Can I try?" I ask. "I don't think you want that kind of responsibility," Raj says. The entire village has gathered on the back patio of his uncle's house. I can hear the excitement in their hushed conversations. Off to the side, a plump goat nibbles innocently on bits of grass growing through the stones. Baal Krishna, Raj's younger brother, is squatting next to it, sharpening a large steel blade.
"A botched sacrifice would bring bad luck to the village," I'm told. The animal's head must be severed from its body with a single chop of the blade. Raj is right, I don't want that responsibility.
This is my second time in the village of Aahale in the hills of Dhading district, the birthplace of my friend Raj Sadaula. The first time was over a year ago. Baal Krishna had shown me then how to slaughter and prepare a chicken, but this time is different. This is Dashain, the holiest and most celebrated Hindu festival in Nepal. The slaughtering of animals must be done correctly.
Raj's uncle ducks out of his house carrying a small oil
lamp and sets it on the ground. Bending at his middle, he lights an incense stick and performs a short puja over the goat. Red tika, rice and tiny yellow stalks of corn are sprinkled on its head while the uncle recites prayers in Sanskrit. Baal Krishna then takes his position above the goat. He has been Aahale's resident goat slaughterer since he took over for his father six years ago at the age of 20. Fully extending himself upwards, he raises the blade high above his head before bringing it down with a sharp crack of bone and wood.
The spectacle of animals being slaughtered occurs in households and temples across Nepal during the 15 days of Dashain. It's a time when family members across the country travel back to their ancestral villages and partake in feasts of goat, sheep, buffalo or pig that will last for days. I had been told by numerous friends that to really experience Nepal, I needed to stay in a village during Dashain. So when Raj invited me to Aahale, I couldn't say no.
The village of Aahale consists of 60 houses, all made of wood and plastered with red mud, scattered across the southern side of a steep hill. If the villagers lived on the northern side of the hill, they'd be able to see the snowy peak of Ganesh Himal. The view from this side is completely green—hills and rice paddies as far as the eye can see.
Most of Raj's family's work is done by Baal Krishna. He plows the fields and tends to the livestock, and has done so since his arranged marriage at the age of 14. His early marriage was facilitated to bring a woman into the house, because of the absence of his mother. Today, Baal Krishna's extensive duties also include cleaning and preparing the goat he has just slaughtered.
Once the head has been removed, it is taken inside, where it will sit next to a small shrine for three days. I join Raj and Baal Krishna as they prepare the rest of the goat. Boiled water is poured over the hide, allowing us to scrape off the goat's thick hair with a metal cup. Once the bulk of the hair is removed, I am handed a razor blade. We begin shaving off the smaller hairs as delicately as if it were our own faces.
Working on the goat's belly, I stop suddenly when I come to a body part between the goat's legs.
"We're shaving that too," Raj says with a laugh. I nod, but skip over it. The entire goat will be utilised, I'm told, intestines, stomach—everything. Once the shaving is done, a mixture of turmeric powder and ash is rubbed over the bare skin, turning it bright orange. Baal Krishna and Devraj, a cousin, take over from there, butchering the meat and weighing it on a scale so it can be divided evenly between two households. Everything is divided in two, including the heart, ribs, tongue and brain.
The significance of all this meat can easily be missed by an American stunned at the whole procedure. In the US, most people expect some type of meat with every meal. In Aahale, families may eat goat once or twice a year. Over the course of Dashain, vegetables disappear completely from the diet. The festival offers everyone a chance to rest and indulge before beginning the hard work of harvesting the rice paddies. And each meal comprises of mutton, the very definition of what it means to enjoy oneself in the village.
But Dashain is not all about meat, Raj's uncle tells me. The slaughtering of animals is only the beginning. "We have meat because it's tradition, but also because all of the family is gathered together," he says. Family reunions are becoming even more of a special occasion than they used to be in Nepal.
New census data released two weeks ago revealed Nepal's total population to be 26 million, much less than the predicted 30 million. But the most stunning results occurred in villages like Aahale in the hilly regions, where 23 districts recorded a decrease in population. Nepalis, especially young people, are increasingly leaving their rural homes for better education and work opportunities in Kathmandu, the Terai and countries abroad.
In Aahale, Baal Krishna is the only one out of nine paternal cousins still living in the village. Raj is a teacher in Kathmandu. Two cousins are studying in the capital, while three others work in Thamel. Two have married and moved to be with their husbands. One of Raj's uncles also lives in the Valley, and another works in Kolkata. Even Baal Krishna himself, who has a wife and three children, worked in Qatar for two years. During his stint in the Gulf, he returned to Nepal once, and it was for Dashain.
The festival is the only time of year everyone is guaranteed to be back in the village at the same time. And the best way to celebrate, it seems, is to slaughter a goat and relax.
Over the course of the afternoon, we sit on numerous front porches as Raj catches up with people he hasn't seen since last year. Many have also come back to Aahale from Kathmandu. Giggling children spend the day flying kites and playing on a swing hanging from a giant tree. We take a break to join them, and then bathe in the creek below the village before visiting more friends.
At each house I meet an enthusiastic 'Auntie' who insists on serving us goat's blood, dried goat fat and goat intestine. Even the unnamed body part I didn't properly shave shows up in my curry later on in the day, mixed in with the meat and liver. It's all delicious, and is washed down with raksi, the local alcohol made from millet. By the time evening sets in, I feel like I'm participating in a village pub crawl.
Two hours after sundown, a few of us gather in the kitchen of a neighbour's house. After a little more raksi, someone plugs a small set of speakers into a cell phone and turns the music up. The ensuing dance party is quickly moved to the back patio as we take turns in the middle of the circle, wrists twirling and hands in the air in the Nepali way. The music, combined with our clapping, is so loud it wakes the neighbours. But unlike any neighbours I've ever had, these join in.
Baal Krishna's daughters appear, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes. They want to see their father dance, but he's reluctant. With some taunting from his wife and daughters, his cousins force him into the middle and clap their hands until he obliges. The noise even pulls Raj's 75-year-old uncle and his wife out of bed to join the party. The dancing continues until the speaker's batteries run out.
The next day, I'm told, is one of the most important days of Dashain. It is tika, when family members bless relatives by pressing red vermillion powder and rice on to their foreheads. Some people will travel back to their home villages just to receive tika from their parents. Unfortunately for Raj and I, it's the day we have to leave.
Rising before sun-up, we gulp down cups of chiya, say goodbye to aunts and uncles and set off down a small trail through the rice paddies. The path leads to the main road, which goes all the way to Dhading district headquarters. If it were any other day, it would be extremely difficult to find a bus or truck willing to navigate this deeply rutted road. But today is tika, so it will be impossible. We resign ourselves to walking. If we keep up a good pace, we'll make it to the headquarters in ten hours.
Turning around at a high section of the trail, I can see Aahale clinging to a far off hillside, Ganesh Himal looming high above it. Over the next few days, most of the friends and family we spent time with in the village will begin their own journeys back to Kathmandu. In a week, there will only be a few family members left in Aahale, and Baal Krishna will be out in the fields beginning the rice harvest.
"I'd like to come back and visit soon," I say to Raj. We both agree it would be nice to see everyone again before long. But as minutes on the trail turn into hours and the kilometers grow more difficult, we both know that we won't be back until next Dashain, when all of the family will be there and goat will be served.
Graham is a writer and journalist living in Kathmandu
