Our far-flung correspondents
Posted on February 22nd, 2010, by admin in UncategorizedMarc Rudnick and Sally Wetzler are members of the Community Builders Cooperative who have built Toscanini's and rebuilt the homes of many Cambridge residents.
They sent us this report. Shiva Paatri is a grand Hindu festival observed on February's full
moon; Losar, the Tibetan Buddhist new year, falls on February's new
moon, but since the Hindus take about two weeks to celebrate anything,
we were able to enjoy both on the same crazy weekend. Bodnath is the Tibetan Buddhist capital of Nepal, much like Dharamsala
in India, an oasis for exiled Tibetans and a magnet for western
Buddhist acolytes. Losar brings out thousands of each, and a
sprinkling of non-believers like us join them as they shuffle their
way around the magnificent stupa, spinning creaky prayer wheels,
fingering meditation beads, chanting oms and generally worshiping the
enlightened one (who, of course, cautioned against worship to no
avail). The stupa itself is one of the classic images of Nepal, a
mammoth overturned rice bowl capped by a cubic block of gold, buddha's
serene eyes adorning each facet, and the thirteen gold tiers reaching
to nirvana above. All day, whitewash is poured over the yellowing
bowl, creating a giant lotus pattern which will fade to yellow again
by next Losar. Worship here's a pretty serious affair, but nicely anarchic, with all
methods of devotion accepted, from prostrate squat-thrusts to icon
toe-touching to buying and inscribing prayer flags which are then
carried up to be strung from the golden spire atop buddha's crown.
The crowd is a candle-lit whorl of maroon, locked in a clockwise eddy,
endlessly drawing bodies from the narrow lanes feeding the square and
swaying to the drums, horns, bells, and vocal drone: om mani padme
hum, om mani padme hum, om mani padme hum. Hail to the jewel in the
lotus! There's a bit of new year's carousing and cavorting, but when
young monks parade the Dalai Lama's portrait around the square,
riot-geared police arrive to shuffle them away from the crowd, and
coldly capture their "Free Tibet" flag. Breaking free of this mesmerizing carousel, we walk a dusty mile or
two through alternating fields of trash, crops, and half-built homes
that define the suburbs of the valley's small cities to arrive at
sacred Pashupatinath. The park-like temple complex dribbles down a
steep hill trapped in a deep bend of the Bagmati River, into which all
must flow, not least the ashes of bodies being burned on the ghats
along its terraced banks. Shiva's sacred temple itself is off-limits
to non-Hindus, but we stand a head and half taller than the crowd at
the gate and so are rewarded with the ass end view of the ginormous
golden bull, Nandi – Shiva's mighty steed. Brass balls like boulders. Stone stairs and walkways twist among thousands of shrines, chaityas,
and holy whatnots, corraling the tens of thousands out to celebrate
Lord Shiva's awesomeness. This is friendly family affair, kids
underfoot, teens on parkbenches massaging their cellphones, gabbing
gaggles of saree-wrapped moms, dads snapping photos of rhesus
macaques, simian hoodlums grabbing at the kids' flowers and candies.
Colorful tents display every imaginable temple offering – garlands and
fruit plates, old coins and riceballs, baubles and bangles and beads.
Sadhus are everywhere posing – their painted foreheads alive with wavy
rainbows and greasy lightning, stark contrast to their scant ragwear
and grimy walking sticks. The holiest of them sit cross-legged among
the shrines, often bathed in ashes or mud, dreadlocked and turbaned,
smoking their chillums, munching grapes, and expounding on
lord-shiva-knows-what. Young men and old approach them with rupees
and cigarettes – the holy men carefully coax the tobacco out of their
wrappings, refill these with ganja or mixtures of tobacco and hashish,
and hand them back to the faithful. Everyone lights up, the chillums
are passed round, and the sharp, sweet scent mixes with the whiffs of,
dare I say it, barbeque, wafting up from the burning ghats.
