Pradip could imagine the two of them together, seated on a bus, shoulders touching, on the steep, winding road carved out of the sides of the hills that began at the western edge of the Kathmandu Valley. Their fingers occasionally inched toward each other, hidden from other passengers. Strained but hopeful smiles lingered on their lips. Yes, Pradip could see how it would be: he knew his sister, he knew his friend, and he knew their smiles. She must not have slept all night, waiting for the ding-dong of the grandfather clock to announce three in the morning. That’s when she’d sit up, pull out the yellow suitcase from under her bed; she’d crammed it with a few of her clothes and some knickknacks. She wouldn’t bother to change her crumpled dhoti, for she didn’t want to waste any time, and the rustling of the clothes could wake up Mother in the corner. With the aid of the streetlamp, which threw some light into her room, she combed and knotted her hair, then tiptoed out. Her door creaked, as it always did. She nearly tripped over something Mother had laid on the balcony right outside her room, and she stopped momentarily, holding her breath. She didn’t hear any movement inside, so she quickly went down the stairs with the nimbleness of a cat.
*
The bus ride was hair-raising. The driver was a wildly enthusiastic fellow who sang filmi songs half the way there, and he took risks with the dangerous curves that started as soon as the bus began to climb past Thankot.
She could tell that Yudhir was nervous, perhaps more than she was. He remained quiet as their bus nearly brushed against large trucks as the driver negotiated treacherous corners. Sometimes the bus’s wheel came so close to the edge of the road that Mohini could look down a distance of hundreds of feet; it made her heart rise to her throat. Tribhuvan Rajpath was the country’s first highway; it allowed people to come and go from the capital without having to walk for days. Because it was the only road out of the city, everyone called it By-Road.
The bus passed through clouds, and Mohini squeezed Yudhir’s hand, to reassure him. “Once we get married and return in a couple of years, after earning some money, they’ll accept us,” she whispered, her head nestled against his shoulder. Gone was the confidence he had on the day when he challenged her to take this trip with him. Now he looked like a little boy, afraid of the punishment coming to him at the end of the day. As the bus droned on toward the south, climbing up and down the hills, white mountains shone to the north. Twice the bus had to stop because of landslides, which laborers in ragged clothes were clearing with shovels. Only a few years old, the highway sometimes closed down because of these landslides, at times for days. During these delays, the couple watched cargo being transported up and down the hills on ropeways.
The more their journey progressed, the more Yudhir avoided Mohini’s eyes, and when he did look at her, he appeared frightened. When he smiled, the expression was so tentative, so forced, that she couldn’t help but rub his chin with the back of her fingers and reassure him that everything would be okay that they were following the beats of their hearts, weren’t they? But he didn’t appear comforted, and strangely, his fears made her own anxieties more tolerable. “Scared?” she asked him.
His eyes were focused on the big windshield up front, which revealed rolling hills as far as the eye could see. “Just a bit worried, that’s all,” he said.
She knew that he lived with his uncle in the city; his parents remained back in the village. His uncle was a strict Brahmin and disapproved of his nephew’s singing because most of the songs he sang were from films, which his uncle considered lewd and corrupt. His uncle wanted him to sing hymns and use his God-given talent solely for God’s service, and since that wouldn’t make a good career, had commanded him to pursue something else. “Sometimes I get so mad at the bastard,” Yudhir had said to her in the Baghbazar hotel. “He is a good guardian, but he is stuck in the previous century. Do you know what he’s like? If an untouchable person passes within five feet of him on the road, he’ll head straight home to take a bath.”
“I’m not an untouchable, but I am of a lower caste than you. What will he think of me?”
“Who cares what he thinks? He’s not going to dictate my life for me.”
As the bus wove in and out of the mountain clouds, and as the woman sitting behind them stuck her head out the window and began to retch, Mohini wondered if Yudhir too sometimes saw her with the eyes of his uncle. Then she dismissed this line of thinking and squeezed his hand.
