| Dumdum |
Posted
on 12-Jun-01 02:14 AM
THE afternoon saw us seated, not very happily, on an elephant in the next installment of our holiday -- a ride into the jungle to spot wild animals. Along with us were two old American women who seemed to be veteran travellers. They had some more news.
"We managed to listen to the BBC," one of them said. Apparently the manager of their lodge, who had cable television in his house, had invited them to watch the news with him. Only three minutes had been devoted to the carnage, they said, and, from what they understood, the reason seemed to be something about a disagreement over an arranged marriage. Strange, we thought, in a country where arranged marriages were the norm.
Deep inside the jungle, the Sama bird sang mournfully in the trees as we watched a baby rhino disappear with its mother into the bushes. A group of Indian tourists passing by on another elephant called out, "Is it true about the killing? Do you know?"
We began to worry. Would we be stuck in the jungle forever? Would the buses run? As we came out of the National Park, our elephant had to wade though belly-deep water and scramble up a slippery, slushy slope. As we clung on for dear life, Dan spotted a new group of tourists entering the jungle on another elephant.
"Are you coming from Kathmandu? Are the buses running?" he shouted, as we crossed paths. This was becoming a bit too much for me, this back-to-back communication on elephants.
"Yes, yes," someone replied through the dusk. "Sab teek hai (Everything is okay). The buses are running. We just arrived."
Back in lodge, everyone was watching the cremation. Some were crying. The rain, which had been threatening all evening, came down in buckets. By midnight, it was actually thundering on our zinc sheet roof, creating havoc with our already frazzled nerves.
EARLY next morning, Rajesh arrived with both a pot of much-welcome coffee and some good news -- the Greenline bus to Pokhara, our next stop, was leaving on time. "It's good you are not going to Kathmandu," he said. "I believe there were riots there."
Though the domestic flights were still not plying, he had heard that international flights had taken off. I wondered about Uma Reddy, the young businesswoman who had travelled with us from Bangalore. She had brought her school-going daughter for a short vacation and had opted to stay at in a hill station close to Kathmandu. They were scheduled to leave Nepal today. Would they have taken off?
The air-conditioned Greenline bus was big, comfortable and very empty. As we travelled along the scenic road, winding its way beside the enchanting river Thrishuli and through the green bosom of the Himalayan foothills, the royal massacre seemed like some distant, unbelievable horror story. We stopped at a charming riverside resort for breakfast and, when we got back in again, we had our first brush with reality. Tourists from Kathmandu, on their way to Pokhara, joined us.
They spoke of riots and blanked-out television channels, of local newspapers that carried only eulogies. A family from Calcutta -- they had two small kids -- were scheduled to go to Chitwan after Pokhara. They wondered if they should cancel that leg of their package and return home. But how? They had heard that international flights were also being cancelled.
POKHARA is a beautiful little lakeside resort, famous for its views of the massive Annapurna range and the strangely-shaped Machhapuchhre or Fishtail mountain. It is also the starting point for many trekking trails. Which could be why it seemed a a teeny bit closer to reality.
Our family, which is scattered all over the world, had been frantically calling the hotel in which we were to stay. Only later did we came to know how frightened they had been by the scenes of violence shown on Indian television. We, of course, had no clue. Though we did have cable television in our room, the Indian channels were blanked out. Even the BBC was yanked off within a couple of hours. We were back to square one as far as news was concerned.
As we washed up, a car fitted with a megaphone came cruising down the single commercial street near our hotel. We couldn't understand the Nepali announcement but, within moments, all the shutters were down. I saw a couple of men with tonsured heads on the streets. "They are mourning for the King like he was their father," someone said.
Tired of being cooped up in the hotel, we decided to walk down to the lakeside for a breath of fresh air. Everything was closed. Even the boats were moored. As for the Himalayas, they had swathed themselves even more firmly in the clouds.
At the hotel, though, there was some encouraging news. The BBC channel was back, as was Zee News. The next morning, we caught our first glimpse of a snow-clad mountain. Machhapuchhre emerged briefly from the clouds, stunning and beautiful, as we sat listening to the news. King Dhipendra was dead and his father's brother, Gyanendra, who had been in Pokhara during the massacre, was now king.
By now, the street was awash with tonsured heads. Shining pates with a wispy bit of hair in the middle. Anger and disbelief had replaced sorrow. Everyone in King Birendra's family had died in the killing spree. But King Gyanendra's wife, son and some relations had been spared. The crowds on the street were turning militant.
Yet, we took our scheduled conducted tour. Everywhere, we saw impromptu shrines to the deceased royals. Photographs of the late couple stood in the centre surrounded by incense, flowers and oil lamps. Crowds thronged to pay their respects and, everywhere, men, young and old, knelt to get their heads tonsured.
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