Dashain

Dashain, the greatest of Hindu festivals, celebrates the triumph of good over evil. Legend has it that long ago a demon king, made invincible by the god Shiva, was terrorizing the good people and gods. Desperate, the gods turned to the goddess Durga, giving her all their various weapons, to defeat him. After fighting for 9 days, Durga finally defeated him on the tenth day. Fifteen days in total, Deshain is arguably the greatest Hindu festival. Children have two weeks’ vacation from school, family members return to their childhood homes, and the country essentially shuts down for a few days.

Dashain starts on the first no-moon night in autumn. On the first evening, a water jug representing Durga is placed in the prayer room of the house, with barley seeds sown in sand surrounding it. The water jug and seeds are watered with holy water following a pujaa (offering) each day. Because my father’s father passed away within the past year, my family did not perform many of the rituals of Dashain. Fortunately, an uncle (who is more like my first uncle twice removed) invited us to his home to watch the process.

Beginning on the seventh day, animals, representing the evils of humanity, are sacrificed. Traditionally, this consisted of a water buffalo (anger), goat (lust), rooster (goat), sheep (stupidity), and either chicken or duck (timidity), but nowadays most people stick to the water buffalo and goats. On the eighth day, at 7:30am, my father, brother and I headed down to my great uncle’s house to observe a kasi (castrated goat) sacrifice. If you have a weak stomach, I encourage you to skip the next paragraph and pictures. 

After doing pujaa, my great uncle wielded a kukuri (machete-like knife) and swung it down across the kasi’s neck. Unfortunately for all (though mostly the kasi), the blade didn’t go all the way through and he had to strike another blow to behead it successfully. I later learned that Nepalis do have a process for ensuring that the goat is willing to be sacrificed: if the kasi moves its head, it’s taken as a sign of consent (though I’d like to see a goat that didn’t try to move while being restrained). With the legs still kicking, my uncles and cousins drained some of the spurting blood into a bowl. Next, they poured boiling water onto the skin to ease the removal of the kasi’s hair, which they performed by scraping with a metal cup (the sound of which was almost sickening) and later by shaving with razor blades. Meanwhile, another uncle charred and chopped up the head. After all the hair had been removed, they covered the skin with an orange spice and handed it over to the butcher. He proceeded to remove the entire gastrointestinal tract (which my father cleaned), heart, liver, lungs and all the rest. In the meantime, my great uncle removed the brain, eyes, tongue, and ears from the head. When everything had been cut and weighed, only the hair, bladder, kidneys, and skull had been discarded. My family took half of the meat, which would last us and our guests the entire next week (which, with the lack of refrigeration, is more than just a little sketchy). I had been a vegetarian before Dashain, but at my mother’s behest I ate meat for the festival. While I can now proudly say that I’ve eaten just about every part of a goat, I’ve reverted back to vegetarianism.

On the tenth day, Nepalis visit each others’ homes and receive tika, a mixture of rice, yogurt, and red dye. Seated before the most senior woman in the household, tika is placed on the forehead and the shoots of barley (having grown considerably from the first day) are played on the receiver’s head and behind the ears. In exchange for this blessing, fruit and money are given to the household. My family did not give or receive tika this Dashain, but I was invited to three other homes. Because of my guest status, I actually received money from my elders, but finished at a net loss after giving gifts to all the girls in my family. Interestingly, a girl in a friend’s host family was not allowed to participate in the festivities because she menstruating at the time. Imagine not being able to celebrate Christmas because you were on your period!

Receiving tika

Along with gifts, people typically receive and wear new clothing for Deshain. Six of my friends and I decided to have dura surwals, the traditional formal dress of Nepali men, made in time for the holiday. At my encouraging, we went to my village’s tailor, who had made clothes for several of last year’s trainees, to get measured and choose fabric. Our shirts, pants, vests, and topis (a traditional hat worn by Nepali men), he assured us, would be ready within two weeks, in time for the festival. As the date approached, however, we grew increasingly concerned that he might not finish in time. His shop was often closed, or he was making other clothes, or he once he even watched us during a technical training session. In the week leading up to our deadline, a number of calamities befell his family: first, his niece committed suicide; a few days later, his granddaughter had to go to the hospital; the following day, his wife went missing (she had gone out drinking). Despite considerable pressure from my language teacher, aunt, and father, he balked and didn’t finish in time. Now, a full two weeks after we had requested our clothes be ready, they still sit unfinished in his workshop. He hasn’t apologized and has refused to discount the clothes, the total price of which amounts to around 12,000 rupees (over $100, a considerable sum). All in all, the situation has proven to be extremely difficult for me: having convinced my friends to walk several hours to come to this particular tailor, who had been endorsed by current volunteers, I feel that I’ve let them down; the tailor, a friendly, helpful man, had to deal with a series of family emergencies but failed to follow through on his promise and has shown no remorse; as a Dalit, he is already victimized in the community; yet in his actions he has reinforced the stereotypes of laziness, dishonesty, and discourtesy associated with his caste. And we still don’t have our clothes. Thankfully, I received a shirt from my father and topis from my brother and uncle as Deshain gifts, allowing me to walk around the village looking just a little more Nepali.

Another tradition of Dashain is ping, a tall swing made from bamboo and rope. Hindus believe that one should lift off the ground at least once a year, leaving one’s worldly worries behind. Assembling a ping can take several hours, between digging the holes, making the ropes, lashing together the bamboo, and raising the whole structure. Once built, crowds of children line up for their turn at ping, sometimes going two at a time and synchronizing their movements to achieve maximum height. Talented, fearless swingers can get as high as 30 feet up, the arc of their motion reaching almost a full 180 degrees.

Deshain is also a time for reconciliation. After the goat sacrifice, my parents, apparently in a bit of a feud with our relatives next door, approached my brother and me with plates of spice and meat and asked us to deliver them to our grandmother next door. The gift, simple and somewhat impersonal, brought her to tears, and through her rapidly mumbled Nepali I comprehended the extent of her gratitude. Since then, however, relations haven’t improved. When a Nepali woman’s husband dies, it is common that she must cook, clean, and fetch water herself for the following year, but the extent of my grandmother’s exclusion seems extreme. Its gravity was especially apparent when, a few days later, my father and his mother found each other at the water tap at the same time and didn’t speak a single word to each other.

Nevertheless, our family enjoyed some great times during Deshain. My didi (older sister), her husband, and her two sons spent a few nights with us. I had a lot of fun with my two banjas (nephews), 13 and 11 years old, playing cards and listening to American music. My didi’s husband (my binaaju), an officer in the Nepali army, apparently enjoyed drinking with me, passing out early both nights after one too many glasses of beer. My second-oldest brother, a policeman, came from Kathmandu on his motorbike. He too spent most nights drinking. My father, prohibited from drinking raksi due to his father’s passing, was still permitted to drink bottled liquor; after a single glass, he was always smiley and giddy. With all the revelry, I was obliged to indulge as well. Raksi, the local alcohol made from fermented millet, is a little like sake in its flavor and strength. Aside from one bad night, I got along pretty well with the stuff.