House of Snow

by Sir Ranulph Fiennes Ed Douglas

  Obviously his sister Lhamo is Mingmar’s favourite; he repeatedly refers to her with affection and pride, saying what a clever business-woman she is and how much he is looking forward to seeing her, after a year’s separation, when she comes from Lhasa to Kathmandu next month, en route for Calcutta. These Sherpas certainly get around – and they seem to need no passport for all their travels between Tibet, Nepal and India. Of course, Lhamo now flies from Kathmandu to Calcutta, and for all I know travels by truck in Tibet. She has two husbands, so far one who looks after the family farm near Namche Bazaar and one in Kathmandu, who also has another wife permanently resident there to comfort him while the tycoon Lhamo attends to her International Business. No wonder Sherpa relationships are not easy to sort out!

  Our last and longest delay came soon after midday, when we paused to watch a religious ceremony being conducted outside a stone hut on a ledge. For some time before reaching this ledge we could hear the wonderful melody of drum, bell, cymbals and conch-shell – music that made me feel very homesick for the Pokhara camp, and that sounded even more stirring against its natural background. I tried to find out what the ceremony was all about, but even if Mingmar knew he clearly did not want to discuss it with an outsider; so I stopped probing and contented myself with imprudently drinking four wooden bowlfuls of the best chang I have ever tasted.

  The elderly lama conducting the ceremony was dressed in black instead of the usual maroon robes, and his young monk assistant wore layman’s clothes. Both sat cross-legged on the ground, with their backs to the hut wall, and the Scriptures were laid before the lama on a low wooden table. His Reverence held a bell in his right hand and a dorje in his left – the dorje being frequently abandoned when he needed another swig of chang, which he favoured instead of the buttered-tea consumed endlessly during ceremonies by the more orthodox lamas. At right angles to the wall stood a painting of the Lord Buddha with the usual tormas and butter-lamps laid before it, and in front of this was a hanging drum, some three feet in circumference, which a tall, slim youth, clad in the local kilt, beat regularly in time to the chanting. About thirty people sat nearby in a semi-circle, laughing, chatting, drinking chang and eating cold sliced potatoes. The atmosphere was gay and friendly, and we were made to feel so welcome that we remained with the little group for over half-an-hour, each of us giving an offering to the lama before we left.

  The young mother of the Sherpa family with whom we are staying tonight recently spent three years as a coolie on the roads in Assam, and Mingmar told me that it is common for the people of this area to emigrate temporarily to India and work in road gangs with the Tibetan refugees. Then, having saved up more money than they could ever earn in Nepal – and increased it on the way home by astute trading in Kalimpong – they return to settle down here. I attempted to discover whether they are officially accepted into the road gangs as Nepalese citizens, or whether they masquerade as Tibetan refugees; but my questions on this subject were plainly regarded as indelicate so I did not pursue the enquiry.

  Tonight Mingmar at last knows where we are and says we will be back at base by midday on 24 November. The track from here to Kathmandu is familiar to him, which seems sad; it has been sheer bliss wandering lost-like from mountain to mountain.

  22 NOVEMBER – A HOVEL ON A MOUNTAIN-TOP

  This is the most squalid lodging we have encountered on the whole trek; it is even filthier than the children’s hut beside the gompa. The small room is windowless and now that darkness has fallen a bullock, four goats, seven hens and a cock are sharing the apartment with a family of six, plus Mingmar and me. Here we are again above 9,000 feet and the night-air is so cold that the door has been shut fast, allowing no outlet for the billowing wood smoke, which is making me cough incessantly and having the usual excruciating effect on my eyes; but as compensation these gentle, cheerful Tamangs are exceptionally likeable, and their anxiety to make me comfortable is all the more touching because of the irredeemable discomfort of their home.

  Today’s walk was another marathon, and by brunch-time I knew why Mingmar had not been keen on going further yesterday afternoon. We started the day’s adventures at 7 a.m. with quite a hazardous fording of a fiercely-fast, waist-deep, icy river. Here Mingmar was the terrified one – for a change – and as we waded across together he clung to me so frantically that he very nearly unbalanced us both. We needed every ounce of our strength to keep upright against the force of the water and it was so extremely difficult to retain a foothold on the large, constantly shifting stones that I didn’t really think we could make it without a ducking.

