Sun & Shadow: Jeevan Ho Gham Chaya

By N.H. Manandhar

"A complete masterpiece that touches the life of a Dalit woman to the fullest..." Samata Foundation, Nepal

Durga and Prabesh, a young intercaste couple from Nepal, are discovered having a secret affair. The threat of violent reprisal prohibits any hope of staying together, and they are forced to follow very different paths. This is their story.

In a remote Himalayan village where casteism is rife and poverty is endemic, teenaged Durga does her best to accept her karma, and her hastily arranged marriage to a violent alcoholic. Durga’s only joy is the secret knowledge that Prabesh is her son’s father, and she nurtures hope that one day they will be reunited through their son, and they will all escape to Kathmandu together.

But there is no escape in sight. Instead, Durga is continually brutalised by her alcoholic husband and forced to endure daily discrimination because of an unfair caste system. She tries hard, but it is a struggle to accept that this is her karma. When she discovers the local community is outraged at her because she did not give birth in the squalid and unhygienic communal hut – and that her husband has stolen her meagre savings to go on a drinking binge, Durga has finally had enough. Violence, injustice, discrimination, poverty. The time has come to rebel – to fight for a better life for her children, for her neighbours, for herself. But defying age-old traditions and ingrained prejudices – by one who is the most oppressed – is an intimidating journey. Durga must find the courage – and her voice – before she can succeed.

In Durga’s home village, schoolteacher Prabesh believes it was not karma but deep-rooted discrimination – and the threat of violence – that prevented he and Durga from being together. As a high caste, Prabesh comes from privilege. His life as a respected teacher in rural Nepal is idyllic by comparison. He has never been hungry and has never wanted for anything. The only infringement on Prabesh’s rights come from his overly meddling mother, and his shamelessly bigoted and corrupt father. Angry at his inability to defy his father and marry Durga, Prabesh sets up a social work program to assist the impoverished children in his village. For Prabesh, the program has special significance. It targets children from the same caste as Durga, and their families are mostly victims of his father's corrupt practices. Prabesh's dislike for his father continues to increase the more he discovers the extent of the poverty, and it is difficult not to be overwhelmed. But he perseveres, and his dedication arouses both sympathy and donations from overseas. Prabesh's father, upon hearing of the donations, insists on becoming involved in the program, and his greedy machinations force Prabesh to confront both ethical and moral dilemmas. The only way to keep the project alive, and help all those children, is for Prabesh to find his voice, and the courage to defy his father.

• Language: English
• Publisher: N.H. Manandhar
• Release date: Oct 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9789937953283

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Disclaimer

This book is a work of fiction and, as such, all characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 NHManandhar

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All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. 

To request permissions, contact the author at [e-mail].

Paperback: ISBN 9789937-9532-7-6

Ebook: ISBN 9789937-9532-8-3

First paperback edition October 2023

Cover art by N.H. Manandhar

Printed by B.C. Printing & Packaging Pvt. Ltd. in Kathmandu, Nepal.

Note to the Reader

Sun & Shadow is a reality-based fiction set during the period late 1990 to early 2000, and focuses on poverty, discrimination and the ill-treatment of men, women and children from the so-called lower castes in Nepal.

In order to fully describe the harsh reality of the lives of so many people in Nepal during that period, Sun & Shadow contains scenes and/or references to war crimes, violence, domestic violence, marital rape, child abuse, substance abuse, suicide, and discrimination.

Though fictional, the scenes and/or references are loosely based on first-person accounts, news reports, and human rights investigations.

Readers who may be sensitive to these elements please take note.

This book is dedicated to the beautiful people of Nepal. Your combined courage, strength, bravery, tenacity, indomitable will, good humour, willingness to share, generosity of time and spirit, acceptance, patience, and kindness inspired me to write in the first place. You are the backbone and soul of this story, and never has telling a story been such a heartfelt and meaningful experience.

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1

Lost Dreams

Durga shrank back against the wall as she watched her father’s face darken with fury. Her mother was outraged; her words had been blunt.

Your daughter’s been having sex with the Village Chief’s son!

He strode over to where Durga was huddled, towering over her, fists clenched. Keeping his eyes on his daughter’s face, he addressed her mother.

How do you know?

Durga’s mother spoke through gritted teeth. I know because I caught them this afternoon; naked and shameless!

His mouth contorted, and he raised his fists to strike. Durga held up her hands to ward him off, crying out as she did, Wait! Please, it’s not like that! He loves me, we’re in love!

