Chapter 5 | Contents | Chapter 7
I couldn’t tell what I’d gained in the five years of living as a journalist.
However, I’d definitely learned how to get ready and eat my meals quickly. After hearing that the response from Warrant Officer Rajeshwar wouldn’t come until tonight at the earliest, I gave my thanks to Chameli, then returned to room 202. There, I checked that my sling bag contained a notebook, pen and compass. I took out my digital camera, and confirmed that I had a spare battery.
Next, I looked at the map. I’d gotten a sense of the general layout during yesterday’s walk, so I reorganized it and drilled it into my head again. After staring at the map until I felt I familiar enough with it, I slung my bag around my body, to find that only three minutes had passed.
I had no idea what I would see or who I could talk to. The shooting occurred in the palace, so I obviously wouldn’t be able to conduct an investigation on-site. Even so, I should head for the crime scene, or at least get close to it.
Pushing open the metal doors of Tokyo Lodge, I went out to the street. June was definitely supposed to be the rainy season in Kathmandu, but like the day before, it was sunny outside. However, the sky wasn’t completely clear, and looked a little hazy. Was it caused by the wind whipping up dry dirt, or was it due to air pollution?
Conscious of the weight of the camera hanging from my neck, I hurried down the alley.
Judging by the map, I could get halfway there from the road I’d walked with Sagar the day before. Here and there on street corners, small groups of men were gathered, peering at newspapers. A large photograph of the king was printed on the front page of these newspapers.
There weren’t many vendors around. Many of the stores facing the street weren’t displaying their merchandise either. I walked down New Road, noting that it was somehow quieter, even though the number of people on it looked to be unchanged from yesterday.
Turning left at the dead end, I entered Kanti Path. By heading north and going around the park, I would be right at King’s Way, which leads to the palace. Kathmandu being a small city, it wasn’t far to the palace.
Even though the king was just killed, men in suits came and went on the pavement, while taxis waited for customers on the shoulder of the road which had no lane demarcations. At a glance, it seemed like nothing had changed. However, I could hear a faint murmur from afar. As if drawn to that sound, I quickened my pace.
Brown, unadorned rectangular buildings stood in a row. The smallest structures were at either end, with slightly larger ones just inside them. From both sides, the rectangular buildings rose in a stepped progression, until at the center stood a tall, pale-pink tower. A large trapezoidal window was cut into the middle of that tower, gleaming in the southern sunlight.
Wondering if I’d made some sort of mistake, I looked around, but failed to see any other tall buildings. I couldn’t help but let out a cry.
“Is this really it?”
I’d assumed it would be a modern building… but this construction was neither modern nor beautiful. I didn’t stop because I was awestruck by the palace’s majesty. Compared to the charm of Kathmandu’s streets that evoked a sense of a bygone era, Narayanhiti Palace, which should be the most lavish building in the city, felt strangely unremarkable and cut off from the city’s history.
Looking closely, the central tower was crowned with an ornamental roof reminiscent of the five-story pagoda at Hōryū-ji Temple1. With its large, overhanging eaves and a jewel at the apex, the roof looked like it had been tacked on simply to give the entire building a more Nepalese feel.
The front of the palace was at the T-intersection where King’s Way, which ran from north to south, met Narayanhiti Path, which ran from east to west. To be precise, King’s Way, the road that I’d been walking on, continued into the palace, but was blocked off by a gate. It was supposed to be the main entrance, but was just a bland, white iron fence.
In front of the main entrance, a large crowd of people had gathered, and were standing idly by the iron fence.
I held up my camera, and took three or four photos with the pale-pink tower of the palace in frame. However, everyone was looking in the direction of the palace, and since I was at the edge of the crowd, all I could do was capture the back of people’s heads. So, I stopped moving the finger on the shutter button and put down my camera for now.
At least several hundred people were here, milling about without any clear direction. Even so, it was quiet in front of the palace. A buzz hung around the crowd like a thick fog, but contained no distinct emotion like anger or sorrow, and simply seemed to be comprised of individual whispers bouncing off each other.
