City of the Yeti Read online

  Emerging into an enormous square even bigger than the marketplace, we were engulfed in music and laughter. A Hindu festival was in progress, with hundreds of people present. The party celebrated Ganesh, the elephant-headed god and son of Shiva. He was considered the “Great Guide” for any kind of voyage or undertaking. Happy participants carried large, colorfully painted statues of Ganesh around the square. Every few yards, dancers gave performances, with music provided by traditional stringed and percussion instruments. People flew small kites, played chess, and even held wrestling matches – all common Indian pastimes. In one corner, a female acrobat in a bright red sari walked across a rope that stretched several yards, though it was only three feet off the ground. In another corner, a snake charmer played a flute while sitting inches away from an upright cobra, its hood extended.

  Ultimately we reached a small plaza on the edge of town where elephants were stabled, and Kumar indicated that our trip was over. After dismounting, Rachel yawned and straightened her clothes, as if the ride were an everyday activity. I rubbed my sore bottom, deciding that next time I’d choose a conventional taxi seat instead of riding on the animal’s neck.

  Kumar approached, sporting a big grin. “Did you like the little tour?”

  “Yes!” Rachel and I replied together.

  We now stood near a major entrance to the city, and Rachel pointed to a banner reading: WELCOME TO LAKHNAU. “What’s up with that sign?” she asked. “Is it a mistake?”

  I explained, “To local people, the city has always been spelled that way. But the British changed it, so on our maps it’s Lucknow.”

  Kumar reacted, “Yes, the British impose their will on a lot of things around here.”

  At first I thought he was joking, but a frown had replaced his smile, and he wandered off to chat with the stable workers. Rachel and I stared at each other, bewildered. This was a different person from the one who’d just shown us around.

  We debated our next move. Although it was a relatively short walk back to the British sector, the route wove through unfamiliar neighborhoods. Also, we noticed unfriendly stares coming from nearby pedestrians.

  Growing up in a town named Lucknow, I’d always expected things to go my way, but today felt like an exception.

  Chapter Two

  To our relief, Kumar returned from the stables and offered to accompany us home. At least he was still willing to talk to us. As we walked, I tried to continue the conversation. “I’m sorry if I said something to upset you.”

  “Never mind,” he said, sounding more like his old self. “It’s nothing personal.”

  Choosing less crowded backstreets and passageways, Kumar scanned about nervously, as if expecting trouble. I’d never felt uncomfortable strolling in the city before, but today it felt like a Greek labyrinth, with a ferocious Minotaur ready to leap from the shadows at any moment. Kumar’s pace was so fast that Rachel had to stop and catch her breath several times. He waited for us at the next corner, arms crossed tightly, one foot tapping.

  I decided to question him directly. “Kumar, what’s wrong?”

  “You can tell us anything,” Rachel said, using her softest voice.

  We were alone, so he relaxed slightly. “There’s a lot going on you don’t know about. A man named Gandhi is demanding more control for the Indian people. He started a movement called non-cooperation. We’re all supposed to stop working for the British, and not buy Western goods.”

  “What do your parents think?” I asked, since they had worked at a British company for as long as I could remember.

  “There are many arguments around my house these days. My parents need the money, of course, but they’d also like to follow the movement.”

  “Do you want all the British to leave?” Rachel asked.

  “We just want them to stop treating us like we’re some backward society, which must either serve them or conform to their ways.”

  A group of women scurried by, carrying cloth from the marketplace. They hardly noticed us, but Kumar moved away, obviously embarrassed to be in our company. Everything had changed so much in such a short time.

  Leading us into an empty alley, he spoke in a hushed tone. “Things are very bad this year. In February, there was a clash between Indian protestors and British police in a town east of here, with deaths on both sides.” He shot a glance behind him. “On top of that, Mr. Gandhi was arrested and sent to jail in March. I tell you, dislike of British rule has never been greater. I don’t know what will happen next.” He tossed his hands into the air, and then walked away.

