holding a skull, with her tongue hanging out. Her feet are planted on Shiva, the cosmic force of destruction. Kali is Time personified. She brings forth life, and then swallows back into her vast black underbelly every form of life that was ever created, through the cyclical process of birth, death and regeneration. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Jyotish give precise calculations for the nakshaktras (constellations), of which they are 27. Ashwini, the first nakshaktra, is where Sun begins its annual journey. The Ashwin Kumars were the horses that drove the Sun on his chariot to journey around the earth everyday, in Hindu mythology. Like the horses, people born under Ashwini nakshaktra are swift, fast and efficient decision makers who are always on the mark. They are also thought to be great healers.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Ashwini is ruled by<i> </i></span><span lang="EN-US">Ketu. Ketu is one of the<i> navagraha</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> of Hindu cosmology, and the first graha in the sequence of the <i>dasha</i></span><span lang="EN-US">chronology. <i>Graha</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> is a spiritual force that seizes when the time is right. Western translators have reduced Rahu and Ketu to “the north and the south nodes of the moon.” I personally feel this is an entirely inadequate material description of what are essentially powerful spiritual forces. The Sanskrit term <i>graha</i></span><span lang="EN-US"> encompasses a host of attributes missing from mere “planet,” which is seen to be more of an aggregation of rocks and gases floating at a certain axis and velocity.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Just because jyotish has these powerful poetic and philosophical concepts mixed in with precise mathematical calculations of astronomical phenomena doesn’t disqualify it’s scientific contribution. But in fact this is what modern science has done: it has seen the entire jyotish corpus as devoid of any scientific merit. I find this disheartening not only because this approach encourages ostensibly scientific young people of the subcontinent to reject their philosophical and scientific heritage, but also because it appropriates what may have been the first studies of mathematics and astronomy as “Western” inventions.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Hindus continue to watch and calculate the movement of the planets everyday because for us this is not just a passing amusement and scientific curiosity, but the very basis of our spiritual life. Where the planets go dictate our fasts, our devotional pujas, our shraddhas to the dead. Every material move, whether to buy land and house, or move to a new location, is dictated by the good or bad timing of planetary movement.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It is time to recognize the centrality of how Hindus have always seen the heavenly bodies as part and parcel of our own material existence on earth, and how we have never felt separate from our billion-year old origins. It is time to recognize that this spiritual practice may have been the origins of not just present day astronomy, but many elements of modern mathematics, including the now indispensable zero, which sprung out of these daily complex calculations. </span></div>
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Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-87763041537660053742018-10-01T14:31:00.004+05:452018-10-01T14:33:29.410+05:45ECS Magazine ArchivesA few of my articles from ECS Magazine is now up in <a href="http://ecs.com.np/author/sushma-joshi">this link</a>. They including this article.<br />
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<b>Reconstructing Heritage</b></div>
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Reconstruction of heritage has risen to the top of priorities in the world of development post- earthquake. Even as the aftershocks continued to hit after the 2015 earthquake, I remember the first and primary concern for most people in Kathmandu was for the Dharahara, the Kathmandu Durbar Square, the historic city of Patan, and other material architectural heritage. People could be united around these monuments and feel their loss in a way they couldn’t for those 400,000 who lost their mud-thatched huts and stone cottages.</div>
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News about the powerful destruction in other parts of the country trickled in as hearsay, at first: the erasure of Langtang village from the face of the Earth took a while for us to understand. A wonderful, young tourist guide came to visit me a day or so after the big quake in the hospital. He told me how he had been trekking in Langtang when giant boulders started to fall down the side of the cliffs like “<em style="box-shadow: none; box-sizing: border-box; outline: none;">makai ko dana</em>” (maize kernels). I asked him how he survived. He said he would run for twenty minutes or so, and then take shelter when he knew the boulders would start to burst down again. “I’m afraid I was a little stern with my tour group,” he said, frowning a little, as if he feared he been too strict. “I told them they had to make a run for it.”</div>
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I couldn’t help thinking how polite the Nepalis are, always—he had just saved the lives of a group of travelers, and yet his concern was still with whether he’d been too forceful with his speech. He had physically picked up a woman from Singapore, one of the trekkers in his group, and run all the way to Dhunche, because “I realized she would not be able to make it.” The rivers are full of dead bodies, he said, and we looked at each other in silence. For the first time I got a keyhole glimpse to the magnitude of what had happened. Of course, I was in the B and B Hospital, where the doctors had to forcibly lock the gates after too many injured and dying people started to block the corridors and the stairways, so I knew things were bad. In the midst of all these chaos and unaccounted deaths, the only way for people to do something was to focus on those beloved monuments and landmarks, which became icons representative of all that was lost. On the day my young friend visited me, he had just come from cleaning up the Kathmandu Durbar Square. In the midst of all that horror, I could not help admiring the serious, conversational way in which he told me all this, as if we were sitting there chatting in his house’s threshold in the village, and how fresh and clean he looked, and the way his smile never wavered, as if he hadn’t seen horrors of the Earth opening up.</div>
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While these iconic monuments and historic sites definitely deserve to be rebuilt, and rebuilt with proper seismic standards, I am struck by how blank the knowledge of those who propose to support these reconstructions can be. Nepal is replete with brick and mortar buildings, which layer its outward cities, and those are visible to the outer eye. But, the architecture often rests upon intangible heritage like <em style="box-shadow: none; box-sizing: border-box; outline: none;">jyotishis</em> preparing auspicious times and charts, priests conducting secret tantric goddess worship, and everyday folks sharing oral narratives about demons and ghosts. Myths, legends, and family histories that may or may not have been transliterated into a textual source are woven into the architecture and are invisible to the causal outsider. How can Kathmandu be rebuilt by banks in Germany if they do not take the traditional knowledge of Bhaktapur locals into account? What can bankers know about the intersecting knowledge required to create brick and mortar, stone and wood carving, pottery and bronze? But, most importantly, what do they know of the intangible heritage that triggered these monuments in the first place, the goddesses and the deities that populate the rafters and the foundations of these very old structures?</div>
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How many experts who flew in recently to rebuild Kathmandu know about Jamuna Gubaju, Nepal’s greatest tantrik, who became annoyed with the Indian who came in boasting about how he was the greatest tantrik, and one day invited him over to his house—only to see Gubaju’s wife using her legs as firewood to cook her rice? There she is, with her feet stuck inside the firewood stove, busily cooking her rice. The Indian tantrik was terrified, admitted defeat, and retreated. (Note: This story is excerpted from a much later one, to be saved for a later date.) What do the heritage re-constructionists know about all this—and how are they going to fit all this within their neat engineering solutions to Kathmandu Valley’s revival? But this story is very much part of Kathmandu’s inner lore, and very much part of the woof and warp of what makes up the architecture. The smoky rafters in the attic, where the female tantrik cooked up her calm kitchen revenge, the <em style="box-shadow: none; box-sizing: border-box; outline: none;">buigal</em>, or attics, where such events occur, the narrow wooden staircases that lead up to the room, the smell of burning flesh and the smell of cooking rice, this is all part of the intangibles that creates the city. But, start talking about the tantrik, or how Hinduism, astrology, tantricism, and animism are the foundations of architecture in Nepal, and you would be pegged as an amusing eccentric with nothing tangible to say in international development circles. “Traditional knowledge” today means training a few village women how to rebuild a basic building. You can check the gender equality box and the cultural sensitivity box, and continue onwards with the work. The work that is done in this manner is no longer religious work, or spiritual work, or community work—it is development work, and development work almost always crumbles into nothingness once the project phases out.</div>
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Astrologers not only picked the dates for when a building could commence being built, but could also advice on which direction the building was to face, depending upon the owner’s personal chart and <em style="box-shadow: none; box-sizing: border-box; outline: none;">vastu</em> alignments. For a country that is still deeply immersed in cycles of festivals in which the waxing and the waning of the moon, and the change of the seasons, play a major role in timing, the astrologer and his <em style="box-shadow: none; box-sizing: border-box; outline: none;">patro</em> (the<em style="box-shadow: none; box-sizing: border-box; outline: none;">panchang</em>) was often of vital importance in setting dates. Because building is a communal activity, it was advisable to avoid those months in which sowing and planting take place—a commonsense planning benchmark that most modern builders overlook. A lot of complaining about Nepali workers and their unreliability (“My workers have all suddenly left to go back to the village, and I don’t know when they will be back. Nepalis are so unreliable!”) could be solved with a little judicious foresight of local festivities.</div>
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What is remarkable about Nepal’s traditional heritage was not just the beauty of its buildings, but also the way in which they aligned together to form squares and intersections, temples, and water tanks. All of these then came together to form coherent towns and settlements with a central core, where a temple complex, or a water body, played a central part. Unlike today, when houses are built haphazardly, following no rules of community in their alignment—with some facing to the back, and some to the front, some to the left, and some to the right, all apparently fighting to rise higher than the next in the same few square meters of space—buildings in those days respected rules of height, coherence in building style and materials, and spatial alignment, not just because the king commanded it, but because the astrologer said so. The Ranas made equally beautiful palaces modeled on Italian renaissance architecture, formal in structure, with courtyards, gardens, and fountains. In fact, some have argued the Shah monarchy were the least precise and demanding in their architecture, with the Narayanhiti Palace characterized a dumpy eyesore by one disgruntled observer. Often, these ancient settlements and towns resulted in what to our eyes now look like beautiful urban planning, with a logic and coherence which eludes us in post-modern, republican times.</div>
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Temples were also built in the form of mandalas, which assigned different deities to different corners. If reduced to 2D, they would be complex diagrams that map out space and time and other elements in their internal blueprints. Often, these symmetrical alignments had to be strictly adhered to, in order not to disturb the deities who lived in these structures—and the symmetry of which also imbued the building with seismic strength. A book I read about temple-building mentions how the interlocking wooden frame allowed the building to sway during earthquakes. I assume the grinning skull bricks that line temples also act to protect against earthquakes by creating a tensile line of strength, in much the same way as the modern method of building a horizontal band that breaks up the t-wave. Again, there were a lot of do’s and don’ts in the old methods of building that had to be strictly adhered to, and the knowledge of which has now been lost in the modern moment of concrete-and-iron rod supremacy.</div>
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The weariness with the old rules and regulations made us think we could do without them—only until the next earthquake, in which structures that had adhered to the old school of thought survive, and will probably do so for the next several hundred years. Concrete and iron rods are, of course, the preferred modes of building now, because they are perceived to be safer and more reliable than old methods. But, as we degrade our river beds in the search for more and more construction materials, we have to rethink how long this free-for-all exploitation of natural resources can continue for building cities that, at the max, have a lifespan of a century. Concrete, I am told, ages fast and doesn’t last beyond 70 years. And, when a concrete building collapses, it collapses suddenly.</div>
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I was interested to learn from architect Kai Weise, who posted about this on Facebook, that the chariots used in jatra festivals functioned as a “shake table”. Builders rebuilt the chariots each year, each time testing strength and reliability of their design and structure for seismic performance. We often think of jatras as amusing spectacles with splendidly useless structures like the Machindranath chariot being wheeled through crowded cities, and we forget they may have vital utilitarian purposes. And, once the aftershocks receded, leaving people with debris and death to deal with, the jatras became deeply emotive locus points of survival and reconstruction.</div>
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How could all of this intertwined heritage be separated into the good versus the bad? How can buildings be reconstructed if the astrologers, priests, storytellers, musicians, butchers, and tailors are not included? How can those who tie the wheels of the chariot at a jatra, or paint those eyes on it, not be asked to a meeting with international development consultants about how to reconstruct their city? Which is why I feel a certain level of unmistakable joy that the Bhaktapur residents rejected the German bank’s offer. The money may have been large, but at the end of the day, it is also about preserving the intangibles—the Hindu philosophy, the tantric practices, the farming culture—all of which would have been lost if the living, breathing buildings had merely been reduced to picturesque architectural edifices with potential to draw large numbers of tourists.</div>
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After seeing the destruction of Rani Pokhari, which has now become a dry plot which the powers-that-be hope will dry up enough to re-build as a giant concrete supermarket, it is natural for all of us to wonder: “Can the Nepalis save themselves?” Can the Nepalis hold on to their heritage? Or, are we doomed to watch it all collapse and crumble before our eyes as an enforced secularism tries to erase, asphalt over, and sell the last lingering bits of religious piety and devotion?</div>
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If we can’t even reconstruct our one last remaining water body in the middle of the dense, overpopulated, water-scarce urban core, what can we do? Rani Pokhari is the only open water body that can recharge the groundwater in the areas around Ason and Indrachowk. The thought occurs to me that <em style="box-shadow: none; box-sizing: border-box; outline: none;">nagas</em>, thought to live in the watery depths, and once worshipped devoutly by Hindus, get angry when their habitats are disrespected. Water wells are always cleaned on a certain date in Newari households, because they don’t want the nagas to be angry. What happens when powerful beings that dwell in the depths of the Earth start to get furious? Do earthquakes result from water being disrupted? Do nagas take revenge on puny humans and make the earth split open? Do we need to revive our myths to revive our water ponds and rivers?</div>
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Behind our most charming mythologies lies serious science: environmentally-sound water recharge and management strategies, shake tables, collective trauma therapy. Sanskrit mantras that are memorized and enunciated syllable by syllable, and chanted at the right speed, help to thicken a part of your brain that retains memories, says a recent research by neuroscientist James Hartzell, who has dubbed it, “The Sanskrit Effect.” We are willing to put millions of dollars in Alzeimer’s research (with no treatment in sight) but we won’t encourage people in this poor country to take up this simple, powerful, and scientifically proven remedy that comes from the heritage that their ancestors left them. Whatever the politically correct politics behind this, the point remains: when we lose our mythologies, we lose the balance of our lives.</div>
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Perhaps there may be a middle point where all these intersections meet—finance, religion, spirituality, culture—but if the process of rebuilding brings bankers and development consultants to the center of this process, and sidelines the gods, goddesses, and nagas, the process no longer makes sense. At the end of the day, the woof and the warp of religious, spiritual, and communal life must always take precedence over neo-liberal capitalism.</div>
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<em style="box-shadow: none; box-sizing: border-box; outline: none;">Sushma Joshi is a writer and filmmaker from Kathmandu, Nepal. She has an MA in cultural anthropology from The New School for Social Research in New York.</em></div>
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Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-73229854362539200682018-09-24T13:18:00.003+05:452018-09-24T13:18:38.464+05:45A small little video of me talking about what I liked about the Ubud Readers and Writers FestivalCheck out this short little clip of me at the Ubud Readers and Writers Festival in Indonesia in 2009. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20data-flickr-embed=%22true%22%20%20href=%22https://www.flickr.com/photos/ubudwritersfest/4157745716/%22%20title=%22JOSHI,%20SUSHMA%22%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22https://farm3.staticflickr.com/2513/4157745716_3ecd24af65_z.jpg?zz=1%22%20width=%22640%22%20height=%22360%22%20alt=%22JOSHI,%20SUSHMA%22%3E%3C/a%3E%3Cscript%20async%20src=%22//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js%22%20charset=%22utf-8%22%3E%3C/script%3E"><a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/ubudwritersfest/4157745716/" title="JOSHI, SUSHMA"><img alt="JOSHI, SUSHMA" height="360" src="https://farm3.staticflickr.com/2513/4157745716_3ecd24af65_z.jpg?zz=1" width="640" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script></a><br />
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You can also find that <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/ubudwritersfest/4157745716/">link</a> here on Flickr.Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-7624079909758923102018-07-29T17:08:00.001+05:452018-07-29T17:08:12.450+05:45In the Mountains: Book review of "The Himalayan Arc" in the Deccan Herald<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; line-height: 16px;"><a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/sunday-herald/sunday-herald-books/mountains-675235.html">In the Mountains</a></span><div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">Shyam G Menon, JUN 16 2018, 16:57PM IST UPDATED: JUN 17 2018, 02:02AM IST </span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; line-height: 16px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-rendering: geometricprecision;" /><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; line-height: 16px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-rendering: geometricprecision;" /><div class="p1">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">The Himalayan Arc: Journeys East of South-East is an anthology of writings edited by Namita Gokhale. Positioned as a travel book with a difference (that’s what the book’s jacket says), The Himalayan Arc focuses on the stretch of the Himalayas...</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">Second, there is serious writing from well-known literary figures and articles authored by journalists. My favourites were the chapters from Sujeev Shakya; Amish Raj Mulmi, Thomas Bell, Sushma Joshi, Tsering Tashi, Manoj Joshi, Catherine Anderson, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">Prajwal Parajuly, Janice Pariat, Indira Goswami, Ma Thida, David Malone and Tulsi Badrinath.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">Read more at: </span><a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/sunday-herald/sunday-herald-books/mountains-675235.html" style="font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">https://www.deccanherald.com/sunday-herald/sunday-herald-books/mountains-675235.html</a><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; line-height: 16px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-rendering: geometricprecision;" /><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; line-height: 16px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-rendering: geometricprecision;" /><span style="font-family: Source Sans Pro, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;"> </span></span><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; line-height: 16px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-rendering: geometricprecision;" /><br style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', sans-serif; line-height: 16px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-rendering: geometricprecision;" /><span style="font-family: Source Sans Pro, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;"> </span></span></div>
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Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-69805253484780398952018-07-29T17:02:00.000+05:452018-07-29T17:02:18.416+05:45Book review of "The Himalayan Arc" in the Hindusthan Times<div class="p1">
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The Himalayan Arc takes a long, hard look at the uneasy realities of the region</h1>
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<i>It’s an enjoyable, enlightening collection of accounts, essays, poems, and photographs that make up the Himalayan experience, but doesn’t shy away from revelations that could make one uneasy.</i></div>
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<span class="s1"><a href="https://www.hindustantimes.com/books/"><b>BOOKS</b></a></span><span class="s2"> </span>Updated: May 23, 2018 18:57 Ist</div>
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</table>
<br /><div class="p7">
How do you imagine the Himalayas? We do know that beyond its national limits, the mountain chain extends into as far as Afghanistan in the west, and to the east, extrudes into Nepal, Bhutan, and Myanmar, but how often do we consider the fact’s geopolitical implications?</div>
<div class="p7">
Compiled by acclaimed Indian author, and co-founder of the Jaipur Literary Fest, Namita Gokhale, The Himalayan Arc: Journeys East of South-East is an unlikely book about travel and experience, about communities and their relationship with their land, and the spectral nature of frontiers. The ramparts of India’s political northern fortress, the geographical shield that blocks the harsh Siberian cold from getting into the country, and a touristic pride for all of us, the massive mountainous strip has, for the longest time, been a battleground of conflicts of all sizes and forms between us and our neighbours.</div>
<div class="p7">
The book spans genres and forms in under 30 individual chapters — fictional and non-fictional accounts, essays, photograph series and poems. There are intimate portraits of places from the insider’s perspective, deeply personal accounts of journeys interspersed with mysticism and suffering, and pieces on diplomacy and espionage. Emerging contemporary authors regularly shine through (Meghna Pant’s Boongthing is a story about a couple on a honeymoon to Nathu La and the mystic revelation that awaits them there; Prajwal Parajuly’s disenchantment with the ‘construction malaise’ and state neglect that afflicts Sikkim; and Nepalese author and critic Sushma Joshi’s account of waking up in the rubble after the 2015 Kathmandu earthquake), as do acclaimed figures (Pushpesh Pant’s short chapter on mountain cuisine/s; Indira Goswami’s depiction of a strife-torn landscape as she journeys into the heart of Assam to witness a traumatic breakdown of an old couple; Janice Pariat’s story about a lonely man who sits down to listen to another man’s story of heartbreak in a Shillong bar).</div>
<div class="p7">
A section on photographs documents the traditions and settings of life in the Himalayas, mostly in the 19th century, and another on poetry from India’s northeastern states, with a helpful introduction by Aruni Kashyap, has poems about violence and civil strife, and also those about folklore. Ronid ‘Akhu’ Chingangbam’s Your Constitution Has Nothing for Me is a lyrical disavowal of the state’s policies, invoking the visceral images of blood and war.</div>
<div class="p7">
The book is an unprecedented attempt to shed a geopolitical light on a stretch of land, a region that has so far been imagined as having a curiously singular identity, which ceases to exist beyond political borders. However, experiences from the arc transcend any sort of boundaries, and change of culture, practices, beliefs, and language is fluid.</div>
<br />
<div class="p7">
It’s an enjoyable, enlightening collection, but doesn’t shy away from revelations that could make one uneasy. No journey is without its hiccups and the contemplative nature of a few accounts is not sure of appealing to all. Despite an eclectic mélange of pieces spanning narratives from countries such as Nepal, Bhutan, and Myanmar the Indian states of Sikkim, Assam, Mizoram, the book misses a pervasive common thread, which could get irksome. Nevertheless, The Himalayan Arc makes for a compelling collection of work, important especially in the current times.</div>
Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-720630608898006222018-05-14T19:37:00.002+05:452018-05-14T19:37:49.624+05:45HYPER_REALITY AND NOSTALGIA IN THE HOLY LAND <style><!--
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><b> </b></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Here's my paper</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> which I wrote for a class on travel literature in the 1600s at the Santa Fe campus of the Breadloaf School of English in 2000. Seems like an appropriate time to share this! </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<br /><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>HYPER-REALITY AND NOSTALGIA IN THE HOLY LAND</b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>In addition to
this act of penitence and grace, the journey to Jerusalem also held deep
mystical and legendary meaning for medieval men and women, for the scared city
was believed to be the center of the world, the omphalos or navel, the scared
hub of the world's orb. At the same time, it was the ideal of the sacred city -
for Jerusalem was both the center of Christian history, the stage of Christ's
redemptive sacrifice and resurrection, and the end of all history.</b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(From the
Introduction, Guide to the Holy Land, Theoderich - Ithica, 1986)</b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><u>Guide to the Holy Land</u> is a medieval
guidebook written by Theoderich, a German monk of the 12<sup>th</sup> century.
