God Wife: A Story of Dreams and Realities

What Others are Saying about God Wife: A Story of Dreams and Realities

[This autobiographical novel of the life in Nepal of Mani Nepali] is fascinating and engrossing. I was captivated and could not stop reading. It all seems so plausible. The flow and prose are flawless, weaving the imaginative and the real. The humor crept up on me, balancing the serious to set just the right tone.

--Robert Waterman, Ph.D. in Political Science, Gonzaga University

The authors successfully address major cultural, political, economic, and social issues. . . . [God Wife] contains fascinating stories rooted in Eastern traditions, myths, and superstitions, but what engages the reader and keeps him reading is the unfolding of events and the revelations about character from Mani Nepali's childhood through his teenage years and young adulthood.

--Dhruva Thapa, Chief Editor, hamrosamaj.net

The book is wonderful. I feel so sad for the little boy who turned up at Propakar Orphanage so many years ago and can picture him now. Somewhere along the way, he had picked up confidence. He was such a talented child, always singing, painting, writing poems and songs, and performing for the other children. They all looked up to him. The book is beautifully written.

--Margaret Williams, Evsham, U.K., former VSO volunteer in Nepal

GOD WIFE:

A STORY OF DREAMS AND REALITIES

by

Mani Nepali and Jim Hughes

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright 2012 Mani Nepali and Jim Hughes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

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Originally published in softcover in the United States of America on July 3, 2009, by the Nepal Association for Global Cooperation. Copyright © 2009 by Mani Nepali and Jim Hughes

This book is available in print at Amazon and also may be purchased from the authors at 510-323-6802, maninepali@yahoo.com, or jimhughes7377@sbcglobal.net.

ISBN 978-9937-2-1306-6

Certification of registration issued by the Library of Congress, Copyright Office, December 28, 2010. Registration number TX 7-300-866

Cover Design by Mani Nepali

Introduction

by

Jim Hughes

In God Wife, a bus is the means by which Mani Nepali is unexpectedly transported to an enchanted world. When I, along with other educators, boarded a bus, I anticipated an uneventful ride from Stanford University, where we had attended a symposium, to Pinole in California’s Bay Area, one of the cities my school district serves. I had no idea that I, too, was about to enter a world in which I had never been. A seat was free next to a man who spoke with an accent. The first exchanges consisted of polite, social pleasantries, but soon the conversation turned to his Nepalese background. I knew very little about Nepal. He told me he was a school principal there. How fascinating! I exclaimed. As a writer for Essential Teacher, a magazine published by TESOL (Teachers of English to Speakers of Other Languages), I was always alert to a new subject. Your experiences would interest my readers, I asserted.

I’ve been writing the story of my life, he said. In it there is a fantastical girl who comes to me when I need help.

Is she real?

That is a very interesting question, he answered. He sent me his first two chapters, then showed me more. I became hooked. As we collaborated, the book took on the form of an autobiographical novel, one rooted in the facts of Mani’s life and the realities of Nepal but blossoming into conversations that were fictional and experiences that crossed into extraordinary dimensions of time and space.

Part of my fascination with this book was the opportunity it gave me to become immersed in Nepalese history, politics, ethnicity, physical geography, tradition, religion, language, and economic and social conditions. You are becoming Nepalese, remarked Mani.

I was honored. I was gratified, too, by his acknowledging that my writing was in his voice. But it was not so hard a task. Beneath language and other differences, human beings speak and act pretty much the same.

Preface

by

Mani Nepali

How often do you dream? Do you ever have recurring dreams? I have an amazing experience with dreams. My dreams are so vivid and real that I am confused in which world I am living. I dream both at night and in the daytime. I would like to share these wonderful experiences of mine with you. One of my friends has a godfather, another a godmother. Believe me or not, I have a god wife! My god wife is not a physical wife. She is my spiritual consort who helps me when I have an extreme necessity. She is my inspiration and hope, my lover and friend, my teacher and guide. She is my god wife.

Chapter 1

Meeting Zizibisha

Nani, what are you doing? Come here little one.

My grandmother’s voice warmed me, as if it were a fire on a winter’s night. It contained, however, a tone of unquestionable authority, and I knew that she wanted some work from me.

Come to Granny, she said.

Hajooooooor! I responded, drawing out my yes. I approached her, expecting that, even if I had to do a task, she would have goodies for me to eat.

She was a dark woman with a robust body. Her name was Thuloswara Mukhini Ambai, and she was highly respected in the community. Our family was Thuloswara (great landlord), the name acknowledging that we owned the largest area of land in the village of Saurpani. She was Mukhini (wife of chief). She did not boast. She liked to say we were less poor than others but poor all the same.

See what I have for you? she said. She handed me some khatte bhatamas (roasted rice and soybeans). What a good boy you are! How hard working!

I was now one-hundred-percent sure that she was giving me a chore.

My child, go to Sajandanda and get some fodder for the goats.

By myself? Never before had I been permitted to go so far.

I think your uncles and aunts will be pleased, she said. It will show them how mature and brave you are.