  Once again, we ran to catch up, anxious to stay close. After barreling around a tight corner, we practically collided with a mob of young men chanting anti-British slogans. We tried to turn back, but it was too late. They quickly surrounded us. I felt fear far greater than anything I’d known earlier with the animals. The crowd stood rigid, glaring at my sister and me.

  Kumar stepped forward and spoke bravely. “We’re just trying to get home. Please let us pass.”

  Several men in front mumbled something I couldn’t understand, but their hostile tone was clear. They inched closer.

  Kumar stood his ground. “Listen, these are the children of James Hawthorne, the doctor who works at King George’s Hospital. His wife, Virginia Hawthorne, is a teacher at La Martinière School. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.”

  I couldn’t believe Kumar was reciting British names. Surely that was like pouring gasoline on a fire. Was he defending us, or planning to feed us to these sharks? No one moved for several seconds, but it felt like hours. A rumble of conversation began somewhere inside the mob. Then, amazingly, the crowd grew silent and dispersed.

  We continued walking, but more slowly. Fortunately, the remainder of our journey was uneventful. Along the way, Rachel whispered, “Danny, what happened back there? Why did they let us go?”

  “I’m not sure, but maybe it’s because Dad sometimes treats sick Indians who can’t pay.”

  “Mom does volunteer work, teaching English to local kids,” she added. We stopped and looked at one another, realizing that our parents’ reputations had saved us.

  I was also filled with respect for Kumar. Despite all his politics, he had risked his own safety to protect us. I wondered whether I would do the same if the situation were reversed.

  Once our home was in view, Kumar turned to leave. I wanted to ask when we’d meet again, but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate. Rachel called out, “Goodbye!” He paused, offered a quick wave, and then marched away.

  When we entered our house, late for supper, there were lots of questions, but we didn’t reveal any of the afternoon’s activities. After dinner, I overheard my parents talking late into the night about the situation in India, especially conflicts in surrounding cities. To my surprise, some of their remarks about Indians were quite harsh.

  The next morning, a rainy Sunday, our parents called us into the living room for an announcement. They were already dressed. Our father was standing, which usually meant bad news. Though strong for a medium-sized man, he slouched today, and his sandy blond hair didn’t hide the patches of gray as well as usual. His jaw seemed stiff as he spoke in a hoarse, barely-audible voice. “Your mother and I have thought this over for months, and we’ve decided to leave India. We think it best for everyone’s safety.”

  Rachel’s eyes were misty. “But we have so many friends here. Where will we go?”

  Our mother stood up without slouching. Her long brown hair was pulled back and braided neatly, and her athletic build matched the confidence in her voice. “We’ve already made contact with relatives in England using the new telephone system, to check on the possibility of returning. I’m very optimistic.”

  Our spirits soared. Finally, here was a chance to see England with our own eyes.

  “There’s something else,” Dad said. “
I’m planning one last family trip. I’ve always wanted to visit Nepal, and the border’s not far away.”

  “But the border’s closed to Westerners,” I said. “This summer, British teams trying to climb Mount Everest were forced to start from the north face, in Tibet, since the southern approach in Nepal is off-limits.”

  He seemed unconcerned. “Yes, that’s true. But I know a few doctors in Nepal who need assistance with new medical procedures. I’m sure they’ll convince government officials to let us enter. We can take a train straight to Kathmandu.”

  “When would we go?” Rachel asked.

  “We’ll have to wait until mid-October, after the monsoon season, but before it snows at lower elevations.”

  Rachel skipped off to the kitchen with Mom. After they left, I approached Dad. “This is really about Grandpa, isn’t it? You’re going to search for him.”

  He gave a knowing smile, pulled out a recent edition of the London Times, and pointed to a small article buried on page ten. It described how Oxford Professor Philip Hawthorne was still missing, two months after a failed mission to chart Mount Everest. He’d been presumed dead, until rumors surfaced of him wandering through remote villages in central Nepal.

