Posted by J Foster on Jan 25, 2016 in Cultural Anthropology
When I was a kid, I used to read the encyclopedia. Rather than attempting to identify myself with the characters of more typical teenage narratives (or, at least, let’s be honest, narratives by adults about teenagers. Which is what “young adult fiction” ultimately is), I habitually spent my quiet reading hours with the volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica (an early 1980’s set in black pleather) and a rather brightly colored set of Funk and Wagnall’s Wildlife Encyclopedias. To this day, I credit the latter with my ability to identify, by sight, a hoopoe, an okapi, at least seven types of foxes, and nearly all members of the family Paradisaeidae (order Passeriformes). More than a decade before the internet, and even longer before the advent of Wikipedia, I was happily wiling away the hours with entries detailing everything from the early modern scientific revolution, to Medieval calligraphy, to dry commentaries on Isaac Newton’s 1687 Principia. Now, I don’t mention this to imply, in any sense, that reading an encyclopedia as a ten-year-old makes you smarter or more academically inclined (though I am sure it helped along the way somewhere), I mention it here because this is the earliest memories I have of being excited by a world full of Great Big Things.
Bug collecting and fossil collecting are part of seeing the world in this way; constructing one’s own Cabinet of Curiosities in order to categorize and make sense of a world that is complex, fascinating, and wholly beyond one’s limited experiences. But here it is that anthropology challenges us further, amid the desperate urge to classify and harmonize everything into orderly taxonomies; to see our categories, not as a kind of access to direct truths but as a kind of mythology in its own right. This isn’t to suggest, of course, that scientific classification is mere fable or fantasy, or that it isn’t useful in helping us to explain and predict natural processes, but that the choice to associate certain qualities over others or to group certain characteristics and strata for one reason over another comes with its own kind of partiality.
My thinking along these lines echoes the commentaries of British paleontologist Richard Fortey, who once remarked that “like pebbles on the beach of Hinlopenstretet, history, too, is a succession of endless details, and there is an infinite choice whether to pick this one or that (Life, 1997: 24).” Or more specifically, in this case, that “the history of life is filtered by the very processes that preserve it (18).” It is not accidentally that I choose to quote Fortey here, who, as a paleontologist fascinated by the earliest fossils of Precambrian and Cambrian life, also goes on at length to question how things are classified, how one type of creature becomes associated with another, and how such early taxonomies of space and time form their own kinds of “mythological units.” As an anthropologist who works primarily with Shaligram Stones, it is this issue of classification that weighs most heavily on my work at present.
In the discourse of science, Shaligram Stones are black shale fossil ammonites from the Early Oxfordian to the Late Tithonian age near the end of the Jurassic period some 165-140 million years ago (Geological Survey of India 1904: 46). In the discourse of Hinduism, Shaligram Stones are the direct, aniconic, manifestations of Vishnu, gifted to the sacred Kali-Gandaki River (or “cursed” to appear in the river, depending on which origin story you follow) as objects of veneration for worthy devotees. In terms of classification, both are “true” in that both sets of classification tell us something about the world these objects inhabit. In one sense, these fossils tell the story of a Himalayan region once covered by a shallow sea long before the shifting of tectonic plates pushed ragged peaks into the clouds. Before mammals had arrived on the scene, before humanity was even so much as a teleological consideration. In another sense, these sacred stones tell the story of human mobility and meaning-making, of the making of persons and cultures across time and space. They tell a story of a time of divine intervention, the musings of gods, and the creation of the world also long before humanity had much say in the way of things. The famous geologist’s metaphor is to describe the careful peeling back of stratigraphic layers of rock as reading the pages of a book. But what Shaligram Stones show us is that we are not so much “reading” this story, as equally as we are “writing” it.
