The Nirvana Experiments and Other Tales of Asia

By William Page

The Nirvana Experiments and Other Tales of Asia by William Page is a collection of ten stories set in Thailand, India, China, Nepal, Taiwan and Afghanistan.

Some highlights:
An Indian scientist tries to induce enlightenment by manipulating the chemistry of the brain...
An American Peace Corps volunteer declares war on the Nepalese caste system...
A traveler carries an ancient curse into the modern world...
A California girl searches for a guru in the Himalayas...
A Chinese mother contends with a Bodhisattva for the soul of her eight-year-old son.

Although the protagonists come from different backgrounds, most of them are engaged in a common venture: the quest for spiritual certitude.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Proglen
• Release date: Mar 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9786169082514

William Page

William Page is a New Englander who has lived most of his life in Asia. He has taught English at overseas American and international schools in Taipei, Singapore, Isfahan, and Luxembourg. He has also served as a Chinese Mandarin translator with the U.S. Army, as a Peace Corps volunteer in Nepal, and as a curriculum writer in Saudi Arabia. In his youth, he traveled widely through South Asia, backpack style. His chief interest is Eastern religions. In 2001 he retired in Thailand after teaching for 15 years at Thammasat University.

Book preview

THE NIRVANA EXPERIMENTS

AND OTHER TALES OF ASIA

William Page

The Nirvana Experiments and Other Tales of Asia

Copyright © William Page 1995

First published by White Lotus 1995

ISBN: 978-616-90825-1-4 eBook Edition

Smashwords Edition

eBook formatted by

Proglen Trading Co., Ltd.

Bangkok, Thailand

March 2011

Website ebooks.dco.co.th

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

A Matter of Caste and An Old Man and His Roghan are based on real incidents. The Legend of the Nong Shohnohs is based on an actual legend, and there really is (or used to be) a Marhi Hotel run by the prototypes of Ram Bahadur and Dolma 11,000 feet up the Rohtang Pass in Himachal Pradesh. With these exceptions, this is a work of fiction, and all characters and events are products of the author's imagination.

Ekam sat.

Vipra bahudha vadanti.

That Being is One.

Wise men call it by various names.

-Rig Veda

Tao ke tao

Fei chang Tao.

Ming ke ming

Fei chang Ming.

The tao that can be tao'ed

Is not the ultimate Tao.

The name that can be named

Is not the ultimate Name.

-Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching

For Thakur

Contents

1. A Matter of Caste (Nepal)

2. The Legend of the Nong Shohnohs (India)

3. An Old Man and His Roghan (Afghanistan)

4. The Nirvana Experiments (India)

5. Incident at the Marhi Hotel (India)

6. The Mine (China)

7. The Crucifixion of Yunghwa Heshang (China)

8. Tao Master Lee and the E-Z MiniMart (Thailand)

9. The Magical Mirror of Kuan Yin Pusa (China/Taiwan)

10. Taifeng Station (Taiwan)

A Matter of Caste

On Saraswati's feast-day, they killed goats. Swenson watched the slaughter from his room on the second story of the school. Below, in the schoolyard, the servants dismembered the goats, roasted the meat over the fire, and prepared leaf plates of goat-meat curry. The sun was just rising above the foothills to the east, bathing the land in light. To the north, the long white ribbon of the Himalayas shimmered on the horizon.

Later they held a feast inside the school. Sixty little Nepalese schoolboys sat cross-legged on the floor of the main room, each with a plate of curry in front of him. But before they could eat, there had to be speeches.

The old Brahmin priest delivered a long sermon on Saraswati's significance as the goddess of learning and urged the boys to come to the temple more often. Prayag, the headmaster, gave a fine rousing speech on the role of education in national development. Devi Prasad, the second master, gave his usual exhortations on the necessity of wearing shoes. Devi Prasad had an obsession with shoes that bewildered the elders of the district. None of them knew anything about hookworm, and none of them had worn shoes when they were boys.

As Devi Prasad was thundering to the climax of his speech with a gruesome description of the horrors of hookworm, Swenson happened to go past the rear door. Three scruffy little boys were squatting outside in the dirt. They all had runny noses, looked undernourished and unwashed, and wore the patched, dirt-stained white clothing of the very poor.

Swenson went into the school and took the headmaster aside. Prayag, what are those three little kids doing outside? Shouldn't they be in here with everybody else?

Prayag looked uncertain. You see, they are low-caste, he said. The others ... but of course, you are right, this is the New Nepal, we are all equal now. Well, I shall have to explain things.

As soon as Devi Prasad had finished, Prayag took the floor again. Swenson's Nepali was limited, and he couldn't make out everything the headmaster said, but he caught expressions like New Nepal, equality, and caste. A growl of anger and disapproval swept through the boys. This surprised Swenson, since they were usually so docile. But Prayag quelled the rebellion with a few sharp words, and gestured to Swenson to bring the three boys in.

