Every year, when the Indra Jatra week begins, I pick my camera and make rounds of the city- Basantapur, Hanuman Dhoka, Naradevi and the vicinity. Until a few years ago, I made the trip without a camera, usually with cousins. And even before that, it was my father who took me to the Kathmandu Durbar square to see the Jatra. He would carry me on his shoulders like a little monkey. It somehow made me feel secure to know the crowd would not crush me as long as I was on his shoulders. But what about Baa (my father) himself? I never seemed to have thought about it back then. But I would be most thankful for his shoulders when the Pulukishi and the Lakhe made their appearance. They are my favourite part of the festival.
The Lakhe, with its energy and rhythm is a character I'm always in awe of. Red hair, face and the rest of the attire. And the movement reminds of something I fear, as well as adore.I've carried that with me since the time I was a toddler. I still live with that childhood impression and I'm unable to think of it as a human being behind the mask. To me, the Lakhe is the crimson face with fangs, it's frock and the bells that jingle as it moves with such amazing grace and vigour. A premonition. But I love it!
Then there's the Pulukishi, playful, silly, and always finding ways to run into girls who scream away in fright. Imagine, the sexual politics at play even at events like these. As a kid, you always want to avoid standing next to young women, if you want the Pulukishi to stay at a distance.
These things never change. But so much had changed this year at Indra Jatra. The Durbar Square was crowded like never before. Last year, I had been able to stand on one of the pavilions, watching. This year, there was no space to even squeeze myself in for a glimpse of the Living dieties. Then there were Dohoris playing to madals, at the pavilions, as though it were not Indra Jatra, and something else. Most of the people I overheard in these crowds, only had questions about the festival. You could have counted the locals on your fingers.
I know these things will keep changing steadily.
It all makes me long for the Kathmandu of my childhood. The courtyard, where you could walk freely and run into all your neighbours and relatives and still enjoy the Lakhe, the Hatu Dyaa, the Pulukishi and the chariots. The crisp evening, where youngsters wore their pre-Dashain bests and shared laughter.
Indra Jatra has lost its essence for it as it becomes more and more politicized with every passing year. First there were the Malla Kings, then the Shahs, then Girija Prasad Koirala, then Prachanda and then Rambaran Yadav. I wish we could learn to leave festivities out of politics. If tomorrow, we have a Muslim head of state, are we still expecting him/her to grace the Kumari ceremony and accept the "holy Khadga" and everything else that comes with the package?
I also hope the capital will be moved to Birendranagar or elsewhere. Kathmandu cannot bear the increasing numbers anymore. She has wilted already. I'm afraid she will soon crash.
It all makes me long for the Kathmandu of my childhood. The courtyard, where you could walk freely and run into all your neighbours and relatives and still enjoy the Lakhe, the Hatu Dyaa, the Pulukishi and the chariots. The crisp evening, where youngsters wore their pre-Dashain bests and shared laughter.
Indra Jatra has lost its essence for it as it becomes more and more politicized with every passing year. First there were the Malla Kings, then the Shahs, then Girija Prasad Koirala, then Prachanda and then Rambaran Yadav. I wish we could learn to leave festivities out of politics. If tomorrow, we have a Muslim head of state, are we still expecting him/her to grace the Kumari ceremony and accept the "holy Khadga" and everything else that comes with the package?
I also hope the capital will be moved to Birendranagar or elsewhere. Kathmandu cannot bear the increasing numbers anymore. She has wilted already. I'm afraid she will soon crash.
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