House of Snow

by Sir Ranulph Fiennes Ed Douglas

  On that moonlit Saturday night, I walked up to the third floor, realizing that the fear had evaporated. Perhaps because an engineer had inspected the building earlier that day. So I permitted myself to return to normalcy. Would things ever be normal again though?

  As I pulled dirty clothes out of the backpack, my mind automatically ran through the week – where I’d slept, who I’d met. What exactly had happened?

  The night of the quake, that other Saturday, seemed endless. The aftershocks kept coming. A friend had put together some pasta and noodles. But I had no appetite.

  Sunday – sleeping with my family in the living room – provided comfort.

  I walked a lot on Monday. All the way from Baneshwar, through Sankhamul, and up the alleys of Patan. I paused briefly in front of the gray debris of the Radha Krishna temple in Swotha and walked over to the Durbar Square. Locals were barring onlookers from entering, so I briskly made my way through narrow alleys to my flat.

  For a while, it was difficult to figure out where to go, what to do. I made some coffee while the phone charged. The crows were particularly noisy. Donating blood seemed like a good idea. So I strode towards Patan hospital, went to the lab, lay down and watched a small plastic bag gradually fill with my dark red blood. A couple of hours later, I met friends at the Yellow House to start an earthquake relief initiative. In the evening, I tagged along with old friends to their place in Khumaltar. I slept well that night.

  The rest of the week was exhausting. We stationed ourselves at the Yellow House from eight to eight and mobilized volunteers to go to Kathmandu’s outskirts on relief missions. The nights were blurry, sleep punctuated by fitful moments of wakefulness.

  I can’t account for Thursday night. Where had I slept? It had to be one of three places, but my mind was a blank. In any case, it didn’t matter. I’m one of the lucky ones. That’s one thing I have been telling myself a lot these past few days. One thing that has been clear.

  Yes, I’m one of the lucky ones, part of the crew who are still living, left to witness. “The dead had it easy,” a villager in Sindhupalchowk told a friend. “I thought I was gone too,” this guy had said. “But, here I am, still living.”

  Yes, we are the lucky ones. We are the survivors, shaken but determined to rise. We are also the privileged ones. No one, not a single person in my circle has even been injured. It was only on Friday night that I heard about an acquaintance who had been trapped under the rubble in Patan Durbar Square and is now recovering in a hospital. A few friends, living in high-rises, will have to find new apartments. But they will manage. The suffering after the earthquake is directly related to class and wealth. The rich are mostly fine; the poor are either dead or devastated.

  So what do the living do? What do we do? What did you do during the days after the quake? I know that some of us surrounded ourselves with friends, had meetings, made haphazard plans, tried to figure out what the government was doing, how soon the aid would arrive. We tried to figure out who was doing what.

  The government was initially absent. When it emerged, it sent out mixed messages. Soon, what everyone knew became validated by its response. The Nepali government neither has the capacity nor the mechanisms to cope with a disaster of this scale. Worse, it didn’t even have the imagination to plan and respond. They say power corrupts. But it became clear that the powerful are also less empathetic. No one is surprised.

  I still believe that we are all doing what we can. Some people are brave and generous, some are lazy and stupid. What makes matters complicated, in times of crisis, is when stupid people act brave and smart ones get lazy. This is only one of many challenges that Nepal is facing now.

  But some have good instincts. They think fast and quick, knowing that the able and capable ought to help the needy. I saw plenty of great examples this week. Young, dazed boys and girls from Kathmandu gathered at the Yellow House. Unprecedented numbers went out to Kavre and Nuwakot, to Sindhupalchowk and Gorkha. The earthquake has, ever so slightly, softened hard-hearted city dwellers.

  Over eighty percent of houses demolished in one district? What does that even look like? What are they doing? How are they living? The young and old from Kathmandu are going out in droves, in cars, jeeps, buses, trucks and motorbikes. The folks from the city have been going to the villages.

  For my part, I have not gone outside the valley yet. I have not even ventured to the old neighborhoods of Kathmandu to see the destruction. Walking through Old Patan was enough for me. But I have decided to commit my energy to volunteering for an indefinite period of time. We all do what we can. I am not going to worry about the rest. This past week has shown that every day is different. We all now know, more deeply than before, that anything can happen to anyone, anytime. We all know what it feels like when the ground shakes.

  On Saturday night, in an attempt to attain normalcy, I sat at the balcony the way I used to before the quake. The view was intact. The neighbor’s buildings and garden looked exactly the way they did before. One of the trees was in full spring bloom. The red flowers adorning her made her look like a young bride. The sky was clear. The temperature was mild. There was a cool, gentle breeze. This time, I wasn’t all that unsettled. I felt a deep sense of gratitude for the bright red flowers and the quiet, beautiful night.

  It was time to go inside and scroll through the newsfeed. I had avoided that all week. But I was curious for more information.