All narratives require a scale. All stories need a chronology. And for this reason, like it or not, human motivations will always creep into descriptions of the natural world just as much as they dominate our understandings of ritual and religion, of ethnicity, race, and nation. These stories are paradoxical and difficult. The further we delve into the world around us, the more obscure are the events and the less certain the narrative. But we must start somewhere, and in a world of Great Big Things, let it begin with the thing itself (as Appadurai would say). If nothing else but to gain a new appreciation for the richness of life and our human place within it, where a fossil can be a deity and a deity can be a fossil, both millions of years old and imminently present, and have logic be all the better for it.
Posted by J Foster on Jan 15, 2016 in Cultural Anthropology
, Fieldwork in Nepal
I encountered my first Shaligram in India during the summer of 2012. Since that time I have searched virtually every library and bookstore from Kolkata to Kathmandu (and spent an equally exhausting number of hours on Google) for any text I might find about the sacred stones of the Kali-Gandaki River Valley. Curiously, once I had managed to obtain copies of the source texts (mainly the Skanda and Garuda Puranas, the Taittiriya Upanishad, and the Brahma Sutras) that mention Shaligram veneration, I could find little else. Other than a few commentaries and pamphlets available in India and Nepal, there didn’t seem to be a published work about Shaligrams that was “about something.” By that I mean, aside from a few passing mentions here and there in the ethnographies of the Himalayas and of Hinduism, I could not find detailed descriptions of Shaligram practices in Nepal or elsewhere, of pilgrimage experiences, or of the history of Shaligrams in South Asia. But my searching did finally pay off in one respect, when I finally purchased a copy of the Salagrama – Kosha at a book market in New Delhi.
Published by S.K. Ramachandra Rao in 1996, the Salagrama-Kosha (trans. Book of Shaligrams) has, thus far, provided the most complete account of Shaligram worship available to interested readership. It explains the physical and textual origins of Shaligrams in the standard theological sense and it also contains a great deal of valuable information regarding Shaligram origin myths and methods of identification. What is more, it points to other possible sources for inquiry, including Anupa Simha’s “Salagrama Pariksa,” the “Salagrama Sila Lakshana Paddhati,” and a number of other manuscripts written in the last 200 years or so, many of which have never been translated or published.
During my time in Mustang, and among Shaligram pilgrims in both Nepal and India, it was interesting to note that the Salagrama-Kosha, along with the Puranas and other Vedic texts, comprised the vast majority of the average pilgrim’s and practitioner’s referential knowledge of Shaligram texts. As is typical in Hinduism, there appears to be no standardized body of texts that specifically direct Shaligram practice (though various texts at various times certainly hold a great deal of influence), just as there is no standardized body of texts that specifically direct Hindu worship in general. But within this complicated tapestry of inter-related threads, the absence of careful research into Shaligram meanings and practices located in place and time has lead to a noticeable gap in the literatures and in understandings of this widespread but strangely invisible practice. After a time, many of the devotees I met and spoke with even articulated similar concerns.
It’s hard to claim, off hand, that this is what I intend to remedy at the conclusion of my field research in South Asia, but it is with a final planned research monograph that I hope to bring together as many of these texts as possible with in-depth ethnographic research into Shaligram practices such as they are today. This means not just ascertaining what sacred texts say about Shaligram stones, but how people actually use them and what experiences they have in the arduous journey to acquire them.
As the Salagrama-Kosha notes, “the Deity is like an ocean of nectar altogether devoid of waves.” And yet, the physical world remains unsettled, battered about by the winds and tides of everyday life. The research process is, unfortunately, not much different. It’s difficult to tell what leads to chase down, what avenues to explore first, and of course, there remains the perpetual worry that something important might be left out. What texts might I have missed? What ritual specialist might I not have spoken to? What temple or pilgrimage site might I have inadvertently walked past?
In the end, with so many possible books filtering down through the hands of academics and pilgrims alike, and so many transient experiences carried off by the high Himalayan winds, and so many silent and contemplative faces moving through the endless streams of the Kali-Gandaki River each year, I can’t even begin to imagine just how many stones have been left unturned.