The people I could see had one thing linking all of them. It was confusion. Unable to believe the news, they’d rushed over to the palace, but didn’t know what to do and just seemed to be in a state of shock.
Nearby was a young man in a smart-looking shirt. Taking out my notebook, I addressed him in English.
“Excuse me.”
“Huh? Oh, you’re talking to me?”
“I am Tachiarai, a reporter from Shinsou Monthly, a magazine in Japan. Could I ask you a few question?”
The man’s eyes widened.
“A reporter from Japan! So, you already know?”
“What about?”
“That our king is dead. Nothing could be more tragic.”
“Yes, I am aware.”
I nodded deeply.
“I can’t believe that the crown prince shot them. It’s just unthinkable that he would murder his younger sister who performed bhai tika for him.”
“Bhai tika, you say?”
“Ah, like this.”
He pointed at his own forehead.
“A tika is a yellow or red mark of powder that is applied to the forehead. On the last day of the Tihar festival, women will apply tika for their brothers. This is called bhai tika, and is a very important ritual for us Nepalese. It’s impossible that he would kill the sister who performed bhai tika for him!”
I jotted down his words.
“So that means the crown prince’s younger sister was also one of the victims?”
“Yes, she was killed… but the government still hasn’t said anything!”
He waved his hands and spoke vehemently.
“Please tell this to the people of Japan. Tell them that we are deeply saddened.”
“I understand. Thank you. I am glad that I got to hear your thoughts.”
“You’re welcome.”
After that, I moved away and talked to a few more people. They all expressed grief, and criticized the government’s silence. Many of them talked about bhai tika, but it still wasn’t a confirmed fact that the crown prince’s younger sister was among the victims. However, I could sense that while people were mourning the king’s passing, there was a prevailing atmosphere of disbelief regarding the reports that the crown prince was the culprit, and they were having a hard time coming to terms with it.
Once the same statements started coming up two or three times, I wrapped up the interviews and went about looking for a spot to take some photos. A little way down King’s Way, I found a cafe with terrace seating on the second floor. I entered the shop that was sparse with guests, and was shown to the second floor. Once again, I readied my camera, and zoomed in on the crowd.
A few soldiers in military uniform were spread out in front of the iron fence. They each held a rifle in their hands, and were confronting the crowd.
“Don’t worry, nothing will happen.”
I said to myself. Through the camera, I saw that the soldiers were one to two meters away from the crowd, and no one looked like they were about to step past the invisible boundary. There were no signs of a riot occurring. But even as I knew that to be true, looking at the row of rifles made me feel a cold sweat trickling down the back of my neck.
Holding my breath, I captured them on camera.
The restless Kathmandu citizens, the calm soldiers, a truck that moved past carrying something, the deserted palace, a panoramic view of Narayanhiti Palace which was only Nepalese in its roof… I continued taking photos of them all.
In the end, I spent a total of one and a half hours interviewing and photographing at King’s Way.
After that, I decided to withdraw to Tokyo Lodge. I needed to get the latest information, but watching the BBC at the lodge would be the best method for that. It did seem pathetic to have to rely on the TV as a reporter, but even in Japan I usually got breaking news from news agencies or the TV, so there wasn’t much of a difference.
I was made painfully aware that I needed a radio. With one, I could go about conducting interviews and taking photographs while receiving information. It was such a shame that today being a rest day in Nepal, most stores were closed, but I wanted to procure a radio from somewhere. On the way back, I found a general store that was barely open, and bought an English newspaper that had a photo of King Birendra on its front page.
I opened the green metal doors and entered the lodge. There were three people on the ground floor. Rob was rattling off in English to the telephone, while Chameli was looking at her stopwatch. When I walked in, Shukumar turned to me, a solemn look on his face.
“Miss Tachiarai, how is the situation on the streets?”
“It was more peaceful than I thought. The area around New Road was quieter compared to yesterday. A crowd gathered in front of the palace, but the atmosphere wasn’t tense. However, the soldiers guarding the palace were carrying rifles.”