  Within an hour, I turned into a voyeur. I watched one YouTube video after another; googled American and Indian news channels. We are all aware of the perplexing relationship between violence and entertainment. That video of a building collapsing in Bhaktapur – I watched it twice. Although saddened and shocked, I kept clicking. The unlucky ones got it bad. The screams, the fear, the dead bodies. Half-broken faces on hospital beds. Entire neighborhoods in ruins; numerous villages decimated.

  Conflicting emotions, something we all have to manage. When the quake struck, even when I was under the table, listening to the rattles, feeling the banging and the thuds, I felt strong and vulnerable at the same time. One moment I thought, this is it. This is what we had been afraid of. I will get through this. And the next moment, I was worrying about my life, worrying whether the building would withstand the quake.

  When we finally came out, when we looked at each other in disbelief, people holding on to friends and strangers, our faces were etched by the earthquake. That etching, that mixture of shock and fear, evolved over the hours, as more news came. When we heard of Dharahara, about Basantapur, about people dead or trapped in the rubble, our faces became canvases, outlined with thick black markers of sorrow. Grayblue brushstrokes have been improvised on our faces over the weeks, brushstrokes of confusion, of pain, of utter loss, but also of solidarity. We look at each other for signs, for clues, for something. We know that we have been marked deeply. It is not just Nepal, not just Kathmandu Valley that was struck. Each one of us, each one of us living in this country, away from this country, travelers who have passed through over the decades, people who have admired our architecture and written books about our people, each one of us, I know, during this past week and the days after, have felt, to varying degrees, a bleak, dull ache.

  But we have time. We will have time to figure out what has happened, where we want to go from here. No one knows what’s ahead – how the next few weeks, months and years will unfold.

  A week after the earthquake, our volunteers checked in with each other. We had dived into this mission without a fully thought-out plan. When we started, it felt like there was nothing else we could be doing, should be doing. We responded to phone calls all week long, telling other volunteers to take leadership, form groups, get resources, go out, do anything they could. That was the nature of the crisis. It was not just beyond comprehension, it was beyond our means. But a week later, we found a natural closure to one chapter. It felt like we could take a breath, take care of ourselves and move on to another phase. We would continue our efforts, we decided, b
ut perhaps with a more realistic scope. On that note, we cracked a few jokes and drank beer. Laughter helped. It felt like a perfect ending to earthquake week.

  In my bedroom, I kept reading. The US Army was deploying 500 troops and aircraft to help with aid mobilization. A lot of people seemed to be doing something. We will need to pick up the pieces, but we also need to figure out what exactly we want to do with our days and weeks. Life moves inevitably ahead, a friend wrote earlier in the week. It may be helpful to step out of chaos and try to achieve some clarity. Our Facebook pages are loaded with earthquake news, photos, stories, catharsis, suggestions. Let’s try to take a little break. Frantic friends from abroad, your funds have helped and we will do what we can. Try to enjoy your short spring.

  I decided to close down my computer and get some sleep, a bit unsure whether I would really sleep deeply or for eight straight hours. Sure enough, my sleep broke around 4 a.m. I could feel the bed gently vibrating again. I thought the fear had evaporated. But I was wrong. Some of it had trickled inside me, reaching depths that was untouched before, just like the impending monsoon will. The rains will fall down heavy and hard, exploring fresh new paths inside our cracked earth.

  RAM VHAROSH IS SEARCHING FOR HIS FACE

  Shrawan Mukarung

  Shrawan Mukarung is a Nepali poet and musician. He has published two collections of his poetry, the first of which was entitled While Searching for the Country. Mukarung is famous for his poems, such as Bise Nagarchi Ko Bayan and is an acclaimed Nepali writer of the new generation. He received a Moti Award from the National Youth Service in 2003.

  A day in the twenty-first century

  standing before the plain mirror of democracy

  Ram Vharosh was suddenly devastated.

  Where had Darwin’s fourth face gone?

  Where was the man from Earth?

  In the long and deceitful journey through Time

  somewhere, the face had fallen off.

  Ram Vharosh was devastated.

  His twin eyes afire with rage –

  search the streets for his lost face.

  Perhaps it is possible to find

  in the distance between home and school

  the lost hair-clip of a girl-child

  studying in a primary school in the hills;

  it is possible to find

  at a rest-house, with the police, in a hospital

  – or dead in a dark basement –

  an elderly man lost in the vast city.

  In this remote countryside swallowed by frost-wave

  where does one search for a face?

  But, Ram Vharosh, agitated –

  marches on – in search of his lost face.

  In the valleys of the Madhesh

  his many urgent steps

  are melting under the intense heat of his sweat

  The fields and their soil where he has toiled

  and his thick-clotted blood in the water

  the well of his tears

  make marshes from the still ponds of his struggles

  The hearts that flutter repeatedly in these trees

  are his –

  The endless spread of the horizon of dreams

  and the expansive civilization

  are his –

  But, no, nowhere is his lost face

  In this moist countryside, like in a cursed land

  the golden ears of harvest-ready paddy

  sway and swagger like a new Choudhary

  Mustard flowers in their ripe abundance

  smile like new-minted zamindars

  Far, in the distance –

  Who is that, going away in a bullock cart?

  Who is it?

