The Legend of Kulee

 It’s a stormy night, huddle around my rocking chair, kids, for tonight I shall tell you a story, of what it is about, I will leave it to you to deduce once you have heard it.

The story is about a man named Kulee (pronounced ku-lay), for what his last name is (or even his actual name), I am unaware of. Yet before I tell you more of the person, it is important that I reveal to you how I got to know the person. It wasn’t through a chance encounter under a pipal tree where we swapped stories of our adventures. It wasn’t even in a formal meeting through a mutual acquaintance, and it certainly wasn’t an episode in one of the bhatti pasals, where we talked throughout the night of friends and lovers, of falling in love, and falling in deeper. I never did get to exchange a word with him, and have only laid eyes on him once.

Yet, I have been familiar with his name for as long as I remember. It would come in the form of a scold every time I, or any of my male cousins proved to be a nuisance to the elders. Anyone who had grown up in my ancestral village, which included almost everyone, would not let go of an opportunity to yell at us, and the curse usually involved Kulee. For the longest time, we didn’t think much of the word, until one day, out of the blue, when I was a Kulee for not displaying proper table manners, I popped the question. “But uncle, what precisely is a kulee?” Ofcourse, like a lot of my “inappropriate” questions, this one went unanswered as well. My curiosity was maintained until one day I had the presence of mind to ask one of my cousins who had grown up in the village what it meant. “Kulee is a name of a person”. I couldn’t understand, why was I being yelled at with another person’s name. “Kulee had 12 wives”. I imagined Kulee to be some feudal lord terrorizing the villagers, especially attractive women, not for a moment hesitating to snatch any he fancied. Kulee turned out to be an untouchable, and apparently he couldn’t hold on to any of his brides for too long. It didnt make much sense, and I ended the conversation with a request to point me to him next time I was in the village. That winter vacation I was there, and we had a religious ceremony held at our house, my cousin ran upstairs to tell me that Kulee was downstairs. I ran to the veranda and stared down at the tens of people gathered in our yard. And there I saw Kulee, there was no need for anyone to point me to him, for I knew who he was and at that point everything fell into place.

There stood a man in his late sixties. He was standing in a corner, making sure not to touch anyone or even anything in the “auspicious” occasion. But his posture was not the uncomfortable insecure one as I had seen in many people, as they were yelled at if they got too close to a priest, guests or just the utensils used in the puja. He was sure of his stance and it seemed he knew what he was doing; his posture was almost of a subtle defiance. He had the most mischievous looking of smiles I had ever seen, and as he looked up, I saw the shiniest pair of eyes I had ever seen, as old as he was, he still was a handsome man. His eyes twinkled, that paired along with his smile reminded me of Dennis the Menace about to pull a trick on his neighbor. At that moment, I realized Kulee was all he was made out to be, and much much more.

The Legend of Kulee Prabesh Devkota vent magazine zine youth nepal kathmandu nepali blog writers photography photographers artist voices expressions tales citizenship journalism poems Over half a century ago, the heart throb of the girls in that village in remote gorkha wasn’t some boy band member. It wasn’t even a land owner’s kind-hearted son stealing young girls’ hearts as he rode past the common water tap on his horse. It wasn’t even a commoner hopelessly in love with one girl he couldn’t be with. On the contrary, it was a dirt poor untouchable with shiny eyes and a killer smile.

The fact that he never had more than one wife (I don’t believe he was ceremoniously or legally married to all of them, for if a couple eloped, at that time, it was as good as being married) proves him not to be a womanizer. I believe he was a worshiper instead. As Devkota wrote a rebellious poem in Kathmandu about the same time urging people to forget about temples and worship fellow human beings instead, to try to listen to their pain, and to lend a helping hand whenever one could, illiterate Kulee, oblivious to the intellectual’s work, was already implementing the ideas into practice. “So what if you don’t let me in your temple with a stone inside!” I can imagine a young defiant Kulee thinking, “I have privileged access to women and their divine souls in the center.” Kulee was leading a one-man resistance, against patriarchy and social classes all on his own. A soul always suppressed and often neglected, Kulee must’ve made it a point to try to understand the very interesting gender.

I can almost see the process starting, a woman slaving by the river over dirty laundry, or a Nepali version of the Highland Lass cutting grass in the evening to feed the cattle before dark, Kulee, squatting by her side, a grin in his face as he told a joke, the woman laughing along. He would stand up to help her every often, while doing so, making a point to accidentally brush against her. She would snap at him for touching her, and tell him to keep his distance, yet she couldn’t deny the fact that the rush of electricity that went through her at that brief moment was the most exhilarating thing she had felt in the longest time. The situation would turn somber at times, as she described her problems, a drunk husband, a younger wife, an evil mother-in-law, or even pestering parents trying to marry off their daughter to a person five villages away she had never met. The moments must turn romantic as well, with Kulee singing one of the folk songs that would reverberate throughout the hills, or they might even go for a dohori, or a duet.

No one could be sure how long this would go on for, and eventually she would bundle her clothes in a saree, tuck whatever little money she had in her blouse, and in that dark starry night, she would hold the hand of a person she wasn’t supposed to touch, and cross the hill to the village where people like her went only if one was in need of a tailor or a cobbler.

In his hut, I can imagine the love making, more passionate and tender than anything she had ever felt. For the experienced ones, it couldn’t be any further away from the daily ritual she had to perform with her husband every night. For the virgins, the physical pain forgotten, stacked away in the very bottom of her heart now overflowing with passion and pleasure.

Yet, reality would take over, and the army of relatives would soon descent upon the tiny hut, some furious, others tearful, everyone on the brink of a breakdown, the family name now shattered to ashes, would never recover. At times being dragged, and always crying, they would always end up going back. After all, she would be told, it would be in Kulee’s best interest if she went back. Things would never be the same, though. She would have an air of challenge from now on and would get a portion of the respect she rightly deserved. Kulee would come to find his home empty, he would smile a knowing smile and start a fire to get supper ready.

Kulee passed away a few years ago, so, if there is anything after this world, maybe I could sit down with him and drink his own home brewed beer and perhaps listen to his amazing tales. I would love to hear about the girl who had a cute giggle, or the woman who was sang beautifully. Or he would tell me about the narrow escapes through the mountain pass as men with sticks chased across the river, their dilemma increasing as they got closer to him, much as they wanted to get a hand on him, they weren’t supposed to actually touch him, his untouchability becoming his best defense. And after all that, maybe he would be so kind as to tell me how he lived, and loved.

~To Kulee, my kind of hero

This blog originally appeared on paakhe.wordpress.com on July 29, 2007.