Kathmandu ‘73
(Chapter 5)
They sat on the ancient steps of the Maju Dega temple on Dhurbar square surveying the scene from the heights of the 60th step… “An auspicious number to land on” he remarked counting his steps breathlessly. This was the tallest temple among the maze of twenty or thirty temples pagodas and shrines that were in the square. It offered the best vantage point for watching the activity in the crowded square below, and was a gathering place for freaks who liked to stop there for a joint. They smiled looking up at the erotic carvings on the ancient wooden roof struts that supported the three tiers of its pagoda. “Hmmmm”smiled Pablo. We are going to like this place.
She pulled piece of Nepali charas and some papers out of a out little embroidered silk pouch, and began to put together a j as he regained his bearings. The thin mountain air of Kathmandu had him even lazier than usual.
She crumbled a pinch of sweet smelling pollen with the gold flake tobacco of local K2 Cigarette, spilling out the mixture on a tourist brochure spread out on her lap. It had crude fuzzy black and white photographs, a hand drawn map of Kathmandu’s Durbar Square, and was written in a cryptic barely decipherable broken English. She tore a corner off the thick paper to roll as a tip for the joint, and noticed a passage written about the very temple on which they sat.
“MMM” she hummed, “It’s is no accident that we should end up on this particular temple. If I can figure out this horrible English, it seems this Maju Dega temple was once a centre of Tantric Shivitaism.
The dilapidated three tiers of the temple roof hung at different angles and the carved spires that supported temple were of detailed dancing Dakinis and gods in Yogic sexual contortions that defied the limitations of human anatomy. It was built in 1693 and it looked every day of it. Pigeons in their multitudes flocked in the sunlight picking at moss grown in between the birdshit spattered cracked temple roof tiles.
It was built on a pedestal of nine giant steps each one a massive cracked and worn smooth solid granite block, each block another crooked stair leading up to the two locked doors held by ornate and rusty bronze chains and lock.
It was the tallest building around and dwarfed the surrounding other nine temples in the square.
‘Later we can bicycle over to Pashipatinath. Into the heart of it. More naked Sadhus than Baneras station we’ll see on Dewali.’
“You see, Gandhi thought that the human sexual libido is linked with the cosmic energy source, and “squandering” of sexual energy on normal sexual activity means spiritual loss to the persons, and a “cosmic waste!” It should be saved within the body rather than wasted in intercourse!”
“That’s me,” Pablo laughed lighting the joint, firing it up carefully so that it burned evenly all around, “A cosmic waste.” And let’s thank the Gods and Gandhi we never have “normal” sex anyway. “We should try that sometime!”
Ignoring his crude remarks, she read aloud further, “The Tantrics accept the assumption that sexual energy is identical with the creative energy source of the universe! However the conclusion that they draw from it is exactly the opposite. They believe that by arousing the libido, they mobilise other dormant energies, which they can use, through sexual acts, combined with ritual and yoga, to increase intuitive powers, and connecting with the deity immanent in their sexual partner!” So there is nothing unusual in seeing erotic images in places of worship. The tantric age became known the age of Abandonment!
Pablo exhaled deeply, “Oh yeah, Im gonna love this place”, he smiled.
She was wearing a white thinly woven collarless embroidered Indian shirt. The flimsy woven cotton was slightly transparent. It hugged her breast and outlined the hard little nipples he was so fond of fondling. A silk scarf hung loosely around her neck bearing the slight trace of patchouli oil, a departure from her usual Chanel. The autumn breeze blew right through the gauzy material and Pablo caught a whiff. “ he inhaled deeply swallowing her fragrance, “You smell different today”, he noted. “Oh?, thought I might try something a little more site specific”, she smiled, “Well, lets find a book on Tantra!” he joked lecherously, “You know, when in Rome….” they laughed.
