Gurung Argu

July 19, 2015

Gurung Argu

Since being back in Nepal, it’s been rough jumping back into village life. After the earthquake, I had six full weeks of ‘freedom’. I ate and drank whatever I wanted, drove my brother’s jeep around, slept in until 10 or later, ran as many miles as I wanted and enjoyed a wonderful shower afterwards, and hung out with friends who get me to the core. It was great, but alas, good times can’t last forever. If you read my last blog then you know I had to change host families because my other house was declared ‘vulnerable’ if another earthquake were to occur. Living with a new family has been hard. It’s typical though, they don’t know me and I don’t know them, and the only things we do know is that we are very, very different. I’m not one to accept change like this very well. My last family and I started off rocky, but in the end, really loved one another despite our many differences. I’m struggling right now knowing that I have to go through that process again. Right now, I wake up, run and then head over to my other families house to work in that community, then walk home at night. It’s not the ideal situation, but it’s working for now. Now that I’m back in Nepal, I’m looking for my own accommodations and hoping PC is on board with my options.

The topic of this blog is not about my struggle, struggle, struggle in Nepal. I just wanted to give a small update. The topic of this blog is a very somber one, just to warn you. A week or so ago, after walking to my old host family’s home, my Ama (grandma) told me that a young girl in our village killed herself that morning. I couldn’t believe I even understood what she was saying b/c she speaks a mixture of Gurung and Nepali language. I kept repeating back to her what she said to make sure I understood correctly. I was so stunned. I mean, I know things like this happen in the States, but I guess I didn’t think kids could be sad to the point of taking their own life here in Nepal too. But I guess I never pondered the topic fully for obvious reasons.

I noticed that everyone was gone, and not planting rice like we had planned. That’s because in Gurung culture (maybe all of Nepal, not sure), the village doesn’t work for a full five days to fully grieve the passed individual. I asked if there was anything I could do, but they said no, just sit and wait for the ceremony in a couple days. I passed the time by working on other things: a coloring page for a Nepali Food Security coloring book another volunteer came up with, a grant I’m working on for the village, caught up with other PCVs, and waited to be told what to do.

On the second day, I was again told to wait. My community counterpart had to help out with the preparation for the argu, funeral ceremony. I again walked over to my old village, but no one was working. It was very somber and quiet. Most people were helping at the house of the young girl, Monica. Monica is pronounced, Moneeca in Nepali. She was 12 and attended an English Boarding School (the one I taught at in the very beginning of my service) near my village. I can’t recall ever meeting her personally, but was told she knew me. I probably ran into her with a large group of friends walking to or from school. That happens every day. They always giggle and yell ‘HI KHUSI DIDI!!’ and run. It’s hilarious. Anyways, I suppose her home life wasn’t the best. Her dad worked in Pokhara, a larger city, and doesn’t have the greatest reputation in our village. Her mom works abroad in Hong Kong, and hasn’t been able to spend a lot of time with her three daughters. I know Monica’s Grandma and Grandpa very well. Since I work mostly with female farmers, I’ve worked with her Grandma several times. She attended one of my trainings, and she always has a bright smile on her face.

On the third day, I was told I needed to go to the house were Monica was raised by her Grandma and Grandpa. When I showed up, I mostly did a lot of sitting. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to do or say. Usually when I greet people, it’s always ‘Namaste!! Sanchhaii hunuhunchaa?!’ in the squealiest voice possible. But at this time, it seemed very inappropriate. Of course they’re not fine. They’re sad. I’m usually at a loss for words in Nepal, but that day I especially felt like I didn’t know what to say. I asked my Didi what I should say. I explained In America we say ‘I’m so sorry for your loss’ or I’m sending my condolences’ or ‘your family is in my thoughts and prayers’. She told me not to say anything. In Nepali culture, you show up and offer support by helping and crying. Nepalis tend to hide emotion a lot of the time, but not when they lose a member of their community. Many women were wailing and holding each other, especially her affno ama (own mother) and very close affno manchhe (own family). Monica’s body was inside the house and people would gather inside to see the family and do puja (worship). I wasn’t allowed inside the house because I’m not Gurung, and I was ok with that. My Nepali Uncle took a few photos for me. I instead went home and helped my other Auntie with her baby while she cooked.

