Nepal Hill Art and Women's Traditions

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 <head><title>Nepal Hill Art and
 Women's Traditions</title></head>
 <byline>
 Barbara Nimri Aziz</byline>
 
 Chait Purnima, the full moon. Warm
 spring air drifts through deep disap-
 pearing valleys. It rustles across Kobek
 village and reminds me a month has
 passed since my arrival in this Hima-
 layan hamlet. l’ve been studying econ-
 omy and social change in eastem Nepal
 for almost a year now.
 It was during an earlier visit to do
 anthropological work that 1 first began
 to learn about the Limbu people. Ex-
 ploitation of Limbu land rights by high
 caste Brahmins had been well publi-
 cized, and recently the Limbu had been
 one of the few ethnic groups in the
 country to criticize the government s
 policy regarding minorities. 1 had also
 heard about the economic independ-
 ence and sparkle of Limbu women from
 medics and development officers im
 pressed by their culture, so 1 decided to
 visit the region. It was easy for me to
 include them in a comparative study of
 three different ethnic groups, each one
 living on a main north-south trade
 route artery. I had already surveyed a
 Sherpa community and a village com-
 posed of Newar and Tamang farmers.
 The Limbu are not only a different race
 from the other two, but their rice culti-
 vation and their culture are so different
 that 1 often felt, living among them, 1
 might easily be in North Burma or
 Southeast Asia.
 On my second day in the village, 1
 moved into the house of a fairly pros-
 perous Limbu family and arranged a
 corner for myself in an empty hayloft
 behind the main house. It gave me the
 privacy I needed while allowing me to
 be close to the family. As the weeks
 passed, I found myself spending almost
 all my time around the main house with
 Danamaya and her family.
 The house is one of a cluster of two-
 story farmhouses on a steep hillside.
 Lemon bushes and groves of bamboo
 veil the next house, but we can hear
 neighbors in their courtyards. Those
 familiar sounds blur the boundaries be-
 tween family and neighborhood. The
 dark interiors of these mountain dwell-
 ings are primarily used for cooking, for
 sleep and for storage. No one works in-
 side.
 The busy routine of domestic work
 proceeds on the veranda and in clean-
 swept courtyards, fusing imperceptibly
 with social life. It is here that villagers
 stay through the pleasant, dry winter
 months. But now, with the arrival of
 spring, activity shifts from these ver-
 andas to muddy fields on slopes above
 and below the village. Early wheat
 wants cutting, and the patchwork of
 terraces must be softened so that tender
 millet and rice sprouts will take hold.
 At the time of the full moon, how-
 ever, the fields are empty. People are
 freed from agricultural labor for the
 holiday and remain at home feasting
 and visiting. Today, neighbors will
 converge on our veranda. They know
 we plan to make a special Limbu orna-
 ment. Around the straw mat at our
 door will sit the artisans of the village-
 a team of women. All of them can
 weave the Limbu tartan cloth and knot
 straw mats. They are renowned brew-
 ers of beer and spirits. The polishings
 of rice and pressing of oil are but two of
 their many skills in the preparation of
 food.
 I have invited these women to come
 make a Limbu necklace, a naugiri, so
 called because of its nine (nau) golden
 jewels (giri) set among the mass of
 beads arranged one by one by deft fin-
 gers. Since my arrival in the hills of Ne-
 pal, 1 have encountered a range of
 peasant cultures: robust Sherpa herders
 and farmers, the richest of the high-
 land people; progressive Newar traders
 and shopkeepers, many of whose
 daughters are in school; Rai hill people.
 a large ethnic group, also good farmers;
 Magar villagers who seem impover-
 ished by the standards of other groups
 who are squeezing them out; Brahmin
 and Chetri high caste people, frugal
 and industrious, whose women
 sometimes become ascetics and join
 hermitages near their tropical shrines.
 All of these people wear elegant, home-
 made jewelry. Limbu women, however,
 stand out for their industry, their bold-
 ness, their assertiveness and their
 pride. Their chunky naugiri necklace,
 worn day and night, in the fields and at
 weddings, typifies the general status of
 these women; it has become, for me, a
 symbol of their vigor, and one which I
 want to take with me when 1 leave.
 When 1 expressed interest in having
 my own naugiri, Danamaya, my host,
 and her friends were delighted. The
 first question was where to get one for
 me. 1 wouldn’t want an old one bought
 from the bank, my friends assured me.
 Those worn jewels have value only as
 security against land purchase loans. I
 must have a new one, they insisted. But
 new necklaces cannot be purchased.
 l’hey are not produced for a market. A
 Limbu woman obtains her naugiri,
 made especially for her by women in
 her family, at the time of her marriage.
 My surrogate family here in Kobek will
 make mine.