In love? Her father bent over and slapped her face. Are you mad, or stupid? He slapped her again. "The Village Chief is high caste, damn you! Even our shadow cannot touch a high caste. And you’ve been…."

Durga was defiant despite her tears, Prabesh doesn’t care about caste! And neither do I! He loves me and we’re going to marry…

Her father crouched and grasped her arms, shaking her violently. Fool! You really think you two could ever marry? Disgusted, he snorted. He’s the Village Chief’s son! He’s just been having fun with you. He knows his father would never allow him to marry you.

That’s not true, we’ve planned it – we’re going to elope! His father will never know. Durga struggled to her knees, desperate. No-one will know. We’ll take the bus to Kathmandu tomorrow. Please, please let us…

No! Her mother had crouched beside her father. She gripped Durga’s chin, wrenching her daughter’s face towards her. Her tone was pitiless, her voice a harsh whisper. He’s playing with you. He’s not going to elope with you. And even if he did, someone would find out. They always do. The entire village would know before the two of you even reached Kathmandu. And then what?

Durga’s father chimed in. "I’ll tell you what. The Village Chief will lose face – he’ll have to disown his son, and he’ll be furious. But he won’t be angry at his son. Oh no, he’ll be angry at us. Because we should have known better, you should have known better. You had no right to go anywhere near the Village Chief or his family."

Durga responded sullenly. I didn’t go to him; he came to me.

Durga’s mother shoved her backwards, making her fall awkwardly against the wall. She kept her voice low, harsh. No one will believe that, you stupid, selfish girl! The Village Chief is high caste, and everyone in the village will take his side. Everyone! And it won’t matter if you’re in Kathmandu or not, he’ll still take his anger out on us, your family. We’ll be chased out of the village!

Durga’s father shook her arm again, his calloused hand clamped so tight it left an imprint. Not just chased out. We’re low caste, so you know how it will go. We’ve seen it before. Our home will be burnt, our buffalo killed. They will beat your brother and me and humiliate your sister and mother. Is that what you want? Is it?

"No!" Durga covered her face and sobbed. Prabesh had been so positive eloping to Kathmandu would work that she hadn’t questioned him. Nor had she considered the consequences to her family if they’d been found out. The confronting picture painted by her father was more painful than any blow he could administer. Durga felt sick.

Durga’s father stood up and scowled down at her, his arms crossed. He nudged her leg with his foot. Does anyone know about you two?

Not trusting herself to speak, Durga shook her head weakly.

Good. We’ll arrange your marriage to someone like us from another village. You’ll move to his village, and we’ll all pray to God no-one ever finds out about you and the Village Chief’s son.

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Dressed in the same traditional red sari her mother had worn, Durga stepped over the threshold of the small village temple. She glanced furtively at her husband-to-be as she stepped to his side, curiosity briefly overcoming her misery. Ram was a stranger from a distant village about whom she knew nothing – sacrificing selectiveness for speed, her parents’ only criteria had been for Ram to be single, and a Dalit like them.

Appalled, Durga wished she hadn’t looked. At twenty, Ram was only four years older than Durga, but he’d already lost much of his hair and pockmarks covered most of his face. Tall, thin, and shabbily dressed, he’d been more interested in the small pile of coins and gifts than in the marriage rituals. When he saw Durga looking at him, his mouth curled into a leer, revealing yellow, crooked teeth. The red veil covering her face could not hide her dismay, and Durga quickly looked down, fighting her anger and distress. This was not a marriage; this was a punishment for daring to dream of happiness.

The wedding feast was simple: rice, dal, vegetables, and chicken curry. Durga’s parents were poor and there was neither money nor time to make traditional sweets or to buy goat meat. Only a few of her parents’ friends were invited to attend as witnesses. Though they would miss a day’s wages, the friends gladly came. Everyone in a poor village knew the value of a free meal, especially where meat would be served.

Ram brought supporters from his village too, and they drank and ate greedily. Durga sat quietly throughout the meal, her head bowed, unable to stomach any food. Her new husband ignored her as he ate, drank, and sang lewd songs with his friends. Inwardly, he was fuming. She didn’t serve him or make a fuss of him, as he believed all new brides should. She made him look a fool and he would punish her for that. But in front of her parents, he said and did nothing, focusing instead on the free food and drink. Punishment could wait.

To Durga’s relief, Ram eventually passed out with his friends, allowing her to slink back inside the hut and spend her last night with family.

