Taro's Travels

Shakyamuni Buddha, he who was Prince Gautama, and Gyanendra Bir Bikram Shah Dev, current King of Nepal, have more in common than just royal blood and birth within Nepali borders: both are seen by Hindus as being incarnations of Vishnu. Avatar or not, however, Gyanendra may be the last king of Nepal. In recent months most of his powers have been removed, a delineation has been made between what is considered his private property and what is considered to belong to the nation, a government commission has found him responsible for the death of protesters, he no longer has immunity from prosecution, there's a fair chance he will be charged with something once the government works out how to do it legally, the Nepali Maoists (who were once elected to power) will soon take a sizeable chunk of legislative power again, and most of the non-Maoists aren't mad about the king either.

King Gyanendra came to the throne unexpectedly when his nephew allegedly killed a large number of family members including his brother Birendra, and then perhaps shot himself; conspiracy theories abound. Gyanendra managed to make himself really unpopular by suspending Parliament and returning Nepal to a state of absolute monarchy. Back in Aprilthere were strikes and protests, which forced him to reinstate Parliament and led to the current situation. As in Tibet, where photos of the tenth Panchen Lama are more common than those of the eleventh Panchen Lama, in Nepal it is Gyanendra's predecessor, King Birendra whose portrait is more often on display. In short, well may we say "God Save the Queen", but there's a fair chance that nothing will save the Kingdom.

In better times for royalty, the Kathmandu Valley had not one but three kingdoms, Kathmandu, Patan, and Bakhtipur, formed when a king split his kingdom among his three sons, though which of these were Vishnu's avatar I couldn't say. Being kings, each had a Durbar (palace) Square - Patan's is an hour's walk south of Kathmandu's in Lalitpur, part of greater Kathmandu, and Bhaktipur's is an hour's bus ride. "Square" is a poor translation, though, since none of them are: Kathmandu's, in particular, is more a ragged "C" shape running around the imposing white Hanuman Dhoka Durbar. On the periphery of that square opposite the southwestern corner of the palace lies another palace, that of the Kumari, the "Living Goddess", avatar of Teleju/Durga.

"Have you seen the Kumari?" asked a prospective guide, "It's a special festival today". That last bit, by the way, is toutspeak for "It happens everyday". "Later", I said, waving him off. He continued his pitching with "You need to have someone call her", which was probably true as I'd ducked in earlier and there wasn't a Kumari in sight. Later, I returned there, passing between the two painted lion statues, where an aged peddlar fans her stack of pictures, through the front door doorway, and into the low vestibule which opens onto the palace courtyard.

There were tourists-in-waiting when I arrived but their accompanying guide had no luck in summoning the Kumari and they soon departed. Muffled voices emanated from the top floor windows - they were open and screen-less. The roof beams in that top floor room were glossy, and from time to time, against the red glow of what I presumed to be a curtain, I could see the reflection of a dark shape moving. Perhaps the Kumari?

The Kumari is a limited incarnation: she's selected when young according to strict criteria, including favourable animal sacrifices, and is still young when her tenure finishes at puberty, the divinity passing to another girl.

"No entrance for foreigners", said a sign on the far wall. Yelling and clattering, a boy of about ten came running down unseen stairs, burst out the door next to the sign, raced across the sunken courtyard and continued out through to Durbar Square. A servant's child? A playmate? A brother? Several minutes later he retraced his route with similar haste and clamour. After a few minutes of relative quiet he ran down once more to the courtyard; one hand clutching an inflated ball, the other a hackysack. He kicked each around briefly before returning upstairs. Time passed.

The palace is a compact three storey building, with its footprint reduced by its public courtyard. It's brick, with stone carvings, carved wooden window lattices, and an excess of pigeons. The windows on the upper floor were without lattices. Much of the tiled courtyard is sunken, leaving a walkway around the edge. In that sunken area lie three structures surrounded by iron frames. The central shrine has a vine growing over its frame; the other two, asymmetrical in position, appear to be convex plates. All are plastered with tikka.

Tourists filtered in and out of the courtyard in dribs and drabs, gazing hopefully at the empty frames on the upper floor, before leaving disappointed. A trio of middle-aged Australians hung around for nearly ten minutes, with the bearded one, dissatisfied with merely watching and waiting, calling out for the Kumari to reveal herself. The windows remained empty, and they too left in search of more dependable attractions.

What may have been servants appeared from time to time: a mustachioed male in his mid-thirties clomping down the stairs and crossing to unlock and pass through a padlocked door; a younger male, pausing mid-sprint to acquire some tikka from one of the metal plates; a middle-aged woman shaking what looked like a yellow towel by the upper-left window.

The courtyard started to fill up again, and three of those arriving were Indians. One of them pulled a digital camera from his jacket pocket. Their guide warned that the courtyard could be photographed, but the Kumari shouldn't be. Another of the signs on the wall stated as much: "Taking photographs of Kumari strictly forbidden". A tourist entered the building, refusing the peddlar's entreaties to buy a snapshot of the Kumari in full regalia.

As we waited, I wondered if the guide would be successful, or if the Kumari would remain a fragmentary experience: a title, a location, voices, reflected traces, frozen images, servants, and the boy; defined more by absence and expectation.

The guide said he would see if he could negotiate for the Kumari to appear, and entered the building through the forbidden doorway. The boy appeared at an upper window, ball still in hand, and paused there staring at us. He was joined by a slightly older girl, bespectacled and all in black, who seated herself at the far right of the tableau. Perhaps it was she that was the dark shape whose reflection moved on the overhead beams.

A girl with heavily-kohled eyes and wearing a red dress and pillbox hat which reminded me of a stewardess's uniform of forty years past ran to the middle window and leaned out: at last, the Kumari! A glance down later, and she turned and ran out of sight. The Indians pushed some notes into the donation box. The tourists drained out. I put my notebook away and followed them. She'd appeared, but my experience was still fragmentary: A title, the location, voices, reflected traces, frozen images, servants, the running boy, the bespectacled girl, and a flicker of the Kumari.