 I committed myself to this scheme
 with the purchase of the basic material
 -a thola (about a half ounce) of pure
 gold costing 500 rupees (850) on the
 Limbu market. I bought this from a vil-
 lager recently returned from military
 service in Malaya. Next, 1 was intro-
 duced to the local goldsmith. His de-
 crepit hut (on the outskirts of the vil-
 lage because of his pariah caste) has a
 second-story veranda. Here he fashions
 jewels with his fingers and toes for the
 constant stream of Limbu customers.
 Over the course of a week 1 watched
 him tap the worthless-looking lump of
 metal 1 had entrusted to him into lus-
 trous, paper-thin yellow sheets. The
 precious metal was finding its beauty in
 his experienced hands. Finally he
 molded and engraved each of the nine
 leaves of gold he had made into indi-
 vidual jewels, knuckly and assertive.
 Between each of these chunks, we
 women will set thousands of glassy
 green beads. 1 bought these at the
 weekly market out of a dazzling array
 of bangles and beads imported from In-
 dia and sold by squatting vendors hud-
 dled in rows, one beside the next, on
 the floor of the market square. I also
 
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 bought red cloth from which to cut the
 furry washers that will be set on both
 sides of the gold. And finally, for the
 rope on which to string all this, we cut
 the yellow nylon cord from my back-
 pack.
 On the morning of Chait Purnima,
 the essentials for our day’s work are
 ready for our guests who will shortly
 converge on our veranda mat. A five-
 gallon pot of kodo (millet beer) sits
 gurgling in the darkness of the house.
 With it are six bottles of raxsi, a clear
 ginlike drink distilled from fermented
 kodo. The beer is not of as fine a qual-
 ity as 1 would have liked—sweet and
 aged for months in cool, sealed pots
 such as 1 have had in the homes of
 other women. Such kodo is not for sale;
 it is for guests and a family’s own enjoy-
 ment. What is sold is coarse and aged
 for only a week. That is all we have to-
 day, prepared by my host Danamaya
 and sold to me for this occasion. Good
 raxsi, customarily made for sale, is
 more readily obtained. Danamaya sold
 me three bottles; another three came
 from a neighbor, glad to have cash be-
 fore market day when she had expected
 to sell this brew, glass by glass, at the
 side of the road.
 1 mention this trade for several rea
 sons. First, it is an essential medium of
 payment for the assembly of women
 who will fashion this necklace. Second,
 Limbu alcohols facilitate warm memor-
 ies of time spent in the households. And
 not least, the sale of liquor is an impor-
 tant source of cash, the main means of
 women’s marketing experience. Ex-
 clusive brewers of this much appreci
 ated product, these women (like other
 hill women throughout Nepal) refine
 their skills and compete for the cash
 rewards.
 Nowadays, much of the cash a per-
 son accumulates is invested in new
 fields and farming equipment. Never-
 theless, jewelry retains its high value
 and status. Women have a right to jew-
 elry from a very young age. This right
 comes through their family member-
 ship and their economic contribution to
 the household. A nose ring is a girl’s
 first acquisition; she may be no more
 than ten years old when she gets the
 first band. Later, year by year, twirls of
 gold are added to it, sometimes from
 her own earnings, since children are
 given goats to raise and can keep the
 profits from their sale. So by the time
 she is 18, a Limbu girl may have earned
 enough to purchase her first gold ear-
 rings. But the naugiri is a different
 matter. It is acquired with womanhood
 and marriage, a gift from her family at
 the time of her betrothal.
 Five women from our house initiate
 the day’s work. Danamaya takes
 charge from the outset by anchoring the
 nylon rope. She must have done this
 many times before. She rubs the loose
 end of the rope in her palm and patient-
 ly separates its single strands. Forty
 five individual threads fan out in front
 of her from her toe, which anchors the
 knotted end. Each of us takes a single
 strand, then sits around Danamaya.
 We become a human loom fastened to-
 gether by the strings from her toe. Thus
 situated, Danamaya coordinates the
 entire enterprise. She takes each bead-
 ed string as it is filled and hands us an
 empty thread in exchange.
 Such a pivotal role is not new for this
 sober woman who manages our entire
 household. No one appears to object to
 her leadership, a situation which strikes
 me as strange since Danamaya does not
 permanently reside here. It is true this
 is her natal house. But Danamaya gave
 up certain rights when she married and
 took her dowry with her to another vil-
 lage. This house is now her-maitighar
 (maternal house) and Danamaya is a
 visitor along with her baby girl, Deepa.
 In Limbu culture, it is not uncommon
 for women to bring their children to live
 for months in their maitighar while
 their young husbands go off to seek
 work in the Indian and British Gurkha
 forces. Danamaya has decided to do
 this while her husband is away in the
 army. 1 don’t know what he and her
 mother-in-law think of it, but her own
 family is much gratified by Dana-
 maya s long visit.
