iih ईः

Memoirs from the 219 Day Walk and More

From the monsoon of 2017 to the summer of 2018, iih walked across the
country three and a half times – through the mountains, hills, plains
highway, and then proceeded to Humla, covering almost six thousand
kilometers, on a shoestring budget, in the process.

These are recollections from that three phase, two hundred and nineteen
day, walk, and the ones in 2019, written upon reflection, accompanied by
select translated accounts of people encountered on the way during the
former. Descriptive names, testament to the spirit and moment of
encounters, have been used. A paragraph break in transcribed conversations
either means a break of flow of speech, with intermittent exchanges omitted,
or a change in topic. The diverse opinions expressed have been presented as
authentically as possible.

The writing and views expressed in recollections are raw. Most creases,
quixotic, unpalatable, or otherwise, have not been ironed out. The
composition though did evolve and become more substantial with exercise,
as it progressed, so did the worldview evolve. This is not an academic,
refined, piece of work, but a personal one, dedicated to and inspired by all
those who contributed in various ways and helped make the walks possible.
All regions were not extensively explored during the period; consequently,
certain paradigms and narratives of significance might not have been
sufficiently represented. Web searches might be helpful for pronunciations,
details, context, and more.

This compilation is entirely open source; free for use, reproduction, and
distribution. Feel free to share this with friends, print it, keep it at a cafe or
add to a library‖s collection.

Download link: linktr.ee/iihbook

For feedback or queries: iihgram on Instagram / [email protected]

2021 Digital Version

Reference Map, not drawn to scale: Walks in 2017, 2018, and 2019
 PART A: MEMOIRS

One Hundred and Nineteen Days Across The Mountains And Eastern Hills

The Beginning 5
Gloom And Light 5
Led By Circumstances 7
Have You Had Lunch Yet? 10
Lost 11
Prasanna 12
Dharma 13
Of Shoes And Sticks 14
Towards The Lake 16
Prosperity 17
The Same Way Again 18
Excavator Havoc 20
Just Fine 21
Dualities 22
Binod‖s Brother 23
Things Will Be Fine 24
Tears Of Disconnection 26
Right Around The Corner 27
Jumping Frog 28
Troubled All Night 29
Sleep And Escape 30
No Liberation 32
Ouch! 33
Adamancy 34
Lazy 36
Across Larkye With Parbat 38
Blessed Nubri 39
A World Of Dreams 40
Tipling Again 42
Listening To Nature 43
On Desire 44
Ghaphel 46
Sindhupalchok Memories 47
Obsolescence 48
Pooja 49
The Old Trail 50
Changing Relations 50
 Doubtful 51
El Peregrino 54
Unwelcome 54
Off The Beaten Track 55
Let It Be 56
Death Of A Village 57
Seema 58
How Ways Opened Up 60
What Pulled Me Through 61
Losing One‖s Way 62
Questions 62
Monsoon 66
Wrinkles 66
Gupha Pokhari 67
Flung By A Flung Stick 67
Hanging Spirits 67
Twenty Seven Hours Straight 68

Eighty Four Days Across The Western Hills, Plains, And Lower Eastern Hills

Day 120: Resumption 73

Grime, Dust, And Kindness 74
Laketown Connections 76
To The Source 77
Priorities 78
Finding A Home 79
Tradeoff Highway 80
Shifting Priorities 82
The Promise Of Heaven 84
Following Lights 84
Barefoot Smiling 87
Unhealed Wounds 88
Lilly Pond 90
Fears And Reassurances 91
Time To Get A New Half Pant 92
Not Welcome 95
Home To Lords 96
Dusty To Dailekh 97
New Mahalaxmi Cross 98
Once More With Karnali 99
Fill In The Blanks 100
 Poor Person‖s Endeavor 102
Gutkha And A Sense Of Belonging 104
Seti Nightwalk 105
Contacts With Reality 106
Earthy Recall 107
Mahakali – Mechi – Mahakali 108
Detained Freezing 109
Transcending Dimensions 112
To The Plains 113
Along The Canal 114
Every Man‖s Land 115
Eastwards Across Rivers 116
Hurt 117
The One Legged Cyclist And His Mother 118
Through Bardiya National Park 120
Paper Boat 121
One Of The Poets 122
Saint Basanta 124
Greasy Markets And Forest Highways 126
Two Hermitages 128
Diverse Journeys 129
Tinau Connections 131
The End Loomed Before Me 134
Slightly Limp Yet Rhythmic 135
Sailing Past The City 136
Tied To The System 137
East Rapti Down Chure 139
Roots And Dreams 141
Night Walker 144
Off The Beaten Track 145
Hysteria 147
Beyond Koshi 151
By The Mechi River 152
Beard Clan 154
Up The Eastern Hills 156
Remember Me 158
Towns In Transformation 162
How Do I Get To Dharan? 165
Markers Of Purity 167
Unable To Walk 171
Sixteen Days Around Humla And West Mugu

Hunch To Mughumla 175

God Save Us 175
Musical Trail 177
Fairytale Woods 180
Mister RJ Falls 182
You Will Reach Late 184
Ludo On Smartphones 186
Against Popular Advice 188
Namaste Shot 190
This Is A Lama‖s House 191
You‖re Going To Die 193
Amidst Mountains 194
Gateway To China 195
Lost In Time 198
Life Along The Frigid River 199
This Is Not The Way To Kailash 201
Dark Skies And Hailstorms 204
Symphony Of Ripples 205
Into Chinese Territory 208
Improvisation On Slopes 210
Slippery Slippers 212
To Raling Before Dark 214
Wrong Way Right One 216
Day 219: The Final Day Of The Long Walk 218

Retracing Steps In Eastern Sindhupalchok

Tere Naam 223

Rejuvenating Waters 223
Little Things 224
Giving Up And Waiting 225
Youth And Dissent 226
Thrill And Pain 228
Shifting Sands 229
Hail Pellets Galore! 230
Separate Ways 232
Whimsical Reboot 232
Shining Beacon Of Hope 233
Blissfully Amused 234
 Snowstorm Memories 236
Promise To Walk Together Again 237

Annapurna Base Camp

Boats Swinging Apocalyptically 241

Living Dreams 241
Distorted Bodies 242
Vicissitudes Aplenty 243
Gushing Tears Of Mountains 246
Milaaera Hunchha? 247
Following Winding Footmarks 248
Frozen River 248
Vertigo Inducing Catwalk 249
All Pains Forgotten 250
Sunny Side Up 252
Subin Saved My Life 253
What Am I Like? 253
Paradigm Shift 255

Gosainkunda Circuit

Roulette To Rasuwa 259

Gulp, Gulp, Yulp! 260
Rendezvous With The Elements 261
Continuity And Recollection 262
Melancholic Mist 264
Going By The Menu 265
Foodnommics Saves The Day 266
Is This Really It? 267
Dire Straits 268
Healing 270
Familiar 271
Mission Airport 272
 Around Upper Mustang

Elementary 276
Fumbled Meating 277
Web Of Narratives 277
The Power That People Wield 278
Ring Jhing Quick 280
Person Without A Name 280
Waves Of Sullen Plasma 281
Paper Boats In A Sea 282
Dried Fruits To The Pass 284
Moonrise Down Paa 284
Fast Asleep 285
Attack Of Anxiety 286
Beyond The Slim Void 287
Tsampa And Chhyang 288
Separation 290
Commotion 291
The Religion Of Accessibility 292
Coming To Terms With Fate 294
Not Forsaken 294
The Walled Town 295
Stroll After Sundeck Magic 296
Unfeeling 297
Free To Ponder 298
Towards The Caves 300
No Sisyphus 302
Good People 303
Family 304
Bravo! 305
Falling Palaces 306
Fluidity 307
Where Am I? 308
Soaring Spirit 309
Unwinding 310
Shimmy Downslide 310
Towards The End 311
PART B: CONVERSATIONS

Darchula 317
Baitadi 322
Bajhang 326
Bajura 330
Mugu 334
Jumla 335
Dolpa 340
Mustang 350
Manang 355
Gorkha 361
Dhading 366
Rasuwa 371
Sindhupalchok 372
Dolakha 378
Ramechhap 382
Solukhumbu 382
Bhojpur 392
Sankhuwasabha 395
Taplejung 405
Tehrathum 412
Dhankuta 414
Khotang 415
Okhaldhunga 418
Sindhuli 418
Kathmandu 420
Tanahun 421
Kaski 422
Parbat 426
Baglung 427
Myagdi 428
Gulmi 430
Pyuthan 431
Rolpa 432
Rukum East 438
Rukum West 439
Salyan 440
Jajarkot 443
Dailekh 444
Achham 448
 Doti 450
Dadeldhura 452
Kanchanpur 457
Kailali 461
Bardiya 464
Banke 466
Kapilbastu 470
Rupandehi 472
Nawalparasi East 474
Chitwan 474
Makwanpur 475
Bara 476
Rautahat 478
Siraha 480
Saptari 482
Sunsari 483
Morang 488
Jhapa 489
Ilam 490
Panchthar 492
Udayapur 494
MEMOIRS

1
2
One Hundred And Nineteen Days Across
The Mountains And Eastern Hills

3
4
 The Beginning

I took off my khaadi outfit that bore the grubby odor of highway fumes and
submitted it to the waves of the great Kali. A metaphor it seems like, in
retrospect, for the prejudices, identity, and priorities I had before that. There,
the walk began, and lasted for another two hundred and nineteen days.

From Hilsa of Humla, I had originally sought to begin the walk. Darchula was
a compromise, for I did not have the money to procure an airline ticket.
What I did have was a phone that took decent pictures, gifted to me by a
dear brother from Dubai; something I had hedged the starting of the walk to.
I had spent months reading before that; nothing had lit my passion. When I
discovered the calling to go on an extended walk of a spiritual hue, for the
lack of a more appropriate term, I let it face the winds till the pieces fell into
place. The pages fluttered by as three seasons gave way to monsoon. If I had
set out on any other season, the walk would have been nigh impossible.
Luck was on my side.

To the hills to the west of the Karnali, I had never been before. From the
makeup of the terrain to the accent of the people, everything on that bus ride
beyond Attariya was absolutely fascinating. Instead of getting on the bus to
the town of Darchula, I had taken the one to Gokuleshwar. Such ignorance!
Then, that hour long search for a lodge that fitted my means. I was unaware
of the cues that denoted a clean and affordable lodge. Harkening back to that
day makes me realize the ways in which the walk has helped me grow. That
twenty two year old, I would have judged to be an incompetent fool.

In Darchula, I inspected the bridge at the border, and surrounding regions.

The shorter trail that went by the river seemed like a monsoon deathtrap. To
save five or ten minutes, people were walking on the edges of cliffs and over
debris. A flood had wrecked havoc a few years ago, the results of which
could still be seen. Bright colors and tipsy concrete structuring defined the
houses that survived. It was a colorful place, full of colorful people. Across
the river, some schoolchildren were carefully plotting their way down a
goliathan landfall. I sat observing them, fearing and feeling for them, as I
dwelled on the absurdity of that human drawn line.

A group of children, who had seen me lighten my load, came to me with

curiosity. They were on their way back home – an hour long walk. On the
way, upon learning of my intentions, they told about how they used
smartphones and wished to connect with me on social media. It was a sign
of changing times. The headline on the sheet they gave me read – Notes for
the Day, below which I added – www.instagram.com/iihgram.

Gloom And Light

A few kilometers north of the town of Darchula, on the recently carved road
that swayed along the Mahakali River border, I met a man donning a scrappy

5
red shirt, who had just returned from Taklakot (Purong). He informed me of
how locals had started eagerly venturing to the Chinese town, instead of
India, where pay was lesser, seeking blue collar jobs in the non farming
season. Less than an hour later, like a baton in a relay race, he passed me on
to a young man, who was carrying an umbrella in one hand and, like on his
back too, a bag full of market commodities in the other, stating that we were
headed towards the same direction. This was to be the modus operandi,
which fate had ascertained for me, throughout the walk.

The young man, Maan of Hikila, after much consecration, concluded that I
must be a travel writer. It was at that moment that his sunken eyes had lit
up. Not that he did not have a pleasant disposition before, but he had not
sought to appease me either. He kept putting forth a simple request:

“The ponds of Bramhadaha and Panchamdaha, a day north of my village, are

exceedingly beautiful. Please bring them to attention through the papers. We
would love to have some tourism.”

The bells and tramples of mules replaced sounds of rock plundering tippers
as we carried on. The first day of the journey and I was in pristine, mountain
country already. Maan invited me to stay at his house on the face of and
facing a steep, rugged hill, for sure carved by the waters of the river gorged
beyond sight. The mud house painted feebly in green was defined by the
giggles of children playing and the cries of domestic animals alike. At dinner,
I was introduced to chhaain daal. Oh, how strange it seemed; the use of
buttermilk on every dish the first time I saw it!

Maan‖s aunt decided to head northeastwards to her stable the next morning,
tagging along was an obvious choice. She wore a golden petticoat over a
tshirt, her dhoti swelled with the wind. The golden Phuli and Bulakhi served
to amplify her sorrowful smile, as she pointed out the spot she had suffered
a life altering fall from a few years ago.

We reached Thaisain at a leisurely pace. The grasslands there were

straggled by hundreds of sheep. She removed the wooden plank that served
as a door to the stable and lit a fire. The seventeen odd kilogram bag that I
started with had already started slimming down. The realization that the
walk would be an impossible task with such a load had started seeping in. I
passed on the container of hot chocolate, along with other nonessentials I
had, to her.

As we were having steaming hot chocolate, while khichadi (rice pudding /

literally mishmash) was prepared, a rash man, whose presence itself was
debilitating, came into the hut. He chatted with her in the vernacular, which
I understood bits and pieces of, encouraging her to charge a significant
amount for the help she had offered. She seemed reluctant. The man decided
to make the case himself.

“Look at this old woman. She‖s come here for you and you only … You‖re a
rich person. Only rich people can afford to travel like you … You owe her five
hundred rupees for the food.”

The terse tone of his voice took me aback. I explained to him that I had
limited funds.

6
“Five hundred‖s a bargain! Things are only going to get more expensive
beyond here. We‖re being nice to you.”

The walk to Muktinath started to seem unfeasible. The day suddenly seemed
to be gloomy, even though it was sunny clear.

The next day a boy, who had set up a temporary camp in the middle of
nowhere to serve yarsa collectors; make extra income to support his family
and siblings‖ education, charged only a hundred rupees for a freshly
prepared, wholesome serving of daalbhaat saying that it was the prevalent
rate. His acceptance of the amount was reluctant too. He argued that the
culture that his parents endowed him with did not allow him to seek
remuneration from visitors, and that it was his duty to send guests away
happy. In his fair conduct, I found light.

Led By Circumstances

The third day of the walk almost became my last one. I had a verbal spat
with a yarsagumba trader in the mountain prairie of Chaimadole [sounded
like it]. The local strongman made disparaging remarks that triggered my
dormant pride. He took me for an idiot, and I proved him right in his tent
that night. It was a blunt remark about my choice of apparel that proved to
be the tipping point. In an absurd swing of rage, I took off, and handed over
my shawl, shirt, bag, and cap to the brute. I was, perhaps, affected by a case
of altitude thickness.

“Is this what you‖ve been seeking? All I have …”

He gave me a dead look, the tent went silent, and these fierce words
followed:

“I know you‖re here in disguise. This is not how you do things in my place.”

The brute‖s accomplice, an elder who with his daura suruwal and dhaka cap
seemed like a politician, played the mediator. He helped calm the man down,
with his astute tone of voice, and requested me to put the clothes back on.

The police officers in the tent backed the brute up:

“Look, we‖re here too with this man‖s grace. He‖s our provider. He‖s the main
guy. Do as he says.”

For my good, I was banished to sleep underneath the same thin blue tarp as
the police officers by the elder.

A dozen hills covered by swathes of rhododendron, I had scaled up, above

the clouds and down to streams, to get to those yarsagumba grounds. It was
all worth it. About the collection of the mysterious fungus I had read
numerous texts, but to see the process with my own eyes, to be amongst the
collectors, was indeed fascinating.

7
Morning had broken. Troops in gumboots, unions of communities from
various villages, men and women, young and old, scanned through the
turquoise shaded grass. The look of accomplishment on the face of a man,
who carried an umbrella on his back, as he gently nudged out what looked
like a piece of wormlike maroon grass, with majestic mountains towering
behind and watercolor blue skies, was more magnificent than anything I had
ever seen on the silver screen.

While having lunch under the shade of the navy tarp, locals strongly advised
against crossing the forty four hundred meter pass to Ghunsa. I had no
experience of crossing a snow laden pass till then, and thus saw it fit to take
the alternative way. That downhill trail was probably the worst I have ever
trodden upon – slipped down on might be a more accurate descriptor! Cut
down a cliff, slimed with red and white mud, the trail down Chaimadole was
insidious. Words are inadequate to tell of the miseries I endured there.
Crossing the pass would have been an easier endeavor.

The trouble started at a foggy hilltop, which I circled tens of times trying to
find a way down from in vain. I retreated to the place where I had last seen a
yarsa collector group. One of the men was kind enough to show me the way.
It ran down what I had thought to be an impossible cliff end.

Observing my tattered state, a man with a rustic voice made a remark in

Dotiyali. Upon asking what he meant, he responded rather rudely:

“If you can‖t speak the vernacular, why are you in our place? I have been to
Kathmandu and learned the eastern language!”

In jest, I responded with a mix of the little Nepal Bhaasa and French I could
conjure. His friend laughed. The man went away puffing.

Further, down the way, I came across a group of children carrying up loads
twice their size. I advised them to be cautious, stating that the trail up was
no good. They gave me a perplexed look, for that was the norm for them.

Having slipped and fallen some sixteen times – muddied, scarred, broken,
and somehow still breathing, I made it down to the aesthetic hamlet of
Dhankang. There, an old woman instructed me to go to the local teacher‖s
home, when I asked if there was a lodge around. I proceeded to the house
without further questioning.

The soft spoken man was used to hosting strange guests with the utmost
kindness, and welcomed me without interrogation. The family healed me
with their warmth. Elevating encounters with a Dalit family seeing better
days, a shack restaurant owner, a driver, and a former ascetic who had
turned to rearing goats, set the tone for better days to come. The exception to
which was my second encounter with the group of police officers.

The men in blue had foul impressions to share about the brute, the same
brute they had celebrated as their savior only two days ago. They shared
that for years the budget set aside for improving the trail had been
embezzled by the man and his accomplices. After inquiring about my
background, the men leveled praises on me. The whole affair was entirely
disappointing, for it revealed not just the perverted ways of power, but
foreshadowed the duality that I would have to face and learn to contend
with, as an outsider, throughout the walk.

8
Darchula Highlands: Search for yarsagumba

9
 Have You Had Lunch Yet?

There was something uniquely charming about the regions of Thalara and
Bajhang, which I traversed across on the way to Khaptad. The culture and
values of yore still held strong.

“Have you had lunch yet?”

Elderly people basking in the sun or peeking out of their windows would oft
ask. It was their way of greeting people. A great contrast to other regions of
this part of the world, where the first question would be: Where are you
from? Often followed by: What is your name? Why are you here? It is a long
practiced method to gauge the other‖s economic and social status, then to
shape one‖s manner of engagement on that basis. Those questions would
follow in the region as well, but roti with chhaain (buttermilk), and
vegetables, or lentil soup cooked using chhaain as a base, would always be
on offer. For the meal and a night‖s stay, the elders there considered it
discourteous to seek remuneration – a practice that is quickly becoming an
unsustainable ideal as food crop agriculture withers away.

Quite a few children could be seen taking care of cattle or helping in the
fields. Young people were scarcely visible in villages. Most of them, I
inferred, were off to work across the border, where the language and culture
were common denominators. Permanent migration to the plains, especially
to the burgeoning metropolis of Dhangadhi, or the capital Kathmandu,
seemed to be in full swing too. I came across many elderly people who were
being compelled by their progeny to abandon farming altogether and shift to
the cities. Abandoned houses were a common sight. There is active social
pressure for anyone who is someone, to possess land and eventually shift to
the plains.

After having experienced the natural splendor of the mountains of Api

Nampa, and the cultural generosity of the north west, Khaptad felt like a
disappointment. The likes of the wide, open prairies and strange rock
formations that fascinated or aroused reverence in the people of the
surrounding hills, I had already seen in the mountains, in an unhindered
state. The lone lodge was relatively overpriced, unhygienic, and offered zilch
service. For matters pertaining to higher powers, the points of interest there
lacked spirit. The more people with limited imagination toy with blessed
lands, the more gimmicky and lifeless they get.

The only redeeming feature was the night spent with seasonal cattle
herders, in the forests to the north. Among them was a wise, colorful man
who had decided to make distance with the ways of the world. He still
unshakably believed in the sage who brought the place to the attention and
the magic of Khaptad. He called the cattle his brethren and shared all he had
with them. Little did he know that I found what the revered monuments and
vermillion rocks failed to deliver, at that messy, dark, methanous hut that he
called home.

10
 Lost

The anxiety was too great. I was sweating profusely. With every movement,
the thorns of those trees ate into my skin. All the trees looked the same, and
the commotion of crickets prevailed, no matter where I went. The moonlight
was shameful; near absolute darkness had bewildered my sense of direction.
A part of me, fatigued into hysteria, wanted to tap out and lie down; invite
sleep to take the pin. As I was about to collapse, a fox was sighted. If only it
had budged or scarpered away like the others, there would be no horror. Oh
no, it did not! Its misty silhouette held amazingly still. I retreated, and for the
umpteenth time tried my luck with another path.

The phone, which served as a primary torch, was out of juice, so too was the
power backup. One, two, three, four, five… ninety nine, one hundred: I
turned the swivel making the count, sweating like a pig running hurdles. For
every hundred rotations made, the hulking dynamo powered torch gave ten
seconds of light. In those ten seconds, I had to chart my path; quick mental
calculations, rushed up moves. Pitch darkness. Repeat! Never had I lost my
way in a forest at night before that; it was a completely new dimension to
figure out, a rush like none other! The anxiety and hysteria rid me of other
sensations, pain and time numbed away into irrelevance.

It was only at ten in the night that I arrived at a small settlement hastily
crossed at dusk, presuming in utter arrogance that I would be able to cross
Kuchwan and reach the village above the cliff. I was on an alternative trail to
Khaptad. I did manage to cross the forest, but could not find a path to the
village. I had screamed and shouted in desperation, but there was no one
around to show me the way. A retreat followed and somewhere amidst the
trees, I happened to choose the lesser taken of two narrow paths.

I shared my troubles with a woman, clad in a red saari, who opened her door
for me. To my good fortune, she turned out to be a patient and
understanding person. All I sought was shelter for the night, but she insisted
on cooking dinner for me first. The karmic hospitality that this part of the
world built its image on still prevails where agrarian life does. I was utterly,
utterly, grateful.

“Son, you‖re like my son… Look, you don‖t have to pay me or anything.
These things happen in life. My own son too is working in pardesh (foreign
lands), in India. He‖s the same age as you. I‖m not aware of the conditions
he‖s living in, I worry for him. Maybe he‖ll face a trouble similar to yours
tomorrow. He‖ll have to rely on a pardeshi then, won‖t he? I‖ve helped you
thinking of him.”

The next morning, she pleaded that I get down to the highway and take a
jeep to Khaptad. The forest grew wilder beyond the cliff and she was worried
that I would not make it. I had to live my karma though. Instead, I assured
her that I would come back down the same path to see her again – even
though that would have meant two extra days of walk on the roadway. She
let me go apprehensively.

11
 Prasanna

Prasanna was the first of four friends to join me on the walk across the
mountains from Kathmandu. The pact was for him to start the walk with me
at Darchula, but a matter popped up at the final moment, delaying his
departure by a week. He wore a tshirt with the phrase – Keep Going, Never
Stop, emblazoned boldly with red. It hinted at the challenge that the journey
was about to lay forth for us.

Four major routes led to the plateau, the least well maintained of which the
one that runs up from the burgeoning town of Sanfebagar is. A wily bus
conductor at the Gongabu Bus Park in Kathmandu had convinced Prasanna
to get on his bus, instead of the one that went to Chainpur – an easier access
point. He must have departed at, what could be called, an inauspicious
moment, for on the next day, on that hike through the unforgiving forest, he
found no companion. He lost his way and, after hours of circling the same
hill face, arrived at a place where a few herders were camping. Battered,
bruised, but safe at last!

The troubles did not stop there. I was walking across places that did not
have network access, so he was left wondering if I would ever arrive. He
camped at the lodge, and spent a day and a half wandering around the
prairies of Khaptad waiting for a word from me. I wonder if he found solace
in nature, or conversations with fellow campers. Howbeit, he sounded
anxious when I finally got in touch with him over the phone. I was on an
odd trail to the north western Maaithaan and, out of desperation, requested
him to come there. I was still traumatized by the incident of the previous
night and had not found company despite waiting for hours at the last
village before the forest. He was unsure too and sought the help of a local
boy. The boy was a reliable guide. They met me at Maaithaan and it did not
take long to get to the prairies. However, when the grandfather of that boy
sought an outrageous amount for the young lad‖s endeavor, things soured.
The old man threw away the few hundred rupees we offered him, claiming
in aristocratic rage that the boy could have made twice as much by cutting
wood in that hour. We could not appeal to the man‖s soul. The boy remained
silent and submitted to his dickensian fate.

The points of interest in Khaptad – Baba Ashram, the pond, the temples, and
two rocks – associated with which were religious tales, were all attended to
the next morning. I failed to recognize a famous Nath renunciate there.
Many people had told me that I reminded them of him. I guess, we were not
meant to meet then.

To the mother, I had a promise to fulfill, and so we went back down that
way, instead of taking the scenic and shorter trail to Rara. We spent the
night in a shed and an entire day walking under the fiery sun, with no
clouds to offer respite. Only when we met her did I see delight on my
companion‖s face. Her face shone upon seeing me. Prasanna means
delighted / satisfied, in Nepali, and there lay the irony of it all. He desired to
traverse through scenic trails, relax, and have a good time. Contrarily, I
wanted to experience whatever life placed before me, in all its sincerity, a
trait that made me a difficult companion.

12
We took a bath in the maddened waters of the Seti River, full of silt and slop,
and parted ways the next day. The highway was humid, hot, and offered no
peace. Midway to Martadi, he got on a bus back to Kathmandu. I toiled on.