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Durga’s mother woke her early the next morning. Stony-faced, she suppressed her misgivings towards her daughter’s new husband. Together, they made a huge meal of dal bhat for Ram and his friends before they all set off. The long trek back to his village would take the best part of the day. As soon as he finished eating, Ram jumped up, calling everyone to get ready to go. With a frown, Durga’s mother reminded Ram that Durga, who had served everyone, still needed time to eat.

Barely concealing his impatience, Ram rolled his eyes and grabbed a raksi bottle, telling Durga to eat quickly so they could leave. Durga’s stomach clenched with anxiety, and she could barely force down a few quick mouthfuls before giving up. She gathered her meagre belongings to start her new life – a slightly bent pot from her mother and two kurtha salwar, one new, one mended many times over. The happy tinkle her glass bangles made as she moved seemed out of place. Finally, standing in front of her childhood home, Durga sobbed loudly and farewelled her parents. Though they’d forced this marriage on her, she loved them and would miss them.

Dragged by Ram, surrounded by his hungover friends and most of the children from her village, Durga walked slowly away from her family and her life. She pulled her shawl closer to hide her tears. As the wedding party passed the non-Dalit settlement, Durga risked a quick look around. She desperately wanted one last glimpse of Prabesh before leaving the village. Many had stopped what they were doing to watch the sad little procession, but Prabesh was nowhere in sight.

The walk from Durga’s village to the road head, the track leading to the road, was a blur of steep inclines, narrow trails, and rickety bridges. It took much longer than the usual two hours. There were no women in the party and Durga knew no-one, not even her new husband. Adding to her unease, Ram and his supporters continued drinking as they walked down the hill, drunkenly lurching into one another, oblivious to the trail’s dangerous precipice. With her belongings in the doko on her back, three chickens in a crude bamboo basket and a headstrong old goat on a rope, Durga had her hands full. She knew even a simple stumble near the trail’s ninety-foot cliff could be fatal, so she dropped right back and kept out of their way.

Once they reached the main road, they only had to wait ten minutes for a crowded local bus to wheeze to a stop in front of them. The conductor quickly and expertly tied the goat and chickens to the roof, while the wedding party was forced to wedge themselves into the cramped interior. Alternately pushing and shoving, Ram managed to carve out a couple of square inches behind the driver for him and his friends to perch, leaving Durga to stand for the entire two-hour, hot, bumpy journey on the winding, potholed road to Pokhara. Like many from the remote villages, this was Durga’s first ride on a vehicle of any kind, and she struggled with travel sickness in the cramped and hot conditions. Seeing how Ram and his friends laughed at the green faces of the hapless first-time passengers, nudging and pointing as they vomited out the window, Durga controlled her own heaving stomach by sheer force of will. She was grateful she’d been unable to eat earlier that morning.

Her relief as the bus finally lumbered into Pokhara was short-lived. They still had another bus to catch, another tortuous journey on another steeply winding road. Within an hour they were on the next overcrowded bus to Nadinagar, the goats and chickens up on the roof as before, watching another lot of sallow passengers willing themselves not to vomit. At least this time, Durga was able to sit throughout the journey.

A nightmarish hour and forty-five minutes later, Durga was gratefully standing beside the road, watching as Ram and his friends gave needless instructions to the conductor. He clambered quickly onto the roof of the bus, untied the goat and chickens, and handed them down, then gave the bus roof two quick thumps to let the driver know to continue the journey. Durga watched in amazement as the conductor swung like a monkey from the roof to the door as the bus gathered speed, belching plumes of stinking black diesel fumes. By the time she looked back, Ram and his friends had already disappeared up a narrow trail, leaving the goat and chickens for her to manage. Gathering everything to her, Durga took a deep breath, then followed her new husband up the steep trail on the last leg of the journey to her new home.

By the time they’d walked the three hours uphill to Ram’s village, it was dark and everyone else had returned to their own huts. Durga had no idea where she was and when Ram elbowed her towards a small, mean looking hut she stood for a moment, confused. Ram pushed her again while he shook the last drop of raksi into his mouth, then tossed the empty bottle carelessly over his shoulder. Durga had barely made it inside the front door when Ram wordlessly pushed her again, this time towards a thin, torn mattress on the ground. Tired and disoriented, Durga put up her hands to protest, and was rewarded with a back-handed slap that split her lip. Before she could react, Ram forced her down onto the filthy mattress, fumbling at her sari and ripping the ties from her new cholo. Dismayed, Durga struggled to get up, flinging out her arm and smashing her glass bangles against the dirt floor. The tinkling of broken glass and the sharp pain of glass embedded in her arm brought a random thought to Durga’s mind – it was bad luck to smash the wedding bangles. Durga half sat up to see if they’d all been smashed, but Ram hit her again before pulling down his pants, forcing her legs apart and thrusting himself into her. Mercifully, it was all over in less than two minutes, Ram panting and thrusting and then collapsing on top of her when he was spent. He fell asleep instantly.