It is a text that explores the sacred geography of Jerusalem, and allows us, as
contemporary readers, to follow some of the ideologies, stories and sights
important to a twelfth century Christian pilgrim. We are led, in this process,
through the pathways of mediaeval Christian constructions of Jerusalem as a
holy city, and end up with a virtual tour of a hyperreal space built out of
exclusions, ahistoricism, mythic realism and nostalgia. Following the
constructions of space throughout this text is akin to a guided tour to the
appropriation of Jerusalem for Christianity. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Written in the detail-oriented language of
the guidebook, the text is bare of emotions, and except for the rare spiritual
epiphany, does not allow the narrator to interject his subjectivity. The book
focuses exclusively on the spatial and architectural aspects of the city,
leading people up and down buildings, churches, historical sites, stories and
relics with the same dispassionate interest. While the text is very clearly a
guidebook, it is written in a style that hails the reader as a pilgrim present,
virtually, in the space as Theoderich leads ahead through the alleyways and
city boundaries of the Holy Land. In the prologue, Theoderich writes:
"This we have done in order that, according to the best of our ability, we
may satisfy the desires of those who are unable to proceed there in describing
those things that they cannot see with their own eyes and hear with their
ears." The text, then, is a virtual tour, inscribing within its words the
sacredness of the architecture, and leading people on a tour through the
process of reading.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The Twelfth Century Renaissance, which led
to a renewed interest in the classics, as well as re-readings of the Bible,
meant Theoderich was addressing a well read audience, familiar with aspects of
the Bible. It was believed that through the act of pilgrimage, people could
reenact the sufferings of Christ and gain redemption. In addition, there was a
resurgence of popular spirituality, with interests in the relics of saints.
Medieval pilgrims re-enacted the suffering of Jesus and of the saints by
thronging to major pilgrimage sites. Jerusalem was the most popular. For people
who might not be able to make the actual physical trip, the guidebook served as
a metaphorical journey, one that brought alive the sights and sounds of a space
of sacred cosmology. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The book leads us into the maze of
buildings, providing us an exhaustive and omniscient tour. A description of The
Church of the Holy Sepulchur, takes us, step by step, through its importance, a
historical note of its royal patron, its shape, its orientation, its exterior
and interior frameworks, each door, the sepulchur, the altar, the paintings
that adorn and illustrate each Biblical event that is believed to have taken
place in that altar. The minute details of mosiac, gilt and gilded crosses
function to heighten the sense of realism that pervades the description. The
architecture, in this way, becomes constructed as a natural frame to contain the
scriptures, reproduced in the forms of quotations, which reiterate, again and
again, the death of Christ and his suffering. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The earthly Jerusalem was clearly not the
heavenly Jerusalem, built out of jewels and twelve pearly gates. And yet
pilgrimage to the earthly Jerusalem, envisioned to be the center of the world,
was seen by many to lead them to a vision of the heavenly city, fulfilling the
prophecies of the <i>Apocalypse</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">. The apocalyptic visions were translated, at this particular point in
history, by the first Crusaders, who had occupied the city. This military
presence and occupation is never mentioned by Theoderich, except in oblique
references. This piece of selective exclusion, we can assume, was either
because Theoderich presumed that his audience would know about the Crusades
already or because he did not want to draw attention to irregularities in his
carefully drawn picture of a naturalized Christian space. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Besides the heavenly and the earthly
Jerusalems, then, we can posit a third one: the hyperreal Jerusalem. As defined
by Baudrillard, the hyperreal is when an image no longer has a referent, no
longer has any connection with any basic reality - it becomes it own pure
simulacrum. This simulacra, or copy, has no reality behind it, other than its
own. In Theoderich's account, we see this construction of a hyperreal
Jerusalem, see this as clearly as if it were being drawn in front of our eyes,
with the words and images of Biblical references, with the selective omissions
of other religious groups, with the minute awareness to physical details that
eradicate all other realities. The city stops being an idealized space drawn on
the moorings of the ideological frameworks of Christianity, and starts to take
off as a pure simulacra.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The guidebook is constantly constructing
and reconstructing a perfect Jerusalem. The construction of space that occurs
throughout the guidebook, drawing mainly from legendary stories from the Bible,
shows us how Theoderich spatially takes over the city for Christianity. This is
a city which has been woven out of the tangled threads of many histories for
centuries, moves in and out of conflicting versions of history. By eradicating
all political, economic and religious ambiguities, and highlighting very simple
narratives taken from the Bible, Theoderich manages to construct an elegantly
reductive version of history, using the architecture as "proof" and
historical evidence of their actual occurrence. The ordering of space, in this
way, becomes linked to the ordering of a atemporal History. This
epistemological takeover of the city for Christianity<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>becomes a symbolic part of the Crusades, even though the
author refuses to draw a linkage to his ostensibly spiritual project, and their
"political" one. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Theoderich, drawing upon the historical
understandings of his time, places Jerusalem at the center of the world. The
world, envisioned as a mandala-like circle, places Asia at the top, Europe at
the bottom, and Jerusalem at the center of this circle. The orientation of this
map reflects the importance people put on the centrifugal energy that drew and
attracted all sources of power to the Holy Land. Readers, thus, are
interpollated as pilgrims, real or virtual, present or potential, into this
religious and spiritual mapping of geographical space. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Like all pilgrims, they needed a guide, a
map, a bounded route and a translator in order to show them the correct path,
and to dechiper the meanings of unfamiliar signs and symbols. By serving as
guide, Theoderich not only creates the itinerary of the pilgrimage and
determines the pathways the potential pilgrims will take, but he also has a
hand in the policing of meaning that goes with any act of translation. As the
authority on the boundaries of the Holy Land, he has authoritarian control in
deciding which monument is important enough to be on the tour, why a relic has
meaning, why a certain sight should be illustrated with that story, and not any
other. In the introduction, we are told that his guidebook was one of a kind,
an eyewitness, personalized account unusual for the time. His striking emphasis
and knowledge of architecture - which has led people to hypothesize that he
might have had some training in the field - and his usage of it as
"material proof" and rack on which to hang certain mythic stories,
shows as the power the author has in shaping meaning even in a seemingly
innocuous genre like a guidebook. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Architecture, in Theoderich's hand, becomes
conflated with Evangelical significance and meaning. The architecture is used
to reproduce a specific ideology of Christianity - Jesus was murdered by the
Jews, he suffered, and this is all inscribed in the rooms, the steps, the
mundane details of the buildings. In the very first chapter, we learn that two
Roman princes have driven out the "murderers" of Christ out of their
own land to live among foreigners, and many of the names of places have been
changed. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We are given no information about any
conflicting claims on religious monuments made by the large Jewish and Muslim
populations living within the city. Jerusalem's sacredness has been
appropriated by Christian, Jewish and Muslim groups for their own ideological
purposes for millenia, but we only get oblique references to this, as in the
story of the Temple of Solomon, which is built and razed and rebuilt through
successive regimes of Christians and Jews. This careful construction of
boundaries, architecturally and symbolically, around the terrain of meaning
sets up an invisible wall around the dangerous Other, who are never addressed except
as passive background figures, or dangerous infidels -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>potential but containable threats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The emphasis on spatial clarity and
organization, ironically, also functions to obfuscate the complex political and
economic structures of the Holy Land. Jerusalem, as a trading city, located in
the crossroads of commerce, was mined with economic and political interests. In
the introduction, we are told that the pilgrims often came back loaded with
trade goods, including slaves, that would offset their travel expenses, but we
are not told who they traded with. What were the sectarian linkages in that
time and place? Who traded with whom, and for what purpose? All of this is
obfuscated, and lost, in the myriad of small details that make up the image of
a land replete with buildings, and absent of human presence. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Nostalgia, according to Baudrillard,
assumes its full meaning when the real is no longer what it used to be. As
Jerusalem was stirred by the turmoils of the Crusades, the moral line between
right and wrong, between the oppressors and victims must have become muddier.
Could the Christians have avoided internal moral questionings as they tried to
take possession of the city, bringing conflict and a military regime to the
Holy Land? It is in this moment of crisis, when the holiness of the land, made
sacred by Christ's suffering, threatens to disappear under the suffering of the
ostensible "oppressors", that the reality principle must have become
less absolute. And it is in this moment of crisis when there is the clearest
imperative for nostalgia, for bringing up the loss of what used to be, but
perhaps never was. It is, in this moment, that it is most important to
ressurect the figurative, and this is what Theoderich does with such immense
power. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">His guidebook, in this way, comes alive
with the myths of the Bible. We are told about the cradle where Christ used, we
are given Mary's lock of hair, we are shown the Cross on which he died. There
is no way to refute the materiality of such absolute evidence. In fact, the
mythical figures are much more vivid, present and alive than the real human
beings who live and farm in the land at that moment in time. Nostalgia, again
is in evidence, through this fetishization of the lost object. A nostalgic
sacredness is constructed by privileging of this mythological history. This
privileging serves a double function by inflicting symbolic violence against
the Other until they are virtually erased, while at the same time heightening
the "reality" of the Biblical tales. By making the Jews invisible,
and voiceless, for instance, he can them proceed to tell miraculous tales like
the one where the Jew who tries to tear Mary's shroud from her dead body sees
his arms wither without loss of realism. Architectural solidity forms an unshakable
foundation for the miracles. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jerusalem, in this narrative act,
turns into a clean museum, a theme park of Christianity. The Holy Land is
captured and memoralized as a trendy and fashionable relic through the
preservationist attempts of the text. It is a city consisting of a few iconic
buildings. There is no cityscape, no bazzars, no life beyond that of the ones
that Theoderich selectively maps onto his bounded space. Even the peripheral
cities, which are given some marginal afterthought, seem to appear only in
order to validate the center. The outsiders who are recognized, are placed
within the proper place in the hierarchy within the map of Christianity. It is
a text that manages, every effectively, to control its alien Others through a
ethnocentric and Eurocentric frame.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pilgrimage,
a seemingly innocuous cultural phenomena, was used as a process of staking a
claim, and putting up boundaries, around a spiritual center. The military
regime protected the pilgrims that moved about the city. Pilgrims, by becoming
part of the symbolic landscape, validate the sanctity of geography, and also
gave a reason for militarization. Human beings were needed in order to stake a
claim to possession, whether spiritual, religious or economic, and pilgrims
fulfilled these function in mass, voluntary numbers. The Holy Land, in addition
to other material resources, also lay claim to producing holiness - a commodity
that could produce spiritual benefits to the one doing the consuming, and
therefore, worth fighting for.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Theoderich
ends as he began - with no definitive beginning, or closure. His is a truncated
account, with no explanation of the process of arriving and leaving. His
interest in pilgrimage as an unmediated interaction between the Holy Land and
the pilgrim, points to his belief that spiritual development is attainable
without mediation. As a universalized, complete, definitive, text on the Holy
Land, his book provides a self help guide in that direction. His text closes
with a reiteration of his original purpose: that the mind of the pilgrim might
awaken with love for Christ with the knowledge gained about the Holy Land. The
circularity, and echoing of purpose, in some way points to a non-linear
framework where time has not progressed, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and re-echoes his view of an atemporal historical space
within his narrative. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The function of a travel narrative is often
to create a fabulous world that prepares people for a material reality. Through
expectation, people come to demand what has been given to them virtually. By
this subtle act of claiming - through nostalgia, and through an ending of
history - Theoderich stakes a claim on Jerusalem for Christianity, and in the
process delegitimizes the claims of all other groups on its physical and symbolic
terrain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>I wrote this paper for "TRAVEL LITERATURE THROUGH THE 1600s," which I took during a summer at the Santa Fe Campus of the Breadloaf School of English in 2000. </b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-46275356670706282232018-02-06T15:32:00.003+05:452018-02-06T15:38:07.454+05:45The Himalayan ArcHere is an email I got from Amrita Mukerji, Deputy Managing Editor at Harper Collins India, about <i>The Himalayan Arc. </i>The anthology was edited by Namita Gokhale, co-founder of the Jaipur Literary Festival. My essay "The Quake" is also included. I attended the festival in 2010 but I could not go this year.<br />
<br />
If you are interested to hold a book reading of this anthology in your city, please let me know and I will inform Amrita!<br />
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***<br />
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Dear contributors,<u></u><u></u></div>
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As mentioned in my earlier mail, the book launch for <i>The Himalayan Arc </i>was held in Jaipur at the Jaipur Literature Festival on 26 January at 1.40 p.m. Many thanks to all those who participated, and we missed those who could not attend. Unfortunately we couldn’t do a Facebook Live because of connectivity issues, but I have attached a few photographs of the event. <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">We hope to hold more such events through the year, and if any of you would like to organize a book reading or event in your city, do let us know and we’ll discuss the way forward.</span></div>
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We have also started dispatching copies of the book to all, the international couriers are taking a little more time but you will all receive a copy soon. As mentioned earlier, if you have any suggestions for media reviews or publicity for the book, please do let me or Shabnam know and we’ll arrange to have copies sent.<u></u><u></u></div>
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The response to the book so far has been encouraging, thank you all for making this the wonderful read it is.<u></u><u></u></div>
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<br /></div>
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Regards,<u></u><u></u></div>
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Amrita</div>
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Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-74580057931634530392017-11-23T21:16:00.004+05:452019-04-09T15:53:54.682+05:45THE DEATH OF RAMMOHAN ADHIKARI<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Nepalese Clay, 21st Issue (2013)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">SUSHMA JOSHI</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">On the morning his son was to return from
Doha, Rammohan said to his</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">wife: “Lets go to Shivapuri forest, you and
I. We can both take some</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">rope and hang ourselves together tonight.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Rammohan Adhikari knew with absolute
certainty, at five in the morning</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">on that warm July day, that he was going to
die that night. The air</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">felt muggy—rainwater from a sudden downpour
collected in slippery</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">puddles on the road, the looming new
construction of his neighbour’s</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">rising building seemed to close in, heavy
and oppressive, cutting off</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the flow of air, and a low bank of dark
rainclouds had hovered over</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the Kathmandu Valley.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">His wife, who was wondering what to feed
her eldest son, who was to</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">fly in from Doha that afternoon, scolded
him. “What kind of talk is</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">this? You must stop thinking these dark
thoughts, and welcome your son</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">back home.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Rammohan, peering from the grimy glass
windows separating the waiting</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">crowd from those returning from abroad, saw
a faded, balding man walk</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">out of Tribhuwan airport-this was his
eldest son Prem, who he had seen</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">walk off to the United Arab Emirates
fourteen years ago, and who he’d</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">seen three times since. Rammohan watched
this tired man walk towards</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">him and had a tiny moment of déjà vu—only
last Saturday, he’d stood</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">there watching from the same glass wall,
looking at the long line of</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">men dragging suitcases. Except on that day,
his youngest son was</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">leaving to go to Kuwait, instead of
returning to Nepal. His broad back</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">exuded energy as the young man dragged his
suitcase up the sloping</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">concrete and into the line of people
waiting to leave. Wearing red</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">tika and a marigold garland, he had eagerly
gotten their blessings,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">then hastened off without a backward glance
at his tearful mother.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This was Prem’s third return home since
he’d gone to the Gulf. Their</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">daughter-in-law, who lived in the apartment
above the old couple,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">welcomed him with wavering uncertainty, as
if she didn’t recognize the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">man who she had married, and who had left
for a foreign country,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">fourteen years ago. Their three year old
daughter, on the other hand,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">gave him a raucous welcome, as if she knew
the father who she was</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">meeting for the first time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Prem worked for a company that helped
disabled people, he told the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">group of assembled people from his tole
who’d come to meet him upon</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">his return. “You know those chairs that
move. I help push the people</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">in it.” He gave them a tired smile.