Posted by J Foster on Nov 25, 2015 in Cultural Anthropology
, Fieldwork in Nepal
It has been three months since my return from Mustang, Nepal with a basket of Shaligram stones brought from the Kali-Gandaki River, and I am already planning my return. It is likely that I will be back in the Muktinath Valley sometime around June (funding willing), and undertaking Shaligram pilgrimage again by the time pilgrimage season is in full summer swing. This time, I may attempt the journey beginning in the Damodar Kund (the source of the Kali-Gandaki River in Upper Mustang), moving southward towards Muktinath, and ending in Kagbeni village. Unfortunately, the permits required to access Damodar Kund are quite expensive, must include a guide, and are best undertaken in a group in order to defray costs. Though, I am not the only one who found this troublesome. Unfortunately, many pilgrims I encountered along the way also expressed their concerns regarding the difficulty in traveling northwards along the Annapurna circuit, and with Nepal’s continuing political and economic frustrations it’s hard to predict what complications might still arise. If I am unable to take the pilgrimage route to Upper Mustang, it is likely I will retrace my original steps from Jomsom, to Kagbeni (where the Kali-Gandaki is easily accessible), to Muktinath again. However, this time, my goals are slightly different.
As I continue to work on gathering interviews and data for the book that will inevitably result from this research, I am turning my attention less to the material and spatial aspects of Shaligram practice and more towards the experiences of Shaligram pilgrimage from home to river and back home again. To this end, anyone who is interested in discussing their experiences with Shaligrams is encouraged to comment here or to email me at email@example.com. I am particularly interested in hearing about personal experiences while on pilgrimage, while finding Shaligrams in the river, or even with Shaligrams kept in home shrines. All responses sent to my email will be kept confidential.
In the end, it is the social life of Shaligrams that holds the most mystery. Even for the ones living here in Boston.
Radha-Krishna Darshan at Home
Shaligrams from the Kali-Gandaki
Hey guys, check out my follow-up fieldwork interview on this week’s episode of This Anthropological Life!
Back from the Field: Syncing into Holly Walter’s Research Part 2
Posted by J Foster on Aug 24, 2015 in Cultural Anthropology
, Fieldwork in Nepal
One of the more interesting challenges I have been tackling since returning from the field is in categorizing my fieldnotes in a usable way. By this I don’t just mean figuring out major recurring themes or breaking down conversations into relevant questions and answers, I also mean attempting to organize categories and photos of various types of Shaligram Stones into some kind of short-hand grid. While variously arguing with Excel or tearing my hair out with Photoshop, it occurred to me that what I might actually be attempting to do is something along similar lines to that of a naturalist’s field guide. And while the relationship between famous naturalists of old and modern-day anthropology is a long and fascinating one, I am also attentive to possible critiques of “butterfly collecting”: a version of social anthropology derided by Edmund Leach (1961) that saw any attempt at creating social typologies or other systems of anthropological classifications as an imposition of the anthropologist upon the culture in question. He made this critique on the grounds that any resulting classification systems made no more sense than, say, grouping all blue butterflies together and pronouncing them the same based on shared color. In more recent anti-colonialist and anti-development literature, classification is also rejected on the grounds that it is a method by which the hegemonic West asserts power over marginalized or “othered” groups.
So how does one deal with the problem of categories in this case, then? Especially since categorization is both still ubiquitous in social science literature and is commonly used among the very people we seek not to categorize by our own standards. For my research, a two-prong approach is best I think. Firstly, I am already leveraging categorizations of Shaligram Stones in use by the people themselves who venerate the stones (many of such categories being drawn from Vedic and other religious texts) and secondly, I am acknowledging that designations and differentiations can be employed to the benefit of research while also addressing possible flaws, over-generalizations, and the problem that all systems of neat categorization tend to erase the fluidity of boundaries and categorical outliers that demonstrate just how problematic believing in this entire process is in the first place.