Swenson went outside and did so. They seemed intimidated, even frightened, and the attitude of the other boys was not calculated to put them at ease. It was one of palpable hostility.

Afterwards, Prayag was apologetic. You see, it is difficult to uproot these customs, he said. We can only keep trying.

The problem is that we got here too late, Devi Prasad added. Their parents got to them first.

I hate the caste system, Swenson declared. I'm going to smash it every chance I get.

Prayag was taken aback at his vehemence. Well, it may take some time, he said.

A few weeks later, Swenson went on a trek to some outlying villages. He was accompanied by Narendra Bikram Silawal, one of the district development workers. Narendra was a Chhetri, or Kshatriya--a member of the second highest caste after the Brahmins.

Wanting to be friendly to the local populace, Swenson greeted everyone they met along the trail by saluting them with palms joined at chest level and intoning Namastey! with a cheerful grin. This was the traditional Nepali greeting, and the people he met always grinned back and namasteyed in return. But Narendra observed these proceedings with increasing disapproval.

One evening, while they were camped in a peasant's goat shed, Narendra raised the issue. Gopalji! he addressed Swenson by his Nepali name. When we are going from village to village, you must not namastey everyone you meet on the road. You should namastey the village headmen, the district officials, the people who are important. Don't namastey all the Tibetans and Tamangs and old women and children and peasants and servants and porters.

Why not? Swenson inquired.

Because they are low. You are high. They must namastey you first.

Why are they low? Swenson asked. By now he had decided on Socratic dialogue as the best means of promoting democratic attitudes in Nepal.

Some of them are dirty, Narendra answered. Others are poor. Most are low-caste.

Swenson had anticipated this response, and he was ready for it. "Have you read the Bhagavad Gita, Narendra?" he asked.

Narendra was evasive. I don't know, he said.

"Do you know what Sri Krishna says in the Bhagavad Gita?" Swenson pursued.

Narendra scrunched his head into his shoulders like a turtle under siege. I don't know. You tell me.

Swenson had been studying the Bhagavad Gita, and he was prepared for this moment. "In the Bhagavad Gita, he began, moving into his best oratorical mode, Sri Krishna tells us, 'I am in all things, and all things are in me. Everything is a part of me: there is nothing that is outside me.'

Now, if everything is a part of Sri Krishna, how can anything be low? How can anything be dirty? If you call these people low and dirty, you are calling Sri Krishna low and dirty: you are insulting the Lord!

Narendra was quiet for awhile. Then he said, Yes, this is what religion says. But society is different. Society has different requirements. And we must live in society.

Should we follow what Sri Krishna teaches, or what society teaches? Swenson asked.

Narendra was quiet again. Then he said, We should follow Sri Krishna. But we must also live in society. In Kathmandu, nowadays, they are saying that there should be no castes. But we hill people are different. We cling to our caste. Things change slowly in the hills.

Swenson felt that he had scored an important point, but he knew Narendra was not convinced. So the next day, just to hammer the point home, he continued to namastey everyone they met on the trail. I'm going to murder the caste system, he vowed to himself as he namasteyed a toothless old Tibetan crone and Narendra scowled. I'm going to smash it every chance I get.

The monsoon brought heavy rains that year. One afternoon Swenson was sitting in Kali Amai's teahouse, watching the rain drip from the eaves after a heavy downpour. Outside, he noticed a woman squatting in the mud by the roadside. She must have been in her mid-thirties, but she was gaunt and wrinkled, and looked at least fifty. She wore a faded old sari that was spattered with mud.

A little girl, perhaps five or six years old, was playing beside her in the road. Her face and clothes were dirty, and she looked half starved. Beside her, an even smaller boy was lying on the ground, unmoving. He was wearing rags, and although Swenson couldn't see clearly, his stomach looked swollen. Swenson beckoned to Krishna Bahadur, the serving-boy. Who are those people? he asked, pointing to the woman and her children.

Krishna Bahadur went outside to make inquiries. He got into a conversation with the woman, who began casting suspicious glances at Swenson. Finally he came back inside the teahouse. This woman is a Tamang from up north, Krishna Bahadur reported. She married into another caste, and had three children, but then her husband died. His family drove her out.

Why did they do that? Swenson inquired.

The woman is low-caste, sah'b, Krishna Bahadur replied. They drove her out over a month ago. Since then she has been wandering from village to village with her children.

What happened to the third child?

Krishna Bahadur went back outside and consulted with the woman, who was giving Swenson some really hard stares by now. Swenson could hear her voice rise and fall in a whining litany. She is a complaining woman, Krishna Bahadur declared as he came back inside.

What about the third child?

Dead, sah'b. Died a week ago. There was no food, she said.

And what does she plan to do now? Where will she go?

Krishna Bahadur shrugged and rolled his eyes heavenward.

Swenson went outside and approached the woman. Namastey, he said. Listen, elder sister, I am an American Peace Corps volunteer. That man says you are poor. Is it so?

