Feast of the Black Mother

By the time you reach the steps to Dakshinkali with their green canopy that stretches down to the ravine below, the sound of clanging bells fills the air. The ravine is verdant. At its base are the convoluted remnants of what will be a river again soon, if the monsoon persists. The lower reaches of the stream is filled with refuse and thousands of Himalayan crows dig their hooked beaks through the debris. Aksel and I join the crowds crossing a concrete bridge to the temple proper. Young Nepalis snap photos along the guard rail. To our left is a slaughter house where the headless carcasses of goats and chickens are cleaned, skinned and plucked. Under a tall oak a Shaivite sadhu with orange bands of string is blessing a family and tying the strings round their necks and arms to seal the blessing of the mother goddess Kali Ma. The goddess herself sits inside a small open air temple, a small deity of black stone no more than eighteen inches tall. All around her the floor is streaked red with blood and bells reverberate in our heads, a dizzying cacophony. Everywhere the air is filled with the iron sent of death.


The day before, Aksel and I arrived in Parping. A hill town with fewer tourists than monks and monasteries. We immediately set out for the hilltop overlooking the valley. Up top we hung prayer flags and wandered the random pathways that run through the green forests above Parping proper. Besides piles of trash and strew paper prayer cards, we discovered a funky old Shiva shrine with a rusted trident, diminutive lingam, and a rasping bell. On our decent in search of a self manifesting image of the Goddess Tara we had the good fortune to encounter one of the caves of Guru Rinpoche. It was late afternoon and no one was about, a seeming rarity for sites like this. The cave is a narrow dark space glowing with the light and heat of butter lamps and humming with the sound of buried wasps. In the furthest recess, carved in the smoke black rock is a fearsome likeness of Guru Rinpoche, holding a skull cup and flanked by guardian deities. The cave has the ability to tear the breath from your lungs and reverberates with a tremendous presence I have not experienced here in Nepal or perhaps at any other place I have visited. The little room of the Guru inspires a sense of awe which combines the affect of standing alone before the stain glass windows of Saint Chapelle and watching the Atlantic thunder before an approaching hurricane.

Such an experience could only lead to heavy drinking. That evening we sat in an open air bar downing liters of Carlsberg in front of a full size confederate flag tacked to the wall that gave endless entertainment. Meandering the blacked out streets Aksel offered prostrations in total earnest before the only illuminated object in town, a golden statue of Padmasambhava. The statue stands fifteen feet high above its throne, towering above the main street with a Hello Kitty offering plate sitting at its feet. Despite the rumors of the violent alcohol induced fits of Nepalese men we only met one person as drunk as us. He was thrilled to meet us.
"You American!?" he shouted clasping our hands.
"Yes!"
"America is great!"
"Yeah!"


The next morning came far too quickly and after another jaunt to the cave we slogged the monsoon soaked corn fields to the stairs of Dakshinkali. Saturday is the big day for sacrifice, the objective being to make the river junction below the temple run red with blood. We were only witness to the death of one goat that was pacing the inner enclosure round the altar as we arrived. A narrow pathway runs round the inner sanctum where the goddess sits and rows of bells are hung across from a sign that reads, “Watch Out for Pick-Pockets.” Next to the bells is a low wall covered in butter lamps, the customary offering for Buddhists. Aksel and I wedged ourselves into the throng beside these lamps where we had a clear view. He began saying prayers for the goat. I just watched.
In short order the officiates of the event began rounding the goat towards the gate directly across from the alter and flicked scented water on its head. Meanwhile two young Tibetan girls lit butter lamps and a monk tapped their heads with a traditional Tibetan text and chanted mantras. This was presumably for the sake of the goats soul since the worst death a being can have is one filled with fear and suffering. Buddhists believe that a traumatic transition into the next life leads to grim conditions for future rebirths. For this reason Buddhists will often ransom livestock at such temples to ensure their reprieve. Our particular goat was not so lucky.

As the girls light their lamps, one man takes the goat by the head another clutches its hoofs and pulls its body taught. The man with the blade then unceremoniously cuts the head clear off. The body is then lade on the stone floor to bleed and shake spasmodically as blood is collected and pored across the alter of the goddess, appeasing her thirst. The goats head is set upright and burnt offerings placed on its crown. Then business returns to usual. Mops are brought and the pools of blood are channeled into drains that run out to the river. An elderly woman walks up t the goddess and wipes her clean. The goat's carcass is taken to the adjacent butcher and presumably the meat returned to the family who made the offering. So the goddess is fed and the family as well and I can reflect on the merits of vegetarianism.