And yet,”classification is possible because a society is no more just a collection of individual human beings than a house is just a conglomeration of lumber, bricks, and nails (Lewellen, Political Anthropology, 2003).” And it is for this reason, in part, that a field guide to Shaligram Stones will comprise at least one part of my larger research. The second reason is that my interlocutors and informants have already expressed great interest in such a work, one that draws together a wide variety of their current sources into a single, referential, text available to all; and for anthropological ethnography, the idea that your final publication could be both valuable to your discipline and equally so to the people you work with is the finest compliment there is.
A Field Guide to Shaligrams
A Field Guide to Shaligrams
Posted by J Foster on Jul 30, 2015 in Fieldwork in Nepal
My summer pilot project here in Nepal is soon coming to a close. As monsoon earnestly sets in, I now find myself turning to the inevitable task that awaits every anthropologist conducting long-term fieldwork: organizing my notes and figuring out what comes next.
My small pocket notebook is already filled to the brim with jottings, sketches, impromptu maps, informant contact information, and questions for further inquiry. My Shaligram Stone sketchbook is starting to resemble a cross between the works of John James Audubon and Jackson Pollock, and my project book (where I try to keep my summaries brief and my details minimal) an exercise in what might be bibliographic flowcharts. I am often surprised that publishable articles and books ever manage to emerge from the tangle of highlights and marginalia that so often comprise writing in the field. Inevitably, something must be left out.
My personal system tends to rely on color-coded Post-It Notes to flag certain parts of my field book by certain pre-determined categories (such as, Pilgrimage Economy, Ritual Practice, or Deity Care). I rely on my diary for more contextual or anecdotal narratives, such as “at this point, I was to find myself sailing through the streets of Kathmandu at 30 miles an hour, clutching the back of a motor scooter with both hands, as my informant attempted to patiently explain the differences in Shaligram colors over the sound of honking horns, screeching tires, and high monsoon winds.” And, of course, I tend to rely on my sketchbook and my photos for the more visual representations of the things I set out to describe. Taken together, something of a theme begins to emerge. At least, that’s what we hope happens.
In the end, it has been a productive and fantastic beginning to what, I think, will ultimately prove to be a meaningful contribution to the anthropology of South Asia and to our understandings of Hindu and Buddhist religious practice. Already, many of my informants and friends here in Nepal are eager to see a Shaligram book, since virtually no such work currently exists that draws Shaligram practice together in its entirety (from texts new and old, to current practices, to pilgrimage, to global distribution and sacred economy). However, if it were possible to manage this *without* setting foot again on another tiny, tumultuous, mountain airplane…I would be all the more grateful for it. Though something tells me, I’m just not that lucky.
The plane, arriving in Jomsom
25 minutes of pure, white-knuckled, “joy”
Posted by J Foster on Jul 21, 2015 in Ask An Anthropologist
, Fieldwork in Nepal
Clothing is an important part of fieldwork. And by this, I don’t just mean planning for inclement weather or deciding which pants are more likely to hold up through months in the jungle. For many anthropologists, clothing choices in the field must also often reflect the cultural norms and mores of the people with which we could be spending up to a year or more living and working with. For this reason, many anthropologists in the field tend to adopt local dress codes, both as a method of participating closely with and respecting cultural attitudes (especially certain attitudes regarding religion or gender) and as a way of indicating our insider/outsider researcher status (as opposed mainly to ‘tourist’) among groups of people who may otherwise find our long-term presence strange.
During my first fieldwork project in West Bengal in northern India, my decision to wear the Indian sari fell along these lines. In response to local concerns regarding Western clothing in an especially holy pilgrimage site for Hindus and concerns about certain styles of Western clothing popular among urban women, I wore a full sari each day without question. I also found it to be an important learning experience. The rapport I quickly built with the elderly women who taught me to properly tie the garment paid off in other ways as well, particularly in invitations to attend religious rituals or in invitations to household meals and other events. Additionally, my willingness to wear saris was also taken as an indication of my openness to other kinds of cultural participation, such as learning religious mantras or taking instruction on how to care for a material deities placed in people’s homes.