Rammohan could see his neighbours</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">turning away, uncomfortable, when his son
shared this news. His son</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">worked with apanga people, pushing their
wheelchairs? What kind of</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">profession was that? A sense of shame
overwhelmed him—he thought about</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">all the other people who’d told him their
sons worked in hotels, or</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">with big clothing companies.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Rammohan didn’t say a word, but his son
caught his eye and gave him a</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">smile. “In Western countries, they respect
people who work with the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">disabled,” he said. “It is also one of the
highest paid work.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Catching the flash of disdainful anger in
his father’s eyes, he added:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“And they also don’t believe disability is
caused by past life sins</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">and karma. They think disability is caused
by genes.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Jeans?” one of his nieces questioned her
newly returned uncle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Genes. A code inside our body that defines
who we are. It lies like</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">two intertwined snakes, so they say.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Eyyy, geeenes!” said his niece, nodding
wisely. “We just learnt about</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">genes in science class.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">That’s all Prem said. Rammohan felt a tiny
weakening of his resentment</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">and anger—perhaps, he thought, his son was
doing something important,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">after all. And then a wave of anger
overcame him again. He has left</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">his parents in their old age to go push
chairs for apanga people?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">An old woman exclaimed that Prem had always
been a kind and</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">compassionate little boy, and she always
knew he would grow up to</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">serve those in need. Prem smiled then, a
quick smile. That smile</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">seared through Rammohan. “How can he sit
there, lapping up this</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">adulation?” Rammohan thought. “He has
abandoned his parents in their</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">old age, to serve disabled strangers in a
foreign country. Then he</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">boasts it is highly paid. How can he
justify this?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The flight had been long. People left,
allowing Prem to take a nap and</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">shake off his tiredness. As the last woman
walked out, Rammohan said</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">to his wife, again: “The Shivapuriforest.
We can go together to the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Shivapuriforest.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Buda,” the old woman said. “Please stop
this talk. I need to go out</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">and buy vegetables. I will get pumpkin
shoots. It is Prem’s favorite</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">food. I know they don’t have it in those
Khadhi muluk.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A day before Prem’s flight from Doha,
Rammohan had an urge to eat mangoes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Here you go, Muma,” the student who lived
in the room pulled the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">curtain to their room, and handed a roll of
bills to his wife. “Here’s</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">my rent. Please forgive the lateness.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">His wife started to count the notes. They
lived from the rent they got</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">from tenants who lived in their two houses.
The young student with the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">lively smile was the son of an old friend of
hers from her maiti. She</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">let him stay in the house for reduced rent.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I want to die when one of my sons are in
town,” Rammohan said to his wife.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“What are you saying?” She said. “You are
barely sixty. We have four</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">sons. One or other of them will be around
when you die, surely. Its</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">not like they are going to be away from
Kathmandu forever.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“But I haven’t seen them in almost four
years,” he said. “One is in</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Doha. Another in Malaysia. The third is in
Saudi. And the fourth has</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">just gone to join his uncle in Kuwait. I
don’t know if they will</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">return.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Well, they keep coming and going. Now let
me think about what to do</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">with the money. We need to replace the
mustard oil, and the salt</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">too…and I would like some brown sesame
seeds, and some fennel.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Can I ask you something, Budi? Can you
give me the Rs.500?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“What do you want that for?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I want to buy some mangoes.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Five hundred rupees worth of mangoes? We
can’t buy five hundred</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">rupees of mangoes.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“But I want to eat some mangoes.” The old
man, when he wanted to,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">could be stubborn.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The old woman sighed. “Here you go,” she
said, peeling off a green</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">hundred rupee note. “This is enough.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“But I can’t just eat by myself. The entire
family must eat,” he insisted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“This Rs.100 will buy half a kilo. Its
enough for you.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Everyone--all four of our buharis, all our
grandchildren. They should</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">sit in a big line and eat today. Even if it
is only a small piece.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Mangoes for everyone,” said his wife,
sighing. Her husband could be</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">impossible sometimes. “We shall do as you
say.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She took the note, and called out to one of
her daughter-in-laws, who</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">was at this very moment walking down the
stairs, if she could buy the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">mangoes. “Sorry, Ama, I am about to go out
to meet a friend,” the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">youngest buhari said, hastily, before she
could be roped into an</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">errand. “But why don’t you ask
Sabita?” Sabita was the eldest</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">granddaughter, and more affectionately
disposed to the old couple than</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the other children.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Sabita! Saaaabita!” the old woman went out
to the balcony and called.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Coming, Muma.” The old man could hear the
girls giggling in the flat</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">above—they were watching a film on Star TV.
His granddaughters seemed</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">to talk endlessly about the latest film
stars and models, for hours</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">and hours. As for his eldest grandson, who
had grown old enough to</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">have friends who owned motorcycles, he had
taken to going out every</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">weekend to places he would never see. The
older his grandchildren got,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the less they talked to him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Even the young ones were difficult to talk
with—they chattered about</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">their boarding schools and lessons, and the
old man couldn’t</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">understand any of it. It wasn’t the same
lessons he had learnt during</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">his school years--no Sanskrit mantras, no
Nepali poems, no dantay</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">katha. “During our days, we used to recite
Bhanubhakta’s Ramayana by</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">heart,” he said to Ramu, his youngest
grandson, one day. Ramu, taking</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">this as an accusation from his grandfather
of his ignorance, retorted:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“But Bajay, that was during your time, in
the village. We live in the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">city now. Uilay ko kura khuili sakyo! Today
this is our Ramayana…” And</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">then Ramu opened his mouth and sang:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Radha likes to party</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Radha likes the moonlight</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> And then he and the other children burst out into giggles at
his daring.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Once Rammohan had tried to teach his eldest
grandson the hanuman</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">chalisa. The young man had continued to
play his video-game machine</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">while repeating half heartedly after him,
until the old man, irritated</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">by this inattention and the ping! ping!
ping! noises, had given up his</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">lesson. He sometimes got the sense that
they lived in worlds so</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">different it could never converge.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">About an hour later, Sabita did come down,
and the old woman asked her</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">to go out and buy some mangoes, because
Grandfather said so. The old</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">man, who was sitting there by her side,
told his granddaughter this:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The mangoes should be true maldau, with
thin, taut skin, and when the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">top was cut off, they should be able to
smell its fragrant origins.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The insides should be yellow, not orange,
and they should be able to</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">bite into it and taste its firm flesh,
without it falling into their</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">hands in a slippery mess. There should be
enough for all four</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">daughter-in-laws and the seven
grandchildren, even if they were very</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">small pieces.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A few months ago, their well, which had
served them well since his</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">earliest days in Kathmandu, had run dry.
One day, his wife came to him</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">and said: “Buda, there’s no water.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A new apartment building of thirty stories
had risen up like a monster</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">in front of their house. The man who
drilled for water said that he</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">used to get water at sixty feet--now there
was none at two hundred</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">feet. The new construction had sucked the
neighbourhood dry. They now</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">paid three thousand rupees for water, which
arrived in a tanker two</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">times a month, and filled black plastic tanks
that sat on top of their</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">roof. His whole life seemed to be turning
into a desert, just like</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">those of his sons, who toiled in the
hottest deserts in the world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Turning on the TV terrified him—each day
there was a news item of</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">someone who had committed suicide, or died
in an accident, in the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Gulf. One day I am going to turn on the TV
and see one of my sons</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">return as a corpse, he feared. Is this what
he’d toiled in his youth</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">for—to sit in great fear in front of the
television each day, fearing</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">death?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Their eldest son sent back money, his
buhari had told his old wife.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But all that money went to pay for school
fees, for books and for</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">clothes. Then there was the hair saloon his
buhari went to each month,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">and from which she emerged transformed, her
hair looking strangely</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">yellow. She needed money for frivolous
expenses, grumbled the old</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">woman--hair saloon, going to the cinema to
watch the latest movie,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">buying expensive shoes and hair dye. He and
his wife had never seen a</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">rupee of the money his sons sent back home.
His sons’ families lived</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">on different floors of their big house, and
each dealt with their</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">finances themselves.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The old couple had enough—they had a number
of small rooms they rented</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">in their two concrete buildings. The rent
was enough for food and</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">other expenses. To supplement this, his
wife went out every afternoon</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">to wash dishes at a house down near the
square-this extra income</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">helped to buy his medicine. She didn’t say
anything, but he felt her</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">reproach at having to demean herself to
this level. She was, however,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">determined to do her duty.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">What he didn’t have was the sense of being
surrounded by a family who</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">he had raised and loved. That appeared
elusive. His sons, when they</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">called, never asked them if they needed any
help with the household</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">expenses--they took it for granted the old
couple could manage. The</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">people who surrounded him—four buhari,
seven grandchildren—all</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">appeared so independent, so uncaring.
Nobody asked him how he felt</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">that day. Nobody asked him or his wife what
they were going to eat</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">that evening. Everyone was rushing in their
own world, busy with their</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">lives. It felt at times as if he lived in
an arid desert, just as his</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">sons were living in theirs, sweating in the
Gulf.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Each dusk, the old man looked out over his
balcony, and at the lights</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">twinkling at the giant city around him.
Where had these buildings</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">sprung from? When he had looked out before
from his balcony ten years</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">before, all he had seen were rice fields.
How lovely it had been then!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">They had been the only people with tall
buildings in that</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">neighbourhood then. And now there were even
taller buildings all</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">around him, cutting off sight of the
mountains.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The air seemed to be getting tighter around
his neck—he had asthma,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the doctors had told him. It was not
curable, but they gave him</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">multiple inhalers and other medications.
Those cost a fortune. His</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">wife put aside the money for them in an
uncomplaining manner, but he</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">was aware, all too keenly, that the money
could be used on other more</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">essential items.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Each morning, he looked out over the
balcony and saw a giant city</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">sprawling at his feet—bigger and taller,
denser. The trees had</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">vanished around him as he watched. And the
older he got, the greyer it</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">got—buildings with blue glass fronts
springing up all around, and the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">streets thronging with new people, none of
who he recognized.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He thought back to all the hard work he’d
done in his youth. “Mari</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">mari kaam garyou buda, abha hera ta, saas
pherna pani garo cha</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">ahilay!” You killed yourself in your youth,
old man. Now look, you</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">can’t even breathe, the old woman often
reminded him. Breathing had</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">become difficult these days. Maybe there
was less air in the Valley to</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">breathe.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">At forty-two, he’d saved enough to build
buy an anna of land. A small</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">house was still on it, and a peepul tree
shaded the roof from the rain</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">and wind. Then fortune had intervened. A
businessman had offered him a</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">generous sum for it, since it was in a good
neighbourhood. He’d cut</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the peepul tree that fell in-between his
wall’s periphery and the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">temple next door. The temple priest had
said he shouldn’t cut the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">tree, but he had ignored the old man’s
protests and done it anyway.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">With the giant tree out of the way, the one
anna had given him enough</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">profit to buy four anna outside the Ring
Road. And this was too good</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">too give up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This buying and selling had continued.
Rammohan had bought a lot of</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">cheap land, felled a lot of trees, and sold
it to people who wanted</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">big houses. And from that, he’d amassed
enough for two big concrete</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">buildings inside the Ring Road. Two tall
concrete buildings which had</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">been the dream of his lifetime. These
buildings, he had always</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">imagined, would save him from a life of
poverty and hardship. The</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">buildings would bring him happiness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He’d thought one day he would leave them to
his four sons. How was he</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">to know they would all leave one day, to
pursue their own dreams? How</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">was he to know he would one day he’d be
trapped in these buildings,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">unable even to walk up and down the stairs,
unable to breathe in a</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">city that seemed to be closing in on him
with the concrete heaviness</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">of his own dreams?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Sabita came back, carrying a bag of
fragrant maldau mangoes. That</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">evening, when everyone was home, the old
woman called them over.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Everyone sat in the old couple’s room, in a
long line, as he wanted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">They were all laughing and talking, and he
felt glad as he saw the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">smiling faces of the young children arrayed
in front of him. These</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">were his progeny—the children who would
continue his long, proud</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">lineage.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">His wife sliced the mangoes into small
pieces, cutting them into five</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">pieces—two big slices on each side, then
two small wedges from the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">sides. The khoya, or seed, was saved for
the smaller children, who</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">liked to suck upon them. There was a big
buzz in the room as the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">children licked up the drops of mango juice
from their palms and arms.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Are you happy?” the old man asked Nirmala,
his youngest grandchild.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Happy!” Nirmala announced, trying to lick
her elbow. “Mango! More!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Your Baba will buy you more mango. He’s
coming tomorrow.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The little girl hadn’t seen her father, but
she had talked to him on</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the phone, and seen his face in the
computer. She knew Baba was a</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">special man. And for the first time, he
would bring her gifts, just as</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the fathers of other little girls brought
for them in the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">neighbourhood.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Baba!” The little one’s eyes brightened.
“Baba make me housing,” she</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">said, using the English word. “Big housing.
Blue glass windows!” Her</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">mother smiled and said to the old man:
“Prem promised her that when</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">he’s made enough money, he’ll make her a
tall building with blue glass</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">windows.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A blue glass building! The old man felt a
lump in his throat, as if</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the waste and the loss of youth and time
was too much for him to bear.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He thought about himself at his son’s age,
driving like a maniac at</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">night to pick up customers. How reckless he
had been! How he’d worked</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">months with so little sleep! He’s waited
outside bars in Thamel,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">waited for johns who’d stumble out drunk
with young dancers on their</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">arms, all so he could have enough money for
his buildings. He closed</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">his eyes, and for the first time in his
life, he felt his life flash</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">before his eyes, and he felt its piercing
emptiness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> Then his son Prem
arrived in the afternoon flight. He was tired, his</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">father could tell. He smiled his old
mischievous smile. His hair had</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">gone white, and he looked old. “Baba,” he
said, and he bowed in that</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">old way, reaching all the way down to touch
the old man’s feet, which</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">made the old man feel happy and humble
inside.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Later, sitting on his father’s bed,
chattering and laughing, Prem had</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">asked his father: “How are you?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I am good,” the old man said, his face
taking on a closed look. “As</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">good as can be.” The fact that Prem spent
his time working for apanga</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">people still rankled with Rammohan, but he
knew raising it would be</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">useless. Rammohan couldn’t imagine why his
son wouldn’t stay home and</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">take care of his aging parents, instead of
taking care of disabled</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">strangers in a foreign country. But money
was obviously paramount in</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">this day and age, and who was Rammohan to
voice any dissent about his</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">son’s choice of a profession? I have no say
in this, he thought, and</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">didn’t bring it up again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“His asthma is worse,” his wife
interjected. She was sitting below the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">bed on a little chakati, and making some
wicks out of cotton for her</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">evening pooja. “And the doctor has told him
he needs to have…” here</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">she lowered her voice: “An operation.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“An operation? For what?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“He needs to have his water removed.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“What water?” asked Prem, puzzled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“You know, from over there.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Oh, you mean…?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“From his private parts,” the old woman
whispered in a penetrating</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">whisper, as if she would hide the news from
her grandchildren,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">scattered around and laughing from their
own conversations. “From his</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">private parts.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Its going to cost Rs.60,000!” The old man
spat. “That’s enough for my</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">kriya expenses. I’d rather spend that money
on my funeral than on</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">removing my balls.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“They won’t remove your…” The old woman
looked at him reproachfully.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Just the water. It will make you feel
better.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Prem did not know what to say. He agreed
with his father, in</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">part—sixty thousand rupees did appear a
large sum of money from an</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">operation which, it was clear, hit at his
father’s sense of manhood.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">On the other hand, the way his old mother
looked at him, with those</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">mournful eyes, it was almost as if there
was no other recourse. The</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">operation had to be done, and done in full,
if his father was to be</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">taken care of properly in his old age.
