2

Kathmandu

‘I am packed with broken glass and memories and it all hurts.’

—Henry Rollins

November 2012

It was midnight. I was lying alone on a white hospital bed at Norvic International Hospital, Kathmandu. In the dimly lit room my mind played havoc with me. I felt cold, lonely and frightened.

I fought hard between two instincts—that of running away and of stopping myself from screaming.

The room was sparse and smelt of hospital disinfectant.

On the wall opposite me was a clock with its minute hand stuck at six.

Why am I here? Why am I not in the maternity hospital opposite the road? Why am I not admitted for pregnancy instead? Will I ever be able to hold my baby in my arms?

It’s funny that when the mind is too tired of its own thoughts, the eye starts noticing mundane things.

In the sliver of moonlight sneaking in from the window, I noticed how well kept and organized my room was. While coming in, I had noticed how impressive this section of the hospital was. I wondered if this area was meant only for VIPs.

As for me, I felt exposed. Like a huge wound whose covering had just been scratched off.

For the hundredth time, I stroked my protruding stomach and silently grieved.

The circumstances leading to my visiting this hospital had had a long build-up.

While in Mumbai, I had felt constantly sick for months. I was bloated all the time. It devastated me to hear people tell me that yesteryear’s slim, beautiful girl had gained weight. And it was true. I just could not stop the kilos from piling up, especially around my stomach.

I then decided to exercise vigorously. I worked out every day to get rid of what I thought back then was ‘belly fat’. I began doing Pilates. I began sweating it out in the gym. The results showed and I began to lose weight from everywhere . . . except my stomach. That part of my anatomy seemed to have a mind of its own. It was on a solo trip of expansion. And I was very unhappy with the shape my body was taking.

In frustration, I visited many doctors in Mumbai, but before a thorough check-up could be done, I had to leave for Kathmandu. Actors, especially the young and desirable ones, have a horror of getting old. But now I had to admit to myself that perhaps old age was finally catching up on me. I was forty.

Three months ago, in Mumbai, I had visited the Siddhivinayak temple. I had uttered a simple prayer, quite humorous in hindsight:

Lord, please show me my path—my purpose in life. I’ve been piling on the kilos and nothing seems to work. Please help me get rid of this bloating.

I took a mannat, a vow, there that I would not touch grains, non-vegetarian food or alcohol for three months. I had heard that sadhus fasted in this manner. I was ready to try anything at this point.

In November 2012, I flew down to Kathmandu. I remember that day being a memorable one. My friend’s sister was getting married. It was the perfect occasion to end my self-imposed abstinence. In hindsight, it also turned out to be just two days before my diagnosis.

Unaware of what lay ahead, I was in a celebratory mood. All my friends were drinking and enjoying themselves. I too reached for happiness—a glass of wine. To my horror, my stomach bloated up again. I was disappointed to see that my self-denial and restraint had yielded no result.

In my car, on my way to my Kathmandu home, I suddenly felt a sharp pain in the abdomen. It got worse with each bump my car took.

That entire night I lay flat on my back. I couldn’t even turn on my sides. What was happening to me? I felt angry, confused and frightened.

The next morning I spoke to my brother, Siddharth, whom I lovingly call Bhai. My voice was quivering and my face was distorted with pain.

‘I can’t take it any more! I need this to be diagnosed.’

Acting promptly, my brother brought me to this hospital.

So here I was, waiting for the doctor and reliving my life in my head.

***

That morning, when Dr Madhu Ghimire examined me, I felt relieved. He had a distinguished air about him. His white coat had a black-rimmed pocket on the right with the hospital’s initials embroidered on it. Somehow, his attire matched his salt-and-pepper hair. It felt right.

He’s now going to examine me and tell me it will all be fine, I thought.

‘Just an infection, Manisha. We’ll handle it.’

I will finally be free of this pain and go on to enjoy the long treks in the flower-and-tree-lined pathways of Kathmandu again.

Casually, I heard myself suggest to him that it could be a liver issue as I had been drinking a bottle of wine almost every day for several months before my three-month-long fast. Ignoring my expert diagnosis, the doctor began examining my stomach.

‘There is a lot of fluid in your stomach which needs to be tested.’ He took a syringe and, even as I flinched, jabbed it in my abdomen and pulled it out expertly, informing me that he would send the sample for biopsy.

I was asked to remain in the hospital overnight as my CT scan was scheduled for the next morning. I became impatient. Patience has never been my greatest virtue. The next day, I was actually quite relieved when I was wheeled out for a CT scan. Imaging over, I was brought back to my hospital room.

And then began the interminable wait. Once again my imagination began working overtime.

What if they discover it is cirrhosis of the liver? What if it is something more terrible? Are you listening, Universe? Just make me well!

For the hundredth time, I asked the nurse, ‘Where is Dr Ghimire? When will he come?’

And for the hundredth time she said, ‘He is busy. He will come as soon as he can.’

Morning stretched into afternoon and the sun’s rays dipped. Soon it was dusk. I have always found this time of the day the most dramatic of all. It is as if the stage is being set for something ominous. My patience was snapping.

