In Exile

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My first week in Nepal, I couldn’t wait to get out and get back to my beloved India. I was so caught up in planning my prodigal return that I had unwittingly closed myself off to all Nepal had to offer. I saw its natural beauty and its people’s heartfelt smiles, but my overall impression of the country was negative – it was full of cheats and pushers. My departure date seemed like it would never arrive. Yet, as it inevitably drew closer, I felt it approaching too fast. I realized that I wasn’t ready to leave Nepal.

The feeling had started the previous night – and grew with every step towards the bus station. When Mira was sad to say goodbye, I felt like comforting her that I wasn’t going anywhere. When my alarm went off at four in the morning, something told me that I might as well go back to sleep. When I packed the clothes that were still wet from the previous day’s washing, I sensed that they’d have the opportunity to dry soon. And when I saw the mountains spread out before me under a blue, cloudless sky, brilliant in the morning light, I heard their silent plea to stay longer. As it turned out, Nepal wasn’t ready for me to leave either. The Maoist government had gone on strike and all public bus services had been suspended for an unknown amount of time.

Ordinarily, grounded buses would hardly slow me down; I’d be out on the highway with my thumb up. But practically no one in Nepal owns a private car and I’d seen too many transporters on their sides and in the ditches of the windy mountain roads to make me comfortable traveling that way. Suddenly, I felt very irritated. The strike hadn’t been explained and I thought that the bus wasn’t leaving because there were only four passengers. I abandoned my normally accepting attitude and demanded answers. I went so far as to call the manager of the bus line and threaten a public denouncement of his company. Then, I took a deep breath and a step back and saw how silly my reaction was. And I saw how the events of the previous week had all led perfectly to that moment. Everything was exactly how it was meant to be. I couldn’t leave Nepal without first opening myself up to it. So, I did just that.

Immediately I started experiencing a country that I had overlooked until then. And I began talking to people who I otherwise would have disregarded. First, there was the Chinese couple in a hurry to leave. They wasted no time in buying new tickets on a tourist bus to Kathmandu that wasn’t affected by the government strike. With hardly more than a few words between us, they handed me the tickets they wouldn’t be able to use, which were redeemable for the exact amount I’d need to pay for the extra nights in Pokhara. Then, there was Cody.

An American by birth, and a Rock-n-Roll refugee by choice, Cody roams the world with a loping gait and a detached forbearance. He, too, was meant to be on the bus to the border. Had we got on the bus that morning, we would have passed the entire trip without speaking. Of that, I’m sure. The situation that presented itself, however, gave us three days to talk about everything from our favorite animals to the infinitesimal possibilities of the cosmos. Our views of the world lay at polar opposites – where he saw dark, I saw light – but we were on the exact same train of thought. It was through his eyes that I was able to expand my vision of the universe to include parasites as beneficial beings and heavy metal as an uplifting form of art. I was incredibly grateful for the new point of view. The only downside about talking to Cody was that it made me miss my brother, horribly.

That first evening, I went in search of a secluded place to watch the sunset. On the far northern shore of the lake, I passed a sadhu who invited me over. By this point, I was sure that I was meant to meet everyone who extended themselves to me, so I joined him. An empty liter bottle of Tuborg sat abandoned on the table in front of him, while its successor was being strangled by the neck and rapidly drained. I caught a whiff of the unknown number of soldiers that had fallen before these two emanating from his pores. A dark gray racerback tank, worn backwards, revealed sinewy muscles and spidery veins straining against sun-browned skin. His saffron robe was stained black in parts by sweat and dust and partially concealed a necklace of chicken vertebrae that hung loosely from his neck. Long, wiry whiskers showed the first signs of advancing age and the stains of previous henna treatments; he tugged them with a frequency that bordered on compulsive.

Initially, we sat in a comfortable silence and looked out onto the lake. Eventually, the inevitable question came, “What is it you do?” Typically, my response to this inquiry – teacher, diver, dancer, waitress, writer – depends on which stereotype I think the person asking the question wants me to fulfill. But I had a feeing that this guy understood better than that. I gently pursed my lips and shook my head. “Nothing,” I confessed, “I just move around.” His eyes lit up with an instant recognition. “YES!” he shouted, “My sister!” He grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes, “You understand how it is!” I smiled, on the inside and out, as if the endorsement of a drunken sadhu was what I had been looking for my whole life.