Mentally, he calculated where</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the Rs.60,000 would come from—he couldn’t
contribute any income to the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">operation, and he doubted his brothers
could either.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Rs. 60,000 is enough for my funeral,” the
old man repeated. “I’ll use</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the money to pay for my kriya, not for this
operation.” What, wondered</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the old man, was the use of having your
most essential part removed,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">and for what? To enrich those nursing homes
and doctors who kept</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">snipping off parts of you, one after the
other? To add to the mountain</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">of medical bills people like his sons had
to pay? They slaved in the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">deserts of the Gulf, only to have their
hard-earned money go towards</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">removing body parts from their family
members. The whole world, the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">old man decided, had gone crazy. People no
longer followed natural</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">laws anymore. It was better to die, then to
continue living, in this</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">world anymore.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The old couple’s room was once again full
of people. All four</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">daughter-in-laws, who quarreled about petty
matters on other days,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">joined together to welcome their eldest
brother-in-law. The</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">grandchildren ran afoot in an excited buzz.
For one small hour or so,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Rammohan felt as he had imagined his life
would be, when he was</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">working all those long, hard nights of
taxi-driving of his youth. He’d</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">be surrounded by happy grandchildren and
loving children, he’d dreamt.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And here, with the old familiar smile of
his son by his side, the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">dream appeared real.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">For a brief moment, as he felt his son’s
hand rest on his shoulder,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Rammohan felt his life was complete.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">At five pm, when all the house was quiet
with people resting in their</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">own rooms, the old man walked into the puja
room where his wife was</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">putting together the dhoop and batti for
the night’s pooja. “Budi, can</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">you give me twenty rupees?” he asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The old man hadn’t worked in over a decade.
He didn’t have money in</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">his hands since he stopped driving. The
tenants gave the rent to the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">old woman, who handled all the financial
affairs of the household.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Why do you want twenty rupees?” Then she
opened her purse, and gave</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">him a fifty rupee note. “Here you go.”
Twenty appeared so little.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Whatever he needed it for, a fifty was more
in line with the times.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> Later, they learnt that
the old man had gone to the small shop where</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">they sold the plastic mugs and buckets, and
the feet of nylon and jute</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">rope. He had asked for four hands of rope.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> “Char haat dori?” the
shopkeeper asked. “What are you going to do with it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> “I planted a guava tree
in a flowerpot,” the old man answered. “The</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">tree got too big, and it broke out of the
pot. I need the rope to tie</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the pot back together again.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> “Here you go,” the
shopkeeper, a pleasant young man, said, handing</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">him the rope.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> Later, neighbours would
report spotting the old man as he walked by,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">carrying a coil of rope behind his back,
peering at the trees. “What</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">are you looking at the trees for?” they
inquired.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> He’d replied: “I’m
looking for a tree in which I can hang myself.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> “Hanging is such a
difficult way to die,” one of the young men had</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">joked, thinking the old man was making fun
of them. “Why don’t you try</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">some other method that is an easier way to
go.” And then the young men</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">had laughed uproariously. Rammohan had
smiled at them, as if he agreed</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">it was a good joke.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> At around five thirty
pm, Rammohan walked to the Kumari temple.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There, close to the temple, he saw a long
column where a light was</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">affixed. The column was just the right
height—it would make an</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">excellent place to die. Besides, he’d
always wanted to die by the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Kumari temple, as he’d told his wife.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> That night, they all
gathered in his room to watch the program on</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Nepal Television—the funny program. The
children laughed and laughed,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">as if they couldn’t stop laughing. Prem
teased his nieces and made</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">them laugh even more. The old man smiled
along with them, happy at</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">last. He looked over at his son every once
in a while, as if to make</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">sure he was still there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> It had seemed so
important, when they were trying to have children,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">to have a son.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> “If you don’t have a
son, who will give you the dag-batti?” his old</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">mother had admonished him. “When you die,
you need a son to set the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">funeral pyre alight.” How happy they had
been, when the sons arrived,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">one after the other. Four sons, all at
once, like some boon from</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">heaven.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> “I had this son for a
purpose,” he thought. “Now he is going to</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">fulfill his purpose.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> Around ten pm, everyone
retired to their rooms. The old woman fell</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">asleep on the sofa. For the past few
nights, as if sensing his threats</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">about dying were real, she’d laid across
her body across the door, on</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the floor, as if she’d stop him from
walking out at night when she was</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">asleep. But tonight, in happy exhaustion,
she’d fallen asleep on the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">sofa.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> The old man got up, and
with great care, put on a clean and crisp</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">white shirt. He wanted to look good on his
last day on earth. His</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">pants were black, and he took the time to
iron them with care,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">watching his sleeping wife through the half
open door. Then he rifled</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">through his pile of Dhaka topi, till he
found the one he was looking</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">for. The one with the tallest peak, which
made him look elegant. He</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">looked at himself in the mirror. He looked
like a bridegroom about to</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">go pick up his bride. He smiled. This was
turning out to be a good</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> At eleven at night, the
old woman woke up, suddenly disoriented.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Where was everyone? She realized she’d
fallen asleep on the sofa. Then</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">she looked around for her husband. He was
gone. He wasn’t in his bed,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">he wasn’t in the next room, he wasn’t
watching TV. He was not in the</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">house.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> She called her son.
There was no recourse—the sudden panic she felt</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">at her husband’s disappearance meant she
had to wake someone, and her</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">son was the first one that came to mind.
Prem, who was just falling</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">asleep, put on his shirt over his white
vest, and quickly put on his</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">pants before taking a torch to go search
for his father.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> “Where do you think he
is?” he asked his mother.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> And for the first time,
all those remarks that he had made came back</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">to her. “Lets go to Shivapuriforest, you
and I,” he’d said to her,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">only the afternoon before. “We can hang
ourselves from ropes and die</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">together.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> “I think he may be in
the Kumari temple,” she said, as calmly as she</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">could manage. Because the second thought
that came to her memory now,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">with penetrating freshness, was this
off-the-cuff remark: “When I die,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I’d like to do so in the Kumari Temple,”
he’d told her one day, after</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">returning from the temple. Like all remarks
of his, she had let it</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">pass without a second thought. Now it
returned to her, like a</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">prophecy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> And there he was,
hanging, in his pressed pants and white shirt,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">wearing his Dhaka topi like a bridegroom,
on the pillar of the Kumari</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Temple.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> At eleven thirty pm,
even though they had not wanted to do it, all</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">the neighbours had awakened. At twelve, the
police arrived. The police</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">had come from all from sides—east, west,
north, south. They put their</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">arms around people’s necks and took them
off to interrogate them about</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">what had happened.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> There was really nothing
much to tell, except to say that the old man</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">appeared to have thought it out with care,
down to the last detail. It</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">was clear he wanted to die while one of his
sons were in town so he</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">could get the dag-batti from their hands.
And, on that day, his eldest</span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">son had just returned home from the United
Arab Emirates.</span></div>
Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-15090808172588791332017-10-02T21:15:00.004+05:452017-10-20T05:57:39.463+05:45 MIHYAR OF DAMASCUS<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><i>“Oh
broken homeland, glued together,</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "lucidagrande";"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><i>walking
beside me with your faltering steps.”</i></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">SUSHMA
JOSHI<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Browsing
the Internet for online literary journals, I got tired of coming up against
prestigious “international”
literary journals based in the suburban mid-west of America. The more
international they claimed to be,
the more they seemed to print stories about lawns and Graham crackers and
squirrels on trees. I had a feeling that a nationality check would show all the
writers came not just from one country, but probably within the same 100mile
county lines. Its not as if Americans don’t travel, or write about other
places. They do, but for some reason these cosmopolitan writers always seem to
end up getting published in publications who don’t self-style themselves
“international.” Hmm, I thought. Maybe the term “international” has another
meaning when it emanates from these mastheads. A little disgruntled, a little restless, I looked again, and
imagine my delight when I stumbled upon<i> Arabesques</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">, a literary journal that comes out
of Algeria. Not only is it in two languages (English and French), but they seem
actually to follow through with their international vision by publishing
writers from different countries. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><i>Arabesques
</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">publishes Arabic
literature in translation, amongst others. Reading Arabic literature reminds
one about the rich civilization, culture and arts of the Middle East—everything
from poetry, literature and drama which continues to flourish even as it
remains untranslated and unknown outside Arabic speaking countries. One such writer which we may
not have heard about is Adonis. Adonis, poet from Syria, who now lives in
Paris, may not be well-known in Nepal, but his name comes up each time the
Nobel Prize committee sits down to deliberate whom to give the Literature prize. So imagine my delight when I got a
book of Adonis from my friends a few months ago. Titled <i>Mihyar of Damascus:
His Songs,</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;"> the book
of poems by Adonis has been translated by Adnan Haydar and Michael Beard, and
published by the Lannan Foundation’s poetry series. Full disclosure—I met Adnan
and Michael at the Bellagio Center in Italy, during which they were working on the
translations. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Hearing Adnan,
who himself is from Lebanon, read out the poetry was a moving and unforgettable
experience. Perhaps some of the emotional resonance came from knowing that our
own subcontinental culture of Hindi and Urdu (and via that, Nepali) has been
touched and transformed by the poetic lyricism of Arabic. This poetry wasn’t so foreign, after
all. I, a cosmopolitan Westernized Nepali whose first encounter is always with
English, came to know that the strangeness associated with Arab culture was
more a filter set up by other cultures. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Michael
Beard, at first glance, appears an unlikely collaborator. Teaching at the
University of North Dakota, Michael is not one of those super-driven people who
populate comparative literature departments. The first thing one notices about
him is his courtsey, along with his playful and curious nature. Then, within a
day of two of knowing Michael, one knows that he is, in fact, the perfect
translator. His genuine interest
in people, cultures and everything in between is palpable. The heart of a
translator determines how the translation turns out, and a writer (but
especially a poet) is lucky when they find that indefinable mixture of heart,
language and style. A translator of poetry must be open to every nuance, every
possibility, every double meaning. A poem often plays with many disconnected
images, metaphors, analogies, and allusions. Translation requires an open mind,
and more than that, an intense interest in wordplay and an engagement to sit
and rework the poem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">What I
noticed from translations of Nepali poetry into other language is that a
literal translation of poetry may not capture the soul of the poet’s
intentions. Whereas somebody else who has the heart and mind of a poet, even
though he doesn’t speak the language fluently, may capture the poetic intent
with much more depth. Wayne Amtzis, whose translations of Nepali poets have now
been anthologized by Norton, comes to mind—Wayne’s translations appear to me to
not just grab the elusive nature of poetic language, but also to take it one
step further by adding rhythm, aurality and flow. Literal translators often
lack this intuitive sense of layered meanings, leaving the reader with a hollow
feeling of disappointment and a slight feeling of protest and outrage (I’ll spare
you my thoughts about which translation of a Nepali epic I think about as I
write this.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><i>“Oh
broken homeland, glued together,</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "lucidagrande";"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><i>walking
beside me with your faltering steps.” <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">So writes
Adonis. Everybody who reads that line in Nepal no doubt shares my flash of
recognition. Mihyar of the title refers back to the eleventh century figure
Mihyar of Daylam (in Iran), a convert from Zorastrianism to Shia Islam. Mihyar
was considered a major poet as well as an accomplished elegist, write the
translators in their introduction. Mihyar of Daylam launched a “rebellious
voice” inside the political and religious culture, making him an outsider figure
who revitalized the poetry canon from the margins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><i>“He is
a language glistening between the masts</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "lucidagrande";"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><i>the knight of strange words.”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">These
lines by themselves describe Adonis
more than any other description. Biographical searches on the Internet
brings up lots of information about Adonis, but none quite captures his
entirety. Born in Syria, educated
in Beirut, then an eventual immigrant in Paris, Adonis exemplifies the modern
man torn between different perceptions and desires. So let his poetry speak for
himself:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><i>“I
stir up the hyenas in you. I stir up the gods. I plant discord in you and feed
up to the fever. Later, I’ll teach you to walk without a guide. I am the pole
to your equator, a springtime let loose. I am the shudder in your throats. In
your words, there is a bloodletting of my own. You approach me like leprosy.
I’m the one tied to your soil. But there is nothing that brings us together,
whereas everything that separates us—so let me burn alone. Let me pass through
you like a spear of light. I cannot live with you. I cannot live without you
either. You are the undulations in my senses. There is no escape from you.” <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Adonis
shakes up my perception of “international.” Lets hope suburban American
literary journals catch on to his magic.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">(</span>This article appeared in <i>The Kathmandu Post </i>in 2009)<br />
<br />
You can buy Minhyar of Damascus, translated by Adnan Haydar and Michael Beard on Amazon:<br />
https://www.amazon.com/Mihyar-Damascus-Lannan-Translations-Selection/dp/1934414085<br />
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-46690707928849317332017-08-21T18:30:00.000+05:452019-12-24T14:55:49.885+05:45Is the solar eclipse caused by Rahu, and not the Moon?<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Those of you who
grew up in Nepal, India and other parts of the subcontinent have heard of
Rahu-Ketu, especially in the context of astrologers who repeat these terms in a
tedious refrain. If you frequent astrologers, you might also have come to
associate these terms with malefic events and happenings—anything
catastrophically bad, it seems, is always due to the presence of these two
malefic “chaya graha,” which translate to “shadow planets” in Sanskrit.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Note graha means “to seize”, and
astrologers believe these planets seize us when their ruling time periods are
dominant in our lives. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Some of you may also be aware that astrologers believe
Rahu eclipses the Sun, and Ketu the Moon, although this bit of astronomical
information may be less remembered than the overwhelming impression of malefic
energy associated with these two terms. Eclipses in birthcharts are always
viewed as malefic events—even though they may heighten material powers and
wealth. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">The two shadow graha tend to magnify the planets they are with, and the houses they sit in--meaning malefic effects get heightened for malefic conjunction, and benefics get heightened for benefics.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Eclipses are also powerful moments of transformation. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Western
astrologers have also adopted Rahu and Ketu, tactfully give them the moniker of
the “north node” and “south node” of the Moon and shearing them of mythological
weirdness. They do not give those two full planet status, as the Hindus do. The
navagrahas, or nine planets, are propitiated fully by the Hindus, who see the
seven planets plus the two chaya graha as a set of nine planets (navagraha)
that are intertwined, inalienable and part of the same cosmic system. The
navagraha are all powerful, and they rule our lives every moment and every
ghati till our last prana, or breath. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">If you live in
Thailand, you know Phra Rahu (pronounced “Pla Lahu”) as a potent force who
brings success and luck with his magnifying powers. The Thais have temples to
Phra Rahu, and they make offerings of plateful of black food—black incense,
black Oreo cookies, black Coca-Cola, etc—to the black deity. Businesses put out
fish aquariums full of white rock sugar which are munched by a slightly moving
layer of giant black ants, which are thought to signify the presence of Rahu,
and whose contentment will bring about expansion and success to the business.
Thailand’s ex Prime Minister Thaksin has publicly stated he believes his
prayers to Phra Rahu saved him from an airplane crash.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">If you have
practiced Jyotish (Indian, “Vedic”) astrology, as I have, you may also have
been puzzled as to why these two mythological <i>chaya graha</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> or shadow planets appear in perfectly
plotted charts which feature the seven other planets, which Western science
also agrees exists. In birthcharts which are now calculated by computers, you
will see Rahu and Ketu appear beside the other seven planets, and their
presence are a potent and powerful presence to explaining the happenings in
people’s lives. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">If you’ve learnt a bit of “Vedic astrology," you may even have migrated to it after leaving your original
discipline, because you’ve realized the Vedics used the sidereal zodiac, which
is an exact replica of the heavens—if they say Jupiter has moved into Leo, NASA
will also tell you Jupiter has moved into Regulus, which is a part of the
constellation of Leo. Western astrologers, in contrast, will say Leo is already
in Virgo— they use the tropical zodiac which is not synched to the heavens. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">So
jyotish astrology uses actual objective observation of the stars, and the
movement of heavenly bodies, for their calculations. Their zodiac is not
imaginary—it is a map of real constellations. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The 27 constellations or
nakshaktra are also a very important part of jyotish astrology, closely
consulted and minutely broken down in mathematical formulations. If they say
you were born with Jupiter in your Sagittarius ascendent, you can be sure
Jupiter was in Sagittarius, the heavenly constellation, when you were born.
Surely for practitioners who seem to be one step ahead of the Western
astrologers in terms of scientific observations, the inclusion of Rahu-Ketu is
a bit…weird?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Well now, its
about to get a lot weirder. Because what if, in fact, the Western scientists
who pretend to know-it-all in fact had no clue about what caused eclipses? And
they were following old theories based on the restrictions of Christian belief?