“Yes, that is not rare for this country. Those were not soldiers, but the police force, I believe.”
Shukumar placed a hand on his forehead and nodded thoughtfully.
“It is a good thing that the city is calm. I hope things stay peaceful.”
From the way he spoke, I could tell that he was worried about something specific.
“Is something wrong?”
Apparently having no intention of hiding anything, he readily answered.
“This is what I heard from a friend, but they might be closing the borders.”
“The borders? With India?”
Shukumar nodded.
“The Indian government seems to be worried that Nepalese insurgent activity might intensify. Then again, it is unthinkable that any of them have infiltrated India, but…”
“They are fearful of that possibility, right?”
“I believe so.”
There were armed insurgents in Nepal.
They called themselves Maoists, and it was said that they were gaining influence, particularly in rural and mountainous areas, which were beyond the Nepalese government’s reach. I’d also heard that in some areas they’d managed to expel police officers and government officials, and had begun to govern themselves. Was their self-governance accepted by the residents, or was it just a propaganda tool for drawing attention to the guerrilla’s cause? I didn’t know the answer to that.
“So the borders are completely closed?”
I asked, causing Shukumar to put on a troubled look.
“I do not know. All I know is that state security forces were mobilized in Uttar Pradesh. They could lock down the borders, or they could also simply strengthen security there.”
“What about the BBC?”
“They have not said anything about that. I intend to ask a friend who is currently in India.”
He said, then turned his eyes towards Rob, who was still cursing into the phone.
His words were fast, but not so fast that I was unable to pick them out. I instantly understood what he was trying to do.
“Three days? Shit, I can’t wait that long! Listen, at this point I don’t mind going by air. It can’t be possible that all flights are full, right? Check properly, dammit!”
Rob was trying to get out of the country. While it was relatively peaceful now, no one could guarantee that nothing would happen in the near future, so it was a reasonable course of action.
Eventually, Rob seemed to listen carefully to the person on the line, then replied, “I’ll call again,” and put down the receiver. Chameli stopped the stopwatch and told him the telephone fee. He produced some Nepal banknotes from a pocket, and that was when he seemed to notice me for the first time.
“Hey.”
Rob put on a strained smile and raised a hand.
“This is totally ridiculous. Can you believe that all the buses are full?”
“Seems like lots of people thought of the same thing.”
“Nah, I just called the wrong person.”
He shrugged. After stuffing the change he’d received from Chameli into a pocket, he approached me and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t worry. I’m with the chief.”
The word “chief” carries various connotations – supervisor, governor, superintendent. But I didn’t know which he was referring to. Who exactly was this “chief” backing him up? He continued.
“Even if this city becomes like Saigon, I’ll be able to protect the both of us.”
The blood had drained from Rob’s face, but he had a forced smile on his lips. Even when he was beside himself with worry, he was trying to encourage me.
“It’ll be fine. This city won’t become like Saigon.”
I replied even though it was a baseless statement. For his vanity-driven kindness, I added, “Thank you.”
Rob nodded, then went up the stairs with unsteady footsteps.
Shukumar spoke to Chameli.
“Now, I would like to make an international call.”
“Alright.”
After pressing a few buttons on the stopwatch, Chameli said, “Go ahead,” to Shukumar. While he was pushing some buttons on the telephone, she sent me a meaningful look.
Perhaps things had progressed with Warrant Officer Rajeshwar. Would I be able to chat with a soldier who was in Narayanhiti Palace on the night of the incident?
I wanted to talk to Chameli as soon as possible. I had to at least ask if the interview was possible, or else I would be left hanging and unable to proceed.
But Chameli left it at that, averting her gaze almost intentionally, and returning to her stopwatch. I didn’t feel that I had to be shy about it, but if it was more convenient for her later, I could only go along with her schedule. As Shukumar started talking on the phone behind me, I also headed up the stairs.
Room 202 was currently being cleaned.
Gobin was running a vacuum cleaner which made roaring sounds on the floor. When our eyes met, I took a two-rupee coin from my pocket and handed it to him.
