It's 8 am on Wednesday over here and dear loyal, energetic, smiling Gita just came upstairs to wake Leah for her Lincoln School summer camp. A bit of breakfast, hopefully, before she goes to catch her 8:30 am bus.
Next blog I should do an essay on the Gita-ness of our lives since she joined us in 1990 a month after Joshua...
Already, I've been up since about 6:30 when Tara, the roof cat, appeared in our bedroom, stretching, staring and ready for her morning meal, as well. So after watching her watch me for awhile, I went out (she followed...) to the terrace, where she usually lives, to feed her.
I'm off to Tansen (western Nepal) for a few days today for our next Federalism Dialogue in the proposed Magarat State. We're doing these Dialogues with civil society and political leaders across Nepal in all of the fourteen provinces proposed by the CA State Restructuring Committee. I'm quite enjoying this UNDP work on the constitution. Of course, as is well-known, there are serious complications at the national political level in Nepal, but our efforts in bringing the Constituent Assembly work out to the people, districts and proposed provinces feels good and vibrant. If there is to be a functioning democracy in Nepal some day, it will have to grow from the peripheries to the center to be effective.
Then, Ez goes to the US on Sunday evening to go through his 'stuff' at my sister Claudia's in Philly. He's there three days before flying via Reno to his big adventure at Deep Springs College on July 2nd. 'Plato on stirrups' is what I call Deep Springs. 26 students (all guys) for two years in a self-managed community (kibbutz, monastery, commune...). The young men work 20 hours/week on the ranch or farm or managing the school, as well as their regular studies. There are 6-8 full-time professors and a college president on the campus/ranch with them. Each year the students select their courses, their professors and the new students. It's a remarkable place, isolated, self-contained and cerebral while laborious. Head, hands and heart is how NMH describes itself. This seems similar while more intense. Great books, great minds and high ambitions. Far from the maddening world, full of stars, open space and the mysteries of the desert in the high Sierras near the Nevada border.
How will Ez grow and change? He turns 18 on Monday and it seems too soon for him to be leaving us already this summer... but DSC is a working ranch, so some of the students need to be there at all times. When will we see him again...
Fortunately Josh is here for the summer. He's already quite settled in, hanging with Ez and their friends most evenings in Thamel at the Factory or friends' homes or here. They move easily into a casual, comfortable pattern in their small town of Kathmandu. Their Lincoln School connections continue and cross generations. While at the same time, Josh is getting ready to do some internships at the Nepal Tamang Ghedung (an ethnic organization) and the Center for Contemporary Nepal Studies w/ the professors Lok Baral, Krishna Khanal and Krishna Hachhethu. He'll balance some social work w/ more intellectual challenges of the modern Nepal while finding time to travel a bit w/ me and his friends around the country this summer.
Plus, we have the added benefit of Josh's love of food and cooking. While I was in Palpa Josh made homemade jam out of some of the peaches I'd picked the other day. i can't wait to try it on his homemade bread. Too bad we can't send some to the US with Ez on Sunday...
And, since she's up and gone already, Ms. Leah is at the Lincoln School summer camp w/ some of her friends. The bus picks her up and drops her back at home in the late afternoon, so she has a full day. We'll get her back to her solo art classes w/ Neera on Sundays once Ez goes and life begins to settle down for all of us... en challah.
The changing face of our Leslie-chand family. As the cookie crumbles, by the end of the summer there will be three in Kathmandu, one in DC and one on the California/Nevada border. What's a parent to do??
It's really all too much for me...
Friday, June 25, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Whoosh (in America...)_
Whoosh!
We've done the long route back across the ocean, seven movies this time from K'du to JFK via Etihad, which is a useful nearly-direct route if only the original flight last Thursday hadn't been postponed because of a massive typhoon in the Indian Ocean causing us to return home disheartened at 11 pm from Tribhuvan Int'l rather than fly out to make it to western Massachusetts the next day in time for Ezi's NMH award ceremony on Saturday, alas.
To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement of parental proportions, of course. But, ke garne, at least some of the movies were good fun and entertaining when I had to let go of my attachment ('Nine', 'Nowhere Man', 'Shutter Island', 'The Last Station', 'You Only Live Twice', 'Lovely Bones', 'Dirty Harry'...); although there was a moment over Nova Scotia when I could feel Ez standing up for his 'Head of School' award even though we couldn't reach out to him at that precious, disemboided moment.
At least, I knew, Josh had come by bus from DC and NYC to be there for Ezi's award ceremony. He was going to meet us at JFK to drive up together, but when we called to tell him we would be delayed, he rode the bus due north to be there for the family. I could feel him, as well, standing, clapping, cheering and supporting his younger brother in the NMH chapel as Ez walked up shyly proud of the high honor he was being given by his teachers and peers -- the same one Josh has been given a year before...
As you know, emotions can gather like the storm clouds below us when you're sitting at 40,000' attenuated from life's richest affections.
But we were there for graduation on Sunday as the proud and loving parents w/ Joshua, my mother and brother in tow. It was a magnificent springtime New England day, blue sky with hints of threatening dark cumulus clouds on the horizon. Color, festivity and joy in the crowd of a thousand plus who were there to celebrate with their children, siblings, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. John Irving (whose son graduated, as well) reading a story from his own life rich in analogies, metaphors and personal experience of loss, heart-felt values and dislocation. A truly American occasion marking a key secular threshold in our children's unfolding lives.
For us, these have been an exceptional (yes, exceptional!) three years for both Joshua and Ezra, as well as us as an expatriate family with NMH. The school and all the supporting cast have been wonderful, loving and wise in so many various ways for our two sons. They have matured, grown, gained and opened so richly through their experiences at this 'cow pasture on a hill' in western Massachusetts.
Be it academic challenges, new friendships, their beloved football (soccer), basketball or volleyball, public speaking, social service, the demands of physical labor or their individual responsibilities as student leaders in their senior years, NMH has offered so much to these beloved sons of ours during their two years on campus.
Little could we have expected so much good fortune and opportunity when we first stopped there three summers ago on our way to a vacation in the Adirondacks to see where, exactly, we'd enrolled our son.
Now, as we prepared to say 'adieu', I felt I could have lingered longer in those easy rocking chairs on the porch of the beautiful, new administrative building for a few more days, simply reading, reflecting, dozing, recalling and indulging my memories of the bounty we found there amid the fields, buildings and people of NMH while staring blankly out at those lush, green, inviting hills of Vermont over the northern reaches of the landscape.
A particularly American tableau, a satisfyingly American experience, a blessed time for Joshua and Ezra as a safe and stimulating transition from their youth in Nepal to their maturity amid the hills, mountains and rivers of life beyond...
Instead, of course, we had our own river to ride, as we drove back along the smooth Yankee highway to JFK Monday morning, leaving Ez somewhere in the neighborhood to finish his packing then head off 'cruising' with his NMH friends around New England, while Josh joined us temporarily on the drive to NYC where he spent a few days w/ Silash, Adhish and Sudip, his Kathmandu contemporaries, before heading back via Dubai for a few days w/ a friend then on to Gita's longed for, much anticipated, dal bhaat at home under Shivapuri's soothing shadow in Nepal.