From their perch above they could witness the buzz of activity in the crowded square. Cowshit caked rickshaw wheels skidded down wet cobblestone streets. In a sunny corner of the square between one of the temples and a mammoth brass bell, peasant farmers laid out fruits and vegetables. A group of Sadhus mutely waded thru piles of barley drying out on oilcloth tarps in the sun. Naked but for loincloths, some were carrying 2 meter tarnished brass tridents, one had a live cobra wrapped around his neck like a scarf. Beggars stood blocking the path displaying limbless stumps or blind children with swollen bellies to gain sympathy. Flies buzzed around covering anything editable. A butcher’s stall displayed fly covered fluorescent orange painted chickens, goat’s heads and hooves. A mendicant splashed a small stele of Shiva with animal blood and flower petals fanning a thin wisp of incense smoke towards it. A shopkeeper filled a beggar’s bowl with rice and lentils from a burnt wooden ladle; the beggar mindful of his karma, quickly turned and shared it with another beggar. A legless cripple slid by on a skateboard; on his hands a pair of shoes had been fashioned out of leather so he could propel himself through the crowd easier. A midget rode on the shoulders of a lame old man with a forked wooden crutch. His shoes were tied on to his callused stump with a crudely woven twine. Donkey carts with medieval looking spokeless wooden wheels creaked under the overload of the burden they carried. Cows ambled aimlessly, taking advantage of the right of way their sacred status granted them.
Under a statue of the god Vishnu, a Tibetan trader sold amulets and magical potions to a desperate looking woman holding a sick looking baby; they had been arguing for hours over a 50 paisa difference.
Temple bells, cowbells and bicycle bells echoed off wet walls and crumbling wine colored brick. Torn Hindi film posters and washed out proclamations were layered on walls with fading graffiti and political slogans in indecipherable glyphs and symbols, their drips, splashes and careless Pollak-like brushwork testifying to the speed of the painter’s frantic trajectory.
Beneath a scratchy smoke stained blanket a naked baby cried and clung to a flea bitten kitten for warmth, flies buzzed around his snot caked nostrils.
In the shadows, of pagoda shaped silhouettes, thick globs of dough sizzled in vats of rank, sour boiling fat from a street vendor’s stall. A thousand pigeon wings whipped the greasy clouds blending the stench with the sickening sweet fragrance of patchouli and incense, into swirling aromatic mini cyclones of the rancid and the fragrant. The smell of urine and animal shit permeated everything, the smell of humanity, stinking and rotting, being born and dying, the beautiful and the repulsive, saints Sadhus, sinners and thieves all flowed together in a harmony of abandonment, accepting their Karma and hoping for a better incarnation next time around.
Among the crush, they could see a German couple they recognised from the Pudding Shop back in Istanbul. It was apparent that the overland trip had taken its toll on them. Swept along aimlessly by the current of the swarming herd, they glided along unblinking, stoned, speechless and catatonic. They had both lost a lot of weight. They were dressed in identical in faded Rinpoche Red drawstring pajama pants, soiled and stained, she wore a long tailed once white Kandahar shirt; the embroidery now frayed and untangling, and the cheapest flip flops; the Chinese ones that sold for 50cents a pair in the market place, with half inch thick rubber soles.
His shoulder length hennaed hair was now a sort of mustard color sienna/ochre, the color of puke. He wore a Chitral hat, around his neck a faded yellow Benares longhi with red mantras block printed in Sanskrit, it too was frayed and stained . He was shirtless his undernourished torso barely covered by an embroidered waist coat. His skinny ankles bore silver bracelets that clanked when he walked. His pale flesh and tall stature gave him the appearance of a wheat straw stuffed scarecrow. She had braided dreads with feathers, bits of colored paper, tin foil, and rags woven through, giving her the appearance of a withered Christmas tree in March; once lustrous, but now dried out and forlorn.
Pablo waved to get their attention, and Anna slapped his hand down, begging, “ Oh, Please!” Shit, what happened to them? They were so rosy cheeked and fresh faced in Istanbul, they look like they could use they can use some help.” ”Man,” Anna said reproachfully, “When are you gonna stop trying to catch every falling knife? You are the one who always end up bloody.”
