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Rain of Shadows (Cont.)

In 1991, Nepalis angry about corruption and lack of democracy were shot at this very intersection as they marched on the palace shouting, "How is our queen? Cheaper than a whore!" in their outrage over allegations of her involvement in government corruption. Driven by their vision of what Nepalis ironically pronounce "democrazy," street protesters in that year forced King Birendra to become a constitutional monarch. Nepalese politicians in a back-room deal let the king keep control over the army (and of course the troops in his palace), while the politicians gained control over the civil servants and the trappings of government. But the nation was hamstrung from the start.

After ten governments in ten years, the corruption of the elected politicians surpassed anything of the past, at least in the minds of the people. With few reliable internal news sources and no investigative journalism, suspected corruption-like the back—room deal that led to elections in 1991—remains the subject of shadowy rumors. Ghosts guiding reality. By 2001 the corruption and blatant inefficiency had so tarnished democracy that the king and queen had never been so popular.

With each step, yet another women saw the corpse; yet another face shattered in grief; yet another voice rose to join the wail.

King Birendra was shot at a moment when Nepal teetered between left and right. As a Maoist revolt seized more than 20 percent of the countryside (see "The Last Days of the Mountain Kingdom," in the September issue of Outside), people in Kathmandu wondered aloud if the army, kept in the barracks by squabbling political factions, was conspiring with the palace for the return of absolute monarchy. In the months before the massacre two questions hovered in the air. Who controls the army? Why hasn't it been deployed against the Maoists?

As I ran down the cleared street past the people of Nepal into the old city, all of this history streamed past, rising out of blurred faces. The people were held back now by armed troops with fixed bayonets. Dark premonsoon clouds created an early twilight. In the tunnel-like alleys of Old Kathmandu it was near night, and no lights had been turned on. Black clouds in the charcoal sky glowed with pent-up rain. Running deeper into the steaming, dark human tunnel, I made out a knot of men, barefoot, naked to the waist, in startling white sarongs. The Brahmans held a white platform aloft on their shoulders. The king's body lurched through the alleys of Kathmandu, buried under a rain of flowers and a continual wail.

When the Nepalese women saw the king at last—after standing chest-to-back for four hours—their voices rose in grief. One after another, the faces of 10,000 expectant women cracked. Gorgon faces and wailing voices tracked the movement of the king's corpse. With each step of the cortege, the waiting ended. With each step, something cracked for yet another person. With each step, yet another women saw the corpse; yet another face shattered in grief; yet another voice rose to join the wail.

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