While Shakun, Ms. Leah and I flew down to Mom's outside West Palm for ten days of parental embrace and ease. Mom is very relaxed now sans Dad's well-meaning but constant surgeon's intensity, anxiety and hyper-cleanliness. These days, Mom doesn't mind some dishes in the sink, some clothes lying around and the casual companionship that allows us to settle in on the couches to spend the day reading or out in the pool swimming laps or or watching TV or simply sitting here at her iMac writing friends...
The life of a family, diverging, coming together and then scattering again...
We've done the long route back across the ocean, seven movies this time from K'du to JFK via Etihad, which is a useful nearly-direct route if only the original flight last Thursday hadn't been postponed because of a massive typhoon in the Indian Ocean causing us to return home disheartened at 11 pm from Tribhuvan Int'l rather than fly out to make it to western Massachusetts the next day in time for Ezi's NMH award ceremony on Saturday, alas.
To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement of parental proportions, of course. But, ke garne, at least some of the movies were good fun and entertaining when I had to let go of my attachment ('Nine', 'Nowhere Man', 'Shutter Island', 'The Last Station', 'You Only Live Twice', 'Lovely Bones', 'Dirty Harry'...); although there was a moment over Nova Scotia when I could feel Ez standing up for his 'Head of School' award even though we couldn't reach out to him at that precious, disemboided moment.
At least, I knew, Josh had come by bus from DC and NYC to be there for Ezi's award ceremony. He was going to meet us at JFK to drive up together, but when we called to tell him we would be delayed, he rode the bus due north to be there for the family. I could feel him, as well, standing, clapping, cheering and supporting his younger brother in the NMH chapel as Ez walked up shyly proud of the high honor he was being given by his teachers and peers -- the same one Josh has been given a year before...
As you know, emotions can gather like the storm clouds below us when you're sitting at 40,000' attenuated from life's richest affections.
But we were there for graduation on Sunday as the proud and loving parents w/ Joshua, my mother and brother in tow. It was a magnificent springtime New England day, blue sky with hints of threatening dark cumulus clouds on the horizon. Color, festivity and joy in the crowd of a thousand plus who were there to celebrate with their children, siblings, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. John Irving (whose son graduated, as well) reading a story from his own life rich in analogies, metaphors and personal experience of loss, heart-felt values and dislocation. A truly American occasion marking a key secular threshold in our children's unfolding lives.
For us, these have been an exceptional (yes, exceptional!) three years for both Joshua and Ezra, as well as us as an expatriate family with NMH. The school and all the supporting cast have been wonderful, loving and wise in so many various ways for our two sons. They have matured, grown, gained and opened so richly through their experiences at this 'cow pasture on a hill' in western Massachusetts.
Be it academic challenges, new friendships, their beloved football (soccer), basketball or volleyball, public speaking, social service, the demands of physical labor or their individual responsibilities as student leaders in their senior years, NMH has offered so much to these beloved sons of ours during their two years on campus.
Little could we have expected so much good fortune and opportunity when we first stopped there three summers ago on our way to a vacation in the Adirondacks to see where, exactly, we'd enrolled our son.
Now, as we prepared to say 'adieu', I felt I could have lingered longer in those easy rocking chairs on the porch of the beautiful, new administrative building for a few more days, simply reading, reflecting, dozing, recalling and indulging my memories of the bounty we found there amid the fields, buildings and people of NMH while staring blankly out at those lush, green, inviting hills of Vermont over the northern reaches of the landscape.
A particularly American tableau, a satisfyingly American experience, a blessed time for Joshua and Ezra as a safe and stimulating transition from their youth in Nepal to their maturity amid the hills, mountains and rivers of life beyond...
Instead, of course, we had our own river to ride, as we drove back along the smooth Yankee highway to JFK Monday morning, leaving Ez somewhere in the neighborhood to finish his packing then head off 'cruising' with his NMH friends around New England, while Josh joined us temporarily on the drive to NYC where he spent a few days w/ Silash, Adhish and Sudip, his Kathmandu contemporaries, before heading back via Dubai for a few days w/ a friend then on to Gita's longed for, much anticipated, dal bhaat at home under Shivapuri's soothing shadow in Nepal.
While Shakun, Ms. Leah and I flew down to Mom's outside West Palm for ten days of parental embrace and ease. Mom is very relaxed now sans Dad's well-meaning but constant surgeon's intensity, anxiety and hyper-cleanliness. These days, Mom doesn't mind some dishes in the sink, some clothes lying around and the casual companionship that allows us to settle in on the couches to spend the day reading or out in the pool swimming laps or or watching TV or simply sitting here at her iMac writing friends...
The life of a family, diverging, coming together and then scattering again...
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Alexander Meets a Jain Philosopher, 325 BC
"There is a long history of public discussion around the world. Even the all-conquering Alexander was treated to a good example of public criticism as he roamed around in northwest India around 325 B.C. When Alexander asked a group of Jain philosophers why they were neglecting to pay any attention to the great conqueror (Alexander was clearly disappointed by these Indian philosophers' lack of interest in him), he received the following forceful reply:
King Alexander, every man can possess only so much of the earth's surface as we are standing on. You are but human like the rest of us, save that you are always busy and up to no good, travelling so many miles from your home, a nuisance to yourself and to others! ... You will soon be dead, and then you will own just as much of the earth as will suffice to bury you."
Identity and Violence: The Illusion of Destiny
by Amartya Sen
King Alexander, every man can possess only so much of the earth's surface as we are standing on. You are but human like the rest of us, save that you are always busy and up to no good, travelling so many miles from your home, a nuisance to yourself and to others! ... You will soon be dead, and then you will own just as much of the earth as will suffice to bury you."
Identity and Violence: The Illusion of Destiny
by Amartya Sen
Rajendra's Farewell
Rajendra’s Farewell
May 20th, 2010
As we know, darkness has a vacant, fearful quality. The world’s vibrancy retreats into the shadows. Around us empty buildings, silent roads, the faint, distant sound of shallow breathing. Night is an appropriate time for death. Life seems to recede from reach, an idea that has come and gone, departed from this rare world, vanished, leaving only the remains of our ambitions, hopes and losses.
Yet we are fortunate to have our memories and the gift of love never ceases, when the heart is full. So, we remember our friend and our colleague, Rajendra Karmacharya, a kind and gentle and thoughtful soul who, as Lincoln’s Transport-in-Charge, guided so many of our children from our homes to Lincoln School and back again, safely every time.
From the placid 1980s through the turbulent 1990s to the aspirations for peace and security of the last decade, Rajendra Karmacharya was always only a phone call away to reassure us that our children, the loves of our lives, the depth of our souls, were safe and on their way home.
Memories, no doubt, fill many of your minds as they do mine. Rajendra, the living, calling to say where our kids may be, what bus they were on, what time they would be coming home. Rajendra always there to reassure us that our children were not lost, that the busses had started late or that there was another 'jaloose' in the city, so they were delayed yet still en route home.