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">If you take a look
at this video, you will see two men talking about how the notion that the
solar eclipse is caused by the Moon coming in between the earth and the Sun
doesn’t make sense, because there have been many documented cases in which both
the Sun and the Moon were visible in the sky during an eclipse. Don’t freak out
or shut down because they put swastikas in the end—their point is that
swastikas were ancient symbols of auspiciousness which were then perverted by
the Nazis, “darkening the mind”—in much the same way as the eclipse does to the
luminaries. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ILkHoaySeY<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Now lets check out
the interesting phenomena of Donald Trump’s chart, which according to jyotish
astrology has two eclipses—one is the lunar eclipse and the other is the solar
eclipse directly below. Donald Trump was born during a lunar eclipse, as
Western scientists will agree—and as his chart shows with Moon being conjunct
to Ketu. Note that I could easily know this information just by plotting his
chart whereas for journalists seeking information on his birth this wouldn’t
have been as known—because who in the Western world is keeping track of
eclipses and their effects on people, frankly? </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I should note that before we
start blacklisting people born during eclipses, that these can also be powerful
magnifiers of creativity, spirituality, drama and art, amongst other human
impulses—Paolo Coelho, Lady Gaga, and Johnny Depp all have Moon conjunct Ketu,
which means they were born during lunar eclipses. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here is Trump's chart (slightly cut at one end because my computer and browser are really old and get buggy):</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBT39dAKe1f8JO_gKnB8xhQLumxPMoOO9AdKQWQZWsPXYJp4l1VLgqtxnQCdkFPJxwfTSVK2o26_qMoHWXCw5kSXasDkoto3g8_Jb11Aqjo6UCbnQ-liT2gT9kMPpEzJDTLMunSA/s1600/Screen+shot+2017-08-21+at+2.34.24+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="543" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBT39dAKe1f8JO_gKnB8xhQLumxPMoOO9AdKQWQZWsPXYJp4l1VLgqtxnQCdkFPJxwfTSVK2o26_qMoHWXCw5kSXasDkoto3g8_Jb11Aqjo6UCbnQ-liT2gT9kMPpEzJDTLMunSA/s320/Screen+shot+2017-08-21+at+2.34.24+PM.png" width="254" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">This is a
screenshot of one of my Tweets: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Check out Donald
#Trump's chart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">See his Sun
conjunct #RAHU, which astrologers believe causes solar #eclipse?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">See Moon is
conjunct Ketu?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4AnsoHQ9Fe3hwXDLPVAviTwH-ZSa85_ppaT8VXkTEQdutsSE2DeiIMOGn6U2hXozvK2HS56HekOdZ4w-d63wEE4f-kQ0ZpuFQo1FhgWYzF4a0SFG8NQ08BOW2DLv89nK297bfTw/s1600/Screen+shot+2017-08-21+at+5.57.55+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="247" data-original-width="638" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4AnsoHQ9Fe3hwXDLPVAviTwH-ZSa85_ppaT8VXkTEQdutsSE2DeiIMOGn6U2hXozvK2HS56HekOdZ4w-d63wEE4f-kQ0ZpuFQo1FhgWYzF4a0SFG8NQ08BOW2DLv89nK297bfTw/s400/Screen+shot+2017-08-21+at+5.57.55+PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Note Trump's Moon is
conjunct Ketu, meaning he was born during a lunar eclipse—the Moon chart shows
the day in which the person was born. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Note that in his 7<sup>th</sup> house,
which is his house of marriage and partnerships, he has Sun conjunct Rahu,
creating a solar eclipse. This is known as graha yogas, or eclipse
conjunctions, and both are considered inauspicious by astrologers. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I don’t want
to speculate about Trump's marriage, but from the look of unhappiness on his spouse's face we can be sure its not the happiest one. Sun is the sign of governance, and Rahu can often be the
rule-breaker, who tries to rise high and get to priviledged places beyond its
allotted sphere, so obviously he’s succeeded in the material sphere of "success". Rahu also magnifies,
and is the signifier for fame, electronic methods of communication, and also
crowds—Trump’s relationships have an element of all of those. Eventually
though, Rahu is an illusion—and it will shift and vanish, letting the sun shine
once more, once the eclipse is over. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Both eclipses
darken the qualities of the luminaries—Sun represents the state or government,
and the Moon represents the mind as well as the masses, meaning that both of
these have received an element of darkness from Trump.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When the Moon
conjuncts the Sun in a chart, this doesn’t automatically lead to an eclipse—as
Western science tells us. Jyotish tells us its two specific and autonomous
grahas of their own, independent of the moon, who cause this. If you look at
the TIME magazine video below, you can see the narrator struggling to explain
the odd shape of the lunar shadow, and twisting himself in knots to explain
why its such an odd, uneven shape. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">http://time.com/4902132/solar-eclipse-path/<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I have a bit of
fun with that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape
id="_x0000_i1027" type="#_x0000_t75" style='width:415pt;height:307pt'>
<v:imagedata src="file://localhost/Users/sushma/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_image004.png"
o:title="Screen shot 2017-08-21 at 6"/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLFX07VBtBEI3t3FA_YLZ8XSWdf405ksCdYsK8aJCrf_2HDZZO6CN5JFUGaJw4ZNLl_PEy2O2D0NH-Kc3om9dvEBMPKnHNhrTuvPOut1viya6xytRpzSAJNFnyXfzKZUDQfsAHAw/s1600/Screen+shot+2017-08-21+at+6.11.57+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="646" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLFX07VBtBEI3t3FA_YLZ8XSWdf405ksCdYsK8aJCrf_2HDZZO6CN5JFUGaJw4ZNLl_PEy2O2D0NH-Kc3om9dvEBMPKnHNhrTuvPOut1viya6xytRpzSAJNFnyXfzKZUDQfsAHAw/s640/Screen+shot+2017-08-21+at+6.11.57+PM.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">We don’t actually
know what causes eclipses. Science says it’s the Earth coming between the Sun
and Moon during a lunar eclipse, and the Moon coming between the Sun and Earth
during a solar one. The jyotishi say it is Ketu and Rahu, shadow planets which
deserve their own status as planets. Note Rahu-Ketu move in retrograde motion,
and science has also observed the shadow during eclipse to move in retrograde
motion. As mentioned in one of the videos, and as we know from our own observations, the Moon doesn’t move in retrograde
motion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Perhaps
know-it-all Western science can learn from “superstitious” astrology, after
all? Eclipses are these rare moments of total blackness during which you can see
phenomena otherwise invisible to the naked eyes. We are often in partially
eclipsed darkness, and do not see what’s going on because we are blinded by
disinformation at every turn—as with the Nazis that are embedded in every
institution and every little town of the USA, and which have now emerged into
that spectral light of the full solar eclipse. This is an opportunity for the
USA to see into its soul, see the Nazis that are embedded in their institutions
and their bureaucracy, their planning and their defense. This is the time for a
revolution. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><br />
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<br /></div>
Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-57007663921894751952017-08-17T13:34:00.001+05:452017-08-17T13:34:23.530+05:45JYOTISH, THE SCIENCE OF LIGHTECS Magazine, July 2017<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">My family’s surname is “Joshi,” derived from jyotishi, or astrologers.
According to family lore, they fled the Mughal invasion and came to Nepal via
Nainital, where they became court astrologers to the Shah monarchy. By my grandfather’s
time, nobody on our side of the family knew anything about astrology, nor did
they show any interest to pursue this arcane and antediluvian subject. My
father, who has a BA in science, and my mother, who has a Masters degree in
Nepali literature, both profess a steadfast disbelief towards the subject. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">There were, however, enough relatives around to provide glimpses of a
more interesting family history. I remember in particular one elderly relative
in his eighties who did read charts, and who was treated with great respect not
just because of his ability to read the future but also because he was rumored
to be short-tempered. He was known to walk back and forth in his wooden balcony
in the middle of old Kathmandu, and hurl insults at King Birendra himself when
he was feeling cranky. But because he was an elderly gentleman and an
astrologer, he was left alone in the Panchayat days You don’t want an angry
astrologer reading your chart—one never knows, after all, what could be said in
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Bodoni SvtyTwo OS ITC TT-BookIt"; font-size: 14.0pt;">such</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> a moment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">My parents never did the karma kanda necessary for me as a child—my
mother is fond of telling me that my pasni occurred in Guheswori Temple, that I
wearing a 13 rupee cotton frock and a 3 mohar underwear, and that instead of
rice and 108 dishes I got to eat </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman Italic"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>dahi-chiura</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> (Thanks, mom.) She blames the Joshi family
and says they never did the pasni ceremonies for daughters, but I know this is
not so, because there is documented proof to the contrary. My three female
cousins, all older than me, had their pasni ceremonies documented for posterity
in rich Kodak Technicolor slides, showing them decked out in red embroidered
velvet outfits and with all the attendent festivities, which we used to project
onto a white screen and watch while we were children. Then there was the odd
family tradition in which my father, who worked in Hotel Annapurna, would buy
gorgeous birthday cakes for my brother and all my cousins—but somehow he never
did that for me (My superloving dad was influenced by my mother’s “Cake is a western
tradition,” school of thought, I fear. Yes, I know I have a bad planetary
configuration, but come on…) The only thing my parents did do correctly in the
traditional realm, it seems, was to get a real astrologer to make a real
birthchart for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Which is why that yellow piece of paper took on special significance
when I finally saw it, rather late in life. And which I took with me to my
first astrologer visit, at eighteen—a friend’s mother knew an astrologer in
Ekantakuna, and she took me and another friend with her when she went. What I
remember about that moment was the way in which this unassuming man sitting in
his leaking room and charging a hundred rupees for his service, seemed to give
meaning and direction to the people whose charts were being read. Later I would
come to see how astrology functions as psychotherapy, as group counseling and
as mental health support for a culture where none of those support systems
exist through the medical or social service systems. Astrologers can act as
financial advisors, marriage and divorce counselers, study abroad consultants,
migration advisors, teachers and political advisors, amongst other roles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I did not pay much more attention to astrology after that till I was
29, sharing an apartment in New York with two musicians and a poet. One of my
housemates, a jazz musician, sat with me at the kitchen table that summer
evening when the lights went out all over New York, and told me that 29 was the
age of Saturn’s return. Matt Lavelle is the least likely astrological guru I
could imagine-he played the trumpet and the saxophone and to make a living he
worked in Tower Records. But his words stayed with me, and perhaps because it
came from such an unexpected source I began to wonder if people’s lives were
indeed affected by the rhythm and movement of the planets. I was after all in
New York right after 9/11, where jobs were hardest to find and I was trying to
make a living teaching students at the City University in New York. Saturn was
at its peak, and I could feel the planetary heaviness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">So what exactly was Saturn’s return? Saturn’s return, it turns out, is
the amount of time it takes Saturn to do a full perambulation around the zodiac
and come back full circle to the place where it was when a person is born. According
to Matt, that was heavy but powerful moment of transformation. This got me
thinking. Did the movement of the planets moving in their cosmic pathways have
a powerful push and pull on human beings? Were we just stardust, connected to
the constellations and the planets more intimately than we could imagine from
our location of human supremacy and arrogance? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When I returned to Nepal shortly after, my brother printed out a
kundali for me with his software. There was a great deal of talk about which
software was the best one. I could see that this was a complicated program,
with multiple functions for calculations of many aspects of time and space. The
only problem was that I didn’t know what they signified. Also there was that
sudden silence and the pursed lips when he looked at certain aspects of my
chart, which vexed me. The only way to know what was going on, I thought, was
to learn astrology myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Which is what I did. From 2009, I started to read all the jyotish texts
I could find, including the </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman Italic"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>Brihat Parasara Hora Shastra</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">, the original text on which modern Vedic
astrology is based. BV Raman’s <i>Three Hundred Important Combinations</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> is an easy read, and allows for beginning
astrologers to quickly trace the combinations of planets on their charts, and how
those “yogas” affect the houses in which they are placed. For those looking for
a lucid and well-written book about the basics, </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman Italic"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>Astrology of
the Seers</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> by Dr. David
Frawley provides a simple introduction. With the advent of Youtube, the
internet has also exploded with astrologers of all backgrounds teaching their
subject. In particular, I find a young man called Kapiel Raj, who teaches with
a refreshing mixture of humor and pop cultural pizzazz, to be bringing jyotish
to a new generation of learners.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Jyotish is an ancient, vast and complicated subject, intertwined with
many different texts and traditions from North and South India. It is
disheartening for me when I find that most people dismiss it outright without
knowing anything about its history, philosophy, and practice. For most people
educated in the Western system, jyotish is a folk tradition rife with
superstition and fear, who they associate with unscrupulous astrologers using
the predictive techniques to extort money from gullible customers. As I started
to provide readings more frequently, I realized there was a logic and reasoning
to the “dakshina” offering. When my Newar physiotherapist asked me to read her
chart, she brought me a small offering—Rs.101 in an envelope. I protested, she
insisted--because, she said, the reading would not be effective unless I was
paid for the service. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The logic of the “dakshina” became even more clearer to me when two
British ladies who’d approached me via the web got a reading from me, treated
it in an offhand and disrespectful manner (I was a “fortuneteller” from which
they were having a bit of fun), then paid me a fraction of what I’d said my
fees was. It occurred to me that in fact the reading wasn’t very fruitful for
them as it could have been, and that they had missed an opportunity to think
about their life’s meaning and purpose in a deeper and more profound manner.
This may be the reason why the ancient texts warn that this subject must never
be taught lightly, and never to a student who would abuse its knowledge or
disrespect it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">During 2009, when I was 36 (the age when Saturn matures, naturally!), I
came to meet an astrologer called Santosh Basistha. Santosh-ji reads the charts
of everybody important in Nepal—once he had to run and hide from his overeager
fans who were showing up at his house at all times of the day and night. In
this unmarked new location we sat chatting with his neighbor, a shopkeeper, who
was incredulous at the sheer number of celebrities who had shown up at his
doorsteps, seeking the man. Guru Basistha is a folksy hero with an actual
classical education in astrology from Benaras Hindu University, imparting equal
parts astrological and psychological analysis, gossip, and folk wisdom along
the way. He was an instant hit with all of my friends—including one who got a
reading just as she was coming out of a brutal 18 year old Rahu dasha, to a
more easeful and kind Jupiter dasha. “People may appear to be a certain way,
but only we jyotishi can see their true nature,” he’d said once. “We can see
them with the inner eye.” Over the
years, I’ve come to understand what he means by that line. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">As many of you reading this article know, I was buried in Mangal Hiti
in Patan during the 2015 earthquake, and was bedridden for almost 4 months.
During that time, what got me out of my depression was a jyotish reading—a
friend of mine organized for me to do the reading for her husband’s business
partner. Here was a real job and I was forced to get myself up on bed, inspite
of the excruciating pain on the left side of my back. For the first time, I had
to sit up: there was no other choice. As I wrote up my analysis by hand and
recorded it on my cellphone, it occurred to me that the act of healing, which
is often integral to an astrological read, was a two-way street. Not only was I
doing an act of spiritual healing for my client, but I in turn was being healed
by this process. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Later that year, this man asked me to do a read for another of his
colleagues. What I could tell from this second chart is that he had suffered
gravely in some manner, perhaps because of his health. “You have faced some
torturous times due to your health,” I wrote in my 15 page report which I sent
him. It turned out that this young man had had cancer, and been in treatment
which required him to be put into a machine and in treatment for almost six
hours at a time. When he showed up at my house, he said to me: “You know me
better than I do.” It is in moments like this that the truth of jyotish rings
true—that often the “science of light” looks far deeper into the realms of the
human soul than x-ray machines ever could. Six months later, I received a
letter of thanks from him which said that this reading had been very important
for him, and he was still processing everything I’d told him. I hoped, in some small way, that the reading had
provided a session of “complementary healing” to what he’d already received
from medical doctors—and also provided him a little window to look into and
face that darkest of topics, the fear of death. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">After doing readings for almost 8 years, I have come to this
conclusion: that there is an unnerving correlation between jyotish rules and
how it manifests in the material world. One could argue that 9 planets, 12
houses and 27 constellations, tied to various vague possibilities, could in
fact be applied to almost any situation and come across as halfway true. But in
fact there are not just probabilities but also certainties, and the more I
practice it, the more I can see that there seems to be some strange connections
between the movement of the planets and our own infinitesimal selves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I was trained in social sciences in one of the best universities in the
world (Brown University.) I have my fair share of scientific skepticism and
critical thinking skills. So that it perhaps I spend as much time as I do
thinking about this: what exactly is the reason that a planet’s movement from
one side of the zodiac to the next could trigger a completely farreaching
change in a human being’s life? Lets think about it. If we agree that animals
are in fact affected by the movement of the Moon, and the lunar tides, we can
agree that perhaps humans are too (our emotions change during full moon, as
research suggest.) Then there’s the Sun, which also rules the lives and rhythms
of plants and animals. This we can see and document and agree upon. Why not
then that the other seven planets also have a similar impact on the lives of
animals—including humans? To me, this doesn’t seem as absurd and farfetched as
Western science would like us to believe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Saturn is the heaviest planet and while it passes through the house
where the Moon is placed, as well as the two adjoining signs, this is the
considered by the jyotishis to be the most difficult time. This time is known
as “sade-sati,” or the 7.5 years it takes Saturn to pass through these three
houses. I don’t see why that should seem so absurd—considering that Saturn is
the heaviest planet, no doubt exerting a powerful gravitational pull on our
puny physical bodies. Almost everyone I know who has left an impact on this
world on some material level, a famous scientist, artist, writer, philosopher,
etc, tends to have either an exalted or a retrograde Saturn. Saturn is the
karaka for hard work and discipline, an exalted one is particularly powerful
and retrograde makes it even more extreme. In other words, the weight of Saturn
is often transformative, says astrology. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Mars in Third House is supposed to show athletic powers. During the
Olympics, I found that those who excel in athletics do have Mars in some
powerful position, or conjunct other planets which magnify its power.
Invariably those with Mars in Third are athletic in some form or fashion—if
they were born in a country where they are not allowed to practice athletics,
you can be sure they find ways to be competitive in some other way! Does the
planet Mars somehow trigger certain sections of our bodies and brains, since it
was exerting a certain gravitational pull during our birth? I don’t see why
this hypothesis should be dismissed outright—after all, even Western scientists
have very little idea of what goes on at Mars, let alone all its gravitational
fields, and spectrums of light, and energies it is beaming into our planet and
into our miniscule bodies in the moment of our birth! So why would we reject
this idea outright? But Western education, oddly, does just that—reject the
idea that these powerful revolving grahas above us have absolutely no
push-and-pull in our lives and the way certain events manifest into our lives.
