jhargot gompa

Today, going to Jhargot with ani-haru. Got up at 6:15 because I was told we were leaving at 7—but the ani-haru nowhere to be seen.\ They appear eventually and after tea and breakfast (ramen noodles and cabbage soup) we set out around 10.

I think we will simply retrace the path I took on my way here, but we go a completely different way, circling round Muktinath and cutting through farmland. I'm wearing hiking boots and several layers; Hira is wearing orange opentoed sandals w/slight heels, the others in plastic lighweight sandals. Two of the nuns heft the remains of a small tree on their backs. I am given a small bag and sleeping bag to carry. At one point Hira turns and makes as if to take my tiny burden and add it to her own.

With us comes a wrinkled man with 2 teeth, thick glasses, wooden beads around neck, olive tunic belted at waist. He leaves a trail of spit behind him. Looks about 100—I think of him as a sort of mascot, until we reach Jhargot and he turns out to be a skilled carpenter.

We arrive at the Jhargot gompa. Several ani-haru in courtyard making torma out of flour, water salt dough. They paint them red with some kind of crushed bark paste. Then add dollops of ghee and place on altar in the gompa. Several deities wrapped in shiny multicolor fabric. Walls painted like at Muktinath but in better condition. Elephant, tiger, man with penis.

I ask age of gumpa. They say 35 y only. I thought much older—200 maybe. Point to hill: “There, old gompa, that one broken, this one.” The gompa used to be over there until it collapsed and they rebuilt it here. I ask if I can go see it. Much discussion, then 13-year old Lhamu Chetten is assigned to take me.

“This, what name?” LC asks as we walk.
“Farm,” I tell her.
“This farm, me.” She owns the farm.
We walk on. “This farm, my grandmother brother.”
I realize that to be an ani does not mean to renounce one’s family or prior life. LC is part of the land, part of the town.

We reach the top of the hill. The old gompa in ruins, looking like playdough left out in sun. A little distance away, thick stream flows into square stone shed. LC leads me down, over slippery rocks and wet grass, and opens the sheetmetal door. Inside, a mill turns. The floor is dusty with pale flour.

LC: “Water, then go. No water, no go.” It’s a water mill, grinding flour for the ppl of Jhargot.

LC takes me round the underside of the shed and shows me the water rushing out, continuing down the hill. I'm thrilled by the water mill. LC seems pleased that I like it so much, and explains over and over again how it works: “Water, go. No water--then no go...”

By the time we got back from old gompa, the carpenters have constructed two vertical support beams for the roof. It’s clear that without them the ani-haru would be in danger—the roof is buckling like a water balloon. The carpenters seem satisfied with their work.

After lunch, puja. Apparently they’re in this gompa only for a day. After this, for ten days 4 nuns at a time do puja in different houses in Jhargot, and everyone else stays in Muktinath, including me.

Helped break up firewood, then went for a walk. Returning to the gompa—as I approach I hear my name spoken over and over—I peek in—the ani-haru: “We your name practicing!”—“come, sit”—

I walk home alone—the others will come later.

Inside Muktinath, walking by the prayer wheel wall, a glimpse of red and pink by the incense-making rocks—I thought it was Diki Kunzum. Slipped between the bells. Four ani-haru pounding and sifting. “Namaste!” and then, “Come, come!”

Oh, but I don’t know these ani-haru, theyre not mine at all. But they’re glad to see me—they don’t seem surprised.

“Where are you from?” My Nepali is better now, and they have a few words of English. I explain who I am. They tell me they live in Tharpa Choling nunnery—“You come see!” They say come tomorrow at 12, for lunch.

Back to fire gompa to eat dinner with Diki, Chenzum and Kancchi. I said before that it was like camping here—but to them, it’s just ordinary life—they’ve been living like this ever since they were young. To me it’s extraordinary, and every mundane action is charged with interest—the way they keep the fire going, for instance—but to them, it’s the same as having someone over and casually turning on the electric kettle, or heating up food in imcrowave—they don’t make a big deal out of it because it really is no big deal to them.

In my bedroom, by candlelight, I find some old exercise books on the shelf. The name Pema written on the front. She was 19 in the year 2000. Lots of vocabulary, sentences, short essays. From the looks of her writing, this Pema’s English is quite good. I'm so hungry for something new to read, I devour the exercise books. One of the essays speaks of a woman named Louise, who apparently came to Muktinath to teach English.

None of the other nuns have mentioned Louise. Who is she? And this Pema—what about her?