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Rain of Shadows (Cont.)

The people seized upon this news as something to rejoice about. Officially, for more than a week no one would tell them that Dipendra was the murderer-and they would refuse to believe it even then. That first day, reeling with the unbelievable news that the entire royal family had been murdered, the people were joyful of any news. The rumors, the lack of news, had turned a murderer's botched suicide into something about which Nepalis could rejoice.

"Dipendra is alive! Long live King Dipendra!"

I nearly cried as I heard the joy in their voices. How could a people so willing to believe be so easily betrayed by so many?

Three feet from the crowd, it was like approaching a roaring fire—their massed heat radiated outward.

The route of King Birendra's seven-kilometer-long funeral procession was announced at 1 P.M. The public was invited to pay its last respects as the king was marched to Pashupati Temple, where he was to be cremated. By two o'clock the entire city was camped along the procession route, and armed troops prevented those outside the city from entering. All life except the funeral procession came to a halt.

Three feet from the crowd, it was like approaching a roaring fire—their massed heat radiated outward. The beguiling summer sun of early morning had warmed into its true pre-monsoon self, and the crowd was baking. Pushing into the sweaty throng, jammed chest to back against one another, I chanted quietly in Nepali, "Foreign press. Let me through."

The crowd laughingly parted and allowed me to stagger through and into the cleared road. In front of the palace there were two television crews, one from CNN and one from the BBC, setting up in the middle of the deserted street.

Half a million people lined either side of the road, and more continued to press forward. Women and children sat in the front, only until the pressure from the back became too great. Then surging knots of them quickly stumbled up to their feet, fearful of being trampled. The crowd writhed forward-held back, just barely, by the police-and the women and children sat down again, and in the intense heat, umbrellas flared open once again, before the next round of chaos. At 4:30, the cortege had still not left Chauni Military Hospital.

When it did leave, at five, crowds immediately stoned Prime Minister Koirala's car. Despite this minor riot, the procession moved on. It took the parade of Royal Nepalese Army troops, the marching band, the Royal Mounted Horse Guard, the dozen Brahmans carrying the king, and the dozen Brahmans carrying the queen in her massive silver wedding palanquin two hours to walk two kilometers.

Few people visibly mourned as they waited. The crowd joked and laughed as it fought for space. Young men rushed water bottles to the crowd. Babies squalled. One elderly woman in a sari sat quietly with incense in her hands, staring mournfully off into space. Youthful laughter broke out around her. Thousands of jeans-clad youth formed the majority of the crowd—two-thirds of all Nepalis are under 30 years of age.

Trying to take pictures of the crowd, I had to chide them not to smile for the camera-"How would that look in the West? I know you are not happy the king is dead. Show me what you feel inside." The chastened youths adjusted their expressions. The laughter was impossible for the BBC television reporter to understand. She stood in the space cleared by the police and scuffed her feet. She adjusted her expression, trying on one, and then another. Her Indian cameraman moved his angle, trying to find an appropriately grieving crowd shot. She tried again.

"Today on the streets of Kathmandu somber crowds lined..."

Again she shook her head, and her cameraman stopped taping. The crowd behind her continued to laugh and jostle as a distant sound of horns announced the cortege. She struggled for something to convey the feelings of the burgeoning crowd. Again, she signaled her cameraman to roll.

"Hundreds of thousands of somber Nepalese gathered today in Kathmandu..."

I pushed down the road from the Palace and into the edge of the old city, where the procession was about to emerge. The vanguard was composed of two horsemen, one on either side of the road, establishing the perimeter. The crowd surged back, some laughing, some shouting. Then two young men appeared in the middle of the empty road, alone, carrying hand-painted portraits of King Birendra and Queen Aishwarya. Waves of applause erupted from the crowd.

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