  At times the water had been up to our armpits and now we were painfully cold; but that was soon cured by a ninety-minute climb up a precipitous, slippery and very narrow path through dense scrub. Here it was my turn to be terrified; the snag was that I couldn’t see the crumbling path through the thick grass and undergrowth – but I could see very plainly the drop on the right, though I didn’t dare look down for long enough to estimate its depth.

  By about half-past nine we had left this unwholesome path behind and gone downhill again towards the river. We stopped for brunch at a stinking, fly-infested hovel near the junction with the main Kathmandu–Gosainkund Lekh track; and an hour later we were on this highway, sharing it with groups of heavily-laden Tibetans, Tamangs and Chetris and feeling already halfway back to the bustle of metropolitan life.

  For the next four hours we continued gradually but steadily downhill, following the river. At times the path led over stretches of colossal boulders, or through bright widths of fine silver sand, and once we crossed a dilapidated suspension bridge that swayed uncertainly 150 feet above the water. One feels slightly impatient about the neglect of these plank bridges; with so much forest on every side there can be no shortage of raw material for their repair.

  At three o’clock we reached a village which boasted the first shop seen since our departure from Trisuli. Here we asked for tea, since our own supply expired a few days ago, but the shop stocked only ancient, flyblown, Indian sweets and unsmokable cigarettes and mildewed biscuits – of which we bought two packets for consumption on the spot.

  Next we again climbed steeply for three hours – up and up and up, with the shining snow-peaks to the north becoming lovelier every moment. Here the lower, richer slopes are cultivated by Chetris or Newaris and the upper, more barren slopes by Tamangs. The whole region seems very densely populated – and smelly in proportion – when compared with the lonely mountains now behind us. One of the incidental joys of lonely mountains is the absence of that overpowering stench of human excrement which is always present in the more populous parts of Nepal.

  These insect-plagued lodgings are beginning to prey slightly on my nerves – and it’s not difficult to foresee that tonight is going to be a bug-classic. Since leaving Trisuli I’ve not had one unbroken night’s rest and, though the locals do not suffer to the same extent, I hear them scratching and muttering in their sleep every night. So the bugs must do real damage to health by making sound sleep impossible.

  23 NOVEMBER – KATHMANDU

  We achieved yet another marathon today, which got us here ahead of schedule – and what a welcome I received from Tashi! Like most Tibetans she is very soft-spoken so she didn’t bark or yelp, the only audible sign of rejoicing being that peculiar, rapid sniffling noise with which she always greets my returns; but for the first few moments it seemed that she would wriggle out of her skin with joy, or that her over-wagged tail would come adrift – it’s nice to be so important to somebody.

  This morning I saw my first total eclipse of the sun, which lasted from about 8.15 until 9.30 – and in honour of which today is yet another public holiday throughout Nepal.

  We left our hovel before dawn, since last night even Mingmar was unable to sleep for bugs, and by eight o’clock we had reached the top of a 9,000-foot hill, after an easy climb through crisp, early air. From here we were overlooking a long, deep, narrow valley, and our path now continued
almost level for some two miles, before plunging abruptly down to a small village by the river.

  As we were scrambling down from the ridge-top to join this path I noticed something very odd about the quality of the light, and simultaneously I registered an unnatural drop in the temperature. Overtaking Mingmar I said, “What on earth is happening? The light’s gone funny, and it’s so cold!” To this obtuse question a native English-speaker might have been forgiven for replying that nothing was happening on earth; but Mingmar merely said, “The moon is having a meal.” I stared at him for a moment, wondering if he were going dotty – and then I realised that the dottiness was on my side, for when he pointed to the sun I saw that about a quarter of its surface had already been obscured by the “hungry” moon.

