by Ruskin Bond
“Come on. We are nearly there. Quickly!”
So flight began again. I reached Nathu La in a daze, a small iron needle in my side. We scrambled back up the slope and sat down heavily amongst a solicitous group of policeman, traders, and drivers.
“We were beginning to worry,” said the inspector.
“We also,” said Das, and managed a smile.
The mist had come on again, and there was no sign of the Chinese.
We lay on foam rubber–textured lichen, getting our breath, and in my case helping it along with the remains of the brandy. One of the traders came and squatted beside us.
Das, sighing, heaved himself indefatigably up and reached for his notebook. “This Indian who was killed. Tell me about him.”
“It was done by the Tibetans,” the trader said. “They came to his shop in the afternoon, and stabbed him five times. Then they looted the shop, took the money from the cashbox, and left.”
“Tibetans?” Das said with professional disappointment. “I thought you said Chinese.”
“The Chinese say they themselves are Tibetans who have come from Peking. But these real Tibetans were hired by the Chinia, sahib,” said the trader. “They did it in the daytime and the bazaar was full of Chinia policemen, but they did not interfere, though he shouted for help.”
“Ha!” said Das, and scribbled enthusiastically. “How do they treat you, these Chinese?”
“Sahib, in the daytime we cannot move more than two hundred yards from our houses without a permit. After nine o’clock we cannot leave our houses also. It is jail life. Also they have taken the custom from our shops, and anything they buy they buy on credit, and never pay.”
“Why don’t you complain to the Indian trade agent at Yatung? He is there to help you.”
“Sahib, what can he do? They pay no attention. And if we leave Tibet, they confiscate all our goods. Now we, today, were only allowed to bring our clothes and ten rupees from Yatung. They have only contempt for us Indians. Every Saturday in Yatung they have a clown show with four clowns, and one is Nehru.”
“Good, good!” said Das, scribbling a little more. “Who are the other three?”
“Eisenhower sahib, Churchill sahib, and Khrushchev sahib.”
“Why Khrushchev?”
“They are very angry that Russia has not supported them over the border dispute.”
“What do they say about the border?”
“Sahib, the officers say one day soon they will be coming. At the checkpost at Chumbithan they told us to say that in Sikkim.”
“It may not be as easy as they think,” said the police officer dourly.
“The Chinia are strong,” the trader said.
“How do they treat the Tibetans?” I asked.
“Sahib, all the rich men they have put to building a military road from Shigatse. Also in Yatung two weeks ago they took all the young girls away. They do this to keep the men from running away; also the girls are useful in North Tibet, because they are settling many Chinia civilians there, and they have no women.”
“What about the rebels, the Khambas? Is there still any fighting?”
“With them also, they took their families and put them in jail, until the husbands surrendered. Them they shot or put to work on the Shigatse road.”
He sat by us, sighing, gathering a little dust in his hand and sifting it away with the slow movements of a tired man. I noticed how jumpy all the traders were. They had lines under their eyes, and all of them had nervous twitchy gestures of the hand.
We sat there, thinking, drinking, and then the inspector said: “Chhibar sahib is coming.”
Through the field glasses a file of mules appeared ambling up the valley toward Nathu La. It was a relief. We squatted on the hummock watching them all the way up the valley till they had reached us.
Chhibar came first. He was a large man, rosy and powerful, wearing a fur hat and leather jacket. As his mule crested the ridge, we all shouted, rather raggedly, “Welcome!” He smiled and waved a hand. After him came his wife, a most beautiful woman in a ballooning quilted jacket that made her look like a little tent, and three Tibetan nurses, each with one of the Chhibar offspring in her arms. They were followed by a baggage train, the muleteers prodding the mules with goads and shouting the Tibetan version of Gittup: “To to to to to to to,” on a rising scale. “Very picturesque,” said Das, going happily to work with his movie camera. When he had finished, the Chhibar family dismounted, and Das handed his camera to the driver and fished for his notebook.
“How was your trip, Major Chhibar?”
“Fine, fine,” said Chhibar, smiling gently.
“What are these reports of your being hindered by Chinese troops on your journey?”
“Untrue,” Chhibar sighed.
“The Chinese were helpful?”
“To me, yes,” emphasizing the me.
“And to other Indians? Say, the traders?”
“Less helpful.”
“Would it be true to say that the traders are in fear of their lives?”
“Perhaps.” So large, so gentle, so like a wall blocking off undiplomatic questions.
“How many troops would you say there were in Tibet?”
“I can’t say. It is a difficult question.”
“In Lhasa, then?”
“It is a difficult question. Ten thousand—fifteen thousand.”
“And between Lhasa and Nathu La?”
“It is a difficult question. Perhaps the same number again.”
“So there are between twenty and thirty thousand Chinese in the area between Lhasa and Nathu La?”
“I would say so, yes.”
“Hah!” said Das, but at this point Mrs. Chhibar came up to introduce the children, and I became occupied in teaching one of the little girls how to whistle, and missed the rest.
Then the Chhibars left in the waiting jeep, and Nathu La was desolate again.
I went up to the hummock to get a last look at Tibet. All I saw was mist.
