Chapter 8
Nepal
‘Dhan-ya-bad, Lila,’ I carefully enunciated an hour later, climbing back in the minibus.
‘All good?’ Tiff’s eyes narrowed.
She must have been able to tell I’d been crying, but she didn’t say anything.
‘All good,’ I replied, getting my guidebook out of my bag to avoid looking at her.
I’d read Bronte’s words while sitting quietly with a coffee in the rooftop café overlooking the magnificent white dome.
I thought about Harry, how he was coping with his grief, and what he was doing with his life.
It melted my heart the way she managed to weave his name into most of her itinerary entries.
They’d been together for three years and I’d got to know him well during that time, but they were young; I’d never really considered that they’d be each other’s ‘happy ever after’.
Now reading her thoughts about him, I wondered if I’d been too dismissive of their relationship.
What if they had gone the distance and he’d eventually become part of my family?
I forced myself to recall those first few days and weeks after the accident.
I’d been too numb to think about anyone or anything.
In my head Harry was badly injured, but he’d mend; his parents would still have their son in their lives.
My Bronte, on the other hand, was gone forever.
I made my mind up, sitting alone above the stupa, that I’d get back in touch with him, check how he was doing, let him know that if he wanted to talk about my daughter, I’d be there to listen.
I’d watched the monks deep in contemplation while I finished my drink, smiling to myself when I saw a good-looking one.
I’d listened to the hypnotic chanting of a group of women connected by the repetition of their mantras and I’d taken pictures of the fluttering prayer flags.
Before leaving I’d lit a candle for Bronte, and thanked her for bringing me a moment of peace amidst the chaos of this beautiful place; and then I’d lit one for her dad because she would have liked that.
Should I have done more to find him? I closed my mind to the guilt and reminded myself that I’d done the best I could at the time.
There was nothing to be gained by questioning my decisions now.
I left the candles burning and joined the pilgrimage for one lap around the stupa. I leaned into my grief for once, allowing my tears to fall freely instead of keeping my emotions locked inside. And it had felt cathartic.
‘Where now, mam?’ Lila asked.
‘Here, please,’ I said, showing him the page in my guidebook for Shree Pashupatinath, the oldest Hindu temple in Kathmandu. ‘It’s not on Bronte’s list, but I’ve read about it and if there’s time, I’d like to go.’
‘Maggie, it’s a wonderful temple, but it’s also a site for funerals.’ Tiff pursed her lips. ‘I don’t think you’re ready.’
‘You’ve known me less than twenty-four hours and you’re making decisions for me?’ I said, bemused.
‘I’m looking out for you, that’s all,’ she replied. ‘I know that place well, and I think experiencing the raw grief of others won’t be healthy for you.’
I felt a rush of warmth for this new friend of mine. ‘Thank you, I appreciate that. But this trip is forcing me out of my comfort zone. I can cope, I assure you. Sorry Lila, Shree Pashup … er …’
‘Okay, mam,’ said Lila, solemnly.
‘He agrees with me,’ Tiff murmured.
‘Tell me more about the project in Chitwan,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘And your job in the US. Who do you work for now?’
‘I work for the only woman who can put up with me.’
‘Your mum?’
‘Nope. Best boss in the world.’ She gave me a mischievous look. ‘Me. Gives me all the time off I want to come to Nepal.’
Lila stopped the minibus outside the entrance and I gathered my things ready to get out.
‘I’m not happy about this,’ said Tiff, sliding open the door. ‘So I’m coming with you.’
‘I’ll be fine, but happy for you to be my tour guide,’ I conceded, secretly grateful for the company.
The temple was a huge place consisting of many separate buildings along the banks of the Bagmati river.
The main building had an ornate copper roof topped with a gold spire.
Through an open gateway we could see glimpses of a giant golden statue of a bull.
Tiff pointed out places of interest as we followed the path down to the river.
‘This is one of the most important cremation sites in Kathmandu,’ she explained.
‘Hindus believe that it is a very special place, not only to be cremated but to die.’
‘Oh gosh,’ I said, sucking in a breath as we passed a group of mourners carrying their departed loved one on a stretcher. Ahead, I could see a row of stone platforms lining the riverbank, most of which were topped with smoking funeral pyres.
Tiff gave me a concerned look. ‘Happy to carry on?’
I nodded. There was a reverence to the atmosphere here, a sense of peace and acceptance, a far cry from the oppressive pain which had hung over Bronte’s cremation.
We continued walking in silence, watching young men washing the feet of the dead in the waters of the river, and sobbing women arranging garlands of marigolds over orange satin sheets, the outlines of the bodies visible beneath them. None of it was being done behind closed doors.