The woman nodded.

Then I will help you. Please come to my house. My cook will prepare food. You will eat. You and your children, three people. There is a sleeping place for you.

The woman hesitated for a long moment, then looked at her children. All right, sah'b, she said.

This was not going to go over very well at all in Chautara, Swenson realized as he led them through the bazaar and up the trail to the school. Already he could see the shock in the faces of the people he met going through the bazaar, and Krishna Bahadur had been grinning as they left the teahouse. The whole town would be scandalized, and the development people he worked with would lose face. It would definitely undercut his effectiveness.

But he didn't care. The hell with them, he thought. Let them think what they want. It's high time somebody gave this town a lesson in Christian charity, and the caste system a good kick in the pants.

He ushered the woman and her children into the second room, where he stored his excess gear. There was a cot and a mat on the floor, and he pointed them out to the woman. Then he went down to the kitchen to tell the cook to make food.

Three guests have come, Padam Bahadur, he told the cook. Please make lentils, rice, and curry for them.

Padam Bahadur squatted by the fire and shook his shaggy head. No, sah'b, he said. I won't cook for them.

Swenson was taken aback by this act of insurrection. Why not? he demanded.

Padam Bahadur pointed upstairs. Low-caste, he replied.

Swenson's face flushed. I don't care what their caste is! he snapped. You aren't so high-caste yourself! You get busy and start cooking right now, or you're fired!

Cowed by this outburst, Padam Bahadur hunched his shoulders, waggled his head, and threw some more wood onto the fire. Swenson ducked out of the kitchen and went back upstairs.

The woman and her children were not only malnourished, they had lice, and their clothes were filthy and in tatters. The little boy couldn't have been older than three or four. His big eyes were moist and empty; his belly was bloated from lack of food. All of them had sores on their legs, and the little girl had a hacking cough.

There wasn't enough water for them to bathe in--that would have to wait till the town water tap was turned on the next morning--but Swenson went down to the kitchen and brought up a basin with enough water for them to wash in.

The woman and her children didn't seem interested in washing. Swenson repeatedly pointed to the basin and said, Wash face and hands, but they just stared at him and remained squatting on the floor.

Pretty soon Padam Bahadur came lumbering up the stairs. He was carrying some tin plates and three cooking pots--one with rice, one with lentil gravy, and one with curried potatoes and spinach. He entered the room, dumped the pots and plates on the floor, hurled the woman a contemptuous glance, and stomped back downstairs.

Swenson made a point of serving the woman and her children himself, ladling the rice, lentils, and curry into their plates while they watched. Then all three of them attacked their food, shoving great fistfuls of rice into their mouths and gulping them down. When their plates were clean, Swenson refilled them, again and again, until they had each consumed three heaping platefuls.

Finally they were satisfied. The woman uttered a little belch of contentment and curled up on the cot.

Swenson left them and went back to his room. The next morning, he fed them again. He also gave each of them a denim work-shirt. The little girl and boy were small enough so that they didn't need to wear anything else. Swenson wasn't sure how the woman would manage to wear a work-shirt and her sari together, but he guessed he'd let her figure that out.

He waved goodbye to them as they went down the trail, and they waved back. The little girl and boy were wearing their new work-shirts; the woman was carrying hers, and their old clothes, in a bundle under her arm. Swenson went back to the school feeling good about himself.

Two days later, he saw them again in the bazaar. All three of them were dressed in their old rags; the work-shirts were nowhere to be seen. The woman nodded as Swenson namasteyed her, then perfunctorily namasteyed back.

Back in the development office, Swenson began to think. If the woman was going to hang around Chautara, she needed a means of supporting herself. So he went to the district council chairman.

Tribhuman Shrestha was a fat, oily little Newar always fastidiously dressed in a black cap, a white Nepali-style shirt and tight pajama pants, and a black suit jacket. He habitually munched on nuts that he carried in a tin in his jacket pocket. Ordinarily Swenson didn't like dealing with him, having pegged him early on as effete, treacherous, and sly. But he was a big merchant and landowner, he owned the biggest cloth shop in the district, and when it came to wielding political power, Tribhuman Shrestha was the only show in town.

He hemmed and hawed and sighed when Swenson presented the problem. It doesn't look good for the Tamang woman to be wandering around Chautara with her children, he complained. They don't belong here. Why don't they leave? He sighed deeply and frowned and shook his head and chewed another handful of nuts.

Patiently, in his most diplomatic manner, Swenson explained that the woman didn't have anyplace to go. But it will be good if the people of Chautara can help her, he suggested. Isn't there some sort of job we can find for her? Perhaps selling cloth in your shop?

Tribhuman Shrestha shook his head. No, that won't do, he said. She's low-caste. He frowned as he spoke the words, and Swenson controlled his temper with difficulty. The district chairman sighed and scratched himself and