The stars are separate from us—inert bodies in the sky, not the powerful,
pulsing forces of divinity as the Hindus worship them as being.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">On a visit to Dhulikhel, learning of my interest in jyotish, an elderly
Newar friend of mine brought out a kundali, the kind which I’d never seen
before. It was a paper scroll, rolled up about 30 to 35 feet in length, written
up not just with the divisional charts I was used to reading, but also markings
I had never seen before. What were they? Who knew? I would have to do make a copy
and send it to different astrologers to see if they understood it. He said that
the scroll had almost been cremated with his maternal uncle’s body, as is the
tradition with birthcharts (once your life story on this life is finished, so
is your chart), but then he persuaded his relatives to let him save this
magnificent chart. I asked him if the detailed readings that had been predicted
for his uncle had come true. He said it had, and that he’d died quite close to
the age in which his death had been predicted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Life can be predicted, but can death? One woman told me a jyotish told
her father that a “khadgo” time was upcoming, and that he had to be careful.
His father did not believe this astrologer and went on the trip—and then died
on the month his death was predicted. “Do you think it was psychological?” I
enquired. “Perhaps he feared subconsciously he would die, after hearing this
prediction.” She shook her head. “He was bitten by a mosquito and died of
meningitis,” she replied. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">After looking at people’s charts for almost 8 years, I can say with full confidence that there
are freaky “co-incidences” which our limited Western educated brains would
simply not feel comfortable handling. Which can open up, if nothing else, an
understanding that the cosmic system is larger than our human-centered
understanding of it, that there’s more than meets the eye when it comes to time
and space, and that the world we know through our limited senses and knowledge
systems is bigger and vaster than we will ever know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">This then is the fruit of studying jyotish in many ways—a broadening up
of the consciousness, a humbling of human arrogance and certainty, and a
certain giving up of agency to the divine powers that be which can often bring
incredible relief when people are going through their toughest moments, which
happens to the best of us. Out of nine planets, four are benefics and five are
malefics—meaning that nobody is going to be spared the human griefs and
tragedies that beset everyone at some point or another in their lives. Jyotish
allows and accounts for these moments, predicts it beforehand, and readies
people to think about life in a more mutli-faceted and complex manner than the
linear, modern ways in which we now parse the darkness and lightness of life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-61385578480418004772017-07-19T17:49:00.005+05:452017-07-19T17:50:22.863+05:45Ming's Defense in the Munster Centre's Southward journalRead my short story "<a href="http://munsterlit.ie/Southword/Issues/32/joshi_sushma.html">Ming's Defense</a>" in Southward, the Munster Centre's literary journal, this July. Its about a talking tiger--a short story which I wrote in 2003 while living in Harlem, New York.<br />
<br />
<img alt="Southword Journal" height="61" src="https://munsterlit.ie/Artwork%20images/Southword-Online-Journal-Header.jpg" width="400" />Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-46749315032157432962017-03-30T16:33:00.002+05:452017-03-30T16:33:13.561+05:45Kyoto Journal #71 featured my short story "Hunger" <br />
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<span style="font-size: 15.4px; letter-spacing: 0.7px; line-height: 18.48px;"><a href="http://www.kyotojournal.org/backissues/kj71/">Kyoto Journal #71</a> brought together diverse writers celebrating the varied aspects of tea. My short story "Hunger" was also published in it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.4px; letter-spacing: 0.7px; line-height: 18.48px;">You can view their content page below.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #575757; font-family: MayaSamuelsOsF-ExtraLight;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px; letter-spacing: 0.7px; line-height: 18.48px;">___________________________________________________________________________</span></span></div>
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Here’s a sampling of voices from the vibrant, pervasive, evolving world of tea, from a wide variety of sources, The story of tea is a perfect lens through which to view the contact and mutual transformation of East and west. This is barely an introduction, but the many trails are marked.</div>
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This issue was guest edited by Gaetano Kazuo Maida, executive director of the nonprofit Tea Arts Institute, former organizer of the American Premium Tea Institute and publisher of the industry journal Tea Trade. (He is also a founding director of the Buddhist magazine Tricycle, and is executive director of the <a href="http://www.ibff.org/" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #c92b2e; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">International Buddhist Film Festival, www.ibff.org</a>.) The Art Director of this issue is Ayelet Maida, principal of A/M Studios, and creative director of the International Buddhist Film Festival. Contributing Editors: Lauren W. Deutsch, Josh Michaell and Winnie Yu.</div>
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Contents:</h2>
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BAISAO: THE OLD TEA SELLER – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Norman Waddell</span></div>
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At a time when the word “tea” for most Japanese still meant powdered matcha, Baisao was serving a new variety that came to be known in Japan as sencha, a word that translates literally as “simmered tea.”</div>
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DARJEELING – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Kevin Gascoyne</span></div>
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Darjeeling is bound to its reputation as the “Champagne of teas.” The 87 Darjeeling tea gardens form the tea equivalent of a French wine appellation. A hectare of Darjeeling bush will yield a mere 500 kilos of tea each year.</div>
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YIXING WARE – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Terese Tse Bartholomew</span></div>
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<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-10349" height="173" src="http://www.kyotojournal.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/Yixing_thumbnail.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; float: right; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px 0px 0.4em 1.4em; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" title="Yixing" width="200" /></div>
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VERANDAH – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Hirokazu Kosaka</span></div>
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Installation and story</div>
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TEA AT SHAOLIN – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Bill Porter</span></div>
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“When new monks at Shaolin ask me about the Dharma, I tell them to have a cup of tea. If they still don’t understand, I tell them to taste the tea. The Way is in everything we do. Drinking a cup of tea, eating, shitting, it doesn’t matter, it’s all the Way. You can read all the books you want, but unless you find the Way in your daily life, you’re wasting your time.”</div>
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MING HORSES, TEA AND THE THIRD DALAI LAMA – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Martha Avery</span></div>
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In the same year that Tibetan authorities agreed to the Mongolian entitlement of the Dalai Lama, the Chinese granted official permission to Mongolians to trade in tea. In the fall of 1577, tea was for the first time officially sold by China to the Mongolians.</div>
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TEMPLE OF TEA, TEMPLE OF THIRST – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Jon Oda<br />Desert Meditations At Burning Man</span></div>
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<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-10346" height="178" src="http://www.kyotojournal.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/BurningMan_thumbnail.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; float: right; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px 0px 0.4em 1.4em; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" title="Burning Man" width="200" /></div>
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UJI GREEN – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Amanda Mayer Stinchecum</span></div>
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The concentrated flavor of gyokuro is sweet, fresh, thick and rounded. Protecting the new leaves from the sun’s rays enhances the production of theanin, an amino acid that’s the source of tea’s natural sweetness.</div>
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TEATIME – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Pico Iyer</span></div>
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<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-10348" height="171" src="http://www.kyotojournal.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/teatime_thumbnail.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; float: right; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px 0px 0.4em 1.4em; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" title="Tea time" width="200" /><br />Within the tearoom itself, every detail sang the shifting of the seasons. The poem in the tokonoma alcove spoke of hearts resembling the autumn moon. An incense holder reproduced the circle of the harvest moon. The seven autumn grasses poked, haphazardly elegant, out of a long-necked vase.</div>
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ONE SERIES – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Pierre Sernet</span></div>
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Tea ceremony as portable public performance art</div>
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LANDSCAPE – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Chitfu Yu</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.kyotojournal.org/the-journal/fiction-poetry/lu-t%E2%80%99ung-and-the-song-of-tea/" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #c92b2e; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">LU T’UNG AND THE SONG OF TEA</a> – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Steven D. Owyoung</span></div>
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The “Song of Tea” is one of the most beloved poems known by tea-drinkers the world over. Its verses on “seven cups” of tea remain as famous today as when written in China during the T’ang dynasty (618–906 AD).</div>
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<a href="http://www.kyotojournal.org/tea-food-2/masala-chai/" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #c92b2e; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">MASALA CHAI </a>– <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Matteo Pistono</span></div>
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Take-out tea with a whole new meaning</div>
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YUN WEI – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Chongbin Zheng</span></div>
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PU-ER BY <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Wing Chi Ip, Ming Yi Wang, Roy Fong</span></div>
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Unlike any other tea, pu-er is designed to be aged for years after it’s picked, and is regarded almost as a living being, with personality. It displays one set of characteristics when young and continues to mature and change as time passes; as with people, the environment in which it “grows up” affects the way it matures.</div>
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SRI LANKA PILGRIMAGE – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Matteo Pistono</span></div>
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CHA – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Kazuaki Tanahashi</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.kyotojournal.org/tea-food-2/the-name-game/" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #c92b2e; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">THE NAME GAME</a> – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Winnie Yu</span></div>
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For the Chinese understand that without nature, man is inherently insignificant. It is therefore understandable that of all of the thousands of teas in China, none were specifically named after a person, not even after any of the many emperors who were often responsible for naming them. Most individual teas are named after their places of origin, the most common being the mountains where many are found.</div>
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HUMILITY – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Todd Walton</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.kyotojournal.org/tea-food-2/teahouse-renaissance-in-taipei/" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #c92b2e; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">TEAHOUSE RENAISSANCE IN TAIPEI </a>– <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Donna Lo</span></div>
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THE GAIWAN – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Winnie Yu</span></div>
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The gaiwan is also called the Three Marvels Bowl, for Heaven, Earth, and Man. The lid is on top, therefore heaven, the saucer supports everything, therefore earth, and living between heaven and earth is mankind, and therefore, the bowl.</div>
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ADVENTURES IN THE TEA TRADE – TEA MERCHANTS WINNIE YU AND SEBASTIAN BECKWITH</div>
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29 Moguk, Burma<br />63 Phoenix Mountain, China; Wuyi, China<br />76 Treasure Mountain, Anxi, China<br />77 Darjeeling, India; Tung Ting, Taiwan<br />78 Taiping, China; Wenshan, Taiwan<br />79 Phongsali, Laos</div>
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IN REVIEW</div>
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Lauren W. Deutsch on Tan Dun’s opera <em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Tea: A Mirror of Soul</em><br />Josh Michaell on The Modern Japanese Tea Room, by Michael Freeman, and <em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Contemporary Teahouses in China</em><br />Lauren W. Deutsch on <em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Americans Studying the Traditional Japanese Art of the Tea Ceremony: The Internationalizing of a Traditional Art</em>, by Barbara Mori<br />Josh Michaell on <em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">All In This Tea</em>, directed by Les Blank and Gina Liebrecht<br />Lauren W. Deutsch on <em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The Ancient Tea Horse Road: Travels with the Last of the Himalayan Muleteers,</em> by Jeff Fuchs [Errata: P.54, second column, second par “…Fuchs recalls” should read: “In a distant echo of news from the first caravans, he recalls…” – “he” refers to Jason Rush.]<br />Josh Michaell on <em style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The Time of Tea</em>, by Dominique Pasqualini and Bruno Suet</div>
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REGULAR FEATURES</div>
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FICTION</div>
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HUNGER – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Sushma Joshi</span></div>
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<img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-10347" height="180" src="http://www.kyotojournal.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/hunger_thumbnail.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; float: right; font-size: 15.4px; margin: 0px 0px 0.4em 1.4em; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" title="Hunger" width="200" /></div>
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POETRY</div>
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TWO POEMS IN PRAISE OF ENKA – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Kevin Simmonds</span></div>
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FOUR POEMS BY <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Kim Seung-Hee</span></div>
<div style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #575757; font-family: MayaSamuelsOsF-ExtraLight; font-size: 15.4px; letter-spacing: 0.7px; line-height: 18.48px; margin-bottom: 1em; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Translated by Brother Anthony of Taizé and Lee Hyung-Jin</div>
<div style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #575757; font-family: MayaSamuelsOsF-ExtraLight; font-size: 15.4px; letter-spacing: 0.7px; line-height: 18.48px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
IN TRANSLATION</div>
<div class="backchaptertitle" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #575757; font-family: MayaSamuelsOsF-bold; font-size: 15.4px; letter-spacing: 0.7px; line-height: 18.48px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;">
THE WRONG PARADISE – <span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Rabindranath Tagore</span></div>
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<span class="backchapterauthor" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 15.4px; font-variant: small-caps; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: capitalize; vertical-align: baseline;">Translated From Bengali By Srinjay Chakravarti</span></div>
Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-16192072364062991012017-03-25T13:41:00.000+05:452017-10-06T22:53:24.735+05:45The Zia Motel<div class="p1">
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<i>Sushma Joshi</i></div>
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Albuquerque. </div>
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The Greyhound bus finally arrives, but my box of books is lost in transit. Three people, including me, sit there arguing with the manager about how this has been the consistent principle of Greyhound, and how its time they took responsibility. After three days in the bus, this is the final straw. I would have spent about the same amount of money if I had tried to get a cheap airline ticket, I realize belatedly, instead of spending another hundred dollars in transportation and hotel charges. But there is nothing to do. Here I am in Albuquerque, a day before school started, stuck in a small town of superb suburban sprawl and no public transportation. I call up the Yellow Cab, and I call the Zia Hotel, prominently displayed in the Albuquerque's information booth. </div>
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“You are Indian?” the very Indian voice at the other end asks me. </div>
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“Nepali,” I answer. </div>
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“You are alone?” the woman says, with the curiosity that tells me I am once again stepping into a very small, very surveilled world.</div>
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“Is that a problem?” I snap. I am in America, for god's sake. People are not supposed to be asking me that question.</div>
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“No, no.” says the voice at the other end, hastily. “I just wanted to know how many people there were.”</div>
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The Zia Hotel, I realize too late, is a dilapidated motel with flaking blue paint and rickety planks nestled in-between downtown and the posh area. Three straggly characters are hanging out in the stairs – a Native American woman who doesn't look towards me; a young white man, in his twenties, his eyes peering out to the world with the haunted look of the abandoned; and a thin, weedy man reeling drunkenly in a red t-shirt splattered with white paint. </div>
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I push the smeared glass door, but it will not open. “The bell. The bell.” The three of them yell at me. “The bell!” they say, as I fail to grasp that the door is locked from the inside. I look around desperately, trying to see the bell. Finally I locate it, on the side of the plank of the wall. </div>
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The door is opened by a middle aged Indian woman with broken teeth and a warm smile. </div>
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“Come in,” she says, giving me a conspiratorial look. “Bring your bag in here.”</div>
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She makes it sound like somebody could make a snatch for it in the five minutes it will take me to check in. But I drag my heavy bag two feet into the room. It is a long passageway, converted to a convenience store, stocked with bright, clean bottles and tins with colorful labels. It is a contrast to the dingy, drab porch. A long counter slices the room in half, horizontally. The Indian woman stands behind it. </div>
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“You are staying one day?” she asks me.</div>
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“I'll leave tomorrow morning.” </div>
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“I'll charge you twenty then.” It is more than advertised on the billboard, but I do not ask any questions. She gives me a key marked 203.</div>
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“I've put you in the back, so you won't be disturbed. This key is for 207,” She says, looking at me meaningfully. I do not ask her why the key for 207 says 203. I am sure there is an explanation, but it seems like not the time to ask about it.</div>
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I give her the three dollars for the key deposit, and am about to leave.</div>
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“Twenty dollars,” She says, eyeing me grimly.</div>
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“I'm sorry. I didn't realize I had to pay right now.” My voice trails off as she looks at me as if she suspects that I will walk off any moment without paying the bill. </div>
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“Somebody will help you put your bag away.” </div>
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A man in a pink cotton shirt, with strange still eyes and long blonde hippie hair carries my bag up the rickety wooden stairs. He had just been standing in the office. I assume he is a resident. </div>
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“Over here.” I beckon to him as he starts walking off towards 203. He puts it down outside 207 without a word. There is something about his eyes that make me feel like I am staring into the eyes of a man on the run. </div>
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“Thank you.” I say effusively. Thoughts of serial murderers and young women disappearing from motels cross my mind. He looks at me and can read the thoughts in my eyes.</div>
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“Don't worry about it,” he says as he leaves. His voice is a deep cultured East Coast voice. </div>
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***</div>
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I put my bag down and look around the room. A smell of urine, like it has been seeping into the dingy brown carpet and the old furniture for the last three years, hits my nostrils. It is acrid, and makes it painful to breathe. The heat has been keeping it in gentle circulation in the room. There are five grains of dried rice on the table with the telephone. The lock in the door has apparently been cut twice, and the chain hangs limply, with no metal implement on the doorjamb to receive it. </div>
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I decide I cannot stay here for the night. I have to call the Yellow Cab and get out of here, even if it means forfeiting my deposit. Now I know why the woman had insisted I pay today, and not tomorrow. I lift the receiver and try to dial out. A cheerful dial tone trails off into dead silence each time I hit a number.</div>
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I decide to go down and see if I can find a bank. I need to withdraw some money if I am to plan an escape from the Zia Motel. I walk out of my room, and lock my door. In the next room, I can see a man with terribly thin limbs lying on the floor, leaning on the bedframe. He looks straight at me with a glazed, terrified look in his eyes. We stare at each other for a few seconds, and then I walk away. </div>
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The Native American woman, the man with the haunted eyes, and the drunken man in the red t-shirt are still sitting on the stairs. </div>
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“Do you know where I can find some food?” I ask them.</div>
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“Over here. El Paso,” say all three, eager to be of assistance.</div>
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Then the man says: “What kind of food place? Do you want a restaurant?” He looks at me intensely, as if he suspects that I am one of those rich broads who frequents fancy restaurants. I am dressed in my sleeveless brown dress and green bangles. </div>
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A burrito is fine, thanks, I say. </div>
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“Over there. I'll show you.” Says the Indian woman, walking with me.</div>
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“What's your name?” I ask as we walk.</div>
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“Shelly.” She says beaming, giving me a hand to shake.</div>
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At the edge of a major highway, she stops and points across. “Over there.”</div>
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The burrito is dripping with yellow cheese.</div>
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“Do you know a bank around here? An ATM machine?” I ask desperately. The young woman behind the glass window pops her head out, looks at me blankly, and says with a heavy Spanish accent: “Oh, maybe down there. I'm not sure.”</div>
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I ask three people walking down the street. Nobody knows where the nearest bank is. I wonder whether people survive on a barter economy here, or they are so used to cars they can only drive to their nearest, most intimate banking institution. </div>
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I walk back to the Zia Motel, resigned to my fate. The three people are still hanging out in the stairs. </div>
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“So where you from?” I ask Shelly, the Indian woman. She said she is half Cheyyene, half Navaho. She had left Phoenix fifteen years ago because there was nothing there, and it was hot. So she came here, and looked after the office when the owner was not around, and made sure the residents had toilet paper.</div>
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As I stood there eating, I noticed a faded sign on one of the posts. Halfway home for young adults, it said. I was a bit confused. Did the motel also functioned as a half-way home during off seasons? My understanding of motels was that they were institutions for temporary residents. This house seemed to be full of people who looked like they had been living there since the bomb went off in Hiroshima.</div>
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An older woman with big blonde bangs and a bright pink blouse came out and sat on the stairs with me. She was followed, very quickly, by a long woman who was so thin her t-shirt hung on her body, and the huge frames of her glasses hid her face. I had a sense that the two of them were coming to suss the new resident out. </div>
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The blonde shakes her head in silence as she sits there on the steps and counts a huge handful of quarters with the painful concentration of somebody who is counting out a very important amount of money. “Angel, do you have enough?” The long woman shakes her arms out and asks the blonde. </div>
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Angel shakes her head anxiously, then puts them back on the ground and recounts them all over again. </div>
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“Hello.” I say.</div>