  “God knows what he’s up to, if that’s really him,” Dad said. “But my father’s a very independent old chap, now that your grandma’s gone.”

  I flipped back to the front page and found an equally interesting article. It described how archeologist Howard Carter was still searching for the tomb of Tutankhamun in Egypt. Carter had been funded for one final season of digging, beginning in the fall.

  “I wish I could be there with Carter’s team,” I said, picturing the vast desert.

  “I know, son. But their chances of finding the tomb are slim. They’ve already searched so many sites in that area.”

  “Well, I’ll bet he finds it this time!” I said, hopping off the couch with excitement.

  In my room, I pulled down a book on ancient history. I often fantasized about discovering a lost civilization, and Nepal might provide the opportunity. It was full of historical sites, remote Buddhist monasteries, and beautiful wilderness areas, each with a view of the snow-capped Himalaya. It was also a land of great mysteries and legends, which I hoped to learn more about, especially regarding the Yeti. Many famous people had passed through the region, going back to Alexander the Great, who in 326 BC asked to see a Yeti for himself, though locals couldn’t produce one.

  “And now,” I said out loud, “here come the Hawthornes!” Rachel stuck her head into my room, rolled her eyes, and then left.

  That night, as I dreamed of the Yeti, something in my room startled me awake. A figure lurched about in the dim light, uttering a faint grunt. In a cold sweat, I whipped my arm over to the nightstand and flipped on the lamp, expecting to find a hideous, ape-like creature. Instead, it was our housekeeper Nandini, a middle-aged Indian woman, collecting my dirty clothes off the floor.

  She squinted in annoyance at the light. “I can smell elephant on your clothes. You can’t fool me!”

  I had to think quickly, despite my grogginess. “Please don’t tell anyone, and I’ll eat all the vegetables you cook next week.”

  “It’s a deal,” she replied with a wink.

  The next morning, our doorbell rang, and Nandini answered. “Oh, hello Kumar! Please come in.”

  “Thank you, but I can’t stay long. I heard that the family is leaving for Nepal in a couple of weeks, so I came to visit Daniel and Rachel.”

  The three of us moved to the privacy of our courtyard. After small talk of plants in the garden, he shifted to a quiet voice, avoiding eye contact. “I want to apologize for the other day. I was very rude.”

  “No worries,” I said. “We had fun. And thanks for helping us out of that jam.”

  “Will I see you when you return from Nepal?” he asked, now watching us closely.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Our house goes up for sale while we’re gone. If somebody wants to move in quickly, then we’ll have to leave for England early.”

  He pulled out two small boxes from his backpack. “I’d like you to have these for your journey.”

  “Thanks!” Rachel said, tearing open her present.

  Each of us received a small porcelain statue of Ganesh, the plump, elephant-headed Hindu god. Kumar explained, “I’m sure you’ll remember the patron god of travel. You’re going to need extra protection where you’re going.” Then he flashed that teasing grin I knew so well. “Your Western beliefs can’t cover everything, you know.” He took a step back. “Well, take care, my friends.”

  We shook hands with him, since he was shy about close contact like hugging. And then he walked out of our lives. That moment marked my farewell to India, more than anything else to follow.

  Chapter Three

  In Kathmandu, Nepal’s capital, we felt like celebrities. Not only were we Europeans invited by the prime minister, but we’d also brought my uncle – my father’s brother. Uncle Colin, a tall, bearded man, had served with the British Army in the Middle East during World War One, fighting alongside regiments from India and Nepal. He’d befriended many fierce Nepalese soldiers known as Gurkhas, who were now eager to host him on tours around the city.

  If Lucknow resembled the nineteenth century, then Kathmandu looked even older. Aside from the occasional run-down car or truck, the only reminder of the modern era was an airplane, flying overhead twice per day as mail service between the capitals of India and Nepal. These planes were old bi-wing models donated by Britain after the War. Aside from mail delivery, they would allow Nepal to map its remotest regions.