His eyes fell on a picture in the tourist guide. It was a smiling Buddha looking saint, he read the caption beneath it to Anna out loud: “Mañjuśrī is depicted as a male bodhisattva wielding a flaming sword in his right hand, representing the realisation of transcendent wisdom which cuts down ignorance and duality. The scripture supported by the Padma (lotus) held in his left hand is a Prajñāpāramitā sūtra, representing his attainment of ultimate realisation from the blossoming of wisdom. Mañjuśrī is often depicted as riding on a blue lion, or sitting on the skin of a lion. This represents the use of wisdom to tame the mind, which is compared to riding or subduing a ferocious lion”
“Jesus ! he remarked, if this guy’s sword cuts through, ignorance and duality, I’d need a fucking chainsaw to cut through all the bullshit!” He pondered that for a second, “The Chainsaw Buddha !” Ha!
The irony was not lost on Anna who started to giggle. The hash was starting to kick in…, They finished the spliff and started to slowly make their way down. The cracked and lopsided granite blocks that were the steps were obviously made for someone with small feet. They picked their way through some of the other freaks who stopped by to smoke a joint or a chillum, and soak up scene in the square below.
Anna held his arm while Pablo wormed his way through the crowd. He turned his eyes down in an attempt to not stare at people’s faces, The faces, some shrouded, some wizened, kids old before their time, smiling beggars, desperate looking mothers brandishing infants, A bicycle rickshaw inched his way through the crowd, a cowcoolie led a baby elephant packed with cargo thru the crowd, the stream parted as a group of barefoot coolies each carrying enormous cloth bound boxes, filed through, stepping lively. A beggar’s hand; skinny and shakey jutted out in his chest, without looking up Pablo reached into his pocket and handed him whatever coins he had .
She motioned towards a scene in a courtyard. A small crowd had gathered under the fresco of Kala Bairav. This grotesque manifestation of the Lord Shiva, Bairab or Mahakala the wrathful aspect of Shiva; depicted there as a many headed and many armed, naked with rolling eyes, bristling hair, snakes and flames surrounding him.
The 4-meter stone plaque sculpted in high relief stood with a chaplet of skulls around his head, and a garland of human heads around his neck, under an ample belly he wore an apron of more human skulls. In three of his six hands he was holding a sword, a cluster of three severed heads, and the trident of Shiva, the destroyer, whose manifestation he is.
A crowd was gathering and the travellers wondered what everyone was looking at. Pablo and Anna and climbed up the little Shivite stupa adjacent to it. From there they could see the centre of all the activity.
In the little patio beneath the 4-meter demon, a pale skinned westerner squatted on his heels at the statue’s feet, deftly wielding a paintbrush to the wonder of the onlookers that surrounded him. At the foot of the fresco balanced on the second of 3 steps, he squatted barefoot. Before him were an array of small paint stained terracotta yoghurt pots, each no larger than a teacup, and a larger flat bowl of murky looking water. Each luminous paint splashed vessel had a Chinese bamboo brush plopped into it. A thick sheaf of rolled Nepali rice paper no more than 40 centimeters wide and 1.5 meters long with bamboo tubes affixed to the ends like a medieval scroll was laid out before him.
It seemed appropriate that the artist chose this very spot to manifest his visions. One of this deity’s functions is to preside over oath taking, the belief being that who tells a lie in front of him shall die of blood vomiting. It is common practice that when trying to extract the truth from someone to bring them there. No one would dare to tell a lie in front of this deity. All that transpired before this fresco was undoubtedly Truth !
The artist, in his own truth painted frantically. A look at the work and it became apparent he had devoured, indeed, engorged himself on everything Picasso had ever cooked up, digested, changed the recipe and regurgitated. Where Picasso had feasted on a tribal African abstraction of parochial Greco-Roman Judeo -Christian mythology, this artist had spiced up his visions with the curries and vindaloos of Gupta, Kamasan, Pala, the Maithila, Tantra and the Vedic.
