Chait Purnima, the full moon. Warm spring air drifts through deep disappearing valleys. It rustles across Kobek village and reminds me a month has passed since my arrival in this Himalayan hamlet. I've been studying economy and social change in eastern Nepal for almost a year now.
It was during an earlier visit to do anthropological work that I first began to learn about the Limbu people. Exploitation of Limbu land rights by high caste Brahmins had been well publicized, and recently the Limbu had been one of the few ethnic groups in the country to criticize the government's policy regarding minorities. I had also heard about the economic independence and sparkle of Limbu women from medics and development officers impressed by their culture, so I 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 composed of Newar and Tamang farmers. The Limbu are not only a different race from the other two, but their rice cultivation and their culture are so different that I often felt, living among them, I might easily be in North Burma or Southeast Asia.
On my second day in the village, I moved into the house of a fairly prosperous 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 between family and neighborhood. The dark interiors of these mountain dwellings are primarily used for cooking, for sleep and for storage. No one works inside.
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 verandas 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, however, 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 ornament. 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 brewers 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 fingers. Since my arrival in the hills of Nepal, I have encountered a range of peasant cultures: robust Sherpa herders and farmers, the richest of the highland 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 impoverished 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, homemade jewelry. Limbu women, however, stand out for their industry, their boldness, 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 I leave.
When I 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. I 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. They 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 ($50) on the Limbu market. I bought this from a villager recently returned from military service in Malaya. Next, I was introduced to the local goldsmith. His decrepit hut (on the outskirts of the village 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, I watched him tap the worthless-looking lump of metal I had entrusted to him into lustrous, 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 individual jewels, knuckly and assertive.
Between each of these chunks, we women will set thousands of glassy green beads. I bought these at the weekly market out of a dazzling array of bangles and beads imported from India and sold by squatting vendors huddled in rows, one beside the next, on the floor of the market square. I also
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 backpack.
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 quality as I would have liked—sweet and aged for months in cool, sealed pots such as I have had in the homes of other women. Such kodo is not for sale; it is for guests and a family's own enjoyment. What is sold is coarse and aged for only a week. That is all we have today, 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 before market day when she had expected to sell this brew, glass by glass, at the side of the road.
I mention this trade for several reasons. First, it is an essential medium of payment for the assembly of women who will fashion this necklace. Second, Limbu alcohols facilitate warm memories of time spent in the households. And not least, the sale of liquor is an important source of cash, the main means of women's marketing experience. Exclusive brewers of this much appreciated product, these women (like other hill women throughout Nepal) refine their skills and compete for the cash rewards.
Nowadays, much of the cash a person accumulates is invested in new fields and farming equipment. Nevertheless, jewelry retains its high value and status. Women have a right to jewelry from a very young age. This right comes through their family membership 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 earrings. 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 patiently 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 together by the strings from her toe. Thus situated, Danamaya coordinates the entire enterprise. She takes each beaded 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 village. 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. I don't know what he and her mother-in-law think of it, but her own family is much gratified by Danamaya'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 intend to return to her marriage house. She had remained there, she told me, only until her baby was born. The infant is here with her, and she has no intention of rejoining her husband, because, 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 Lakshmi'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, delighted 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 Danamaya. She resumes her anchoring position 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 established a pace independent of any instructions. 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, gathering 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.
"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 Danamaya, "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 blusterer. 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 Limbu jewelry, eh, eh?" says Monamaya reaching over to take my cigarette. She lights one for herself from the smoldering tip. "A sheep got loose and my sisters and I spent the whole morning chasing it home," complains the grinning latecomer. Everyone takes a drink.
People speak little about Monamaya in my presence. They know she and I have become good friends since my arrival 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 irresponsibility and laziness. Monamaya is also the only unmarried woman I've met here. And she's the only villager who walks alone like me on the three-day trek to the nearest town. I 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 nourishment 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 employed as a term of respect for young women, both strangers and friends.)
Buddhamaya continues. "Why do you 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 replies. "White Didi is going to wear this to the Chatrapeti festival next week, and then she'll take it with her back to America. Everyone there will admire it. And Didi will tell the Americans about our poor land."
I am silent, having already passed many hours fruitlessly arguing with these and other Nepal hill people about the importance of their artistic traditions. I have not succeeded in convincing them that an important distinction exists between our admiration and our curiosity. They insist my interest is only curiosity, and this naugiri will be presented as a curio to evoke discussion of their culture, which will dwell on economics they believe we must interpret as poverty.
I myself have always found it difficult to understand how these humble farmers can afford such jewelry. A naugiri is the price of a good plowing bullock, and while every woman wears a naugiri, less than ten percent of households 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 people 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 economic obligations.
Most Limbus are unable to say why they value the naugiri so highly. To them its meaning is a whole set of sentiments, deeply implanted, that I cannot possibly understand, let alone share. It is not my dowry. It does not mark my marital status. Nor is it my personal indulgence in ornaments because, as they have already noted with some dismay, I don't wear earrings, bangles or baubles. Nevertheless, they do want me to take this piece of jewelry with me when I leave. Curio or art, my Limbu friends feel it is their gift to me, something that symbolizes our bond and the cooperative spirit from our months together.
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 I also see it as a beautiful object, a true piece of art which in any circumstance, in any culture, retains its beauty. It is this beauty that I admire. It is in this respect that we discover a value the Limbus and I do not share. To them, this naugiri, while it is a well-made object, is not particularly beautiful. 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 interest is seen as curiosity and not admiration. 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.
For further reading: L. Caplan, Land and Social Change in East Nepal, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1970; B.N. Aziz, Tibetan Frontier Families, Durham, N.C.: Carolina Academic Press, 1978; R. and S.K. Jones, The Himalayan Woman, Mayfield, 1976.
Barbara Nimri Aziz is an anthropologist who lives and teaches in New York City.