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The long woman looked at me. There was a moment of silence. Then she said: “The federal attorney was shot and killed and they finally realized that they made a mistake, but since the Indiana federal judges did not want to admit their mistake, they kidnapped me and took away my military uniform - I was in the Army, where they do brainwashing and other experiments, and put me in the federal court in charges of killing the attorney, but since there was no evidence they could not let me off because there was no evidence, and therefore it proved that the federal court had been right to prosecute and the American judicial system and the psychiatric system was a big scam, and the federal attorney had been killed and they were still after innocent people without proof and I know that people are out there dressed as military to harass people who did not kill the federal attorney…” </div>
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This was addressed to a man with military pants and a big, built body who arrived briefly in a racing bike, disappeared into the building, came back and unlocked his bike, gave the federal attorney's murderer a dirty look, and then left again. </div>
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“What do you think of the federal judges?” I ask Angel, wondering if she can enlighten me about her friend. The woman seemed to make complete and logical sense with each sentence. And yet, when I listened harder, all of the sentences did not link together. Her story was a bit like Escher's drawing of the house that looks like it leads somewhere and seem to make complete sense, until you look really closely and you realise that it actually leads nowhere. The woman, like the drawing, was making me doubt my own perception. Maybe she was a fugitive of the McCarthy Era, still hiding because she didn't realize that it had been over for the past four decades.</div>
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Angel shook her tinted blonde curls and started counting her quarters again. “There she goes again,” she muttered, as her friend started looping her story in incredible, brilliant logical sentences that encompassed everything from the US military system to the loss of modern sanity, without a beat. “Telling the same story over and over and over again.” </div>
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A malnourished man came limping down the verandah in a red tracksuit. A car stopped and disgorged a flamboyant couple, an Indian man with a cowboy hat and a blonde straight from a B rated Western movie. Only she came nearer and I realized she had a white plastic implement on her throat. It looked like a upright plastic capsule and appeared to have a hole that she could close off with her finger, like a flute, after which she proceeded to speak in a whisper. </div>
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“I paid her fourteen dollars but I still owe her nine,” she whispered. “Where is Daisy? I need to talk to her.”</div>
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“ Oh, she just left, then. She left to go to church. To her mosque.” Shelly replied. She talked about Daisy in the hushed tones that people usually reserve for Very Important Persons. In the tone of Shelly's voice I suddenly saw how they must view Daisy: as a woman with a small empire, riding around in her car and her fur coat, all of her minions waiting for her beck and call. Shelly has a black fungus like growth on her cheek, and having shaken hands with her and then eaten a burrito with the same hand I am gripped by paranoia. I can feel the black fungus slowly spreading in my stomach linings.</div>
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The motel, I began to realize, was peopled by people on the margins of life - junkies, alien kidnapees, Indians with lost souls and schizophrenics.</div>
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“And why are you here?” I ask Angel with mounting anxiety. The place makes me feel like how my bus-seat companion Sarah had described her childhood in Arizona. "I felt I would never get out of here," she had said. They will suck me in here for ever.</div>
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“I am here because I happened to be here,” She replied. </div>
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That's a good reason as any, I reply. </div>
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I had a brief moment of paranoia as I wondered if the owners were dealing in heroin, and if so, I was going to get framed and busted for something that I would never know about as I ended my life in a maximum security prison in the state of New Mexico. </div>
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***</div>
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I take out my <i>chupi</i>, a small knife that I had bought from a Tibetan nomad in the mountains of Mustang, and stuck it by my bed. The shower scene from “Pyscho” was not far from my head as I got into the tub and opened the rusty taps. I left the door open, in order to have easy access to bite any aggressors who might show up at any moment. The door had one flimsy lock, and it looked it had been broken in already. </div>
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The phone rings, shattering the urine saturated, stuffy heat silence of the motel room.</div>
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“Hello, Tara?” The bright voice of the owner. Instantly, all my anger falls away. They should warn people about this place, I was thinking. They should let unknowing people walking out of the bus-station that this place is a transitory home for disturbed youth. But as I hear the kind voice of the woman, benign, completely uncomprehending, I realise that I am on a different plane.</div>
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“My daughters are going to the mall.” Her voice continues. “Would you like to join them? They are a little bit younger than you, but they are good girls.”</div>
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“Thank you so much.” I say, all my anger melting away. I sincerely appreciated anybody who would take me away from this urine smell at that moment, for any length of time. “I will come right down.”</div>
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I walk down. Shelly is still sitting on the steps, the left side of her face powdered by some dark fungus, her eyes furtive as she looks at me halfway. I try, without success, to start up a conversation with her when I see a red car arrive. There she is, says Shelly. A teenage girl in a short bob drives up. She gets out of the car, looks straight ahead, and gives no acknowledgement of our presence. I try to catch her attention, but she gets out and rings the bell without looking at me. </div>
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A woman in her mid-twenties, with shoulder length hair and flowing mauve cotton pants, opens the door. She is brown as henna, with a smile that reminds me of small towns baking in the heat of India, bread frying in hot oil, bangled hands clapping out the rhythm of large weddings.</div>
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“There she is,” she says, a smile breaking open her face as she sees me. “Tara, this is my sister Ruhi. She is coming with us to the mall.” She informs her sister.</div>
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“Oh really.” The teenager is cool, slightly curt. She is crisp as a potato chip in her short bob and a no nonsense denim overall dress.</div>
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“Hey baby! Give me a ride, give me a ride.” A man starts yelling from the balcony. Ruhi looks straight ahead, with no sign that she has heard any of the commotion, gets in the driver's seat and drives us off.</div>
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She is nineteen, I find out. In college in a biology program. She wants to be a doctor.</div>
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I am confused by the sudden shift from a halfway home to a causal, suburban reality that pervades the car as we head out to the mall. Do the sisters ever talk about the people who live in their motel? Are they even aware of the poverty, the mental illnesses, the welfare lifestyles that surround them? Or is this complete denial one way to create a transparent, plastic boundary that allows a teenager to live in the ghetto and still go to medical school? </div>
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My first instinct of irrational anger and confusion wants to blame these two women for the poverty and misery of their mother’s tenants. How could they not see the unsanitary depths of poverty that their tenants were living in? How could they make their livings from such direct exploitation? Zaida looks at me and talks about her grocery store with such warmth and openness I feel silenced. What could I ask her: By the way, have you noticed that half the people who live in your motel seem to be mentally ill, and living in abject poverty? And by the way, how do you feel about that? </div>
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“Dad was saying the milk had run out. He was asking me where he could get some more, so I gave him Jeff's number and asked him to give him a call later.”</div>
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Zaida turns to me and explains: “We have just started a convenience store, you know. It's so difficult, the business. We started that three years ago and still we have no profit. We just break even.” She looks at me directly in the eye. I have barely met her for half an hour and already I feel like I have known her all my life. </div>
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They are from Kutch, in Gujarat. Their grandparents moved to Kenya. They had grown up in Kenya before moving to the US eight years ago. They have that warmth of people who grew up in a tight-knit community, and who can radiate a sense of inclusion without even trying. </div>
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The business is hard, she explains. A friend of hers was supplying the convenience store with milk. They put a sign saying: $1.49 for three gallons and the milk ran out in two days. So now they had to get some more.</div>
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We stop at the mall. “We are going to a birthday party after this. I hope you will come with us.” Zaida says causally. I am charmed by their easy, informal inclusion.</div>
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The two of them head towards Gap Clothing. They start browsing in the sale section. Eventually, they pick a grey shirt. “I think he has one of these grey shirts, Ruhi. Are you sure he's not going to be wearing that tomorrow?” says Zaida. </div>
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“I can't remember.” Says Ruhi.</div>
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“How do you guys know what he will be wearing tomorrow?” I ask. This omniscient knowledge strikes me as incredible. I didn't know what I would be wearing tomorrow, how could these two girls know what their friend was wearing on his birthday party?</div>
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“Well, you see, we see them all the time so we know what they wore yesterday, and we know what they will wear tomorrow. We also know that these three brothers share their clothing, and one of them is moving out to college, so we are getting him this grey shirt even if he has one like this already since he's going to lose half his clothing in a few days.” </div>
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We drove up to a glitzy diner with red neon sign saying: COME HERE FOR FOOD. We walk up the wooden partition, and behind the screen is a long table with twenty Indians. Ruhi and Zaida say hello to Hasina, the wife of the birthday man. It is going to be a surprise party, so he is not here yet. I walk behind them and sit down at the table. There are hugs and kisses. Ruhi sits next to a young boy and talks with him intensely all night long. Zaida holds conversations with everyone, talking on her cellphone every once in a while. The men ignore me completely. I feel conspicuous in my tattoo and short sleeved shirt. </div>
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I start talking to a couple from Kenya with the desperation that overcomes uninvited guests when they find themselves in a strange party. She is a community nurse, working in mental health counseling. She had a pointed pixie face, and henna red hair. He is in hotel management. He is wearing his safari hat, and looks like a South American. They are Ismaelis, she tells me. They are East Indians from Kenya.</div>
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Hi, I'm Salma, says a beautiful young woman who sits next to Zaida and sits chatting with her. We are best buddies.</div>
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Zaida tells me that there is pressure from her parents to get married, that they said she could always marry now and go to school later, but she wanted to set herself up first, have her business before she got involved with anyone. Yes, she knew all the men here, they had grown up together. She felt like they were kids, always going to clubs. One of the men had recently gotten married, to a woman from Vancouver. Her parents wouldn't mind if she chose her own husband, as long as he was a Shia Muslim. </div>
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Finally, Ruhi decides to drive home, and I go with her. “Salman and I are in the same class. Its good to have him there, so I can have someone to study with. I want to have fun too, when I see all my friends going off to have fun. But when I know he's studying, I know there's somebody out there who's studying with me.” She drives with the consummate skill of a born American. Her sister, on the other hand, still doesn't know how to drive.</div>
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“Now I can't study if he goes home. If he leaves, I go too.” </div>
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She drops me off. “Well. It was nice to meet you. Keep in touch and come down and meet us during the weekends.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>***</div>
<div class="p6">
“Pest control! Pest control!” somebody bangs on my door the next morning. I wake up, my throat sore, having dreamt terrible dreams that my best friend from college, Naomi, was being murdered by her boyfriend. I open the door to see the friendly face of Daisy, the owner. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Wait. I'll leave,” I say, as I see the two fat men waiting behind her, with cans full of pesticides. A sudden horror washes over me. All the tenants, lying wasting in their roach and urine infested apartments, were going to be cleaned by pesticide. They were too stuck in the place, like dogshit brought in on dirty shoes. They were going to be sprayed. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
I drag my bag out and ask the pest control men: Can you drag my bag down?</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
Wait, says Daisy. Let them spray the place first. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
So I wait, holding my breath and trying not to inhale any chemicals as the men spray around the bed, and then shake off the drops of pesticides at the end of the rubber pipe into the floor. One of the big men, a beefy man with a kindly face, finally drags my bag down the stairs.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“What is it?” I ask, pointing to the big metal container with the rubber pipe that he was holding in his hands.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“It is Conquer.” </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Conquer?”</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“An orthophosphate. It attacks the neurological system of cockroaches, and kills them,” he says. I have a sudden vision of all the malformed bodies of the tenants in the house. Most of the people in the building wandered around, looking like they had gone through a metamorphosis, transformed into misshapen beings with limp hanging arms and twisted joints. How did the orthophosphate deal with human pests?</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“We also use Baygon.” The man speaks hesitantly, seeing the horror in my face.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
Daisy comes back, and pays them their twenty dollars. “Thank you, maam,” says the man before he heads off. I make a phone call to the Yellow Cab company to come pick me up and take me to the airport. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Tara,” Daisy says to me. “Do you drink coffee?”</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Yes,” I answer. “I would love a cup.” I am suddenly overcome by a huge hunger. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Come on in. We can sit down and have tea more comfortably inside.”</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
I drag my bag into the small apartment inside their store. There is a windowless kitchen with white formica kitchen cabinets, a big white fridge, and counters. There are giant jars of margarine and peanut butter on the side. Inside is their drawing room, another windowless room full of leather couches, a big television, and a dining table set covered with fake white leather. A chandelier with many glass pieces hands a feet away from my head as I sit down. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
The couches are covered with big brown cardboard boxes full of Marlboro cigarettes. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“It is a mess in here. I haven't had time to unpack yet.” She says, as she fixes me some toast. She puts the food in front of me. I eat as if I am starving, which I am after my three day trip across the country. She starts cutting up a papaya.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“You like papaya?” she asks. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“I love papayas. I was just remembering how much I loved papayas. My grandmother used to put them in rice husks and let them ripen.” She puts the plate of fruit by me, then sits besides me. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“It is hard living in the US. We have lived here for nine years now. It has been hard. We cannot send Ruhi to school, she is working and paying for it herself. And Zaida - she wanted to join the pharmaceutical school, but the store was not doing so well so she said she would stay in for a few years and help her father.”</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
She points to the big TV.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“We get footage from India. And how much it has changed! So many people. And competition, competition, competition. We cannot do competition anymore. Even here, it used to be much less business. But now its starting to be competition.” She looks worn and tired. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Do you think you will stay here in the US?” I ask her.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“I want to go to Canada. Ruhi is a citizen of there. But she wants to stay here. She wants to make it here.” She says. “We have already spent nine of our years here. It takes long time to get business started, so we have to keep it going.”</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
The bell rings outside. Daisy leaves to answer. I sit there, looking at the mess on the counter. There is a half sliced bread on the table, and bags of wilting vegetables. I suddenly realize that the unsanitary conditions are not striking in these circumstances. Both the kitchen and the living room have no windows. They are simply partitioned cubicles from a larger room. I can understand suddenly why this family can tolerate the residents as much as they do. The crowded, unsanitary conditions are part of life. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
She comes back to me and says: “Let us sit outside. People are coming and ringing, we can sit out there and talk.” </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
A dashing young man walks in. He has big muscles, and a rakish cap over his head.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Daisy!! Love the dead cockroaches,” he says, smearing the room with his charm. Daisy smiles at him. He walks in and takes a Coke out of the cooler. “Can you put it down in the book?”</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
She glares at him. “Again? What if you run away and you never pay all this?”</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
The man laughs nonchalantly. “Yeah, Daisy. I'll do that.”</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
Daisy looks at him steadily for a moment.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Then I guess if I'm gone, I'm gone,” he says. And smiles. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
She takes out her book from beneath her cash register and writes down the credit that she has issued him. He leaves the store whistling. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Are most people here long term residents?” I ask cautiously.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Yes. Ours is a local business, you know,” she says. “Otherwise we would be all empty. Tourists come sometimes, and students, but it would be empty otherwise. Our business is with local people.” </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“What do most people do?”</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Oh, they are all kind of crazy people, you know. They are on welfare, social security and all that, mostly. Here you can get money for food, hundred and twenty dollars, even two hundred dollars without doing anything if you know how to fill out the papers.” She says. “People are lazy here. They do not want to work. They want to get their paycheck. They pay their rent with that money. The rest they use on food and cigarettes.” </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
The woman accused of killing the federal judge walks by at the moment, skipping behind a small black dog.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“In America, its not like our country, where families take care of each other. Here, people are very lonely because they have nobody to listen to them, so they become crazy. But most of them pay their money in time, so I like to not lose the business.”</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“What about her?” I ask, indicating the woman who killed the federal judge.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Oh, she likes dogs and everything. But she is crazy.” Says Daisy, tapping her head to indicate the extent of damage. “She thinks she knows everything. When you first meet her, you think she is a very smart woman, but then you realize that she talks and talks the same story many times. One day, she was calling up the police and everything, and they came and took her away with handcuffs, but not to the police station. To the hospital. But she was good - she called me from the hospital and said she would like to rent the room again, and I could put her things in the basement for two weeks. When she came back, she paid me all the money that she owed me.” </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
Daisy looks at me, hesitates, then confides: “I think she was beaten when she was a child, you know. And her father and her grandfather was probably angry at her, and told her bad things. That's why she is the way she is now. But she pays her money in time, so I do not like to lose my business. So when she talks, I just humor her.”</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
I look at Daisy as she talks and realize that this woman has far more tolerance and understanding for the lifestyle and foibles of the people who live in this tenement than any middle class American ever would. For her, the residents were people - lazy, crazy, dirty, but still comprehensible people. She could imagine doing business with them in a way other people never would. My first instincts, to run far away as possible from this environment, returns to me as I watch her talk to an old man who comes in at the moment, buys a loaf of wonder bread, and walks out. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“People here wait for payday, then they all come in, one by one, and pay the rent. The rest of the money they spend on food, and Coke, and cigarettes. Most of these people, they keep moving, from one motel to another. But I try to be nice, in order not to lose the business. Some of them have stayed here for three years.” Daisy explains to me.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
Angel walks into the room.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Daisy! It is <i>so good</i> to see the cockroaches falling…” she makes a dramatic gesture to the floor, “Down to the ground, instead of <i>crawling up</i> on the wall. And now I have fixed the fan on the windowsill with some tape, and now it actually feels cool. I am such a <i>happy </i>camper.” Says Angel, doing a little pirouette. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“And you won't believe this - today I got a call from a buffet company, and I am going downtown to work for three days at the convention center. I am going to be serving the buffet, handing people coffee and all that. Doesn't sound bad. I don't mind doing that. And on top of it all, they pay me for it, can you believe it? All I have to do is supply the pants and the shoes, and they will give me the shirt and the tie. So I have three days of work.” Angel is so happy she cannot stop talking. She sticks her finger into her ear, and scratches her hair once in a while. Already I see why she would be fired after three days. There is an odd consistency to her tics, inspite of her seemingly calm and strong exterior. </div>
<div class="p6">
“And this afternoon, I am going down to Taco Bell to have lunch at one. See, everything eventually falls together. Everything comes together, I knew it.”</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
I am so glad, says Daisy.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Taxi!” yell the three people sitting in the stairs. The Yellow Cab has finally arrived. Daisy, with the help of the woman who killed the federal judge, and Angel, drags my bag and drops it in the boot. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
“Thank you.” I say to them. “Thank you.” The woman who killed the federal judge waves triumphantly, then limps away. Angel waves to me kindly. </div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
Daisy says: “Come down on the weekends and visit us now.”</div>
<div class="p6">
***</div>
<div class="p9">
<br /></div>
<div class="p9">
This story was first published in Emanations, a literary journal.<br />
https://www.amazon.com/Emanations-2-5-Carter-Kaplan/dp/1514336693<br />
<br />
<br />
I am also on the board of International Authors, which is associated with Emanations.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p9">
<br /></div>
<div class="p9">
<br /></div>
Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-22801394074753804842017-03-25T13:13:00.002+05:452017-03-25T13:13:24.076+05:45Illustration for "The Zia Motel" <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">I found an illustration Vitasta Raina had done for my short story "The Zia Motel," which was published in Emanations in 2015. That is one of the most perfect illustrations I've ever had for my stories--it captures the heart of the story. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"></span>
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You can see more of Vitasta's work here</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px;">http://www.urbanexploratory.com/2015_07_01_archive.html</span></span></div>
Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-8977628034236906882016-12-24T13:23:00.001+05:452019-04-17T17:01:46.365+05:45Sushma Joshi's Garden Poems<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-GBFGD3ugUvbsm59ErqUjByHhyphenhyphenmLsoAJ0lplbaA0p755ZJQD6EAPhEAQmuA8pPWI5FPFS2lta0uct4W-zxhPEFHqjGYu0FfI4CUXQtjdRRLpJk8ypNwHKEEQC9KBaJtj5-mVO5g/s1600/1.png" /><a href="http://happano.sub.jp/happano/kathmandu/copyright.html">http://happano.sub.jp/happano/kathmandu/copyright.html</a></div>
<br />
Click above graphic.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJosNfeu-HHPFreU7ds_YkngrVKUTtppb6IoMjgFHXhfKbXrhyphenhyphenpU91SexSLtTikPrx8GFm8D5iAi_dYLfTRq1WdF4D5-4aMHstZMe8iz9DBTn7QIaxEMDOWZ4webLfOGvgD-u8A/s1600/2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJosNfeu-HHPFreU7ds_YkngrVKUTtppb6IoMjgFHXhfKbXrhyphenhyphenpU91SexSLtTikPrx8GFm8D5iAi_dYLfTRq1WdF4D5-4aMHstZMe8iz9DBTn7QIaxEMDOWZ4webLfOGvgD-u8A/s640/2.png" width="426" /></a></div>
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<br />Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-77304807930851686792016-12-08T10:25:00.001+05:452016-12-09T18:18:32.768+05:45KRISHNA'S MANDIR<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />The editors at ECS Magazine asked me to write about the Krishna Temple, and my experience there during the earthquake. This is what I wrote for the December 2016 issue.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">KRISHNA'S MANDIR</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Sushma Joshi</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Lying on the bed of the B and B Hospital, I
tried to explain to people what had happened to me in the Patan Durbar Square
on the day of the earthquake. But try as I may, I didn’t know what had happened
to me. “The Krishna Temple fell on her,” my mother said, by way of explanation.