  What an appropriate place this was for experiencing the eeriness of a solar eclipse! As we walked along that path, so high above the valley, we could hear conches being blown wildly and cymbals and drums being beaten frenziedly, while all the lamas and priests of the little villages far below shouted and wailed and screamed in their contest with those evil spirits who, by attacking the sun, were threatening the whole of human existence. This extraordinary panic of sounds, combined with the “evening” twitter of bewildered birds and the unique, greenish half-light, evidently aroused within me some deep racial memory, and for an instant, at the precise moment of total eclipse and estrangement from our whole source of life, I felt as my own that primitive fear which was then dominating the whole of Nepal.

  NARENDRA DAI

  Bishweshwar Prasad Koirala

  Bishweshwar Prasad Koirala, (1914–1982) known as B. P. Koirala, was a Nepali politician and a prolific writer. He was the Prime Minister of Nepal from 1959 to 1960. He led the Nepali Congress, a social democratic political party.

  As the past fades away and the days fall by, they burrow deep into me, leaving behind tunnels of varying shapes and sizes, some deep and others shallow. When I look back, I see – like images flickering on a screen – a black and blue mountain range standing tall, blocking the past from view; but I can see holes riddled across its entire chest. My past has been burrowing tunnels for longer than I can remember. I spend my days digging. Sometimes, when I am alone, I escape the present and find myself walking down one of these tunnels. Some of them are so dark that I am unable to see or find anything in them. Others retain a faint light, but I can barely make out a thing. But then, there are those tunnels that no matter how deep they go, when I walk into them, they are illuminated with a light that escaped a memorable moment. I can pull back the curtains of time and once again embody the emotions, colors and sounds of that moment. It’s almost like in grandmother’s tales of kind fairies who rub soothing balm on tired children’s eyes, through some mystical trick, the years fall off like clothes from a naked body. I become a child and I relive those days as I once did. And then I call out – “Sannani, Phaguni, Narendra dai...!!!”

  So, is this not a fable? Is this story a fabrication, merely an imaginary palace of dreams, a fantastical tale that never happened? Let me tell you, no fable is ever untrue. Imagination never lies. A palace of dreams can never be built on nothing – Never. Dreams are built upon the foundations of reality. No matter how much I twist and exaggerate an event or story, or use imagination to polish or shape it, I would only make the truth more obvious and the story itself would take on a more and more realistic form. Man cannot shield himself from his own past. Even a story written as fiction is but a small incident – a singular truth – picked from the reserves of memory. What a writer writes is but a fragment of his memoirs. A story is perhaps nothing more than an attempt to reawaken and relive an experience from the past. I remember those times clearly, I recall those people like they are right here, and with a trusting voice I call them close to my heart – “Gauri Bhauju, Munariya, Narendra dai...!!!”

  Narendra dai was an attractive person. Tall, wearing a clean white kurta and dhoti, with a carefully folded four-layered dupatta wrapped around his neck, curls of meticulously groomed dark, long hair settling gently upon his dupatta – Narendra had won the hearts of all the men and women in our village. Mind you, he wasn’t fair and beautiful, neither was his countenance really exemplary – where his nose should have stood tall it flattened slightly, his ears were as wide as leaves of the flame tree growing from the sides of his face, his eyes were ordinary but obscured by thick eyebrows that made them look small and sunken, his raised cheek bones made his well-nourished face take on a famished look, and, on top of this, his dry skin gave his face a look of slight depravation. But, he did have a rugged attractiveness. Not like the beauty of sculpted alabaster, but more abundant in the hardness of rough carvings on ordinary stones that reveal its inner strength and wild nature – like the beauty of a wild mountain cliff, saturated in a feeling of dread. We, the children, would experience fear, anxiety and terror in front of him and, for no reason at all, we would try to avoid him.

  I did call out above – “Narendra dai!” But, as children, we were never so close to him to call him with such boldness. It’s not that he treated us badly. Rather, he always tried to be friendly with us – he would even make arrangements for and join in our sports. He’d tell us, “Boys! Play hard! If you build your bodies now, you won’t have to worry about anything later!”

