Chapter Four

Leaving the hotel around nine, I took a taxi to the Handloom City of Nepal, as Patan is commonly called. The city is only five kilometers from Kathmandu, and is reached by crossing the Bagmati River. Despite its closeness to Kathmandu, the city still retains its old-world charm and traditional professions such as woodcarving and metal crafts. Patan is full of palaces, temples and monasteries that look almost similar in their pagoda style architecture and wood-carved windows.

I asked the driver to drop me at Durbar Square, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The square consists of the old royal palace and a multitude of artistically designed temples, with the beautiful Krishna temple, built entirely of stone being the main shrine.

I knew that her manor was somewhere behind the old royal palace.

Even though the surroundings had changed a lot with the addition of many new housing complexes and shopping malls, it wasn’t a big problem finding the mansion which I had visited a few times during my university days. I stood before the massive grey gate and looked around for a bell. Not finding one, I banged on the gate, and immediately a pair of eyes stared at me from behind the spy-hole.

“Colonel saab,” I said.

The eyes continued the stare.

“I am from India to meet colonel saab,” I raised the voice slightly.

The spy- hole closed; silence followed.

I stood there wondering what to do. Then, recalling a small cigarette stall further down the road, I decided to ask there. I hoped it would still be there.

As I took a step towards the shop, the gate opened slightly and a Gorkha, with a truncheon in the right hand appeared. He looked a frightful damnation to me: the man had, what I would call a criminal face: a very offensive looking middle aged toad!

“Who are you?” he asked in a grumpy voice. The lingo was a blend of Hindi and Nepali.

I replied in Hindi.  “My name is Alexei, a college mate of Nalini, colonel saab’s daughter,” I said slowly, looking at the baton in his hand.

“Memsaab has gone out,” the same crabby voice.

I was surprised, at the same time thrilled, “Nalini is here?” I asked excitedly.

Not appreciating my animation, the toad waved the truncheon at my face, the corpulent lips pressed together.

I decided to keep the formidable sentry relaxed and gentle, primarily for my well-being, “See, I have come all the way from India to meet memsaab. Can I wait here for her? ... Please.”

 This seemed to click as he beckoned me inside. Pointing to a nearby wooden stool, he closed the gate firmly before sitting in a solid looking chair, the baton meticulously positioned on the lap, for easy access.

My eyes took in the distantly familiar, imposing, two-storied, nineteenth century mansion and the beautiful garden in front of it. To the left of the garden was a fleet of cars, surrounded by three drudges with buckets and rags. I recognized a Range Rover, the Bentley and the Cadillac. The other two were of some unknown tribe.

“Where has she gone?” I asked.

He turned, and after a close scrutiny of me yapped, “Temple.”

“Pashupatinath Temple?”

He shook the head, “No, Nyatapola Temple, Bhaktapur.”

A smile rolled up on my lips as I recalled our first trip there.

That day, I think it was in September or October, she had signaled me out of the class.

“We are going to Bhaktapur, to the Nyatapola Temple,” she informed me.

 I looked at her blankly.

“Come, we’ll take the ten- thirty bus,” she hurried me.

“I have to be at home by four,” I tried to wriggle out of it.

“Don’t worry, we’ll return long before that; it’s only sixteen kilometers.”

I didn’t argue, for by then I had realized the pointlessness of arguing with her.

The trip to Bhaktapur took more than thirty minutes. It was a rickety bus and we were rocking from side to side. As the bus skulked along, she pointed out the diverse landmarks, recounting their history. I was as enthusiastic as a cat would be, when encouraged to take a cold shower in December. As the bus took a tedious turn, she swayed against me and I could feel the softness of her young breast on my left arm. This felt much more appealing than history and I moved closer, applying a slight reverse pressure. The hazel eyes darkened a bit before giving me an eloquent look.

Getting down at the bus-depot, we walked towards the temple which was at some distance away.

As we turned a mini corner, a ghastly sound escaped my throat and I stood still, almost dead with fright. The heart-beat stopped completely as terror sucked the very breath out of my lungs; only the eyes rolled. I wanted to run for safety, but my feet would not allow me to do so.