Rajendra's calm voice was always there to reassure, guide and protect our children through so many of these past Lincoln School years.
Now, today, we are here to honor Rajendra, as we were unable to protect him, as he protected our children, from the final truth of this passing world.
We are here, one last time, to offer Rajendra’s good spirit, his soul, his family and his beloved memory, our deepest thanks and affection. We thank him for all he did for a school we love and the students who have grown and prospered within. We thank him for his hard work, dedication and commitment to the true ideals of Lincoln School.
We thank he and his wife, as well, for the two beautiful and intelligent children, Chandni and Suraj, who have been such gentle and caring student leaders at Lincoln. We are proud of them, as well, for the dignity and meaning they brought to Rajendra and their family ‘izaat’ in Nepali society. Rajendra knew the beauty of his children. He spent his life ensuring they would have every opportunity they wanted in the world far beyond the Kathmandu mandala in which he grew up.
Therefore, in the spirit of appreciation that animates this week at Lincoln School, we bid a fond and loving goodbye to one of us who has gone ahead of us to the world surrounding us.
Rajendra, dai, protector, colleague and friend, have a safe journey beyond. You are remembered here among us as a kind and good man. You taught us humility and grace. We hope we learn our lessons well.
Om Shanti. Om Shalom. Om Mani Padme.
Such is our destiny on this Earth.
May 20th, 2010
As we know, darkness has a vacant, fearful quality. The world’s vibrancy retreats into the shadows. Around us empty buildings, silent roads, the faint, distant sound of shallow breathing. Night is an appropriate time for death. Life seems to recede from reach, an idea that has come and gone, departed from this rare world, vanished, leaving only the remains of our ambitions, hopes and losses.
Yet we are fortunate to have our memories and the gift of love never ceases, when the heart is full. So, we remember our friend and our colleague, Rajendra Karmacharya, a kind and gentle and thoughtful soul who, as Lincoln’s Transport-in-Charge, guided so many of our children from our homes to Lincoln School and back again, safely every time.
From the placid 1980s through the turbulent 1990s to the aspirations for peace and security of the last decade, Rajendra Karmacharya was always only a phone call away to reassure us that our children, the loves of our lives, the depth of our souls, were safe and on their way home.
Memories, no doubt, fill many of your minds as they do mine. Rajendra, the living, calling to say where our kids may be, what bus they were on, what time they would be coming home. Rajendra always there to reassure us that our children were not lost, that the busses had started late or that there was another 'jaloose' in the city, so they were delayed yet still en route home.
Rajendra's calm voice was always there to reassure, guide and protect our children through so many of these past Lincoln School years.
Now, today, we are here to honor Rajendra, as we were unable to protect him, as he protected our children, from the final truth of this passing world.
We are here, one last time, to offer Rajendra’s good spirit, his soul, his family and his beloved memory, our deepest thanks and affection. We thank him for all he did for a school we love and the students who have grown and prospered within. We thank him for his hard work, dedication and commitment to the true ideals of Lincoln School.
We thank he and his wife, as well, for the two beautiful and intelligent children, Chandni and Suraj, who have been such gentle and caring student leaders at Lincoln. We are proud of them, as well, for the dignity and meaning they brought to Rajendra and their family ‘izaat’ in Nepali society. Rajendra knew the beauty of his children. He spent his life ensuring they would have every opportunity they wanted in the world far beyond the Kathmandu mandala in which he grew up.
Therefore, in the spirit of appreciation that animates this week at Lincoln School, we bid a fond and loving goodbye to one of us who has gone ahead of us to the world surrounding us.
Rajendra, dai, protector, colleague and friend, have a safe journey beyond. You are remembered here among us as a kind and good man. You taught us humility and grace. We hope we learn our lessons well.
Om Shanti. Om Shalom. Om Mani Padme.
Such is our destiny on this Earth.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
'Sequence of Justice' in the Kathmandu Post
Sequence of Justice
by Rukmini Chaudhary, Shakun Sherchand Leslie
On March 1, 2009, three women converged at the Mandala intersection in Kathmandu demanding justice to protest against the reservation ordinance issued by the Prachanda-led government that allocated only 45 percent of the spots to marginalised communities. The rule also included Terai Adivasi Janajatis within the Madhesi category. A Tharu’s search for justice, a Thakali’s effort to comprehend justice and a Tamang’s absconding from justice had juxtaposed them in the conflict between the state and the Maoists. Having burnt the ordinance, they felt closer to the truth of Nepal’s civil rights movement.
Ideological Politics
Two Brahmin men in the early 1990s envisioned freeing Nepal from authoritarian feudalism and spelled out the mantra of liberation from class, caste, gender and Kathmandu-centric oppression for those who were trying to comprehend their lives differently than the generation before. Within a decade, they had spread Marxist-Leninist-Maoist indoctrination, moving thousands of marginalised, discriminated and exploited within the arena of socio-economic-political dialectics. As the ideological dialogue over land reform in Naxalbari, India was instrumental in the Communist Party of India (CPI-ML) joining mainstream politics through elections in 1969, the Maoist-inspired People’s Movement (Jana Andolan II) overthrew monarchy in Nepal and challenged despotism and hedonistic capitalism while questioning the roots of gender-ethnic imbalances through federal aspirations.
Identity Embroiled in Ideology
Nepal’s prolonged peace process helped elevate power struggle to a scramble for state power and rule by gang politics. The jumbo CA provided for flimsy representation of citizens, which would supposedly draft a new constitution. Starting from the flawed electoral process of nominal proportionate representation, followed by enforcement of party whip over CA members, a deficient state restructuring map, a renewed anti-defection bill, the creation of a shadowy CA Gaps and Overlaps Committee and the continuation of the High-Level Political Mechanism — all were predatory strategies to wield power and control over the marginalised communities. Then, similar to other failed peace processes, neither the rebels nor the government fulfilled their disarmament pledges thus hampering national reconciliation. Attempts at reviving the monarchy, backtracking on federalism and revising secularism are all political tools designed to sidetrack the process of integration of Maoist combatants into the Army.
Restructuring imperatives requiring institutional engineering might derail the constitutional process with undesirable consequences. Can parliamentary and extra-parliamentary struggles lead us towards the desired social transformation? Who will drive the vehicle of change? Historically, no ruling party in Nepal has ever voluntarily relinquished power.
Maoism is just another form of economic violence sown to further impoverish hapless Adivasi Janajatis, Dalits, Muslims, Madhesis and women. A 2003/04 DFID/World Bank study showed 31 percent of the population living under the poverty line with the poorest 20 percent scrimping on 5 percent — further widening the poverty gap in our social transformation. Nepal has the unenviable task of emulating a viable social transformation model without also embracing their negative sides.
Scoring political points by mindless militancy has only confused the genuine issues raised by the Maoists. They are caught in caste dialectics after having initiated the dynamics of class struggle. In this climate, an individual’s willingness to commit more to his community than centrifugal caste-centric nationalism could help Nepal’s safe landing.
