November 2024

Mom and I left our ayurvedic wellness retreat right after sunset. Our driver drove us down the mountain, round and round, and I looked down into the valley, into the city of Kathmandu. It was hard to believe we would be staying there for the next four nights, and a sudden wave of sadness overcame me. I wanted to go back to the retreat. I wanted to be massaged again. I wanted to rest in my bed where everything was calm and peaceful. How could I get attached to a place in just seven days? How could I possibly miss a place where I was angry with the doctor, limited on my food choices, and totally disconnected from the rest of the world? I couldn’t answer myself, but the feeling was familiar. Around the world, I’ve left places that I grew attached to, in such a short period of time. I can only assume that these places that are hard to leave are the ones who have left the biggest imprint on my spirit.

Since it was dark when we arrived at our hotel, we didn’t leave. We had dinner at the retreat, so we settled in and woke up early the next morning. We took a left hand turn out of the door of our hotel, shortly after the sun had risen. We walked about a hundred yards down a small road full of potholes and construction until we reached a main road. We were on a mission.

My sister had her palm read years ago when she visited Kathmandu and recommended we do the same. Now I’m not usually into having my future read…how can any of us actually know? But it seemed like something fun to do, if for nothing else, it gave us a destination.

We walked down the sidewalks in Kathmandu, going up and down giant curbs where Mom would lift the back of my chair up after I tilted my front wheels up. And then I’d turn around and we’d go backwards down on the other side. There aren’t a lot of ramps in Kathmandu.

We approached the astrology place I had pinned on the map. There was a sign on the second floor of a very old building, but we couldn’t get in. We asked the owner of a jewelry store next door if they were open. Immediately, he said, “Oh, let me call the owner. They will come for you. Just wait here, on Jacob’s corner.”

Jacob’s corner? I thought. That’s odd. Why is this corner called Jacob’s corner? There’s nothing special about this corner. No monuments or sites or, really, anything pretty to see. In fact, it was kind of dirty and run down. But we waited for about 15 minutes until the owner arrived.

While we were waiting, a young boy with Down’s Syndrome, about eight years old, walked towards us. He was wearing black slacks and a bright green sweatshirt. He smiled big, and put his hand out to shake ours. I shook his hand and within seconds, he was hugging me. A genuine, all embracing hug. He wouldn’t let go. He just kept hugging me. And then Mom. And then me. We didn’t speak any of the same language, but we didn’t need to. Minutes later, he shook our hands again and went on his way.

A middle-aged man was standing nearby smoking a cigarette, watching us. He smiled as he said, “This is his corner. Jacob’s corner.” And it was so evident that the entire community rallied around this boy who welcomed everyone to his corner, with no judgement.

When the astrology shop finally opened, two men helped Mom and me up a very steep set of stairs. I crawled out of my wheelchair and scooted up backwards on my butt, tiny splinters of wood from the steps slipping into my pants and poking me in my bottom. At the top of the winding stairway, I sat on a wooden bench next to a large pile of books and papers.

“I’m so sorry,” the owner’s son said, “we are doing some construction,” which was evident from the piles of wood and dust. But we – the astrology reader, Mom, and me – crammed into the room, which was smaller than many walk-in closets. He took our information – where we were born and what time – and started creating our horoscopes. Then he took our palms, one at a time, and put together everything about our lives through his palm readings.

My future life is exactly what I need. He tells me that I will be healthy, and have no major medical issues. I ask him if I will have financial troubles. He tells me I will never be rich, but I will never be poor. I cannot ask for more.

We discuss love and he tells me about Tony, who is not there with me, and that I have found a man who supports me. He tells me that I will never have my own children, which I do not want. I can only adopt, or maybe consider IVF. But this isn’t upsetting.

Mom asks if I will ever walk again. He calmly looks at my palm, looks at both of us before taking one more look down, then tips his head up, and says calmly, “No, but I think Renee is up for the challenge she’s been given.”

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Hours later, I am at such peace because of his comments. I knew I would never walk again. I never expected any sort of an answer indicating otherwise, but his way of putting it so eloquently, as though it was a blessing, a purpose in my life, gave me such peace. He was right – I am up for the challenge. Not that I have a choice, but since I don’t, I may as well take the challenge and embrace it.

In the afternoon, we make our way to the Pashupatinath Temple complex. Here, the people of Nepal cremate the dead, in an open air crematory that sits along the Bagmati River. The Bagmati River runs south and into the Ganges River in India. For the Hindus, which is the predominant religion in Nepal, if their ashes can be placed into the Bagmati River after death and flow into the Ganges River, there is a higher chance that they will reach Nirvana, and not have to return to Earth through reincarnation.