His hands glided as if guided by some spirit conjured up out of a Shivite hash trance. His glazed eyes seemed unfocused resting in some netherworld existing between the artist and the image emerging on the scroll. From the tips of the muddy brushes, sprang an orgy of Gandavan Buddhas, naughty dancing alluring Dakinis, in a Gupta, Gandaran morph of Tibetan/Hindu/Buddhist iconography.
Voluptuous mythological goddesses, performing sacred and profane Tantric acrobatics, aided by their handmaidens and squires, danced across the paper. The Yogic, sexual contortions and acrobatics drew hoots of approval from the Nepali onlookers gathered around him.
Frenzied, with his left hand he grabbed one brush dipping in a pot it charging it with a screaming chrome yellow hue, simultaneously dappling fluorescent ultramarine drips from another brush in his right hand. The colours mixed spontaneously on the surface of the thick roll of paper; the paint flowing into the leathery cracks of its course surface. He inhaled deeply and plopped one of the brushes into its ultramarine coloured pot, freeing a hand to withdraw the steamy bidi he held between his teas stained teeth, the fallen ash mixed into his pallet adding an improvised texture.
He suddenly looked up perplexed, as if noticing the crowd for the first time, and shouted, “Jaowww” in Hindi, “Allay !” Flapping his hands thru the air, shooing away the ones that had ventured too close. The spell momentarily broken, he accidentally dipped the smouldering stogie into the paint extinguishing it in a blood red bath with a soft hiss. Then he ironically twisted his lips as if mocking his own stupidity, and proceeded to paint with the soggy end of the cigarette butt as if it were another brush, with another texture and another possibility. He outlined two erect nipples on a plump, winged Aspara in a rosy pink, allowing the ash from his smoke to flow into the mix; adding an unexpected tactile dimension. The crowd went silent in awe. Calligraphic strokes whispered enigmatic messages to the viewers, obscured as they were by the subterfuge of layers of possibilities and meanings.
He stopped for a moment to survey his work, and grabbed a pinch of a flakey mixture from a small smooth concave sliver of a coconut shell at his feet. He unwrapped a tiny clay chillum from a rag lying on the ground next to it. It wasn’t more than 3 or 4 inches long and shined with an amber patina. He stuffed the mixture into the bowl. He looked up again and noticed Pablo and Anna watching from the stairs above and with a leprechaun’s devilish grin and raised eyebrows, pointed the blunt end of the chillum wrapped in a shred of a clean loungi, towards them. It was that universal gesture of offering a smoke.
They slowly made their way back down the massive granite steps, giving the Artist ample time to prepare his mixture and fire up the first toke of the chillum. They made their way through the crowd until they could get a closer look at this freak and his painting.
Anna refused to even touch the chillum the painter offered in disgust; his unwashed fingers were tobacco stained and splattered with a few days buildup of paint. His fingertips were edged in a black line of residue; the result of crumbling the soft Himalayan hash. His face was a spattering of red freckles, pimples and splashes of paint. Beneath the grime, sprouted a thin red growth; the promise of a beard.
He stood up and stretched, eyeing Anna and Pablo, thinking he knew a sale when he could see it. His tattered Nepali red velvet jacket opened revealing a paunch pink belly. Reflected with his red tinted paint splattered arms and feet he somewhat resembled a spotted decedent smiling bacchanal stoned and glowing, pink Buddha.
“A character right out of one of his own creations.” whispered Anna. Pablo accepted the chillum. It was laced with potent Nepali temple balls, probably from the Annapurna region, but cut with the crude unmistakable toasted flavor of an Indian Bidi and the cheapest rough black tobacco leaves that could be purchased in the market place.