*
She would have been right to wonder whether he had begun to view her differently. The moment they’d boarded the bus at five in the morning, guilt had begun to creep into Yudhir’s chest, his throat; as they began their journey and the sun came up and the driver sped through the cramped roads of the hills, it had amplified until it consumed him. He was betraying a cherished belief of his uncle: caste purity. His uncle had given him more love and care than his own parents had. All right, so the man could be unreasonable and vexing, but he was still blood, and here was Yudhir, with this girl he hardly knew. She was sweet, yes, and he’d already tasted her juices, but what else did he know about her? Nothing. As her head rested on his shoulder and she murmured about plans for the future, he was already beginning to feel sick of her jasmine-scented hair oil, a smell he’d found intoxicating a few days ago. He stifled the urge to push her away and jolt her out of this stupid, stupid dream. I never promised to marry you, he told her in his mind. Already he’d begun cursing himself for this foolhardy move. Who was this girl? Nobody. He could have played with her for a while, taken her out to a movie or two, then moved on. He ought to have let her marry whomever she was about to marry, and within weeks she’d have adjusted to her husband and begun to feel happy with him. That’s how things always worked. Rarely had he seen an arranged marriage, fixed by the couple’s parents, fail, and rarely had he seen marriages born through silly romantic notions of love survive more than a few years. Our society, he theorized, channeling his uncle’s voice, is simply not equipped to handle this thing called romantic love, even though our extravagant, melodramatic movies constantly lure us to it. For us, it’s family, status, economic well-being, caste. A meeting of the minds trumps any meeting of the hearts!
Mohini fell asleep against his shoulder toward afternoon, as they began the descent to the lush vegetation of the lower hills. Beads of perspiration appeared above her upper lip, and every now and then she winced. Yudhir could sense the worries that arose in her dreams, and he felt sorry for her, for now he had begun to feel calm. He knew what he had to do, but he didn’t know exactly when or how to do it. Once they began their train journey across the vast expanse of India on their way to Bombay, there would be numerous opportunities for him to simply slip way. He closed his eyes and saw himself stepping off the train onto the platform of a minor station somewhere, with the name of Sitapur or Rampur or Laxmanpur, in the searing heat of Bihar. “My throat is parched,” he’d say. “Let me go find something to drink.” And he’d simply go behind the small rectangular building that served as the train station and catch a rickshaw into town. He could even watch her from behind the station house: she would be at the compartment window, scanning the platform, her expression growing more anxious by the second, especially after the train whistle blew. Would she shout out his name? Would she too step off the train to find him, leaving their luggage on board? As the train jerked into motion, what thoughts would race through her head?
In the bus Yudhir closed his eyes, savoring her likely hysteria. Numerous strategies arose in his mind. As the bus stopped in the middle of nowhere and the driver stepped out for a trickle in the bushes, Yudhir knew that he could gently disengage himself from her right now and get off, in these lower hills with their numerous riverbed crossings, and hop on the next truck heading to the capital. What would she do then? She’d probably wake up about half an hour later and, not finding him next to her, at first think that he was chatting with a passenger up front. Still drowsy, she’d peel an orange, suck the juice, while her eyes roamed the interior of the bu
s, searching for him. When she realized he wasn’t on board, she’d bolt to the front of the bus, lurching into passengers, and she’d yell at the driver that her man was missing. Negotiating a hairpin curve, the driver would say that it was impossible to turn back now.