Inside the house on the third day.

The body was kept in a box on ice until the burial ceremony.

The mother and father are offering puja.

Cow manure is spread on the ground where the girl will be placed.

The bamboo stretcher.

Fun mala for Monica.

Right before the procession to the burial site.

The funeral was on the fourth day. It was one of the most emotionally draining days for me and the entire community. I showed up around 10 am, and there were three Gurung pujari (priest). They were playing a dangro (drum) and jyali (chimes) to a monotonous beat. They were also chanting, but no one understood what it meant because they were speaking Gurung language and Lama language. They were sitting with 108 tado baati (candles in the shape of a square) in front of them. Everyone else was gathering and sitting were they could see. It was an incredibly unforgiving hot and humid day. I had sweat rolling down my legs under my lungi (skirt). The husbands, jiavan of the females in the family basically ran the logistical part of the funeral. They prepared the ground with sacred cow manure, gobar lipeko. They placed the kotiya (a bamboo stretcher of sorts) on the ground, and next laid Monica’s body wrapped in cloth on the kotiya. It was all done very ceremoniously. They secured her body tight so that it wouldn’t fall when they lifted her, and secured several arching bamboo pieces over her. Then they adorned the kotiya with poisyako mala (money garland), phulko mala (flower garland), and cute paper machete garland. They placed a few of her belongings at her head with a plate of fruit and agarbati (incense). Once they were finished, it was time for the family to circle her body and offer tikka, sprinkle water, and other mala (garland). The women wore black tikka on their foreheads and let their hair down (women usually always have their hair tied up). Men took their hats off. The pujari (priests) played the instruments and the family performed the lass ghumeko muriko manchhe (the last dance of the expired). Sometimes Nepalis describe dancing as roaming (ghumnu). This was heart breaking because her mother could barely move. Other women helped her move around her child’s body. Everyone who was watching was offering their own support by crying and holding onto each other. When this was over, they picked up Monica, and there was a long procession to the gravesite. The first person held aalaa (a large bamboo stick with mala). Apparently, in Gurung culture, I was told each family (this is a loose term, can be up to 5 families) has their own gravesite where they first burn the body and then place a cement headstone. They don’t burn the bodies near the river like other caste groups. We made our way to the gravesite and the women sat away from where they would burn her, while the men sat close and prepared the site. There was still crying and wailing from many people. Her affno Hajur Ba (Grandpa) was given a handmade bow and arrow, and he pointed it different directions and shot the arrows. Another Hajur Bas (Grandpas) in the family said a short eulogy. It was so touching to her him speak about Monica. Where she attended school, how she was loved by many, and how she loved Karate. I couldn’t understand much more than that since he too was crying. Then each member of the own family was giving a stick with a piece of cloth. They lit the stick on fire and then lit the brush covering Monica’s body. Her Hajur Ba immediately cut his hair off, leaving a tiny square tuff of hair in the back.

On the last day, it seemed to be a day of renewal or starting over. Even though her mother was still wailing, the rituals performed seemed like they were signifying a new start. Everyone again was offering puja to the pujari as a method of payment. They offered food, alcohol, dry rice, flowers, and money. Everything was arranged nicely on bamboo trays by the women. The men and other women were preparing Dhal bhat to eat later. The pujari were again chanting and playing instruments. The members of the family offered up a final meal of Dal bhat to their passed granddaughter. Then the members of the family sat in a row and received white tikka, a new topi (hat) for the men, and new raato dori (a red hair tie) for the women. Then everyone ate, chatted, and finally returned to their homes. My Didi and Dai hadn’t slept well for several nights because of all the preparation that needed to take place. They didn’t go home to rest, but instead went to the field to prepare it for rice planting the next day. It amazed me how willing and dedicated the entire village was to not working during those five days. This would never happen in the States.