Kumari (n.) – also, kumari devi or living goddess – the tradition of worshiping young prepubescent girls as manifestations of the divine female energy or devi in Hindu and Buddhist religious traditions. The word Kumari is derived from the Sanskrit Kaumarya, meaning “princess”.
PC: Elijah Arns
They wake us early. Mahitma groans and rolls over, her hand curling around my waist as if to anchor me to the bed. Even half-conscious, she tries to protect me.
She may not be able to stop the goddess Taleju taking control of my body later today, but her small act does give me the courage to slip out of my silk sheets. Cold shoots up my body as my feet brush the stone. I am tempted to return to bed, but I must not be too rebellious. Then Taleju might depart, to my family’s shame.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I let my self lose control like one of Durga’s more vicious manifestations. But I am supposed to be the embodiment of purity and the divine spirit, so I am not permitted to throw tantrums. I step lightly into the arms of my anxious attendants.
I was only three years old when my mother dreamt of the red snake, barely old enough to remember the selection process to become the royal Kumari, the most important of the living goddesses. My first concrete memory is the temple, with its cloying incense and lulling chants of the priests. While my toddler’s body sagged into my mother’s lap, my mind awoke. It was as if the knowledge of the universe had been dropped into my head. I understood things I should not have been able to comprehend.
Should the goddess depart, my knowledge will depart with her. Upsetting as the moments of her possession may be, I do not wish to return to ignorance… or at least, that is what I tell myself.
The attendants fuss around me, twittering like birds as they wash and dress me for display like a human doll. On this first day of the Indra Jatra, I will be carried through the streets of Kathmandu so I can bestow a blessing upon the people.
The preparations take hours. Mahitma eventually wakes, and, rubbing tired eyes, leaves to prepare for the day. Her absence makes me uneasy, but I try not to let it show. She is not permitted to travel with me, but I hope she will come to see me off. I’ve needed her quiet presence and steady strength more and more as the goddess’s demands increase.
Sometimes, I am desperate enough to injure myself. A major loss of blood would evict Taleju as surely as my first womanly bleeding, which is still some years away. Mahitma keeps me from those darker thoughts.
We settle into the wagon. The fabric presses on me, but I am used to the itch. My eyes search for Mahitma. Surely she must come—she knows how I hate going out in the city alone—but then the drumming begins. It is inside my skull, pounding along my bones. In all the noise, I almost don’t notice as the men lift their ropes to pull. Next thing I know, we are wobbling through the streets of Kathmandu.
The goddess comes almost immediately. I can still feel my body, but I am no longer in control. I sit still as a statue atop my cushions, taking in the sights and sounds of a city of violin hawkers and rickshaws. Few cars brave the narrow, gutted streets, even less today as people line the walkways, hanging from the windows of the dance bars and tattoo parlors.
My eyes roam those gathered. The goddess weighs on my mind, flattening my emotions. I can’t feel anything but pressure now, but I will pay the price in night terrors and anxiety attacks that only Mahitma can truly calm. Faces blur, each one the same in a never-ending sea of dark hair and skin the color of milk tea.
The further we go, the more my fear builds, though my expression betrays nothing. The crowds are incessant and loud, almost as loud as the drums. People press close, trying to touch my feet or clothing. My priests surround me, a wall of white t-shirts with orange sleeves, but I can feel the wagon shaking as worshippers try to climb.
We are almost back to the ghar—I can see the gates—when the procession stops. They are trying to figure out how to turn the wagon, but the crowd is swarming, pressing too close for us to navigate. The wagon pullers shout and gesture loudly, but they cannot stop the worshippers. Rahanu! Rahanu! they cry. Stay!
My drivers are trying to figure out how to turn the wagon, so they back us up. In a frenzy, the crowd presses closer, forcing us further back. We can no longer see the gate. Inside, I am panicking, though my face remains calm. I wish someone familiar were here with me—mother, father, Mahitma—but I am alone except for the orange-sleeved priests.
I steel myself, remembering the ritual I undergo every year. If I can face the bleeding heads of a dozen decapitated bulls and remain impassive then I can also face the excitement of a crowd. No one, not even one of the low-caste sudra, would allow me to come to harm for fear of disrespecting Taleju.
This ability to think rationally is not my own, and my five-year-old body knows. It wants to rebel, but Taleju holds me still.