He asked where I was moving to next. I answered, “India.” His face screwed up and he spat out the word like a bitter taste, “India!?!” He opened his arms out as if to embrace the lake and all the mountains behind them and exclaimed, “Nepal! I love Nepal!” You know what, Baba? I think I love Nepal too. I love that restaurants serve buff(alo) instead of beef. I love that the heaviest piece of machinery is a wheelbarrow with an open engine attached. I even love that the power goes out every night; that children’s laughter can be heard echoing in the candlelight. And, yes, I will come visit you tomorrow.

On my second bonus day in Pokhara, the man who normally brought me my morning tea invited me to go for a 20-kilometer bike ride to a river up in the mountains. I couldn’t think of a more perfect way to spend the day. We rode out into the noon heat, tires jumping over loose rocks, getting stuck in thick mud, and sending arcs of glittering water fanning out behind them. Old gears that grinded but didn’t change fatigued muscles. No suspension bruised palms. My throat scratchy from dust, the thin air hard to breath, and the sun burning white red. Blisters formed liquid under irritated skin.

Through various villages and over several bridges, we reached the river and leapt from a tall rock into cold, deep water cascading down from the mountaintop. A powerful eddy caught my shoes, pulled me down and against slimy rocks. Don’t fight, just go. The current carried me into a dark cave full of creatures – spiders, leeches, who knows what else. I crawled through a small crevice towards the light, safe and with a secret hope that the strike would continue for a few more days.

The buses started running again the next day. My last day in Pokhara. It was hot. Too hot to do much but sit in the shade by the lake, which I did with a great gusto, mentally preparing for the next day’s journey.



The nine-hour bus ride to the border went by in the blink of an eye. The only interesting thing about entire voyage was that they wouldn’t let me back into India. I had gone on the advice of good friends that I’d have no trouble crossing without a visa. But a new official had just arrived at the outpost who was dedicated to cleaning things up. And no amount of money could change his mind – or at least not the measly amount I was offering. I had no choice but to turn right back around and get on another nine-hour bus to Kathmandu.

I went into a restaurant to have a tea before the bus left. A flat-screen TV hanging on a far wall blasted Bollywood music videos. It was a certain form of torture to watch them and think that dancing was what I was meant to be doing at that moment, not going back to Nepal – or was it?

When my initial disappointment dissipated it was replaced by myriad emotions that made me question what it is that I’m really supposed to be doing. I felt a strong sense of shame, like I’d been strutting around, showing off my dazzling tail feathers when a glimpse in the mirror revealed that I was really a house sparrow. Just a common house sparrow, with pipe cleaners awkwardly taped to my rump at haphazard angles. How absurd I looked! Worse, by pretending to be something that I wasn’t, I hadn’t been living up to my full, true potential. I was ashamed that I was letting everyone down, myself included.

More than shame, however, I felt fear. It wasn’t fear of the unknown – I knew exactly what I had to face, I just didn’t know if I was ready to face it. I was standing at a crossroads and I felt that following the path towards light would mean losing everything I’d ever known. I could already feel it all slipping through my fingers and the harder I tried to close my fist around it, the faster it slipped through the cracks. I saw no other course of action but to trust my internal compass to show me the way.



I arrived in Kathmandu at 4:30 in the morning. I’d been on a cramped bus for 18 of the previous 24 sleepless hours. Instead of finding a place to rest my head, I decided to walk through the dark, narrow and winding city streets. Within a few hours they transformed into hot, dusty and crowded streets, but I kept walking. Before the day was over, I had learned my fate. I was in exile from India, forced to remain outside of the country for two months before re-entering. So that’s that.

I have no idea what awaits me at the end of September. I don’t know if the dancing job will still be available. I don’t know if I’ll have found something else. But I’m not worried. It’s all a part of the plan that isn’t a plan. I’ll spend most of the next six weeks meditating, so if you don’t hear from me, don’t worry. I’m well.

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Photos

Cody
Photo taken by Shima

Baba
Photo taken by Shima

Chef's Belly
Photo taken by Shima

Comments

[anonymous]

Nepal
A delightful glimpse inside the soul. Beautifully written. May good fortune follow adversity. David The rear end of the grey haired nomads

[katie]

more! more! :)