Maybe the waters were malignant, or was it the audacity to dive into the cold
river with a sweltering body that led to my downfall? I wavered like a
drunkard on the highway. I could not stand straight. The fever had wrung all
energy out of me. To the only person I conversed with on that riverside strip
of the highway, I asked if there was a humble and understanding hotelier in
Tamail. He gave me a name. Repeating that name in mind, I pushed myself
to the shantytown. There, I hastily inquired where Ramesh‖s hotel was.

Once I got there, I uttered two inarticulate phrases to explain my situation

and crashed flat on a bed. In the evening, he tried to wake me up for dinner,
but I could not even lift my head, and asked for vegetarian soup noodles
instead. I had the soup but was so weak that I could not register any
memory of it. It was only in the morning that I was able to tell him how
grateful I was. It was another day; I had found new life.

Dharma

As monsoon attains full fervor, the foothills of high mountains spring to life.
The desolate snows give away, revealing expanses covered by mineral rich,
soggy soil: ready for greens, ready for blossoms. With the fields plowed and
inundated, the festivities of Saaun commence. The Hindu populace of almost
every village in the high hills holds either a shrine or a pond amidst the
mountains in holy reverence. There is many a myth associated with such
places, the narratives almost similar, usually revolving around implausible
feats accomplished by deities or miracles performed by saints of lore. The
fear and wonder incited by the madness and striking topography of
mountains, bordering on the impossible, must have demanded the creation
of such narratives; to help make sense of things. It was only natural for
pilgrims in preparation and on their way to be curious about mine.

It was the thirteenth day of the walk. Beyond the village of Paata, on the way
to Jugada, lay a great landslide of bluish clay and sand. I saw a group of
school kids rush down a shortcut that ran down the slide with ease. Since it
was raining, the shorter alternative seemed to be an obvious choice. Alas,
halfway up, the path became so steep that going up further seemed
impossible. For sure, I had lost track of the path marked by shoe
impressions. Inexperience was at play. While I was plotting a retreat, a rock
came bumping down. A frantic reaction induced, I slipped and suffered a
humpty dumpty! My half pant was in tatters.

I was done for the day. To the first villager I saw, I relayed my case and
requested shelter for the night. The young man agreed and led me to his
house. He was on vacation from his work in Himachal. The construction job
earned him eight hundred rupees a day, a significant amount considering
there was barely enough for the family to subsist on in the village.

13
Remittance was a breath of liberation from caste and class constraints for the
family.

“You seem like an ascetic. Did you not ask my son our caste before you
entered this home? We are Daanis, untouchables. People of higher castes
cannot mingle with us, or eat what we cook with these hands. Religion
doesn‖t allow it!”

The boy‖s mother was home. She wore a defensive look and expected fury
on my part.

“My dharma forbids me from treating people differently. My dharma allows

me to eat what you have cooked.”

She was astonished to hear such a reply, and itched her head in muddled
thought. After the pause, she remarked:

“Hmmm… I guess religion is practiced differently in the east.”

I spent the night in her son‖s room. Despite having an archaic structure, the
red mud and dung plastered room was littered with modern gadgets. A large
chunk of the newfound surplus income had unsurprisingly been spent on
consumerist indulgences by the seventeen year old. Among which was a
large speaker that blared Durgesh songs all night long. How I slept, I do not
know.

Of Shoes And Sticks

At four past midday, the skies finally opened up, and the old market shone
in all its stone thatched glory. There were a few meekly stacked concrete
structures and shacks made of corrugated steel, just not enough to disdain
the aerial harmony of the town, when seen from the Badimalika temple on
top of the hill.

I had arrived in Martadi with a woman I had met on the way. It was only
natural for me to seek the company of locals who were headed the same
way; it saved the trouble of navigation. She seemed to be in her mid
twenties, wore a bright red kurtha suruwal, and carried a bag half her
weight, strapping her child behind it with a shawl. Throughout the better
part of the morning, she yelled on the phone, pouring vexation. A non
government organization initiated cooperative formation meeting she had
mobilized other women in the village for, with promises of incentive for
attendance, had been canceled at the very last moment. Regardless, she
chose to make the best out of the occasion and travel to the bazaar. Partly
out of sympathy, and partly to quicken the walk, I took her load upon my
shoulder – a gesture to which no gratitude was offered; it was my
understood responsibility as a young man to do so.

At the bazaar, for wearing Hattichhaap slippers had led to that ugly slip the
previous day, I went around looking for cheap and reliable Goldstars. Finally,

14
Bajura: Rainfall rush on the trail to Jugada

15
at a fancy store (one that sells modern apparel) run by perhaps the most fair
and courteous shopkeeper I have ever encountered, I tried on a pair of shoes.
For the first time in seven years, I put on shoes! Then, kept them in the bag
and forgot about them. (The shoes eventually became a burden. I passed
them on to a soldier in Jomsom, unused.) I started carrying a stick too, and
that proved to be a game changer. As for replacements for the torn apparel, I
bought a half pant and made a call to my friend Sachin to send in the usual
khaadi one from Thahiti on a bus.

Excavators and great old houses were a common sight on the way to Kolti.
Both invited grimace; the great houses towered above petty shacks as feudal
remnants, while the fuming yellow arm on wheels ripped on without a
pause. Howbeit, the humility of the people, that elevating spirit, made things
seem well and good.

The boy in Jilli who climbed a tree to secure kafals for me on that uphill
climb, the engineering student from Pulchowk who was on his way to Humla
via Kolti, the people who showed me the way with a smile, the self
respecting elderly woman from Chhededaha who was busy sieving grains,
the hotelier in Baandho who was trying to introduce vegetable farming to his
village, the women who sent prayers and offerings with me – like the aqua
blue of the Karnali, they are unforgettable. I remember them all fondly. For
me, they were Bajura.

Towards The Lake

Not even the great blue Karnali could bring to life the sandy stretches that it
roared across in the parts of Bajura to the east of Kolti. In an otherwise
wrinkled and lifeless expanse along the way, the Khatiyad River, fed by the
drain of Rara, stood as a lone savior. The blessed waters that it carried down;
full of silt, minerals and all things good for life, were channeled into
surrounding terraced fields. Lush green expanses of grain grew livelier as the
trail progressed, such scenes only intermittently deprived of their near
perfect prettiness by the scar of an unthoughtfully drawn road.

The hamlets on the hills across the river were dotted by constructions of the
traditional kind; tightly knit, flat roofed homes of mud and stone. Most
settlements along the road were relatively new. Quite a few people had
descended from their ancestral, hill bastions seeking accessibility. There was
a settlement on the way with a red house that, except for its color, did not
look too remarkable. Rato Ghar (red house), the hamlet was simply called.
Unimaginative, but a far better naming scheme than the one that defines
places in terms of kilometers. Like elsewhere, unsurprisingly, a certain
hydropower project was said to have made the drawing of the road possible.

As the lake of Rara drew closer, trees and flowers of many shades became a
common sight. The buffer zone began with a pleasant forest walk. The river
had turned into a smooth, gurgling stream – music to my ears. A sense of
healing calm pervaded as sunlight percolated from tree leaves and made all
that seemed good glisten. All good, until two men who were rushing by

16
those enchanted woods mentioned that the cliffs above were infamous for
yielding rocks. Nothing happened that day. It was only a week later, when I
was walking on a newly carved road by the Thuli Bheri River in Tripurakot
that I saw a falling rock nearly crush a woman and her child. I was about to
take her picture when the winds blew out an unsteady piece. She ran with
her child in panic, fearing a larger landslide, and I ran with her as a couple of
other rocks fell. It was a fortunate escape for us. As the walk progressed, it
became quite evident that cliffs untouched by people were safer than freshly
carved roads.

Prosperity

Chandrabahadur ran away abandoning his home. Whenever I see this home,
I feel like crying my heart out. – Pro. Chandra Bdr.

Those words were penned, using a marker, on the door of an abandoned

house, marked to make way for the incoming road: CH.1+950. An air of
mystique, with a hint of melancholy, was omnipresent throughout the lands
around Rara.

Even the most casual of observers will notice elements of totem and nature
worship around the lake. Beneath particular trees in the most random of
places, I encountered carved idols that resembled people. Similar idols were
etched onto pillars on bridges as well. They were certainly connected to
Mashta. The denizens of Rara were relocated to Banke Chisapani – close to
the plains highway, much to their joy (accessibility) and at the same time,
dismay (disconnection), when the national park was declared in 1976. One
can find fascinating remnants of temples and other ancient stone structures
around the park, left to be consumed into obsolescence by thriving foliage.

I had a particularly interesting conversation with two shepherds in the

forest. Their flock was massive; they could by no means be unprosperous.
But, they thought they were; for they held wild imaginations of the wealth of
Kathmanduites. To be prosperous, they understood, meant to not have to
labor. Becoming a landlord, owning a car, sending children to private
schools, going up on lifts instead of stairs – the (ir) Nepali dream, which they
presumed I was living and despised me for it.

The Rara of monsoon bloom was rather different from the Rara of frigid
winter I had previously witnessed. Yet, the appeal of the lake was not
powerful enough to chain me to one of the overpriced hotels owned by local
aristocrats. After observing the waves for a while, I sprinted across flower
laden greens round the lake, startling the odd grazing horse on the way, to
the authentic and lively community of Jhyaari. For it was not dark, I
descended to a homestay by the road. The woman who ran the place was
deeply religious and treated me well, good food too. I should have gone to
sleep contentedly that night, but for her upsetting, discriminating beliefs
founded on the very same devotion that made her hold me in high regard.

17
 The Same Way Again

In Bhulbhule of Jumla I had my best plate of daalbhaat ever. It was at a

lackadaisical hotel (homestay) run by a young couple. A group of men set to
leave on their sports utility vehicle had just had their meals there. The
leftovers were set to be my lunch. They sat observing as I pleaded for a
discount on the price suggested to me. Moments later, an understanding was
reached without declaration. It is how one appears, arrives and talks that
determines pricing in these sort of rural establishments. This rambler‖s
miserly appearance did not accord the kind of price they had set for the
swanky folks from Kathmandu.

The men inquired about my walk as I devoured the locally grown brown rice
with kidney beans. The destination I had set for myself then was Muktinath.
One of the men was in a generous mood; he offered to pay for my meal. In
return, he suggested that I could offer prayers in his name at the famed
temple. I gave him my word and fulfilled that duty gleefully; I really was
grateful.

For the second time in two years, I went down the beautiful valley of
Chautha and up across Danphe Lagnya. The resplendent meadows of Khali
that merged into the pass were blessed with numerous exotic flowers. A soul
stirringly sweet aroma erased all the pains of the rush up that hill dotted by
great trees in ill health. From there, the path went downwards. It ran
towards a sprinkle of structures amidst bright green fields, warmly nestled
by smooth, curvy hills. The town of Jumla was not too far away.

I headed straight for the army camp on the hill. I knew people there. It was
eight in the night. The locals who showed me the way were doubtful if I
would be entertained and seemed hesitant to engage with the people in
arms. Getting into the camp was a bit of a hassle, but once I was amongst
senior officers in the mess for dinner, my journey, for the manner in which I
had conducted it, invited great admiration. I would become a great Hindu
ascetic someday, one of them proclaimed. They relayed orders to camps
further up on the way, to welcome me in the warmest manner possible.
Above all, it was for the hot shower and stable internet connection that I was
the most grateful.

I spent the latter half of the next day wandering around the streets of Jumla.
The first half had been spent preparing first person accounts and story posts
for social media. Paradigm shifting conversations were the order of the day –
with a vegetarian restaurant owner, a monk who had traveled for years in
disguise in China before settling in Jumla, two women who had toiled all
their lives in the region and were now content with basking their days off in
the sun, a Mashta temple keeper, among others. Of particular note was a
grey haired man who used to be the vice chairperson of a national party, but
had chosen to retain his idealistic stand over realpolitik considerations to
spend the best years of his life as a recluse; a farmer in the outskirts of
Jumla: Thoreau‖s Walden, Masterji‖s Radikhalla.

The order of the day though was far different. Like in any other place in this
part of the globe, the houses in Jumla seemed to be getting taller, as the
fields narrowed down. The extension of houses was swelling towards
Radikhalla. The image of a locked tap, so close to a brook that fed the largest

18
Verdant terraced fields in the outskirts of the town of Jumla

19
river in this part of the globe, was particularly perturbing. The new hospital
and concrete buildings stood as signs of hope, while the indigenous mud
homes of old were taken to be symbols of despair that needed to be erased.
As the famed Jumli traveling salespeople groups dwindle, droves that seek a
passport out of the past swell. The wooden idols that are etched onto bridges
and poles will one day altogether disappear, and with it, Jumla will be born
again.

Excavator Havoc

As food was readied at a camp put up to service retreating yarsagumba

collectors at the pass of Maurya, I ventured up a hill. From there, the sight of
the Patarasi Mountains drew me in. Oh, how textured swathes of green had
effortlessly melded with the snows, even the most jagged of terrains had not
been spared by the blessing of rain. I moved towards them, the further I
pushed on, the further away they went. By the time, hunger relayed a
grumble to remind me of the camp, an hour and a half had smoothly passed.
The portion that had been set aside for me there had already been
consumed. Amidst disappointing collections, stories of foul play by people in
charge of the national park, especially the military authority, were abound
among the people resting at the camp.

An excavator had wreaked havoc on an old trail bound to be broadened into

a track that off road vehicles could hustle on. Lamentably, it was the trail to
Kaigaon. The driver was nowhere to be seen. A local contractor who was
there mumbled:

“Just grab the edges of the cliff, hold on to the stones, and scuttle to the other
side.”

Upon assessing the nature of the climb, I worried for my neck, and inquired
if there was another way.

“Go downstream; the water is not too deep! Even a group of old women
managed that path… last week, wasn‖t it? It would be a shame if you could
not manage it.”

A lame shot straight to the ego. And damn, I fell for it!

Except for the pressing risk of falling rocks, from hills freshly violated by
excavators on either side, things seemed manageable for a while. It was only
an hour downstream that slippery, smooth boulders embraced by algae
became an active hindrance. Then, the water became chest deep in parts. It
took numerous falls, a twisted foot, and a drenched bag to realize that the
rivulet was unmanageable. For there was no viable alternative, I persisted.
Finally, there came a point where a fresh landslide had occurred. A climb out
seemed accomplishable from there. I dreaded every step. The rocks were
loose; sometimes one fell out of place and triggered a domino downfall.
Focus. Focus. Focus. Some forty minutes later, I made it.

20
I arrived at the hamlet of Chaanchu – an unexpected detour. It was overrun
by midges and large flies; ones that rendered bulbous, itchy blisters after
every contact.

“They are in love with you because you are wearing a half pant.”

A man who came into the shop remarked in humor.

The woman, who lived in the one room house, recounted stories from the
years of conflict, as she prepared dinner. Catharsis was at play that night. All
my troubles seemed trivial in front of what her family had endured.

Just Fine

The search for Tashi‖s friend in Ringmo led me to a lodge. Despite having a
mud leveled roof upon stacks of log, the building employed earth and stone
in a smoothly furnished manner. The windows were larger, with metal grills
and neatly shaped frames, bearing a modern appearance. Contrastingly, the
lay homes had a distinct feel. With jagged constructs and detailed carvings,
they were imperfect; little chips gone wrong here and there, handwork at
play. With the clear blue skies, pine clad hills, sepia mountains and
turquoise waters serving as a scintillating background, every old house in
Ringmo seemed like a work of art.

My vocal appreciation of the imperfections triggered an old man. He

remarked sarcastically:

“I do not see any art here. I only see poverty.”

The flow of cash is sure to wash away imperfections.

At the lodge, Wrigzin‖s father was busy dealing with a group of grimy boys
from the hills to the south of Dolpo. With their heads hung low, they
accepted the disappointing valuation of their yarsagumba collections. They
were no good at bargaining. Perhaps, they did not have a second option; like
the men who were sweating to level the camping area by the lake, because
they could not collect enough to return home honorably. At the same time,
donning a cowboy hat Wrigzin‖s straight faced mother was scanning through
the annual stock of beans to remove dirt and pebbles. She shared that the
cowboy fashion, like many other things was a recent import from Tibet. The
hat had become an increasingly essential item for her.

I only met Wrigzin the next day. Despite having graduated and worked for a
top conglomerate in Kathmandu, the humble lad had come back to the
village for yarsagumba season. I tagged along with his band on the way
beyond Phoksundo. We parted at the foothills of Mount Kanjirowa. He took
the left and went towards a cave, where a wealth of yarsagumba was said to
be hidden, while I took the Crystal Mountain Kora path along a river.

I spent the night in Phulbari – a cornered prairie, surrounded by piles of

falling mountains, straddled upon by vigorous yaks. I was advised to stay

21
away from them. That night, I indulged in deep reflection. The Phulbari
camp was set to be abandoned; had I rested for a couple of more days on the
way, life would have been difficult. I arrived at Ringmo just in time to meet
Wrigzin – finding the way would have been a near impossible ordeal without
his help. The day before, near the waterfall below Phoksundo, I had met a
solo trekker who almost lost his life while crossing the snow laden passes of
Numa and Baaga. Despite being on a similar altitude, on the high passes that
I crossed, the snowfall that year was sparse. There was so much that could
have gone wrong, yet everything worked out just fine.

Dualities

At Ringmo, the Bonpo haven on the banks of Shey Phoksundo, the army
personnel happened to know beforehand that a person recommended by a
high ranking officer was coming. There, I was treated like a king; the best
room available was cleaned up for me, additional vegetables and goodies
were prepared, the personnel were incredibly polite, a personnel was even
assigned to guide me wherever I wanted to go. In Suligad and Jumla, it was
much the same.

There was only one thing that annoyed me: the distance between most
officials and the locals, which on occasions translated into grave mistrust. I
was constantly nagged by the personnel to not go beyond; in spite of the fact
that almost none of them had ever gone to Upper Dolpo, they held a grim
view of the landscape and people there. There is very little space for critical
thinking in any heavily disciplined organization; the more one moves up the
ranks, the less exposed to external realities and questioned one is.

The day before, at Sumduwa – where the radio was down, I had merely
mentioned that a mid ranking officer from Jumla had suggested that I could
seek refuge there. The young, rowdy incharge there not only humiliated me
on grounds of my appearance, outlining that I could not be from a good
family, but also threw unnerving questions at me. Yet, neither did I lift my
head, nor my voice, I listened to every utterance, observed each expression,
felt the tension of the situation. I felt suffocated. I wanted to. I wanted to
witness the other side of the system, an exploitative and arrogant one. The
ability to survive situations like these unscathed could be attributed to the
way my grandfather had shaped my verbiage. Every time I addressed family
folks with the respectful tapaain instead of the uber honorific hajuur, a mean
slap was instantly delivered.

That night, I was given one of the dingy beds that the foot personnel used in
that seasonal (monsoon / yarsa season) camp under a menacing cliff, while
the man could be heard making merry in his room. A local girl with a shy
smile was invited into the room and, more than once, persuaded to stay on. I
cannot say for sure what happened in the room, but I am certain that he
would have behaved differently had he known by whose graces I was there.

The gravity of the walk was of no significance to the people there, and while
it might have seemed like the people in Ringmo were interested to know of

22
my stories, there is room to presume that it could be plain politeness, with
respect to association. The day brought forth a glaring reflection of how the
world works. What one has done, what stories one can tell, what one has
lived through, matters very little to all but a few people. It all comes down to
the labels you hold, the power you exercise, and the value you represent.
This was observed beyond the camps as well. The upside was that I did not
let the bitterness get to me. The turquoise expanse of Phoksundo and what
lay beyond overwhelmed me with wonder. Moreover, despite all that
happened, I am grateful towards the people I encountered. For the good days
and the bad days, I try to be, and end up being, equally grateful.

Binod‖s Brother

In those nine days in Upper Dolpo, I walked over two hundred kilometers,
but saw not more than three hundred people. There were days when I met
just five people. The trails beyond Lake Phoksundo, the gateway to Upper
Dolpo, were consistently over four thousand meters from sea level. There
were five passes above five thousand meters on the way. At that time, I was
taken over by the kind of childlike fascination that roots one to the moment –
an outsider in an alien land amidst mountains. Looking back at this section
of the walk, I have trouble believing that it was I who did it. This version of
me has the benefit of experience, which paradoxically is at loss because of
the same.

Wherever I went, people, especially elders, inquired if I was Binod sir‖s

brother. The moment I uttered yes, people heartily welcomed me to their
homes and offered tsampa with suchya. They made the correlation as, like
me, he wore a black cap indigenous to the valley of Kathmandu.

Binod has been volunteering in, and recruiting young volunteer teachers for,
various hamlets in Dolpo for the past decade and a half. In a bid to promote
local responsibility, he refrains from accepting funds from international
institutions. For his endearing persistence and as many of his students have
attained positions of influence, he is held in high veneration. The respect I
had for him grew stronger when I felt the endearing impact of his work first
hand. Throughout Dolpo, I was welcomed in schools.

It was convenient to stay with teachers, for they were adept at conversing in
Nepali. More than once, I had to turn back from the gates of a house where I
was assured of a welcome. This, I attribute to my inability to speak the
vernacular, which differed from village to village, and the scant presence of
youth. There were two occasions when I asked for water, but was shooed
away, perhaps because it was yarsagumba season. Every household had
tons in stock, and decent ones went for over a thousand rupees apiece – a
story for another day!

A young Dolpo on a horse had expressed hesitancy to be photographed, for

he thought that I could be a sorcerer. It was a different land, a different
worldview, a different understanding, preserved because of isolation.
Isolation that is quickly wearing away, roads are set to enter from five major
points. Every home now has someone with a cell phone.

23
 Things Will Be Fine

One orange marmot. Two orange marmots. Three orange marmots.

Multitudes of marmots (presumably) popping out from those clandestine
entrances, to the mysterious world of deep, dark borrows, in hopes of
scavenging on bits of littered edibles, and upon feeling the slightest flaw in
the note of steady vibrations of the earth before them, scampering into
another pit quicker than a lightning strike. What a sight! The waltz of life on
display in such dire circumstances seemed but like a mirage. Their
pageantry was the most private of affairs; there existed an unquestioned
agreement: Savages shall be denied witness.

Blue sheep pulled their curtains too. Their inability to sneak snug deep into
earth was substituted by an aptitude to whisk up the steepest of ordeals. The
moment the eyes of a mother met mine, she hastened away, flew up those
flights of little rocks that had trickled down the cliff. The entire herd a slave
to her rhythm; zen movements of the kind that made feathers seem heavy
were on display, as hundreds of blue sheep effortlessly fled from the grassy
riverside to the upper echelons of a majestic snowcapped peak. An ascent of
what seemed like at least half a mile in a matter of seconds! Oh, what fear
had an ascetic, as judged by human reason, with only a stick to hold his
own, instilled upon those simple creatures by the sole virtue of a curious
glance! A mirror that unveiled one‖s true identity had been held up. There is
only so much we can escape.

Eons upon eons have dissolved into the horizon with the setting sun, but the
human condition, like a blotch of turmeric on a white shirt remains
dauntless. The ordinary creature comforts promised by a structure of mud
and stone suffice, until a neighbor revels after piling a phallic, concrete mess.
The suffering in walking all day to spend the night in a cave is only
recognized after a road is excavated in. Where there are trees, firewood,
where there are no trees, the stove runs on dried dung.

To pay four hundred rupees in Namdo for a night‖s stay, forty minutes had
to be spent in an effort to find change. Difficult it is to find notes of varied
denominations, as monetary transactions and shops are as rare as the stars
in the city sky, and yet things work fine. Things work fine without cable too;
the same widely shared folklore based Tibetan series was enjoyed by all on a
loop. After being deprived of (tele) visual stimulation for a month, my
concentration too was fully absorbed by that saga.

A mobile operator had once set up services in Upper Dolpo, but the dismay
its discontinuity brought did not last long. An account of how salt sent by the
government as aid via Tibet was dumped, while the plastic packaging and
the rice that came along with it were treasured was easy to digest. Strange
soups of sour milk tasted good with buckwheat cake when there was not a
menu to summon from. The cold, arid climate made the lives of germs that
wreak havoc in temperate zones a living hell. People ailed too, chapped skin
was a common sight, but it was a small price to pay for life in that sanctuary.
There were times when only water contaminated with flakes of feces that
had arisen from the stove was available. In any other sort of environment,
such contamination might have led to dire sickness.

24
Shey Phoksundo Lake: Gateway to Upper Dolpo

25
With every scamper out of a deathtrap to rediscover the trail, an already
stellar sense of assurance grew stronger: things will be fine. A child‖s eyes
filled with tears when his cheek was gently stroked. He could not cease to
follow seeking attention, for genuine affection was scarce.

With Sanjay, Milan, Bidhan, and Aayush – volunteer teachers from

Kathmandu in distant Nisal, how what could seem troubling to an outsider
was plain as the day for denizens of tiny hamlets amidst the Himalayas ran
as a topic of endless discussion.

Tears Of Disconnection

From the rainbow adorned valley of Komas: full of life, full of streams, full of
greenery, I hiked up the most barren of cold desert passes. After that, it was
a relatively trouble free stroll down a path etched on the cliffs above the
Panjang River to Shimen, then a gradual ascent to Tinje.

A marked shift in the construct of Buddhist monuments that stood along the
trails, pointers for the outsider to chart one‖s path, could be seen from
Shimen. Before it, lay numerous battered monuments of sandy mud and
stone, with a crown like wooden spike laced top upon a cone shaped
structure, a wide roof span of logs below it: nestling a resting place for
people and idols below; a style reminiscent of Ladakh and Limi. After it, only
block form structures common throughout the western and central
mountains were present. This was a matter of curiosity. Also, visibly newer
structures, ones that were painted and used modern materials, lacked
aesthetic brilliance. I have my doubts. The deficit of knowledge about Bonpo,
Buddhist, and other more nuanced traditions in practice in Dolpo, is evident
on my part. The interpretation of observations like these is best left to
academia.

At that time, what my mind was more engrossed in was that image of the
tearful hunched back teacher in Komas. In her early twenties, she spoke of
the troubles that had led to her growing up in a nunnery and how
circumstances had wrenched her out of there. She wanted to become a nun,
but she had come to terms with her fate; acquiesced to become a teacher.

“Is this the nun that mothered you?”

I showed her a picture from the nunnery across Nisal.

“Oh my, how did you get there?”

She gasped deliriously in the classroom itself. Tears ran down her face.

Nisal was a two day walk away: no phone, no internet, and it had been years
since she had been there.

In lands that defy understanding, fascinating revelations await at every turn.