People are shouting and the drums are still beating, keeping time with my frantic heart. I feel trapped in my body as emotions boil inside me, unable to be expressed. That’s when I see them: two foreigners, standing at the corner of my wagon. The woman is blonde, with sparkling blue eyes and a comforting smile. The man beside her looks like he has braved Everest, with the locks and beard to match. He holds a camera loosely in two hands, but he doesn’t seem interested in taking my picture. They are both looking directly into my eyes.
I feel a catch within my spirit. For a moment, the goddess stutters.
My eyes turn away quickly, and I am so surprised at first that I don’t even think to resist. As Taleju forces my eyes across a crowd that still makes me nervous, my curiosity only grows. Who are these strange people? What power do they have that is greater than Taleju?
With small, subtle shifts, I guide my gaze back to them. The woman rests her hand on the corner of my wagon, her blue eyes brimming with tears. She is saying something, but the crowd is too loud to make it out. The man also speaks, his eyes betraying a deep compassion. Just as Taleju forces my gaze away, I realize their lips are moving in the same pattern.
Their words are meant for me. I know it.
My gaze slides off them as if we are repelling magnets. I retreat into my inner self. For a moment, just a moment, I was able to take control. Something about the way those two had looked at me… there was a power I couldn’t explain.
I wish I could hear what they were saying.
It is all I can do not to start in shock as the street around me suddenly goes quiet. I can still see the people—their fingers still reach for just a touch, they still call out, hoping for my gaze to rest on them—but I can’t hear anything except two voices, one female, one male, raised in song.
There is power in the name of Jesus
There is power in the name of Jesus
There is power in the name of Jesus
to break every chain,
break every chain,
break every chain.
The simple refrain repeats. The melody sounds strange to my ears, but the words bring me peace. Slowly the noise returns, but my spirit has settled. I am no longer afraid.
My gaze has drifted back toward the two foreigners, but they are gone. Instead a man stands at the edge of my wagon. He wears a white daura with a purple sash at the waist. Both hands rest on the wood, with identical ugly burns on the wrists. I almost dismiss him as a Hindu holy man, but something in his eyes stops my gaze.
He winks.
At that moment, I realize I am in control of my own body again. Taleju is not gone, but she feels confused, as if she’s never encountered this kind of resistance before. I hide my surprise, forcing myself to slowly move my gaze away, though all I want to do is stare at the man. Too many eyes are on me, and if the priests hear about something strange in my behavior later, they may subject me to more rituals.
After an appropriate time has gone by, I turn my gaze back to the corner. The man is gone, but the foreigners are still there. They don’t look like they’ve moved, and I wonder where the man disappeared to and whether they know him. They are still singing.
I repeat the words of the foreign song in my mind, especially the word Jesus. Taleju gives a small shudder every time that name crosses my mind. What is this strange power of resistance they possess? And who was that strange man with the burns on his wrists? Even Mahitma, with her comfort and tears, has never been able to banish the influence of the goddess so suddenly.
I manage to meet their eyes a few more times before the carriage starts moving again, never lingering long enough to draw suspicion. The crowds are still loud, and we have to pause and adjust a few more times before we are safely in the ghar, but I don’t feel any more fear.
Mahitma comes running to meet me. Her face doesn’t show it, but I can tell she is frantic with worry. As soon as is possible, she pulls me aside. “I’m so sorry, Trishna! I lost track of time and arrived too late to bid you goodbye—are you all right?” Her arms grip mine.
I smile. “I am fine.”
That stops her. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
She sits back. I can read the confusion on her face. It makes me want to giggle, so I do. Soon she is laughing, too. “Wha… what happened?” She knows me as well as I know her.
I explain to her about the foreigners and the man with the scars on his wrists. Mahitma listens curiously, her eyes growing wider and wider as I describe how their song silenced Taleju. Instead of the surprise and joy I feel, she shows fear.
“Taleju will be angry,” she whispers. “Oh, Trishna, are you not afraid?”
“No,” I say. Though I can’t explain why, I know that I am now safe.
Mahitma insists on staying in my room, just in case. But I don’t have a single dream or panic attack—not that night, nor any night after.
It is only a few weeks later that we receive the news: a new Kumari will be chosen. I will be released from my duties.
Yet I have not shed any blood.