Why is nobody coming with any news? Have they not sent my sample for biopsy then?

Evening was about to stretch its fingers and smother the daylight’s neck. Just then my family walked in—one by one—my parents, my brother, my aunt and uncle, my cousins.

But why? Why have they all come to see me? This is very strange!

A part of me panicked. And then I spoke in a voice that was muffled by distress.

‘What is it? Will someone tell me?’

My perplexed gaze fell on the doctor, who was standing right behind my family members. He came towards me with measured steps, slowly . . . oh, so slowly . . . one foot at a time. Under the glare of the solitary tube light, I could see that his salt-and-pepper hair was a little dishevelled. Did I imagine the shimmer of unshed tears in his eyes? Or were they simply tired?

His specs hung on a black string from his neck. In his hands, he held some loose papers and a file which seemed to have been turned over several times. I could see him begin to form words.

Please tell me!

‘Manisha, there are treatments for these things nowadays.’

‘Treatment? What do you mean by treatment?’ I yelped. I was agitated, pulling at my brown neck scarf impatiently. It suddenly felt as if it were constricting me.

‘It’s not like earlier. Science has advanced a lot. There are various effective treatments. People do live longer.’

‘But what do I have? What treatment are we discussing?’

Dr Ghimire paused briefly, as if to gather himself.

‘Manisha, my dear, you have cancer!’

‘C-A-N-C-E-R?’ I repeated the word incredulously. ‘How can I have cancer?’

I remember the sheer shock of hearing that word making me laugh with disbelief. I looked the other way. As if I were throwing away a heavy quilt. As if by shrugging it away I was disowning it. It didn’t belong to me.

Others have got cancer. How could I have it? I was healthy, ate well, exercised well. No, no, there must be a mistake!

And then, gently, the doctor went on to say, ‘It’s late-stage ovarian cancer.’

I refused to comprehend his words. ‘Why can’t you just cut it off and throw it away?’ After all, I had seen this happen in many films.

My aunt, a renowned gynaecologist, had earlier surprised me by looking at my stomach and asking me if I was pregnant. I had told her that it was just not possible.

Now, in her characteristically straightforward way of speaking, she said in a small, defeated voice, ‘How much can we cut off? And what all? It has spread everywhere.’

From a distance, disjointed words floated towards me. Dr Ghimire was suggesting the next course of action. He said that I should be taken to the best medical centre for cancer, which he believed was in the US. But I was in a state in which my mind refused to comprehend anything.

I’m not sure I heard anything after that. The room was spinning. The ground had slipped from under me. I was at once floating and sinking. It was a strange space to be in.

From the periphery of my vision, I could see that my beloved parents had become numb with shock. My father, who is generally reticent and calm, also looked badly shaken. They stepped out of the room together, their shoulders sagging. In the corridor, they began talking in hushed whispers. I knew that I was the topic of their discussion.

I have no idea how the hours after that were spent. I kept staring at the wall. But one by one, my family members came up to me. Silence lay between us like an impenetrable bridge. Gently, they placed their arms on me and then faded into the background. No words were spoken—just a compassionate touch to let me know they were there. It was the longest and loneliest night I have ever spent.

Next morning, I could sense a different Manisha get into the family car—dishevelled, shaken and wearing the previous day’s clothes. My navy-blue track pant and white T-shirt looked badly crumpled. Un-star like. But I was beyond caring.

Quickly, I put on my sunglasses to protect myself from the harsh glare of the morning sun, but more so from reality. Silence hung heavy in our car. Nobody spoke.

For one crazy moment, I longed to see the majestic peaks of the Himalayas. The car sped on. All I could see were crowded roads and the dust on them.

My eyes inadvertently fell on a fallen eucalyptus tree. It had been snapped by some onslaught, but that is not what caught my attention. The tree lay prostrate, but the branch attached to it still had bright young leaves sprouting out of it with determination.

My feelings got tangled in the electric poles with their swinging cables above, until they were lost in mid-thought. A stray hope floated into my mind: Is it possible for life to defeat death?

Soon, we drove into the dip in the pathway that took us into the stone-lined approach road to the wooden gate of my bungalow. I had overheard the family’s plans—first at the hospital, then at my family home. They were planning to fly me to Mumbai for a second opinion. At this point I had no say in the matter. No protests to make. I was just an automaton, going with the flow. I felt sorry for myself.

All I wanted was to walk to my special place in my home—the sun-spattered wooden veranda which had hosted me during my innumerable spells of daydreaming and reading. On those occasions, I had dreamt about everything life was capable of giving me. Everything I wanted. It had been my launch pad to make plans for my wondrous life ahead. Overnight, things had changed. I was no longer in a position to make plans. I had no life to live. I felt spent.

Yet I gazed at nature’s abundance around me. At this hour of the morning, the sun deck lived up to its name. In spite of myself, I began to admire the magic my mom had created there.