Obscure Allocations
Effective state restructuring requires rigorous state/donor partnership to divert the historically navigated capitalistic tendencies closer to real poverty alleviation. The CA is loaded with transitional misgivings due to the absence of rule of law and sans an effective bureaucracy. State restructuring calls for clear territorial provincial demarcations with planned infrastructure to be governed by effective reforms.
The Western template, however, does not match our economic stagnation rooted in the culture of despotism, feudalism and revolutionary capitalism. The reluctance of donors to put pressure on the government to correlate aid allocation and economic management with good governance stunts the country’s capacity for change. Their negligence is the result of their refusal to acknowledge the existence of casteism through informal political institutions, aptly abetted by formal bureaucratic procedures, and by the legal façade of statehood controlled by the traditional male, upper-caste social network.
Lack of democratic culture has helped establish the transitional elite and warlords who have acquired power through violence. Human rights abuses and economic exploitation are co-opted by power sharing manipulative agreements. “Strategies of extraversion”, as characterised by Jean Francois Beyant, has ensured that the fight over poverty is being exploited to extract “obscure allocations” through public health, education, rural development and local NGOs.
Peace Wrangling
When Defence Minister Bidya Bhandari (a woman) denies an independent investigation into the three Dalit women murdered on the charge of poaching by military personnel, she defeats the virtue of proportional representation by failing to represent the marginalised, discriminated and exploited women. If the women are not ready to break the social taboos imposed collectively, how can they find justice in Nepal?
Our liberation from caste, class, gender and central oppression are part of an unfinished history. If a failed state is the prize of the visible Bahun men steering the three big parties towards political precipice, then a new politics must emerge from the cause of social justice, as the search for justice will forever continue.
by Rukmini Chaudhary, Shakun Sherchand Leslie
On March 1, 2009, three women converged at the Mandala intersection in Kathmandu demanding justice to protest against the reservation ordinance issued by the Prachanda-led government that allocated only 45 percent of the spots to marginalised communities. The rule also included Terai Adivasi Janajatis within the Madhesi category. A Tharu’s search for justice, a Thakali’s effort to comprehend justice and a Tamang’s absconding from justice had juxtaposed them in the conflict between the state and the Maoists. Having burnt the ordinance, they felt closer to the truth of Nepal’s civil rights movement.
Ideological Politics
Two Brahmin men in the early 1990s envisioned freeing Nepal from authoritarian feudalism and spelled out the mantra of liberation from class, caste, gender and Kathmandu-centric oppression for those who were trying to comprehend their lives differently than the generation before. Within a decade, they had spread Marxist-Leninist-Maoist indoctrination, moving thousands of marginalised, discriminated and exploited within the arena of socio-economic-political dialectics. As the ideological dialogue over land reform in Naxalbari, India was instrumental in the Communist Party of India (CPI-ML) joining mainstream politics through elections in 1969, the Maoist-inspired People’s Movement (Jana Andolan II) overthrew monarchy in Nepal and challenged despotism and hedonistic capitalism while questioning the roots of gender-ethnic imbalances through federal aspirations.
Identity Embroiled in Ideology
Nepal’s prolonged peace process helped elevate power struggle to a scramble for state power and rule by gang politics. The jumbo CA provided for flimsy representation of citizens, which would supposedly draft a new constitution. Starting from the flawed electoral process of nominal proportionate representation, followed by enforcement of party whip over CA members, a deficient state restructuring map, a renewed anti-defection bill, the creation of a shadowy CA Gaps and Overlaps Committee and the continuation of the High-Level Political Mechanism — all were predatory strategies to wield power and control over the marginalised communities. Then, similar to other failed peace processes, neither the rebels nor the government fulfilled their disarmament pledges thus hampering national reconciliation. Attempts at reviving the monarchy, backtracking on federalism and revising secularism are all political tools designed to sidetrack the process of integration of Maoist combatants into the Army.
Restructuring imperatives requiring institutional engineering might derail the constitutional process with undesirable consequences. Can parliamentary and extra-parliamentary struggles lead us towards the desired social transformation? Who will drive the vehicle of change? Historically, no ruling party in Nepal has ever voluntarily relinquished power.
Maoism is just another form of economic violence sown to further impoverish hapless Adivasi Janajatis, Dalits, Muslims, Madhesis and women. A 2003/04 DFID/World Bank study showed 31 percent of the population living under the poverty line with the poorest 20 percent scrimping on 5 percent — further widening the poverty gap in our social transformation. Nepal has the unenviable task of emulating a viable social transformation model without also embracing their negative sides.
Scoring political points by mindless militancy has only confused the genuine issues raised by the Maoists. They are caught in caste dialectics after having initiated the dynamics of class struggle. In this climate, an individual’s willingness to commit more to his community than centrifugal caste-centric nationalism could help Nepal’s safe landing.
Obscure Allocations
Effective state restructuring requires rigorous state/donor partnership to divert the historically navigated capitalistic tendencies closer to real poverty alleviation. The CA is loaded with transitional misgivings due to the absence of rule of law and sans an effective bureaucracy. State restructuring calls for clear territorial provincial demarcations with planned infrastructure to be governed by effective reforms.
The Western template, however, does not match our economic stagnation rooted in the culture of despotism, feudalism and revolutionary capitalism. The reluctance of donors to put pressure on the government to correlate aid allocation and economic management with good governance stunts the country’s capacity for change. Their negligence is the result of their refusal to acknowledge the existence of casteism through informal political institutions, aptly abetted by formal bureaucratic procedures, and by the legal façade of statehood controlled by the traditional male, upper-caste social network.
Lack of democratic culture has helped establish the transitional elite and warlords who have acquired power through violence. Human rights abuses and economic exploitation are co-opted by power sharing manipulative agreements. “Strategies of extraversion”, as characterised by Jean Francois Beyant, has ensured that the fight over poverty is being exploited to extract “obscure allocations” through public health, education, rural development and local NGOs.
Peace Wrangling
When Defence Minister Bidya Bhandari (a woman) denies an independent investigation into the three Dalit women murdered on the charge of poaching by military personnel, she defeats the virtue of proportional representation by failing to represent the marginalised, discriminated and exploited women. If the women are not ready to break the social taboos imposed collectively, how can they find justice in Nepal?
Our liberation from caste, class, gender and central oppression are part of an unfinished history. If a failed state is the prize of the visible Bahun men steering the three big parties towards political precipice, then a new politics must emerge from the cause of social justice, as the search for justice will forever continue.
Ezra's Class of '10 Oration
Many years ago I heard a wonderful story — it was a story about a young boy. The young boy came from a small village in a lush and beautiful valley. The boy was the most talented child the village had ever seen. Sadly, the day came when the boy’s needs grew beyond what the village had to offer him so the village elders decided to send him to learn from the Wisest man in all the land. It was a sad day when the village sent the boy away, but it was also filled with great hope. There were tears as the boy left, and his friends and family cried unabashedly, but they sent him with enough supplies to get to the Wise man’s home high up in the mountains. The boy trekked for many days, and many weeks until at last he arrived high up in the mountains and saw just beyond the next hillock a sprawling community.