  One afternoon, Uncle Colin and two of his Gurkha buddies offered to drive Rachel and me to a local monument. They arrived in an old army truck that reeked of oil and gasoline. Faded green canvas covered its metal-frame cargo section, and the tires were nearly bald.

  Our Gurkha escorts made an interesting pair. Narayan was tall, thin, and serious, while Laxmi was short, stocky, and jovial. Neither struck me as a savage warrior, but I knew looks could be deceiving. While Laxmi drove, Uncle Colin sat in front and turned to chat with the passengers behind him: Rachel, Narayan, and me. The three of us sat on hard wooden benches that announced every bump in the road.

  The Gurkhas understood English fairly well, Narayan more so than Laxmi, but we still had communication issues. However, when I mentioned the Yeti, they recognized the word, and found it amusing. In fact, they laughed for several minutes, exchanging comments in their native Nepali. Laxmi glanced back with a smirk and said in English, “You don’t want to go searching for those things. They’re nine feet tall, with fangs, and sharp claws!”

  I didn’t appreciate his humor, and looked away with a scowl. Narayan stopped laughing, apparently feeling guilty. “The monks at the temple should be a good source of information on the topic,” he said. “They’re full of local history. I can interpret if necessary.” He grinned, but now it was friendly rather than mocking.

  After accidentally kicking something on the floor, I bent down and picked up what looked like a short, curved sword held inside a leather sheath. A carved wooden handle was exposed. “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Oh, be careful!” Narayan said. “Please hand it to me. I stored that away earlier and forgot.” He held it up using both hands, like a museum treasure, for our inspection. “It’s a kukri knife – the standard weapon of a Gurkha soldier. It has quite a reputation in battle.” When the truck came to a full stop, he pulled the sheath off, so that I could see the blade’s inwardly curved edge, which widened near the end. It reminded me of a sickle. “Someday I’ll pass this on to my son, who’s only five now.”

  “Here we are!” Uncle Colin shouted. Looming on the horizon was Nepal’s largest and most popular Buddhist stupa: a white-plastered dome almost a hundred feet wide, topped with a smaller,
pyramid-like structure resembling a funny hat.

  We all hopped out of the truck and approached the dramatic sight. Laxmi provided some background. “This stupa lies on the ancient trade route from Tibet. Merchants and travelers have rested here and offered prayers for centuries. Such buildings hold important relics, and even the remains of monks.”

  Rachel and I walked around the circular stupa on a sidewalk crowded with visitors, many chanting quietly. The afternoon was warm and sunny, despite the mid-October date. Central Nepal was said to be mild year-round, the weather changing drastically only in the foothills or higher. It was incredible to think that Mount Everest was only a hundred miles away.

  Visions of mountains vanished as shouts rang out all around us, and fellow visitors tried to push us off the sidewalk. Next, without warning, Rachel and I were pulled backward by our collars, away from the crowd. We turned and saw a middle-aged Buddhist monk with a shaved head and wire-rimmed glasses, wearing bright red and orange robes. Next to him was a young Buddhist nun, her head also shaved, wearing robes of similar colors but wrapped in a different style. I’d seen Buddhist monks in India, of course, but never spoken to them.

  “What’d we do?” I asked, ignoring potential language barriers.

  They looked at one other, and then the monk replied, “Ah, so you’re British. Well, the ritual here is to walk around the stupa in a clockwise manner; it is disrespectful to travel in the opposite direction. However, you are clearly foreigners, so the worshippers should have simply shown you the correct way.”

  “You speak English!” Rachel said.

  The nun chuckled. “At the monastery and nunnery, where we live, we study a wide range of subjects.” She pointed to a pair of multistoried, colorful buildings just beyond the stupa. “Because of the long relationship between Britain and Nepal – both good and bad – English classes are highly recommended.”