Or the snooty girl from the movies who demands bottled water and sticks her nose up at mosquito-infested ditches but goes into raptures on sighting a snow-white goat kid.[break]
I actually did all of that, even requesting the driver to make an impromptu stop at a nondescript bridge so I could fulfill my whim of walking barefoot on sand and splashing water to the skies.
The driver, perhaps befuddled at this pointless excursion, hinted heavily at the directions to a nearby temple. Meanwhile, Ama was apologetic, as mothers of slightly dysfunctional daughters are conditioned to be.
“Umm...” she muttered, “I don’t think she’s interested in the temple. It’s just this river.”
At this, the friendly driver shrugged to exhibit his familiarity with such eccentric behavior.
*****
But all of this comes much later. First, we step into Janakpur – hot and humid and dense with voices jostling ferociously to be heard amidst the din.
Now it’s no secret that I’m in love with the plains. It’s where there are no mountains in sight to suffocate you; where one can drink water straight from a green hand pump; where one gets the most amazing alu chops and papadi chat; and where one can whiz on bicycles without anyone threatening to mow you down.
However, to be frank, I had never been to this part of our country before, and it interests me immensely.
The conversations carried out in a leisurely pace, the smell of jeri being deep-fried; buffaloes attempting to squash one down on a lively street; heavily kohl-lined eyes peeking from beneath bright saris pulled far below the forehead; little children chewing paan and mock-spitting – the sheer vitality and colors of the place can’t be taken in one go.
I lean out of the van, gawking at the vibrant buzz, almost like a fair even on an ordinary day.
My romanticizing ceases abruptly when we meet and converse with the first person in Janakpur. Ama asks him politely, “Are you the school principal?” He looks at us, a perfect replica of an oily Kay Kay Menon in a B-grade Mumbai movie.
“No, hazooor...” he even rubs his palms together sycophantically, and I cringe. He licks his lips, “Myself only the poor, humble peon...”
I tug at Ama’s arm, trying to get as far away from this seedy specimen as possible. Long after I recover from the shock of having met a thin-lipped, bleak-eyed character straight from the movies, Ama and I continue to laugh at my initial reaction.
*****
By which time, we’ve already arrived at Sindhuli, a mere five hours’ ride away from Janakpur. It would’ve been a shorter distance if the road were pitched, instead of just left to fend for itself. In many places, water flows right over the road while at others, the driver has to nudge the van expertly on the small portion of road unharmed by landslides.
The hot, dusty feel of Janakpur has gradually given way to a cooler temperature, hills and hillocks, greenery, and a river that flows right through the settlement.
It’s to this river that I head with a squeal as soon as we get settled.
Like every other Kathmanduite, my soul perennially craves for water – droplets that I can feel and touch and play with. But this is not to be, for the banks of the river are a complete mess: the stench itself warns me to keep away.
Ama and I look at the river from our lodge’s verandah, sadly for what it is and longingly for what it could’ve been.
Exploring Sindhuli Bazaar doesn’t take much time. There are a handful of shops selling the usual flashy jeans and solar torches.
Trees and bushes grow abundantly in every available space. There’s a picturesque crowd of thatched houses across the river, a school with a huge playground, a horticulture center, blue-white buses plying around the muddy bus park. And that’s about all.
Prodded on by me, who grew up listening to “Sindhuli Gadhi Ghumera Herda” in both the original and remix versions, Ama queries her pupils about the famed palace of Sindhuli.
They say that it’s still farther off, inside a jungle. We’re revved up to go till they inform us that there’s actually nothing to look at.
The ruins have disappeared, perhaps pilfered away by people as building materials. With no desire to travel so far and see a bare place to rue over a non-existent structure, we leave it at that, and return to Janakpur.
*****
Janakpur, which we had passed hurriedly yesterday, meets us in full splendor.
They call Kathmandu a city of temples, but it was the temples in Janakpur that really dazzled me. Practically every third house is a temple, and in our walk around the bustling city, we come across a row of nothing but temples.
What temples there are, and what idols! I don’t mean that they are grand, nor particularly artistic, or even large. But they are all one-of-a-kind originals.
I’ve never seen such statues before – that of an old man, reportedly an incarnation of God, painted in blue, complete to his sandals; a childish lion baring its buckteeth and looking adorable; deer statues placed at strategic points; doe-eyed goddesses in such bright hues it takes a while to figure them out; grey wolves; and yellow birds.