‘Still okay?’ asked Tiff, as I stumbled over a tree root.
‘Not really.’ I fixed my eyes on a place further along the riverbank where clouds of black smoke filled the air. A group of men lowered a wooden stretcher onto a plinth by the water.
We stood at a respectful distance as the family piled chaff onto the body and set fire to it.
Flames engulfed the body and people began to wail.
A few metres away, the fire on the next plinth was almost burned through; all the mourners had gone.
A man worked his way along the riverbank with a broom, sweeping debris into the waters of the river.
I gasped. ‘Is that … is he …?’
Tiff nodded. ‘Sweeping the remains into the river? Yes.’
I was shocked. Apart from the small pot that I’d brought with me, Bronte’s ashes were safe at home. Wherever they were finally scattered, it would be somewhere precious to her, and I would make sure it was a moment to remember.
‘It’s so barbaric,’ I said croakily. ‘Our funerals are so tidy and organised, we dress our dead in their own clothes, even put make-up on them to make the sight of them more palatable.’
‘Death is part of life here,’ Tiff explained. ‘The human body has no meaning after death. The quicker it can be disposed of, the quicker the soul can reach the next stage of enlightenment, which is reincarnation.’
‘It seems very matter-of-fact,’ I argued.
She shook her head. ‘We might do it differently, but for Hindus this ritual is every bit as sacred as ours.’
I’d agonised over every detail of the service we’d held for Bronte.
An image flashed into my mind of her pale weeping friends singing along to ‘A Thousand Years’ by Christina Perri, traumatised to have lost one of their own.
Harry, on crutches, head bowed, flanked by his parents, hadn’t sung.
He’d remained silent throughout, even disappearing at the end without joining the line of mourners who’d come to hug and kiss me, offering condolences.
It was supposed to have been a celebration of her life.
But really, what had there been to celebrate?
‘Shall we go?’ Tiff asked, noticing me shudder.
‘Yes please.’
An hour later we were back in the lobby of the guest house, having packed up our room. My transport to the Chitwan valley was on its way, and Tiff was waiting for Lila to take her to the airport.
The manager had offered us free drinks as an apology for the room mix-up, but all we wanted was water.
I rested my head against the back of my chair and heaved a sigh.
‘You okay?’ Tiff asked.
‘What am I doing here, Tiff?’ I said wearily. ‘I’m a knackered, middle-aged woman doing the gap-year trip of a twenty-three-year-old. I’m ridiculous. Why am I not doing something incredible like you?’
She gave me a half-smile. ‘You’re not ridiculous.
You’ve suffered a traumatic event, through no fault of your own.
What comes next can be a choice. For me, I can’t make the whole world a better place, but I’m trying to make it a better place for some.
I work hard but I have the freedom to balance it with my passion project. You have freedom now too.’
My body tensed; I couldn’t bear it when people tried to persuade me that there was a positive side to losing my only child. ‘Don’t go there.’
‘Freedom is a wonderful thing, Maggie. You don’t value it yet, but you will.’
I wondered when her loneliness had tipped over into freedom. Because I doubted mine ever would. ‘How did you get to be so wise when you’re still so young?’
‘Wisdom doesn’t come with age; it comes from experiencing things you don’t always want to.’
‘Even that was wise,’ I countered. ‘I envy you, not for what you’ve been through, but for how you got back up, how you found new purpose. How do I move forward when all that I love is in the past?’
‘I dunno.’ She shrugged. ‘By loving yourself, I guess, by believing that there is a purpose for you, and you don’t know what it is yet.’
I shook my head. I wanted to believe her, but I couldn’t.
‘This trip you’re doing for your daughter, it’s your earthquake.
Don’t let yourself drift through this trip, don’t let it be a series of tick boxes.
Dig deep inside you, use this time to find what makes you tick.
This is your life. Yours. I know you’re grieving.
I can see it in your smile: it’s only eighty per cent true.
But it’s okay to feel joy, and have fun, and take pleasure from being someplace new.
Your purpose is already inside you, waiting for you to notice it. ’
I touched my face, and tried to remember the last time my cheeks ached from smiling so much.
‘Mum! Stop grinning at me.’
‘Can’t help it. It’s such a nice surprise to see you. I’ll probably fall asleep with this smile on my face.’
A minibus pulled up outside the guest house. Its roof rack held a mountain of luggage and curious faces were pressed to the windows; my ride was here.
‘To Chitwan.’ Tiff raised her water bottle and tapped it against mine.
‘To Chitwan,’ I chorused, ‘and to finding the missing twenty per cent of my smile.’