But as I began to travel outside the pilgrimage temple village into the surrounding rural areas, I started to run into an interesting and unexpected problem. To many villagers not directly involved in pilgrimage activites, a young white woman in a sari had another meaning: as a statement of religious affiliation. In this case, my country of origin combined with my choice to dress in the traditional sari meant, to them, that I was a devotee of ISKCON (International Society of Krishna Consciousness or, as they are known in the United States, the Hare Krishnas). And as a presumed devotee of ISKCON, many were uninterested in speaking with me. However, this was not a statement on their parts that indicated that they particularly disliked ISKCON but more that they assumed I had a conversion agenda and that I didn’t actually know anything about Vaishnava practice more prevalent in village contexts (I won’t go into the details here but suffice it to say that Bengali folk Vaishnavism and ISKCON Vaishnavism have a number of significant differences). They also assumed I didn’t know the local language, since international devotees on pilgrimage rarely do.
Shortly after my initial experiences then, I decided to modify my daily clothing to appear somewhat more Western (though not overly so). I started dressing in kameez shirts and loose, linen, pants, and if I wore a dupatta (a kind of long scarf) I stopped using it to cover my head. I still kept my hair up, however, and still wore hand-dyed Bengali patterns and fabrics whenever possible. The results were immediate. In the surrounding villages, I was met with an equal amount of hospitality as before, but this time with greater interest in what my work was about and did I want to talk more, where was I coming from, and how had I learned to speak so much Hindi in such a short time?
Now, currently working in Nepal (though on similar topics of religion, pilgrimage, and sacred objects), I’ve maintained this sartorial strategy. I have neither adopted the Indians saris of Hindu pilgrims to the region (as that would actually mark me to the local peoples as “Hindu”) nor do I dress in the styles typical of Nepali women (as styles here are highly varied and often have connotations of ethnic identity). However, I do incorporate both Indian and Nepali styles mixed in with the sturdy trekking boots and canvas pants vital for mobility in the high Himalayas. This way, I remain clearly a cultural outsider (neither Hindu nor Buddhist, not Indian, not Tibetan, and not Nepali), but to the interest of many, I am also clearly not just another Western tourist here on holiday. My use of both Hindi and Nepali in social situations and my habit of taking my meals with the local families (rather than in the dining halls with other trekkers and tourists) also helps. For example, in one particularly amusing exchange, I once had to explain to a guesthouse owner that the other “white people” in the dining hall he kept encouraging me to socialize with were from Belgium and that I spoke neither French nor Dutch. I did, however, speak Hindi and therefore I actually could socialize with the Indian and Nepali pilgrims and families separated out in the sitting room.
In the end, the decision to wear or not to wear the typical or traditional clothing of the peoples of one’s study region is based on a large number of factors both internal to the anthropologist and external to the world they are participating in. But regardless of what they choose (or at what point they choose it), we end up learning a great deal about the people we work with sometimes just by the way they talk about our clothes. And fair warning, this doesn’t end when we come home either…
Posted by J Foster on Jul 18, 2015 in Fieldwork in Nepal
While the veneration and ritual life of Shaligram Stones outside of Mustang District is its own complicated matter of course, the actual experience of searching for and finding Shaligrams in the Kali-Gandaki River certainly cannot be omitted from any account of their meaning and use.
As I set out this morning, clad in my canvas field pants and a pair of Vibram KSOs (extremely well-suited to walking around in fast-moving, shin-deep, river water), I found myself a little sad that this would be my last day Shaligram hunting on the outskirts of Kagbeni. The Kali-Gandaki river bed is nearly a mile wide in most places around the village, and as the river slowly meanders back and forth across the valley from bank to bank, it reveals a new landscape of stones and silt each morning. The trick to finding Shaligrams, as I have found, is to find one of many small, shallow, side-streams (particularly ones that are clearly in the process of moving off course or have recently petered out in favor of rejoining the main river current) and walk along them slowly up-river with a sharp eye towards any recently exposed areas.