We learned this all from a wonderful young man in his late 20s. He was studying tourism at a local university, and his name was Ganesh. He was slim, wore a plaid button down, and had long dreadlocks. We were attempting to get down a flight of stairs to get closer to the river. There were cows and bulls, which are sacred in the Hindu religion, roaming everywhere. People would step to the side so the cows could pass through the crowds, slowly waddling back and forth, as though the people didn’t exist in their space. Ganesh stopped to help us with the stairs, stood nearby us, and explained what was happening in the ceremony. He ended up spending hours with us. Later that day, we even shared a meal together.

But before that, he told us everything we wanted to know about the open air crematory. We learned from Ganesh that as soon a family member dies, their body is immediately taken to the open air crematory. On the river, there are 12 platforms made of cement, each meant for a body to be burned. In the event a couple dies at the same time, they can be burned together, on the same platform.

Once the body is brought to the river – and this happens around the clock, 24 hours a day – their feet are washed in the river. The body is then brought to the platform and decorated in beautiful marigolds. The body is covered in a type of wood that ignites easily, and when the fire is started, it is always started from the mouth. It takes about three hours total for the body to be burned before its ashes are released into the river.

Each platform costs about $150 USD for the ceremony, and a few VIP, larger platforms are available for a higher cost. Those platforms are the closest to the river, ensuring a higher chance of reaching Nirvana.

For the individuals who cannot afford a platform, there are electric incinerators available in the city. It costs about $50 but the ashes aren’t released into the river. These individuals are unlikely to reach Nirvana, or that’s how I understood it, at least. I couldn’t help but wonder how this made any sense – if someone was an outstanding human, did everything right, gave away all of their wealth, and thus couldn’t afford to be cremated along the river, they wouldn’t get to see Nirvana? But maybe that was their destiny all along, a punishment from another life.

Ganesh explained that for 13 days after the burning ceremony, the family will only eat ghee and rice. They do not touch each other – not even a hug – during the entire 13 days. In the 1920’s, if a married man died, his wife would take her own life. While that has since changed, it was not long ago that this ritual took place, leaving behind any children.

Now, after a family member’s death, any sons or the spouse of the deceased wear white for one year. And then on the anniversary of the death, they return to the river, and on the opposite side of the crematory, they sit with a priest for a series of rituals. The family returns each year on the death anniversary, to the same place along the river, for the annual rituals.

When I asked if it was considered a tragedy, a sad event, when someone died, Ganesh quickly responded, “Oh no, quite the opposite. We are happy for our loved ones when they pass. It means there is a chance that they get to be in Nirvana, and we want that for everyone. In fact, we celebrate death, not mourn it.” I knew this already about much of the world, but hearing it firsthand and experiencing the process became so thought provoking. If our loved ones truly are going to a better place after death, shouldn’t we be excited for them, and not selfish for our own loss?

While we ate, Ganesh shared stories about his family and his hopes for a wife someday. He explained to us, in a way I had never understood before, what karma is. Karma, as he explained it, wasn’t doing something good so that something good would happen to you in the future. Instead, karma was doing the right thing, making the right choices in life, so that your future would be set up in such a way that you would have a good life. Karma wasn’t hoping that someone who hurt you would have something bad happen. Or that someone who helped you would be rewarded later in life. Instead, it was a way of living. Of doing the right thing, not because you wanted something in return, but because doing it over and over made one’s life better. All of the times I have wished for karma to come back and haunt or reward someone seemed so silly now. It wasn’t my business what karma they had in their lives. Instead, I can only control my own karma, and put good back into the world, and be the person I want the rest of the world to be.

Driving through the very congested and polluted streets of Kathmandu, sometimes for an hour at a time, we’d cross busy intersections where only a traffic guard directed traffic. There were few traffic lights but tons of motorbikes. No one ever held their horn or beeped more than once. It was always one gentle beep, a polite reminder that they were coming through.

A few days later, I sat in a coffee shop in Kathmandu while Mom did some shopping. I looked out the window at the crowded street. People pushed hand carts full of goods, motorbikes beeped – just once, and people greeted each other. I thought of the hundreds of times I crossed paths with strangers, each of us putting our hands together, much like in prayer, nodding our heads forward and saying, “Namaste.” I honor the divine within you – a way of saying hello or good-bye and wishing someone well.

I thought of the dozens of women who massaged me, for hours a day, at the wellness retreat we stayed at. I wondered where they lived and what their home life was like. As I had learned, in the villages of Nepal, outside of the city, many women quit school when they begin menstruating. They spend their menstrual cycles in huts in their backyards, as it’s believed this is how to avoid bad luck or ill health for their families. Because they are living in huts, they can’t finish their education, which is now free for both men and women, or at least those who have moved to the city where the custom of banishment to huts has diminished.

I sat in this beautiful coffee shop feeling like the luckiest person in the entire world. These moments of understanding how people around the world take the same experiences we all have and mold them into what makes sense for them – some of it good and some of it bad – had me so grateful that I was able to learn from them. I wanted my karma, the things I did in my life, to set me up for everything I deserved. And I promised myself I was going to continue creating positive karma, because in whatever life I had, now or in the future, I wanted it to be as good as the one I am living right now.

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