Durga stared at the roof, her mind a blank, too shocked to think. It took her a few moments to realise she could see stars shining in through a hole in the thatched roof. Overcome with dread, Durga slowly sat up and surveyed her new home. The dirt floor of the one-roomed hut was littered with empty raksi bottles, and an old pressure cooker still caked with rice sat beside the crude fireplace. A tattered picture of the god Krishna was stuck to the mud wall with a bent and rusted nail. A battered tin trunk was the only furniture, and a decayed grass mat was all that kept the torn and thin mattress off the ground.

Shocked, Durga fell back to the mattress and gingerly touched her cheekbone, still throbbing from Ram’s fist. As she swiped at a small trickle of blood from her nostril, her eyes filled with hot, angry tears and despair filled her soul. Muffling her sobs with her shawl Durga wept then, for her lost dreams, for Prabesh, and at the horror her life had just become.

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2

Bitter Truth

Durga gingerly eased herself up from the mattress, trying not to disturb a heavily snoring Ram. She willed herself to think positively about her situation – very few marriages were love marriages; in fact, everyone Durga knew had an arranged marriage. It was normal. Hers may have been arranged a little more quickly than usual, but she was still in the same position as most newlywed girls in Nepal – married to and at the mercy of a virtual stranger. Durga suppressed a shudder of dismay as she looked from her new husband’s snoring face to the crude and dirty surrounds. She had no choice but to try to turn this miserable hut into a home for her and Ram and their future children.

But at that moment, Durga could not face being inside any longer. Wincing, her body aching from the long walk and from Ram’s callous introduction to married life, Durga shuffled outside to face the new dawn. She focused first on the goat, patiently standing where she’d hurriedly tethered it the night before, and then the chickens, clucking contentedly in their flimsy bamboo basket. Seeing the familiar animals comforted her, and she busied herself finding some grass for the goat and letting the chickens out to scratch around. This done, Durga finally took a deep breath and looked up and around at her new home.

The morning light revealed it as nothing more than a squalid, dirty, and rundown hut, rectangular and made of mud. A crooked wooden beam at either end supported a sparsely thatched roof. A few pieces of rusty corrugated iron were stuck haphazardly under the thatch. The thatch extended to form a narrow verandah which overlooked the yard, no more than a few feet of hard-packed dirt. A kitchen garden, barren but for a few scraggly weeds, sat on one side of the hut. The yard dropped away suddenly, steeply, affording a view across the valley to the huge and greenly terraced hills on the other side, the snow-capped himal shimmering beyond.

On the hill above and behind Durga were more huts. As with her home village, this Dalit settlement was relegated to the outskirts of the main village. Durga could see some huts that were rudimentary but in reasonable condition, just like in her own village. In stark contrast, in this settlement there were also many mean and ramshackle huts, and her new home was one of the most dilapidated.

The main village was higher up the trail, which zigzagged through a jungle separating the two communities. Along the trail many smaller walking tracks broke away towards the various huts. Durga surveyed the well-used trail that wound past Ram’s hut and continued its precipitous journey down the hill to the road head. She realised this was the trail they’d followed uphill last night, but it had been too dark to see. Looking down the hill, she saw terraces bursting with vivid green rice crops. There were huts scattered all along the pathway, some in groups of two or three, but mostly single huts. The pathway, eroded by the yearly monsoon rains, cut deeply into the hill, and was packed flat by porters weighed down by the impossibly heavy loads they carried on their backs in their doko.

What she couldn’t see at first glance was the communal water tap, and more than anything, Durga wanted to wash herself. She’d already discovered the battered old gagro sitting empty beside the front door. Unwilling to wake Ram to ask where the tap was, Durga grabbed the gagro and hoisted it to her hip, hoping to either find the tap or at least follow someone else carrying a gagro.

Pausing to gather her courage, Durga turned and followed the path uphill, through the jungle towards the main village. She stopped when she saw the village clearly for the first time. The settlement sprawled halfway up the steep hillside, and beyond it the tip of another massive, snow-covered himal was just visible. There were about sixty small houses crowded together and although they were all better maintained than in the Dalit settlement, Durga could tell the village was much poorer than her birth village.