“Thank you very much, miss.”
He temporarily stopped the vacuum cleaner and spoke in halting English. Feeling bad for interrupting his work, I was about to turn around and go to the TV on the fourth floor, when he addressed me again.
“Miss, the madam left me something. Please wait.”
After waiting for almost no time at all, Gobin dashed back into the room. In his hand was a stack of papers.
“They are addressed to you.”
“Right, thanks.”
I glanced at it to find that it was a fax from Japan. I thanked him and gave him a tip.
Thinking of reading it upstairs anyway, I left my room, and noticed that a piece of paper was affixed to the door of Room 203. It had the words “DO NOT ENTER” written on it, and the characters appeared to be traced over and over with a fine-tipped pen. “DO NOT DISTURB” is a common feature of hotels, but it was rare to see a sign sayng that a guest room was off-limits. I returned to Room 202 and talked to Gobin who was once again holding the vacuum cleaner with his small frame.
“Sorry to disturb you again, but can I ask you a question?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“There is a sign saying ‘DO NOT ENTER’ outside Room 203. Did something happen?”
Gobin put on a serious expression uncharacteristic of a child.
“Mister Foxwell pasted it there himself. I’m having trouble because I don’t know if I can clean there or not.”
So Rob intended to hide in his room? Surely he wouldn’t overreact like that, right?
“This is not something to laugh about.”
“I was laughing?”
I hadn’t noticed, but perhaps I was starting to relax a little. But to Gobin, it was certainly no laughing matter. Firstly, he wouldn’t be able to clean the room. Secondly, he didn’t know what would happen to his country. Gobin, who had to make a living despite his small stature, would never be able to laugh at that.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh.”
“Alright…”
It seemed that he wanted to return to his work, for he started up the vacuum cleaner. With the loud noise behind me again, I walked towards the staircase.
There was no one at the canteen on the fourth floor. I looked at my watch. It was just past one o’clock. Pulling out a chair from under a nearby table, I laid out the English newspaper along with the fax from Japan. I retrieved a red ball-point pen from my sling bag, and switched on the TV.
The channel was already set to the BBC.
“I repeat: Confirmed to be deceased are King Birendra, Queen Aishwarya, Prince Nirajan, Princess Shruti…”
Faced with the sudden news, I couldn’t move my pen in time. I didn’t manage to write down the names of the king and queen, but started from the third name. They were names I wasn’t used to hearing, so I was unsure of their spelling. All I could do was write them out in katakana as they sounded to me.
After that, a photo of a young man was displayed on the television.
“Crown Prince Dipendra is in critical condition, and doctors are working tirelessly to treat him.”
This was my first time seeing the face of the crown prince at the center of this incident. The young man had plump cheeks and a mustache, and was wearing a topi2 in the photo. I stared intently at the screen. Had the BBC deliberately chosen a photo in which the crown prince appeared gentle? It certainly didn’t look like the face of a mass murderer. But of course, no one would be able to judge the crown prince’s character solely from his face.
He was 29 years old. His father Birendra was 55.
Eventually the image changed to a live video of the palace. I’d just seen the situation there, so I looked away from the TV.
The fax from Makino contained not only King Birendra’s achievements, but also a simple summary of Nepal’s royal family.
According to it, Nepal’s current monarchy did not date back that far.
The current dynasty was established relatively recently in the latter half of the 18th century, after several other dynasties rose and fell in the Kathmandu Valley. It wasn’t until the 19th century that the country’s current borders were established, after people from diverse cultural backgrounds such as tribes from the mountainous and southern regions were united under the caste system, and the interference of the British East India Company was repelled.
Cultural differences among the people never led to major ethnic conflicts. It could probably be said that the external pressure of being sandwiched between the big countries of India and China managed to bring Nepal’s people together, in a way.
However, it would be difficult to say that the country was united under the royal family.