  It is only in the world of memories that Narendra appears so close. When we were children, our group would wander around the village, without a care for whether Narendra was home or not. Besides, Sannani and I had a small world of our own – one that was unique to us.

  We lived in a small and ordinary village in the Madhesh by the banks of the River Koshi, but even in that small place, the two of us could find and invent unending treasure troves of fun as we wandered over farms, fields and canals.

  Picking out a rosary pea seed from the vines entangled below the monkey fruit tree, Sannani placed the seed into the corner of her eyes with great care and made it disappear, and then, dusting her hands, said – “Look! The seed has vanished!”

  I was looking at her in amazement when the rosary seed fell out from the corner of her eye.

  “I’m going to pick some rosary seeds too,” I said as I jumped up and started yanking at the vines. But Sannani shouted – “Wait! Wait! You might pull a velvet bean vine instead.”

  Pointing out a vine with shimmering rotund pods that was wrapped around the lowest branch of the monkey fruit tree, Sannani said, “Look! See – that sparkling pod, that’s velvet bean. You can tell them apart from a rosary pea vine. See – that one!”

  Since that day, I’ve been able tell a rosary pea vine from a velvet bean vine. Not only that, on that I day, I also learnt how to carefully place a rosary pea into the corner of my eyes and make it disappear.

  Around then, on the trail that skirted around the mango groves we saw some Madheshi girls from our village heading south to cut grass. I called out, “Phaguni! I know how to put rosary pea seeds in my eyes! Look, if you don’t believe me!”

  Phaguni didn’t respond, but Rampiyari gave a response that eluded my comprehension, “Don’t pick up such habits at such a young age, dear!”

  The girls continued walking, laughing, jostling each other, stamping their feet on the trail, hitting each other on the back with their bamboo baskets. And, one of them said, “This one is such a brat, how could she say such a thing...”

  Sannani called to them, “Phaguni! Please cut down the velvet bean vine with your sickle. The monkey fruits are ripe, but we can’t pick them...”

  Dinanath, the owner of the garden must have been on a machan close by. He suddenly appeared, angry – “Get out of my garden – these imps won’t leave anything standing in this garden!”

  We tore across the garden fence and ran until we found ourselves standing upon Lakhan Madar’s threshing floor. Catching her breath, Sannani wheezed, “Dinanath is an angry one...”

  “I dropped all my rosary seeds,” I said.

  “We’ll go there again tomorrow,” Sannani
said. “Those ripe monkey fruits too...”

  We then started watching the drama around the threshing. Occasionally, just for fun, we would twist the ox’s tail – “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha... Piyari.”

  “This isn’t Piyari,” Lakhan Madar’s son pointed out.

  “Our ox is Piyari,” I explained.

  Then, suddenly deciding that the fun there was over, we left and meandered our way down to the banks of the pond by the shrine of Gosaisthan. On the southern bank was a large cluster of jujube shrubs. We ate some jujube berries, went down to the pond, got naked, and started bathing.

  After a while, we came up to the embankment and were drying ourselves when Sannani’s eyes fell upon an oxcart coming our way from the west. She worriedly exclaimed, “Hide, Hide! Narendra dai! Hide, Hide!”

  This is how, every now and then, we would remember Narendra as he abruptly appeared before us, and we would invariably hide from him, wishing that he wouldn’t see us.

  We entered the pond again. The embankment hid us. The road lay in a dip below the northern embankment of the pond.

  “Narendra dai is returning from Calcutta today,” Sannani explained.

  “He would have killed us if he had seen us,” I said. “Because we ate unripe jujube, and on top of that, we walked in the sun and bathed in the pond.”

  The rumbling and creaking of the ox cart came from across the embankment and then gradually faded into the distance. The sounds of the driver urging the oxen on – Ha, ha, ha, ha... La, ha, ha, ha, ha! – also came close before gradually fading away, while the swirling cloud of dust kicked up from the road resettled upon the embankment.

  By the time we overcame our fears and climbed upon the embankment, Narendra dai’s ox cart had left the main road and was heading south towards home. After a while it vanished behind a cluster of Sissoo trees. We, too, went home as soon as our bodies dried.