Two bright, beautiful, lesbian research
assistants accompany their Indian professor to a city near the tense Himalayan borders of China and Nepal to observe the "holy-war" dance of the Mahabharata and its link to polygamy and local heroes (or villains?).
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Dehradun City, Himalayas, India 1977: Two bright, beautiful, lesbian research
assistants accompany their Indian professor to this city near the tense borders of China and Nepal to observe the "holy-war" dance of the Mahabharata and its link to polygamy and local heroes (or villains?). The girls begin to question the holiness of the Bhagavad Gita's two polygamist avatars while watching the dance, even as they fall in love with India and their friendly hosts. While gathering data on women's rights violations, caste discrimination, and animal cruelty, they discover more about their own culture, their relationship and themselves.
When their hosts uncover the women's secret love-life, they turn against them and the research team's existence is threatened. Will the Indian "holy-war" become a personal one between locals and outsiders, men against women,polygamists against lesbians, Indians against Americans?
The answer lies in the Himalayan nights...
"In the Himalayan Nights" is a novel by Anoop Chandola - 286 pages - 6" x 9" Paperback
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The Possessed Woman's Question
"What is here is out there. What is not here is not anywhere."
Lashing out from under her wildly disheveled hair, Goda's red darting
eyes glowed as they caught the firelight. She shook her head in large circles with an intensity that demanded attention, focus.
Accordingly, a silence
gathered among the onlookers. It was a silence which elongated an evening
teetering towards the creeping darkness of night. Sensing the arrival, the onlookers gasped. Everyone's eyes were fixed on Goda. Fearlessly, she stretched her quivering hands out, letting the raging flames lick her fingers.
A spell was cast. Possessed, this strange petite woman, or the thing that had entered her, gathered her trembling body and released the moment with a torrent of violent, abandoned screaming. She lunged, grabbing at the
"Five men took turns with me and other women! Why?! Tell me why! Tell me why the heroes of this war…!"
Even the crackling of the burning logs seemed to surrender before the
primal display which had pulled from deep within Goda. As her questioning
echoed across the heads of the onlookers, she began to gyrate in a sacred war dance. All remained suspended in the moment, the space between day and night. The only sound was that of the drummers uttering, in Hindi, a traditional prayer to welcome the arrival, "Jai ho, Mata! Jai ho, Debi!" (Hail,Mother! Hail, Goddess!). No one danced. All eyes were trained on Goda.
I noticed a man reach into the fire. As he grabbed a glowing-hot iron
ladle from the bonfire, I whispered to my wife with concern creeping into my
throat. "Apparently he understood her movements. He has been prepared all
along for this moment."