July 6 to July 13 - Kathmandu

One thing Professor Ganguly prefaced our time in Nepal with was the idea that anything could be accepted as something worthy of worship. What matters is what power you give something and how you think of it, rather than what it actually is. Everything is accepted when you're open enough to accept it. Kathmandu really takes that premise to heart. With a culture shaped from a plethora of different beliefs, the city seems to be bursting at every corner with life and history. Buddhism and Hinduism are the most popular religions, with a little bit of Islam thrown in there. Over the thousands of years that Kathmandu has been a city, Buddhist and Hindu ideas have not only coexisted, but also merged. Cultural practices often draw from both religions, which can easily be seen in the figures of both Buddah and Ganesh all sold in tandem. Hindu monasteries sit in the square right next to Buddhist stupas, both adorned with the lotus flower carrying similar meanings of spiritual awakening and purity. Stories about deities go on and on from years of adding different details and lessons to them. Festivals draw from aspects from both religions, as well as age old traditions. All is accepted.

Even though several cultural aspects of Kathmandu have drawn from the practice of adding on and on, sometimes these many additions may not be the most beneficial for the people involved. The practice of the Kumari stuck out to me as something that would never fly in Western nations. The Kumari, or living goddess, is a young girl worshipped as a manifestation of the divine female energy. It is believed the mother goddess, Durga, possesses a young virgin, typically picked around age 4 or 5, who then lives in a palace until the goddess vacates her body when she has her first period. When I say that she lives in the palace, I mean that she lives in the palace. She doesn't leave the building except for on holidays, and even then her feet aren't allowed to touch the ground. Her only company is the caretakers who have been looking after Kumaris for centuries and her tutor who teaches her a basic education. Once the mother goddess has vacated her body, she is sent off into the real world with a stipend and a really secluded childhood. I can't imagine to start having to live a normal life at age 13 after being worshipped as a goddess as long as I can remember. Being picked as a Kumari is a great honor for the family of the living goddess, which is not something I think I'll ever fully understand. I see this tradition from an outside point of view, which is with very limited knowledge of the culture and religion. I have absolutely no right to judge in this situation, but I do know that I would not want to be in the Kumari's shoes.

When visiting Kathmandu Durbar Square, we saw the Kumari appear on her balcony and look down at all of us bowing to her. Even with a face full of makeup, I could tell that she was a young kid. She stood there for about ten seconds, just staring straight ahead, and then ran back inside out of the window well, her duty done. One of my classmates said, "She looks so uncomfortable," but I thought she looked indifferent. She was just doing what she had to do to get back to her own life inside the only place she had ever really remembered. I imagine if I were forced out of that I'd put on a bit of a mask, too.

In a large sense, Kathmandu definitely helped me open my mind to the idea that all is accepted. Casting aside judgements about certain cultural practices has been difficult more difficult than I would like to admit. Ignoring my ego and admitting that I don't know exactly what's right and wrong is hard work, especially when it's combatant with thousands of years of history. The cultural differences between home and here are endless and too many to name, but I can say that they forced me to accept things that I previously would have initially dismissed. This culture gave me a glimpse into the idea that, just like this city, all sentient beings have bits and pieces of everything in them - the divine, the ordinary, and the seemingly secluded.