As he entered the community all around him he saw amazing things: he saw artists, thespians, philosophers, musicians, mathematicians, athletes, and many other talented and wonderful people scattered throughout. Slowly he found his way to the Wise Man and there he saw a long line of people waiting for the man’s sage advice. He waited for days until at last he came to the wise man and explained his situation. He told him that he had come to learn many things, but above all desired the secret to happiness. The wise man listened attentively to the boy, and when he was finished the Wise man smiled, “At the moment, I don’t have the time to tell you the secret to happiness,” the Wise man said, handing the boy a spoon filled with oil, “However, go and take this spoon of oil and wander through my home. When you return I will have time to impart to you the secret of happiness.” The boy, eager to impress the Wise man, sets off taking note of all the marvels in the Wise man’s home. Finally, the boy returns to the Wise man and proudly tells him all that seen and learned, but the Wise man only looks at the boy’s spoon and asks, “Alas, where is the oil I had placed in your spoon?” The boy, with a sinking feeling, looks down and sees that the oil is gone. In the excitement, he had completely forgotten to keep an eye on his oil. The Wise man, seeing this in the boy’s eyes, fills his spoon with oil and says, “Go and wander through my home, but this time remember not to spill the oil.”
Relieved, the boy once again sets off, making his way through the many gardens and staircases of the Wise man’s grounds, but this time doesn’t take his eyes off the oil once. Finally, the boy returns to the Wise man proudly holding his spoon filled with oil. “Well,” says the Wise man, “tell me everything that you have seen.” The boy looks confusedly up at the Wise man and replies, “Nothing, I have seen nothing.” The boy had been concentrating so hard on the oil in his spoon that not once did he look and observe the world around him. The Wise man then says, “Do not look sad child, for therein lies the secret to happyness: to see all the marvels of the world, but never forget the oil in your spoon.”
Apart from being a particularly fun story to tell, the story of the boy and his spoon of oil runs many parallels with our own lives. Out of respect for your intelligence I’m not going to spell those similarities out as I have always felt a good story leaves room for a certain breadth of interpretation. However, I will say that in the Wise man’s final words of advice to the young boy lies a nugget of gold — a piece of advice that we can all carry with us.
He was completely wrong about his advice being the secret to happiness, but only because there is no secret to happiness. Happiness is so much more complex and intricate then the majority of what we deal with in life — it’s not as simple as a math formula, (sorry Dick Peller), nor as neat and organized as a grocery list, (sorry Mom and Dad), or as clear cut as rules and regulations, (my most sincere apologies here, deans). It has no secret; to a certain degree, happiness is a myth. Its not something you have or you don’t have — its something you choose to be. No, the secret to happiness wasn’t the nugget of gold that the Wise man imparted to us. Rather, the nugget of gold that he gave to the young boy and I give to you, Class of 2010, was this: essentially, in life, do all that you want to do, be all that you want to be, but live a life of balance.
Balance is what makes life truly worth living — it enriches the best moments and life, but also subdues the worst. Balance isn’t seeing everything in Wise man’s home, but forgetting the oil in your spoon nor is it keeping the oil in your spoon, but seeing nothing of the marvels of the world. It is learning how to keep both the oil in your spoon and seeing the marvels of the world. For everyone both the marvels of the world and the oil in their spoon are different and this is where I will let the story have its room for interpretation, but remember that no matter how many wonders there are to marvel at in the world there is always room for a little bit of oil.
When I was in Middle School my science teacher gave me another nugget of gold. She told me that life is a little bit like a jar. And in that jar we have three ingredient: we have rocks, we have sand, and we have water. Each one represents a different thing. The rocks symbolize the aspects to life that you have to do; these are things like going to early morning classes, paying taxes, buying groceries, and, of course, Saturday night restriction. These take up a large part of the jar, so you put them in your jar and there is a little less than half the jar left. But next up we have the sand, sand represents a combination of things in life. They are a combination of things you sort of have to do, but you sort of want to do as well; things like going to Alumni for breakfast, checking SWIS, and applying to college. Now once you have put sand in your jar there is usually very little room left. Luckily, the last item in the jar is water. Water represents everything in life that you love to do: hanging out with friends, going to Greenfield, stir-fry day in the dining hall, and workjob. And the greatest thing about water is that no matter how little room you have left in your jar there is always room for a little bit of water.
Balance your jar as much as you can. Never let your jar be made of only rocks. Don’t work your whole life only to realize that your not sure what your working for, as the saying goes, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” I can’t really say it better than that, but also don’t have a jar filled with only water. As great as that sounds, a life of only water would be a little bit like living in the ocean — after a while the scenery gets a little boring. Fun is no longer that much fun, and when that happens you know you’re in real trouble.
Everyone’s answer to everything these days is, “Live life bro!” We love to make “living life” an excuse for not doing what we should be doing, but “living life” isn’t that simple. Living life is exactly what the Wise man was trying to get at. “Live life bro!” but live life meaningfully, live a balanced life. Don’t use it as an excuse to not have to write that essay on a Monday night, well at least not every Monday night. There is a time to work and there is a time to party. But Class of 2010 I am very proud to be able to tell you that after twelve years of grueling schooling, after twelve years of trials and tribulations, after twelve years of challenging workloads lets “live life!” Tonight let’s party.
Before that though, I just have one last thing to say to you. Class of 2010, if there is one thing that you take away from what I’ve said I hope it is this: you are some of the most amazing people I have ever met. Each and every one of you have filled my jar with water on a day-to-day basis and for that reason I will forever be grateful.
You truly have been the closest thing to the Wise man’s house I have ever come across.
Thank you very much.
Editor’s Note: This speech qualified Ezra Leslie as one of five finalists for Class Orator and was presented on May 4 at 8 pm in the Rhodes Arts Center as part of the selection process.
As he entered the community all around him he saw amazing things: he saw artists, thespians, philosophers, musicians, mathematicians, athletes, and many other talented and wonderful people scattered throughout. Slowly he found his way to the Wise Man and there he saw a long line of people waiting for the man’s sage advice. He waited for days until at last he came to the wise man and explained his situation. He told him that he had come to learn many things, but above all desired the secret to happiness. The wise man listened attentively to the boy, and when he was finished the Wise man smiled, “At the moment, I don’t have the time to tell you the secret to happiness,” the Wise man said, handing the boy a spoon filled with oil, “However, go and take this spoon of oil and wander through my home. When you return I will have time to impart to you the secret of happiness.” The boy, eager to impress the Wise man, sets off taking note of all the marvels in the Wise man’s home. Finally, the boy returns to the Wise man and proudly tells him all that seen and learned, but the Wise man only looks at the boy’s spoon and asks, “Alas, where is the oil I had placed in your spoon?” The boy, with a sinking feeling, looks down and sees that the oil is gone. In the excitement, he had completely forgotten to keep an eye on his oil. The Wise man, seeing this in the boy’s eyes, fills his spoon with oil and says, “Go and wander through my home, but this time remember not to spill the oil.”
