Nepal Dispatch 2
THE PRIEST AND HIS BRIDE
There was a narrow trail leading down from the yard into some rice patties. She said it would take us past some houses and eventually back to the main dirt road that wound up her mountain. I wondered if she appreciated her view. Bright yellow corn lay drying on the ground in front of her house; vibrant purple and orange cloth hung on a line, undulating hypnotically. Only a few feet further the land dropped away into steep terraced hillside, leaving her and her family an open vista over the fertile valley below and her sister mountain miles away. The richest green you can imagine.
We said our Nepali thankyous and goodbyes and started down the trail, which dropped sharply, only navigable by various rocks implanted in the hillside like slick, chaotic stairs. My translator had been raised on such trails and seemed to float down the mountain. I was not so graceful.
The next house we came to was small and composed of the bright red clay of the local earth. Coming around to the front we found an old man nursing a dying cigarette under a tin overhang. He sat crosslegged on a straw mat looking out over the valley. His eyes held a deep resignation.
We sat down with him and he began to speak in rough Nepali, occasionally interrupted by his own violent coughing. He talked for a long time. He and his wife were both ill and had no sons to care for them – and they were getting too weak to do the heavy work of planting and harvesting. I only heard snippets that my translator relayed, but the story was heartbreaking. He was a Hindu priest, but his teaching held no hope even for himself. I explained to him the hope found in Christ and he said he wanted that hope, he prayed for it. But he couldn't leave his myriad gods. They are all he's known, and they are his only livelihood. I pray that the local Church will look after him. His wife came out and showed us her decaying teeth. They were loose and painful. But she sat on the little porch watching her husband admiringly, as a woman who has been loved well for many years. The priest's wife made tea with fresh milk (she led the cow out of the house shortly before she served the tea). I drank it quickly. We were supposed to meet the rest of the team down in the valley in ten minutes and it had taken us an hour and a half to walk up. As we took our leave of those lovely people the priest invited us back. I don't know if I will ever see him again, but I hope that my brothers and sisters will.
LIKE GOATS TO THE SLAUGHTER
Doshain, a festival devoted to appeasing a blood thirsty god, is the greatest celebration on the Hindu calendar. A time of family and drinking, gambling and swinging on traditional swings. And animal sacrifice.
We found ourselves in an ancient city square shadowed by an ancient palace and its sister temple. This is where Doshain finds its heart. Nepalis flocked to this center, many in more traditional or nicer clothing than is common. We happened upon a large, colorful, many-armed statue of the god Shiva (the destroyer), lit by candles and a large torch, surrounded by worshippers. It was an item merely of curiosity for our group until one looked down. On the paved ground beneath the statue was a pool of blood and entrails. The worshippers walked through it.
Suddenly it was all real.
Only moments later, as we walked away, four smiling men led a herd of goats directly past us. They would add to pool. A moment. Then a chain of several buffalo being led to a similar fate.
This more visceral understanding of animal sacrifice painted a crimson shade over Old Testament Judaism, but at least then it was done with repentance and an understanding of loss. Here it was with celebration. Bring the whole family out to see.
There was a narrow trail leading down from the yard into some rice patties. She said it would take us past some houses and eventually back to the main dirt road that wound up her mountain. I wondered if she appreciated her view. Bright yellow corn lay drying on the ground in front of her house; vibrant purple and orange cloth hung on a line, undulating hypnotically. Only a few feet further the land dropped away into steep terraced hillside, leaving her and her family an open vista over the fertile valley below and her sister mountain miles away. The richest green you can imagine.
We said our Nepali thankyous and goodbyes and started down the trail, which dropped sharply, only navigable by various rocks implanted in the hillside like slick, chaotic stairs. My translator had been raised on such trails and seemed to float down the mountain. I was not so graceful.
The next house we came to was small and composed of the bright red clay of the local earth. Coming around to the front we found an old man nursing a dying cigarette under a tin overhang. He sat crosslegged on a straw mat looking out over the valley. His eyes held a deep resignation.
We sat down with him and he began to speak in rough Nepali, occasionally interrupted by his own violent coughing. He talked for a long time. He and his wife were both ill and had no sons to care for them – and they were getting too weak to do the heavy work of planting and harvesting. I only heard snippets that my translator relayed, but the story was heartbreaking. He was a Hindu priest, but his teaching held no hope even for himself. I explained to him the hope found in Christ and he said he wanted that hope, he prayed for it. But he couldn't leave his myriad gods. They are all he's known, and they are his only livelihood. I pray that the local Church will look after him. His wife came out and showed us her decaying teeth. They were loose and painful. But she sat on the little porch watching her husband admiringly, as a woman who has been loved well for many years. The priest's wife made tea with fresh milk (she led the cow out of the house shortly before she served the tea). I drank it quickly. We were supposed to meet the rest of the team down in the valley in ten minutes and it had taken us an hour and a half to walk up. As we took our leave of those lovely people the priest invited us back. I don't know if I will ever see him again, but I hope that my brothers and sisters will.
LIKE GOATS TO THE SLAUGHTER
Doshain, a festival devoted to appeasing a blood thirsty god, is the greatest celebration on the Hindu calendar. A time of family and drinking, gambling and swinging on traditional swings. And animal sacrifice.
We found ourselves in an ancient city square shadowed by an ancient palace and its sister temple. This is where Doshain finds its heart. Nepalis flocked to this center, many in more traditional or nicer clothing than is common. We happened upon a large, colorful, many-armed statue of the god Shiva (the destroyer), lit by candles and a large torch, surrounded by worshippers. It was an item merely of curiosity for our group until one looked down. On the paved ground beneath the statue was a pool of blood and entrails. The worshippers walked through it.
Suddenly it was all real.
Only moments later, as we walked away, four smiling men led a herd of goats directly past us. They would add to pool. A moment. Then a chain of several buffalo being led to a similar fate.
This more visceral understanding of animal sacrifice painted a crimson shade over Old Testament Judaism, but at least then it was done with repentance and an understanding of loss. Here it was with celebration. Bring the whole family out to see.
posted by James at 23:50
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home