CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Down and Out in Kathmandu: A Backpacker Mystery

 

“Piunu.” Zelda furrowed her brow in concentration, repeating the word to herself. “To eat?” She flipped the card over. To drink. “Damn it, I’m never going to remember all these words!” she screamed into her pillow. She’d made the stupid note cards in hopes of learning Nepali faster, but they didn’t seem to be helping one bit.

If only her family would converse with her in Nepali, then she would surely remember more. The Naga’s were nice people and all, but they were clearly more interested in practicing their English with her, than putting up with her halting Nepali. It was Parwati’s doing, Zelda suspected. With her children’s final exams coming up soon, they could certainly use the practice. But didn’t Parwati understand that she only had two weeks to learn basic Nepali? Otherwise how was she going to teach those cute little kiddies English if they couldn’t understand her? Zelda sighed deeply, staring at the flash cards on her nightstand. Just once more, come on, you can do it, she told herself, forcing her hand to pick up the thick pile and begin flipping through the verbs once more.

When the letters began to blur together, she flung the cards across her bed and trudged upstairs. The Naga’s were huddled around the television, curtains drawn. Only the father sat apart, leafing through an English language magazine, a stock market ticker tape featured prominently on the cover. Their big-screen television blasted out the high-pitched Hindi music so popular in Nepal. Only the lead singer and her video love interest were wearing traditional costumes. The background singers were dressed in Western clothes: pink tube tops, black leather micro skirts, fishnet stockings and silver platform heels. Zelda was amazed they could perform the intricate dances without falling over. Parwati sat perched on the edge of the couch, peering at the screen through finger slits.

“What’s wrong, Parwati?” Zelda asked.

“The clothes. Those girls must be so cold.”

Zelda started to laugh, but one look at the older woman’s face stopped her in her tracks.

Her Nepalese mother continued, “It is shameful that they dress so. I do not like it. These women are a bad influence on my daughter and nieces. And my son will think all women are whores. How can he not, if women dress and act like this?” she sniffled.

Zelda looked at Parwati’s daughter, dressed in dark trousers and a purple cotton blouse. Her son’s skin-tight T-shirt was tucked into his knock-off Levis. Parwati herself wore a sari every day, but her children looked as if they dressed at the Gap. Even her husband fancied Western-style three-piece suits. Since she’d entered their home, Zelda had made a point of wearing a traditional Kurthaa, loose-fitting trousers covered by a long, shapeless tunic. Although it felt as if she was walking around in pajamas all day long, she did it out of respect for the family. Yet after taking a closer look at her Nepalese siblings dancing and prancing around the living room floor, she wondered why she bothered.

A sudden commotion in the front yard sent the family racing to the window. Her father, Mahendra, threw back the thick curtains. The bright afternoon sun was blinding, it took Zelda’s eyes a few seconds to re-adjust. She could just make out an old man and a goat standing in the front courtyard. The stranger was waving at them. Mahendra clapped his hands in delight and ran downstairs, the rest of the family hot on his heels.

“What is it?” she asked. Their excitement was palpable.

Already halfway down the stairs, Nabim called back, “My father’s birthday present has arrived!”

“Present?” Zelda knew it was Mahendra’s birthday today. The whole family had been in the temple most of the morning getting blessed. Because Zelda wasn’t Hindu, she wasn’t allowed to join them. She figured she’d missed out on some amazing ritual, but apparently there was more to the birthday celebration than prayer. She sprinted down the last flight of stairs into the courtyard, excited to finally be a part of a traditional Nepalese rite.

A fat, brown-haired goat was chomping on the family’s hedge. Zelda expected Parwati to start scolding the animal or push it away, but her mother didn’t seem to notice. She and Mahendra were engaged in a furiously fast-paced conversation with the old man, negotiations clearly underway. Zelda held back, trying to work out what was happening.

The old man was wrapped in an enormous white linen cloth that covered his legs like a diaper, then wrapped around his torso. A worn-out red jacket completed the ensemble. A huge kukhuri – a curved knife, its blade easily a foot long and eight inches wide – hung loosely from his waist on a thick leather belt. Zelda could hardly believe the man could stand with it on, let alone lift the thing.

After a few minutes of heated exchanges, they’d apparently come to some sort of agreement. Mahendra clasped the old man on the shoulders and called for tea. The stranger took a flat stone from his jacket pocket and sat on the ground, cross-legged. He drew his impressive knife and began sliding the stone across the blade’s edge, sharpening it.