The sight of sports and dirt motorbikes, brought across the mountains from
China on yak backs, speeding on trails, prairies and desertscapes in the

26
middle of nowhere was enchanting. The fact that there were still ruins of
towering forts built by the CIA backed Khampa rebels, struggling against the
Chinese takeover of Tibet, in the sixties was no less fascinating.

The day‖s walk had ended. My host in Tinje offered me a hot cup of water
full of white flower petals, the Se Medho tea. Bishnu took keen interest in
me, for he was spiritually inclined and curious about my walk. He showed
me his bike and offered to take me to a Khampa fort for a closer look. In a fit
of fascination, I got on the bike. Only twice during the long walk did I get on
a vehicle. After both occasions, I felt the dagger of regret pierce through my
heart. Oh, how could I!

Right Around The Corner

Commanding a panache white stallion, his seating – a pile of eye catching

orange and navy butterfly patterned rugs, Renzi claimed with
unquestionable confidence that it would take no more than half an hour to
reach Chharka Bhot. It was two hours past midday and I had been walking
since the wee hours of that morning. The trader from Dho constantly had a
dubious smirk on his face shadowed by a cowboy hat. His mannerisms
made it seem like he was untrusting and, at the same time, untrustworthy. I
placed before him my references to assure him that I harbored no ill will.

“If you‖re Binod‖s brother, then you‖re my brother too.”

Upon request, he helped carry my bag up the snow littered pass and ran
down with it beyond. When I reached the top, I could not see him. Two trails
diverged from there, and had I taken the wrong one, I might have landed up
in a place that I did not want to be in – sans all possessions, sans money.

Good fortune prevailed again, for after a few minutes of scampering down
the trail to the left, I saw him lying on the ground, resting with his crew,
beside a rock. I immediately asked for my bag.

“You seem distrustful my friend, but no we are not that kind of people.”

The look on my face must have revealed slight embarrassment, motleyed

with an overlay of pale worry and sweaty enervation. Thirty minutes had
already slithered by and the trail ahead seemed to extend to, and beyond,
the horizon. I inquired about the distance to Chharka again. With the same
unquestionable confidence, he assured me that it was only twenty minutes
away.

Akin to swathes of watercolor dips on landscape imaginations, hazy clouds

melded with the magenta desert skies. The deserted mountains were
painted red. Everything seemed miraculous, everything was dreamy,
everything seemed unreal. That was until I met Renzi again, resting on the
ground behind a rock, for him to reassure me again that only a few minutes
remained for Chharka to come. Déjà vu!

“If you don‖t have money, then you can‖t do dharma!”

27
As I crossed the forty kilometer mark with Chharka still far from sight, the
trance like nature of affairs took me back to that moment of indignation. The
woman, the guardian of the monastery of Shey, after uttering those terse
words rolled her hands into my backpocket as I was offering prayers. I had
promised her that I would make a donation the next day when she first
asked for money, for I had left my bag at the place I was set to spend the
night in. She clearly did not trust me and there I lost my cool. A meltdown
ensued.

I took off all I had, except the undergarments, and handed them to her.

“This is all I have. Take it!”

The unexpected reaction scared her. As she apologized and begged me to

redress, pent up jaggedness spewed out in an emotional outburst of
proportions I had never experienced before; I was driven to circumambulate
the monastery, trepidating for sanity.

In the windy hillock that houses the spiritual sanctum of the Crystal
Mountain pilgrimage, the koras continued until I had not an ounce of energy
left, until I was left hopelessly panting. What started with fury spun into a
yarn of reflections that descended into a chaotic magma of tears, from
where, only charred remains of the self could emerge in apology. And
apologize I did the next day, after making my promised donation, much to
the surprise of the woman. Her tone had not changed, but it had mellowed.
Perhaps, something had lost hold within me. There was dissuasion, but that
was not all.

And there was Renzi, as darkness was about to befall, making the same
promise again.

“Chharka‖s right around the corner now.”

I saw no reason to laugh, or cry, or get angry with him. Going back to Shey
brought a strange sense of calm. Several more false assurances followed.
The sun met the horizon. I might have talked myself into thinking that he
was my guru for the day, that he was trying to impart a lesson of patience. I
had to keep walking, and that was all I knew.

Jumping Frog

There were foggy mountains on all four sides of the fifty one hundred meter
odd pass of Yak Kharka that stood between Upper Dolpo and Mustang. The
sole monsoon residents of a stone hut in the alpine steppe were two men
from Chharka who would have not been there if they had managed to sell
their yaks in time. Many streams coalesced towards the southwest to cut a
ravine through the mountains. At around six in the morning, I set out down
the ravine for Kagbeni.

Hands down! This was the most menacing path of them all, if it could qualify
as one. I had to leap from one side of the ever widening rapids to the other

28
numerous times, at times, like a frog, on all fours. There were corners where
it went down steep like a waterfall. Little rocks kept falling from the cliffs on
either side, as blue sheep ran up them. Limited visibility made anticipation
impossible. Despite being as careful as I could, I kept slipping, kept being
swept by the flow. Were luck a bit less generous, I could have lost my
balance and slammed my head on some rock there. No one would have seen
me. No one could have saved me.

After struggling for hours down that ravine, I heard a man yell. He instructed
me to climb up the cliffside to see him. There were three people, carrying
hefty loads.

“You could have died if you went down that steepening ravine. Follow our
footsteps, they mark the way.”

Luck was again merciful. They were the only people I met until I got to
Santa. It was a brief but energizing exchange. If they could carry loads no
less than twenty kilograms up that trail, I could surely make it down. The
footsteps, what seemed to remain of them, ran on the edges of cliffs,
landslides and sandy hillsides. The path was not wider than eight inches in
convenient places, but was generally nonexistent. There were times when I
had to hug the cliff to stay put, or look around for minutes to trace the trail
forward. A slip would have meant a fall of tens if not hundreds of meters
into the ravine. From falling into oblivion, the stick saved me innumerable
times.

By early afternoon, I was on a wide trail. My heart rose with glee when I saw
a tree with lively leaves, the first one in days. Santa was soon reached – a
village with verdant swathes. Having food gave me a new lease of life. I was
confident that I could reach Kagbeni before nightfall. For I had made my way
down the ravine alone, no one questioned my assumption.

Troubled All Night

Not having a sleeping bag or tent, in an effort to keep the load light and
movement seamless, meant that there was no stopping until I found shelter.
I started descending the ravine from Yak Kharka Pass at around 6 AM,
reached Santa at 3 AM, and Kagbeni at 1:30 AM the next day. Almost twenty
hours of walking through arid, cold desert, conditions with barely two hours
of sleep the previous night and a single meal.

The shelter at the fifty one hundred odd meter pass was a basic stone
structure without flooring. The men there, donning thick jackets and
multiple layers of clothes, offered me some strong liquor, which they said
would help warm my body.

“I don‖t drink alcohol.”

Grim smiles followed, foreshadowing the suffering I was to endure.

The best they could give me was a thin mat and a light blanket. I coughed
and squirmed throughout the night. There were brief moments when I fell

29
asleep, for I had struggled uphill for hours that day, but the cold woke me up
in a matter of minutes. The men chuckled at first, but the gravity of my
misery and the potency of the alcohol made them silent somber. At 3:30 AM,
I found the good sense to draw the raincoat out of my bag. Sleep at last!

Sleep deprivation led to a string of awful decisions that day. The people at
Santa told me that I should follow the road track up until a pond was to be
seen. The trail led down to Kagbeni from there. The scene was clear when I
left Santa at 4 PM. By 5 PM, zero visibility! I did not find the pond.

It was only at 9 PM in the night that I saw a person. Despite thinking that I
was a ghost at first, for I was dressed in white, the startled man was kind
enough to point out that I was on the road to Jomsom and that I must turn
back and take a trail through the forest. He wanted to but could not offer me
a place to sleep. All the mattresses and beds he had were in use.

As midnight approached, the network bars lit up. Reception after twelve
days! I made calls to friends – Chewan, Pratik, Pukar, Bijeta, Diwash, among
others, in a bid to keep creatures and vibes of peril away. I walked into and
past an under construction dam to arrive at a hill from where dots of light
could be seen. I went down the hill, which as I moved ahead seemed more
like a cliff. The terrain became impossibly steep. I had to retreat. It was only
the next day that I realized that had I gone further down I could have
dropped into the Kali Gandaki River.

Sleep And Escape

A teacher from Dolpo had trusted me with a letter, a letter for his love, and it
had to be delivered urgently to Kathmandu. He was in a village days away
from modern communication. I was his only hope. The moment I gained
internet access, I opened the letter, took a photograph, and sent it through a
messaging service.

The next day I received a call from a girl in tears. Her voice was trembling.
She was shocked, sad, and confused.

“Who are you? How do you know him? How is he?”

I answered all her queries calmly. She expressed immense gratitude. I hope
they got in touch. I wish them well every time I recall that day.

Kagbeni, 1:30 AM: A kind police officer showed me the way to a hotel that I
was looking for. He did not ask any questions; he must have taken me for a
sage.

As fate would have it, despite my best efforts, no one at the hotel answered.
Like most other hoteliers, they were sound asleep. The police officer had
shown me the way to the ashram (hermitage). I chose not to wake the
pilgrims who were sound asleep inside a locked room; that would have only
caused needless panic. I knocked straight at the warden‖s door. No luck!

“Could I just sleep outside the station?”

30
Dolpo Landscape: Monastery North of Tinje

31
To the police officer, I pleaded.

It was better than blacking out on the street. He assured me that he would
help me and rang a few people, but it was too late. However, they managed
to catch hold of an attendant who was out to water the fields and sent me
with him to his hotel.

The next day was an indulgent one. I woke up at midday, got a shower, and
paid the surprisingly exorbitant charge at the hotel. After that, I strolled
around the medieval fort like town in awe. I moved to the dandy
YacDonald‖s Hotel and tried the famed burger, albeit a vegetarian variant.
The young woman there and I shared several acquaintances. Hence, she
gave me a local rate. I spent hours in bed, recalling and penning
conversations.

The next day in Muktinath I met a humble man from the plains who was
serving as a doctor in a clinic run by a famed swami. He diagnosed and
offered antibiotics for my chest infection. I could not get treatment earlier, for
there was not a single, functional health post in Upper Dolpo. I held a grim
view of charity by religious outfits, but that checkup made me rethink. It was
evident that the doctor in the clinic was doing more good than a priest in a
temple perhaps ever could.

Later that week, I retreated to Jomsom from Mesokanto Pass, a bruised and
failed man.

A high ranking army officer, an enthusiastic supporter of my walk, had told

me that whenever I felt like staying at any camp, I could just call him. I used
that option four times. It was through his graces that I connected with the
Colonel at Jomsom.

The Colonel was not happy. He happened to be acquainted with my family.

He was furious because the folks at home had no clue that I was not in
Kathmandu. The fact that I almost died added to the fury. He arranged for
me to be sent back the next day. I did not want to end the walk and escaped
the camp at dawn.

No Liberation

“Getting to Manang via Thorong will be too easy. I must take another way.”

The precise thought that put me in jeopardy.

I reached Muktinath on Day 38 – the point where I had initially intended to

end the walk, well, at least stall until the end of monsoon. At the temple, I
had to fulfill the responsibilities I was entrusted with:

“Take this twenty rupee note and offer it at Muktinath.”

“Don‖t thank me for paying for the food; just offer something at the temple in
my name.”

32
“My son is unwell. I have never heard of the temple, but here take this and
offer prayers for him.”

The great excitement and faith that I reached Muktinath with dulled into
grave disappointment. Long gone were the days when one had to undertake
a pilgrimage of introspection, perseverance and learning to reach there. The
number of donation boxes around the temple was staggering. Stuck outside
was a list of paid rituals that could be performed by the priest to garner
merit. The more one could pay, the more merit one could earn. Amidst those
gargantuan statues, my pilgrimage meant very little, for I could offer very
little and my presence was mundane. Fortunately, a nun held the keys to the
temple too, as Buddhists worship it as a manifestation of Avalokiteshwara.

I had bundles of loose change given to me as offerings set aside in a separate

kitty. I used that to buy incense sticks. I lit them outside the temple, read out
the names of the givers and was offering prayers on their behalf.

“Are you done?”

The impatient nun gibed.

I requested a minute, but after that I was done, I was really done. The people
were the real gods there and elsewhere too, worldly people with worldly
issues. I had lost faith, in silence.

The more I walked, the more I realized how much I was enjoying it. The
walk had attained a fluency of its own. I was in absolute sync. It did not
make sense to end it. Of the four routes that led to Manang: the simple one
via Thorong, the new one across Mesokanto Pass, the treacherous one
through Damodar Kunda, and the desolate one to Tilicho through Kaisang, I
chose the latter – for after Dolpo, I felt like I could bite any bullet. The next
day, I walked to Jomsom.

Ouch!

I could feel the sharp edge of a stone ripping through the skin of my
abdomen. My nails were mangled and bloody. Friction helped. Friction hurt.
It was a desperate attempt to cling to life. Adrenaline kicked in, time dilated.
I lost control of my faculties. Visions ran through in flickering black and gray,
a number of confused, questioning faces came up.

“This is it.”

I thought, while my body scrambled to stay alive.

It was a fall that lasted for no more than a minute, but it felt eternal. As
gravity tried to pull me down headfirst, my body flipped – a twist of fate! The
bag had just enough stuff, enough width, to keep me stuck in that crevasse.
Anxiety was not an option, nor could I breathe a sigh of relief. Delirium was
the order of the moment.

33
“I thought I was gone for sure. But now, I have to think of a way to get
myself out. Against the odds, I have to try, and endure the pain while doing
so. Sheesh, what a hassle!”

Upon observing what lay below, while the mist thinned to serve a peek, I
could make out large boulders. They would surely have dismembered my
body. I could still end up there.

With the slippers on, I could not push my body up. I had fallen down some
twenty five or thirty feet from the narrow path. A momentary lapse of
attention had led to the perilous moment. I was walking to the beats of a
lively track when I stepped on a loose rock. I took one of my slippers off and
shoved it in the side pocket of the bag, while I used the other foot to stay put.
I put the other one in the same way. To push my body up was an
excruciating endeavor. I had been badly bruised. My nails, or whatever
remained of them, were hurting. When I reached a safe place, I used toilet
paper, or stuffed it rather, to quell the bleeding.

Barefoot, with tattered, bloodied clothes, I made my way to the army camp in
Kaisang. I simply requested some water and first aid. The personnel in
charge was particularly worried.

“It is an emergency! The guest is badly hurt.”

He made a frantic call to Jomsom, despite my objections.

“I‖m ok.”

I unconvincingly said to the colonel.

“What if you had broken your limbs? The search party would‖ve never
thought of looking for you there!”

He was not satisfied, but I felt ok. My sights were set on crossing Mesokanto
Pass through the old trail and getting to Tilicho.

Adamancy

I escaped the army camp in Jomsom at five in the morning. Twelve hours
later, I was in Thorong Phedi, Manang. An elevation of twenty seven
hundred meters, then another thousand meters down – a distance of forty
kilometers covered on the tracker.

I experienced symptoms of altitude sickness for the first time at around the
fifty one hundred meter mark. I had ascended too much, too quickly. Every
step was a drag. It felt like I was carrying a weight greater than mine on my
back. Water droplets froze on the exposed parts of my skin, particularly the
legs – a visual that was grave but strangely beautiful. Nowhere was the sun
to be seen; there was no relief. The two men with mules I had followed
halfway up had disappeared too. I needed to descend. Nevertheless, I had a

34
hunch that the pass could not be too far away. With that irrational faith as
my fuel, I counted each wavering step – one, two, three, four, five… ninety
nine, one hundred. Then, I lost count, and started again – one, two, three…
as I moved the beads on the rosary. That focus on numbers was the only
thing keeping me from falling flat. However, once the top with prayer flags
was crossed, and the descent began, I regained vigor.

Outside the hotel at Phedi, a man donning a cowboy hat was trying to tame a
horse. I meditated upon the trance like movements they made amidst the
drizzle. This eased my mind. The man, Kumar, turned out to be the owner of
the lodge.

“How much is it for a night‖s stay and food?”

I inquired.

Standard procedure, for this I was on a shoestring budget. He observed me

from head to toe.

“Five hundred only!”

This miser shamelessly asked for a possible discount, as always.

“This is the best rate you‖re going to get.”

He retorted firmly.

Kumar‖s father Michung was there too. The man with short gray hair and
rugged features happened to be the oldest hotelier in Manang. It was a joy
listening to his stories: ones of clans, trade, hard times, his return from
abroad, Khampas and more, near mythical visions, of a Manang that was no
more, and yet was there in the not too distant past.

Kumar‖s partner, a Briton (if I rightly remember), was there too; a testament
to change. The family was quite curious about me. I spoke of my walk.
Michung seemed distrustful at first, but became friendly as the conversation
progressed. In fact, he insistently refused to accept money from me (later in
his hotel at Manang too, where I had overspent to match their goodness).
This he said was his contribution to my walk. I still remember him in
gratitude.

Before leaving, I stood pondering upon the boulders stacked on the cliff that
looked down upon their hotel.

“An earthquake is long overdue in the west. You really need to reconsider
running this hotel here. Money is not all that matters, is it?”

Since they held me in veneration (seemed like it), a moment of silent

pondering followed. They might have considered it a prophecy.

35
 Lazy

Recollections from Manang:

The vivid conversations I had with an artisan from Sindhupalchok in Braga,

men from the western hills repairing the landslide trail to Tilicho, a
restaurant worker from the east who left the capital for a better paying job in
Tilicho Phedi, a cook from Dang in Mungi, and a young man from Lamjung
running a hotel in Chame, among others.

I rushed in the first few days, for I thought I was set to walk all the way to
Besisahar – an extra one hundred and twenty kilometers to and fro, to get a
new pair of clothes among other essentials, from Kathmandu (since there
was no direct bus to Manang). Later, after receiving word from Parbat that he
was set to join me from Kathmandu, I walked at a leisurely pace.

I felt that the Ice Lake was a bit overhyped (relative perspective) after taking
a lengthy detour up to it. Although, a unique view of the Annapurna range
and unexpectedly clear skies turned out to be the saving grace.

I spent hours exploring the Braga monastery and surrounding settlement.

Everything seemed familiar, but a lot had changed since my last trek to the
region – observing those changes added a meditative subtlety to the walk.

I realized that I had left my trusty stick at Manang and sprinted all the way
back from Mungi just to get it.

The great Michung screamed my name at the top of his lungs from the third
floor of his hotel right after I ventured out. I had wondered if I was in trouble.
Instead, he had called me to return the money I had paid at the hotel.

It was monsoon, and wildflowers were everywhere.

People felt uncomfortable when I sat observing a monument that was being
reconstructed. Another group of locals felt offended as I was merely
observing festivities and not taking part in it. They forced me into it. I think
they were drunk and judged me by my appearance.

The footfall was limited because of monsoon. Many vehicles did not risk the
journey either. The trails as a result were greatly peaceful.

A powerful waterfall that gushed down the road almost swept me off my
feet.

I was strangely affected by mirages on rocks overlooking the landslide trail,

created by the setting sun coupled with foggy weather, on the way to Tilicho.

Passing under intimidating cliffs at Pisang was quite an experience.

At an altitude that made my body graceful, trails that were easily

identifiable, relatively flat, and laden with guesthouses, tamed woods, and
connectivity all along – the walk across the Annapurna Circuit was relaxing
and enjoyable.

36
Mustang: Route to Mesokanto Pass via Kaisang

37
 Across Larkye With Parbat

Parbat was in a hurry. To him, diligence was paramount. He did not want to
compromise his near perfect attendance record at Tribhuwan University.
Therefore, we ended up completing the Manaslu Circuit section of the walk
in five days. An ascent of over thirty two hundred meters in the first two
days, from Dharapani to Larkye Laa, then a descent of over forty one
hundred meters to Khorlabesi. Those who have walked the line will know.

The night at Dharapani was a sleepless one for Parbat. The Marsyangdi River
ran right behind the hotel that we were staying in. It would not be an
overstatement to say that it rocked the hotel at times. Behind it stood a
menacing cliff marked with numerous fossil formations that glared down
upon the settlement.

A gang of rowdy boys who thought we were undercover police officers for a
reason yet not fathomed greeted us at the first village after Dharapani. A huff
and a puff, and I moved on without responding. Earlier that morning, the
pair of slippers that had served me from the very beginning of the walk had
given up. Ominous signs, I pondered. I tossed them under a boulder that had
probably come down with a landslide. Might the slippers remain there for
ages? Fortunately, Sachin and Prajjwal had sent a new pair of Hattichhaps
and clothes with Parbat. Max had added in goodies.

As we moved ahead and gained altitude, the furious muddy river narrowed
down. Its thunderous cry turned into gurgling squeals as it went white.
Amidst tall cliffs on either side, van sized maroon boulders (must have been
algae) were in and around the river. It was a uniquely beautiful sight.

In Chauri Kharka, we found a lone hotel in the middle of a dense forest

dotted with purple and white flowers. There, only an old woman happened
to be present.

Minutes into the conversation, Parbat asked her:

“Aren‖t you afraid – you know to stay alone in a place like this?”

That question must have sent shivers down her spine. For a while, she
looked hesitant.

When it came time to pay, she desired to charge us more than what locals
usually pay, but was not stern. She could not be dishonest.

A tug of warish exchange ensued:

“Tell us how much we should pay.”

“Pay what you feel is fit.”

“No, tell us…”

It was one of the many memorable exchanges from that section of the walk.

A line of colorful cottages could be seen afar amidst the largest stretch of
green in the circuit. We were at Bimtang and we were hungry. It was off

38
season, and so we followed the usual routine, getting from one hotel to
another trying to find someone who would be ready to prepare a proper
meal. The readiness to cook a proper meal for a few people is a good
indicator of the prosperity of a place, as much as it is of the kindness of the
denizens. We came across a hotelier basking in the sun. After first
suggesting that she would prepare noodles instead, upon further insistence,
she reluctantly agreed to prepare daalbhaat.

A decent conversation followed, where she revealed that aside from catering
to odd tourists the reason that some locals had stayed back during the
offseason was to collect jadibuti (medicinal herbs) to sell to Chinese traders.
This mainly included certain varieties of wild garlic and mushroom that sold
for over forty thousand rupees per kilogram.

As we went north, the meadow dotted with little yellow flowers gave way to
glacial terrain. We took the trail to Ponkar Lake, a reluctant detour on my
behest. My interest had been piqued by Bijayabar‖s account. Unfortunately,
the fog stole its charm. Parbat was running out of patience. He insisted that
we cross the glacier to reach the other side in a bid to save time. I stood
against that call firmly, asserting that risking injury to save an hour did not
make sense. That moment for me was one of the defining ones of the walk.
After several falls, I had learned my lesson. It sheds light on my approach
and perhaps why I came out relatively unscathed.

We spent the night at Phedi listening to tales of the earthquake from a

sozzled trader in a tent that had come as aid. The woman there had run
away from her family in the hills. If managing with the bitterly cold water
and harsh, unpredictable weather had seemed favorable, I wonder what
horrors she must have escaped.

The next day, as we were hiking up Larkye in an up close and personal

rendezvous with the mountains of the Manaslu range, which shone along
with tens of turquoise glacial ponds, the nasty sight of a mule crushed by a
fallen rock startled us – a fate that could have been ours.

Blessed Nubri

People who grow their own food are the most welcoming. I realized this in
the hinterlands of Madhesh, which I had walked across the length of in 2015.
This observation held true in the valley of Nubri as well. Waterfalls
shimmering down mountains at every corner, gurgling streams feeding lush
grasslands, blessed soil in fields full of swaying green crops; abundance
defined that sacred sanctuary. I do not remember seeing so many cheerful
faces anywhere else.

A wrinkled man involved in the dairy trade, told of how many of his friends
had lost their lives in an apocalyptic landslide triggered by the great
earthquake. The falling mountains had consumed the pastures and
everything else that lay before it. Death in the mountains is a casual affair,
perhaps faith in an afterlife led the man to sprout a smile and move

39
effortlessly to a lighter note. Another person encountered in an inn found
respite in alcohol and still managed to smile after shedding tears. Most of the
people we met greeted us with friendly smiles, for they had little to fear.
There was no hesitancy in having a picture taken. Food was aplenty, water
was everywhere, and only passionate trekkers, international tourists who
were ready to pay the steep entry fee, trickled in to knock at their doorsteps.
Not a lot of material had to be carried in by expensive mule operators.
Whatever little there was to worry about was dealt with a smile.
Romanticism aside, perhaps, a slight bit of disconnect and a culture of
subsistence is a reliable recipe for happiness.

We did encounter tepid people, mostly in hotel based, commercial

settlements. A young person who grew up in the capital offered us daalbhaat
that was almost baneful at a hotel that promised Thakali food. The stingy
individual did not interact much and offered little solace. The woman who
ran a shop by the river smiled a lot, but her smile lacked life. Someone
representing an organization had assured her that she would be relocated to
a rosier place. The person had not come back, but the desire was set. Every
move of hers was directed towards that end. Her misery lay in that seeking.

Reality check: Contentment, much like goodness, is not a collective fate. Who
knows what tomorrow holds for Nubri?

A World Of Dreams

A tavern in a house of wood and mud, behind which is a secluded room. The
room has no windows. To let winds gush in, the gaps in the wall of bamboo
are large enough. In front of the wall lies a bed. On one side of the bed, my
drenched, and muddied, clothes and bag are set out to try. On the other side,
a blanket is laid. Above that blanket, there is another, and I am, in between,
fast asleep.

Oh, what is it, like a drop of cold water, in my arm? Outside, the sound of
what seems to be rain is shrill. No, this is not a dream. This is reality. The
sleep withers. As I open my eyes, I feel… a leech! To see how large it is, the
lights must be switched on. Might there be a large number of those squiggly
creatures? Are there lights in the room? If there are, where must the switch
be? Confusion grips me.

I have a mobile phone in my left pocket. To take it out, I have to shift

positions. Oh, how cold it is! It is still raining. The wind is boisterous, and
unforgiving.

I switch on the flashlight on the phone, somehow. I turn the blanket, then
the pillow, and then the sleeve of my shirt. The leech is alone. It seems not
to have been long since it pierced my skin. It looks sick; its skin shiny green,
like a snake‖s. It was there spewing green foam from its mouth. After taking
a photograph, for it I now feel great remorse. I keep observing it. I suppose it
cannot sense that the flashlight is on. Nevertheless, it somehow knows that I
am alert. My skin has grown tense, perhaps that is how. The old, impotent
leech

40
Seasonal Lake Fish: Welcome to Nubri

41
has not been able to serve its fate well. A mere touch makes it wring dizzy
and turn round.