Relieved, the boy once again sets off, making his way through the many gardens and staircases of the Wise man’s grounds, but this time doesn’t take his eyes off the oil once. Finally, the boy returns to the Wise man proudly holding his spoon filled with oil. “Well,” says the Wise man, “tell me everything that you have seen.” The boy looks confusedly up at the Wise man and replies, “Nothing, I have seen nothing.” The boy had been concentrating so hard on the oil in his spoon that not once did he look and observe the world around him. The Wise man then says, “Do not look sad child, for therein lies the secret to happyness: to see all the marvels of the world, but never forget the oil in your spoon.”
Apart from being a particularly fun story to tell, the story of the boy and his spoon of oil runs many parallels with our own lives. Out of respect for your intelligence I’m not going to spell those similarities out as I have always felt a good story leaves room for a certain breadth of interpretation. However, I will say that in the Wise man’s final words of advice to the young boy lies a nugget of gold — a piece of advice that we can all carry with us.
He was completely wrong about his advice being the secret to happiness, but only because there is no secret to happiness. Happiness is so much more complex and intricate then the majority of what we deal with in life — it’s not as simple as a math formula, (sorry Dick Peller), nor as neat and organized as a grocery list, (sorry Mom and Dad), or as clear cut as rules and regulations, (my most sincere apologies here, deans). It has no secret; to a certain degree, happiness is a myth. Its not something you have or you don’t have — its something you choose to be. No, the secret to happiness wasn’t the nugget of gold that the Wise man imparted to us. Rather, the nugget of gold that he gave to the young boy and I give to you, Class of 2010, was this: essentially, in life, do all that you want to do, be all that you want to be, but live a life of balance.
Balance is what makes life truly worth living — it enriches the best moments and life, but also subdues the worst. Balance isn’t seeing everything in Wise man’s home, but forgetting the oil in your spoon nor is it keeping the oil in your spoon, but seeing nothing of the marvels of the world. It is learning how to keep both the oil in your spoon and seeing the marvels of the world. For everyone both the marvels of the world and the oil in their spoon are different and this is where I will let the story have its room for interpretation, but remember that no matter how many wonders there are to marvel at in the world there is always room for a little bit of oil.
When I was in Middle School my science teacher gave me another nugget of gold. She told me that life is a little bit like a jar. And in that jar we have three ingredient: we have rocks, we have sand, and we have water. Each one represents a different thing. The rocks symbolize the aspects to life that you have to do; these are things like going to early morning classes, paying taxes, buying groceries, and, of course, Saturday night restriction. These take up a large part of the jar, so you put them in your jar and there is a little less than half the jar left. But next up we have the sand, sand represents a combination of things in life. They are a combination of things you sort of have to do, but you sort of want to do as well; things like going to Alumni for breakfast, checking SWIS, and applying to college. Now once you have put sand in your jar there is usually very little room left. Luckily, the last item in the jar is water. Water represents everything in life that you love to do: hanging out with friends, going to Greenfield, stir-fry day in the dining hall, and workjob. And the greatest thing about water is that no matter how little room you have left in your jar there is always room for a little bit of water.
Balance your jar as much as you can. Never let your jar be made of only rocks. Don’t work your whole life only to realize that your not sure what your working for, as the saying goes, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” I can’t really say it better than that, but also don’t have a jar filled with only water. As great as that sounds, a life of only water would be a little bit like living in the ocean — after a while the scenery gets a little boring. Fun is no longer that much fun, and when that happens you know you’re in real trouble.
Everyone’s answer to everything these days is, “Live life bro!” We love to make “living life” an excuse for not doing what we should be doing, but “living life” isn’t that simple. Living life is exactly what the Wise man was trying to get at. “Live life bro!” but live life meaningfully, live a balanced life. Don’t use it as an excuse to not have to write that essay on a Monday night, well at least not every Monday night. There is a time to work and there is a time to party. But Class of 2010 I am very proud to be able to tell you that after twelve years of grueling schooling, after twelve years of trials and tribulations, after twelve years of challenging workloads lets “live life!” Tonight let’s party.
Before that though, I just have one last thing to say to you. Class of 2010, if there is one thing that you take away from what I’ve said I hope it is this: you are some of the most amazing people I have ever met. Each and every one of you have filled my jar with water on a day-to-day basis and for that reason I will forever be grateful.
You truly have been the closest thing to the Wise man’s house I have ever come across.
Thank you very much.
Editor’s Note: This speech qualified Ezra Leslie as one of five finalists for Class Orator and was presented on May 4 at 8 pm in the Rhodes Arts Center as part of the selection process.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
A Death in the Newari Family
Yes, it was a long day's journey into night on Thursday...
We received a call from Allan, the Lincoln School director, at 10:30 pm at home informing us that Rajendra had passed away from this world about a half hour before that. We'd been at the reception for the Israeli independence that evening and met some friends from Lincoln there who had stopped to see Rajendra en route to the dinner reception. When I'd asked Luke how Rajendra seemed, he said, "He looked so much weaker than when I'd seen him a month before -- but with Rajendra his will is so strong, you can't say how long he will last." Then, within minutes of his death, Shakun and I were driving home from the reception right past Om Hospital to put Leah to bed when Rajendra's spirit left this Earth.
Allan said that they were sending a LS bus to Om Hospital at 4 am to help take the family out to Panauti, a small, historical Newari town an hour outside the Kathmandu Valley, where Rajendra originally came from. I thought about calling Suraj after Allan called, but felt that it was time for their family to mourn and I could imagine the scene of wailing and keening that is so familiar in Nepali society among the women.
Instead, since my mind was already quite disturbed and I was unable to sleep with the knowledge of Rajendra's death, I stayed up to watch the 1 am Liverpool Europa Cup game against Athletico Madrid (blame my sons for this English football addiction...), then thought to go to the hospital to meet Suraj, his sister, Chandni, to see if I could be of any assistance at that time.
About 3:30 am among the world of the living, after a disappointing Liverpool performance, I took a quick shower, put some clothes on, woke Tek, our nightguard, and drove in the dark, empty streets to Om Hospital.
As you know, there is a vacant, odd, malleable sense to darkness. The world seems to have retreated from almost any form of life. There are shells of buildings, silent roads, scattered trash on the streets -- but humanity has disappeared. It's an appropriate time for death. Life seems already to have receded from reach, as if it's an idea that has come and gone, departed from this material world, like dinosaurs of old, vanished, leaving only the remains of our ambitions, hopes and losses.
An occasional motorcyle passed with a few Nepalis getting into vehicles along the way. Besides that, quiet, emptiness, the void.
At the hospital it took some time to locate Rajendra's family. I went to the ICU, where we'd seen him last a week+ ago. There were other families there now, sleeping on the worn benches or on sheets on the floor. They tried to help me, but didn't know of a Rajendra Karmacharya. Already his form was slipping away...
Over in the wards in the main building, even the guards were asleep. I found one nurse moving and she directed me to anothe floor of surgical rooms. I wandered around, not finding the room she'd said, nor Suraj's family. Then, at the end of another vacant hallway, I heard voices and walked down to a small crowd sleeping, lying, resting on the floor at the hallway's cul-de-sac. Before I recognized them, they recognized me and woke Chandni, Suraj's sister who'd come back two weeks before from her third year at BCU in Vancouver. She smiled, tired, but happy to see me and said, "I'll get Suraj. He's sleeping upstairs."