 We begin to string beads after our
 morning meal. Soon Danamaya s
 neighborhood friend, Lakshmi, joins
 our circle, grasps a nylon thread and
 becomes part of our loom. She holds
 the thread taut and quietly feeds on the
 little green bits, one by one. Lakshmi is
 also visiting her maitighar in Kobek.
 But unlike Danamaya, she does not in-
 tend to return to her marriage house.
 She had remained there, she told me,
 only until her baby was born. The in-
 fant is here with her, and she has no in-
 tention of rejoining her husband, be-
 cause, she says, she doesn t like him.
 As long as she is welcome in her
 maitighar, a Limbu woman in this
 situation can divorce her husband. She
 may also remarry. This is not Lak-
 shmi’s concern at the moment. She has
 joined us in our full moon project, a
 group of women, each clutching a
 string on this human loom, eyes fixed
 on specks of green glass.
 There is no relief. When one string is
 completed and conversation dwells on
 the tedious operation confronting us,
 Danamaya interrupts our dawdling.
 That’s enough, she orders. “Here,
 give it to me. And she hands us an
 empty string.
 An hour passes. Finally Danamaya’s
 left hand holds only a few bare threads.
 In her other are the rest, threaded with
 several inches of beads. We rush to
 complete the remaining strands. With
 all threads beaded, we can now fit on
 the first knob of gold. First a cloth
 washer of bright red is fed onto the
 clump of threads, drawn together to
 squeeze through. We sit back, de-
 lighted as the golden knob shimmers its
 way down the cord. Another disc of red
 cloth fixes the gold in place. This is our
 signal to reassemble around Dana-
 maya. She resumes her anchoring posi-
 tion and again separates the threads,
 allocating one at a time to each of us.
 We bend over our beadwork again.
 The second section of the necklace
 seems to take far less time to complete.
 There are seven of us and we have es-
 tablished a pace independent of any in-
 structions. Soon the 45 threads are
 equally full of green beads. Once again,
 we relax while Danamaya tightens
 them together and pulls on the red
 washer, then the golden giri and
 another band of red cloth. By now the
 pattern of the necklace is apparent.
 Sparkling glass beads, tiny and bright
 green, then a red flash, the soft luster of
 gold, red flash, a block of twinkling
 green, red, another gold knob, red
 again. Time for respite.
 The first to move off our communal
 mat is Ama, who disappears into the
 darkness of the empty house to the
 waiting hearth. She starts a fire from
 red-hot coals nestled under ash. And
 alone, she eases the pot of kodo onto
 the rock grill. In seconds it is warm and
 waiting for us. There is no invitation;
 we simply rise and move inside, gather-
 ing around the hearth. Danamaya
 takes a ladle and stirs the brew, ready
 to scoop out the steaming liquor.
 In front of each of us Mylie sets a
 small dish with a spoonful of black
 spice. This is the pickle, achar, a sharp
 lemony condiment which all Nepalis
 enjoy with their alcohol. Next, we are
 served a larger brass bowl with the
 brew Danamaya has poured out. Some
 of us drink this kodo; others take small
 goblets of raxsi, also warmed to taste.
 <caption>This is Mylie, the only unmarried woman in our
 household. The author had wanted to employ her
 as a research assistant, but the family wouldn’t
 agree, since it would mean the loss of its most val-
 uable worker.</caption>

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 <caption>This woman, a widow, no longer wears the
 naugiri, but she is very fond of her modernistic
 silver ring which, she says, is an old design made
 of very old metal. Silver is no longer valued as
 adornment among these peasants.</caption>
 
 I’m surprised," I remark. "My
 friend, Monomaya is not yet here. She
 told me she would certainly help with
 my naugiri.
 She’ll be here, murmurs Dana-
 maya, as soon as raxsi is ready.
 Hardly have we spoken than into the
 darkness struts Monamaya. Her face is
 that of a timid Oriental peasant, but
 her bearing resembles that of a blust-
 erer. She cheerfully notes our leisure
 and sits down among us as Ama serves
 her an immodest portion of raxsi. “Ah,
 so you re going to have your own Lim-
 bu jewlery, eh, eh?” says Monamaya
 reaching over to take my cigarette. She
 lights one for herself from the smold-
 ering tip. “A sheep got loose and my
 sisters and 1 spent the whole morning
 chasing it home, complains the grin-
 ning latecomer. Everyone takes a
 drink.
 People speak little about Monamaya
 in my presence. They know she and 1
 have become good friends since my ar-
 rival in the village and they respect that
 friendship. It is true Monamaya is a
 social oddity. She doesn’t like to work
 in the fields, an aversion which in this
 rural community is interpreted as irre-
 sponsibility and laziness. Monamaya is
 also the only unmarried woman l’ve
 met here. And she s the only villager
 who walks alone like me on the three-
 day trek to the nearest town. 1 was
 never able to discover the reason for my
 friend’s unpopularity; I continued to
 like her raucous manner.