Oh, I should sleep now. I have to reach Tipling tomorrow. 11:30 already! I
should snap out of this. I strike the leech with my finger and send it flying to
the corner. Phew! There is very little bleeding. It seems to have kept lingering
on the skin, instead of drawing blood out. I pull the blankets up again. All
snug.

Again, sleep withers. I lie like a drunkard beside a flight of stone steps.
When I try to open my eyes, my parched mouth suffers, and the boldly
shining sun sets me dizzy. The sounds are muddled and untenable.
Confusion, confusion! And there, in my thigh, is a dry leaf. With great
difficulty, I move my hand forward to remove the leaf. It starts fluttering.
What is happening? I look at the leaf again. Turns out, it is a butterfly. Oh
okay, is it looking for a refuge from the sun? No, it has merely been enticed
by traces of detergent. Well, regardless, I should take this welcome as a good
sign.

I remember. I collapsed here while struggling up those stairs. Before I

blacked out, my heart had raced enervatingly. I should have had something
at the village by the river. I did not know how far the next settlement…

But, but, I should be in Dhading already! How have I come back to

Myangrobari again? It was two days ago that I had blacked out there.

A maddened brook, or maybe it is rain ... It is raining. I am in Lapa. It is

night. I snap back to reality. But no, this is not it either.

I open my eyes. The morning sun shines brightly. Somewhere, a tap is

gurgling.

[Text translated from Nepali]

Tipling Again

It was in 2012 that I first ventured into the mountains; to Tipling. The road
track had just reached Darkha then – a rocky ride on a Mustang Max jeep. It
took me two agonizing days to reach Tipling from there. I wore heavy
apparel and carried a bag full of books. Inexperience, sigh!

On the way, a rustic Maoist cadre accompanied me. He kept provoking me

with his wayward motivation:

“Stop slacking! Are you a pregnant woman? You ain‖t getting there in eight
days like that!”

He questioned my sexual inexperience and kept bringing up innuendo too.

“When I was seventeen, I‖d already…”

42
A barrage of disorienting questions I was happy to part with at the hill above
Borang, but the alien trail without company became quite hellish. I was unfit
and had breathing issues. Every twenty steps up were followed by thirty
seconds of panting. The never ending steps to Tipling, that final steep climb,
had me defeated, and were it not for a kind child who offered to carry my
bag I would have languished midway.

A Father, who had taught me at school, had more than once invited me to
visit the mission in Tipling that supported Dongden School and catered to
the community. At that time, I held a minor position of influence in a
conservative party. Having spent two years with hardliners, mostly old
disgruntled cadres, I too had become bitterly intolerant on several levels. The
toxicity went overboard that monsoon, and I was compelled to question my
beliefs. Folks who wanted me out also fanned the flames. I put forth my
discontent at a forum, which invited an unexpected backlash. This is not the
place for me – I said to myself, repeatedly. I quit on a whim. Two days later, I
went to the Jame Mosque and did as the worshippers did. I felt a deep need
to do that. I went to a monastery, then a Gurdwara, before heading for
Tipling.

“He has sold out.”

How easy it was for folks who despised my enthusiasm to bury me. How
easy it was for me to climb up those very same steps to Tipling half a decade
later.

Listening To Nature

My body tends to overheat when confined. Whenever I wear a woolen cap,

use a heavy synthetic blanket, or don insulating apparel – a kind of
suffocation takes over, followed by fever, and, more often than not, a ruined
day. There is a fire within me.

Light air liberates me. Contrary to popular advice, I often did not stop at
sundown. I continued on the trail. There is a certain fluency that comes to
my movement when the mercury drops. I soar after nightfall. I fly in high
altitudes. Under beaming sunlight, I flounder. With the pull of the moon, I
rise. During the day, I could barely manage to walk three and a half
kilometers every hour. At night, I could manage six and a half without
breaking a sweat.

There were times though when better judgment prevailed.

Often a kind villager would serve a notice of the distance to the next
settlement.

“Four hours and not a minute less to …ang.”

Sometimes an arrogant one:

“I swear on my mother‖s name, there is no way you are making it there

tonight.”

43
I heeded to the advice of kind folks and found pleasure in disproving
arrogant ones. At other times, I simply meditated upon the landscape and
recalled occasions when I had gone through similar terrain. I looked at the
skies and tasted the wind. After I was certain, I would consult the devil‖s
advocates – map apps, and images of various maps on my phone.

On Day 58, I reached Somdangbesi via the thirty eight hundred and eighteen
meter Pangsang Laa at 5 PM. I assumed that I could reach Gatlang in two
hours. Samasti was expecting me and there was no way to send her a
message; even after scaling up a hill, the shopkeeper with a CDMA set was
unable to establish connection. I also sought to inform friends at Tipling,
who were worried that I might suffer the same fate as two tourists the year
before, that I was safe. I sprinted towards Gatlang.

I was about to cross the delirious Mailung Khola and enter Rasuwa, but
paused on the bridge. A menacing sight – dark clouds closing down, the
greens of the hills had turned black, the (recently redrawn) road on the hill
bled red down the river, sharp rocks and blunt ones scattered by landslides.
The chill of the air just did not seem right. I decided to retreat. It rained that
night. It took me over five hours to reach Gatlang the next day.

On Desire

Meditations from Gosainkunda, where not a penny was spent: The

fascination always is with the unseen; what one is inept to picture before
that moment. The most primal of desires is to see what lies beyond – beyond
the horizon, beneath the surface, above the clouds. The compass of life
points towards the unknown.

There are hundreds, if thousands, of bodies of water like this one in the
Himalayas. Yet, branding and quick access make certain ones coveted
destinations. A defined experience strengthens branding. Is the desire to go
to Everest innate, or is it a result of impressions? Is the desire to go to a
viewpoint and get the perfect self portrait a result of the fear of missing out?
Does adhering to a tailored experience not inhibit avenues of discovery? If
avenues of uncertainty are sanitized, then where is the juice in traveling?

Most popular mountain trails have a similar makeup with only subtle and
seasonal variations. The trail that starts from a market town runs up a river
that narrows down as altitude is gained, first forests, then alpine ones with
occasional waterfalls, then up steep hills into sandy glacial valleys leading
up to a pass or lake amidst mountains. That‖s Annapurna, that‖s Everest –
peaks of rock and ice named by people and endowed with glory that any
other creature in the face of this planet would find absurd. Commercial age
structures look a certain way — inspiration from the Alps and colonizers.
Note that local architecture is being displaced to cater to popular taste.

There is so much that I have silently observed, but it does not make sense to
share it all, all at once, all right here. To the people who have come to me
seeking advice on a trip to tourist hubs like the ones mentioned above, I

44
Rasuwa: Saraswati Kunda serves as an intermediary

45
have suggested alternative routes and destinations. A quick flight to the
destination: who benefits from it? A night‖s stay for an absurd amount at the
lakeside hotel: who benefits from it? Have you meditated upon subtleties?
Why do masses throng to the same places and have similar narratives to
share? Is traveling all about adhering to what is familiar and validated by
susceptible popular opinion?

What do I desire? Why do I desire what I desire? A bit of self reflection is in

order.

Ghaphel

Joining the walk was not just an act of rebellion but also an attempt to
reconnect with his roots for Ghaphel. He had taken a last minute leave from
his job and arrived at Syabrubesi for his first trek of any sort. The cheap inn
that I had stayed in on a previous trip happened to be his uncle‖s. This was
his trip; he wanted to be free from the weight of judgment. He convinced me
to opt for a good hotel.

“Just for tonight… I‖ll pay the greater share. We're going to stay in simple
home stays from tomorrow anyways.”

The prices of food and accommodation are good indicators of a community‖s

wealth. After teetering on the lower tenth of the HDI for many decades,
despite neighboring Kathmandu, Rasuwa‖s fate has been dramatically
altered in recent years. Tourism, hydroelectricity, and now, the functional
transit gateway to China, have led to unimagined wealth. The previous year,
a colorful Rasuwali truck driver had mocked me for carrying four thousand
seven hundred rupees for my Langtang trek while boasting about how he
had splurged fifty thousand on his latest trip to Pokhara.

We chose the longer but less touristy way to Gosainkunda via Thulosyabru,
in a bid to have down to earth encounters. Ghaphel had greatly disappointed
his father, who was a well known lama, by rejecting monkhood and would
say that he hailed from Kerung to avoid family connections. His bid to
remain anonymous failed though; we met several of his peers on the way.
People were friendlier, for he knew the vernacular. It all started with a
wonderful bowl of syakpa (flat noodle soup). We had randomly initiated a
chat with a person on the way, upon conversing Ghaphel figured out that he
knew his son. One of the hoteliers, who had greeted me coldly and proposed
a rather steep charge in 2016, opened up and gave several concessions:

“Give me as much money as you think fit.”

It would have been fun to have him around longer, but by the second day, he
was exhausted.

“I'd thought that the mountains and jungles would be beautiful. But all this
tiring walking and this misty…”

His phone bricked that day. He had taken hundreds of clips, hoping to create
a video log. That was the end of the line.

46
 Sindhupalchok Memories

Here, I list a few moments that I am able recall from the five day walk across
Sindhupalchok:

By a startled wild boar, I was almost pummeled in a forest near

Tarkeghyang. There, I had been retracing the same trail for hours, in an
effort to find a way out and ahead, only to end up at the same Groundhog
Day waterfall! I retreated, wondering how I had managed the very same trail
perfectly well during my 2016 autumn trek. After the ordeal, seeing me
distraught, a family invited me home for a typical Hyolmo meal.

The owner of a hotel in Tarkeghyang, that I had been to before, surprised me

with a marvelous discount. He played the tungna humorously, with a
competitive spirit, after seeing a video of the hotelier in Thadepati
performing. His kid meanwhile seemed unimpressed. He was glued to the
phone.

A kind man, whose farm I had trespassed into by mistake on the way down
to Timbu, offered me an ear of corn instead of anticipated scorn.

Many seasonal roads had been consumed by dense monsoon foliage.

A humble, old couple invited me for tea at their place, after I mentioned that
I was from Kathmandu. For having a home in the valley to turn to, after the
earthquake struck, they were grateful. I adored their smiles and the way the
kitchen was set up.

There were a large number of waterfalls and deafening rapids on the way.

A leech found its way into my underpants, and I was left wondering how.

Time slowed down while crossing newly built bridges and sped up while
navigating landslide torn trails.

An elderly couple, after showing me the way across a pass, surprised me by

saying that I could come to their home anytime I wanted to for a night‖s stay
or food.

Elaborate natural formations never ceased to move me.

A large number of moss laced Buddhist monuments had been sidelined by

newly carved roadways. The sight invited contemplation.

There were emergent concrete structures at all major junctions, by which lay
disintegrating shacks.

Well lit forests at lower altitudes were comforting.

I wondered why people stuck to flash flood prone settlements like Bahrabise.

I met Rabina‖s grandfather and felt amused when I got the jaane tu mera
kyaa hai look.

47
My failure to connect with youngsters who did not speak much but surely
had a lot to tell troubled me.

Doctor Sandeep, an old friend, lived in a mossy room in Bahrabise. I

wondered how he had found purpose in such a depressing setting. I felt
heartily pleased after having my first toast with jam in ages, through his
good graces.

I danced where lush green fields moved with the winds.

I often took off slippers where trails of red mud were inclined, to avoid a slip.
Seeing people carry loads down such trails with ease amazed me.

Those several meals of corn I had. I scaled the treacherous, landslide ridden
trail up to Kalinchowk from Bahrabise on makai (corn) power.

Obsolescence

In late 2016, I cycled to Dolakha on a whim. K was there working for an

organization. An exchange of a few texts was enough to secure the warmest
welcome. He respected me for being a battle hardened, sternly patriotic
activist. The person who makes things possible: that is how he introduced
me there. Great expectations!

I left the cycle in Charikot, and trekked right up to the never ending
avalanche above the infamous Tsho Rolpa glacial lake. I explored
Lamabagar, Sailung and Kalinchowk too, all in the space of twelve days.
Those experiences helped later. On my last night, K and I had a long
conversation. After that, he realized that I was not the same iih he knew. All
those journeys, bouts of heavy reading, and unrequited emotions had
placated the idealistic rebel.

To proceed ahead, I knew that Tashi Lapcha was not an option. Sunil, who
had almost lost his life there during his GHT trek, had advised against an
attempt – tremendous gratitude to him! I could have headed straight to Jiri,
but was excited to reconnect with K and thus chose to scale Kalinchowk from
the backside.

The landslide wrought trail was perplexing. I had to scale a slippery

landslide and almost fell into the abyss. Then, I fumbled down seven times
as I raced down Kuri through a mossy forest. K‖s ride was leaving at 11:30.
With time to spare, I reached the hospital excitedly. He could never be
impolite, but the lack of excitement on his face was evident. He liked the old
iih better. Not this aimless wanderer. We had a short conversation.
Arrangements for the night were made. It was a joy to spend time with K‖s
coworkers. I had my first bath in days. It felt good to unwind.

I reflected upon how K viewed me and how I had changed. I was not a piece
of the puzzle anymore. I had become fluid and wild, less of a consumer
(paradoxically, more of a listener), more of a creator, more of an

48
experimenter, and more of a failure. Constant reinvention means that the
same people who dearly believe in me today might scorn me tomorrow.
Being willing to lay it all aside in an effort to stay close to truth, is a
sisyphean affair of gathering merit, passing on what one can, and hitting
rock bottom. Another lone hike looms on the horizon.

Pooja

The raincoats had failed us. The heavy thundershower had us pitiably
drenched. It was 8 PM and we were still walking. Thirty kilometers down
already – half of it on the road, half of it taking odd shortcuts (running up
and down cliffs, and forests) that had fallen out of use. Nothing unusual for
me, but I was filled with regret; I did not intend to make Pooja walk so much
on her first day. Yet, there was no option but to persist until a hotel was
found.

Numbness overtook her legs an hour after the sun parted ways with the
horizon. Every step she took was more painful than the one before. A look of
annoyance had long abandoned her face; delirium had taken over. Every
time she quiveringly inquired how far the next town was, all I was able to
offer her was a figure that gave little solace. I kept reminding her that the
only way to overcome that pain was to keep moving; to rest would have
meant risking paralysis in the middle of nowhere. I stayed some fifty meters
ahead of her – a distance from which I could see her through the rain, while
the gap discouraged her from halting. Could I have been any meaner?

Despite being aware of the fact that the planned walk to the Everest region
was not going to be a walk in the park, she was inspiringly motivated for the
adventure. Wearing an I'm a Visual Storyteller tshirt, she gleamed with
excitement as she drew her camera to click several pictures of misty hills in
the morning. There was little foreshadowing of how irksome things were
going to be.

At 9 PM, we finally found a hotel. The room was shabby, the food plain, as
usual. As usual, it was not an issue and this time she was there to concur.
We set out our possessions to dry. She was not sure if she could walk
anymore.

The next morning, as I was about to walk on, while she waited for a bus, an
old man donning a dhaka cap yelled:

“Walking! Why? Buses regularly ply to Jiri!”

“I am walking because I want to walk.”

That reply made him stomp around in fury:

“What nonsense! Does he mean to say that we should all return to the Stone
Age; forsake all progress? Walk…”

I left as he kept yelling. It gave some comic relief to Pooja, whose first day of
the walk, sadly, also happened to be the last one.

49
 The Old Trail

Piles and piles of rubble, houses that were once glorious crumbling, slum
like conjunctions of makeshift corrugated sheet shelters, and a poignant look
in the shattered face of the all seeing bearing witness to the greens taking
over. There was a depressing vibe of, and lesson in impermanence, as I
entered a region devastated by the great earthquake, unable to afford a
cosmetic surgery like the trails I had trodden upon before.

None of the locals that I struck a conversation with failed to mention that I
was on the old trail to Everest. The mention was often accompanied by a
proud smile immersed in nostalgia, followed by a look of disappointment.
After roads reached Solu, the trek from Jiri to Khumbu (which took at least
three additional days) lost appeal. With regular flights, Lukla has become the
express gateway to Everest. Some head straight to the Everest Base Camp on
a helicopter. Only trekking connoisseurs take the exquisite trail transcending
across the northern tip of Ramechhap, rendering many hotels unsustainable.
I met hundreds of pilgrims on the way, but only three trekkers.

The pilgrims from the hills failed to understand why I had no interest in
going to the holy pond – for most of them this pariah was a madman, one
with ill intentions, for some a mystique beyond reason. Locals there were
less judgmental. They had seen stranger visitors and grown up seeing
traveling as a recreational affair. People living in places unfamiliar with
tourism were inclined to be suspicious of visitors who could not be bestowed
with a convenient label – government officer, project worker, nomadic trader,
and the likes.

“Where are you from?”

My reply usually elicited a scoff.

“Kathmandu people cannot walk uphill. We are from the hills and having a
tough time. Stop lying!”

They were not to blame.

On the other hand, the few trekkers I met did not seem prepared for the trail.
They carried damning bags, wore bulky boots – hard to take off and put on,
but easy for leeches to get into. Their spray did not help. It was a messy
sight.

When I had first encountered books of various languages at a hotel my heart

sung praises for the considerate owner. It was only later that I realized that
trekkers in despair left them. Learning by doing?

Changing Relations

Narratives do not remain stagnant. With time, tides and fortunes shift. I met
several hill people in the west, of the Khas and other communities, working

50
as laborers in the mountains. They were working for the people they had
once dominated economically, socially and politically, out of compulsion; as
it made better sense than going abroad.

People of the Kirant community in the eastern mountains had similar

grievances. It could be seen that most mid / low tier jobs in the Everest
region – carrying loads, caretaking, operating inns etc. were being done by
Rais and other immigrants from the hills (of Solu and beyond). Wealthier
ones lease hotels from Sherpas who have left Khumbu for greener pastures.

An elderly porter told me that Sherpas from Khumbu used to come to his
village in search of work when he was young. His father used to give them
daily essentials, particularly salt, in exchange for the work.

“They used to come to our village and bow down to make their ends meet.
Now, we have to go to theirs and bow down.”

Relations have undoubtedly changed.

The word Bhote (literally, from Tibet) is still used derogatorily. Contemporary
norms of hygiene were once alien for the people of the mountains;
religiocultural norms stood on the contrary, the cold and dry environment
made it a non issue. These days, tourism oriented settlements in the
mountains have enviable standards of hygiene. Villages in the hills seem
grimy in comparison.

An elderly Sherpa man told that he used to be afraid to go to the hills when
he was young.

“We did not understand the language. Goons from the hills used to loot us.
We could not fight back and feared for our lives.”

Imagine going back to the 1940‖s and telling him that his community's
advantage in scaling mountains, couple with the celebration of Everest,
would make Khumbu what it is today. One would be deemed crazy!

To sum it up short, there seems to generally be more money in the

mountains these days, because of the effect regional demand has had on the
prices of herbs like yarsagumba, coupled with tourism development and
consistent attention bestowed by various agencies. Traditional economic,
social and political structures are being challenged for good everywhere;
people are being compelled to change. Not everyone is happy with, or
benefiting from, the shakeup though.

Doubtful

The policeperson refused to let his guard down.

“There is a lack of sympathy in these parts!”

He muttered, calling for caution.

51
He claimed that the villagers there had once poisoned a government official
to death. The source of his unease was the fear that he could be next; the
very same fear that had limited him from taking a quick dusk run down,
through the forest, and reaching the desired safety of his camp. He endured
thirst as much as he could; his face had turned blue by the time he
succumbed to it. Still, he looked around for signs of unease, every time he
took an uneasy gulp from the jar. I could not fault him for being suspicious.
His job demanded that nature. However, unbeknownst to him, every such
gesture spread venom throughout the room.

It became increasingly difficult to ignore the stench of the venom that

separated visitors from the hosts: a line between those that could speak the
vernacular and those who could not. One might not understand another‖s
tongue, but emotions are always bare for all to see. The whispers on both
sides had numbed the vibe of that house. The wishes of those who wished to
remain neutral were deftly overseen.

On the ways of this part of the world: A theft that happens in a dark nook
ruins the reputation of the entire forested hill. No one dares to walk across it
alone. A single visitor‖s misdeed leads to the labeling of all those who seek
refuge as potential culprits. There are many animals that inhabit the forest,
but an unfortunate incident reduces them all to vile murderers. There are
many who believe that snakes must be crushed with a rock on sight. I too
have once helplessly witnessed two snakes intertwined in love crushed
ruthlessly. That image refuses to abandon my memory. It still bothers me.

The behavior of two people of a certain skin tone, endows all who share that
tone with the same judgement. A second observation is not warranted.
There could not be a more convenient way to deal with such affairs – without
thought, without weighing alternative possibilities. That is good, and that is
bad. Judgments that make life easy for all, except outliers like this one. That
night I gave up. I went to sleep tarnished; I had to disappear from this world,
there was no other way.

The next morning, I reached the monastery at Junbesi. The doors were open,
the air light. Scarred by the night‖s experience, I hesitantly requested the
people that I met to allow me to deliver prayers there. The way we dressed
up and spoke were starkly different. They did not understand me. They did
not seek to understand me. They just understood my will, and that was
enough. Not that some there did not express doubts, but those voices were
overwhelmed by others, and I was even offered lunch. The young monk who
was dealing with me even asked if I needed funds, but I had already received
something much greater from him. Hope.

Many people ask me – Where are the best people in this part of the world?
Where is the best place? Without fail, I say – There are good and bad places
and people everywhere. That answer is inadequate for most. On this matter,
I remain unwilling to bend the truth to comfort anyone.

[Translated from Nepali]

52
Khumbu Autumn: Snowfall in Kalapatthar

53
 El Peregrino

On the crossings between monsoon and autumn, that is where I reside. Like
the golden petals of a lone flower graced by the first snowfall of the season, a
stroke rashly accosted to by an artist in frenzy, in that world of frigid noir;
benign but bodacious. The grounds that my roots have anchored into were
not of my choosing. While the first snows of the season fell without caution
and whittled down my spirit, those colors refused to part ways. Not that
easily, not that quick – let me dwell in fascination. Let that be my reason to
carry on.

“El Peregrino, I knew you would come.”

Who is this guy?

“Remember me? We met at Thorong... You‖re the real pilgrim, man!”

Full circle: It was a defining moment, like the whirlpool of seasons, coast to
coast and back again to lift spirits.

“Do you need any help? Anything – feel free to ask.”

Genie? No lamp, just a stick in my hand, essential to make one‖s way down
slippery, snowy slopes without losing one‖s colors. I have enough to pass by.
It is okay.

He took a picture, went away smiling. I had served my purpose. My presence

could now peacefully be one with all.

While I was making my way to Everest Base Camp from Kalapatthar, a

couple of men in awe halted me. They had found a symbolic representation
of this fascinating tertiary world in the mountains: a man in slippers and
with a half pant on, wet drenched in snow. I had walked across a dozen
points over five thousand meters in altitude, but that was only the second
time I encountered heavy snowfall. Thank the warming globe. Thank
monsoon. The anomalous snow was there and with it, I had to deal as I was.

Budgetary restrictions meant that I could not spend much time there. I
started out from Gorakshep, at an altitude of over fifty one hundred meters,
that morning, made it to Kalapatthar, the highest point reached during the
entire course of the walk at five thousand six hundred and forty five meters,
then to the base camp of Everest, then back to Debuche, at an elevation of
around thirty eight hundred meters, in the same day. People who have been
there will get the picture. On the edge of abundance and fall is where I
reside, that is where I have found comfort in being.

Unwelcome

Pangboche utterly disappointed me. Before proceeding further, I feel obliged

to clarify that this was my personal experience and that yours might be
different.

54
On the way up, I spent a night in a hotel there. The crummy place was
almost as pricey as the hotel near Everest Base Camp in Gorakshep (eighteen
kilometers north, twelve hundred meters higher). There were syringes, blood
soaked swabs and litter in the rooms. The few people I met there seemed
cold and averse to conversation.

On the way back, despite wanting to avoid the area, I arrived at Pangboche
right after nightfall. I took the lower route, and passed a couple of hotels that
seemed to be closed. Then, I saw an excellently furnished hotel. The woman
there gave me an unwelcome look. An outright rejection followed. She told
me to go to the inn that the porters frequent. On my way out, I overheard
her:

“A shabby Nepali guy… Who is going to cook daalbhaat for him?”

Arguing would have been useless. I rushed to the inn, only to be denied
again. There, I assume, available arrangements were only makeshift, and
they did not want to give me a tough night. Two other hotels did not even
care to open the door.

After rushing through a landslide ravaged riverside I arrived at an inn near

Milingo. With the hotel owner there, a government official was positively
inebriated. He got infuriated after I told him that I could write about what
had happened. He repeatedly verbally harassed me and after some time
asked for a person who could verify my identity. I called a well wisher, a
military officer – something that had worked before. After the brief call, the
official was taken aback. He assumed a quieter tone for a while. I could
finally have dinner. The hotel owner then argued that the people of that area
had become distrustful after the Maoist conflict. I told him that the defense
made little sense, because it had been over a decade since the war had
ended. They started ranting again. I left the inn in frustration.

It was a terrible call. After crossing a forest, I reached Debuche at around 10

PM and sought refuge in a monastery. The nuns there did not believe me
and told me that I could try for the hotel further down. I went there and after
pleading for a while – repeating that I was on a pilgrimage like walk, and,
(ignoring the scorn) that they were in a beyul and should treat visitors better,
finally received a key – thrown out the door. Sleep at last!

Off The Beaten Track

More often than not, going off the beaten track; on less tourist tailored trails,
gives a much richer travel experience. The fact that I could get a decent pizza
or good WiFi on the Khumbu trails felt good, but there were fewer heartfelt
conversations, fewer uncertainties, and far fewer revelations. Walking on the
road less taken, through parts of Solu that led to the Arun Valley, was an
enlightening experience.

At Bhuwa Khola, where humor goes hand in hand with regrets, the wisdom
of a balding man, basking in the sun on a rock, with a million stories to tell

55
awaited me. From how his grin, embellished with broken teeth, came to be,
to the many failed attempts to go for lahur (serve in a Gurkha regiment), and
words of remorse for a long forgotten awesome hairstyle: the tales kept
flowing.

The amusement in seeing a playful child lift up a goat‖s kid and scamper
away to impress you – in that lonesome, shabby, house on the top of keyhole
pass (Sera Laa Dhara); he has already become your best friend, without
trading a single word, despite being unable to understand the language you
speak.