It was not the king, but the prime minister’s family that held real power in Nepal. The Rana family held the office of prime minister hereditarily, dominated the important official posts, and repeatedly formed marital ties with the royal family. The flag of Nepal, which was made up of two triangles, had the emblem of the royal family in one triangle, and the emblem of the Rana family in the other. That just went to show how much power the Rana family held. While reading the materials that Makino had sent over, I realized that if I were to draw a comparison with Japan’s Edo period, the Nepalese royal family was roughly analogous to the Imperial family, while the Rana family was similar to the Tokugawa clan.
In 1951, the monarchy was restored, and the Rana family was removed from the center of political power. The king began to rule directly thereafter, but before long, the people started making calls for democratization. The person who ascended to the throne under these circumstances was Birendra, who was killed during this incident.
Although it was the result of various political compromises, Birendra accepted the call for democratization in the end. In 1990, a new constitution was established, and Nepal transitioned to a constitutional monarchy. With that, Birendra gained popularity as a king who stood by the people of his country.
“Hmm… I really don’t know how this will turn out.”
The document didn’t mention what the royal family meant to the people of Nepal. Were they a family that had long been in the shadows, existing in name only, the formidable peak of the caste system, or were they deeply loved by the people? The deceased King Birendra was respected for his accomplishment of democratization. In other words, he was loved because he’d abolished the monarchy. I found myself wondering whether the people’s reverence for Birendra extended to the royal family as a whole, and whether they would support the monarchy no matter what happened – even if, for instance, the crown prince were to shoot the king. There was something faintly troubling about that possibility.
Next, I picked up the English newspaper I’d bought on the street.
In the absence of an official announcement from the government, the newspaper article did not go beyond the BBC’s initial report, as expected. It would take some time before differences emerged in how different media outlets approached the information. However, buying the newspaper turned out to be quite worthwhile, because it included the royal family tree. Wasting no time, I copied it into my notebook.
On the TV, the names of those killed in the shooting were read out again. This time, I checked those names against the family tree.
They were the crown prince’s father King Birendra, his mother Queen Aishwarya, his aunts Shanti and Sharada, and Sharada’s husband Kumar. Also among the dead were the crown prince’s first cousin Jayanti, his younger sister Shruti and his younger brother Nirajan, making it eight victims in total. With help from the family tree, I learned that all of the king’s children died in the attack except for the crown prince, who was the suspected perpetrator.
Looking up at the ceiling, I sighed.
At that moment, I noticed the creaking of the staircase mixing with the voices from the TV. Someone was coming up.
However, the sounds were a little strange. They were too small. That staircase should be creaking a lot louder. Either the person coming up was trying to make less sound, or they didn’t weigh much.
It turned out to be the latter. A high-pitched pre-pubescent voice called out to me.
“Tachiarai, what are you doing?”
It was Sagar. He had his hands behind his head, and was pursing his lips.
“Should you really be sitting around here?”
“What about you? Is it okay for you to come in here without permission?”
Sagar replied proudly.
“I do have permission. I told Miss Chameli that Tachiarai asked me to come here.”
“Me? I don’t remember asking you for anything, though.”
“I’ll definitely be useful. I heard from Gobin, you’re a journalist, right? I’m interested in journalists. So I’ll help you out!”
I sank into thought for a short while. It would be quite dangerous to bring a child along while investigating the incident. However, it would be good to obtain more channels for finding out the community’s reactions to the shooting, and most importantly, I would be able to secure a Nepalese interpreter. Moreover, with Sagar being a bright kid, he would pick up on all sorts of rumors and hearsay. Him being a smart aleck would have its pros and cons, but I could work around that.
This was a godsend. All I had to do was make sure not to bring him to dangerous areas.
“Thank you. I’m in your care.”
Sagar beamed, showing his white teeth.
“That’s more like it!”
He sat on the other side of the round table, then looked at the TV and the documents on the table in turn. He immediately frowned.
“Should a journalist really be watching TV and reading the newspapers? All this information was investigated by someone else, right? If you’re seeing things like these, doesn’t it mean that you’re out of the loop?”
It wasn’t unreasonable for Sagar to think that way. When I was a kid, I used to think that “news” meant finding out what no one knew.
