Shiva Raatri on Sarangkot Mountain

Taking the footpath around the oxen shed of the family home; we head down to the small green space that divides the five homes of the village. A 5ft fire blazes in the centre. Age old faces are illuminated, the sparkle of their eyes and deep set wrinkles are licked by the orange light.
Around them, eight boisterous children, ranging from 4 to 11, skip around the fire edge. They dance and sing for Shiva beneath red bowed pigtails and worn slippers. Their red tikas glow under the fire light.
As we near the clearing they set upon us; clambering our backs and tugging our shoulders. Taking turns on our backs, they squeal as we jump and swing their feather bodies through the air.
We join the collection of time worn bodies. The flames roast the outer layers of our flesh.
Up until today we have heard many legends about Shiva Raatri, "Everybody tokes; you have too cos Shiva's a toker - ha ha!" "Everyone, I Mean EVERYONE has bhang. Old, young, male, female, everyone!"
We were informed that the marijuana is toked, eaten, drunk and absorbed via every method of consumption. The twit feels he has stumbled across his own personal paradise of a bank holiday. Our wanderings through the neighbouring villages brought jovial encounters. "Hello Mr", they hailed the twit, "you smoke marijuana?", "Of course, its shiva raatri! - Have you?". The three gangly lads nodded enthusiastically, arms draped over each others shoulders, "I feel...interesting", considered the tall lad with combed back hair.
So, entering the gathering of extreme young and old, we were unsure of the practices of this particular shiva raatri celebration. Where the old folks smiling through a haze of bhang? Or were they as straight as the fresh mountain morning?
The bearded one leaned over to our host, "Is it ok to smoke?", "Of course - its shiva raatri!" "And Gonzo too?" Krishna leaned over to look me in the face, "No problem, you can smoke too, it is fine"; he turned back to the twit, "Have you got papers?"
"Yes I do".
"Then I will get some marijuana".
Krishna turned, and with a flourish; lightly stepped over the pebbled rocks that collected upon the steepest inclines of the path.
The twit and I cast glances about ourselves. The children had stopped skipping and were peppered among the squatting elderly. One of the women had captivated the audience. Her weather beaten face blazed in the red hot flicker. She gesticulated wildly above her head as a flurry of syllables streamed from her tongue. We watched en rapt. In a final wild emphasis, she waved her arms back and forth across her cloaked head before the river of sound dried up.
Before the ensuing silence could fully impregnate the air, the most ancient of the men took up the debate. The company each gazed into the fire as the old men bellowed to the air. As conversation followed it dawned that a conservative ritual of respect was at play. Each ensuing speaker was given his space to tell his piece. Speech followed speech as the family members listened at length. After, the next speaker would begin. Some stressed syllables with earnest fire while others freely floated phonetics so the party members chuckled.
As the eight and last elder finished, I turned to observe Krishna had returned and was involved in the speeches; a concentrated furrow through his brow.
The twit caught the direction of my gaze and jumped at finding the shadow cast across him belonged to Krishna.
"What are they talking about?" The twit whispered under the speech flow.
"Oh, they talk about the role of men and women in the house. She say she do this and he should do this. He say he does this and this and she doesn't do this, you know?"
The twit chuckled, "same all over the world".
The ubiquity of human nature.
Krishna plonked a weighty black bag before the twits lap, "Here, use this for the making".
The twit peeled back the bag to find half an ounce of grass. "Make four or five" Krishna gestured to the group, "Then everyone can share".
"With tobacco?"
"No, no, no tobacco".
The twit rolled the first and I lit up. Still wary of my last encounter with pure green tokes (Pokhara, Lakeside, I had wound up spending the best part of the night with my head strategically positioned over a bucket), I inhaled lightly twice before passing to the illuminated man beside me. His eyes sparkled with his hands held in a negative gesture. I stretched my arm to enter the attention sphere of the wind cracked face beside him. He shook his head at my offering.
I turned to the left and surveyed my options. The twit was engrossed in rolling. Krishna was puffing at a conical construction; as was the only other man of fatherhood age; also called Krishna.