A woman in her seventies, with an Undertaker wrestling tshirt on, was

carrying a weight of maize equal to hers on her back and speeding down
Bung. She had no slippers or shoes on.

“At your age, this kind of strength is admirable. But, don‖t your feet or
back…”

She interrupted me and started answering as she kept sprinting:

“I have always been like this. I have never worn shoes, and since I never
have, I have never cared.”

After that, she overtook me.

The revelation led to two hours of reflection and soliloquy as I ascended

another hill, after crossing the river. One of the many meditations that
passed my mind then: Why do I never remember the details of clothes and
accessories that people wear? Most novels I have read are filled with pages of
such descriptions, my observations never are. Where is the block? Is it
because I have been wearing the same white, cotton clothes for the past
decade and have never had to think much about what to wear? Yes, it must
be. Yes, it is. I have rarely experimented; worn decorated, colorful clothes
and accessories, and so, I have never cared much for what others wear.

Fie, the liberation in knowing!

Let It Be

The timber clad cabins in Najingdingma were no more than two years old.
Bleakly noticeable was the sanitizing odor of varnish. The bed and thick rugs
in abundance were clean – a rare luxury. Sleep was difficult only on rare
occasions; I was usually too tired for my senses to let the odd black cat,
rustling mice, sneaky ticks, or the direness of the place trouble me. Waking
up was easy, cool breezes would invade poorly insulated rooms to nudge
me. That day was an exception. Late rays of sunlight prancing through the
flowers laid by the window, animating them, tickled my eyes into
submission. I woke up way beyond the usual hours.

What a wonderful scene it was – the colorful hotel on a lush, bright green
hillside, surrounded by mist and fog in motion. Gaily fluttering was the

56
hotelier‖s kid. No more than four, he was confident, cheerful and well kempt.
It was obvious that he was loved dearly, given precious care – something
that eludes a lot of mountain children, and in other places that have had a
harsh way of life etched in memory; where survival could not be taken for
granted. I have always been childlike with kids. I intended to resume playing
with him.

The kid wore a paralyzed expression the moment he saw me. He ran away
into the kitchen. Had I done something wrong? There had been times before
where locals had misinterpreted my journey. I took a number of deep
breaths and walked in. Bad news! He had shoved into the fireplace the stick
that I had been carrying from the first month of the walk. It had clearly
saved my life many times. I was stunned.

I should have been angry, but I was not, nor did I want him to be punished.
That moment shed light on one of the more subtle ways the journey had
affected me. Waves upon waves of stillness, exploration and reflection had
sheared away layers of emotions. With the most stoic voice, I said:

“It is okay.”

It was clear that the kid felt bad for me. He disappeared. As I was about to
head out, he came back – this time, with a nine foot bamboo stem and a
smile on his face. He had ventured into the nearby jungle for it.

“He wants you to have it.”

The father said and chopped the ends.

I left rejuvenated. A mighty lesson was served.

Death Of A Village

The man stood there, lost in bittersweet reverie. Moments before, he had
torn another piece of wood out from what used to be his seasonal home.

“If nothing else, it will make for great firewood.”

The forest that led to the Salpa Pass was dense, dark and still. The trail had a
certain measure of wickedness to it. It was slippery in parts, confusing in
others, disintegrating all over. The filthy stench of marked territory,
indicating thriving wildlife, was amplified by the cold and damp
environment. The presence of bears was palpable. I had put the music on my
phone on full volume to prevent possible flight or fight encounters from
occurring.

At one point, I wondered: Had Kanye or Evans ever been heard on this
particular bit of the world? Was that a matter of significance? West paced me
well for speedy uphill hikes. Evans was good for downhill tracks that
required concentration and a slowing down of pace.

57
Bears and big cats do not seek confrontation. Any human confident enough
to stride away at a certain distance from them without making much of a
fuss, I concluded, would be much less likely to be hurt than while crossing a
road in Kathmandu. I never had a bad encounter with wild animals. They
always ran away. We sure have laid incredibly cruel impressions upon them.

At an hour past midday, I regretted giving the hotels at Salpa Bhanjyang a

miss. Having lunch at that altitude did not seem right, as I intended to not
spend more than five hundred rupees a day. It was not always possible, but
saving a few bucks one day meant broadening the reserve for odd cases and
emergencies.

As that thought was running through my head, a few huts peeped through
the fog. I bore a look of relief, right up until I reached there. The village was
silent. It showed no signs of life. A lone man chatted with me as he vultured
out a piece from the carcass of a house. Turns out, after a road had come
close to parts of Solu beyond the pass, the villagers there had stopped
coming to this once burgeoning market center. Old walls were being torn
down. New ones were being built. As a village grew stronger elsewhere, this
one lost all its strength. It had a purpose no more. The village was dead.

Seema

The river Arun drew the line between the districts of Bhojpur and
Sakhuwasabha. Seema and her partner struggled on the banks of that river,
right ahead of me. The man was considerably older. He carried his son on
his back and held his daughter by her tiny hand on that sandy route. The
river had made many shed tears. To many, the river had given life. It was
easy to get down to Arun, but hard to get out.

The family shared a couple of plates of chowmein worth twenty rupees to

garner energy for the ascent. Hopeless bargaining followed. Our journey
uphill became like those tangled noodles. While I was, as ever, adamant
about not getting on a vehicle, the other four had submitted to walking
because they could not afford a ride. Their hearts though were as heavy as
their pockets were light. There was constant dissension and turmoil. Seema
had grown bitter with the state of affairs presented to her by life with him.
She scorned the child abandoned by the man‖s previous wife. He, estranged,
could only puff and mutter grievous responses.

I felt like a fish outside water, amidst it all. However, as things stood, I could
not shoot ahead of them, for nightfall was imminent and the trail kept
branching out into several others. Every famished bout of heavy breaths
brought us closer to reality. On that festive night, Seema would not be seeing
her parents. The old man suggested that they could spend the night at an
acquaintance‖s place in the next village.

The priest‖s family reluctantly welcomed us; with words flawlessly smooth
and warm, but inconsistent emotions. To deal with the famished family,
they had an undefined protocol, adhered to by all. They were unsure about
how to treat me, and so, a barrage of routine questions by the elder followed:

58
Bhojpur: The meandering Arun cuts through the fertile valley

59
What is your ethnicity? Where is your home? What is your calling? So on. He
was satisfied with all answers, except to the latter. He stroked his chin a
hundred times and unleashed a barrage of unsolicited advice. He was
convinced that I needed a spiritual guide.

“If you submit yourself to a guru, your future will be as bright as gold.”

Such a future, I was not looking for. That though was beyond his
understanding. Despite my displeasure, I saw no purpose in contending with
that stern, adamant man of beliefs unshaken. Neither did I wish to
jeopardize my sanity, nor a roof for that cold, cold night.

They saw it fit to offer me a bed on the porch. The family was relegated to
the barn. The old man was not surprised, and complied with a half sullen
smile. Seema‖s bitter tirade had assumed a new, sarcastic, but strangely
compliant form. They were made to use different utensils. The elder‖s
daughter in laws maintained distance from those utensils and the people
holding them while they dropped dollops of rice pudding with vegetables.
Unimpressive, but satisfactory. Something the family could not agree on.
That sparked a debate that continued in the barn throughout the night. I
remained helplessly in bed reflecting on the family, the dynamics that were
at play, and the day, constantly thinking – Why was it so easy to get down to
Arun, but so hard to get out?

How Ways Opened Up

No one had walked from Chyamtang to Thudam, throughout the monsoon.

Many Chyamtangis requested me to return. They were sure that I could not
make it through the forest – without a defined trail and with bears, among
other wild creatures, lurking. I persisted.

The hotelier in Chyamtang informed me that there were only two men in
Thudam capable of communicating well in Nepali, and that one of them
might have left the village for higher pastures. The other one‖s name – N.
Names, of people and places, are critical for trust where modern
communication is nonexistent. He warned me that the Thudamese do not
entertain people after nightfall. With three packets of coconut biscuits, I
rushed out at dawn.

After possibly the most arduous bit of the entire journey, I reached the
riverside settlement of Thudam on the verge of nightfall. I knocked many
doors in vain. Then, I expressed my misery aloud at a doorstep. A child
responded saying that there was no one in the house. A woman ordered him
to shut up. Some mumbles followed, and then complete silence. All thatched
wooden houses seemed the same and were dead silent, and it was freezing. I
started looking at the sky in utter hopelessness. It was then that some way
uphill, I saw tiny billows of smoke arising from what seemed to be a hut
with lights on. The sight felt miraculous. I scrambled there and saw a man
about to close the door. I quickly introduced myself, blurted out the details I
had, and sought his sanctuary. He obliged, hesitantly. For he understood me,
he had to be N.

60
Way past the drama of hunger, I was terribly weak. I sought food as an
insurance against frailty. Dinner was up – dried yak meat with soup and rice.
I refused the meat, stating that I could suffice with soup and rice. He then
mentioned that the soup had bones. I inquired if he had biscuits, tsampa, or
anything ready to eat. Nothing. This had happened before; panic would not
help. I suggested that I could have rice with salt. He obliged. It was better
than having nothing.

N. was suspicious. As we talked, it seemed probable that he was relaying

information from the border. The room was dotted with pictures from there.
His brother served as a bodyguard for the Dalai Lama. N. probably did not
sleep that night. I was too tired to bother.

The next morning he offered some more rice with salt, took a small sum,
and a picture of mine.

What Pulled Me Through

At five thousand meters above sea level, no settlement around for at least
seven hours in either direction, cold post midday winds sure to lead to sharp
icicle batters after dark, on an empty stomach and thirsty. Drinking the
water from the glacial river, could only do a massive disservice to my
parched lips and bloated stomach – something I had experienced at
Langsheesha Kharka, the previous autumn.

As my strength was about to give away, I spotted a huge, strange, stacked

cabbage like plant on a cliff. Then, I saw another, then another, until I
realized there were hundreds around. For the first time in the high
mountains, had I seen a plant of such proportions (almost eight feet high) –
immune to harsh elements. The landscape suddenly seemed alien; as if I
was in a mystical abode, that elements apart from the mundane were at play
here. It could have been the dizzying hunger. I was lost for words and action;
numbed in awe.

Whatever happens, happens for good – the old adage spelled true. I had left
the riverside to inspect this plant up close. It was only when I observed the
landscape from that height that I could recall what two men, with bartered
goods from Tibet stacked on their yaks' backs, had told me that morning.
The river led to Tibet, and I had to abandon it and take a turn towards the
east to cross the Lumbha Sambha Pass and reach Olangchung. There were
no trails there, neither were there any markers, sense of direction was key.
Had I not had that chance encounter with those men or been fascinated by
that bizarre plant (later identified as rhubarb), I might not have made it. Had
I taken what seemed to be like the more obvious trail (because the other one
was made almost unrecognizable by an avalanche) from the pass, I would
have ended up in Sabha Pokhari or more likely — dead. Little things matter.

It took six more hours to cross that pass and find a yak pasture. The people
in the tent concluded that I was a lama (as many had done before), for it was
a miracle that I had made it. At that point, neither was I worried, nor did I
feel troubled, nor could I smile – a state of equilibrium? Any essence of
physical strength had abandoned me hours before. Plain resilience coupled
with luck had pulled me through.

61
 Losing One‖s Way

To lose one‖s way might be a good thing as well. It is only after one loses
way that one realizes how big of a heart the world has. There have been
times when my feet buckled under me, and I succumbed to the possibility of
spending a night in a cave or by the trail.

I lost my way after crossing the Lumbha Sambha Pass. Right when I was on
the verge of losing all hope, far out in the darkness, I saw a tent, yielding
billows of smoke. The family from Olangchung Gola that lived there was
about to turn on the fire and go to sleep. Had they done that, I would have
missed the settlement altogether. All it took was a few words of mine,
snippets of what I had been through, for their initial suspicious stance to
change to one of all embracing love.

“It seems these two t momos (steamed bread) were meant to be yours. Oh,
and this cup of butter tea too!”

At Lumthung too, I was offered the final, juicy, corn yield of monsoon, along
with boundless love, by saints with hearts of gold. I, perhaps, will never be
able to have such a tasteful serving of steamed corn ever again. The day for
its warmth remains unforgettable.

Back to that pasture on the way to Olangchung: I lost my way again early
next morning. A man offered to show me a shorter way to the village. He,
with his brothers, was going to the Chinese border to sell some yaks. They
zoomed up rocky cliffs, while I struggled for breath and lagged behind.
Endless mist surrounded us. I followed the cries of yaks. After a point, those
intermittent cries stopped, and my calls yielded no response. I saw no way
forward. Only the river could be heard, somewhere, far below.

I followed the sound of the river, for I knew it led to the village. I leapt like a
frog down that steep ridge, from one black boulder to another. It took over
fifteen hundred meters of careful downhill straddling and maneuvering to
actually see the thunderous rapids. Crossing it was imperative – another
challenge! It swept me away, twice, but I used my stick to hold ground
amidst those chilly currents. Fortune saved me. A thorny trail lay ahead.
Fortune was to be tested again.

This world has a large heart. I did not fall off the ridge. The river did not
sweep me away. There were bears in the forest, but I did not have to endure
their aggression. The thin, freezing, mountain air bestowed me with all its
benevolence. It taught me lessons, but did not make me falter. At the end of
the day, love and embrace was always to be found.

Questions

While sprinting at pace necessary to get to Ghunsa pre sundown, I was

rudely halted by a middle aged man. He was stroking his chin and, at the
same time, itching at his dhaka cap.

62
Sankhuwasabha: Way to Lumbha Samba Pass from Thudam

63
“Where are you going?” He asked suspiciously.

“Towards Ghunsa!” I responded without thought.

The series of questions thus continued.

“Why?”

“Because, I like to explore.”

“To explore, really? It mustn‖t be so. Does anyone set out to explore just
because one desires to do so? And, where are you from?”

“Kathmandu.”

“I do not think so. And, where have you come here from?”

“I came from Sankhuwasabha, crossing the Lumbha Sambha Pass, from

Olangchung. I look forward to reaching the base camp of Kanchanjanga.”

Experience had shown that details help relieve suspicion.

“Umm… two goats have run from my pack. Did you see them on the way? I
am in search of them.”

“I saw them by the bridge. Some twenty minutes back from here.”

I could have been wrong, but that was the best memory could serve me.

Experience though was pointless when contended with silliness.

“Oh, that far! Nevertheless, you, for sure, have lied to me! Who walks for the
love of walking? Who works when nothing is to be gained? These things are
difficult to believe in. What proof do you have that you have been walking
for the love of it? Surely…”

At times, even my cheeks are turned red by little fits.

I interrupted him and retorted sarcastically.

“So tell me then, what proof do you have that you are a herder? If you are a
herder, where are your cattle and goats? How do I believe you? You mustn‖t
be a herder. You‖re probably a smuggler or a spy! What proof do you have to
say that you‖re not?”

The man‖s face turned bitter, as he mumbled:

“No, I am a herder. Everyone knows that I am.”

He paused. I sprinted ahead.

That night at Ghunsa, as I was about to have dinner, the police marched into
the hotel, terrorizing the owner and his family with the thunderous sounds
of their boots.

64
Navigating Glacial Rapids: On the way to Kanchanjanga Base Camp

65
 Monsoon

Monsoon was good in its own way. I could not have walked across mountain
trails, the way I did, in any other season. After rare rainfall and slight uptick
in mercury, the snow melts away, revealing wide lush pastures at sub five
thousand meter altitudes. Yak herders go up to the high mountain passes in
monsoon – a routine affair. Their absence would have meant walking over a
hundred kilometers at certain sections of the journey, merely to get from one
permanent settlement to another, in search of shelter. Monsoon landslides
caused by melting snow and shifting soil are manageable, winter avalanches
are something else. The mountain trails are clear too. Tourism is off; locals
have all the time in the world to indulge in conversation and offer the
warmest embrace.

On the flip side, visibility is an issue. Views are fogged up and navigation is
difficult. The forests are thicker, making trails nonexistent at times. Recall
the typical Amazonian movie scene, a person in boots cutting through vines
and branches with a machete just to move ahead. Now, add thousands of
toothbrush sized leeches, rustling snakes, scraping thorns, a couple of racing
wild boars, and the odd growling bears, amongst other nuisances, to the
mix. Also, take away the person's machete and boots, give a thin stick and
slippers instead – that was me on the two day trail to Olangchung Gola from
Chyamtang.

Thus, on Day 106, when I reached the base camp of Kanchanjanga, I felt like
I was in heaven. Autumn had risen – every sight was sharp, clear and
pristine. I had not seen blue skies and clear mountains like that for months.
The catharsis was complete. I sat at the edge of a cliff immersed in wonder,
feeling timeless.

Wrinkles

Every wrinkle on this work of art, every wrinkle on this work of devastation,
is as high as the tallest concrete structure in Kathmandu, and worth a
lifetime of pondering. Details that were never there before, strokes that will
never again be recreated – being created, obliterated, and randomly redrawn,
as the grains on this great glass of hours trickle away. Sweet entropy is here,
dancing with sour dissent. The mountains are alive.

[Written at Kanchanjanga Base Camp]

66
 Gupha Pokhari

Cottages of the like that find joy in the breeze of the Arun are there in
Arunachal too.
The jhochhens, machas, and degas of Kantipur are there in Chainpur too.
The shivering person residing in a cave is neither a slave nor a master.
As the love story of the past and the future is written in the present, the
viewer that contends that there are no illusions is being proven wrong.

[Translated from Nepali]

Flung By A Flung Stick

In Bhojpur, after a drenching hike, descending fields through paths, which

became streams, and streams that became trails, was a meditative affair.

Friction had flattened any remnants of grips on those cheeky slippers and
the mud was slippery red. Add utter foolishness to that mix:

“The Mid Hill Highway track is on the horizon. This heavy stick has served
its purpose. It has come to its place of rest.”

Those words ran through my mind, before I flung the stick into a mustard
field, on that very morning.

The routine was hence simple. Slow, calculated foot placements. Carefully
placed steps on reliable surfaces:

“One stuck out stone, two stuck out stone, three stuck out stone, where's the
fourth one? Oh, there's a peering tree root.”

There were times when I had lost focus. Sore spots on the back and tattoo
like bruises on the knees served as reminders of those momentary lapses of
awareness. I was tremendously lucky to avoid serious injuries. With every
new tattoo, with every slip, the focus got better. For the journey to continue, I
had to live another day. Descending hills always almost took twice as much
the time as an ascent of equal measure – something I am appreciative of in
retrospect. Patience is worthwhile.

Hanging Spirits

Neatly leveled terraces of lucid green ebbed out for the great way forward.
Terracotta roofed houses set linearly on top of hills diluted into new jungles
of colorful clamor. There were strewn people, and strained bonds. Blow horn
serpents slithered on muddy pools of bleeding hopes and dreams. The land

67
shot up into the clouds – not thunder, but fireworks placated troubled souls
of this age. So much was going on; for momentary witnesses a tremor, for
longstanding viridescent heaps a little fizzle of dizzle. As the chants of
celibate brothers kept echoing unkempt, smoky shadows consumed the
chamber of tridents. On my second night in Khotang, a terrified man in a
tavern asked me:

"Did not the spirits that hang on the trees trouble you while you made your
way down to the village... or are you... yourself one?"

Twenty Seven Hours Straight

On Day 118, I woke up at 4 AM and started walking from Khurkot. I speed

walked through the highway stretch by the banks of the Sunkoshi, intending
to reach Kathmandu before Dashain to observe my annual nine day fast. The
Sindhuli stretch was quite scenic.

At around 10 PM, I reached Kavre Bhanjyang. The lodges there did not open
their doors for me. They must have thought I was a lousy drunkard. All I had
had that evening was a bowl of instant noodles and a few pieces of bread.
There were two choices: either to sleep by the highway, or, to walk to a
friend's place in Simpokhari near Dhulikhel. I chose the latter.

An hour or so later, I left the highway and set on a not too familiar trail to
Simpokhari. After endlessly circling around a leech ridden forest, being
hounded by dogs (good sign, humans around), and taking a few slips and
falls, it was past the midnight hour already. I returned to the highway.

At 1:30 AM, I reached Dhulikhel. None of the lodges seemed to be open. I

thought of messaging some friends at Kathmandu University, but realized it
was too late. I felt terribly sleepy. Again, sleep on the streets or walk
overnight – the choices were clear. Fortunately, a shop was open. I bought
two hundred rupees worth of sugary edibles – juice, biscuits and the likes.
The sugar rush kicked in.

Whenever I felt sleepy, I would sprint and stop after counting till one
hundred. That is how it was after that – a short sprint and fifteen minutes of
quick walking, another short sprint ... and so on. I weighed in at slightly
above fifty seven kilograms (down nineteen kilograms from the first day) at
that time. I felt weightless; walking was effortless, sprinting easy. I had
never felt that fit in my life, and never will again. Some morning walkers
might have thought I was crazy, but I was too focused to care. City folk have
a particular sense of judgment. They were not going to help this man in
tatters that refused to get on a vehicle.

At around 7 AM, I reached the Ring Road at Balkumari. I checked the tracker.
I had walked, one hundred and thirteen kilometers, twenty seven hours
straight. There, I got on a bus for the first time in four months; the first time
since I had started walking from Darchula.

Three months later, I would resume the walk from the same point.

68
Sindhuli: Highway along the Sunkoshi River

69
70
 Eighty Four Days Across
The Western Hills, Plains Highway,
And Lower Eastern Hills

71
72
 Day 120: Resumption

One hundred and nineteen days of walking was not enough. In the first
phase, I had walked from Darchula to Kanchanjanga Base Camp – adhering
whenever possible, to the Upper Great Himalayan Trail, then back to
Kathmandu through the eastern hills, covering a total of two thousand nine
hundred and twenty seven kilometers, across thirty one districts, in the
process. After a three and a half month hiatus, I resumed the walk from the
very spot where I had previously concluded it – the bridge of Balkumari.

On the way, I caught up with my steadfast well wisher Chewan, after getting
my Hattichhap slippers reinforced by a cobbler in Pulchowk. For I was
already in the zone, I declined to get in his car and instead sprinted to
Jhamsikhel behind it. We chatted over tea. The couple of thousand rupees he
handed over to me, much like another well wisher Rita had the day before,
turned out to be of tremendous help during the walk to Baitadi through the
hills.

At midday, Aalok joined me. I had only conversed with on social media
before. His philosophical orientation made him seem like a person in his late
twenties. Thus, it was surprising to see him unable to figure out where the
popular junction of Jhamsikhel was. I was dumbfounded when we finally
met. Slender and stoic, with a unibrow and Wolverineish facial hair, the
fellow was merely sixteen! We walked together to Kalanki through the Ring
Road, and on the way, he asked numerous questions about the meaning of
life and pursuit of happiness. It was a memorable conversation and I wished
him well while we parted. Then came Birodh, he walked with me till
Nagdhunga. The conversation with him revolved around similar curiosities.
In Nepali, his name meant protest, an apt summation of his sisyphean
troubles. The surroundings on the way, painted sepia with layers upon
layers of dust, matched the vibe of the deliberation. Many a people walked
with their faces covered on the arid and tattered way, the busy workers by
the roadside could not be distinguished from the background. Their lungs
must have been no different.

After parting ways with Birodh, I inquired about the shortcut to Naubise that
ran through the forest with a local shopkeeper. He tried convincing me to get
on a bus, saying that walking all the way was a futile task. After that, he
sought to know my ultimate destination. I told him that I was headed to
Baitadi.

“Isn‖t that really far away?”

”Not too far away… Maybe forty five days?”

“Are you serious?”

”Yes.”

“But, you could take a bus…”

The expression on his and the onlookers‖ faces were priceless. I left as they
paused in contemplation, they must have concluded that I was a lunatic.

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Perhaps, but more so I was the Man on the Moon; I derived amusement from
such encounters, which I must have had at least five hundred of.

I met my match down the forest trail; a shaggy, old man, wearing a
checkered shirt and saffron dhoti, who had spread all the essentials he
carried upon the ground before him. From Kathmandu to Narayani Devghat
and back, he had walked; an annual pilgrimage observed for a quarter of a
century, without fail, and without spending a penny, it seemed! To come
across such magnificent individuals is an honor reserved for only those who
choose to take the road less taken.

Grime, Dust, And Kindness

The two hundred kilometer long Prithvi Highway connects the two largest
hill metropolises in this part of the world, Kathmandu and Pokhara. A bus,
wheezing past rare straight stretches between winding bends, takes six
hours to traverse the length of the highway. It took me four and a half days
to walk across the same.

Journeys on a bus across that highway are always tiring. The stuttering
frames of green on hills, the parading river, highway barricades, and the
flowing road are to the eyes and mind drainsome. One might notice a hill or
river bend endowed by the perfect shade of lighting from the pane, but
before setting one‖s eyes straight for a good look at it, the scene will have
been snatched away and taken beyond reach. The window needs to often be
shut to keep the grime out. Vehicles thus, are a different world altogether.

While on foot, I became one with the environment. Before the sun rose above
the fogs and after its fall, chills that froze my hands and toes, put me in
doubt. The odor of the dingy, dorm rooms that I stuck to intending to stay
grounded, stuck with me. The grimy highway air made my whites go gray
and uprooted my hair by the handfuls. Still, it had its own wonder, for it
carried the sweet aroma of the soil of the farms spared by plotting and
surrounding vegetation. Do you know what a river traumatized by mining
smells and feels like? Why the Marsyangdi withstood it all and still ran clear,
while Trishuli carried a brownish tinge, was on exhibition, but not enough to
help cease wonder. The asphalt felt different in different times of the day
and there was always time to ponder upon sunsets as things cooled down. I
spent a full twenty minutes once observing children with stressed looks,
covered from head to toe in dust, unloading bricks in Malekhu. Yes, life there
does not just revolve around fish. The market lies to the common eye.
Visuals of brick kilns that stood tall above all, puffing out smog and slums
under bridges with corrugated sheet roofs that had turned golden with dust
remain afresh in the mind.

Often, kind strangers would share their snacks with me. The sweet oranges
and sugarcanes that highway sellers offered with love mitigated the strain of
the midday sun. Sweat trickled, and my strains healed, as I sat listening to
their stories. A couple in Anbukhaireni spared me room charges after
discovering that someone belonging to my extended family had helped them

74
One of several river mining operations along Prithvi Highway

75
long ago. At Damauli, I exercised no connections and earned no favors, just
stymied ridicule. Sages clad in bright white, whose belongings were dragged
by assistants on a barrow of a vehicle that sometimes lifted them too, were
beyond doubt and ridicule. Even the slum dwellers of Byas, abandonees of
homes in hidden hills, soon to be condemned back to make way for a wider
highway, bowed their heads and joined their hands in veneration.