Befriended by a red-eyed young Nepali man who'd clearly been smoking
for weeks, we are treated to a stoned rap worthy of those mighty gods,
Cheech & Chong. The scene is wild beyond belief, and is surely
blessed by Shiva, incarnated in the herds of gentle deer watching it
all from the surrounding parkland. Supercharged by all this spiritual energy, we accept the small bothers
with greater ease – the gritty air, chilly nights, hours without
power, bumpy roads, paper-thin mattresses, blaring horns, menacing
motorbikes, hour-long waits for mediocre meals: after all, the poor
Nepalis endure this and much more for the honor to sit for a spell
twixt Shiva and Buddha. Namaste, y'all. =marcnsally in Nepal
They sent us this report. Shiva Paatri is a grand Hindu festival observed on February's full
moon; Losar, the Tibetan Buddhist new year, falls on February's new
moon, but since the Hindus take about two weeks to celebrate anything,
we were able to enjoy both on the same crazy weekend. Bodnath is the Tibetan Buddhist capital of Nepal, much like Dharamsala
in India, an oasis for exiled Tibetans and a magnet for western
Buddhist acolytes. Losar brings out thousands of each, and a
sprinkling of non-believers like us join them as they shuffle their
way around the magnificent stupa, spinning creaky prayer wheels,
fingering meditation beads, chanting oms and generally worshiping the
enlightened one (who, of course, cautioned against worship to no
avail). The stupa itself is one of the classic images of Nepal, a
mammoth overturned rice bowl capped by a cubic block of gold, buddha's
serene eyes adorning each facet, and the thirteen gold tiers reaching
to nirvana above. All day, whitewash is poured over the yellowing
bowl, creating a giant lotus pattern which will fade to yellow again
by next Losar. Worship here's a pretty serious affair, but nicely anarchic, with all
methods of devotion accepted, from prostrate squat-thrusts to icon
toe-touching to buying and inscribing prayer flags which are then
carried up to be strung from the golden spire atop buddha's crown.
The crowd is a candle-lit whorl of maroon, locked in a clockwise eddy,
endlessly drawing bodies from the narrow lanes feeding the square and
swaying to the drums, horns, bells, and vocal drone: om mani padme
hum, om mani padme hum, om mani padme hum. Hail to the jewel in the
lotus! There's a bit of new year's carousing and cavorting, but when
young monks parade the Dalai Lama's portrait around the square,
riot-geared police arrive to shuffle them away from the crowd, and
coldly capture their "Free Tibet" flag. Breaking free of this mesmerizing carousel, we walk a dusty mile or
two through alternating fields of trash, crops, and half-built homes
that define the suburbs of the valley's small cities to arrive at
sacred Pashupatinath. The park-like temple complex dribbles down a
steep hill trapped in a deep bend of the Bagmati River, into which all
must flow, not least the ashes of bodies being burned on the ghats
along its terraced banks. Shiva's sacred temple itself is off-limits
to non-Hindus, but we stand a head and half taller than the crowd at
the gate and so are rewarded with the ass end view of the ginormous
golden bull, Nandi – Shiva's mighty steed. Brass balls like boulders. Stone stairs and walkways twist among thousands of shrines, chaityas,
and holy whatnots, corraling the tens of thousands out to celebrate
Lord Shiva's awesomeness. This is friendly family affair, kids
underfoot, teens on parkbenches massaging their cellphones, gabbing
gaggles of saree-wrapped moms, dads snapping photos of rhesus
macaques, simian hoodlums grabbing at the kids' flowers and candies.
Colorful tents display every imaginable temple offering – garlands and
fruit plates, old coins and riceballs, baubles and bangles and beads.
Sadhus are everywhere posing – their painted foreheads alive with wavy
rainbows and greasy lightning, stark contrast to their scant ragwear
and grimy walking sticks. The holiest of them sit cross-legged among
the shrines, often bathed in ashes or mud, dreadlocked and turbaned,
smoking their chillums, munching grapes, and expounding on
lord-shiva-knows-what. Young men and old approach them with rupees
and cigarettes – the holy men carefully coax the tobacco out of their
wrappings, refill these with ganja or mixtures of tobacco and hashish,
and hand them back to the faithful. Everyone lights up, the chillums
are passed round, and the sharp, sweet scent mixes with the whiffs of,
dare I say it, barbeque, wafting up from the burning ghats.
Befriended by a red-eyed young Nepali man who'd clearly been smoking
for weeks, we are treated to a stoned rap worthy of those mighty gods,
Cheech & Chong. The scene is wild beyond belief, and is surely
blessed by Shiva, incarnated in the herds of gentle deer watching it
all from the surrounding parkland. Supercharged by all this spiritual energy, we accept the small bothers
with greater ease – the gritty air, chilly nights, hours without
power, bumpy roads, paper-thin mattresses, blaring horns, menacing
motorbikes, hour-long waits for mediocre meals: after all, the poor
Nepalis endure this and much more for the honor to sit for a spell
twixt Shiva and Buddha. Namaste, y'all. =marcnsally in Nepal