“Nabim, what’s going on?” Zelda asked.

The boy’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “You’ll see, it is a surprise!”

She squatted down next to him, sipping her drink, waiting.

After a while the man rose and re-sheathed his knife. Slowly he approached the goat – now chewing up Parwati’s hibiscus plant – singing to it. He caressed its head, massaging its neck. Zelda was entranced. The goat stopped chewing, letting the man lead it into the middle of the courtyard.

Mahendra whispered something into Nabim’s ear. The boy sprung up and ran back inside, returning moments later with the biggest cooking pan in the house. The family watched intently as the old man calmly walked around to one side of the animal, continually massaging the animal’s neck as he moved.

The man began singing harder, louder. The rhythm was mesmerizing, his broken voice transfixing. Zelda felt her body swaying in time and her eyelids growing heavy. Before her eyes closed completely, the goat let out a last bleat, then WHAP! In one smooth motion the old man unsheathed his knife and brought it down hard, precisely in the middle of the goat’s neck. He raised and lowered it again quickly, severing the last vertebrates. The goat’s head fell with a thump onto the ground, blood spouting profusely out if its neck. Nabim ran towards the goat’s flailing body, holding the pan under its severed neck until the animal’s knees gave way.

As her family began cheering, Zelda felt faint, grabbing at the grass for support. Her brain refused to acknowledge her retina’s last transmission. Yet there were specks of red on her green tunic. Zelda started to wipe them off, but stopped short of touching the fresh blood. Her stomach was doing summersaults. Do not puke, do not puke, became her mantra. The rest of the family was still clapping and singing, her father beaming with pride.

Zelda felt as if walls were closing in on her, she had to get away from this gruesome scene. She tried to stand but her legs weren’t cooperating.

Her sister Ranjana laughed heartily, poking her in the ribs. “Are you hungry, Zelda?”

She could feel herself turning green as realization sunk in. Zelda clutched at her stomach as she tore upstairs, reaching the family’s western-style toilet just in time.

 

*

 

“Zelda, are you in there?”

Zelda lay on her bed with a cold cloth over her forehead. She had never seen a real, live animal killed before, and certainly not for food. It was far more gruesome and disturbing than she could have imagined. Less than an hour ago that cute goat had been in her courtyard, eating her mother’s flowers, and now it was being hacked into bits on her rooftop patio. The whole house shook with every swipe of the blade. How in God’s name was she supposed to eat that poor animal tonight? The thought made her want to become a vegetarian.

“Yeah, I’m in here.” she called out wearily.

Nabim and Ranjana peeked into her room. “We want to show you the surprise. But maybe now is not a good time, if you are not feeling well?”

Another surprise? Good Lord, what next. “Okay. I guess now is fine.” Zelda laid the wet cloth on the bedside table and sat up.

“It’s my father’s birthday cake!” Nabim announced joyously. He held back the curtain to her room, revealing Kreepa the servant girl, holding a pan. The same pan Nabim ran to get before they killed the goat. Now it was filled with blood; thick, dark and congealing.

Zelda could feel the vomit rising. “That is disgusting!” she shrieked, covering her mouth in horror.

Her Nepalese siblings looked crestfallen. “But this is a very rare delicacy. My father is most pleased with his present.”

“But I thought the goat was the present. Oh right. Oh God.” She wanted to burst into tears but was too shocked to even do that. A rare delicacy? They were kidding, right? She studied Nabim and Ranjana’s faces for glimpses of mischievousness. They seemed to be serious. Zelda gulped. She had promised herself before coming to Nepal that she would eat and drink whatever was put in front of her. If it was good enough for the locals then it was good enough for her. But there had to be limits.

Behind the curtain she could hear her mother gasping in shock. “What are you doing?” Parwati yelled.

Finally, Zelda thought, we’ll get to the bottom of this practical joke.

Her mother whipped back the thin curtain, her face a mask of pure rage. “Put that back in the kitchen at once! Your father will kill you if you spill even a single drop. Go upstairs and help with the goat. Now!” She turned to Zelda, her expression softening slightly, shaking her head. “Children.”

Zelda’s face fell. Her brother and sister weren’t kidding around. She gulped hard, returned the cloth to her forehead and lay back onto the bed, trying desperately to think her way out of eating goat’s blood cake for dessert.

 

* * *

 

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