Like life, the two lane highway ran unsteady. Despite having large stretches
lined up with settlements, pedestrian infrastructure like sidewalks and safe
crossings were a rarity. On several occasions, battered vehicles stood witness
to moments where speedy ones almost kissed me goodbye. Maimed
butterflies and dead insects, who had endured a different fate, were littered
all over. At Dulegauda, a vehicle overtaking another one hit me. My feet went
off the ground and time froze. A car coming in from the other direction hit its
brakes hard and the couple inside stared in shock. Time chose not to stop
that day though, and I carried on with a swollen arm.

Laketown Connections

Having only had a packet of orange biscuits gifted by a wrinkled, but clean
shaved shopkeeper, all afternoon, I reached the busier parts of the city of
Pokhara at around eight in the evening. It was only the last stretch of the
road that really tired me, for the pedestrian belt, starting from the vicinity
preceding Lekhnath junction, had been belittled and buried, for the messy
highway expansion that was in the works. So, when I saw a woman with a
crateful of oranges, my miserly ways could not stand ground. I ate that
orange with absolute relish and parted ways with twenty rupees. After it
sweetened my mouth, I walked with greater impetus; only a boy playing
with flames made me halt for a while.

I was in touch with several Pokhareli well wishers via social media, and
through the grace of friends. One of them was Sumit, who had a restaurant
in Gairapatan. He waited for me, as I trebled my pace to find and reach the
place before the shutters had to be pulled down. No fault of his though; he
repeatedly offered to come where I was and pick me up on his motorcycle,
but getting on a vehicle while on the walk seemed like a sin to me. I reached
the place in good time and was amazed to discover how long he had kept
track of and admired my initiatives. His father was pleasant company too. As
I consumed the rotis and curries insistently laid before me, the old man told
tales of how fate had led him to the city of lakes, in that space painted bright
and decorated by a stream of white butterflies.

“If you ever come to Pokhara, you know who to call.”

Old time well wisher Prakesh had said that to me – when, where, how or in
what context, I was and am unable to recall. Remembering that utterance, I
had made him a call while biting dust in the highway. We go back a long
way; through my charitable deeds and ones veering towards insanity, from
Sundhara to Jhamsikhel, he has always helped and encouraged me. From

76
the moment I met him that night, he gave me an unforgettable, family like
treatment, for which all the words of gratitude I may be able to yield will not
be enough. The long standing memories sure to be – of him driving the car at
snail‖s pace, as I walked behind it, to guide me to his house, and of spending
the second night with his family in mourning. To be able to accompany his
mother, as a member of the family, to the river of Seti at dawn, in a ritual to
mark the end of the period was a matter of great honor for me. We shared
the same room too, and consequent of the affinity, I got to be acquainted
with his ambitious plans to revamp the lakeside Evoke Restaurant. I
reminded him again, of how I believed that he had already succeeded in life,
but the visionary, possessed by powers beyond his will, would not find
contentment in that, I knew.

Pokhara, like other cities in this part of the globe, was taken by a
Kathmanduish fervor for urbanization, and hence, did not excite me. I spent
a considerable amount of time resting, and yet, still managed to walk over
twenty kilometers around the city in those two days, meeting the likes of the
family that ran the Madani homestay, who gave me a warm welcome and
served dollops of daalbhaat. I headed beyond the lake of Phewa feeling
strangely warm and fuzzy; grateful, for, I had the opportunity to experience
the city beyond the points of interest and touristy vibe it is best known for.

To The Source

Finding someone who could confirm the existence of an accessible trail that
linked Pokhara to Kusma via Panchase Bhanjyang was not an easy task. The
best trekking maps readily available on the internet showed a blank spot
beyond the pass. The ever reliable Maps.me also failed. While strolling
around the city, I made numerous inquiries. Finally, a soft spoken lad on a
mountain bike confirmed the existence of the trail. He had cycled there once.
He sure was a godsend!

After having lunch at Prakesh‖s place, I set out to Lakeside and followed a
road that ran by the northern shores of Phewa. It was winter, the skies were
clear. The cerulean blues of the lake merged with the skies at the horizon,
only the simmering waves and specks of descending paragliders interrupted
the continuum, embraced by hills lined on the sides.

For a fresh paradigm, I had tried conversing with some paragliding

instructors, but I presume that my outlook made me seem like not being
worth their time. I only had the opportunity to converse well with people
who could see beyond appearance, and that served my greater well being.

From Karaudi, great extents of seasonal fields became definitive. One could
make out from the topography that, in monsoon, Phewa and the narrow
river that fed it, must swell wildly, inundating and blessing the surroundings
with precious minerals. Permanent structures were scattered and away from
the banks. One could imagine the swelling of land prices, driven by tourism
potential, leading to a departure from agriculture for most local residents.
Why would one toil in the fields, if one could make manifolds more money,

77
and live a graceful life, by selling or leasing the land? I also sat there and
wondered if that was how the eastern lakeside must have looked before the
boom.

The further west I went, the narrower the river became, and the more fields
seemed lively. The houses were also of a more aesthetic mud and thatch
build. The air was sweet and light. The western tip of Phewa could be seen
from the village where the uphill climb began. The crisscrossing river filled
with rocks and surrounded by vibrant colors of life met it there. Upon
realizing that the buzz of the city was beyond the horizon, I felt a sense of
joy overtake me.

A couple of confusing ways were encountered, solely because of the

disruption of newly built roads. I called a dear friend after nightfall; the
conversation helped keep my spirit in check, at the cost of panting up my
first real uphill climb in months.

Priorities

Two lines of houses, all but two of which served as lodges, stood on top of
Panchase Bhanjyang. The air was cool and calming, and as I was to witness
that night – the people joyous and carefree. I entered a house with lights on
unannounced. The woman there, who wore a fat blue cap, was at first
unwilling to acquiesce to my request for a small discount. I had made a habit
of negotiating an honorable price before settling in; the shock encountered
on the second day of the walk at Darchula had necessitated it. Nonetheless,
later, upon finding the right environment to share the nature of my walk;
after the more conventional visitors left fulfilled, I started talking.

The almost juvenile, lightheaded teasing stopped there. The people huddled
around the fire were fascinated by the audacity of my ordeal. It almost
seemed like they were enchanted, and I could only leave them unfulfilled
with my manner of narration. The food served there was full of goodness. To
the detriment of the cat that refused to abandon the stove side, I cleared the
plate immaculately. In my eyes, hunger had shimmered too. The few tales
that I shared drew not only fixed attention, but with popular agreement, an
unexpected discount as well.

The next morning, I skipped the pond of Panchase, from where the lake of
Phewa was said to spring. My priorities at that point were different, and
having familiarized with the wondrous bodies of Phoksundo, Rara, Gokyo
and Tilicho, an extra hour of walk to witness another pond seemed like a
mundane endeavor. What was wondrous though was the build of the houses
that dotted hamlets on the way down to Kusma. Large pumpkins were
stacked on ledges on the first floor of houses painted with the perfect blend
of saffron and white, above which bands of dry corn were hung. Narrow
alleys, just spacious enough for two people to pass through, existed as zones
of cool comfort in the villages of and around Arthar. People could be seen
busy managing stacks of corn.

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The first concrete structure I saw that day heralded the beginning of a
different reality; a community hospital held the promise of city like
development, and consequent pride for the village, by its side stood a
disregarded Buddhist monument. Thereon, the most defining feature of that
region became apparent; the penetration of roads. Newly scraped ones
swirled around to meet every home, the promise of perfecting and sustaining
the likes of which seemed to be beyond the means of the local government.
The roads brought in modern construction materials. One by one, old
structures shattered by the earthquake were being brought down by efficient
teams, to make way for concrete ones thought to be sounder. For that
purpose, taking large loans was the accepted consideration. As I have
mentioned before, urban realms did not fascinate me. The same held true for
Kusma. The lack of conversation at and the messy nature of a local food joint
was a major turn off. Without exploring the cluster of concrete, I continued
on the highway.

Finding A Home

The charm of exploration lies in remaining open to all possibilities. Staying

true to yourself, allowing your instincts, your curiosity, to dictate your
destination, rather than the other way round, is near essential for an
enriching experience on the road. Traveling with a rigid itinerary saps all life
out of it. Always leave room for improvisation, you never know the wonders
that life may bestow upon you.

Baglung, like almost every other place I visited, was the figurative x on an
algebraic expression. Only while scaling up the stairs from the highway that
swung to the blues of the Kali Gandaki River did I find out that Santosh, the
person whose contact I had acquired was on the other end of the elongated
district. He made a call to a compeer who was in town. The man was broadly
disinterested; he could not really relate with the walk. Arrangements were
made for me to spend the night in a leaden Futsal arena. It was there that I
met several young men from the town.

Dipendra of Hallanchowk happened to be there as well. The soft spoken, UK

returnee, with a build on the upside, told me that I was living his dream. He
had always wanted to go on a long, aimless walk, but was let down by
circumstances. Having struggled hard with student debt and a debilitating
longing for home during his late formative years, his heart was a sea of
kindness. Without a second thought, he invited me to stay with him. I did
not know where I was going, but I had already found home in the dearness
of his conduct.

The next day, he showed me around town. It all started with a view from the
balcony of his house – one of the highest midtown. On one side, the
mountains and a hill lined the not too distant horizon, below which were
scattered numerous multi floored brick structures lacking paint and plaster,
further below, empty plots of land were filled by structures with corrugated
sheet roofs, slum like extensions, clamped down using bricks. On the other
side stood a lone mud house, surrounded by trees, in its medieval splendor.
It had survived because of an insistent old man, and was later rented to

79
tenants with limited means. After taking a few snaps, we proceeded to a café
that had introduced machine coffee to the town. It was his morning ritual to
have espresso and catch up with friends there. Much of the man‖s life
revolved around his friends.

The structures in the town could be broadly segregated into three types –
ones built by Newah entrepreneurs who had actively spread far east and
west from Kathmandu in the previous two centuries, that stood out with
their raw brick orange, wooden verandas and windows, then there were
structures from the final decades of the previous century which were made
of finer brick and molded into European form, and finally, the houses from
this millennia, which were efficiently stacked masses of bricks. On some
walls, advertisements of biscuits and other common goods were painted in a
style that evoked nineties nostalgia. The use of vibrant colors on houses,
even mud ones in the periphery, deserves mention. It had a lot to say about
the people there.

Dipendra supported my hunch to walk to Beni and back. He backed me up by

saying that I could stay as long as I wanted to in his house. He walked with
me to the eastern end of the town, from where the trail that ran on the
western bank of the Gandaki River could be clearly seen. The color of the
river on that bend and the way that the smooth hills around it
complemented it still remains fresh in my mind. The breezy winds, the
shade of green hills, and the ripples of the river added to the joy of the walk.

I walked amidst hundreds of people who were in Beni for the annual fair.
The dickensian nature of affairs and blaring noise were not for long bearable;
I could not find happiness in what the crowd did and so I had to part. From
there, I headed north to Galeshwar. There, I made a futile attempt to interact
with gurukul students who wore blue jackets over their golden dhotis and
had their hair styled in the Brahmin way. They were passing a slipper, used
as a makeshift ball, in glee. It became clear why the boys seemed reluctant
when they retreated with their heads held low after the priest reprimanded
them in a nasty manner. The temple atop a rock held little promise.

Tradeoff Highway

Life is all about tradeoffs. By choosing to embark on a route that led to

Eastern Rukum through Gulmi, Pyuthan, Salyan and Rolpa, I missed out on
the Dhorpatan region and the western, shadowed, part of that anomalously
stretched district of Baglung. Till date, it remains one of the few regions in
this part of the globe that I have not set foot on.

Nevertheless, by the time I had set westwards from the town of Baglung, the
trade off had started seeming like a good one. The freshly excavated earth
regaled under the sun in fire orange splendor, a feast for the eyes. On drier
days, it must have kissed the skies and muffed down on the facades of
surrounding homes. The setting might have seemed dire but for the little
children who sprung to life upon noticing my camerawork. They huddled,
they ran; up the ladder that had sought to bridge the gap between what used
to be the walkway and their homes, and down again, incessantly, flustering.
After a while, I bade them goodbye, fields of gold and green awaited me.

80
Baglung: Mid Hill Highway construction

81
On a particular turn, the compass on my phone led me astray. The shortcut
that ran straight up a hill wounded by slithering roads would have
irreversibly altered the course of the walk were it not for a man with a
muffled voice who asked me where I was headed towards. While descending
back hastily, my bowels could not hold it anymore. I had to go, and there
was no shack latrine in sight; in all honesty, a situation that oft occurred.
There were no trees, no foliage, and unlike that popular shampoo tagline,
there was something to hide. When I saw a rivulet with boulders, my
immediate instinct was to run up behind one.

I stepped out a relieved man. A few moments later, a mean, red faced man
confronted me.

“What are you doing in this village? Didn‖t you just go up? I feel you‖re up to
something fishy.”

I felt somewhat relieved, for he had not seen me relieve and that for me was
more of a reason for worry. With a composed demeanor, I explained to him
the situation. He let me go muttering a distasteful growl. Fair enough. Such
incidences were common during the walk.

After being enveloped by dust clouds flung by vehicles speeding on the Mid
Hill Highway in a manner that made me seem like an explosion survivor
from one of those classic Warner‖s toons, I felt muddied when sweat
drenched me, on that once prominent trail to Galkot Hatiya via
Ghodhabandhe. It was quite scenic and retained a rustic character. Friends
affiliated with a party suggested that I stay with their comrade‖s family in
Galkot. The home was cozy and I shared the room with a school going child
who could not comprehend the rationale of the walk, but dared to question,
time and again, unlike the adults. The riverside town had a distinct, anti
Baglung town feel; a reflection of its history as a once independent kingdom.
Beyond and around it lay green and pink fields, flanked by soothing hills of
blue. If I had stayed there for a few more days, I would certainly have had
more to say.

Further, up on the road, there were landslides everywhere. One side of the
road was canyon red, while the other was green with trees, the river below
stood slim in testament. The construction of the Mid Hill Highway was in full
swing. After passing a team of workers operating ear jarring blowers, little
houses started appearing on the road; it seemed like the settlement of
Handikhola was approaching. From there, the highway would be abandoned
for the aforementioned detour.

Shifting Priorities

Hundreds of trees had been maimed and uprooted in an effort to expand the
road that connected Gulmi with the Mid Hill Highway that ran on the other
side of the river. It was a bitter sight. Most of them were pipal trees by whose
proportions it could be deciphered that they had stood witness to hundreds
of years of history. Traditionally, it used to be considered a sin to fell those

82
trees that, also, served shade for people to rest under and discussions to
ensue.

Wami Taksar was set to become a highway town, the land prices sure must
have escalated, but its character had been irreversibly compromised. The
few archaic structures that dated back to its heyday, when it housed the
regional coin issuance office, looked out of place in the new scheme of
things. Better days loomed ahead for the people of the town, but as an old
local repeatedly muttered, the town had been robbed of dharma.

While observing footprints, of various forms and sizes, on the dusty road
that ran along the Badi Gaad (rivulet), trying to imagine how the people who
had shared the road with me must look like, a man who was limping along
caught my eye. He wore a large cloak like coat and supported himself with a
stick. One of his hands remained awkwardly lifted indicating paralysis. For
my grandfather suffers from a similar ailment, with endearment I struck a
conversation with him. The man did not have much to share; he was
consumed by a chronic urgency to find a cure. He saw hope in every man,
every method, and the fact that he had the wealth to pursue many
prospective cures did not help. With an expecting smile, he asked me
whether I was a sage and could cure him with magic. In miracles of such
form, I do not believe.

Every little helpful gesture on the road helped reinforce my faith. The gleamy
eyed hotelier from Indregauda insisted on not accepting any reimbursement
and that was the beginning of a rosier phase. The foggy riverside was
refreshingly cool, the sunset on green fields wondrous, and the view after an
uphill climb – heavenly. Howbeit, encounters with children working to
extract sand from the riverbed, under exploitative conditions, for they
believed in the power of money above all, and the reluctance exhibited by
road workers camped in the jungle to share their thoughts or concerns,
meant that like any other day that one was not free of stifles either.

I proceeded up from the Challi River, then across the historically significant
region of Dhurkot, to reach Wagla on my last night in Gulmi. From there, at
dusk, the mountains of Dolpo, Manang and Mustang shone in gold, and that
sight took me back to the days when I had trodden amidst those peaks. The
next morning, I woke up to see the shopkeeper there preparing oily
doughnuts by the dozen. I was genuinely surprised. Furthermore, they sold
like hotcakes across the village.

Efficiency was the order of the day, and many people questioned that day,
like on any other, the rationale behind walking. I for one was content
enjoying the scenic views on the downhill walk to a point in Purkot, where
the districts of Arghakhanchi, Pyuthan and Gulmi met. There, a strange
woman who wore a wicked expression served me food for one hundred
rupees. While resting, her Gholumish mannerisms made me wonder if what
I had consumed was safe. As I readied my bag to depart, she came to realize
that I was not a local and wallowed in self pity for having made concessions.

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 The Promise Of Heaven

For the people who have spent the majority of their lives within the limits of
a particular region, their abode rarely has an equal in any good measure. Not
just the most magnificent of hills, rivers, dunes, and viewpoints are in the
vicinity, but also the mightiest religious and historical wonders. Narratives
are built on thin air. Their goodness is incomparable, unmatchable, they feel.
It is such misinformed and deep rooted pride that leads to intolerance.

Many a people enunciated upon the wonders of Swargadwari. They spoke of

miracles and praised the views that the gateway to heaven (literal
translation) offered. When I told one of them, in all sincerity, that it was
neither the temple nor the wish to see to see the town (even though the
wide, green fields had me smitten) that had brought me to Pyuthan, he spat
on the ground. He spat on the ground because he could not spit on my face –
such was his displeasure! If I had added that I had already crossed a
thousand hills of the kind that he was talking about, that could have
certainly caused matters to escalate to my detriment. The persistent
patriarch still offered me advice on the route, with full faith that I would not
disregard such an excellent opportunity to earn merit. Yet, all my faith lay in
the westward direction. As in the case with the saari clad woman, working
on the road construction crew that I had met that morning near
Baskholgaun, who recommended that I visit a pioneer communist leader‖s
village, I listened patiently to the matters the man chose to elaborate on, but
moved undeterred.

A young, married woman who prepared lunch for me at a local eatery in

Dhungethanti expressed reluctance to have her picture taken, despite
wanting to, for she feared that such an act could invite backlash from the
community; concrete buildings had not changed concrete conventions. On
the uphill push to the pass of Aresh, two young women refused to respond
to my request to point out the trail that bypassed the never ending spiraling
road, which I later came to understand was because of the trauma they had
endured during the years of the conflict. I had noticed hundreds of maimed
and broken people after entering the Maoist heartland of the years of
conflict. A frustrated farmer complained of how the rivulet that inundated
his fields brought with it tobacco chew wrappers that stifled his produce, a
man had previously commented that the farmer by the river was suffering
for he had embraced Christianity. Right below the pass three cows
interrupted a game of volleyball. They were chased away by all in unison,
and with them, the sun went down. At the pass, a scraggly man cursed his
fate. He sighed that for he could not kill or plunder, toil was inevitable. Such
powerful encounters I would have missed, if I had followed the trail of
saints.

Following Lights

I grew up with a strictly pro establishment view of the Maoist movement.

Later on, after my years of fiery discontent, I lacked the conviction to do

84
Gulmi: Landscape west of Indregauda

85
anything but simply sit under a tree and read, read about what stirred and
shaped the fate of this part of the globe, for days on end. Those days became
months, as I found all the time in the world to reflect upon the life I had
lived, and the notions that I had held firmly on to, until then.

Setting foot on Rolpa, the seat of the erstwhile Maoist parallel government,
marked the crossing of a significant psychological barrier. The response at
the remote yet stunningly beautiful village of Aresh, stuck in another point
in time, did not offer comfort. For it was time for sundown and the nearest
settlement of size was at least two hours away, I sought a place to stay
there. With a tone of voice in which fear and confusion were palpable, a local
elder made a flimsy excuse and stated that there probably was not a single
free bed in the village. The people around him nodded in unison. A lone
man, one that was not a fair skinned tourist, walking without a care was too
much for them to digest. People like me probably had been a source of great
trouble back in the days of conflict. After the expression of my will to sleep
on the floor drew only further hesitance, I adopted the usual course of action.
I chose to move on over staying stuck in the limbo.

Like finely laid layers of cream on cake, the smooth hills that could be seen
on the way down were terraced with winding lines in a manner that evoked
delight. In fiery red the treeless hilltops shone, at sundown the shadowed
hills below turned sweet navy blue. After a while, a fairly large shoestring of
golden light became visible far below. The highway town of bricks and
mortar was to be my abode for the night. There had apparently been a fair at
the town; many people were on an uphill scurry to get back home. I met an
old man bound by faith, who offered me his bed to sleep on, but upon
realizing that it would be a disservice to his family of seven – many of whom
shared the bed with him, I politely refused. I lost my way twice while
scampering down, each time the distancing lights convinced me to retreat
and seek another path.

At Sulichaur, like in any other highway town, it was routine endeavor to

seek a discount on the overpriced room, followed by an effort to figure out
the way ahead in daalbhaat time conversations, before retreating to a dingy,
malodorous room to let exhaustion save the night. There was steady internet
access which led me to spend some time before falling asleep reflecting upon
the Rolpa I had imagined – rural, deprived, backwaters, and the Rolpa I had
found – like any other place in this part of the world, on a kathmanduesque
path of development.

The next morning, two overly friendly men, one with a bandana strapped on
his head and the other with no features of note, stopped me on the way and
took me to a teashop in the opposite direction. As much as I wanted to think
of them as plain, curious people, the intelligence with which they procured
minute details about my walk led me to believe they were either police
officers, or comrades, on duty.

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 Barefoot Smiling

Agile excavators were challenging the lack of connectivity that once made
Guerilla warfare viable at every turn. By the masses, the view that prosperity
lies in the flow of vehicles and information is held unquestionably dear, as
the shastras once were. Therefore, towards Thabang I walked from Sulichaur
on dusty tracks pounded by tractors, motorcycles and sports vehicles.

Red boards with names of ranked cadres that had fallen for the revolution,
the cause and date of their demise, stood as metaphors. Most of them were
rusty, dust laden and neglected. A board in Jaimakasala had eleven listed as
martyrs of the People‖s Village Government. One of them had murder listed
as the cause of death, but someone had scrapped out one of the alleged
murderer‖s name. Was it a misdemeanor or had the change in political
relations warranted the removal? Will the boards remain relevant in the
times to come? Questions, so many questions!

On the way, I met a young man whose family, like many others that were
able to, had fled to the capital to escape wartime troubles. After that, he had
only visited the village once. Thus, the semi outsider who had come home to
observe mourning with a friend was a suitable companion. Furthermore, his
relatives happened to own a hotel. The familiarity of the uphill climb and
walk across landslides, into that cozily nestled village between high hills of
green and red, had bred between us turned out to be of help.

I shared the dorm that night with road workers who had unique perspectives
to offer. Not only did they concur with my observation of the continuation of
archaic practices, the likes of which had invited prosecution elsewhere for
they were deemed not to be of revolutionary character, in the heartland of
the Maoist movement itself, but also openly talked about how hashish trade
had been for years the source of local prosperity. They remarked that the
road building process had faced countless obstructions because it went
against such interests. For all the good that had been done, it seemed like
the literature that I had read had painted a rather idealistic picture of affairs.

Winter rain fell heavily that night. The next morning, it could be observed
that the way up to the pass, one that seemed miniscule compared to the
ones that I had scaled in the mountains, had become encumbered by snow.
White on orange, with thatched grays and pinewoods, were to the eyes
soothing, but a slippery mess to deal with. Midway up the steaming hill,
snowfall resumed. Navigating the snow without a stick for balance required
extreme concentration. The sight of groups of joyous boys and girls playing
with snow, across the pass, did not do much to ease my woes. It was only an
encounter with a woman in her sixties, if not seventies, draped in a polyester
shawl and wearing flip flops on her sluggish ascent up the pass that
humbled me into feeling content about the state of my being.

I followed the road and fearing a blackout had stale samosas from the
previous day‖s fair at a junction. The men and women there were throwing
muddy snowballs at each other in a flirty fit, some of it landed on the
samosa I was having, but having endured unexpected snowfall, I was in a
too stoical of a mood to complain. Another turn later, Thabang came to sight.
The capital of the erstwhile People‖s Government was a sizable, traditional
village that stood on the upper half of a hill, slit through the middle by a new

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road that had limited the use of an intimidating flight of white stairs that
descended down to the river basin. Only a few of the surrounding terraced
fields had not fallen into disuse.

With the help of Puspa, who I was in touch with through social media, and
Bikkil, whose pictures had inspired me to head there, I received the contact
of one of the local conveners of an underground Communist outfit. Meeting
him was first in the order of priorities. The abundance of houses that
retained the style of a bygone era with golden maize strung on verandas and
the presence of an Esewa outlet were the first things that caught my eye.

I stopped at a house to ask for directions to the comrade‖s home. The very
same house turned out to be the one I was looking for – an incredible
coincidence! He appeared a while later and after laying a few basic questions
before me, warmly welcomed me to stay at his place. Because of the nature
of my walk, which reminded them of their ordeals during the war years,
more often than not, dedicated former Maoist combatants received me with
warmth wherever I went. The comrade offered to show me around.

Thabang did have a political aesthetic, there were revolutionary slogans and
paintings at every turn, but the cultural and religious aspects were visually
prominent. Unique, intricate carvings on wooden windows and arcs depicted
fables with elements of lifestyle. There were figures of spirits created to
maintain harmony outside houses. Paths were paved with stone everywhere
and women could be seen weaving cloth on spinning wheels. The
environment was pleasing to the eye, but it could not hide the horrors of the
past for long.

Unhealed Wounds

One of the weavers told me of how she had had to abandon the village
fearing for her life during the conflict because of her political orientation. She
lisped and stopped talking once the comrade came to sight. Another woman
reminisced, in tears, the day when the army burned down over a dozen
houses in the village in retaliatory action. Everyone had a tale from and a
dear one lost to the conflict. Some of the battle trenches dug around the
village had been buried, but many still remained. Quite a few people, since I
had entered the district, had casually told me that some hilltop bunkers still
had weapons in them, ready for use when deemed necessary. When I tried
to reach one of them too intently, the comrade, who had taken off to capture
a pheasant he had seen, met me with a discouraging vibe.