All around us were thousands, no, millions of monkeys, in all colours and sizes, speaking different languages and staring at us with enigmatic expressions on their blessed faces. They were everywhere- on the road, on tree tops, in front of us, behind us, beside us, just everywhere. It was the most fearsome sight I had ever seen and the most terrifying hullabaloo I had ever heard!

“Nalini, this is my last day on this planet; they are going to gobble me up,” my voice was quivering.

“No, they are not,” she said gravely, “On certain days, the temple feeds them with kheer; they are here for that; moreover monkeys don’t eat humans. Just ignore them.”

This was not true to her nature, but as it was not the occasion or the stage to stand and mull over the complexity of her nature, I pushed her to the front and tried to hide behind. Seeing more of my grandfathers there, I jumped back, only to retreat hastily.

“Alexei, people are watching; just relax, they don’t attack people,” she muttered, giving me a pinch.

 The sting settled my nerves a little.

Reaching the temple, she asked me to wait outside the main entrance, “I’ll have darshan and return. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes,” with that she went inside the pagoda type temple with the golden roof. I peeped through the gate. The Guruvayoor temple in Kerala came to my mind, but this was quite something.

The sign-board hanging outside the entrance gate was giving me nasty stares: ‘Non- Hindus are not allowed inside the temple premises.’ I gave the mental equivalent of a philosophic shrug, nodded my apologies to the timber before heading towards the nearest cigarette shop.

It was almost forty minutes and three cigarettes before she emerged through the main gate. I shouted and waved my location and she came towards me.

Seeing the cigarette in my hand, she gave me a shocked look. I twitched the lips.

“Throw it away,” she said sternly.

“Why should I?” the brief annoyance in my voice was intentional.

She looked wound up, “Please….,”

I flicked the butt into the nearby ditch.

Taking out some kind of a red paste from the left hand, she smeared it on my forehead.

“What is this?” I wanted to know.

Asking me to open the mouth, she put in a piece of sweet, “This is prasad,” she said.

“What’s prasad?” I asked.

“Prasad is…. it is a blessing from the Lord,” she replied.

I thought of my father and wondered how he would react if he came to know about this- an orthodox Christian accepting Hindu prasad, that too from a beautiful and charming Hindu girl! The possibilities were endless.

“Come, let’s have some bite,” she suggested.

 I swore to myself. I had precisely two rupees and thirty paise in the pocket. I was wondering how to manage the state of affairs, when I felt her hand on my left shoulder.

“Don’t worry about money,” she waved a wad of Nepalese currency at my face.

I drew myself to my full height, which in those days wasn’t anything to be proud of, and thundered, “You think I have no money to buy you a cup of tea or a plate of samosas?” For side effect I had the hands on the hip.

She laughed, “Good; better than Jeetendra, but you are too young for these kinds of        stage-shows.”

She thrust the notes into my hand.

I looked at the currency notes in my hand. King Birendra was staring at me through his spectacles, and His Majesty didn’t look pleased at all.

“And how old is Your Royal Highness?” I asked.

 “All of twenty,” she replied smugly.

“Which month?” I persisted.

 “June.”

“I was born in March so I am older,” I said defiantly.

“Okay my lord and master; now shall we have something to munch?”

With my dignity and self- esteem restored to some extent, I ushered her to a nearby restaurant. There were no monkeys inside, but the sight of thousands, no trillions of flies was equally horrifying. Just like the monkeys, they were everywhere—on top of sweets, on tea cups, glasses, on table tops… all over the place. I had never seen such fat and well-fed flies. ‘They must be from affluent families’, I thought.

“When do they feed the flies?” I asked.

She turned the nose up, almost vertically, “Very funny!”

Standing at the entrance, we looked around the café, and our eyes rested on the man sitting behind the cash counter. He had a bull like face and was on a raised chair. Two teams of flies were playing kabaddi on his fat nose. As we watched the game in rapt attention, his nostrils started flaring and for a startling second we thought that he was going to bellow and stop the game. We were wondering whether to go in or out, when the bull decided it for us by giving out a loud snort. We fled.