There are idols of all the characters of Ramayana, and the amazing thing is that almost all of them are ten-headed, when it’s only Ravana who’s supposed to be so.
It’s funny, creative, and bold – as if the artists heed to their hearts and nothing else. And every single spot is a direct reminder of it being Sita’s birthplace: There’s Shree Janak Pan Bhandar, and Laxman Special Kulfi, and Mata Vaidehi Travels, and Mithila Shoe Center.
In fact, we stop to eat my favorite spicy samosas and squishy dudhbaris at Janaki Mithai, and that’s where I encounter the second character out of the movies.
He’s sitting two seats away from us, in a sparse wooden chair placed carelessly atop the just-mopped floor. He’s almost still a teenager, with slicked-back oily hair.
His beetle-black eyes are focused on a girl at the next table. An instant later, he strolls over casually, makes small talk to her, and then pulls out his mobile.
“So, what’s your number?” he drawls, with an attempt to flick back the soppy hair.
The girl simpers, “But I’ve met you only now. Why do you need it?”
He leans nearer to her and recites an old, half-forgotten song as though it were a poem penned by him: “Oh baba! Tumse milne ko dil karta hai/Tumhi ho jispe dil marta hai...”
The girl, a typical dusky beauty, giggles and turns sideways, and her nose stud glints enchantingly. I watch, fascinated, the samosa turning soggy in my mouth, at the existence of the original Roadside Romeo, a species that I thought was extinct.
*****
And then comes the moment of the day – that of visiting the Janaki Temple. I sit and ask the vegetable seller dressed in violent pink, “Which way to the temple?”
She stares up blankly at us and asks, “Kun mandir?” (Which temple?) I stare back, equally blankly – isn’t it obvious? Then I recall those hundreds of temples piled on top of each other. It’s natural that she should be confused. So I inform her about our destination, and she nods vigorously, “Gacchi se aeni aeni.”
So we go aeni aeni from the gacchi, and I see the turreted temple for the first time – except that it doesn’t seem like the first time.
The colorful construction, with a white base, has peered out at me from so many textbooks, magazines, movies, and live descriptions that it seems as though I’m merely revisiting it. Let’s say, it’s like meeting an old chat friend in person.
The temple is beautiful, no doubt about that. It must’ve been majestic once, with its intricate carvings and vibrant colors.
It still takes one by awe. Personally, I feel so proud of it. But there’s the unmistakable sign of things slowly falling apart. It’s chipped and grimy, and cows wander in at intervals, leaving behind heaps of dung as evidence. We wait till it’s time to have a glimpse of Ram, Sita, and Laxman during evening prayers.
*****
Then we step out into the parched courtyard. I’m complaining to Ama about the plastic strewn all over, and I fail to pay attention to the dented car which is going around in circles in front of us.
I look up absentmindedly, annoyed by the whiny sound. And a man, perhaps fifty years of age, leans out of the window and winks at us – an unmistakably lewd wink. Ama and I gape at each other in shock, and before we can react, the demented person makes another suggestive gesture with his eyebrows, rolls up the windows, and the car sneaks away.
And there, I’ve seen the sleazy man from the movies.
*****
I see quite something impressive as we enter the Vivah Mandap next door to the temple.
And then all unsavory feelings melt away before the sheer charm of this well-arranged place. Reportedly the spot where Ram and Sita and their three siblings were married to each other – as locals are kind and eager enough to report – it’s built with architectural precision, it’s beautified with flowers blooming everywhere, there are leaves in all hues; and most impotently, it’s clean.
It must be the cleanest public place in entire Janakpur.
*****
Regaining my peace of mind, I want to see the ponds next. Except that no one else seems to be enthusiastic about them. That’s perhaps understandable, for next to temples, ponds must be the most numerous objects found in Janakpur.
We reach a pond of nearly perfect proportions, with the signature Mithila art on the walls surrounding it. When I ask for its name, the lady washing clothes with abandon doesn’t even pause. She just says, “It has no name. It’s just a pond for keeping fish.”
And so on it goes, except we do find out the most famous – but still less publicized – lakes, clearly identified by the temples crowding around them.
*****
And that, in sum, was Janakpur. And it has remained in my heart as the land of the most vivid shades and loquacious people, and well-toned rickshaw drivers who abruptly requested us to find jobs for their sons.
It was also the place where our request for black tea was stalled until someone queried whether it was “kala chai”, and delivered it to us in a jiffy – hot, a bit bitter around the edges, but otherwise very, very sweet.
Well, that’s Mithila!
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