In the evening, a bunch of other party men gathered at his place, where
Prachanda and other prominent Maoist leaders had apparently spent days
on end during the war years, for dinner. One of them had lost his hand while
handling a pressure cooker bomb, another had lost a limb in cross firing. All
of them had distinct bullet marks or torture wounds on some part of the
body, all of them had lost a close friend or family member. They told of how
they had done their best to convince the people of Thabang to boycott
elections, to keep private schools out, to prohibit the sale of alcohol, to keep

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Rolpa: Placed to ward off supposed evil spirits in a street turning in Thabang

89
international interests and funds out; to keep the People‖s Government and
its ideals alive. Yet, like in any other place in this part of the world, capital
ruled the roost. It was completely understandable why these men despised
every course of action taken by the party leadership after the twelve point
agreement that brought the conflict and with it realistic hopes of the
promised revolution to an end. They had sacrificed it all for the cause, and
for them there was more to gain than to lose on the altar of idealism.

The next morning, the comrade showed me Thabang‖s most prominent

landmark, the People‖s Hall, which had held a couple of notable
revolutionary gatherings. It was a large, unfurnished concrete hall, nothing
as grand as the people of Sulichaur had claimed it to be. It could not justify
the mystique that surrounded it. I had lunch at the nearby residential school.
The comrades bade me farewell with a bag of roasted corn and beans.
Despite the callous manner in which they talked of having knocked down
many people during the conflict, and of having witnessed pillaging, rape and
torture, these men still had goodness in their hearts. The time spent with
them only served to reinforce my belief in the absolute absurdity of this
world. In silent contemplation, I headed down to the Mid Hill Highway via
Mahat.

Lilly Pond

It was mostly middle aged and elderly people who were hard at work,
constructing gabion barriers and drainage lines – a prelude to black topping,
on the stretch of the Mid Hill Highway that ran along Rukum Gaad. The river
divided East Rukum from Rolpa. While strutting with the breeze down that
dusty road, I came across two girls in their early twenties sitting in the
roadside shade, one with a green ghalek and sneakers on, another with a
purple blouson jacket and bar shoes. The friends were on their way to
Rukumkot. They shared some biscuits with me and I took that welcoming
gesture as an invitation to tag along. As far as the road ran straight, they
remained speedy and averse to meaningful conversation. Yet once the uphill
climb began, with the rise in resting stops, avenues of conversation also
opened up. Among other things, the girls remarked about how the diversity
of the villages on the northern side of the river had ensured non alignment
and relative peace during the years of conflict.

The path we were on was shadowed. As dusk neared, the hills and
mountains on the other side started acquiring a golden hue; that sight and
the cool breeze that flowed brought delight to our drenched faces. We arrived
at Rukumkot happy. The blessed reflection on the mirror like waters of
Kamal Daha (Lotus Pond), of those very same hills of gold, was the icing on
the cake. Oh, the sorcery of sundown lighting!

It was almost dark and I decided to stay at the nearest hotel. Almost all the
people who stayed there were NGO workers and I could not blame the
efficient hoteliers for placing me in the same bracket. At dinner hour, I was
inspected by a group of police officers in the most humble of ways possible. I

90
dealt with confidence, complied with their request to share details and note
down a few numbers without a hitch. They were more concerned with the
demonstrations against the proposal to shift the district headquarter away
anyways. After they went away, a woman approached me with solicitous
eyes. She hailed from the flatland city of Nepalgunj, was stationed at the
Mahat Health Post, and stated, in a tone of voice whose genuineness could
not be questioned, that she saw her brother in me. All her troubles, the
contrivances of being an outsider, she bestowed before me. I listened well
that day but the trust she indebted me with I knew not how to pay back. As
the walk continued, many such sisters and mothers called me with concern,
but I never had the right words with me. For my numbness, I still am yet to
figure out whether an apology is due or not.

Early next morning, I resumed the walk and headed westwards up a hill. It
was only from there that I saw how magnificent the settlement was. The
part that the shacks and houses occupied was only the corner bit of that
large, flattish hill expanse, full of bright green terraced fields, flanked on all
sides by larger hills of a contrasting shade. The rich blue Bheri River,
surrounded by whitish banks of sand, flowed away and hid amidst the
forested hills on the other side. Such a soothing sight to behold!

A couple of kilometers away from the town, protestors had dug up a section
of the road, disabling vehicular movement. Consequently, I met more people
than usual on the way. Among them was an elderly man carrying a huge
sack and a loaded bag. I offered to carry his burden and we walked towards
West Rukum at a leisurely pace on the road track that ran on sides of epic
hills.

Fears And Reassurances

Forlorn colors dissipated into darkness, 1830 hours and I was right below
Musikot; at the highway junction of Shitalpokhari. It was not a lack of
energy, but of intent, that made me settle there. The highway shacks were
sure to be more affordable than the hotels with half baked fanciness up the
hill. As fate had decided for me, I met a sympathizing former PLA Colonel
who had thinned his boots during the years of war. He was slightly tipsy and
overly emotional.

“Please, please, let your friends in Kathmandu know that Rukum and Rolpa
have changed for the better. Let them know that you have been treated
well.”

He pleaded many times, and without letting me know settled my bills.

Musikot Khalanga, the Headquarter of West Rukum, like almost all centers
of pre unification city states stood on top of a hill. In those times of constant
warring and plundering, having a geographical advantage was critical for
survival. The city‖s concrete expansion ran along the highway, and down a
flight of stairs; the old trail. It was through those ways that I walked, pausing

91
only to observe a game of football on a ground that stood on a precarious hill
edge.

I descended the hill, through barren portions and then a forested bit, and
continued on the highway that led to Salyan. The residents of every
settlement in and around the highway had suffered a lot during the conflict,
and the manner in which it was pushed as a guerilla trail through boards put
up by district authorities in collaboration with the tourism board seemed
insensitive and demeaning. On the highway, I noticed an odd, dusty
milestone – Kathmandu 545 KM. It had been nineteen days since I had
resumed the walk from the valley. The milestone made Kathmandu seem
distant, and at the same time, paradoxically, within reach.

If it were not for a portion in which I took a shortcut through a forest as the
sun shied away, the day‖s walk would have been rather dull. A group of
young people were having a good time on the way. They seemed
flabbergasted when I told them I was walking because I wanted to and not to
fulfill any particular purpose. It seemed to them that I was hiding something,
or worse a lunatic — an allegation that I was used to. On similar grounds,
the people I encountered on a roadside settlement on the flatlands of
Shivarath refused to grant me a place to stay. One pointed to a large concrete
building, a hotel on top of the hill of Bangelakhuri, and on the effort to get
there, I focused all my attention. Darkness took over, the shortcuts became
invisible, and, roaring trucks became my guiding light up that long,
swiveling road. I was rewarded, for I made rich conversation with the
hotelier there. He talked of how Salyan was witnessing an agricultural
reawakening, as commercialization was gaining ground. Another guest, an
engineer at work on a nearby hydropower project, expressed optimism about
the district‖s future.

Time To Get A New Half Pant

A detour from the highway was necessary to maintain my westward

trajectory. Instead of heading down to Salyan Khalanga, I inquired and
improvised; found a trail that led to Jajarkot via Chaurajahari of West
Rukum. The way that ran through hills covered by splendid green fields had,
for the most part, been recently expanded into a road.

The natural instinct of reciprocating dread with distrust and warmth with
trust always held sway. On that way, on which outsiders rarely ventured, I
was met with curiosity and excitement. It was one of those odd days, when
for even once I did not hesitate to share the true nature and extent of my
walk. Otherwise, the usual course of action would have been to refer to a
point not too far away as my destination; my objective was not to garner
attention, but to mold circumstances in a way that helped elongate and ease
the walk.

That day, I was first greeted by a group of women who were basking in the
sun at a small village junction. There out of hunger, I searched for an eatery.
To the detriment of my gurgling belly, not a single one was present there. I

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Rukum West: A trail through fields

93
garbled biscuits for lunch. There was a minor bustle in the vernacular for a
while, before one of the women finally found it appropriate to ask me the
reason behind my walk. My reasons, or the lack thereof, were beyond their
understanding. Nevertheless, instead of despair they found amusement in
the encounter. They kept smiling as I went. In Bhalchaur, a food shack
owner compared me with the famed cyclist Pushkar and some of his friends
joined the conversation with glee. Beyond that town, the trail narrowed
down and skimmed through river valleys, between fields. It was the kind of
trail in which one could easily lose one‖s way, but not be dismayed; there
was much that enchanted and uplifted the senses. An elderly man tagged
along for a while and tested me with a few questions, but sent me away with
blessings and a lesson from the Gita.

As the stream mixed in with a river, whose sides transformed into a bumpy
tractor track, then a road, students could be seen rushing back home. In
rural hinterlands, young people were always more open to test the
boundaries of the limitations they had been taught. Many of them
surrounded me, questioned me, posed for the camera, and a few, once they
concluded I was harmless, came forward with their whys and hows.

The shortcut that went astray from the road led me back to the riverside
again. While crossing a canal, one of my slippers escaped with the flow. For
only slippers of a certain kind fit and suited my feet, and the troubles of a
barefoot walk for a few hours on surfaces that I did not know of awaited me
on the way to the nearest market, I became petrified in sorrow. Somehow, a
gracious old man appeared behind me out of nowhere, and made a quick
move to catch hold of the slipper. My slipper was saved! The man moved
ahead firmly; without a smile, without asking questions, towards the setting
sun without stopping.

At Chaurajahari that night, I had to hustle and make several inquiries to find
an affordable hotel. One of the tradesmen from Jumla who I had encountered
on the way helped me find a cheap hotel. It was probably in return for the
advice I had offered. They complained of being barred and harassed by local
governments and businesspeople all around, for they sold cloth at a price
below what the market had set, without having to pay taxes. I encouraged
them to meet the Chief Minister and unionize to protect their interests.

The next morning this miser realized that his half pant was torn beyond
repair. Another one was necessary but buying apparel was something that,
out of habit above all else, I held great resistance against; of an occasion
during the slim budgeted walk I do not know of where I expended on
logistics with glee. The seller quoted a price of five hundred rupees for it. I
immediately made a case for a discount. The man wearing a white kurtha
started at me in confusion for a while. Then he exclaimed:

“Because of the way you look, I thought we were of the same community! I
have already offered you a price only reserved for brethren!”

He then laughed heartily. I smiled back.

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 Not Welcome

There probably is not a greater extent of fertile plains around the Bheri River
(in the hills) than in Chaurajahari Kudu. After crossing the river, which
carved a prominent gorge, and drenching myself on an uphill climb, I arrived
at a hilltop from where the topography was clearly visible. Amidst scores of
overlapping forested hills, spring green prairies and fields of a lighter shade
stretched wide. A road ran through Kudu, another ran along the banks of
Chaurajahari, little houses had sprung up around them. The pristine blue of
the sky reflected on the river, the white sandy banks added to the serenity of
the landscape. The valley was a painting brought to life.

I continued walking on the Mid Hill Highway. An idol less shikhar style
temple was marked with what was in all probability a road expansion tag –
BL12, what that meant for its future I feared. It was in a sorry state and the
locals I met seemed unaware of its history or significance. In the following
days and weeks, I saw hundreds of such roadside structures meted out to
the generosity of the elements and road contractors.

The day‖s walk would have been fairly mundane, a cross hill exchange of
curses between two feisty women could not be ignored though, were it not
for an odd experience in Gima (if I remember the place‖s name correctly). The
people that I inquired about a possible shortcut on a downhill road swirl
gave me grave looks and offered odd responses. An old woman responded
with a sadistic smile:

“Think you might get beaten up today.”

I had been to thousands of villages, seen millions of things, and had

witnessed stranger things and people; I was not rattled. When I reached a
larger settlement by a river junction, in which I planned to stay, a young
man approached me with inquiries. With a serious demeanor, he warned me
to stay away. Careful with my words, I asked for a reason.

An outsider who had sought refuge for a night in a nearby village, turned out
to be a bandit. The man and his accomplices robbed the house. Following
which they assaulted and molested a woman.

“After that the CDO and the police came to the village. They have told us that
we can beat up any new person we see. We will not be punished for it. In
fact, we have been encouraged to do that for our safety.”

I decided against staying in the village after that explanation and continued
upstream on that dry stream, full of boulders.

After losing my way several times, only to be met and corrected by

suspicious eyes from afar, I reached the village of Pogara (was pronounced
that way, but perhaps, Pokhaura). I found a simple lodge there, right before
the sun set in a splendid fashion. The room I was allotted belonged to the
children. Their books and colors were taken away, before the room was
passed on to me. The wise and objective hotel owner explained that the
villagers had certainly misinterpreted what the authorities had said. They
had not sanctioned mindless violence, but merely suggested that the
villagers could retaliate against strangers who attempt to break in at night
without fear of legal consequences. It was a case of enduring trauma coupled
with the telephone game. Luck had saved me for the umpteenth time.

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 Home To Lords

Emerging market towns in the western hills were being populated by tightly
packed corrugated sheet structures. Older, artistically endowed houses of a
mightier kind stood apart, not just in the district headquarters but also in the
most rural of villages. The structures stood as symbols of tradition, but also
inequality and oppression, something that remittance income, emigration
and the resultant shift in power dynamics, were slowly wearing away.
Jajarkot was no exception. There was no electricity in Pokhaura, which lay
on the outskirts of Bheri Municipality. Jajarkot Khalanga on a not too distant
hill could be seen shining bright in the night. The power supply there, from
where many a lord hailed, too was unreliable.

Poles stood in pairs, resembling rugby posts, along the highway. They had
been affixed a fair while ago; the promise of electricity was there. A man
wearing a pagadi and dhara, the traditional attire, looked at me curiously, as
I took pictures of the poles. He set before me the usual questions of inquiry.
His sons had migrated to Kathmandu in search of labor work, and so he had
been to the valley too. For he believed Kathmanduites could not walk on
such terrain, he expressed suspicion about my intent. I came across people
like him every day; I lacked the energy to try to convince such people with
stern conclusions and chose to listen instead.

For most part, on the way to Dashera, the Mid Hill Highway was in
shambles. The half heartedly opened tracks on barren terrain were landslide
ridden. The passing of a herd of goats made for a troubling piece of
navigation on a steep hill, and with not many people passing by, finding
alternative ways was difficult. After filling my tummy in the lively market of
Dashera with whatever was available to go along with rice at a lone shack
that offered a meal at mid afternoon, I figured out that I had to take a steep
uphill climb.

As I progressed up, the true nature of the landscape with deserted terraced
fields and gigantic landslides was revealed. After a struggle up a couple of
landslides, a sparse forest began.

A group of fearful women I happened to come across told of how the forest
had earned a bad name for robberies. The last robbery had occurred years
ago, but the impression stood firm.

“Aren‖t you afraid of being robbed?”

A woman asked.

“What is there with me to rob? I would request the robbers to leave the
phone with me for it has a GPS tracker on and readily give away everything
else.”

I remember giving that spontaneous reply. I had repeatedly imagined and

reimagined being robbed, and thus would have been assuredly composed in
such a scenario.

I pushed to Chhededaha that night out of compulsion; locals at a couple of

small settlements turned me away. A fearful elderly woman pressed me to

96
move uphill after the children let me into their hut. I had no qualms though.
I was enjoying the walk.

The brilliant sunset orange gave way to bright moonlight. That night, the
waters I crossed on the way shone wildly. The kind hotelier at Chhededaha
explained that the experiences of the conflict had turned the people cold.
Almost every young villager had moved to Kathmandu or India to earn a few
bucks, because the agriculture was unreliable. He mentioned that my
experience could have been different if the educated folk were around. The
man and his wife refused to let me sleep without having dinner. They went
out of their way to make the effort, stating that they were used to
entertaining bus drivers in the middle of the night. The next morning, he
helped draw a map of the trail that led down to Bestada through the dense
forest on the other side of the hill.

Dusty To Dailekh

After descending from Suyada, I followed the dusty road track to the town of
Dailekh. The track winded along the river between bare topped, but
otherwise, forested hills. On the way down my slippers gave in. I limped
along. At Bestada, the only settlement of size for miles, I went around hoping
to find a place to get it repaired. A helpful man with a dhaka cap on took me
to the lone cobbler. He had quickly formed a positive opinion about the walk,
and requested the cobbler to not overcharge, telling him that I was on a great
mission of sorts before leaving. The grizzled man at work was about to leave
for lunch but went back in and asked for the slipper. He had found
satisfaction in the business he had started with assistance from development
agencies whose logos were plastered on the wall. The intrigued cobbler
refused to accept money for the work. I thanked him and left with grace.

Up until the third hour of that afternoon, all I had eaten was a piece of sweet
jeri. I eventually got tired of questioning the decision to skip a couple of
dusty roadside food shacks in the morning and came to terms with the
hunger. When I reached the settlement of Lore, which thrived by plundering
river resources, I had to convince myself to have some snacks for energy:

“Why spend on lunch now? Dailekh is not too far away, dinnertime is
approaching.”

I settled for vegetarian noodles over oily chowmein. Instant noodles have
generally replaced traditional offerings as the snack of choice throughout
this part of the globe. The decision to have snacks was a good one. It took
two hours of tedious, uphill navigation to get to Dailekh.

Neither had I rested well, nor I had I taken a bath since leaving Baglung. It
just did not make sense on those dusty roads. I decided to break the trend
that day. I went around asking for a hotel with an attached bathroom, clean
beds, and internet, and ended up at Mansarovar. I spent more money there
in two days than I had in an entire miserly week, but it all seemed worth it.

97
The downfalls at the hotel were minor. I freshened up and felt well rested
after an eternity.

I decided to stay for another day in the town. With the best of intents, a
friend connected via social media recommended another hotel for that day
and I shifted hoping to save a few bucks. The experience was a largely
compromised one, the saving negligible. On the bright side, unlike the staff
at the fancier hotel, the people there were rather familial and engaging.
Every choice on the road and in life has its trade offs.

New Mahalaxmi Cross

I spent my lazy day strolling around the town of Dailekh. The names of and
statues in two junctions first caught my attention. One was of the quixotic
poet Laxmi, while the other was of Dekendra, slain by Maoists in 2004 for
trying to advocate for the resumption of a water supply project. Almost a
decade later, perceived attempts to obstruct justice on the matter had led to
fiery protests. The two figures stood as metaphors for the evolution of the
place and its people.

Dailekh was on its way to becoming a concrete jungle. It was not an

exception to the rule. Tall houses lined on both sides of the main street that
ran along the hilltop gave shade to strollers. The odd structure from a
bygone era stood on every turn, but frail as a beaten horse whose time had
run its course. Construction workers at a turn were boasting about how
efficiently they had brought down one, how the day‖s work had ended so
quickly. The markers of Mashta (animistic) worship laid before some houses
were enveloped with posters. Lots of people, some seeking shade, others
waiting for busses, could be seen resting on them and conversing on the
street sides for the lack of chautaras. Roads had been expanded in the
immediate outskirts to facilitate the increasing number of vehicles. Piles of
mess had gathered on the backside of many houses; on empty slanting plots.
The town in transition had a messy outlook to it.

Two conversations from that day remain fresh in my mind. One with a boy
who believed he was saved by God, another with a man who believed an
intervention by gods was necessary to save the town. The cheerful chap had
issues being understood, and had escaped a dark life at home with the help
of a Korean church. A grant from them had allowed him to start a colorful
snacks stall. On the way to Bilaspur, I happened to enter a man‖s field
looking for a shortcut. He was with his child and had a calm demeanor. He
told me of how he was not satisfied with the way the town was changing –
how it had neglected its history and identity, how the people had given up
on farming and forgotten how beautiful the place was, and how he prayed to
gods to open up the populace‖s eyes, because no change could be possible
without collective consent. He blamed the loss of spirit, as he put it, on the
abandonment of the town by the educated elite.

The mindless drawing of the highway right next to the Panchadeval

monuments of yore was set to spell doom for them. Idols of significance and
glory had long ago been stolen. The case of the old palace complex in

98
Bilaspur was the same; even ruins could not be seen and the temple had
been reconstructed in a modern form, using modern materials. The fort, in
the southern end of the old market, retained its walls but nothing else.

Dailekh was a classic example. Most of the people I had conversations with
seemed to be deeply religious, exceptionally proud of their district and its
history, but a lack of critical thinking and consensus had hindered that pride
from aiding preservation coupled with positive evolution. In a democracy like
ours, where community institutions and values are eroding, with the drive to
accumulate money having clearly taken its place, strange outcomes are to be
expected. On the way back to the hotel, I saw a jewelry store named New
Mahalaxmi, after the Hindu god of wealth. However, the board perplexingly
had a cross on it too. On the same building, the flag of a party demanding
the restoration of Hindu statehood was tied. The store was empty, the owner
nowhere to be seen.

Once More With Karnali

Compared to the other half of the district, the Dullu region was visibly more
fertile and abundant, perhaps owing to the fact that it was closer to the great
Karnali. The winter capital of the medieval Khas Malla kingdom retained
more of a country demeanor than the other parts of the district. The ways of
old persisted.

Our fatalism makes us treat outsiders well, as long as they are perceived to
be of higher authority, strata, or influence. Declaring myself to me a
Kathmanduite was something that routinely worked in my favor. At the
charming village of Sigaudi, as I had readymade tidbits for lunch, a teacher
was encouraged by a gathering of people to ease my woes regarding the way
ahead. He accompanied me to the far end of the village and asked if I had a
piece of paper. When I told him that I did not, he simply grabbed my left
hand and in a flash started scribbling something on my palm with his pen. A
ticklish sensation ensued! Before I could complain, he was done. A turn by
turn map of the trail that led to the banks of the Karnali River was drawn on
my hand!

Through slips and slides down broken hillside shortcuts through a forest,
and careful navigation of narrow trails, I reached Rakam on the Karnali
Highway. It took me almost an hour to get to the riverside from the point
where I had first witnessed the glorious valley of greens and blues. The
moment I got there, many forgotten feelings started surging through the
winds. Two years ago, on a journey to Jumla and beyond, I had crossed the
very same point on a bus. The previous year, I had crossed the river in
Bajura, where it was narrower and, somewhat more, pristine. Later, as the
walk continued, I would cross the river again at Chisapani, and then in
summer, walk on the frozen rivulets that fed it in Humla. The river
represented a continuum where time dissolved into one and invoked a sense
of homecoming.

No bridge on the Mid Hill Highway is of a lengthier expanse than the one
built across the largest river in this part of the world in Belkhet. Children

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could be seen playing on that intimidating structure, yet to bear the brunt of
full utility. Looking at them, I wondered about the stories that they would be
sharing with their young ones someday. Across the river, a market town was
set to emerge.

While my feet were dipped in the cool waters of the river that constantly
sought to unite me with the flow, the nuanced artistry of turbulent waves
could be seen up close. The river played along, altered colors, with the
dimming light of the sky and deepening intensity of the waves. The anglers
on the other side were beyond reach, the river grumbled too ferociously.

I retreated to the lodge and had an unexpectedly pleasant conversation with

the owner after dinner. Unexpected, because the way he had tersely treated
members of a red flagged bandwagon from Dailekh after serving tea had left
an odious first impression. He complained of how his father had regretted
choosing to invest in studies instead of land in Kathmandu back in the day.
Luck had then not favored the knowledgeable! I did remind him of how he
would not have to feel bitter for long; he had an enviably large field that
would be worth millions if the highway were to become functional, which it
was set to be in a few years. That reassurance gave him some solace.

Time sure has its way of delivering justice.

Fill In The Blanks

An ascent equal to the descent down to meet the river of Karnali began from
Belkhet. For the first half, the trail ran up swirling road tracks, after that it
went through a forest, before meeting a straight track by whose side
hundreds of felled trees lay. My mood for some reason was geared towards
giving things a closer look that morning. One of the trees had survived
through fifty two winters without much turmoil; the rings on the log spiraled
even, in its afterlife, little cracks had webbed and widened delivering a work
of art, a work of death. On another fallen log, a sprout had emerged of colors
red and lime, shaped like a heart, calling for mercy with its shadow. The
birds had stopped singing. The road track raced straight, it had little time to
listen or learn.

From one edge of the hillside, the road curved and went towards the hill that
could be seen on the opposite side. It led to a man sleeping amidst
disregarded Panchadeval structures, one of which had met dust, in the
village of Binayak. One foot crossed over another, his face concealed by a
cap, hands inside the pockets of his jacket, he rested on the desecrated
temple abandoned by gods, immune to the pains of the world.

I had lunch, the usual daalbhaat, at a roadside shack. Some snappy young
men were deeply engaged in a game of carom board right outside. I
wondered if the woman, whose head was covered, who was busy preparing
and serving meals at the shack, ever got to play the game.

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Achham: Abandoned houses are a common sight in rural hills

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For hours after that, the strip was of a mundane nature and demanded
persistence. Highways are built to create efficient connections; they elude
vibrant communities and foster the creation of gray ones instead. Until I
reached the outskirts of Mangalsen, except for the time when a black tempo
roared past me, my concentration remained unhindered.

An elderly woman, holding her grandchild tight, greeted me. She could only
speak in the vernacular, but we did manage to fill in the blanks with
expressions and understand each other. With an infectious smile, she asked
me to take a picture of them, which I gladly did.

“Such a warm welcome to the town”

I said to myself.

I went down to the main market with the setting sun, inquiring about budget
lodges.

I reached the town‖s most prominent landmark, the old palace. Several city
residents had gathered in that open area to watch the sunset; it had become
an ideal site for people from all walks of life, particularly youngsters, to come
together and unwind. The palace, which was almost a century and a half old
(the ruins upon which the palace had been built were much older) had been
bombed to smithereens by the Maoists during the conflict. It glowed bright in
aggravation – a miserable stack of bricks awaiting a genuine reconstruction
effort. The name of the town itself had been derived from the temple of
Mangalseni Bhagwati that the palace had housed in an earlier epoch. The
dilapidation that afflicted such structures marked a loss of soul.

I met two young men there and had a pleasant exchange with them. They
were kind enough to lead me to the main town junction and help fix a lodge
for me. It was as basic as I wanted arrangements to be and so was the price.
I shared the room with a couple of noisy boys who had come from a nearby
village to explore the town. The lodge owner warned me to stay wary of
them. I did not have secret pockets or other measures of security and so
decided to place faith on luck instead.