However, you can’t report on what nobody knows. A journalist’s role is to gather what is already known, piece it together, and convey it to others. And there are many different types of journalists.
“Speed isn’t everything. The radio and TV can report on events the day they happens, but newspapers will be half a day late. Weekly magazines can be late by seven days, and monthly magazines can be late by a month. What we lack in speed, we make up for with articles that are thoroughly researched and carefully crafted. That is the job I do.”
“Heh.”
Sagar laughed mockingly and pointed at the television.
“It sounds good when you put it like that. But aren’t you basically saying that you’re no match for the TV?”
“In terms of speed, yes. But that doesn’t mean my work is useless. It just serves a different purpose.”
After considering it for a moment, he replied in a strangely impressed manner.
“I see. Now that I think about it, you’re right. Airplanes are the fastest, but that doesn’t mean we don’t need buses and rickshaws.”
I hadn’t heard that analogy before, but it was a good one.
“Oh well, never mind then. But that doesn’t mean you can just stay here watching TV and reading the newspaper, right?”
“Of course. I was just organizing the information I’ve gathered thus far, and checking to see if there is any new information. I’m heading out right after this.”
“New information?”
As if he’d been waiting for that, Sagar leaned forward.
“Well, I know plenty about that. Let me tell you about it.”
“You mean the rumors going around town?”
In the English language, the word “rumor” should also carry the negative connotation of a story that many people talk about but cannot be trusted. Yet Sagar held his head high.
“I suppose you could call it that. But Tachiarai, this city is built on rumors. Everyone here loves them.”
Collecting local rumors and presenting it as “what the locals are saying” is a standard way of putting together a news story. I also intended to gather rumors to some extent. Though I was a little uncertain about having a ten-year-old kid as an information source, as this point I wanted to hear from as many people as possible.
“I see. Tell me.”
“Sure. First, about the prince…”
I hastily picked up my notebook and pen. Seeing that, Sagar cheerfully grinned.
“Ready?”
“Please.”
Sagar leaned back against the chair’s backrest, then sat up straight as to make his small frame look bigger before starting.
“Prince Dipendra had a girlfriend. They say she’s super beautiful, though I’ve seen the photos and I don’t think she’s that good-looking. But to be honest, I don’t really know what a beautiful woman is supposed to look like.”
No matter how mature he seemed, it wasn’t unusual for him not to know at that age. I gave an agreeable nod and gestured for him to continue.
“So Prince Dipendra wanted to marry his lover, but the king and queen were against it. A fortune-teller said that their marriage would be inauspicious. They also say that there’s a prophecy that the king will die if the prince marries before the age of 35.”
“A fortune-teller? The king believed in that?”
Sagar stared at me in disbelief.
“Of course! A king would definitely believe in fortune-telling.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep.”
Was that a commonly known fact in this country?
“Sagar, do you know that fortune-teller’s name?”
“No. I think no one knows.”
“Alright, what about the name of Crown Prince Dipendra’s lover?”
“That I know. It’s a famous story after all. Her name is Devyani Rana.”
I jotted down her name. A violent act due to opposition to marriage… that sounded plausible. However, I still felt that something was off.
“Saying that the crown prince hated the king and queen, and had murderous intent towards them makes sense. But those two were not the only people who were shot yesterday.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing.”
Sagar spoke as though he knew all about it.
“It’s weird, because Prince Dipendra could have met with the king and queen and any time. Even if he wanted to take them out to marry Devyani, he didn’t have to do it yesterday. And then it would have ended with just the two of them getting shot, right?”
“Yeah.”
Again, he abruptly leaned forward.
“That’s the problem. Tachiarai, I know a juicy story. Want to hear it?”
His eyes were glimmering. Laughing wryly inside, I replied.
“Tell me.”
“But it won’t be free. It’s a really juicy story.”
I put down my pen.
“Thank you, Sagar. You’ve given me some useful information.”
Sagar was visibly flustered.
“Hey, wait, sure you don’t want to hear it?”
