Natural Fire

Nepalese historians trace the construction of the Great Stupa to the early reign of Manadeva, who ruled Nepal in the fifth century CE. According to legend, Boudhanath Stupa was built by the widow Jadzimo who asked the King for land to construct a shrine to the Buddha. The king agreed, and offered her as much land as she could cover with the skin of a water buffalo. The woman proceeded to cut a buffalo hide into thin strips, and placed them end to end to form a huge circumference. The king realized that he had been tricked by the old woman, but he adhered to his word, and the stupa was constructed over a period of seven years by the woman and her four sons according to these dimensions.

This stupa is the largest Buddhist structure in Nepal, and has been an important pilgrimage site since its construction. On their way north out of the Valley, caravans of salt traders, monks, lamas and others made an obligatory stop here to perform protection and prosperity rituals. Nowadays pilgrims can be seen circumambulating the structure chanting mantras from early morning hours until nightfall. The Great Stupa is especially magical at night when thousands of butter lamps twinkle in the gentle evening breeze.

Since the lengthy excursion through Kathmandu a few days ago, decimated by the pollution, I have been staying close to home. Spring is in full bloom and Losar festivities continue around the great stupa and all of Bodhnath. March 10th, the 52nd anniversary of Tibetan uprising, found the streets uneasy and filled with militia and soldiers. Although no major incidents happened, it was uncomfortable to venture near the stupa entrance and beyond the triple lines of blue camouflaged police with guns, sticks and shields.
However, in keeping with the military flavour of the day, and spurred on by tireless Marcia, I ventured with her into town to attend a book launch by photographer Kevin Bubriski whose recently published book about Maoist soldiers in Nepal shows ordinary life of today’s cantonments and the ex-Maobadi, now mostly in their mid early to mid twenties (which would make them all teenagers during the years of brutalities!) The photographs were direct and haunting, as were Bubriski’s archives documenting thirty years of extreme poverty in remote areas of Nepal – the very villages where Maoist soldiers came from. It was oddly poignant – this gathering of ex-pats and Nepali intellectuals, in a quaint courtyard of an almost Santa Fe style gallery, complete with hors d’ouvres and cocktails juxtaposed against large scale portraits of human suffering.
Meanwhile, back at the monastery, the preparations for a drupchen begin. It is the end of “vacation” for the monks and the courtyard is decorated with laundry – large sheets of maroon and yellow draped over bushes and gates. The days are progressively more sunny and warm, the birds are louder and there are two brand new bunnies on the lawn – hopping about under the watchful eye of a young monk….they must be here in honour of the beginning of the year of the golden rabbit – this one promising to be a gentler and more soothing than that of the exiting tiger. The quiet of the afternoons is broken only by small groups huddled around computers or TVs looking for news from the devastation in Japan – one last twitch of the tiger’s tail, everyone is saying. Many OM MANE PADME HUNGs are murmured softly for the people of Japan.
On these sunny, quiet days, one can almost envision the Bodhnath of thirty years ago, surrounded by rice fields and meadows, quiet and clear, gentle flute music floating through the perfumed air and its inhabitants jumping on a bike to go into town, instead of bumping away in the suffocating back of a Kathmandu taxi. Thankfully and perhaps sometime soon, the inevitable force of impermanence will bring an end to the careless stampede of progress and bring about a more aware and gentle human existence in the Kathmandu valley.
Meanwhile the neighbourhood provides plenty of interesting sites – from young monks frolicking about in the alley behind our house to the humourous signage around the narrow streets of Bodhanath.