Suraj had found a bench on the third floor to get some rest. We hugged briefly, then the three of us leaned against the hallway walls and chatted while his mother and her close relatives lay nearby.
Although Death had come so recently, both Suraj and Chandni seemed in good states of mind. They'd had months to accept and digest the reality of their Dad's fatal cancer. Even beyond the hopes, they had begun to realize the depth of the disease and the remoreseless of its movement. When Chandni was called back to Nepal, just before her junior year exams, they understood that the message was the messenger and time was limited.
About 5 am, people began to stir. The LS bus had come in right before me an hour before. There were phone calls to Panauti to relatives there and arrangements for the ambulance that would take Rajendra's body out to his ancestral home while the family travelled in the LS bus, generously offered by Allan as a sign of respect for the many years of service that Rajendra had given the school managing these same vehicles that would now take his body back to his natal town, just over the horizon, close enough to find work in Kathmandu, but never so far that he would ever forget his origins or his deep and lasting Newari family roots.
Death may be quick, but life takes time About 5:45 am the stretcher camefor Rajendra's body. Immediately, the Nepali keening began again in earnest as the women of his life filled the room one last time before the men moved Rajendra's remains out to the hallway, a sheet over his body and the women holding each other tight, close and protective.
This sound, Nepali women wailing, crying, like waves of sorrow across our souls, mourning their loss and life's inevitable end, never escapes me at such times. It is a sound, like the sweet fragrance of the night queen in the spring, that I will always associate with Nepal. I've heard it from Shakun's relatives when her uncles and father died; I've heard it up the ridges of the Budhi Gandaki river in northern Gorkha late at night in the solitude of a lonely Himalayan village and now, once again, among the Newari women of Kathmandu in the hallways of a modern hospital as the ritual of death occurs, again and again, and again...
Just before 6 am, the LS bus, the ambulance and me along in our aging Suzuki took to the roads, out of the Om driveway, up the hill to Chahabil and then around the airport heading out on the new highway they are slowly constructing past Bhaktapur to the lone road that connects the Kathmandu Valley with the ancient Newari settlements to the east en route to the only trading route with Tibet. I followed the small, van-like ambulance that carried Rajendra, Suraj and a few men of his family. Along the way, we stopped to pick up more relatives who were coming to support the family and mourn, one last time, at the cremation site in Panauti.
About 7:15 am, we drove down the narrow road that filters through the lovely, lush Panauti valley, mud houses on the hillsides and brick homes in the old marketplace. It'd been two decades since I'd been there. One of my early excursions when I'd come to Kathmandu in the mid-80s to see the famous, beautiful temple along a river. Since then, the modernization that has overwhelmed and mutilated so much of the traditional charm of these thousand year old Newari settlements, had engulfed Panauti, as well.
There, we drove through the bazaar festooned with flags and crepe for some celebration that had just passed or was continuing with the immortality that almost describes the profound Newari attachment to their traditions, festivals, jatra and life.
As I parked, the ambulance circled round down a dirt path to the temple by the river where people had already begun to congregate, family, neighbors and friends from his birth, youth and young life. As the nearest relatives came from the LS bus, Rajendra's body was placed on the cold stone surrounding the temple, the sheet no longer covering his face, his eyes barely open, silent, still, staring to the empryean beyond.
As we stood silently to honor and observe, individual women came up to touch his body, bless his life, leave some small rupee notes on his chest and pour some sacred water on his lips and forehead. A piece of what looked like gold was place in his mouth. The living with tears in their eyes or vacant looks, stood nearby, a circular mandala of life, surrounding, protecting one of our own, asleep forever at our feet.
Memories, no doubt, poured into others' minds as they did for me. The Rajendra of life, the living, on the phone, calling to say where the boys may be, what bus they were on, what time they would be coming home. For years, a decade plus, Rajendra was always there on the other end of the phone to reassure us that the kids weren't lost, that the busses had started late or that there was another 'jaloose' (demonstration) going on in the city, so they were delayed and still en route home. Rajendra's disembodied voice was always there to reassure, guide and protect our children through those Lincoln School years.
Now, we stood, unable to protect Rajendra from the vicissitudes and reality of this earthly world. We had offered him our affection and, oaccasionally, our support during his illness. He knew our affection for Suraj, in particular, and his close brotherly bonds with Josh and Ezra. The year Suraj spent at NMH last year brought our families closer together than we ever would have been in the segregated worlds of Kathmandu and Nepal. Suraj, through his gentle intelligence and thoughtfulness, had slipped into our family's karma and American identity.
Fortuitously, through some twist of fate, Suraj had decided to come home to Kathmandu and Lincoln for his senior year, rather than stay at NMH. In retrospect, how wise, karmic and necessary that decision had been.
Yet, Death is finally the Master of us all. I looked around at the scores of milling neighbors, family and friends of Rajendra's. The Newari women, including Chandni in her t-shirt and blue jeans, bent in sorrow among the older women in their red saris and tradtional ornaments, were still wailing. The men more stoic, resigned, emptied of emotion in small groups around the temple periphery. I looked and thought that this, too, will pass for each of us. One day, unlike today, we won't be here to observe, caught in our own thoughts, and feel ths sorrow, the necessity of Death.
One day, we, too, would lie quietly, peacefully, alone at the feet of others who may come to mourn our passing and honor our lives.
One day, we, too, would bid adieu to this curious, sacred and painful world of mist, sunlight and shadows.
One day, we, too, would have to face our own departure, and wish those we leave behind the love we could never fully express in life.
Om Shanti. Om Shalom.
Such is our destiny on this Earth.
I hope I haven't said too much.
We received a call from Allan, the Lincoln School director, at 10:30 pm at home informing us that Rajendra had passed away from this world about a half hour before that. We'd been at the reception for the Israeli independence that evening and met some friends from Lincoln there who had stopped to see Rajendra en route to the dinner reception. When I'd asked Luke how Rajendra seemed, he said, "He looked so much weaker than when I'd seen him a month before -- but with Rajendra his will is so strong, you can't say how long he will last." Then, within minutes of his death, Shakun and I were driving home from the reception right past Om Hospital to put Leah to bed when Rajendra's spirit left this Earth.
Allan said that they were sending a LS bus to Om Hospital at 4 am to help take the family out to Panauti, a small, historical Newari town an hour outside the Kathmandu Valley, where Rajendra originally came from. I thought about calling Suraj after Allan called, but felt that it was time for their family to mourn and I could imagine the scene of wailing and keening that is so familiar in Nepali society among the women.
Instead, since my mind was already quite disturbed and I was unable to sleep with the knowledge of Rajendra's death, I stayed up to watch the 1 am Liverpool Europa Cup game against Athletico Madrid (blame my sons for this English football addiction...), then thought to go to the hospital to meet Suraj, his sister, Chandni, to see if I could be of any assistance at that time.