Paralysed, Durga could not venture any further up the trail. She’d lived her entire life in a much bigger village, but she’d been surrounded by family and friends – people she’d known her whole life. Until last night, she’d never even spent a night away from her parents. Although this village was smaller, she didn’t know a soul. She was an outsider who couldn’t even find the water tap. She touched her cheek, aware it was swollen and probably bruised. Unwilling to face strangers and ask about water in that condition, Durga slowly turned and headed back down the trail.

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When Durga arrived back at Ram’s hut, she found her neighbour, a woman of about her mother’s age, waiting for her. Devi Aunty gave Durga a warm welcome to the village. Keen to get to know Ram’s new wife, she invited her in for a cup of tea. Durga eagerly accepted the invitation, suddenly desperate for a friendly face.

Durga’s fresh cuts and bruises filled Devi Aunty with sympathy. She was reminded of her own daughter, also recently married, and living in a distant village. She hoped her Tara was faring better in her marriage. Aware of her bruises and Devi Aunty’s sympathetic gaze, Durga was suddenly close to tears again.

It was my fault. I must have… Her words trailed off as she realised she had no idea what she might have done wrong.

Devi Aunty just shook her head. Was he drunk?

Ashamed, Durga looked down, nodding slightly.

Then it wasn’t your fault. And you’d better learn how to duck.

Surprised, Durga looked up sharply. What do you mean? How often does he drink?

Devi Aunty snorted. Ram’s drinking infuriated her. These days, better to ask how often he is sober. He’s…

Devi Aunty stopped suddenly as her husband, Sagar Uncle, came through the door. He took in the bruises, and the stunned look on Durga’s face and gave his wife a pointed look. They’d discussed the night before whether they should tell their new neighbour about Ram, but had agreed to say nothing. Everyone hoped being married would help Ram turn his life around. Unrepentant, Devi Aunty busied herself making tea. She’d agreed with her husband the night before, mainly for the sake of peace. But Durga’s bruises, and her willingness to blame herself for receiving them, was too much. She would tell Durga everything as soon as possible.

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Ram’s father had been a bully and an alcoholic who had beaten Ram, his brother, and their mother repeatedly. A frightened Ram had spent many nights in Devi Aunty’s hut. She’d felt sorry for him and had tried to love him as his own mother couldn’t, while her son Dipak had treated him like a brother.

But when they were sixteen years old, a group of boys, who considered themselves to be high caste, had badly beaten Ram and Dipak for no reason. They had left the two bleeding and unconscious on a distant trail. Everyone knew filing a police case was pointless. Dalits had no chance of bringing a non-Dalit to justice. Ram’s father had barely waited for Ram to recover before beating him again for having allowed himself to be beaten. He’d then got Ram drunk on the potent local raksi, which Ram had quickly developed a taste for.

Devi Aunty’s son Dipak had reacted to the beating very differently. He’d begun speaking of the need for change, joining a fledgling political group to fight against discrimination. Dipak had tried many times to convince Ram to join him and fight for equal rights. But Ram had succumbed too quickly to the raksi, and the two friends had fallen out. Ram had been drinking and cursing his fate ever since.

Devi Aunty was proud of her son Dipak. He was a good man and one day he would be an outstanding leader, of that, she was sure. Though Ram’s drinking infuriated her, she still had a soft spot for him, and she held a mother’s hope that he would one day overcome his addiction and follow in her son’s footsteps. She knew Dipak’s ability to put the beating behind him and go on to greater things was because of his upbringing. In their family, there’d been no beatings, no alcohol, and a loving, respectful family life. Though they’d tried to include Ram in that, his own father’s shadow had been too close, and too violent.

Devi Aunty hoped Ram’s unexpected marriage to Durga would be the catalyst for change. Surely being responsible for his own family would be enough to set Ram on the path to sobriety. She had no idea how he’d arranged it, but he’d come back with a truly stunning bride. Though only sixteen years old, Durga had already blossomed into a head-turning beauty, with full lips and a shy but generous smile which revealed white teeth and an appealing dimple. Aside from her current cuts and bruises, Durga’s skin was unblemished, only slightly darkened from working in the fields.

Like many Nepali women, Durga’s dark hair was lustrously thick and shiny, and this morning she had twisted it into a haphazard knot at the back of her head, held in place with a cheap, plastic hair clip. But it was her eyes that held Devi Aunty’s attention. Framed by long lashes and only barely highlighted with a slash of kajal, they had an almost feline quality, their dark-bordered irises and glowing honey colour almost mesmerising. But Devi Aunty could also clearly see the confusion and hurt reflected there and as she made tea for her new neighbour, Devi Aunty promised