The garden was alive. My listless eyes took in the orange-flowered gulmohar trees, the vivid purplish red of the fuchsias and the pink, purple, orange, yellow, white and magenta of the bougainvillea. It was a riot of colours.

Amidst this heaven, birds of all variety chirped—brown-feathered nightingales with their red-sided tails and sprightly buff-brown sparrows with white cheeks.

As I inhaled the mesmerizing fragrance of the white jasmines, I silently saluted Mom for all the life forms she had nurtured. Not only me and my brother, but even these cherry blossoms, pine, neem, avocado, mango, banana and bamboo trees. She had reared them lovingly from young saplings to gigantic trees. I revelled in this semi-jungle. Despite my mood, I felt revived and nourished.

My family knew that in times of distress, I preferred to be left alone. And whenever I was immersed in myself, this hardwood patio was my retreat. I could stay there for hours.

My spell was broken as I sensed somebody coming up to me. It was my sister-in-law, Yulia. I looked up at her dramatically tall, slender figure. She shook her blonde hair and silently settled down beside me on the rosewood deck.

She said nothing. Just looked at my topknot and my hands that lay limp beside me. In my eyes, she could read the pain, the shock, the confusion. She could see I was grieving.

Wordlessly, she poured hot water into the two white cups containing green tea leaves and handed one over to me.

I have always admired Yulia, a Russian brought up in Kazakhstan, for the ease with which she uprooted herself from her successful corporate career in London to settle in Nepal with my brother after marriage.

Would being uprooted from my world also be as easy, I wondered.

We sipped our tea in silence until I felt obligated to speak.

‘If this is the end of my life, I must accept it, Yulia.’ I whispered.

‘No,’ said Yulia, shaking her head in strong disagreement. ‘You have to try. You just have to try to give yourself a chance.’

I looked at her with eyes full of pathos.

‘You must want to live with passion. If you are going to be defeated, you cannot come out of this like a winner.’

I looked at her in bewilderment.

Where had she hidden so much of inner strength earlier? Why did I not notice it before? Perhaps she is right. Have I really given up before even trying?

A newfound admiration for this strong woman rose within me. With a few simple words, she had nudged the deepest part of my being. She had prodded me to walk ahead instead of making a retreat.

Is it possible for me to do so? Did I have it in me?

I do not know how long I remained in that safe space, toying with every emotion that crossed my mind. But my reverie was broken when the sharp sound of a conch shell reached my ears. It came from within my home. My mother must have begun the prayer rituals.

I learnt later that my cousins had rushed to an astrologer on hearing the doctor’s verdict and consulted him about my Vedic astrological chart. To their amazement, the astrologer had predicted that this person, whose name they had hidden from him, will have to be hospitalized for the treatment of cancer. My cousins were speechless.

And then they asked, ‘Is there a way we can save her? She is our cousin Manisha Koirala.’

The learned man advised that they immediately perform the Mahamrityunjaya puja—or the ‘death-conquering ceremony’—followed by havan.

The same day, around fifteen Brahmin priests, wearing thin white linen, duly arrived to perform the ultimate puja to defeat death. They performed their rituals one by one, impressing us with how systematic and coordinated they were. They chanted Lord Shiva’s Mahamrityunjaya Mantra 1,00,000 times using the japa mala, which is made of 108 beads, offered flowers to the Shiva linga and performed abhisheka with milk and water, followed by sankalp (pouring water into a pot and asking for Lord Shiva’s blessings). They offered incense, water, bel leaves and fruits to the lord. The elaborate ritual came to an end with a massive havan. Our home was filled with sweet-smelling smoke.

The origin of the Mahamrityunjaya Mantra dates back to the Rig Veda. It is a blend of three Hindi words—‘maha’ which means great, ‘mrityun’ which means death and ‘jaya’ which means victory. The Mahamrityunjaya puja is one of the most important Shiva pujas and is believed to have tremendous benefits. It has the ability to lengthen the lifespan of devotees and save them from life-threatening ailments.

Here is the mantra:

Om tryambakam yajamahe sugandhim pusti vardhanam

Urvarukamiva bandhanan mrtyor mukshiya mamritat.

This can be translated as:

Om. We worship and adore you, O three-eyed one, O Shiva. We meditate on the three-eyed reality which permeates and nourishes all like a fragrance.

This powerful chant is hailed by the sages as the heart of the Vedas.

As the fragrance of the puja mingled with each item and wafted towards me, I sat by myself, lost in thought.

I had learnt that our flight to Mumbai was at 4 p.m. the same day. We had been advised to carry the rudraksha mala with us for protection.

I was not quite sure what my thoughts at that point were. I was simply doing what my family wanted me to do.

In fact my thoughts were incoherent even to myself. I cast a glance around my beloved Kathmandu family home. It had started falling apart in places. I had just taken on the task of renovating it.

Will I be back to complete the task? Will I be back to see the maddeningly fragrant ‘Night Queen’ blossom enticingly in my garden once again? Will I be here when the snow on the Himalayas begins to melt? Will I be . . . at all?

There were too many questions. But no answers.