It was all foggy and everything on the road below was invisible and the steep downhill path was slippery with dew. I had to climb down the Tibet Road cautiously. Still it was very exhilarating and I felt as though I was moving down an uncanny path in a dreamland. The tender caress of fog on my exposed face was exciting. I had to go further down to reach the paan and cigarette stall. I turned the corner and the stall was now visible through the tapestry of fog. I started traipsing in the direction of the stall and a meek female voice gave me a start. I turned my head and noticed a stout Nepali woman aged around thirty standing only a few feet from me. She repeated, ‘samay keti bhayo’ then finding me to be a Bengali she said in broken Bengali, ‘what’s the time by your watch?’ I pulled back the sleeve of the jacket and looking up at the watch replied, ‘seven thirty’. She went a few paces ahead and then returned and said,
‘you seem to be a tourist.’
‘Yes, I’m from Kolkata.’
‘How long you’ve been here?’
‘Arrived just yesterday.’
‘Which hotel have you checked in?’
Before I could reply her I heard the harsh voice of the Bihari stall owner, ‘Renu, leave this place immediately or I’ll call the police. You’re again disturbing the tourists?’
In the name of police she was panicked and left the place after uttering obscenities in Nepali to the stall owner who chased her away. He was still panting for breath after returning to the shop. I was really bewildered at the sudden turn of events. After collecting himself the stall owner said that she was a call girl used to lure tourists to sexual orgies in exchange for money. He said, ‘it’s good for you that I intercepted in time and she could not know the name of your hotel. But I apprehend she would find out.
So inform the matter to the manager beforehand. Otherwise if she queries about you at the hotel reception, they might think otherwise of you. But I know your character and you’re to be cautious it’s not besmirched without any reason.’
Returning to the hotel, I related the matter to the manager and he started laughing aloud thinking about the condition of an orthodox person like me vis-à-vis a call girl. He told me that she was not a prostitute in the true sense as she used to reside with her widower father and a ten year old son. Her husband had eloped with another girl and now settled at Darjeeling. He told me that there were very few such street sluts in the town, may be she was an exception. The professional escorts could be there, but they do not disturb the innocent tourists. They contact through the internet.
I forgot the matter soon and hastened to meet the lama at the Tibetan institute. He gave me good news that he had learnt about antique Tibetan staffs in the house of an old man. The agent of the man would contact me in the evening at my hotel.
Part 2: The Antique Idol
The agent came in the evening – a Nepali teenage boy with dirty blotches on the sunken cheeks, and his shabby coat unwashed for years, emitted a filthy odor. He was seated on the floor of the lobby as the manager did not permit such fellows to sit on the sofa. As soon as I entered the lobby, the boy stood up, bowed and offered me the letter from the lama and his clenched teeth were snow white contrasting sharply to his demeanor and outfit. The brief letter told that this boy would lead me to the old curio man. After getting my assent, the boy told he would arrange hired vehicle, a resort for night stay and all other accoutrement necessary for the venture. I gave him the necessary advance for booking vehicle and the resort, gave him five hundred rupees in advance as his fee and some extra money to buy a fresh sweater and coat and emphasized that he should immediately get properly washed with soap and hot water. The manager explained to him in Nepali that he ought to be neat and clean before escorting a wealthy gentleman like me.
At night I felt happy that soon I would be in possession of some rare authentic Tibetan curios which my rich collection lacked. My father was a rich businessman and I was the lone issue of my parents. I did Ph.D. in archaeology from a U.S. university and had decided to be a professor at some university there. But the sudden death of both the parents in a plane crash made me utterly lonely and returning home I sold all the shares of his company, invested the money in shares of reputed corporations and took to traveling sites of pilgrimage but nowhere found any peace of mind. While touring Rajasthan I came upon a Bengali lady professor from Kolkata and we fell in love with each other. She was a nice lady and removed all my loneliness and I used to love her deeply and was obedient and faithful to her. She inspired me to be a freelance journalist and write articles on antiques. My father already had a good collection and I went on enriching it by collecting rare articles from various places. But I did not have any collection of Tibetan curios. So now I was elated to have the opportunity to get access to them.
The boy came on time next morning and looked fresh and jovial in his new outfit. We reached Namche market by noon and after lunch from a hotel we bought our dinner packets, drinking water, candles and other essentials for the night stay at the newly constructed resort which had no electric connection yet. I thought the large half-built resort at a desolate place in the candle light would be eerie and appropriate for inspecting antique Tibetan curios. The path was craggy and the vehicle jolted vehemently. By late afternoon we reached the resort amidst a small valley covered with pines and rhododendrons. The place looked beautiful and uncanny in the reddish glow of the setting sun. The driver left with the vehicle for Namche market and he told he would return by early morning to pick us up.
The boy raced down a narrow causeway and was lost behind the turn of the hill. It was dark inside and I lighted the candles and the half-finished room for us looked mystic. The other rooms were locked up and there were two wooden cots in the room. The boy had already brought mattresses which were rolled up at the corner of the room. He would unpack after he returns. I went out to the balcony and looked around. All sides except the fourth sloped gently up tree-clad hills and the fourth went steeply down through bushes and thickets. So it was not a valley proper but a saddle point. The Bhutia hotel owner had chosen an excellent place for the resort but he would have to spend much to get electricity and water connections.