“We don’t pay money for stories. If we did, people would embellish their stories for the money.”
Of course, that depended on the situation, but I didn’t need to tell Sagar that.
“Don’t be that way. Come on, Tachiarai, you’ll regret it.”
He wasn’t letting up. Though I knew little about children’s psychology, it was obvious. He wanted me to listen to his story.
“You’ll definitely regret it!”
“Really? If you really insist, but I still can’t give you money…”
Sagar’s face was contorted in frustration, and his fists were trembling. His face was also turning red. Perhaps I’d teased him too much.
“Fine! I don’t need money. But in exchange, if you make it big off this story, I’ll have you share some with me.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Alright. Actually…”
Sagar suddenly closed his mouth, then looked to the left and right. Seeing that the window was open, he closed the shutters, and only returned to his seat after peeking at the staircase. That was rather dramatic. In a hushed voice, he finally spoke.
“This is an Indian conspiracy.”
“…Hmm.”
“The king knew that his country was being targeted by India. That’s why he tried getting China to side with us. India didn’t like that, so they sent in an assassin.”
“Uh huh.”
“Now you understand why it wasn’t just the king and queen who got shot, but all the royals who were at that dinner party, right? It was to silence them all. If everyone gets killed, no one will know who did it.”
Noticing that I wasn’t moving my pen, Sagar looked disgruntled for a fleeting moment, but that instantly turned into a look of understanding.
“Good thinking, not taking notes. With a story this crazy, you never know who might see it if you write it down.”
“No, that’s not it.”
Journalists may listen to all sorts of stories, but we must reject conspiracy theories.
“…I heard that India is fearful of Nepal becoming unstable after the death of the king and queen, so they’re amassing troops by the border.”
I was trying to say that the death of the king did not benefit India, but Sagar frowned solemnly and nodded.
“There, you see. They’re about to attack.”
I enjoyed talking to Sagar. Normally I would want to talk more with him, but I had too many things to do today.
“Sagar, I’m not interested in this kind of story.”
A pained expression drifted onto his face.
“You don’t believe me?”
“It’s not about whether I believe you or not.”
“I know, it’s about evidence, right? You think that it’s useless if there’s no evidence.”
I didn’t need to persuade Sagar now. If he was convinced by that, I shouldn’t argue against it.
“Right. It’s a different story if you have evidence. But right now, I want to take some photos.”
Sagar leaned back into his chair and pouted.
“You can take pictures anywhere, can’t you? So, what do you even want to take a picture of?”
His question, which had probably come without conscious thought, unexpectedly left me at a loss. What scenes did I want to capture, and what did I want to write? Though I was aware that I wouldn’t be able to articulate it well, I answered anyway.
“Let’s see… something different about the city today.”
Did Sagar realize that my response was inadequate? For a moment, his face was cold, and very unlike a child’s. Upon seeing it, I couldn’t help but flinch.
But in the next moment, he put on an impish smile.
“Oh, that? You should have just told me.”
“…You have an idea about something like that?”
“Yep.”
Sagar glanced at the television. The BBC was still reporting on the commotion at the square in front of the palace.
“They say that the king was transported to an army hospital. Funerals here are always held at Pashupatinath Temple. You can take pictures of the funeral procession.”
The sun set on the ancient capital.
But in the Kathmandu Basin, surrounded by towering mountains on all sides, I could not see the distant horizon turning crimson at dusk. The blue sky just turned ultramarine, and everything grew dark in an instant.
Sagar dug up more details about the rumor. The army hospital was located near the western edge of Kathmandu. The procession would set off from the hospital in the evening, and first head towards Narayanhiti Palace. After that, it would go to Pashupatinath Temple near the eastern edge of the city, next to the Bagmati River.
The Nepal government finally broke their silence before the funeral and made an official statement. They said that the king had departed this life, and that many members of the royal family had also likewise passed away. But that was all. It was not announced that the crown prince had shot them, or that he’d tried to commit suicide and was now in critical condition.
