This morning at 3 am I was startled and woken up by loud sounds of honking horns – an incessant string of sharp melodies from Indian-style buses signaled the first ones leaving Basantapur for lower towns. The sounds came intermittently for about an hour and a half in the early morning. Rather than fighting them as noise, I decided to accept them – without judgment and without annoyance. This decision to me represented my arrival to this familiar end-of-the-road town, and my intention to be at home here. Knowing that all the neighbors and my host family along with 28 boarders were all fast asleep, there was a comfort in their peace for me. Their relative comfort in the only ways they knew, which I may have perceived as bad hygiene, noise, dust, pollution, an the overall backward quality of this hillside town felt to me like something of which I no longer held on so tightly. Even though I still needed to boil water and watch out for what I eat, I am also content. Letting go of fear in discomfort, which only exists in my mind, is freeing.
So I took the opportunity this early morning to finish Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress, a novel set in the mountains of Sechuan during the Cultural Revolution. The two main characters were city youths who were sent to this remote village for re-education. Talented and intellectually hungry, they became master storytellers in their desperate situation. The novel was a quick read with romance, history and a nice dose of country Chinese culture during the time of Chairman Mao. At that time, books other than Mao or communist writing were totally banned; however, these two young men’s lives in re-education completely changed when they got a hold of a suitcase full of translated western novels. Devouring the books, their minds opened to ideas of romance, freedom, and hope. A memorable passage described their overwhelming and dizzying reaction upon opening the suitcase – how extremely thrilling and wonderous it was for them to see these unavailable and unfamiliar books!
When I read this passage two nights ago, I was staying in Hile, the town 4 hours below Bansantapur, at Bhim Sir’s brother’s home. His children along with their cousins and friends (age 2,3,7,10…) were absolutely adorable. After dinner, in my dimly lit room surrounded by children, I took out the bag that contained the children’s books donated by Nat’s mother Franny. Upon taking out one shiny colorful book, their eyes lit up, and what followed for some time was joyous exploration and total chaos in and around the bag of books. Little hands reached for the books and bright eyes widened at the turning of each page. Their reaction was overwhelming, and because I was surprised (yet now in reflection: what did I expect?!), my breath was taken away, my throat tightened, and my eyes watered. Eventually after some coaxing, the room calmed down. Each child seemed to have settled on his or her favorite book. While I read some of the stories to them, deep within I was left speechless by the sight of these shiny colorful books in the dimly lit room, surrounded by adorable Nepalese children. In the end, even though I didn’t give them the books like they so desired, I let the oldest sister pick one out to keep so she can eventually share it with the younger ones. She picked the Adventures of Winnie the Pooh…Later in the evening while reading in bed, I came upon the suitcase/book scene in Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress. The parallel between this scene and my experience that night dawned on me. The city youths trapped in the mountains of Sechuan receiving brutal re-education, and the lovely Nepalese children trapped here in poverty – both lacked fresh ideas and books, both in need. Mao’s brutality in the Cultural Revolution, and the incompetence of the Nepalese monarchy coupled with the Maoist insurgency brought people to the same place…
Sharing this connection with Joseph, Bhim Sir’s son who accompanied me from Kathmandu, I learned that in the past two years, especially during the height of the dangerous conflicts between Maoist and government forces, books of both Marxist/Leninist ideas or anything containing a king or a queen became objects by which both sides (the Royal Nepalese Army and the Maoists) extended brutality and accusation. In fear of taking either side, people in Basantapur burned books on the streets and hid the royal family pictures. This information, along with seeing the war-damaged police post from recent battles brought me chills and a sense of compassion and relief for Nepal’s fragile yet promising peace.
