A tiny Shangri-La hidden in between the towering Himalayas and the gargantuan sub-continent, this is a land of friendly people, proud Sherpas, awe-inspiring mountain peaks, yaks and yetis. In Nepal the sounds of mantras in the remote monasteries bounce back playfully from the snow clad mountain peaks, drawing in seekers of spirituality to its mystical allure. Nepal is nirvana for the spiritual, the adventurous, the lonely souls in search of moksha.
Wait, I mentioned tiny. The biggest conundrum when travelling in Nepal is how would you fit everything in?. I have met people who have been coming back to Nepal again and again, to explore the mighty Himalayas, the picturesque towns and sit around the bonfires on a chilly night with the smiling people. When you leave, the desire to be back again lingers...
When I go back to Nepal this would have all changed. It was 25th April, 11:00 am. People slept unaware of the tragedy that was sneaking into their dreams. The quivers turned into violent trembles jolting them from their dream soaked sleep.
At the exact moment, I was coasting on the illusionary world of social media ”connecting” with friends and family. In this ephemeral world attention spans is fraction of a second. People move on from one post to another, keeping checks and balances of how many "Likes" they have got. The more the better. Pouting lips, bared legs, tantalizing profiles, photoshopped smiles, happy babies, adorable pigs, dogs, cats, hamsters… I stand guilty as I am equally submerged in the cyber cesspool.
While I magnanimously clicked on Like on everyone's posts, hardly skimming the content, ignoring the sun streaming through my window, at that exact moment people ran helter-skelter for safety, their eyes widened with panic, the foundation of their homes and lives shaken. Their whole world crashing down as I sipped my espresso. Families desperately searching for their loved ones as I cooed sweet nothings to my lover's video call on Skype. My friends in the small villages of Pokhara cremating their loved ones. I had sat with them around a lively bonfire in the evening, sharing cups of chai and dhal bhat. That fire was incinerating their bodies now. I have no way of finding out if they are alive, barely alive or dead.
The mantras have taken a monstrous rhythm of powerful Vedic chants, crashing on the trembling mountains, livid. The prayer flags have not appeased the angry Gods. I feel helpless, I feel impotent, I feel tinier than an atom. I desperately make attempts to contact people who may have some news. The tiny sliver of hope finally comes my way....
An email response from a pastor, Timothy Dahal. He has dedicated his life to the Harvest Bible Fellowship. I had reached out to hundreds of people wanting to know how I can help. The only response I received was from this man who has dedicated his life to Christ. I have been invited to visit Nepal in July.
The thought of visiting the shattered country keeps me awake at night. I wake up gasping in utter panic. The nightmare continues as I dream of Bahadur, my Gorkha friend, choking beneath the rubbles, trying to scratch away on the stubborn pile with his khukri.
I panic as I have not told the pastor that I am not a Christian. Would that be an issue? I belong to the 95% of Hindu population of Nepal, the persecutors of the minority. I quickly browse the HBF website. It mentions nothing about non-acceptance of the "non-believers". I will keep it under the wraps for the moment. I break into night sweat with recurring dreams of the Swayambhunath temple crashing down and crushing me under it heavy white stones. The lilting Buddha's eyes now a slit looking on with contempt. If it is not the nightmare, then it is self doubt. Will I be able to take in the suffering of Nepalese people? Am I just being a curious traveler? Will I be able to contribute in any way? Maybe I am not meant to have this honor? Maybe I am just a hypocrite who wants to have my share of feel-goodness? Thousands of questions flit through my brain like the incessant hum of the hummingbird. My desperate posts on Facebook to get some valuable insights on how to help sits forlornly, with 6 paltry Likes. It has quickly become other ephemera on the walls and feeds.
I have to start looking towards my hero. The holy one-earlobed Dutchman, a naïf and optimist, a hackneyed star-crossed patron saint of unrecognized genius, art's favorite martyr. He whispers into my ears, "If you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint' then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced."
Old Van Gogh and I understand each other at heart, and if we are a bit mad, what of it?
Comments