My nose and ears was stuffed full of the dry, dank smell of centuries old dust,
making me feel I was encased in burial and death. My head was full of wounds
and caked with blood. Doctors and nurses, breezing in and out and injected me
with antibiotics via the IV drip, didn’t seem to think the wounds needed
cleaning. They said airily: “Oh, don’t worry, that will fall out in a few
days.” But in those few days, I slept with a giant ball of hair full of dust.
The smell of decomposing blood got stronger as the days passed. At night, I
would awake with the feeling that something very heavy was pressing down upon
me, making it difficult for me to breathe. The women in my family finally found
a pair of scissors and cut the hair off. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">My father handed me <i>The Kathmandu Post</i></span><span lang="EN-US">, and I saw that in fact the Krishna Temple had not fallen on top of
me: the photograph showed the temple standing, intact, in the background, but
another temple next to it was gone, like an uprooted tooth. It was not until I
returned to my house, eighteen days later, and a friend of mine showed me a
photograph she had taken of the Square. The Mangal Hiti water complex was
buried in the detritus of the small pati that had collapsed on top of it. So
that, I thought, was what had buried me. I felt relieved to see the Krishna
Temple, where I’d often walked around the stone balustrades, was intact. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The Krishna Temple remains etched in my
memory of that day, if only because something odd crossed my mind as I looked
at it just a few seconds before the earthquake. I had stood beneath the Krishna
Temple, and noticed that somebody had painted the stone cornices of the temple
with gilded paint. I felt annoyed with what in hindsight appears to be uncharacteristic
pessimism—who, I thought, had done that? This was a historical structure made
of carved stone, and a glitzy paint of this nature showed a lack of historical
and archaeological knowledge. Almost, I thought, as if the gilt paint was a way
to mark the temple from some other location, from which it could be targeted.
Then, as I looked at this gilded cornice, this very un-Nepali fear crossed my
mind:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><i>What if a terrorist attack is about to
occur in this place?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Reader, I have no idea why that fear
crossed my mind in that specific instance. But it did. As you will agree, this
is a very unusual fear for a Nepali, since we don’t have terrorist attacks on
religious places, as other countries do. Almost with reluctance, I took those
steps towards the water complex. Then, of course, the quake occurred.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I have no idea why the very specific sense
of unease arose in me in that instance. Talking to people later, it occurred to
me that the quake was already in motion when I started to move towards the
stairs—in other words, I must have felt the pre-quake, but it did not register
consciously. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Perhaps Krishna gives precognition to his
devotees. Whatever it was, it was clear the few seconds I spent lingering under
the eaves of the temple made the difference between my life and death-a few
seconds earlier, and I would be dead under the weight of the huge beams that
fell on my ankle instead. As it was, I fell neatly on a broad section of the
stairways, where the wooden beams made a little shelter for me, protecting me
from the debris. This position also made it easy for my rescuers to pull me
out. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It has taken me multiple operations and
eighteen months for me to be back on my feet again. When I take my elbow crutch
and go out for a walk towards a different Krishna Temple, I noticed how the
people would react to me. First, the babies held by their mothers who turned
and whose expressions change when they catch sight of me. Babies know
intuitively when somebody has been hurt—after all, the boundaries between their
own bodies and those of the other is still unclear, and for them, the hurt of
someone else is the same as being hurt themselves. Humans are born with
empathy, and this has been nowhere more apparent than in my walks, when I see
the face of baby change from joy to an existential sadness when they see me.
The moment I see the facial expression of a baby change from total happiness to
sudden dismay, it reminds me of the Buddha and the moment he learnt about
illness, aging and death. And this, I think, is also the reason why the baby
Krishna is so revered: because at that age, there is no hatred and no fear,
only love for the other.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Then there are the toddlers, who at two or
three know something is wrong when they see me with the stick. “Oo!” they say,
pointing. “What is that?” They are not saddened like the babies, but they are
not going to walk past ignoring my injury either. The answer depends upon the
diplomatic skill of the mother, who may try to hurry the child through,
pretending to ignore what he or she has just seen. Other mothers are more kind,
and will say: “Oh, didi has been hurt, see. She needs a stick to walk.” Often
they will smile at me, teaching the child the all important lesson: “look, this
is not so bad. She just needs a bit of support now.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And then the human race starts to get
darker as they head towards teenagehood. One day I heard hysterical laughter
behind me and turned: a girl dressed in all black, in the manner of Angelina
Jolie, could not control her laughter at the sight of me and my elbow crutch.
Her laughter was so uncontrolled her boyfriend, embarrassed by her cruelty,
separated himself from her and started to walk on the other side of the road.
The teenager, seemingly oblivious to the ravages of time awaiting her pretty
body--operations, broken bones, cancers and hospitalization—pulled out a mirror
and checked her beautiful face, before being on her pretty way. There was
nothing Radha-Krishna about this encounter, although in the height of her
beauty this young woman should have reminded us about the beauty of love.
Instead, she made me think about the cruelty of teenagers, and she made me
wonder what it was about our society that turned loving babies into these
monstrous beings. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Another day, I was minding my own business,
walking with a bag of butter I had managed to buy after my first long trip to
the dairy, when I saw two men being disgorged from a long distance bus. The
men, big strapping young men with the face of those from the far or mid-west,
then stared at me and my crutch with unabashed contempt, and made some sneering
sounds. I looked back at them, amazed at their handsome oafishness. Did these
men not know how dumb they looked, harassing a woman with an elbow crutch? But
they seemed quite oblivious to how mean and cruel they looked. It occurred to
me that where they came from, sneering at a woman with a disability was
probably the height of manliness, and something that bolstered their status and
prestige. I glared at the man, but he only looked back at me with the most
startling emotion of all—a hint of hatred. They were only doing what had been
taught to them by a patriarchal Hinduism. That day I got a taste of what it
feels like to be a woman in a different part of my own country—the far-west, or
the mid-west, where women are still treated like animals if they ever have the
misfortune to ever need a walking aid. And this, I realize, is what is wrong
with Hinduism, despite all the love Krishna tells us is in our culture: unlike
the Christians, we never made a real effort to address disability, and to teach
people that these misfortunes can befall anyone. Having a sports injury is a
normal everyday part of life in America: even the worst behaved person in
America would not deliberately target those with disabilities. And yet, in Nepal,
it is obviously still something that we have not learnt to be practical about,
and deal with in a compassionate manner.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I do not want to blame Hinduism for
everything. If so, I would also have to blame it for the outpouring of love and
concern that people heaped on me the first few days I was able to walk again.
Strangers were stopping me on the streets to ask me what happened to me, and
how glad they were that I was walking again. One day, my mother and I went out
for a walk and a gentleman stopped me, said how he was in his seventies and
could almost be my father, how his own daughter had suffered in the same manner
and how she had finally recovered and gone to Australia, and how I should not
stop doing physiotherapy. “Hai baba, don’t stop physiotherapy hai,” he said,
before being on his way. Then a farmer carrying straw on his bicyle asked me if
I was now fine, almost as if he knew me, then more people started to stop me on
the way. “Humanity,” my mother said to me, using the English word by way of explanation,
and making me cry. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A few days ago, I had that glorious moment
when I realized I could stand up by myself and do a slow pivot around the
vegetable market. Dazzled by the sudden freedom and the colors of the market, I
took out my cellphone and was in the process of doing a 360 degree shot around
the market when I heard this little voice say: “What is this?” It was a boy
about ten, the mischievous Krishna age, and he was pointing to my elbow crutch.
Caught up in my photography, I tried to shake him off. In that voice you use to
two year olds, I said: “Oh, it’s a stick.” When I looked down after my photograph was done, he was
gone. Then I realized how I’d missed the opportunity: here was a little boy who
was genuinely interested and asking me, “What happened to you? Are you okay?”
And instead of giving him the answer he deserved, I’d brushed him off, much
like the mothers who hurried their toddlers past me, muttering “Lets go.” I had
missed an opportunity. To tell him that I was injured, but was now getting
better. And that this stick was an implement that helped me to be strong and
helped me to balance on my feet. And that yes, it could happen to him too, in
the future, but that he shouldn’t worry, because when a human being falls down,
the whole of humanity picks him or her up, and makes them walk again. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">For those of you who can't get the hard copy of the magazine, here is <a href="http://ecs.com.np/">ECS Magazine's</a> table of contents:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">http://ecs.com.np/issue/table-of-contents/188</span></div>
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Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-74903540337705378702016-11-17T15:39:00.000+05:452016-11-17T15:43:05.997+05:45My poems in Kyoto Journal 87The Kyoto Journal just published two of my poems from my series "Garden Poems". Please buy the journal--its a literary and artistic feast about Asia!<br />
<br />
You can buy the latest issue here:<br />
<a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?hl=en&q=http://www.kyotojournal.org/current-issue-digital-edition/&source=gmail&ust=1479462081840000&usg=AFQjCNFGnI_xC3U7jlI0H1G0AZsZOL7BIA" href="http://www.kyotojournal.org/current-issue-digital-edition/" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px;" target="_blank" title="http://www.kyotojournal.org/current-issue-digital-edition/">http://www.kyotojournal.org/<wbr></wbr>current-issue-digital-edition/</a><br />
<br />
And here is the <a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B99AaGP1bye5b1llX19qdXZDZmhSemZ5b1pRZEFVMjZrQ2tv">PDF of my two poems</a>, with beautiful illustrations.<br />
<br />
Enjoy!<br />
<br />Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8180296.post-18925324399319151202016-11-04T20:05:00.000+05:452016-12-24T21:08:17.548+05:45Kyoto Journal #87<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.writersinkyoto.com/2016/11/kyoto-journal-no-87/"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVum9nRZk3Dk68FI241YYDpfb2teuGORWg_uiSkCaGlHULzZVpjqgLdAbnvpdK3YolGKq-CUNYY_kFLDZSMmB1ST3cgeO6akenKGs12rMkWns6efUXLPuIvMmBCfx5-lHcQUUrag/s320/COVER87horizontal.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px;">KJ 87</strong></div>
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Amazingly, <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.35px; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Kyoto Journal</em> is approaching its 30<sup style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.35px; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">th</sup> anniversary—not bad going for an all-volunteer non-profit publication, in any context. Back in the pre-Internet days of monochrome cut-and-paste layout (art-knife and toxic spray-<em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.35px; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">nori</em>) we had no inkling that the magazine would last more than a few issues, or that it would continue to evolve over three decades into its current Asia-spanning digital format. Deepest gratitude to each and every one of KJ’s multitude of supporters: our contributors, subscribers, and editorial/production staff!</div>
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Our soon-to-be released fall 2016 issue, KJ 87(!), features excerpts from three exceptional new books, complemented by a wide-reaching ensemble of encounters with people engaged in extending creative boundaries in Japan, India, Kazakhstan, Cambodia—and North Korea. <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Marc Peter Keane’s</strong> forthcoming<em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.35px; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> Japanese Garden Notes:</em><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.35px; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> a visual guide to elements and design</em>, is a feast for the eyes in explicating behind-the-scenes aspects of this quintessential art; the always-thoughtful <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Alex Kerr</strong>’s newest publication, <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.35px; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Another Kyoto</em>, is equally rich in insights into the essence of classic Kyoto. Artist activist <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Mayumi Oda</strong>’s autobiography <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.35px; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Sarasvati’s Gifts</em> melds her Buddhist/feminist art and social commitment, revealing an intensely-lived life.</div>
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In two separate interviews we delve into the evolution of haiku and its world-wide relevance, with <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Richard Gilbert</strong>, a Kumamoto-based scholar and poet, and <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Kala Ramesh</strong>, poet and founder of an ongoing international haiku festival in Pune, India.<strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Toyoshima Mizuho</strong> and <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Hara Masaru</strong>, a Kyoto Noh actor, discuss hidden depths of this ancient performance art. <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Remo Notarianni</strong> profiles contemporary Kazakh artists including photographer <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Almagul Menlibayeva</strong>, who documents cultural transitions through a fashion-style lens; <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">George Saitoh</strong> interviews artist <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Tatsuta Tatsuya</strong>, who focuses sunlight through a Fresnel lens to transform his sculptures.<strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Elle Murrel</strong> mingles with artists from East and central Asia, and beyond, who created installations in Nara for this summer’s spectacular Culture City of East Asia program, “A Journey Beyond 1300 Years of Time and Space.” <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Raymond Hyma</strong> presents the inspiring story of <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Nika Tath</strong>, an entrepreneurial blind massage therapist in Phnom Penh with “seeing hands.” <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Stacy Hughes</strong> joins a pioneering surfing tour in North Korea—the DPRK—helping set up an impromptu surf school; <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Ilyse Kusnetz</strong> visits Tomorrowland, located in Tokyo Bay, and <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Robert Brady</strong> farewells an era beside the shining vastness of Lake Biwa in Shiga. Plus poetry by <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Ami Kaye, Sushma Joshi, Leanne Dunic</strong>—and translations of ghazals by 19<sup style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.35px; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">th</sup> century Indian poet <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Ghalib</strong>—new fiction by <strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px;">Sacha Idell</strong>, and a raft of topical reviews.</div>
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To be published digitally in mid-November, available by single issue or subscription. Track us on Facebook for updates as we go to press—we’re also fine-tuning plans for our anniversary party in Kyoto in January.<br />
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Sushma Joshihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15801489353753793086noreply@blogger.com0