 When we have drunk our fill, we all
 return to the veranda and remain there
 the rest of the afternoon, until all the
 beading is complete. Monamaya joins
 in and like the other workers she shows
 no incapacity from the bowls of Limbu 
 alcohol we have just consumed around
 the fire. “Kodo and raxsi are nourish-
 ment for us, explains Monomaya.
 Without it, we can’t work; and when
 we take it, we don’t need any other
 food.
 Our work force is now supplemented
 by two elderly women of Salaka lineage
 and therefore clanswomen of my hosts.
 One of these is Buddhamaya, a tall,
 dry-witted lady with aristocratic
 features that glare from her heavily
 wrinkled face. We make some space on
 the mat and Danamaya hands her one
 of the nylon threads. “Who is this for?
 White Didi here, nodding at me.
 (Didi is a widely used Nepali title em-
 ployed as a term of respect for young
 women, both strangers and friends.)
 Buddhamaya continues. “Why do
 vou want this? It is for poor farmers.
 You should have solid gold pieces, here
 here . . . here, stroking me and
 indicating how the gold might encase
 my head and arms like some Aztec-
 Limbu warrior-princess. Even the
 thought itself is an encumbrance.
 No, no, Monamaya earnestly re-
 plies. “White Didi is going to wear this
 to the Chatrapeti festival next week,
 and then she’Il take it with her back to
 America. Everyone there will admire it.
 And Didi will tell the Americans about
 our poor land."
 1 am silent, having already passed
 many hours fruitlessly arguing with
 these and other Nepal hill people about
 the importance of their artistic tradi-
 tions. 1 have not succeeded in convinc-
 ing them that an important distinction
 exists between our admiration and our
 curiosity. They insist my interest is only
 curiosity, and this naugiri will be pre-
 sented as a curio to evoke discussion of
 their culture, which will dwell on econ-
 omics they believe we must interpret as
 poverty.
 I myself have always found it diffi-
 cult to understand how these humble
 farmers can afford such jewelry. A nau-
 giri is the price of a good plowing bul-
 lock, and while every woman wears a 
 naugiri, less than ten percent of house-
 holds possess a pair of oxen. This is
 not, however, a case of naive peasants
 investing only in precious objects. As I
 have said, land is high-priced and peo-
 ple work and save to buy and develop
 new fields. The value of a naugiri is
 hard to fix. Certainly one should not
 compare the cost of a naugiri with that
 of an ox. The naugiri is an obligatory
 expense for every family, like wedding
 feasts when each daughter marries. It is
 an integral part of family social and ec-
 onomic obligations.
 Most Limbus are unable to say why
 they value the naugiri so highly. To
 them its meaning is a whole set of sent-
 iments, deeply implanted, that 1 cannot
 possibly understand, let alone share. It
 is not my dowry. It does not mark my
 marital status. Nor is it my personal in-
 dulgence in ornaments because, as they
 have already noted with some dismay, 1
 don't wear earrings, bangles or
 baubles. Nevertheless, they do want me
 to take this piece of jewelry with me
 when 1 leave. Curio or art, my Limbu
 friends feel it is their gift to me, some-
 thing that symbolizes our bond and the
 cooperative spirit from our months to-
 gether.
 I want the naugiri because it has
 come to symbolize for me the vigor of
 Limbu womanhood. I like its coarse,
 knuckly shape and its dull gold luster.
 But 1 also see it as a beautiful object, a
 true piece of art which in any circum-
 stance, in any culture, retains its beau-
 ty. It is this beauty that I admire. It is
 in this respect that we discover a value
 the Limbus and 1 do not share. To
 them, this naugiri, while it is a well-
 made object, is not particularly beauti-
 ful. For them, an ornament’s beauty is
 a direct function of its weight in gold.
 This is a basic difference in our values.
 And it is because of this that my inter-
 est is seen as curiosity and not admir-
 ation. This is probably the reason why
 these people may eventually allow the
 naugiri or a simpler imitation of it to be
 produced for sale in the marketplace.
 <caption>
 The gold disc earrings and naugiri were borrowed for this portrait since
 the older women had passed theirs on to their married daughters while the
 two young women, not yet married, were still to win theirs.</caption>
 For further reading: L.
 Caplan, Land and Social
 Change in.East Nepal,
 Berkeley: University of
 California Press, 1970;
 B.N. Aziz, Tibetan
 Frontier Families, Dur-
 ham, N.C.: Carolina
 Academic Press, 1978;
 R. and S.K. Jones, The
 Himalayan Woman,
 Mayfield, 1976.
 
 Barbara Nimri Aziz is an an-
 thropologist who lives and
 teaches in New York City.
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