In this way, as one picks their way along through sun-warmed, crystal-clear waters, Shaligrams are slowly revealed to the discerning eye. In Hindu practice, the most important aspect of ritual veneration when it comes to both Shaligram Stones and to other murti (sacred images and statues of Hindu deities used in worship) is the darshan, a Sanskrit word meaning “to see.” But this aspect of “seeing” doesn’t just mean to see the deity physically, as one would when entering a temple (mandir) or shrine, it means to behold the deity as he or she truly is beyond the material obvious to the eye and in return, to be beheld by the deity yourself as well. This practice of seeing and being seen by the deity is thus one of the most common, and most important, parts of ritual practice among observant Hindus and is, also, one of the major driving forces behind pilgrimage throughout South Asia.
Searching for Shaligrams is its own kind of darshan. As I walked with particular care not to disturb too much sediment in the water, I noticed two especially important things about the experience I was undertaking. Firstly, the dark, almost inky, black color of a Shaligram Stone was the first thing that tended to catch the seeker’s eye (since it easily stood out against a plethora of grey and brown), the second was the subtle appearance of ripples or spirals (the tell-tale ridges of the fossil ammonite shell) along its surface that indicated that the stone in question might, in fact, truly be Shaligram. But not every stone that might initially appear this way was really Shaligram. In many cases, the refraction of light through the flowing water often gave the impression of such patterns on otherwise smooth stones and the accumulation of silt underneath the current was also often responsible for the appearance of similar looking patterns in the sand that covered the river bed. More often than not, a burst of excitement and a quick scoop of water to retrieve a sacred stone appearing in the river might end up with nothing more than a handful of sand and a plain rock.
For this reason, actually finding a Shaligram Stone often left me with the sense of something truly born from the river, something only appearing at the very moment that I happened to see it. Carried down through millennia of time (or more like 175 million years if we’re going by the discourse of science) by an ancient and sacred tirtha to be revealed just at that moment and just for me. Something that I was “seeing,” perhaps, that hadn’t been there a moment before. (Tirtha is a Sanskrit term meaning “bridge,” often referring to places where the divine world and the physical world are closer together. In this case, I’m referring to the Kali-Gandaki. Most sacred rivers in South Asia are considered tirtha)
Experiencing the discovery of a Shaligram Stone leaves one with significant food for thought. Not only are Shaligram Stones considered direct manifestations of God-Himself (unmade by the hands of men) but I would argue that it isn’t just their aniconic (non-human) shape or their natural formation that grants them such a reverent status beyond the ubiquitous murti of temples and roadside shrines; it’s the experience of seeking and finding them in the first place that bestows a sense that these objects come from some other place beyond the industry and understanding of human-kind. It is no wonder that so many travel so far just for the chance of being granted the smallest glimpse of something truly beyond. Whether fossil or deity, the Shaligram comes to us from a place none could ever truly fathom.
The play of light and water that makes a smooth, river, stone look like Shaligram.
Here you can see the ripples that often deceive Shaligram seekers.
A Shaligram is Revealed! You can see the round, black, Shaligram near the center of the photo.
And finally, a Sudarshan Shaligram, with clear chakra markings, appears in the river!
Posted by J Foster on Jul 15, 2015 in Fieldwork in Nepal
I am always surprised at how quickly time flies during fieldwork, and paradoxically, how slowly it passes from day to day. With only a few weeks left for this summer’s current project here in the high Himalayas of Nepal, it’s time to take stock of my fieldnotes to date and make a plan for the days remaining. My guide and I will be leaving Kagbeni on Monday for Jomsom (and by that token, Marpha, an important village in this region which we will also have the chance to visit), leaving me only a few days left here at the main geographical source of the sacred Shaligram Stones.