The boy emerged at the turn of the hill and I hastened to open the door. He was almost running and was panting now. After some rest he told that the old man could not come up to the resort and so I would have to visit his place to browse through the curios. I got ready in no time and accompanied the boy down the steep causeway. It was broken and narrow and I stumbled twice but the bushes on both the sides saved me from falling down. The wooden house of the old man was at the upper end of the small village with houses scattering down a valley that sloped gently down to meet the steep hills around. It was already evening and I switched on my torch. The house was at the end of the village and other houses, not more than forty, were away from this house. He liked to live alone in peaceful quietness, I thought. The house consisted of a small bedroom and a kitchen and was lighted by a dim lamp. The man had a large puckered face and deep creases on the forehead, the hair around the baldness were all creamy white and there was no trace of hair on the face except a small goatee down the chin; the snub nose was very large and his small eyes were luminous and intelligent. He greeted me with affable smile and requested me to be seated on the stone slab placed at the corner of the room. At the far end of the room th
ere was a beautiful statue of Buddha. He asked if I would like to have chhaang (the locally fermented strong alcoholic drink) which I instantly declined. I, however, consented to spice-tea.
After tea I came right to business and the man asked me to follow him. He carefully closed the entrance door, asked the boy to keep guard and took me stooping through the small door to a narrow passage which caved into the hillside and ended up at the approach of a flight of stairs going steeply down. He carried a lamp and I lighted my torch to step carefully down the steep staircase. At last we reached an underground room much larger than the upper one and lo, there were innumerable antique articles stacked on a stone ledge that jutted out of the sidewall which was but the hillside. Examining the articles I was utterly disappointed as most of them were trash, occasionally displayed in curio shops at Gangtok and Darjeeling. The old man smiled enigmatically and said, ‘I know what you’re thinking sir. But I’ve not given you so much trouble for these trifles. I’ll show you something that you must like I hope. This is a rare thing and had been brought along by my ancestor right from Tibet.’
The way he talked ignited my curiosity. An enigmatic smile played on his lips and in the flickering light of the lamp he looked like an aboriginal man. I felt as though I was transported by time machine to the pre-historic ages and an eerie sensation coursed down my spine. The old man removed the trash articles and handed out a wooden box about two feet long. He slowly raised the lid and hesitated for a while and his looks betraying panic and in a trembling voice he muttered, ‘here’s something that I’m sure would interest you, but I must relate the hazards associated with it.’ He slowly handed out an idol and I bent forward to peer at it. In the flickering light the metallic linings of the reddish robe of the fourteen inch idol glistened and almost blinded my eyes. The man held the figure in front of the lamp. My eyes got transfixed at the enchanting idol. The body was adorned with an ornamented tight-fitted red robe and only the head was open. The sharp nose and the blue eyes (made of topaz stone, the man told me later on) revealed mockery and cruel sadism but it expressed cajolery at the same time. The sharp heavy boobs, glued tightly to the robe, sloped down to the flat belly and slim waist line which again bulged at the back into heavy enticing butts that curved gently down to the thighs and slender legs. I remained spellbound for some time. My trance broke at the blubbering of the old man, ‘you have liked it I’m sure and would be ready to pay the price I would offer, but babu, think twice before you possess this idol of the vindictive goddess.’
‘I don’t believe that an idol could be alive and vindictive. So I must have such an invaluable thing and am ready to pay your price.’
‘It’s your choice, but still it would be a sin on my part if I don’t disclose everything.’
The man started relating the story of the idol made of a very hard but light Burmese teak and plastered with rubber substance. It was originally the property of his Tibetan ancestor who was a tantric engaged in occult rite. He had brought this idol from Burma and disregarding the forbidding of his preceptor, he started secret worship of the goddess. One night everybody in the house were waken by his shrill frightened voice and breaking open his door next morning by a local lama, he was found dead with his eyes bulging out in front of the idol. The lama sealed the room after removal of his corpse and the next day he entered the room alone and adorned the idol with this sacred robe. Thereafter for two generations the idol remained in the room which was never opened. Then his grand father brought it along while he left Tibet for Sikkim. Nobody, however, had opened the image which was kept in the underground room of their earlier house inside the village until the wife of this old man discovered it and finding the robe dirty, took it out and donned the idol again after washing it clean. But that very night she became insane and committed suicide after a few days. Nobody except this old man knew the reason of her insanity. He forgot to take precaution and one day his only son was missing. The man guessed some omen and entered the cellar at night to find his son dead embracing the idol. Once again a pious lama was invited to don the idol with a new sacred robe as his son had torn open its nude body.
I hardly believed this cock and bull story but was still puzzled at his endeavor to dissuade me and lose the opportunity to earn sumptuous money in exchange for something he had no use of. I reasoned it out in this way. Although he was badly in need of money he was subconsciously unwilling to part with this invaluable ancestral property and this sub-conscious possessiveness had goaded him to fabricate such blood chilling story. I did not hesitate a moment to express my strong desire to possess the article. We came out of the cellar and I paid him much more than the amount he had demanded. He once again cautioned me not to uncover the body of the idol. I assured him and left knowing fully well that I would never be able to resist temptation to open this voluptuous body and with my scientific bent of my mind I was confident that no misfortune would befall me at watching the enticing nudity. All the way back, I thought of rearranging the story with further fabrications along with the article on the idol. I must first consult experts on Bazrajan-Buddhist idols about the origin of the worship of this goddess in Burma and Tibet. The idol resembled the image of yakshinis observed in many Buddhist monasteries and gumphas.