I didn’t think it was a false report by the BBC. The Nepal government was probably trying to keep as much information as they could under wraps, or they thought that the citizens didn’t need to know, or both.
After watching the official statement on the TV at Tokyo Lodge, I headed to the rooftop of a supermarket facing Narayanhiti Path, with Sagar as my guide.
As the sky darkened, the number of people on the street gradually increased. Before I knew it, people had begun to fill not only the sidewalk but even the windows and roofs of the houses lining the street. They were all wearing white to express their condolences.
Before long, the funeral procession slowly approached from the west.
People in white robes were carrying the king’s coffin, which was draped in golden cloth. The king wasn’t the only one who had died, and there were a few other coffins following behind his. In the middle of the line was a decorative palanquin that seemed out of place. It was a glamorous affair, and it was apparently the one the queen had ridden on during her wedding.
As I watched the procession that stretched in a long line, I counted the number of coffins. There were seven of them. Including the queen in the decorative palanquin, they were eight – eight people had been killed.
I’d taken a look at the palace in the afternoon today. A crowd had gathered in front of the main gate, and they had seemed to be simply standing there, doing nothing. But now it was different. The buildings on either side were now already crammed with people. A three-storey building with no walls, either because it was under construction or being demolished, was so perilously packed with people that there was barely any space left. Faces peered out from between bodies and above other faces. They probably wanted to watch the king’s procession go by, even if they only got a glance of it, but I found that to be a little surprising. The city had seemingly been so calm even when the king got killed, so I’d assumed that the king wasn’t loved by the people that much. But that was wrong.
Nepal was a Hindu country. I’d heard that deaths are not mourned in Hinduism. All life gets reincarnated, so death is not the end. That is why Hindus actually send off the dead with a smile.
But now I learnt that was untrue, or at least went by a case-by-case basis. The people were clearly lamenting the tragic death of their king, who had embraced democratization, convened a parliament and promulgated a new constitution.
As the cries of grief grew louder, funeral flowers rained down on the king’s coffin. So that is what happens when a king dies.
A man with a shaved head caught my eye. I thought he might be a monk, but there were too many like him. I asked Sagar, and he replied that it was for sending the king off, in a tone that said that it should be obvious. His profile, however, remained composed. It almost seemed as if he was observing the adults’ grief from a distance.
Even though there were tens of thousands of people watching the procession go past, there were no camera flashes from them, or at least, I didn’t see a single one. Following their example, I changed the settings on my digital camera such that the flash wouldn’t go off, even if the surrounding darkness would cause nothing to be shown on the photos. That was the minimum level of courtesy I could give to the people of this country.
We got off the roof, and Sagar guided me to another location. During that time, I took pictures of the black coffin swathed in golden cloth, the people in white robes carrying the coffins, and the expressions of people watching the procession. I was unable to capture the cries of sorrow that seemed to come from under the earth, but for the first time since arriving in this country, I felt that I’d finally captured something.
The procession neared Bagmati River. It was the place I’d visited with Sagar the day before. This was where the king would be cremated today. The time was different, so the number of people sending off the deceased was also different. However, bodies were still being cremated on the riverbank. Even now, I couldn’t help but reflect on the equality of death.
The coffin at the front was finally about to reach Pashupatinath Temple. Feeling that something disparate had mixed with the voices of the people, I scanned my surroundings. A black car had stopped a distance away from the procession. People were angrily shouting at that car.
“What’s that?”
I asked Sagar, but he also didn’t seem to know. I went towards the car and asked the same question to a man who was also yelling at it.
“That’s Koirala.”
He said.
“He’s the prime minister who failed to protect the king!”
The man crouched, picked up a stone from the road that was not paved, and tossed it at the black car. Forming a parabolic arc, the stone was swallowed up by the night sky, but from my position, I couldn’t tell if it hit the prime minister’s car.
Chapter 5 | Contents | Chapter 7
Patreon Supporters
Editors (Tier 2): Dedavond, Pearl H Nettle
Assistants (Tier 1) : Rolando Sanchez, Lilliam, Yousef, Maria C
Thank you very much for all your support!