He coughed from the bottom of his exploding lungs. He felt his eyeballs were going to pop out as he struggled to contain the smoke in his collapsing chest. A slow rush of blood was streaming into his head…” My God” he smiled, “this is what you usually smoke?” referring to the harshness of the course mixture. “Yeah man all the time” he answered quickly in a sharp Australian accent, “I’m not sure my central nervous system could cope with the overload of all of this divine beauty, without it.” he answered smiling.
There was a moment’s silence, “Uh, Nice work.” Pablo said quietly. Without a moment’s hesitation The Australian Sadhu shot back, “Well man, you could own it” trying to cook up a sale…. They chuckled, “Do I look like I have a wall to hang it on?” Pablo joked passing the chillum back they all started to laugh.
At just that moment a camera-toting American tourist stepped out of the crowd waving a stack of rupee notes. “Look” he said, “I’ll give you 200 rupees for that” the tourist pleaded. “Why that’s only about 10 bucks where you come from” The artist replied. The American haggled “Yeah but for an hours work? And you know it’s enough to live for 5 days around here, and that’s living large.”
After a few minutes of haggling a deal was struck and the Australian deftly folded up a stack of Nepali rupees worth about 20 dollars. But before rolling up the scrolls the tourist insisted on getting the artist’s signature. The Australian dipped a final brush in the bright chrome yellow, and signed the words, “Good, Luck- Stain O’Sheeny”
. He smiled over at Pablo and Anna, stuffing the money into a small-embroidered Rajasthani purse he asked, “Would you care to join me for breakfast?”
Kathmandu ll
The fire was dying down Ringmo got up and stoked it, there was a chill in the air; another bottle of Johnny Walker was unleashed. This should get things rolling” O’Sheeney said, cracking the cap. “.”My friend, its only ten o’clock that’s the third bottle, and I’d say the ball was already seriously rolling” Pablo observed
The redbrick and wood interior was no match for the drafts that snuck through every cranny and crevice. Pots of hot tea laced with scotch and a little ginger and honey were filled at the table from a cast iron kettle that sat bubbling over the fire.
Stain put together a joint of fresh temple ball, made in his famous recipe: A pinch of the roughest black tobacco, an Indonesian clove kretek if available, if not, a bidi would have to do. In order for it to burn better, the mix was dried out and heated over a piece of aluminium foil held momentarily over a candle, chopped up, shredded and mixed together. From the tip of a Swiss Army knife, a chunk of hash the size of a ping-pong ball was heated over the candle. Once warm and dryer about a quarter of it was crumbled into a powder, added to the blend, and heated again, then the whole mixture kneaded between his right thumb and palm of his left hand.
The pungent blend was blackish, like the color of black coffee, it was course and burnt you lungs and made you cough; the tobacco and sweet tasting kretek added another dimension to the buzz.
He held up his hands, nails blackened from crumbling the hash, right thumb ink black as if he had just given his thumbprint, and a black stain in the palm of his left hand like a blessed stigmata!
“Dear Mom, finally got this company into the black.” he goofed.
Six Rizla rolling papers were stuck together and arranged in a wedge shape, the mixture was spread evenly following the shape of the papers. At the narrow end, a small piece of cardboard scavenged from a cigarette box was rolled into a tiny cone. Inserted in the mix it served as a cigarette holder, filtered and cooled the smoke as it passed through, and as a roach holder allowed the smoker to finish it to the very last ember. The entire thing was expertly rolled into a 15 cm cone. The top papers twisted to avoid spilling any of the mixture and the empty conical cardboard tip wrapped neatly inside the papers. “Tonight we were lucky he explained,” a few friends had just come to town from Bali and remembered his request for a carton of Gudang Garams; the rough clove laced cigarettes native of Indonesia.
