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THE LIVING GODDESS OF NEPAL

By Mary McIntosh

Nepal. When I first signed up for a trip to this strongly exotic part of the world, I'm not even sure I knew where it was--somewhere near India, I thought.

I prepared for my trip. By now I was a “pro” at managing to put just the right things I'd need into my suitcase. I had one drawer in a bureau I called “my travel drawer.” In it were a plastic soap dish, extra luggage tags, toothbrush holder, a travel alarm clock, and rain hat. What I didn't know, though, was much about Nepal and its history.

I got a book out of the library. I learned that for over a hundred years, until the 1950s, Nepal had been inaccessible to most foreign travelers. The kings wanted to keep their wealth within their own confines. When the country was finally opened, much of it still remained as it was a thousand years ago--narrow roads, shrines, temples and marketplaces. To visit Katmandu, the capital and largest city, is to experience a blend of modern architecture, and a journey back in time. Katmandu is filled with shrines, temples, and palaces, alongside modern first-class hotels. New Road, a popular shopping district, with chic department stores offering international brand names, vies with quaint markets selling stone sculptures, bronze figures, wood carvings and terracotta art-traditional artifacts of the culture of the Nepalese.

That's what I wanted to see--an exciting and exotic blend of the ancient and the modern.

There were twenty in my group all from England, except one couple from Texas and myself. After our two-day stay in Thailand, we drove to the airport in Bangkok for our flight to Nepal. Here we waited three hours before finally leaving late in the afternoon of December 23rd. Christmas in Nepal--I was sure it would be very different than in the States.

I found my seat on Indian Airlines and was immediately offered a free drink. We received these free drinks during the entire trip. It was a comfortable flight. Many Japanese were on board, so I asked the young Japanese man sitting across from me what he and the others were planning to do in Nepal.

“We climb mountain,” he said.” Not Everest. Too big.” Then he laughed

“I lived in Japan for two years, and I climbed Mt. Fuji. If I remember correctly, it was pretty hard climbing,” I replied.

“Good, mama-san. You same Japanese. They supposed to climb Fuji once in life. I did last year. Good practice for Nepal.” Already we were great pals.

“Put your watches ahead ten minutes,” Dennis, our tour guide told us when we regrouped.

“Ten minutes,” I exclaimed. “Why such a small time difference?”

“It's because the Nepalese people believe the sun hits their yak pens high up in the Himalayas just ten minutes before it falls on India. They claim it is their one chance to be ahead of India.” I smiled, set my watch ahead, and reminded myself to do the same with my travel clock when I got my luggage. I'm not sure, but I would imagine this is the only place in the world where such a short time difference is annotated. What delightful reasoning, I thought.

A bus took us from the airport to the Soaltee Oberoi Hotel in Katmandu, a first-class hotel. That was a big selling point with me when I decided I wanted to see this remote part of the world. The Soaltee Oberoi was excellent--clean rooms, carpets throughout, and the wonderful Asian hospitality I had quickly become used to.

In my room I unpacked the things I thought I might need for a couple of days, then joined the group for dinner in the Rose Room. The room was aptly named, for the walls were covered with deep-rose wallpaper, with a single rose in a vase on a white linen tablecloth at each table.

I was a good traveler and I usually fit in well whenever plans had to be changed, but often, when plans did change, I was disappointed. When I chose this tour, two things were a “must” for me: a flight in a small plane to view Mt. Everest, and a visit to see the Living Goddess. Unfortunately dense fog canceled our flight, so instead we drove up to the Nepal/Tibet border where we had our passports stamped, though we did not cross into Communist China.

The journey up to the border was fascinating. Winding through mountains, the bus we were on followed a clear, cold-looking meandering river. On each side of the river were Sherpa villages that housed the trained guides who accompany mountain climbers. At these high altitudes, wild yak roamed on rocky hillsides, and one or two primitive-looking wooden houses, not much more than shacks, perched precariously on the steep hillsides. Men squatting along the riverbed, and holding what looked like a mallet, were pounding rocks into gravel by hand.