* * *
GYALTSEN HAS A VIDEO*12
Manjushree Thapa
1
Lo changed my impression of Mustang as a land of deprivation.
We crossed a cairn on a rock-and-dust hilltop and suddenly found ourselves above a vibrant expanse of red and ocher crags, pink buckwheat fields, and a sparkling blue-green river. In the middle of this valley was a settlement of neat white houses that had enamel, colored windows to herald the arrival of another, more Tibetan world. Eagles circled the vast blue sky.
The first village we went to, Ghemi, had wide cobbled lanes that led up to an earth-red chorten. It was mid-morning, and we could hear only the sounds of the wind. The wheat fields rustled, the sand shifted, and voices drifted from far away. Then, from the other side of the chorten came a clip-clop of hooves, and a pale, stately man in slacks and a striped Oxford shirt rode into view on a chestnut horse. He smiled handsomely and galloped on, then disappeared into the silence: a princely apparition.
The man who opened the door of the house we went to eat at was just as fanciful. He had taut Tibetan features and pale, soft skin that signaled privilege. His hair was braided around his head. He wore a turquoise on one ear. But his clothes came from another place: straight-leg jeans, brown spurred boots, and a blue cashmere pullover. A carved silver knife hung from his leather belt. Instead of greeting us or asking us questions or inviting us in, as others had, this man folded his hands and stared at us silently, with composure. For the first time, I felt embarrassed about my dirty clothes and my wild, dusty hair.
Lo surprised me again and again; its ancient land—blood-red hills made of demons’ lungs and mani walls of their entrails—was speckled with savvy, self-possessed United Colors of Benetton characters. Of them, the women, who were more traditional, wore bukkhoos of spotless silks
and satins and variegated rayons. But the men had Hindu names like Rajendra, Gyanendra, Surendra, or—because cultural reclamation coexisted with cultural imperialism—sometimes not. And they wore designer clothes like windbreakers, boots, Ray Bans, maybe even Stetsons, but if not, certainly baseball caps.
* * *
These multicultural people were the nobles of Lo, members of the elite Kudak class and relatives of the Raja of Mustang. They equated themselves with Nepal’s ruling Thakuri clan and adopted the Hindu name Bista.
Bistas numbered only a few families in each village, but Lo seemed made for them. Theirs was a bustling world of possibilities, with horses to travel through Mustang, plane tickets to take them beyond, land to oversee, villages to direct, festivals to organize and preside over, relatives to visit, connections to maintain and build on. They upheld the mythic grandeur of the old kingdom.
The other Lobas led more common lives. They were divided into Padungu and Rigiri sub-castes. Like the Bhotias of Baragaon, most of them now called themselves Gurung, the name of the ethnic group from south of the Annapurna, partly because identifying themselves as members of a less marginal ethnic group facilitated their dealings with the government.
Our interactions with the women of Lo revealed some class differences among the Loba. Bista women were surrounded by so much high-class propriety that we didn’t even meet many. Our status, after all, was only slightly higher than that of a karmachari; Bikas was an engineer from a company, and I was what? Just traveling. The second year, when I was also from a company, I became more acceptable—still, few Bista women bothered with us.
Gurung women had none of the waxen preciousness of Bista women. We met them in bhattis or on the road as they headed home from a day in the fields, or from a month of farm work at a ne-tshang’s farm, or from a trip to Jomosom for timber. Most had dusty, dark robes hitched up to their calves, and they wore polyester or flannel shirts and well-worn sneakers. Their faces were red and brown from the sun and their lips were so cracked they looked like dead, dried skin.
Once Gurung women got over their hesitation to use unfamiliar Nepali words, they asked us for cigarettes and swapped views and gossip. “Electricity’s too costly,” one woman told us, and another said, “Our men all marry Rongbas nowadays.” One woman said, pointedly, “Gyaltsen has a bhirdi-yo,” meaning television.
* * *
Gyaltsen was a Bista. He was the brother-in-law of the Raja of Mustang, off-and-on village head of Tsarang, a big man who moved slowly, with dignity. His house, which stood prominently in the middle of the village, had a courtyard filled not with goats and cows, but with well-groomed horses. The house walls were decorated with Buddhist landscapes, conch shells, and lotuses. Precious wood logs from far south were stacked on the roof, underneath a layer of commonplace twigs.
Because Bikas had official connections to Gyaltsen Bista’s family we were allowed to stay at his house. From the day we arrived, Bikas started to examine the surprisingly crude powerhouses of Tsarang and Marang. I watched him work and listened in on his conversations with local powerhouse operators, and learnt something about small hydropower plants.
Tsarang was the first electrified village in the restricted area. The villagers had helped build the plant and pay for some of its cost. The electricity was generated in a shack below the village canal. The houses were wired by a man who came up, now and then, on contract. While he was here, he also did small repair jobs on the lines. The powerhouse operator, a local man, turned the machines on and off every day and oversaw the repair of broken parts in return for a monthly salary.
The simplicity of the setup was impressive. I became sympathetic to Bikas’ work. Anything that helped cushion against the land’s severity seemed a valuable contribution.