About 3:30 am among the world of the living, after a disappointing Liverpool performance, I took a quick shower, put some clothes on, woke Tek, our nightguard, and drove in the dark, empty streets to Om Hospital.
As you know, there is a vacant, odd, malleable sense to darkness. The world seems to have retreated from almost any form of life. There are shells of buildings, silent roads, scattered trash on the streets -- but humanity has disappeared. It's an appropriate time for death. Life seems already to have receded from reach, as if it's an idea that has come and gone, departed from this material world, like dinosaurs of old, vanished, leaving only the remains of our ambitions, hopes and losses.
An occasional motorcyle passed with a few Nepalis getting into vehicles along the way. Besides that, quiet, emptiness, the void.
At the hospital it took some time to locate Rajendra's family. I went to the ICU, where we'd seen him last a week+ ago. There were other families there now, sleeping on the worn benches or on sheets on the floor. They tried to help me, but didn't know of a Rajendra Karmacharya. Already his form was slipping away...
Over in the wards in the main building, even the guards were asleep. I found one nurse moving and she directed me to anothe floor of surgical rooms. I wandered around, not finding the room she'd said, nor Suraj's family. Then, at the end of another vacant hallway, I heard voices and walked down to a small crowd sleeping, lying, resting on the floor at the hallway's cul-de-sac. Before I recognized them, they recognized me and woke Chandni, Suraj's sister who'd come back two weeks before from her third year at BCU in Vancouver. She smiled, tired, but happy to see me and said, "I'll get Suraj. He's sleeping upstairs."
Suraj had found a bench on the third floor to get some rest. We hugged briefly, then the three of us leaned against the hallway walls and chatted while his mother and her close relatives lay nearby.
Although Death had come so recently, both Suraj and Chandni seemed in good states of mind. They'd had months to accept and digest the reality of their Dad's fatal cancer. Even beyond the hopes, they had begun to realize the depth of the disease and the remoreseless of its movement. When Chandni was called back to Nepal, just before her junior year exams, they understood that the message was the messenger and time was limited.
About 5 am, people began to stir. The LS bus had come in right before me an hour before. There were phone calls to Panauti to relatives there and arrangements for the ambulance that would take Rajendra's body out to his ancestral home while the family travelled in the LS bus, generously offered by Allan as a sign of respect for the many years of service that Rajendra had given the school managing these same vehicles that would now take his body back to his natal town, just over the horizon, close enough to find work in Kathmandu, but never so far that he would ever forget his origins or his deep and lasting Newari family roots.
Death may be quick, but life takes time About 5:45 am the stretcher camefor Rajendra's body. Immediately, the Nepali keening began again in earnest as the women of his life filled the room one last time before the men moved Rajendra's remains out to the hallway, a sheet over his body and the women holding each other tight, close and protective.
This sound, Nepali women wailing, crying, like waves of sorrow across our souls, mourning their loss and life's inevitable end, never escapes me at such times. It is a sound, like the sweet fragrance of the night queen in the spring, that I will always associate with Nepal. I've heard it from Shakun's relatives when her uncles and father died; I've heard it up the ridges of the Budhi Gandaki river in northern Gorkha late at night in the solitude of a lonely Himalayan village and now, once again, among the Newari women of Kathmandu in the hallways of a modern hospital as the ritual of death occurs, again and again, and again...
Just before 6 am, the LS bus, the ambulance and me along in our aging Suzuki took to the roads, out of the Om driveway, up the hill to Chahabil and then around the airport heading out on the new highway they are slowly constructing past Bhaktapur to the lone road that connects the Kathmandu Valley with the ancient Newari settlements to the east en route to the only trading route with Tibet. I followed the small, van-like ambulance that carried Rajendra, Suraj and a few men of his family. Along the way, we stopped to pick up more relatives who were coming to support the family and mourn, one last time, at the cremation site in Panauti.
About 7:15 am, we drove down the narrow road that filters through the lovely, lush Panauti valley, mud houses on the hillsides and brick homes in the old marketplace. It'd been two decades since I'd been there. One of my early excursions when I'd come to Kathmandu in the mid-80s to see the famous, beautiful temple along a river. Since then, the modernization that has overwhelmed and mutilated so much of the traditional charm of these thousand year old Newari settlements, had engulfed Panauti, as well.
There, we drove through the bazaar festooned with flags and crepe for some celebration that had just passed or was continuing with the immortality that almost describes the profound Newari attachment to their traditions, festivals, jatra and life.
As I parked, the ambulance circled round down a dirt path to the temple by the river where people had already begun to congregate, family, neighbors and friends from his birth, youth and young life. As the nearest relatives came from the LS bus, Rajendra's body was placed on the cold stone surrounding the temple, the sheet no longer covering his face, his eyes barely open, silent, still, staring to the empryean beyond.
As we stood silently to honor and observe, individual women came up to touch his body, bless his life, leave some small rupee notes on his chest and pour some sacred water on his lips and forehead. A piece of what looked like gold was place in his mouth. The living with tears in their eyes or vacant looks, stood nearby, a circular mandala of life, surrounding, protecting one of our own, asleep forever at our feet.
Memories, no doubt, poured into others' minds as they did for me. The Rajendra of life, the living, on the phone, calling to say where the boys may be, what bus they were on, what time they would be coming home. For years, a decade plus, Rajendra was always there on the other end of the phone to reassure us that the kids weren't lost, that the busses had started late or that there was another 'jaloose' (demonstration) going on in the city, so they were delayed and still en route home. Rajendra's disembodied voice was always there to reassure, guide and protect our children through those Lincoln School years.
Now, we stood, unable to protect Rajendra from the vicissitudes and reality of this earthly world. We had offered him our affection and, oaccasionally, our support during his illness. He knew our affection for Suraj, in particular, and his close brotherly bonds with Josh and Ezra. The year Suraj spent at NMH last year brought our families closer together than we ever would have been in the segregated worlds of Kathmandu and Nepal. Suraj, through his gentle intelligence and thoughtfulness, had slipped into our family's karma and American identity.
Fortuitously, through some twist of fate, Suraj had decided to come home to Kathmandu and Lincoln for his senior year, rather than stay at NMH. In retrospect, how wise, karmic and necessary that decision had been.
Yet, Death is finally the Master of us all. I looked around at the scores of milling neighbors, family and friends of Rajendra's. The Newari women, including Chandni in her t-shirt and blue jeans, bent in sorrow among the older women in their red saris and tradtional ornaments, were still wailing. The men more stoic, resigned, emptied of emotion in small groups around the temple periphery. I looked and thought that this, too, will pass for each of us. One day, unlike today, we won't be here to observe, caught in our own thoughts, and feel ths sorrow, the necessity of Death.
One day, we, too, would lie quietly, peacefully, alone at the feet of others who may come to mourn our passing and honor our lives.
One day, we, too, would bid adieu to this curious, sacred and painful world of mist, sunlight and shadows.
One day, we, too, would have to face our own departure, and wish those we leave behind the love we could never fully express in life.
Om Shanti. Om Shalom.
Such is our destiny on this Earth.
I hope I haven't said too much.
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