I will miss Kagbeni. For as fascinating and ethnographically productive as Muktinath is, I find I feel almost more at home here on the wind-swept banks of the Kali-Gandaki River. Perhaps there is just something deeply appealing to me about slogging my way merrily through mud and silt in search of ancient fossils with a group of excited Hindu pilgrims and sadhus, or perhaps it is just reminiscent enough of my rural childhood to keep me perpetually coming back for more.
But the real endeavor now is to solidify my themes and focus on my most important questions. I can already see four particularly salient categories popping up over and over again: what I am calling The Social Life of Stones, The Semiotics of Stones, Mobility as Power (or, Sacred Landscapes in Conflict with Political Landscapes), and “Modernity” versus “Tradition.” For those of you at all familiar with anthropological work in South Asia, some of this will seem reasonably familiar, especially the last theme. If nothing else, using these headings helps me to organize everything from multiple mythical origin stories, references from competing Vedic texts on the identification of Shaligram Stones, sketches and descriptions of the stones themselves, stories and experiences of pilgrims, and my own observations of ritual practices and uses of sacred space. But what is more, what I see is this project truly shaping up around issues of mobility and movement, which I mentioned earlier, and I think that this approach could potentially produce something truly exceptional in the genre of ethnographic writing (eventually anyway). But of course, as with any fieldwork, something could yet come up that completely changes everything. Such things happen more often than you might think.
In any case, I will be traveling to Tiri village a few kilometers north of here as of yet, revisiting the Shiva mandir in Kagbeni that currently houses several rather enormous sacred stones, and undertaking a few more Shaligram pilgrimages before I go. For just as the stones must travel, so must I.
Posted by J Foster on Jul 12, 2015 in Fieldwork in Nepal
Finding Shaligrams is reasonably tricky. In many ways, you need at least a little bit of an idea of what you are looking for before you set out on the silty, rocky, river bed to try your luck. The characteristic inky black color might be hidden under coatings of viscous mud and the patterns of ammonite shell spirals are often worn smooth by millennia of rushing water and aren’t always obvious even from up close. But if searching for a particular kind of stone in a great mountain of stones can be seen as any kind of analogy, I would apply the same idea to walking the narrow streets of Kagbeni village. Sometimes it is hard to know exactly what it is you are looking at, even up close.
Spending time in the village is always a rewarding endeavor. Not only does it give you a sense and feel for how village life is actually carried out, but you also get to play a little Morelli’s Detective while you scour every stupa, mani wall, cross-roads, and threshold for clues as to how people are using and moving through physical and sacred spaces. For example, I note each presence of a Shaligram Stone tucked away inside of Buddhist prayer wheel or set along a wall dividing one part of the village from another. I especially note each time a Shaligram has been placed on the ledge of stupa, often times as an offering to the Dakini of the Himalayas (“Sky Dancers” — powerful female spirits said to inhabit this region). I also carefully log each time I see a goat skull, decorated with spirals and geometric designs, hung over a doorway or a trishula (a marker of Shiva) set in a threshold, or a mani stone, covered in Tibetan mantras, attached to a wall that every traveler must pass. In this region, marking the “spiritual nature” of a space by placing objects and symbols over doorways that represent specific deities, nationalities, and religious traditions is a reasonably common practice, and certainly a helpful one for someone like me.
In this way, each story tells a story, and as confusing as that might sound initially, it comes to make more and more sense as you realize that stories exist in the context of where both you and they are. In other words, stories tell you something about the world in which they come from. Stories are shaped by the landscape, and in turn, shape it; in much the same way as the high winds that perpetually tear through this valley are steered by the mountains and in turn slowly tear the mountains to the ground. So if I may hang on to my analogy a bit longer, then might I say that if each Shaligram Stone that is ever so carefully pulled from all the other river rocks and sand is a story collected from the people of Mustang, then it would do us all a great service to remember that the river was the source of them all.
Kali-Gandaki River Valley, Kagbeni, Mustang, Nepal