My last option was the other side of the fire where a gaggle of old and young women giggled and elbowed one another.
Feeling red eyed and hazy, I gathered myself and made way to them. The first, the kind eyed mother of the three neighbouring toddlers laughed no as I made my offering.
The second woman, unknown to me, wore a magenta shawl around her face's deep set pathways. I held out the smoke. She brought forward two wily fingertips and plucked it from my grasp. 'At last' I thought, 'I've gotten rid of it!' Relief turned to dismay as she examined the item, gestured to he fire and handed it straight back.
Dammit. Looks like there was going to be no luck this side either.
I hopped back to the twit and took my place in the ring of fire watchers. "No one will take it" I muttered.
"Ah what?" The twit opened his palm, "I've got two more here - whose gonna smoke em?"
"I don't know what to do with it"
"Smoke it"
Flashbacks of my pastel lemon regurgitations shuddered through me, "Nah...but what I can do, is roll a cigarette with a roach - and they won't know the difference - mwa ha!'
Feeling pleased I'd found a way to subvert the 'women in villages don't smoke' rule, I set to work.
As I was rolling my tobacco laden Shiva tribute, Krishna grabbed a fistful of marijuana bud and threw it on the fire. The twit and I double took - open mouthed. "Its for Shiva" Krishna explained. The twit looked to me, shock permeating the whites of his eyes, "Never, ever would that happen in England".
Feeling slow and a little stupid, the twit and I sat back and surveyed the scene. We felt like two sociology students watching a Nepali culture documentary on senso-vision. Puffing on my Shiva tribute cigarette, I fell into a light trance as the flames warmed me and the alien talk of this close knit community washed over me. The gent on my right leaned his patterned hat forwards and hailed Krishna while gesturing his hat to me.
"What did he say?" Asked the twit.
"Oh, he say, is she smoking it all? Does it stay with her?"
The twit leaned to me, "You better pass it".
Befuddled, I do so. The twit shrugged, bemusement splashed across his face.
We return to our documentary observations. The village community continued as if two white people who could barely utter a word of Nepali were a common place event at Shiva Raatri. Laughter peeled across the mountain air. The children skipped circles, regaling the adults to stop being dull, stop being old and to dance by the flames for Shiva.
One of the elder ladies approached the twit with a cup. He nodded and thanked 'Danubad'. Tilting the cup over his lips, momentary confusion washed over his face. He cried falling back with laughter, "there's not even a drink in here!" Laughing also, I looked up to see the woman, draped in blankets, bent over double with laughter. The twit reached in, plucked a sweet ball from the cup, and offered me mine. We sat crunching the sugary dust, "Hang on," I said, "We're the only ones eating these. Are you sure that one was for me?"
"Yeah, definitely, she gestured to both of us".
So the Nepali hospitality continued. A slightly sweet meal, made from millet, was cooked upon the fire in honour of Shiva. The twit and I were presented with a dish each, while the village shared dishes among groups of three and four. We felt humbled.
The ancient man to our right had scooped his grandson into his lap. No older than a year, the young boy fought to keep his big brown eyes open. His grandfather sang a lilting lullaby as the boy struggled against his might against inevitable sleep.
The melody swam to fill our heads. We swayed to its rhythm. Music will share thoughts and feelings where language cannot. All around us, the adults fussed over the vibrant young ones. Nepali villages are a children's world. The Nepali elders shower their children with timeless affection and attention. Perhaps such dotage infects you with a touch of the energy abundant in childhood. Each day spent soaking up every second of the daylight hours. Regarding sleep as the enemy that must be conquered. Fighting for every minute of life that can be squeezed from the day.
The twit and I are not so ready for battle. Red eyes drooping, we stand to leave. "Namaste" calls the twit, "Suber raatri" I add.
"Not suber raatri", the blanket laden grandma calls, "Shiva raatri!"
"Shiva raatri!" calls the elder crowd, and for just one second, their time worn faces are pebbled with the exuberance of youth.