In Croatia this day was Mother’s Day –small bouquets of violets and gifts hand made in class were given to our Moms. Today, in Kathmandu, large, red flag waving throngs of people gather in what looks like several football fields in the center of town. Kailash and I chose today to make our way to the New Road in search of a USB internet stick. Our drive took us through many neighbourhoods in the center of Kathmandu. What a mess! Cars and motorcycles battling their way with tiny three wheeled buses – tuk-tuks. Those of you who have been to Italy would recognize this kind of vehicle as an “ape” with a large cab (I don’t think anyone in Europe would have ever thought to use it as public transport)!
These tiny buses were filled to the brim with brightly clad women, sleeping children and bespectacled students. It seems like the driving here would be done on the British side of the road if it weren’t for the fact that motorists simply choose whatever side works best for them, creating a bubbling, cheerful chaos on the streets. Life has a certain thrill this way and you frequently find yourself careening head on toward a bus or truck barreling its way in your direction or a cyclist swerving in front of your car to avoid a bigger one. Small, tough looking children cross the road in impossible places; there are dogs, goats and cows sprinkled throughout and if your senses are even a tiny bit open, you are in for a ride that surpasses the scariest roller coaster at Six Flags! After an eternity of fumes and horns we arrive to our destination. Our search yields only the knowledge that, while the treasured stick is available in most electronics stores, it does not work in Boudhanath where I reside. Kailash was upset that we had spent several hours on the fruitless endeavor but all was not lost. Along the way we walked through the famous Durbar Square – a fantastic collection of mostly 16th and 17th century temples and shrines. The intricate Newari architecture is fascinating as are the sadhus and pilgrims posing about in the square. There is a Shiva Parvati temple, a temple to Taleju – protectress of Kathamandu Valley, a giant tree grown out of a small shrine, largest bell in the country and the House of the Living Goddess – Kumari Ghar.
In Nepal, where there is never one simple answer to any question, there are many legends about the living goddess but my favourite (and the least gross) is the one that tells of a young girl possessed by the goddess Durga and banished from the kingdom. When the furious queen heard of this she ordered her husband to bring the girl back and keep her as a real goddess. Whatever the real background, there are a number of living goddesses in the Kathmandu Valley but the most important one is the Kumari Devi, or Royal Kumari of Kathmandu. The Kumari is selected from a particular caste of Newari gold and silver- smiths; she is somewhere between age four and puberty and must meet 32 strict physical requirements. Once suitable candidates have been discovered, they are gathered together in a darkened room where terrifying noises are made and men dance in horrible masks and 108 gruesome buffalo heads are displayed. These goings-on are unlikely to frighten an incarnation of Durgha, so the one who remains calm throughout this ordeal is the clearly the new Kumari. Much like in the selection of a tulku she finally must choose among objects the ones belonging to her predecessor. Once chosen, the Kumari moves into the Kumari Ghar with her family and only makes six or so outings per year into the world. The most spectacular of these is in September when she travels throughout the city for three days on a huge temple chariot. Kumari’s reign ends with her first period when she reverts to the status of a mortal and the search for new Kumari begins. It is said that it is unlucky to marry an ex-Kumari, but it is believed more likely that being married to a spoiled ex-goddess might simply be too much work!

On the second day of Losar my friend Marcia took me to the countryside. Traditionally people visit various temples and teachers, offering khatags and fruit, and really all kinds of offerings. On a sunny, smoggy afternoon our small car driven by a guy named Rambo wove its way through Katmandu traffic, past the city recycling dump and up the mountainside into the flowering orchards and views of mustard and rice fields. Being used to our relatively sterile recycling plants in the States and Europe, I was not a little unnerved by what appeared to be endless fields of plastic and garbage inhabited by by small children and families – it made we wonder what recycling really means here. My friend explained that life expectancy in Nepal is about 47 and the infant mortality rate 40%!

On the way up the to Yanglesho (Tibetan name for the region and village) we pass the small town of Chobar. This is where one of Tsognyi Rinpoche’s nunneries is situated, perched over the legendary Chobar Gorge. Geologists and theologists rarely find common ground but everyone agrees that once upon a time Kathmandu Valley was a lake and Swayambhunath was an island. Around ten thousand years ago the lake burst its banks and dried up, creating the fertile valley of today. The legends recall a much more dramatic turn of events: Manjushri is said to have taken his mighty sword of wisdom and cut open the valley wall with a single blow to release the pent up waters, creating the Chobar Gorge. Countless nagas were washed out of the valley with the departing waters.
The side road to Chobar climbs to a small square beside the Adinath Lokeshwar Temple, originally built in 15th century. The three tiered Newari temple is dedicated to the red faced deity of Rato Mechendranath, god of rain and plenty. Tsognyi Rinpoche dispatched us to see it and circumambulate the octagonal stone shikara sporting an enormous gilded dorje in front of the temple. Rinpoche dsaid the temple is sacred to both Buddhists and Hindus. The entire structure – roof struts, walls and courtyard are adorned with thousands of metal plates, cups, jugs, knives, ladles, ceremonial vessels and one clock, nailed there by relatives of people who have passed away as an offering for their good afterlife and rebirth. This at least, is the story we got from the three local gentlemen perched on the porch of the temple. The Lonely Planet says these implements were posted there by the newlyweds hoping for a ensure a happy married life. I kind of got the feeling that depending on the day you arrive and locals you run into, you might get a different story – oddly suited to your temperament and karma.