  He searched, but, no – the face isn’t there

  From sun up till sun down

  only the bullock cart keeps rolling away, receding.

  A fine day in the twenty first century

  standing before the plain mirror of democracy

  Ram Vharosh was suddenly devastated.

  Where did I drop my face?

  A face can be lost in the struggle against malaria –

  he is trying to enter the thick jungles of history

  A face can be lost while fighting against a flood –

  He wants to interrogate the sources of

  rivers and streams of the present

  While subserviently massaging the flesh

  of the masters, the face can drop to their backs –

  He needs to talk to the masters.

  While he diligently polishes shoes

  the face can fall to the people’s feet –

  He needs to talk to the people.

  Standing before the plain mirror of democracy

  Ram Vharosh is searching for his lost face.

  Astonishing!

  They who have lived many lives as Kamaiyas

  don’t have their faces anymore!

  Astonishing!

  They who have lived many lives as Kamalaris

  don’t have their faces anymore!

  Astonishing!

  They who have lived many lives as Badinis

  don’t have their faces anymore!

  What miracle is this?

  Where have they disappeared –

  the faces of my loved ones?

  Ram Vharosh was astonished.

  At the foothills of the Everest

  are the footprints of his dense suffering

  Everywhere there are

  haliyas, coolies,

  Everywhere there are

  living metaphors for the anxious epochs

  spent as serfs

  But his face is nowhere –

  and, he searches still for that lost face.

  A day in the twenty-first century

  as he stood before the plain mirror of democracy

  suddenly, reflected on the mirror

  he saw a faceless million more –

  a million other Ram Vharosh

  And, Ram Vharosh burned with agitation!

  He touched the colors of Phagu

  but didn’t find his face in any of the colors

  He drank in the colors of Maghi

  but didn’t find his face in any festive song

  Trampling over the pride

  of the mountains that touched the skies

  close by –

  With his pair of eyes afire with rage

  Ram Vharosh –

  agitated before the plain mirror of democracy –

  stood before me, and said –

  ‘O, Poet!

  I’ve discarded your favorite poet

  I’ve broken your favorite poet’s busts

  Like a scarecrow

  who propped up your poet before me?

  O, Poet!

  The day when your poet was propped up

  was the day when I lost my face

  O, Poet! O, New Poet!!

  Search for my lost pace in your poems

  Search for it today! Search for it right now!

  And I will keep your statue in my heart.’

  A day in the twenty-first century

  Ram Vharosh,

  standing before the plain mirror of democracy

  suddenly became a man!

  I, the new poet –

  standing behind the plain mirror of democracy –

  suddenly became a statue.

  THE KABHRA TREE AT THE CHAUTARI

  Swopnil Smriti

  Swopnil Smriti is a poet from Panchthar in eastern Nepal

  Grandson – A long time ago

  here was a giant Kabhra tree.

  (After resting her load of taro leaves

  Grandma started weaving the yarns of her tale)

  Three long, long ropes couldn’t encircle it’s trunk

  No mad raging storm could shake it

  Neither could floods or landslides take it with them:

  that giant, that Kabhra tree –

  It was the mainam of the village life, they say

>   It was the murumutsiling of the power of the settlements

  At its crown, like a bridge suspended between sky and ground

  the moon would rise;

  Under its shadows the farmhands measured the days

  When it shed its leaves, it was Udhauli

  When it grew new leaves, it was Ubhauli

  They say – the ancient civilization of the locals

  was all in the heart of that Kabhra tree!

  Its branches spread in ten directions –

  the biggest branch pointing to Phaktanglung Himal

  the tangle of roots spread in seventeen directions

  the thickest root turning towards Chotlung

  Hand in hand, round and round, singing, Ha... Ha...

  Matching step to lockstep, adorned in chyabrung,

  – jumping, frolicking –

  Greatest celebrations of love, under the Kabhra tree!

  Grandson!

  The tangle of that Kabhra’s roots was fragrant with the scent of an ancient communism

  And the tops of that Kabhra was the Shangri-La empire of singing cranes!

  But, listen – Grandson!

  In the Bikram Sambat year so and so – a long time ago –

  And by a long time, I mean – a very, very long time ago –

  Your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather saw in his dream

  – Loom! Loom! Kādyang! Kūdūngdūng... dūng... dūng... Haryākk!

  A nightmare – a thunderbolt splitting the Kabhra tree!

  But, when he awoke, he saw in a fork on the tree

  the three-leaf sapling of a Pīpal, springing from wild-cat turd...

  (The breeze blows through the chautari – siririririri... ririri... riri... ri,

  We – grandmother and grandson – are lost in the world of tales

  Have I – as I listened to a story about a Kavra tree – turned into one?

  What did happen thereafter, Grandma? Go on!)

  Ask what all didn’t happen!

  The Pīpal bore its roots into the Kavra

  And to the Kavra came a slow death

  The Pīpal grew bigger and bigger

  Until one day –

  the Kavra became just a hollow heart and flaky bark

  Within it, the Pīpal stood with the uncontainable vitality of youth