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| This story is fictional, inspired by this photo of the love of my life. |
In
spite of the thermal underwear, the cold dug into his bones and froze him in a
bleak mood. The sun tried to smile from beyond the mountains, but her frigid
rays could not cheer him up. He longed for Africa, where the sun shone all year
with the sweet warmth of a lover.
He
decided to go back home immediately after searching the last temple. The whole
trip had turned out to be a complete waste of time and money. A friend had deceived
him that the temples of Kathmandu were littered with golden statues. It would be
an easy job. Sneak in. Steal a few. Flee back home a millionaire. How foolish
he felt when he discovered that the golden statues were not made of gold. Still,
he hoped that the last item on his list, the Chandeswori temple had a roof of
pure gold as one book claimed. So he ignored the cold and hurried to this
temple.
On
the way, in ancient streets of Old Banepa, he saw her.
He
rubbed his eyes in disbelief. She sat stark naked in the street, fondling a
sarangi, which hid her nakedness from his view. Her smile made her face to sparkle
like a million stars. It warmed him in a way the sun failed to. He could not
breathe. He swayed in a drunken swoon. Why is she sitting in the street with
only a musical instrument to cloth her? Can’t she feel the cold?
Her
hair fell over her face so that he could see only one eye, which glistened with
the smile on her mouth as she looked right back at him. Heat gushed through his
veins with such speed that his heart beat with the wild rhythm of Acholi war
drums.
“Do
you like her?” a voice shattered his reverie.
He
jumped with a frightened squeal and turned to face a man whose clothes were
splotched with paint. He might have been a painter. He had come out of a tea
shop.
 |
| African tourists in Chandeswori temple in Banepa. Legend has it that once upon a time, the roof was made of pure gold. |
“Hi!”
the African screeched with embarrassment.
“Do
you like her?”
“Ugh?”
“You
can have her for eight thousand only.”
Eight
thousand? So little for so beautiful a girl! The African dashed into his pockets
for the rupees, but he stopped, realizing something wrong with the girl. She sat
so still, like a picture, and even the breeze didn’t ruffle her long hair. Is
she some kind of religious freak in meditation? Is she a painting?
The
realization hit him with such force that his stupidity became as clear as the
smile on her face. He ran over to her, touched her cold skin of canvas, and
nodded to acknowledge the work of a genius artist.
“Did
you paint her?”
“Yes.”
His
heart still beat. Though she was merely a picture, he was in love. He wanted to
take her home and kiss – maybe, as it happened in fairy tales, his kiss would
turn her into a real person.
More
paintings, of mountains and rural landscapes, hang inside the tea shop. All
ordinary work. He wanted this girl. But why pay eight thousand rupees when he
could return at night and take her for free? Maybe he will sell her in Paris
for a million dollars. Isn’t she equal to Monalisa? Maybe his gods led him to
Nepal, not to steal golden statues but this girl.
He
licked his lips, still feeling dizzy like a drunk. He could not take his eyes
off her smile, her smooth skin, her sarangi – it reminded him of Toni Braxton’s
Spanish Guitar, and so he named the painting ‘Nepali Sarangi’. He loved the way
her hair fell over her face to hide one eye, the way only four teeth showed in
her smile. Her enchanting smile.
“Did
you just imagine her, or is she a real person? Maybe your sister, ugh?”
“Yes!
Yes!”
“Yes
what? Is she imaginary?”
“No!
Imaginary no. Real. Look!”
The
artist showed him a photo in a mobile phone. If he had looked carefully, he
might have noticed that it was a photo of a very old photo, but the veil of
love fell over his eyes. He had to meet her, to marry her, to take her back
home.
“You
like her?”
The
African smiled like a bewitched prince. He knew that in Nepali culture, people
preferred arranged marriages. No dating, no love, no fooling around with the
heart. The bride and groom meet for the first time on their wedding day.
“E-e!”
the artist giggled like a teenage girl. “You like her very much!”
“Is
she – maybe – married?”
“She?
No. No. Not married. Are you married?”
“Me?
No. Never.”
“Do
you want to marry with her?”
The African could not believe his good luck.
It was like Juliet’s father placing a hand over Romeo’s shoulders and asking,
‘do you want to marry her? We can arrange it now!’
 |
| A Nepali bride in Chandeswori temple |
“Can
you arrange it?”
“Yes!
Yes! No problem! I talk her! She agree! No problem!”
“Just
like that?”
“Yes!
She my mother.”
“Your
mother?”
“No.
Not real mother. My mother’s sister, but I call her mother.”
“How
old is she?”
The
artist laughed, but did not answer that question. “Where are you from?”
“America,”
the African said without hesitation. He wanted them to not only think that he
was very rich, but once he took her home, they would never hear from him again,
or see their pretty girl. “I’m from USA. Obama is my uncle.”
“O-hoo!”
the artist’s mouth became round in shock. When he had recovered, he added, “In
your country, first love, then marriage. Here, first marriage, then love. She
very faithful. She never leave you.”
The
African could hear the girl playing the sarangi, a tune so sweet that he floated
in the clouds. But she is just a picture. First, he had to meet her, study her,
and then decide whether to marry her. Yet he had no time. He could not afford
to stay in Nepal for another week. And this girl was a better prize than all the
golden statues of the world.
“She
widow,” the artist said. “Two day after marriage, her husband go to fight. You
know Gurkha? He soldier. She play for him sarangi before he go. It is last time
they together. In our culture, woman cannot marry two times. She very sad. She
want marry to another man her but no man take her.”
“Stupid
Nepali men.”
“But
you bidesh, hoina? You habsi. You take her! No problem.”
For
two days, he stayed in the artist’s home as they arranged for the wedding. He promised
the artist a lot of money, so the artist ran around to make it happen in two
days. Luckily, it was the wedding month.
The
day came. He endured so many Hindu rituals like a zombie. They spoke to him in
a strange language. The artist was not always available to interpret, so he did
whatever they gestured at him to do. At one point, he found himself sitting beside
a grandmother dressed up as a bride.
He
thought it funny.
A
grandmother so old she had no teeth, all dressed up like a bride. She sat beside
him, smiling. He knew that smile for he had seen it on the girl. Maybe this is
her grandmother.
He
thought they were doing something similar to the kwanjula ceremony back home, where
the bride’s family parade many girls for the groom to pick, but the groom has
to reject all until they reveal the real bride. So maybe this grandmother is a
customary surrogate until the time is right for the bride to appear.
 |
| In a strange way, it all started with this story :-) |
Time
passed. The bride did not show up. He grew impatient. Night came. The dancing
started. Though he did not understand what was happening, he knew people dance
only after the marriage. But where is his bride? Nervous, he asked the artist.
“What
you mean?” the artist said.
“I
want to see the girl?”
“Eh!”
the artist seemed truly shocked. “You not seen her?” He pointed at the
grandmother. “Her?”
The
African looked at the old woman, at the toothless and wrinkled smile that in
the picture had set him alight with a fire of a thousand suns.
“I
paint her photo – old, old photo, what she look like when still young.”
The
African felt a bitter dryness in his mouth as he discovered he was a character
in a badly written joke. A corny joke that nevertheless knocked him out with
the sheer force of its obviousness.
“What’s
the problem?” the grandmother asked the artist. “Why is he troubled?”
“Nothing,”
the artist said.
“Is
he worried that I did it?”
“No.”
“Tell
him I didn’t.”
“No!”
“I
have never done it! Tell him!”
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