Climbing further up the road we visited a Guru Rinpoche cave, just above the Vajrayogini Temple ….touched on his hand print in stone, practiced for a bit inside of the soot darkened cave and gazed on a self arisen image of Tara. I tried to upload the picture of it several times but it won’t go – am thinking maybe she does not want to be seen.
We ended the day with vists to Sangngak Rinpoche and Khenpo Namdrol, and after much salty tea and baked goods, we made our way back through the smog and noise of the city to the quiet serenity of Boudha and Khyentse Gompa.

Losar here is a very lengthy affair as it turns out – from three days up to two weeks…on this, the third day, the mood is most festive.

LOSAR 2011
3 A.M. Gaolings sounding the morning’s first melancholy drone, then the large drums echoing profoundly in one’s chest, announcing the celebratory nature of the day….a puja is taking place in the upstairs shrineroom – the one with a larger than life size statue of Dilgo Khyenste Rinpoche – the previous one. From the outside, a golden glow flows from traditionally ornate window – I have only seen similarly elaborate decorations on an Austrian Easter cake.
The room is full of lamas chanting and playing bells and drums, cymbals tinkling at regular intervals. Yangsi Rinpoche, on his throne, resides somewhere inside a massive brocade and fur robe. His hair is all gone and he looks handsome and grown up – doing his lama job up there like that – quite regal and iconic. I keep thinking “There is a person in there! A real person!”
The assembly then moves on to the large downstairs hall already filled with many monks and a smattering of westerners. More prayers and music offerings resound in the great hall, ablaze with hundreds of chandelier bulbs and buzzing with excitement of many small birds, funny looking dogs and an incoming stream of festively clothed people.
At first the puja proceeds in orderly fashion while Yansgi Rinpoche, Changling Rinpoche and a nameless Rinpoche ring the small, clear tinkling cymbals. Then slowly, as the daylight approaches more and more people come in through the large temple door and make their way toward the thrones for a blessing. Milk tea – the salty kind – is distributed along with dresi laced with raisins and small Bhutanese sweet potatoes – yummy! A ruckus ensues in the corner of the shrine room when a westerner is lovingly attacked and chewed on by a local white dog. Ladies in brocade dresses come to shoo her away once the foreigner exhibits signs of panic – it’s funny: he is very large man, the dog is small; he is dressed in tough black leather clothes and shoves at the dog aggressively. The dog returns with an affectionate bite each time. In the end, it is a gaggle of brightly robed ladies saying tsshss, tsshss softly that subdue the unruly dog, while the man sits looking sheepishly at his chewed on hands.
Now the day is dawning, sunny and bright, oddly smog-less, and a multitude of small buds in all colors of the spectrum is waking from their winter sleep.
The puja ends and Rinpoches move back upstairs to the large receiving room – the one we’ve seen so often in books about Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, warmly carpeted and soft light streaming in. This is where Yangsi Rinpoche and his attendants will spend the next two days greeting everyone from accidental tourists to high lamas. If you perch yourself on the marble steps at the back of temple you can witness a procession of people coming in in an assortment of moods and expressions. However, on the way out the sentiment is the same for all – HAPPINESS with a huge grin. It’s like a smile making machine in there!
After a short break for lunch and a visit to Trulshik Rinpoche, the procession of greeters resumes back at the temple until at the very end of the day, Yangsi Rinpoche’s family arrives, beautifully dressed in their holiday brocades and silks and cheerfully sporting several young babies. There are not enough katags in my bag to greet them all properly – so many Rinpoches!
The evening is warm and peaceful with an occasional fire cracker still bursting in the distance. Tonight, unlike the Losar night, the generator will go off at 10 p.m. and the monastery, enveloped in soft, round darkness will fall into slumber. There are millions of clear stars looking down on the valley – diamonds spilled on indigo velvet. In these moments when the constant comment of one’s busy mind is silenced, being human is grand. Petty concerns recede and make way for magnanimity and wonder – aaaaaaaaah! Thinking of you all.