She was softly snoring against his shoulder. The driver got back to his seat and started the bus. Yudhir would wait until Hetauda, then right after they stepped off the bus he’d tell her that he had to find a place to urinate, badly; then he’d vanish, catch the next bus to Kathmandu, or head to the border, watch a few movies in Raxaul or Muzaffarpur, and then return after a couple of days. His uncle would be angry at him for a day or two but so what? lt was not as though he’d run away from a wedding his uncle had arranged for him! The thought made him laugh inwardly. The idiocy of this girl! What was she thinking when she decided to run away on her wedding day – of all days! – and ruin her family name forever? It was downright criminal. Her brother, Pradip, was another story; he was a man and his transgressions would be forgotten in a year or two. But not the daughter of the house. If Yudhir had a sister who’d behaved like Mohini, he’d flog her for what she’d done. This thought made him strangely happy – the idea of this girl being beaten by a man – if not him, then her father, or perhaps her husband. He could easily see his uncle beating this girl, if she were his daughter. The idea of punishing her physically for her monumental sin Yudhir found exciting, and to his surprise, he began to harden. He closed his eyes and pictured himself slapping her around a bit, then grabbing her roughly by the hair and kissing her fiercely on the lips, then asking her to take off her blouse and show him her breasts, which he’d then fondle. He’d command her to take off her sari and stand in front of him in only her petticoat. He’d tell her to begin rubbing herself down there, gently at first, then harder and harder, until she’d moan and ask him to come close. But he’d deny her request, say that she was a dirty girl and he wouldn’t touch her in a million years. He was rock hard now, next to her on the bus, and he stealthily took her hand, placed it on his crotch, and rubbed it against his penis, picturing her with her pointed, delicate tits, her face pleading with desire. Abruptly he came, and then went limp. He lifted her hand and placed it back in her lap. His thighs were sticky now, and he was slightly disgusted with himself.
He could take her all the way to Bombay, he thought, begin a semblance of their life together in that giant, pulsating city. He could try for work in the film music industry, and she could get a job somewhere – as what, though? A girl from a respectable family, she couldn’t possibly do housework. Could she get a job as a secretary? But she didn’t know how to type and could speak only a smattering of English. Who would give her a job in that big city where, he imagined, everybody spoke perfect English? He would be the sole breadwinner, and she would be a burden, though he could tell that she’d work hard at home, making it spick-and-span for him, cooking him delicious meals every night. His optimism about becoming a singing sensation had dampened considerably since the morning. He was no longer sure that the path to stardom in Bombay would be easy. He knew he was talented, but how many young men like him all across India, were making the trip to Bombay right now, dreaming of breaking into the film music industry? The notion of battling hundreds of singers to reach the ears of a direcror or a producer tired him. He had a better chance, he thought, of winning the Bhagyodaya lottery.
“Foolhardy,” he whispered to himself, and hearing his voice, she awoke and asked him where they were.
“I think Hetauda is close by. We can eat some snacks there and find a bus to Birgunj.”
“I had such troubling dreams.”
“They were only dreams,” he said, smoothing her hair.
*
In Hetauda, they learned at the bus park that a big accident just up the road to Birgunj, near the toll station of Amlekhgunj, had obstructed traffic completely. Many Birgunj–Hetauda and Birgunj–Kathmandu buses had returned to Birgunj. “The road could be clear tonight, or tomorrow; we can’t be sure,” they were told. “Your best bet is to find a place to sleep here overnight, then try tomorrow. The government is sending some folks to help this evening.”
And that’s what they did. It was a two-story rest house in the main market, near the bus stop. Each floor had a large room with about a dozen cots, where the passengers slept. At the counter Yudhir looked at Mohini, who pulled fifteen rupees from her bag. An image of Father flashed through her mind, but she forced herself not to think about home right now.
As soon as they entered the rest house, because of anxiety or the dust in the air, Mohini began to cough viciously; Yudhir thumped her on the back, but still the coughing continued. He felt her forehead and said, “There’s no fever.” Her face was turning purple though, and he honestly became worried. He suggested that he go to buy some cough syrup because she seemed to have caught a cold – “a change of air and water, I’m sure” – and although she shook her head no, that he shouldn’t bother, she continued to cough.
“You need some medicine,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
Downstairs he asked the rest-house owner where the medicine shop was.
It was less than a block away, around the corner, right next to the bus stop where they’d got off. He asked the compounder, who was seated inside on a stool, for a remedy for his wife’s unrelenting cough, relishing how easily he called Mohini his wife, and how good it felt to say it. The compounder gave him the bottle, told him the dosage she needed. Yudhir stood outside the shop, holding the bottle in his hand, reading the label. Then he walked to the bus park. He asked around to see if a bus would be leaving for Kathmandu that evening. The drivers shook their heads. “Too dangerous,” they said. A truck engine was revving up a few yards away. Yudhir walked toward the driver, who was a Sikh, wearing a large turban. In broken Hindi, Yudhir asked him whether he was going to Kathmandu. The Sikh caressed his mustache and said, “Come in, come in. I could use some company.”