I spent the rest of my time soaking in the small comforts of Gyaltsen Bista’s house. The clean earthen rooms were decorated with colorful rugs and strips of cut linoleum. The walls had bright enamel paint and posters of Swiss chalets. A cheerful red cloth stretched over the ceiling and protected us from bits of wood and mud that fell when people walked on the balcony above. In this house, fragments from all over the world appeared out of the blue: Chinese biscuits, Rara Noodles, board games, an electrical cooker, an indoor toilet (with a hole in the floor that opened onto a manure room underneath), pressure cookers, cupboards stacked with cups and extra flasks, and of course, electricity.
I glanced around furtively for signs of Gyaltsen’s bhirdi-yo, but couldn’t find any. We were relegated to the guest room that was sectioned off from the rest of the house by a tin wall. Since there was no space for probing or prying, I saw only what took place in that room and in the kitchen. The abbot of Tsarang’s gomba came to chant one evening. Favored karmachari came to play cards another night. Once, Bistas from Ghemi stopped by for a session of mah-jongg. I saw no signs of a television.
But people were talking. When Bikas and I continued our walk to Lo Monthang, we heard sudden, sharp words in the middle of humdrum prattle. Gurungs said that the Bistas had untold wealth, and Bistas said that the Gurungs were crass. Both camps called the other “they.” “They don’t know any better,” said a Bista, and a Gurung said, “They don’t have to walk because they have horses.” Another Gurung said, “Chandra’s a Bista, but he acts like one of us.”
Clearly, the richest Bista families lived well in comparison to most Gurung families. Gyaltsen Bista’s daughter exuded the self-confidence that came from economic security. She was educated, and she took care of family affairs as well as public responsibilities like the administration of the electrical scheme. She was the only woman I saw in Lo who wore a kurta-sural. Her brother divided his time between Kathmandu and Mustang. He was also educated, and suave and self-assured; he cut a dashing figure when he galloped up the dusty hills on a horse, overseeing family responsibilities. The two of them were always impeccably turned out during religious festivals.
This was what it meant to be well off in Mustang: having modern amenities—electricity, health care, and education, maybe even television—to ease harsh rural conditions, and having tradition to mask this modernity.
It was not an extravagant life, but it felt that way in context.
2
The walled city of Lo Monthang jutted out of a green valley that was surrounded by a horizon of barren hills. The “city” looked dismally tiny from a distance, but as we approached it I saw that it was teeming with life. Two hundred-odd houses, their inhabitants, and their inhabitants’ animals were tightly packed into an enclosure small enough to walk through in fifteen minutes. The wall that encased the settlement was punctuated, in places, by the windows and doors of the houses on the other side.
There were two lodges in Lo Monthang. One was near the post office, opposite the Raja’s palace. The room where guests slept was painted sky-blue after the modern style in the cities. An artfully painted trompe-l’oeil curtain lined the top of the walls. The beds had clean foam mattresses and wool carpets. On a cupboard were photos of the lodge owner—a Bista—in front of Lo Monthang’s wall, and a Grateful Dead sticker. Across the room lay burlap sacks filled with Rara Instant Noodles, Pashupati Biscuits and Yak cigarettes, and jerricans full of kerosene.
We stayed there the first year and found it comfortable but isolated. Family members spent most of their time in the kitchen, and no one dropped by to talk.
The lodge we stayed in the second year was entirely different. It was run single-handedly by a woman named Dolma Gurung, and even the Bistas came there to relax, chat, gamble, drink themselves silly, and maybe pass out for the night.
* * *
The guys—Mustang-elite, Kathmandu-exposed, world-weary Rabindra, Jamyang, and Krishna Bista—sat in a circle and played a dice game which made them whoop, cry, shout, curse, hiss, and smack each other on the knee. Each player chose a number and yelled it out loud as he slapped the dice onto a leather pad. Then the player lifted his ha
nds and everyone screamed and yelled about the result. The room thundered with excitement.
Jamyang turned to us every so often to make a wry remark.
“Development?” he said, and he raised an eyebrow. “With people like this, there’s no fear of that in Mustang.”
The other men roared with laughter, but Jamyang kept a straight face.
“Keep a dog’s tail in a bamboo pipe,” Krishna said, from across the room. “Keep it there for twelve years, and still, at the end, it’ll be curly. These people are like that.” He smirked and let his hair fall over his eyes. But only a few people laughed. Krishna lacked Gyaltsen’s finesse; he was too young, too cocksure. He said, “Even Indra’s father Chandra couldn’t develop this place.” He repeated the popular Nepali saying, “Indra’s father Chandra.”
“Indra’s father Dawa couldn’t,” someone said. Krishna sneered. Others hooted. Jamyang said nothing. He pulled on a cigarette and squinted at the dice. Then he muttered “Shug-shug-shug-shug!” and yelled murderously as he slapped down the dice. The men pulled forward to see what he had rolled. Then they groaned and yelled.
Rabindra sat apart from them. He was older, around thirty-eight he said, though he looked twenty. His eyes were quick, he was more observant, and he was quieter.