Seated by the fireplace at a large round wooden table, was O’Sheeney, the mixture, paper, chillum, candle and matches all sat on top of an unfolded tourist map of Kathmandu spread out before him. A few corners had been torn off the map, scavenged for roaches, an empty tea cup, an empty bottle of Scotch and a glass with an inch of scotch still in it, a sketchbook and Chinese bamboo brush sitting in a small terracotta yoghurt pot. To his right a German journalist scribbled notes in a small notebook, by candlelight. A bookish woman in her 60’s grey hair long and tied straight back. Wise and smiling eyes beamed from behind steel rimmed reading bifocals. She turned another page loudly.
“So let me get dat straight “she asserted, “you mean zat za monk had spontaneously reincarnated 90 miles away, and he was still alive, not even yet dead?!” “Yeah” Stain answered nonchalantly, ‘it happens all the time”, he smiled trying to sound blasé’ about it.” He turned to the table and poured another drink from the new bottle, “ Don’t ya’ just love it when they take notes?” he remarked to no one in particular. Schizer! she grunted,’ But what would happen if they should meet each other, both the same person?” she snapped. “Oh nothing, they would be just like strangers, each on their own personal stage of development”, he shot back rite off the top of his head. Winging it, he repeated, “It is said to happen all the time” She lowered her glasses and leaned in a bit closer “Oh ya?, It is said…..? Und by whom? and this is irrrrefutable?” She pushed, rolling the r’s. She was not entirely convinced but couldn’t resist the chance of getting a good story. He answered her with a wounded expression, as if his unquestioned authority in these matters should have been enough. She continued scribbling and noisily turned another page. “Und so, can I quote you? Stain couldn’t conceal the broad smile that spread across his Liquor flushed face. Schizer! She said again, “Und how can you know zuch things?? The others at the table laughed.
To her right a German man sat there drinking and laughing. His young Mongolian wife proposed a drinking game. Clockwise around the table sat the journalist; a middle aged German woman, Stain with his sketch pad and ashtray, brush and inkpot, a few bottles around him, he now struggled to set a candle into the empty Johnny Walker bottle.
There was Ringmo, the Tibetan Champa rebel, taking refuge at the hotel. He had recently returned from the Tibetan border where they dynamited a Chinese outpost and he was hiding out at the hotel.
Anna was involved in a conversation in German with an old woman that someone said was a reader. They examined the remaining tea leaves in the bottom of her cup. The teapot was heavily laced with Johnny Walker Red, but the magic still seemed to work. Pablo took his seat to their right, Billy and Uta sank down into the chairs around the fireplace, silently staring at the fire .
The Mongolian woman tall and slender poured herself a double and knocked it back not waiting for the ice. She was living proof of the Mongolian’s legendary drinking skills.
With a Swiss army knife, Pablo stabbed at a block of ice in a ceramic bowl in the centre of the table; trying to cut glass sized pieces for the next round. Bits of shattered ice found their way over to Sheeny”s painting and the ink started to run. “No No No, keep it”, he protested as Pablo grabbed a tissue and tried to blot it, “ I like the way it flows, that thing was looking a little stiff anyway”.
“Lets all play a drinking game” she repeated “OK whats the game ?” somebody asked. “Rocks, scissors, paper and string”, she answered, “only there’s a Mongolian twist,” she said with a devilish smile. “The loser has to take a drink, and sing a song from his home country.”
The game began, and as the losers made the rounds the crowd was treated with Proud German marching and drinking songs, A soulful Mongolian anthem, Anna’s drunk and soulful rendition of the Doors “The End” which wasn’t from her homeland but was so moving nobody raised the issue. Pablo thought he got off easily since a few rounds past and he hadn’t lost, when his turn came up he asked for accompaniment as he softly whispered the words of Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side”, changed a little to, “and all the Mongolian girls say….,” at which point the girls all sang the chorus of “Do ta Do dooo”s “ The next round had O’Sheeney as the loser, he got up and lurched into an Irish folk song that no one understood a word of, accompanied by a drunken clumsy but delicate Irish jig! Exactly as one should dance an Irish jig, someone remarked.
The laughter echoed through the bricks and off the granite walls of the canyons and thru the frozen dark Himalayan valleys below.