Her praise made me proud, and I wanted to prove myself worthy. I fetched my small bamboo basket and my sickle with its handle of khoya (a cob shorn of its corn). My uncles and aunts will see that I’m grown up and ready for this task, I thought. I mustn’t show fear! Indeed, I’ll prove to them how brave I am! I’ll go all the way to Shakhola.

. . .

Two years earlier, when I was four years old, my father had died. He was a short and pleasant man; he often smiled. The oldest of my grandparents’ children, he was called Thule (eldest). He would help others, even when he was in heavy debt, which made him very popular.

To me, his looks were rugged, his bearing powerful. He defended me when people taunted me for having a hunchback, which I had gotten from bone tuberculosis, an illness that had deformed my neck. My father protected me even when I was naughty. I loved him greatly, following him wherever he went. I did not spare him even when he had to go behind the bush. I remember him taking me in his lap as he went about his business.

I also loved my mother, a simple-hearted person who was well liked in the village. I always thought highly of her but was less attached to her than to my father.

When he left to find work but did not return, I asked where my father was. ‘He has fallen," said Kanchha Ba, my youngest uncle. But where had he fallen? I wondered, not knowing then that fallen meant that he had died.

I became scared that I might fall, too. I believed that Saurpani Hill was the edge of the world. Maybe he fell from there. Didn’t he climb that hill every now and then? The villagers said that sometimes he drank liquor, which, as a high-class Brahmin, was not proper, but he was a free man, my mother insisted, and had a right to enjoy drinking and merry making.

One day I was behind the bush when I overheard my uncles and aunts talking with my grandmother.

I can’t stand to look at that ugly hunchback, said Maili Ama, my second uncle’s second wife.

I fear he will bring us bad luck, said Kaili Ama, an aunt.

How can you say such unkind words? scolded my grandmother.

Didn’t his father die because his son was born under an inauspicious star? retorted Kaili Ama. He’s a father biter, declared my second uncle, Maila Ba.

My father had died on my account? I remained silent even as tears rolled down my cheeks. But when had I bitten him? I had no memory of it.

Later I learned that father biter was another figure of speech. It meant I was the cause of his misfortune. My father had accompanied his brother-in-law to Chitwan on the southern plains of Nepal to work at a construction site, and there, after dining in an unclean restaurant, he had died of cholera. My mother soon left to marry a man who did not want me to live with them. Life became very grim. My parents were no longer with me. My grandmother, though powerful in the community, could not protect me from my abusive uncles and aunts. She would speak on my behalf, but they constantly disagreed with her, wearing her down until she felt she must compromise with her sons. My youngest uncle, Kanchha Ba, was only a few years older than I, and though he was occasionally kind to me, he sided with his older brothers. I became dependent upon the mercy of the other uncles and their wives, and they were not merciful. They dressed me in second-hand clothes. My aunts, who made most of the meals, did not feed me properly. When my grandmother was around, she tried to provide me with decent food, but she did not want to argue with her daughters-in-law, who objected to spoiling me. I was six years old, the age when I was supposed to go to school. Kanchha Ba went there, and I saw boys of my own age on their way to school, but my uncles and aunts did not bother to send me. Instead I spent my days laboring on the farm – minding the goats, collecting the fodder for cattle, and performing other chores.

They would scold me for no reason and hurt me with harsh words. Some of my uncles and aunts were so cruel that they took pleasure in making me cry. They called me a son of a bitch or the son of a whore and filthy garbage. They called my mother by other bad names.

Also, they physically abused me, striking me numerous times. Once when I asked for some popcorn because I was hungry, an aunt hit me with a wooden spoon.

Even during the happiest days of the year, I was sad. The biggest festival, Dashain, was celebrated for fifteen days. Families bought new clothes for their children. I foolishly looked forward to a few days of pleasure but was always disappointed when my uncles and aunts bought nothing new for me. Instead they asked the local tailors to make new clothing out of my uncles’ old shirts. The children laughed at my clothes, causing me to weep.

When people were not kind to me and I missed my parents, I went to the thulo simal, a huge tree, that was situated on the top of the hill. I thought it was the largest tree in the world. Daddy, where are you? People are very bad to me. Mote pushed me into a thistle bush and I got boils all over my body. Kaili Ama made my nose bleed when she threw me over a hedge. Please, Daddy, come and beat them.

I got no response, except my own echo.

. . .