Yudhir hopped onto the high seat of the truck. In his mind he began forming excuses for his absence that would placate his uncle when Yudhir reached home early in the morning.
SNAKE LAKE
Jeff Greenwald
Jeff Greenwald is the author of five bestselling books, including Shopping for Buddhas and The Size of the World. His writing has appeared in many print and online publications including The New York Times Magazine, National Geographic Adventure, Wired, Tricycle, and Salon. He lives in Oakland, California.
When a Nepali mentions a naga, he or she isn’t referring to a garden snake. The classic naga, a snake god, is the hooded cobra: the Arnold Schwarzenegger of the serpent world.
Nagas pop up everywhere in Hindu and Buddhist lore, savvy brokers between the spiritual and elemental worlds. Lord Vishnu, the great preserver of the Hindu trinity, dozes on the infinite coils of Ananta, a serpent-cumcouch, for eight months of the year (during the remaining four, he extricates humanity from its deadlier dilemmas). Shiva, the potent creator/destroyer, source of the Ganges, wears live cobras in his hair. Nagas are the wardens of the monsoon rains, and safeguard the Earth’s trove of diamonds, jewels, and underground treasures. And it was Muchilinda Naga, a seven-hooded cobra, who sheltered the Buddha from the sun and rain during his seven weeks of meditation on the banks of the Anoma River.
Nowhere is the Asian respect for serpents more evident than in tantra. In these “secret teachings,” snakes symbolize the deepest source of spiritual power. The kundalini lies coiled at our lowest psychic center: the root chakra, located between our legs at the base of our spine. Through specific meditations and practices – like measured breathing, sexual yoga, and the recitation of mantras – we invite that snake to dance. It climbs the spine, electrifying the six internal chakras. It reaches the ajna chakra, right between the eyes, then rises higher still, penetrating the cranium. There it illuminates the sahasrara chakra, the Lotus of a Thousand Petals, which hovers like a gnat above our skulls. When your kundalini hits that point, you know you�
�ve arrived. You embrace, with a single glance, all the manifestations of existence.
Once again, you’ve taken a bite of that big, juicy apple. And again, you have a snake to thank for it.
*
And what about Jordan? Maybe all he needed was a good snake dance: something to revitalize his long-dormant kundalini. I’d be home in less than a week – but I wondered if I might somehow convey, through telepathic alchemy, a real-time blessing from the Earth itself.
Ramana lay on a blanket inside the brick shed beside the shrine house, dozing beside his flea-ridden mongrel. I put my hand on the caretaker’s shoulder and shook him gently. The dog growled, but hardly stirred. The shrine-keeper rose reluctantly.
“Ramana... Malai naga puja garna manlaagchha.”
He looked at me quizzically. What need had a Westerner for a snake puja? Aside from their mythic role in the monsoon, nagas were petitioned when ground was broken for a well, or a house, or when any new construction was about to begin. The offering was essentially a protection payoff, in hopes the local snakes would steer clear of the enterprise. Nonetheless Ramana nodded at my request, and ducked into the tiny brick building. A moment later he emerged, handing me a small brass flask filled with buffalo milk. He topped the rim with a nasturtium, muttering a brief prayer. I handed him a 20-rupee note and returned to my bench.
The mist was beginning to break. Shafts of light shot through the branches of a nearby eucalyptus tree and stenciled the green water. I couldn’t see more than a foot down. How deep was this pool, anyway? What, or who, lived at the bottom?
Did I really want to know? It was a disturbing thought. As I peered over the pond’s edge, I understood something. There is more to this snake thing than the idea of transformation. Snakes have another quality, as well: They abide in the depths. Black water is their domain, and we summon them out at our peril.
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