“You’d better find a companion and grow potatoes. Our land is favorable for potato-growing. Besides, we are short of water here, and they have a lot of rice of their own down in the lowlands.”
“Jidney, my father is against my going to Pokara[13]. He wants me to look after the herd of yaks. But I’d rather learn carpentry and come back here with good skills.”
“All right. I’ll talk to your father and try to assure him.”
Or something like this:
“My son doesn’t want to become a monk. And I want to send him to Samagaon Monastery to serve the Almighty there.”
“It’s his right to decide what to do. Don’t make him obey your will. By the way, be sure that we all serve the Almighty in our own way.”
This is what one can here in the streets of Lomtang[14] when the King walks there.
* * *
He walks calmly, stopping everywhere, with a broad smile on his face. If asked, he gives a piece of advice. In the evening he eats a humble supper – nothing more than the poorest family in his kingdom.
He never interferes with anybody’s actions if they don’t infringe the other people’s rights.
He never calls himself the King. Only his people refer to him by this title. Sometimes, during the major Buddhist festivities, he wears the expensive clothes left by his predecessors. It makes him feel terribly awkward and embarrassed, and after each of such occasions, he prays for two days.
* * *
The province of Mustang is known for its dwarf horses, looking like ponies that walk up and down the streets stunningly decorated.
The local people resemble Tibetans a bit, but they are quite different from Nepalese.
The kingdom of Mustang had been closed to the foreigners for quite a long time, until Dijney inherited the crown. Now the King is as happy as a child when guests turn up, and never refuses their request of an audience of him.
The Kingdom has no official status, for it is a part of Nepal. Yet everyone calls it The Kingdom of Mustang.
***
During the day, when the King gets tired of walking, he starts riding his little horse. He nods his head in a humble hello to everyone he meets in the street, as if a bit ashamed that he has got tired of going on foot.
In the evening, the old King returns to his simple but very cozy residence. He prays for some time. Then he goes to bed and starts meditating about what is going to happen to his kingdom and his people after his death... Will they be able to maintain their originality?
With these thoughts he falls asleep, and with the same thoughts he wakes up in the morning.
***
We can’t even realize how alienated the people have become, and how amazing the difference between them is.
I am eager to tell everyone that in the tiny kingdom of Mustang there lives a king who is not at all different from his people; the king that is adored by his people to whom he listens and talks every day of the week.
This is what mankind should aim at. But, unfortunately, nobody can reach such perfection.
God bless the kingdom of Mustang and its King!
Pakistan
June 16, 2001
IT USED TO BE VERY NICE, INDEED
He was well over ninety. He was able to recall his past life only as separate episodes, as beautiful shots. Then, suddenly, the shots darkened and he came back to the actual reality.
Everybody called him Zachariah in his youth and later, when he grew old.
A small boy of seven, he would put his humble meal into his shoulder-bag, and go to watch on the grazing cattle. The day passed quickly, but when he came home, he would fall asleep at once, feeling pretty exhausted. In the morning everything started at the very beginning, but he was never bored.
***
He turned over in his bed and imagined the green meadow, then the colorful autumn hills, and then swimming in the pool, sitting on a buffalo back.
He recalled his Grandpa and Grandma, their chirruping speech, their slow, dignified, pleasant and interesting talk with the visiting neighbors.
Suddenly, as if recalling something important, he muttered:
“I wish I knew what language the children speak nowadays. I can’t understand a good half of it.”
His great grandson, with massy hair, worried expression on his face and a bottle of beer in his hand, entered the room.
“Listen here Grandpa, would you like to have a drink?”
Zachariah turned and looked at the youth, but he could neither guess who it was, nor what had been said to him.
Having got no answer, his great grandson left the room.
Zachariah recalled his eldest brother Gigo’s wedding. The toast master had been invited from the nearby village. He didn’t remember his name, but he could see him with his mental eye – elderly, tall, strongly-built, dressed in the Georgian national garment. He was a real orator. He could tell some exciting stories woven in his toasts so masterfully that it was a real pleasure to listen to him. He was drinking wine out of a clay bowl during the whole party.
Zachariah’s memory carried him to another episode.
The fisticuffs and wrestling were rare, but very just, honorable and heroic. The rivals would always kiss and hug each other when the fight was over.
And how graciously all of them danced! He could clearly see every detail. The dancers were sliding on the ground, hardly touching it with their feet.
“Can they dance like that on the bare ground now? Not, of course!” he thought to himself.
He recalled his first dance, when he invited the village girl he had taken to. He danced with such a drive that the ground almost burned under his feet.
A blackout again.
Some sounds interfered with his vision. He listened. It seemed someone was attempting to sing something. “But it doesn’t sound like a song at all,” he thought.
The sound became stronger and louder until it turned into a scream at the highest pitch of the voice, and the scream was accompanied by loud, bang-like sounds.
Zachariah recalled his elder brother. He was an excellent singer indeed. Each time he started to sing, everybody was their ears. Then they all tried to join him.
The old man kept listening to the virtual singing – to the old Georgian religious hymn “Thou Art the Vineyard”. Then he closed his eyes and thought: “I wish I were there, with them. What on earth am I doing here?” and fell into a sweet slumber.
Now he was already fast asleep. Only the sounds of the fiery Georgian folk song “Chakrulo” could wake him up again.
Pakistan
June 19, 2011
IN THE DESERT
Ali Ibn Said lay dying in the desert. Two of his sons – the eldest and the middling – were standing by his side, watching him very attentively.
The sun was already setting, and the man lay dying in a tent. He could hardly speak but it was obvious he wanted to say something very important.
“You know what a life I lived. It was a sinful life, and I don’t want you to do the same,” the old man muttered.
“I have robbed a lot of caravans in this desert, and I have killed a lot of people. I kidnapped both my wives from a robbed caravan, and I killed their former husbands.”
It was hard for him to proceed, and his sons moisturized his lips.
“I don’t remember ever taking a pity on anybody, though many of my victims asked me to let them live. I know that I’m going to go to hell, for Allah will never forgive me my cruelty. None of my men are alive, and I’ll join them there in no time. Some of them died of old age, and others fell in the battles.”