Who would have guessed I'd meet a living goddess this weekend.
Yesterday evening, we were walking past the Discovery Channel building in Silver Spring, heading to a restaurant for dinner, when an adorable little South Asian girl walked by in an ornate golden outfit and an extravagant tika painted on her head. I guessed she and her family were headed to some form of Hindu festival in the area.
"You won't lose her in a crowd," a man remarked as we crossed the street.
"She looks like a Kumari," Susanne said, in reference to the young girls of Nepal who are worshiped as living goddesses.
She did look like a Kumari, but Kumaris never travel. They barely leave their compounds, or so I thought. Susanne and I saw the royal Kumari of Kathmandu when we visited Nepal in 1996. She was cloistered in a special building that serves as her residence during her tenure, and we had to pay a small fee for the privilege of having her stick her head out the window and glare at us for a moment, clearly preferring to be elsewhere.
Selected as toddlers, always from a Buddhist family of the Shakya caste, Kumaris are picked based on 32 personal traits in a process that's sometimes compared to the rigorous process taken to select the Dalai Lama. Once selected, she's revered by the local Hindu population until she reaches puberty, when a new Kumari must be selected. And it's almost unheard of for them to travel.
As it turns out, she was a Kumari - the Kumari of Bhaktapur, the former royal capital of Nepal, and one of the three most important of the dozen or so Kumaris in Nepal. She was in the US for a world premiere of a documentary about Kumaris at the Silverdocs festival here in Silver Spring, and it was the first time a Kumari had ever visited the US. We were both pretty amazed that we'd gotten the chance to see her. Too bad it was just a fleeting glance crossing Georgia Avenue, though.
Today, we returned to downtown Silver Spring for lunch. A large stage had been set up for some kind of performance, and there were signs posted from the local Nepali American association. We stuck around for a while, and sure enough, the Kumari reappeared. Once again dressed in an ornate costume, she was surrounded by a crowd of photographers and well-wishers. Given my previous experience with a Kumari, I assumed she'd be somewhat aloof, but she was quite the opposite. She smiled and shook hands with visitors, even giving a man a big hug at one point. She was also carrying around an enormous digital SLR camera, snapping pictures of her entourage when she wasn't posing for pictures with others.
Eventually, she settled onto a small chair that had been placed in front of the stage. Local Nepalis waited their turn to kiss her feet, then pose for a picture with her. An elderly woman cried tears of joy when she got to meet her. On stage, a troupe of dancers performed, while the Kumari snacked on a plate of crunchy chaat and spicy chana, posing for more pictures and playing with yet another camera - this time a digital camcorder.
I was amazed at how social she was. It turns out, though, as Kumari of Bhaktapur, she's not subjected to the same restrictions that her counterpart in Kathamandu faces. She goes to school and lives with her parents, though she still participates in daily religious rituals. When you ask her what her name is, she says "Sajani" with a smile. And when Susanne and I each put our palms together and bowed to offer her a traditional greeting of "Namaste," she stopped what she was doing for just a moment so she could do the same back to each of us.
I've posted a photo gallery on Flickr. And here's a brief video clip I shot of the Kumari on my mobile phone, in which several Nepalis pay their respects to her:
I'm still smiling from the experience. Nepal is a very special place for us, and I am so happy to have met the Bhaktapur Kumari today. Welcome to America, Sajani.