With basket and sickle in hand, I headed towards Shakhola, a lovely stream with clear water, which was about three miles from home. Once I had followed the senior fodder collectors there. I went via Bhuwanegairi and on to Sajandanda. The fodder is better at Shakhola, I reasoned. Granny will be proud. I continued on to Andherikhola, a strange river, one without water. It was sheltered by a thick forest and was called Andherikhola (River of Darkness) because the shade made it seem as if it were night even when it was mid-day. My thoughts turned gloomy, which suited my location. Forever my aunts and uncles, even Kanchha Ba, would torment me. Grandmother loved me, but she loved her sons, too, and often her love for me seemed more like mercy. I hungered for real love. I wanted someone with whom I could share my joys and sorrows and who would perceive my tears with sympathy and wipe them away. I wished for a friend who would sit with me and talk, one who could listen with unconditional love. I also wanted to know about the world, but nobody would explain its baffling mysteries. Why is the sky blue? Where does the sun go? Why does the moon change its shape? I had become convinced that most people hated me. The children, my so-called friends, took pleasure in troubling and scaring me and making me cry. Once we built a thatched hut with twigs and leaves and grass. They told me to stay inside and have fun. Then they set the hut on fire. I ran out, crying frantically. They all laughed and told me they had meant to do me a favor by sending me to my father. Andherikhola was increasingly affecting my mood. I felt more and more dejected. The dark river, which hadn’t a drop of water, was a river only in name. Wasn’t my life likewise a life only in name? It wasn’t filled with vitality or promise. It had a scarcity of relatives and friends whose love could provide sustenance. It was as if I were living in a drought and dying from thirst. In the forest that surrounded the river, I imagined fierce demons with horns and tusks coming to eat what was left of me and drink the dregs of my blood. Their claws were like those of tigers. I yelled, Daddy! My whole body was soaked with sweat, and I trembled with fear.

Suddenly the whole area brightened. There appeared the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in real life or in my dreams. She was near my own age. Her face was snow-white except for its rosy cheeks. It had the quality of a freshly bloomed lotus. She had dark-blue eyes, which seemed full of stories and wisdom. She wore a white silk dress that was embroidered with colorful roses and glittering stars. Her hair shone. It was as if she were Sunkesari Maiya, a fairy princess with golden hair from a popular fairy tale. When she smiled at me, I felt as if she were bathing me with light; I was drenched with joy and peace. I appeared so different than she. I was a lean scrap of a boy, a hunchback clad in rags – an ugly creature. But here she was, this lovely girl, beholding me! Who was she? Where had she come from? After a while, I collected my courage and asked, Who are you? I am Zizibisha, your own Zizibisha. My own Zizibisha? I asked, puzzled. Yes, Bishnu, she replied, using my village name, the one my grandmother had given me, which meant God who protects. I’m your friend.

How can you be my friend? I’m so poor and ugly.

That doesn’t matter. But you’re not ugly. You have a wonderful smile. Oh, you’re like a dream! I exclaimed. May I talk freely with you? Of course! You’re a good boy, and I like you. I’ll always be your friend and come to you every now and then. Where do you live? I asked. I’ve never seen you before. I’m never very far away, she answered. Do you grant wishes? I asked.

She laughed. What wishes do you have? I wish my father was alive. I wish my mother could come and get me. I wish my uncles and aunts would be kind to me. I wish I could go to school. By this time, I was crying, and Zizibisha took me in her arms and gently dried my tears. After a while, I felt at peace, and we walked along a path and reached Shakhola Shakhola was a gentle, clear stream. Zizibisha wanted me to take a bath. I agreed because I was feeling very uncomfortable with how dirty I was. She took out shampoo and soap and a soft towel. She washed me from head to toe, giving me a good cleaning; the shampoo and soap had the scent of jasmine. After drying me with the towel, she helped me into new clothes. Where did these come from? I asked.

Oh, they were just lying around," she answered.

They were made of embroidered white silk. She handed me a mirror, and I was shocked to see myself looking like a prince. I was no longer an ugly hunchback; I was handsome. See how nice you look? Zizibisha said, smiling.

We walked to a lovely meadow where wildflowers bloomed. I picked a delicate pink one and put it in her hair. She hugged and kissed me on the cheek. Oh, Bishnu, you’re such a nice boy. I cried with joy. How fortunate I was! Wasn’t I the luckiest of boys? Come with me, she said. I’ll show you a small part of your world. She held my hand, and both of us flew above the meadow. We passed over the green forest, and I saw my village. There were people working in the fields. I saw some of the children playing. Bhoje! I shouted at one of them, desiring to catch their attention and impress them with my ability to fly.

Nobody will hear or see you, Zizibisha said. We’re in the next world. We flew over rolling hills. Before us were the mighty Himalayas. Soon we were above a fertile valley. She told me that this is the place where I should come to study. May I go to school? Yes, that wish will be granted. Now listen carefully: if you want to attend good schools, you must work hard and study a lot. I will, I promised.

Good! We must go back now. At Shakhola, I felt sleepy. When I woke up, it was dark and I was alone. I was afraid. Where is Zizibisha? I wondered. What is she? As morning dawned, my fear gave way to an extraordinary sense of strength and zeal. Quickly I filled my basket with fodder, then headed back to my home in Saurpani. I met the senior fodder collectors near Andherikhola, and some were surprised to see me. We thought a tiger had eaten you, said one.

Didn’t I tell you a tiger would have nothing to do with the likes of him? said another.

They burst into laughter.

I looked at myself. I was the same ugly Bishnu, the dirty hunchback clad in rags.

. . .

After I met Zizibisha, I had an even stronger desire to study and learn. One night I dreamt of attending school, and that very morning I decided to go. Since Kanchha Ba had already left and I did not know where the school was, I waited until students passed our farm so I could follow them. When