At lunchtime the bus pulled over to a level section of the road. The plan was for us to have a picnic lunch, but snow was now falling, so we stayed in the warm bus and ate a lunch the hotel had packed for us--fried chicken, tomato, cheese, cold roast beef, boiled eggs, apples, fruit cake. The weather, however, didn't stop a group of children who huddled together under a large overhanging rock and watched us. One fellow volunteered to step out of the bus and give the children what food we hadn't consumed. They smiled and waved at us. There was no language barrier here.

Upon our return to Katmandu, we were let off the bus at bustling Durbar Square. Fresh fruit, along with piles of cabbages, carrots, pumpkins, and potatoes, were exhibited on mats on the ground. Men darted in and out on bicycles, ringing their bells; and lingering over all was the ever-present odor of incense. While I walked around, I had to be careful to avoid those men squatting in the streets getting a haircut, or their beards trimmed, or shaved. Women were picking lice out of their children's hair, and one old woman sat naked from the waist up was receiving a massage. I was getting used to seeing the sacred cows wandering all around with no one paying any attention to them, but there were also many goats, chickens and even a few pigs that roamed as if the streets were theirs alone.

As I could see the crowd on Durbar Square beginning to move toward the palace, I joined my group. I hoped this meant the Living Goddess would be seen today by her subjects and tourists. She was so pampered that if she didn't feel like walking out on the balcony and waving to the people, no one could make her do it.

“Wonder what it's like inside the palace?” I asked Dave. He and his brother Ian were university students in England, and both seemed knowledgeable.

“I read somewhere it's a three-story mansion with a throne room, and gold-plated windows,” David replied.

“It's kind of a sad life for a young girl, though. Did you know she's picked out of many three-to-four-year old girls?” he continued. “It often takes the priests several months before the right one is chosen. She can't show any human frailties, like fear, crying, or falling ill. If these weaknesses occur any time after she has been crowned, she is immediately replaced and the process starts all over again. She is revered by both Hindus and Buddhists, and worshipped by king and commoner. She is a goddess and divine.”

“Yes,” I replied, “I remember, too, reading that before she's chosen she has to endure spending a night among the heads of slaughtered goats, and buffaloes. Poor little thing. I wouldn't want to do that, but if she is picked, it is a great honor for her family and she is held in high regard.”

Just then Dennis walked up to us. “You are all lucky,” he said. “'The Living Goddess is scheduled to come out on her balcony today. I believe in about ten minutes. You know, we westerners may think this ritual is bizarre, but virgin worship dates back to the 6th Century B.C. and is a very real part of Nepalese life. The sick worship her in the hopes she will cure them of their illness, politicians make offerings at her feet, believing it will help their careers, and each September the king worships her in a ceremony where he touches her crimson-painted toenails with his forehead, and presents her with a gold coin.

“The sad part of this ritual used to be that it was difficult for an ex-goddess to accept the role of humble wife after being the focus of male veneration, and their every whim satisfied. Instead of getting married, they often resorted to becoming prostitutes. Nowadays, with Nepal's present-day Constitution, which guarantees equal rights to women, many of the ex-goddesses finish their education and go on to universities. When the goddess starts menstruating and has to be replaced, now it is more difficult to choose a successor. Families are not as anxious for their daughter to become the Living Goddess as they now know there are many more opportunities for her future than before.”

“Oh, there she is” I shouted. “Look how ornately dressed she is with jewels and the tall headdress. Two pieces of gold are chosen each day for her to wear. No wonder she's called `golden lady.' Look she's smiling at us.”

As I stood there that December day and looked up at this young girl so resplendently dressed, smiling and waving, I couldn't help but compare her to my own daughter at the same age. My child had the freedom to do what she wanted, within reasonable bounds-to enjoy the company of her peers and, later, to pick the man of her choice. I felt a great sadness for the young goddess who stood there and waved to me. But then I realized it was not for me to judge. Their civilization and their culture are a great deal older than our two-hundred-year-old American one.

And so I just smiled back at her, knowing I would always remember the day I was privileged to see the Living Goddess of Nepal.

Maps courtesy of www.theodora.com/maps used with permission"

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