In Kathmandu: Part One
The streets of Thamel are crowded, aptly so for what is considered a backpackers’ paradise, with shops selling every kind of souvenir possible. Shawls, hemp bags, caps, statuettes, beads, thangkas, what-have-you: all laid out on shelves or on tables by the road, waiting to beguile the traveller with promises of their “exoticism”. The Buddha’s eyes from Swayambhunath, rose-tinged Himalayan ranges, tiered structures from Durbar Square — which will you have today? December is almost upon us, how about a Pashmina scarf or a warm poncho?
We squeeze past them all, leaving shopping for later, and down through the less glamorous parts where souvenir shops give way to everyday needs — plenty of meat, some fiery pickles, books, and articles for the daily puja. Electrical wires cluster overhead, leaving a rectangular patch of sky to light up the narrow gap between the closely-packed buildings. Several of these structures are under construction; others are reinforced by beams. In the bustle, in broad daylight, the ghost of the 2015 earthquake hangs heavy in the air.
The Hanuman Dhoka Durbar Square is festive and forlorn by turns. Locals collect by the temples, sadhus watch from their pedestals, young people lounge on the steps, and tourists stare curiously at everything that is new and unusual. There is no frenetic activity, but a sense of life taking its course, despair peeling away slowly as a new cycle of revival unfolds.
Devotees gather in front of the statue of Kala Bhairava, who stands heavily adorned with skulls and flowers. A priest sits at the base of the statue, accepting offerings and conducting small ceremonies. Across the square are other temples, many closed, a few just debris. Signboards describe the devastation wrought by the earthquake; elsewhere, donor agencies of different countries proclaim their support to reconstruction activities. Ahead of us is a bright, orange Hanuman statue, which gives the area its name. To our left is a museum, much of which is being renovated. One of the open sections is devoted to portraits of previous rulers. To one side is a Land Rover that bore the brunt of a rebel attack some time in the fifties, if I remember correctly. The major part of the museum is dedicated to depicting the earthquake: inside is a gallery with photographs of the destruction it left behind and the consequent reconstruction work. Fragments of medieval buildings reduced to rubble dot the gallery. Fear, pain, and gratitude come alive in the notes that people have left behind as reminiscences of the day the earthquake struck. Life moves on, and in Nepal, faith seems to play a big part in the deliverance.
On our way to a Newari restaurant for lunch, we stop by at the home of the Kumari, the Living Goddess. She is nowhere in sight, but a figure flits past a latticed window: could that be her? Most visitors are tourists, and we all treads softly, in awe of a young girl we do not see. Sunshine streams in, lighting up the grey courtyard. There is no sign of ceremony or worship, only the vacant throne.
***
In the afternoon, we make our way to Swayambhunath. We walk up a long flight of steps, dodging the monkeys that run pell-mell past us and into the trees. The festooned, gleaming white stupa hovers into view, with the Buddha’s eyes gazing down on the valley from a gilded structure atop it. A number of small shrines dot the premises, demonstrating the syncretism of Buddhist and Hindu customs. Devotees throng the temple, their lips moving in prayer, their palms gently turning the prayer wheels.
We follow them and circumambulate the stupa, turning the prayer wheels as well. We amble by more stupas and peek at the lone snow-capped peak that appears on the horizon. We throw coins into the wishing well, only one of our many attempts managing to even graze the pedestal on which the target is.
My mind goes to Thimphu, in another Himalayan country steeped in faith and legend. How much larger and more crowded Kathmandu is — it could rival an Indian city in its size and population. It is easy to get swayed by the Shangri-La image both Bhutan and Nepal evoke, but the reality is quite different. Kathmandu is a sprawling city grappling with several problems, pollution not being the least of them; according to some accounts I read and heard, it has grown and changed vastly since it was “discovered” by the West as a kind of Himalayan paradise. This is perhaps in line with the aspirations that have emerged, not just in Nepal, but throughout the subcontinent and other parts of the world, and the rampant consumption patterns which have subsequently developed. Kathmandu is also quite clearly still recovering from the earthquake, and internal political turmoils, coupled with pressures from its large, ambitious neighbours, do not help the situation.
The trip to Kathmandu is for a work retreat, and we have little time to get touristy. Staying outside the city, we have to walk up and down a steep hill whose roads were washed away to catch the bus to town. Besides Durbar Square and Swayambhunath earlier, we are able to pack in only a quick pretence of a hike in the Shivapuri hills and a short visit to the floating, reclining Vishnu at Budhanilkantha the day before we leave, after which we go back up the hill for lunch. This means that despite our careful planning, we will have to miss paying a visit to the most important deity and the guardian of the town, Pashupatinath — but none of us can muster enough energy to walk down the hill again. Another drawback is the odd-even rule that has been enforced to reduce traffic to accommodate a large conference, which might make travel within town more difficult. Maybe we are just being lazy, making excuses for our indolence. With an early flight the next day and the cold evening setting in, we would rather be indoors.
But Pashupatinath is determined to have His way.
