Numerous winding backstreets honeycomb the old Nepalese city of Kathmandu. Some lead to other streets, some to community squares, or chowks, still others to courtyards containing Hindu temples and Buddhist stupas. One day, while walking from Durbar Square in the old city to the tourist ghetto of Thamel in the newer north, I noticed two stone lions guarding an alleyway entrance. They were painted white, with yellow manes and vermillion tongues and eyes. Intrigued, I turned down the alleyway and chanced upon a large courtyard, in whose center stood a huge white stupa, about 30 feet high. Strung from the gold-leafed spire on top of the temple were hundreds of red, blue, yellow, green and white prayer flags fluttering in the breeze. Around the base were eight stations of the Buddha, small brightly coloured shrines corresponding to the eightfold path - the aathangika magga - the way out of suffering. People would pray at these shrines while cicumparambulating, clockwise, three times around the stupa. Enclosing the courtyard, were wooded facaded houses and apartments, with balconies over which washing hung. An odour of wood fires and cooking filled the air.
Many smaller buddha shrines filled the courtyard, and in between them children played football. Every so often, a devotee would slowly walk around the main stupa three times. In their hands the devotees held wooden malas, or rosaries, whose beads they counted as they recited their prayers. On route they would pass enormous temple bells, and would strike them. The chime would reverberate around the courtyard and hang in the air, slowly fading away, amid the sounds of children’s laughter and shouting. No-one seemed to mind or, indeed notice, the children playing around them. This sacred space could also accommodate, without rancour, the anarchic world of children’s play. I found a step in the corner of the courtyard and sat down to take in the scene, watching a group of children kick and chase a small ball around the shrines.
My attention became attracted by the shape of a figure passing by. An old man was slowly circling the stupa. He was bent almost double, his arms hanging by his sides. He walked three shuffling steps forward, then stopped. Upon stopping, he struggled to straighten his back, to stand upright. His body shook with the exertion, and all he could manage was to lift his head and shoulders about halfway to what would be a standing posture. Then his body would seemingly give way under the strain and he would collapse back into his doubled up form and shuffle a few more steps forward. It was painful to watch the repetition of this ritual every few paces, as if he was struggling under some immense invisible weight. A weight that, however hard the man tried to throw off it off, continued to press down upon him, continued to shape him to the intolerable pressure of its load.
The light around the courtyard slowly mellowed to a rich golden colour, and a smell of incense permeated the air, mixing with the wood-smoke. Some of the children began to make their way home in small noisy groups. Looking at the old man, I was reminded of the porters in the old city who could be seen every day carrying beds, tables, wardrobes and other assorted furniture from one destination to another. Although this man was now too old and frail to continue to work in the caste of porters, he continued to be marked by his lifetime of servitude. The remaining children stood up and gaily ran off in the direction of the main street, shouting and laughing. I remained seated, transfixed by the old man. I shivered, noting for the first time the coolness of approaching evening. The old man completed his third circumperambulation. Vainly, he tried once more to stand up straight, to look up at the sky rather than upon the earth. However, the way out of suffering seemed to elude him. Slowly, he shuffled down the alleyway, and turned past the white lions to disappear from view.
Many smaller buddha shrines filled the courtyard, and in between them children played football. Every so often, a devotee would slowly walk around the main stupa three times. In their hands the devotees held wooden malas, or rosaries, whose beads they counted as they recited their prayers. On route they would pass enormous temple bells, and would strike them. The chime would reverberate around the courtyard and hang in the air, slowly fading away, amid the sounds of children’s laughter and shouting. No-one seemed to mind or, indeed notice, the children playing around them. This sacred space could also accommodate, without rancour, the anarchic world of children’s play. I found a step in the corner of the courtyard and sat down to take in the scene, watching a group of children kick and chase a small ball around the shrines.
My attention became attracted by the shape of a figure passing by. An old man was slowly circling the stupa. He was bent almost double, his arms hanging by his sides. He walked three shuffling steps forward, then stopped. Upon stopping, he struggled to straighten his back, to stand upright. His body shook with the exertion, and all he could manage was to lift his head and shoulders about halfway to what would be a standing posture. Then his body would seemingly give way under the strain and he would collapse back into his doubled up form and shuffle a few more steps forward. It was painful to watch the repetition of this ritual every few paces, as if he was struggling under some immense invisible weight. A weight that, however hard the man tried to throw off it off, continued to press down upon him, continued to shape him to the intolerable pressure of its load.
The light around the courtyard slowly mellowed to a rich golden colour, and a smell of incense permeated the air, mixing with the wood-smoke. Some of the children began to make their way home in small noisy groups. Looking at the old man, I was reminded of the porters in the old city who could be seen every day carrying beds, tables, wardrobes and other assorted furniture from one destination to another. Although this man was now too old and frail to continue to work in the caste of porters, he continued to be marked by his lifetime of servitude. The remaining children stood up and gaily ran off in the direction of the main street, shouting and laughing. I remained seated, transfixed by the old man. I shivered, noting for the first time the coolness of approaching evening. The old man completed his third circumperambulation. Vainly, he tried once more to stand up straight, to look up at the sky rather than upon the earth. However, the way out of suffering seemed to elude him. Slowly, he shuffled down the alleyway, and turned past the white lions to disappear from view.
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