Poor Person‖s Endeavor

Westwards from Mangalsen branched two major ways, the road track that
spiraled up the hill of Bayalpata, and another that dived to the banks of the
Budhi Ganga River. The latter was said to lead straight to the emerging city
of Sanphebagar, and despite harboring a slight bit of desire to see the much
talked about hospital on the hill, I chose it for matters of convenience. Rajan,
who was following the walk on social media, had made a call to his parents
who lived on a hill close to the riverside settlement. He had suggested an
overnight stay.

What began as a wide road track that dawn narrowed down to a barely
recognizable, foliaged, trail by the time the sun lost its poignancy to fervor.

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The ill maintenance was a consequence of a fall in use after the introduction
of the roadway. Many a people that I had chatted with in the hills said that
walking was a poor person‖s endeavor; they believed that anything that
required hard work was a sign of depravity. After crossing the river, I took
what looked like the most plausible trail. By the time I had started doubting
my preference, I was hundreds of meters above the river. A little while later,
I arrived at a point from where I could see a motorable bridge under
construction over its span. Such a significant piece of infrastructure could
not have been a part of another project but the Mid Hill Highway. I checked
the geolocation on my phone and it showed that I was heading away from
Sanphe; heading away westwards, and that was fine – a fate that I chose to
not rebel against. I was going up broken stairs, but it was a trail nonetheless,
and so, it had to meet a settlement somewhere down the line.

Further up the trail met a road. From there, a wide, sandy riverside, could be
seen as a meandering anomaly amidst the greens of the surrounding hills
and adjacent depression. Streams of roads flowed in to meet it. I checked the
geolocation and that was Sanfebagar – at least four hours away on foot!
There was no going back.

The first people I met in the village of Payal were a group of women lined up
at a stone tap, with a shamefully thin stream, to fill colorful kerosene jars
with water.

The hilltop, like many others, was haunted by water shortage, about which
the women seemed reluctant to speak. Women, especially young ones, were
reluctant to engage in meaningful conversation in the western hinterlands,
for I was an outsider, and of the opposite sex. The culture had encountered
waves of liberalization, but change sure does take time to spread its roots.

My next encounter was with a shack restaurateur who petted swans. I

haggled over the price of noodles with an authoritative tone, consequent of
hunger. After a few exchanges, the man paused with surprise, observed me
for a while, and acquiesced to my demand without a remark. That moment
of astonishment opened up the avenue for a rich and wonderful
conversation. The swans were aggressive, the man of an opposite nature.
Yet, they bore a strange resemblance. As I shared the details of the walk I
was undertaking, he smiled with profound glee. He even offered leftover
lentil soup in gratitude. To his mundane life, my presence had introduced
the possibility of wonder.

I left the village trapped in time, with multi storied mud houses that had
external ladders for stairs and ropes of jute that connected homes with lines
of colorful clothes strung upon them, an enchanted man. A pond with a
wondrous reflection passed, where I happened to come across a wrinkled
scout, and I just happened to make an inquiry that saved me from making
another wrong turn. The settlements that awaited me beyond were replete
with abandoned houses. The further westwards I went, the more the
haunting emptiness of broken, dismembered houses became apparent. To a
layperson, I asked if the homes were abandoned during the years of conflict.
He shook his head.

“No. Can't you see that this place isn't worth living? Anyone who can afford
to buy land in the plains or Kathmandu has moved out.”

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On the pass above the village lay a dilapidated stone deval covered with
vermilion. Beside it, on the road, a rhododendron that had survived the
dreads of the fall had fallen, only to bite dust. The trails only got more
confusing from thereon. I walked well into the night. A forest fire swelled
bright in the navy gloom of dusk not too far away.

Gutkha And A Sense Of Belonging

It was a pitch dark night. Were it not for the power backup, my persistence
would have been futile; the phone could only keep the flashlight going on its
own for so long, and any sort of navigation without it would have been
impossible. Two tipsy men I met on the way told me that the settlement of
Naare Dang was not too far away; however, it was only half an hour after
that encounter that I could see faint lights by the riverside. So close, yet so
far, the shorter trail was difficult to figure out and it made sense to persevere
on the road track no matter how long it was. I reached a lodge in Dang just
in time for dinner.

The patriarch of the family resembled my granduncle in many ways than

one. My granduncle had passed away before I lost my first set of teeth,
memories of the joyous soul, who is remembered fondly for his kindness,
revolve around him trying to teach origami, passing on sweets discreetly,
and simply pouring all the attention he could on me. There was an instant
connection. The man believed that I could be a great saint someday and
spoke with a glint in his eyes, while I found his kind ways to be greatly
admirable. He wore a kurtha suruwal and dhaka cap, his partner wore a red
odhni cholo, and together they worked to prepare the meal. I did not mind
that the dishes were washed in the canal that also served as a drain, in the
little hamlet that stood around a large chautara I felt at home.

People had told me that the trail that ran along the Seti River to Dipayal was
fairly straight and easy to navigate. I set on that path early next morning,
and contrary to expectations, dismay awaited at every turn. Thorny shrubs
and branches had crept in on the riverside trail, making a smooth passing
impossible. The roaring rapids of the greenish Seti (whitish) River made for
an entertaining sight, but it was not to be visible for long. The trail went up a
cliff and zigzagged through a thick forest. At certain points the narrow trail
would become invisible, or split into two, or broken stairs that led nowhere
would be encountered; feeling hopeless, retracing paths, and retreating was
the order of the day.

There were times when I relied upon the sight of a gutkha (tobacco chews)
wrapper to place confidence on the path. The conundrum of trails had fallen
into disuse, for a road track had been drawn on the other side of the hill.
Sheer dumb luck saw me through.

A mere hour and a half after I proceeded on the road I came across, I reached
the hilltop to the east of Dipayal. For a while, I went down and explored the
colorful, older part of town. From its heydays, as the headquarter of the
erstwhile Far Western Development Region, the town had visibly fallen into

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dilapidation. Migration to the plains and Kathmandu had ripped the city of
its vitality. There seemed to be hundreds of abandoned houses and the
airport had been awaiting revival since forever. The little prosperity that
remained had gravitated towards the highway. To close my city tour, I went
up to the fort palace on the hilltop. Of the five hundred year old structure,
which must have loomed large over the valley of fields back when the
kingdom of Doti flourished, only tattered walls remained. Intricate carvings
could be seen in odd ends and that was it. The town had been robbed of its
history and potential. It awaited a new revival, the creation of a new history,
which could stem off the flow of the Mid Hill Highway.

Seti Nightwalk

Barring the atypical pestilent encounter, most people on the road were
content with acquainting themselves with this outsider‖s hometown and
immediate destination. It could possibly be the subtle tone and refined
manner of my speech that assured them of my trustworthiness. For sure,
those who accompanied me had their labels ready, but they rarely sought to
dig out my assigned name. I found blessed delight in being able to go around
as a person without a name.

Encounters with familiar faces did occur once in a blue moon. Those brief
encounters were cause for equal delight. As I was leaving Dipayal, a
speeding motorcade abruptly halted. From one of the cars, a military officer
seemed to be calling me out.

“What could I have done wrong?”

I questioned myself and moved on thinking that the call might not have been
for me.

The officer yelled at a higher pitch again and I was compelled to retreat.
With a dim face I set forth expecting the worst. I was beyond thrilled to find
someone with whom I had worked closely, back when I was engaged as a
party activist. His persistence had been rewarded; he had become a Minister
of State. After a short exchange, he asked me to join him on the ride, so that
we could talk over lunch. I politely declined, explaining that I was on an
extended walk and unwilling to use vehicles. He bade farewell after securing
assurance that I would see him in Kathmandu.

The highway to Dadeldhura ran for the most part along the Seti River and its
tributary Sakayal Gaad. A sizable transmission tower that stood amidst a
large green field in the western end of the town marked the advent of the
depression and a road trip movie of a highway. Finding a reasonable place to
stay that night took some searching though. Groups of passersby, mostly
young men, stared at me with confused expressions, for they probably had
not seen an outsider treading on the highway at night. The couple of times
that I engaged in conversation yielded the fact that the closest lodge was in
Talkot.

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A young man who had returned to the village after years of hard labor
abroad led the establishment. With his savings, he had constructed a basic
concrete house that had decently maintained rooms.

“There were times when I had very little to spend too.”

The man seemed resolved and without much qualm acceded to my request
for a discount, which could be partially attributed to the guilt he felt for not
having any dish that did not have meat ready; having biscuits for lunch or
dinner was not an odd event for me, but it did not seem fair to him.

The perfectly smooth highway‖s scenic nature remained unaltered, for the
most part, the next day. It must be mentioned that the manner in which the
river sent waves of fog up to touch the serene blue sky seemed to make for
an extraordinarily beautiful morning sight. Houses of mud painted white,
fields as large as the skies, and stacks of straw rounded atop poles, prettied
the highway at every turn. As the town of Dadeldhura neared, the terrain
became hillier; there were splendid petite valleys, red mud slopes, and alpine
trees all around. Unique tombstone like markers of remembrance dedicated
to dear ones and temples that had bells tied all over were sights that I had
not encountered elsewhere in the west. At regular intervals, I consulted and
tagged along with locals who were familiar with shortcut climbs that skipped
the humongous turnings the road made.

Contacts With Reality

A middle aged woman segregating alcohol bottles and shards from sacks of
dump with bare hands, a few miles east of the town of Dadeldhura,
complained of how the trash that had become her source of livelihood
reflected the ills of consumerism, and how she could not take care of her
daughter anymore. The daughter was haunted by a plethora of issues. The
mother had lost all hope and desired to know if there was any organization
that could take better care of her. I made a quick call to a professional who
had told me that he could help if I were to encounter such cases on the road;
the connection was made. I hope things worked out for her.

Were it not for the modern phone, the walk, for the manner in which I
conducted it, would have been nigh impossible. With the purest of intents, I
helped make several connections of the aforementioned kind during the
walk. There were also people who reciprocated that karma; people who
offered suggestions and helped me connect with locals. One such person was
Juliana, who had visited Dadeldhura the year prior. She passed me on the
contacts of her friends at a local radio station – Aashish and Suresh.

After strolling around the humdrum markets of the town whose growth had
defied all expectations in the past three decades, above all else because of
the selective patronage bestowed upon the district by a political leader who
made it big in the national scene, for the better part of the afternoon, I set
out looking for the station. On the way, I visited the fort of Amar, which

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served as a police outpost but had met a better fate than most other
medieval edifices in the west. From there, it could be seen how swathes of
magnificent forest cover that glowed at sundown surrounded the town.

Juliana‖s friends with their kindness made me feel thoroughly indebted. The
teenager Suresh denied me a night on the couch in his place, and instead
took me to one of the better hotels in town. My attempts to convince him to
spend the night in a basic lodge failed. He did not let me spend a single
penny. The fact that I have not been able to help him in equal measure since
his arrival in Kathmandu, pains me with guilt.

The next morning, I visited the much talked about Ugratara Temple, which
had undergone significant rebuilding. Such structures are a reflection of
popular attitude and will. It looked like a colorful Bollywood set more than a
place of worship. To add to the absurdity of matters, there were heads of
Hindu gods on lotus pillars, fairies straight out of big screen depictions of
Grimm‖s fairy tales, and statues of cartoonish military personnel guarding
the premises. I descended to and continued on the highway an unimpressed
man. The far off mountains and the green hills that rolled to them were
more substantial and charming. Soon after, I entered the district of Baitadi.

Earthy Recall

Certain sensory associations, be it a vision, a taste, or a feeling, my mind has

a tendency to mark places with. Quite often, it is awfully hazy and beyond
description. Howbeit, for Baitadi the association is startlingly clear.
Whenever I hear the word, my mind recreates the aroma and vision of red
earth. Not without reason, the highways that I trod on throughout the district
were surrounded by hills and flatlands of red mud. The lifestyle and
appearance of the people there had an earthiness to it.

Ujwal, a longtime well wisher in Kathmandu, had connected me with Binod –

a schoolmate of his from Budanilkantha School. Binod was a professor at a
community college. After a twelve hour walk on hard tarmac from
Dadeldhura, I arrived at the river crossing below Patan as the skies turned
wild red. From the moment he came to pick me up at the river with a
flashlight in hand and greeted me with a warm smile, I knew that I could
easily feel at home in his place. As we had the traditional meal of buttermilk
and buckwheat flatbread for dinner, he enunciated upon how I brought back
memories of his youth; when he used to go out for long walks, sleep by the
river with the boys, and have a cool, carefree existence. The boys had
become responsible adults and there was no one around to have fun with.
The education and exposure he had received meant that he could never
really meld with the people of his hometown. His mother too made me feel
comfortable with her sullen sweet smile and ways. The two children were a
pleasure to be around. There was a different paradigm to affairs too; even
though I was observant and aware of the patriarchal nature of affairs, as I
had been throughout the walk, there was very little I could do or disrupt as
an outsider.

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The next day, Binod took me on a tour of the town, which was undergoing
concretization; old houses of wood, mud and stone were disappearing. Brain
drain was an issue that troubled those who remained. Yet, the promise of
planned urbanization and the building of a new airport had sent land prices
through the roof. Remnants of animistic worship had acquired new
mainstream meanings and the recently rebuilt temple of Udayadev stood tall
amidst a large park like area. Numerous thatched structures with large fields
around them still thrived in the periphery. That night too, the hospitality at
his home remained amazing.

Arrangements were made for me to spend the next night in the town of
Baitadi. It took me half a day‖s persistence on the highway to get there,
shorter trails between turns were few and far in between. The scale of the
expanse of hills visible from the way was even surprising to tired eyes like
mine. From the main market of Baitadi I went down west where Binod‖s
friend Rajeev lived in a quiet suburb. There, he told me that I could stay at
the martyr Dasharath‖s house if I wanted to. If only the house had not been
robbed of all originality during refurbishing, I would have considered the
offer. Thus, I retreated to his newspaper plastered guest room.

The next dawn, before heading to Jhulaghat, I stopped for a while at the
colorful temple of Kaipal Baba that lay on the way. Thereon, it was a steep
walk down a flight of stairs, which ran through a forest to the Mahakali
River. The only notable sight on the way was that of an abandoned customs /
police post in decay.

Mahakali – Mechi – Mahakali

At the border junction of Jhulaghat, by the ragged banks of the dark green
Mahakali, my walk across the hills ended on Day 153. I had walked for forty
seven days, covering one thousand five hundred sixty two kilometers on foot
from Taplejung, in addition to the two thousand three hundred ninety eight
kilometers in one hundred and six days across the mountains.

The introduction of a proper road that linked Baitadi to the rest of the
country had done little to stem the flow of denizens in search of daily
essentials at a cheaper price across the river. The narrow alleyed settlement
of Jhulaghat was full of shops that sold clothes, electronics and alcohol with
meat. Like in other such border junctions, people from the other side – where
the sale and use of alcohol is strictly regulated, came in significant numbers
to drench themselves in drinks. Albeit, owing to the exploitative and stern
security presence on either side of the border, the atmosphere there, like in
all border transit points along the Mahakali, was pressing. There was no joy
in being there. It was a place where people could not simply be themselves.

I first was reprimanded by a police officer at the station above the market,
who with unusual aggressiveness alleged that I had taken his picture. I had
to show the picture to move on. Then, at the bridge that connected the two

108
Jhulaghats, I observed a police officer unnecessarily troubling a local, by all
indications with the intent to secure a commission. I filmed the exchange
and had my phone immediately ceased. It was not until I assured the officer
that the footage would be deleted did I get the phone back. I was really upset
by the demeanor of the authorities on either side, whose existence had only
served to draw a line of exploitation between a people who shared a
common culture, language, and heritage. To capture a picture of the bridge
and adjoining settlements, I had to go a bit north on the Mahakali shoreline
where there was no police presence. After that, I dipped my hands in the
waters of the river from where I had begun the walk in monsoon from
Darchula. Full circle!

The initial intent when I proceeded westwards from Kathmandu was to

conclude the walk on the shores of Mahakali. However, the will to walk
further had not been satiated; I was in absolute sync and simply loving the
experience. Thus, I decided to walk to Mahendranagar, and then perhaps
proceed eastwards on the highway. It was split second decision. Since some
locals expressed doubt about the trail that ran south along the Mahakali to
Bramhadev, it made sense to retrace the highway to Patan. From a higher
vantage point, it could be seen how wide, and well maintained, the road was
on the other side of the river, while the trail on the Baitadi side was narrow,
precarious and at the mercy of rock falls above.

On the way back, I chose a different route; one that passed through the ruins
of the palace complex and devals. To my amazement, some of the medieval
wells and stone water taps, with a bit of modern improvisation, were still in
use there; I saw women filling water and washing clothes. I followed the
routine; took pictures of defaced and dislocated idols, carvings and slabs
with writings. The devals that stood amidst a small settlement had been
intruded upon, and at the same time, were being taken care of, by an
ashram. It looked like Shiva Lingams had been installed inside the devals
quite recently, making them holy and relevant. The remnants of the palace
were on the verge of being completely consumed by the forest and in
desperate need of archaeological attention. There, I met a recently retired
bureaucrat who was planning to make a journey across this part of the
globe. My presence brought him delight. An array of questions was fired my
way. His enthusiasm was contagious to say the least. It helped me on the
push to Patan.

Detained Freezing

After spending another night in Binod‖s residence at Patan, I headed south

through vivid fields and up terraced hills. Where the immense lasso like
highway swing met the trail I was on, a car stopped.

“This is the boy I was just telling you about!”

One of the three men dressed in casuals in the car exclaimed.

“I am Ganesh.”

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He then shook my hand and added:

“Binod sir‖s requested me to take care of you in Dadeldhura… I can also be of

help throughout the west… Please call me when you get there. It‖s a matter
of great happiness for us to be able to help a person like you.”

The other two friends requested me to get in the car, to which I did not have
to offer a reply.

“He‖s not the type of guy who‖d get in a car. You see, he‖s a person on a
mission. You‖re going to walk to Dadeldhura, right?”

I nodded affirmatively. The men bade me farewell and the car sped away.

Without notice, the gray clouds that hung above started crashing down as
frigid fog and shooting snowflakes. The winter rain was strong and my
poncho could not hold it out for long. The chill went down to my bones as I
persisted against the winds on the highway. I kept my pace up to avoid
hypothermia; a coping mechanism I had learned in the mountains.

Of all things that could go wrong under such circumstances, the police
detained me in Khodpe without offering an explanation. The mercury was in
the negative and the halt meant a constant loss of body heat. I sat outside
the station, compliant but constantly shivering, stammering, as the police
inspected each article in the bag. The only time I displayed any emotion, a
hint of a smile, was when one of the officers mistook the Kindle ebook reader
I was carrying for a possible detonation device. He then tried to scrutinize
the nature of the material I was reading. Absolute absurdity! Yet, I had to
remain calm. Twenty five minutes later, a senior officer finally brought me
indoors, to his office for questioning. The shiver was beyond control, but I
managed to preserve my level headedness and give clear, concise, answers. I
also had the good sense to mention that I had spent the previous night at the
home of the nephew of a parliamentarian, who could be called for assurance.
Only then did the officer in charge shed light on matters.

There had been a robbery in a nearby settlement. Some locals had pointed
out that a strange person they had never seen before was seen walking on
the highway, the day before it happened. Hence, the police thought that I
was the robber in all probability. He apologized for the inconvenience caused
and set me free.

Oh, how full of life I felt as I sped out of the hamlet! Blood gushed back into
parts it had abandoned, as I zoomed on the narrow highway rubbing my
hands together. Silhouettes of trees, the muddy side path, the narrow
metallic road, and the yellow line that stood in between – to whose left I had
to keep, that was all; the fog had robbed all else away to infinity. Despite the
continued drop in altitude, the promise of warmth was spelled false by
sundown.

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Baitadi: Earthy lunchtime in the western hills

111
 Transcending Dimensions

From Dadeldhura, walking down straight to Attariya on the Mahakali

Highway to get to Kanchanpur made little sense. I inspected the digital maps
I had for alternative routes. A trail that ran south along the Mahakali from
Rupailgad existed, but none of the locals I talked to seemed sure about its
existence or state; the necessity to tread that way had waned ages ago.
Then, there was the middle path; a road track that ran west into the Chure
forests from Doti Budar and led to Sama Daiji of Kanchanpur. I chose the
latter, for Ashish and Ganesh who had secured arrangements for me the
previous night confirmed that the way was good.

There was a much celebrated kheer (milk pudding) stop on the highway. I
decided to use the money marked for lunch that day on kheer, hoping for
meaningful conversation. Alas, the son had taken the place of the founder,
and with cars stopping by every now and then, he seemed somewhat
disinclined to share the history of the place. See, for me, a wholesome
conversation would be preferable to tasty food any day.

On this point, two observations are of relevance; the first one – almost all of
the private vehicles I saw on the highway either belonged to aid
organizations or government officials, the second one – younger people, ones
who grew up in individualistic times, generally possessed a demeanor averse
to conversation. Exceptions aside, the art of making sound conversation, and
with it friends out of strangers, seemed to have been lost in transition. A
little down the line, the Highway Fourteen milestone read: Kathmandu 700
Kilometers. At that point, it came to mind that I possibly was closer to
Pakistan than Kathmandu. The web confirmed that hunch. If only, there
were no boundaries.

I stayed at a shack hotel in Gaira. Such basic highway hotels are generally
the same across this part of the world. They are a mess, raucous alcoholics
and drivers flood in at night, varieties of fried or oily meat are served, shady
deals are likely to take place, and the prices are unjustifiable. Only that the
one I was in was owned by Ganesh‖s sister, and therefore, I was allowed to
choose from the available beds and blankets for the least grimy ones – a rare
luxury!

Light‖s ability to make a space transcend dimensions was on full display the
next morning. Rays of light first trickled in from insignificant perforations in
the corrugated sheet roof, and then from the windows that were open. It was
a blissful moment. Faces shone, colors bloomed with brilliant shades; the
shack attained sanctity. The owner, for the first time, seemed relaxed. He sat
across me on the table and started sharing tales from bygone days. Of how
Magars had first arrived in Dadeldhura as road workers and settled by the
highway, of how many of them would be displaced for a lack of legitimate
ownership after road expansion plans took effect, of how his parents had
arrived there under perilous conditions and built their fortune, he told me.

I had lunch, the usual daalbhaat, at a basic food stop in Budar, and then took
a right turn from the highway. The black topping ended there, a dusty
riverside road track took its place. Wide, green fields met the hills on either
side of the river, right up until Jogbuda neared. The last couple of kilometers
had to be walked through a dense forest in pitch darkness. The roars of

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animals could be heard. However, it was clear by the volume that they were
nowhere close. Amidst moonlight tree silhouettes, with my heart in my
mouth, I moved my legs at a pace of around eight kilometers per hour on the
last stretch, and reached Jogbuda a sweaty mess.

Until I conversed with the hotel owner after dinner, I was not aware of the
fact that Ganesh had vouched to incur my bills. It usually did not seem right
to accept help that was not in kind, and on that occasion, I had enough
money with me to get by on a minimum for a month more. I had to do the
right thing. I cleared my bills before leaving.

To The Plains

Dune faced hills backgrounded silver roofs that housed cattle and grain, but
came to the fore with their exceptional appearance. The mercury kept rising,
as across the Puntura Gaad and deep into the flatlands rid of the Chure I
went. Popular advice made me disengage from the unbending road. There a
wandering trader went around with fluffs of candy. Children came rushing to
him. They bartered strands of their hair for the fluffs. Life without great
striving was impossible down south, and the man bore resentment towards
the people he was catering to for their relatively liberal, relaxed manner of
life. A little ahead, lay little children on a carpet by the fields and under the
sun. Pieces of pages torn out of books lay beside them.

I had lunch at an eatery by a school – two samosas, a bowl of plain noodles,

and a packet of biscuits for sixty rupees. The elders there linked me up with
a young man who was going across the border to do odd jobs. Together, we
walked over the bed of a dormant river down south for miles and miles. He
was in a hurry and throughout the extent stopped only once; to point out the
presence of the holy Purnagiri hill on the horizon. Our parting at Gaibandhe
was followed up by a series of conversations with elders, comfortable under
a shade in the junction there, about possible ways ahead. All but one person
suggested that I should halt there for the day, yet that one voice was enough
to set to light my conviction. I surged ahead, through dense fields, a rustic
village, and up a forested hill. The trail crossed many dormant waterfalls and
rocky streambeds, before transitioning into a narrow flight of rock stack
stairs. From a couple of hundred meters above sea level, I had reached
almost a thousand. Strange trees, with rounded trunks and unreal hues,
started appearing. The forest witnessed only the odd wayfarer, so did the
people who lived on the settlement close to the pass; they were not too
willing to entertain an outsider. To make it to Mahendranagar by night
would not be impossible I thought, out of plain hunch for a lack of concrete
information. The GPS marker on my phone slowly inched towards the city,
as the forest went pitch black.

It was a walk of courage after that. There was a temple on the way, but the
sage who was purported to live there could not be found. The doors were
locked and I was not sure if there would be a place to sleep in. Boars could
be heard all around, and the trail showed no sign of finding resolution. On,
and on, and on it went, the clock struck eight and three. A house with lights
on was finally seen at a distance. I rushed towards it.

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It turned out to be a shop. The shopkeeper seemed numb to my plea to
suggest a place to spend the night in. I had appeared out of thick jungle at
night, a reason justifiable enough for him to raise the walls. Mahendranagar,
he said, was still a couple of hours away. It was a struggle I was willing to
deal with to find a comfortable place to spend the night.

“What were you doing in the jungle at this time in the night?”

I would have moved on but for a soldier, on holiday but rashly authoritative
without reason. The slightly inebriated man started interrogating me and
sought to talk to a relative of mine to confirm my intentions. Like I did in
Debuche of Khumbu, under similar circumstances, I rang my well wisher,
explained the situation and handed the phone over to the man. The man‖s
eyes were rid of all signs of drunkenness; they became as large as an owl‖s.
He swung a hand up in salute and pounded his boot on the floor. A minute
on the phone later, I became his valued guest. The moment for its fatuity still
lingers fresh in my mind. To the shopkeeper, the man excitedly exclaimed:

“Today‖s my lucky day! The ticket to my brother‖s selection has come home.”

He followed that up with an offer to kill a rooster for dinner, which this
vegetarian flatly refused. The shopkeeper had yet to figure things out and
was further perplexed.

“My needs are plain. I‖m a simple person.”

With humility I pleaded:

“Please don‖t expect miracles from me.”

As he was unwilling to believe my intentions when I put it in plain terms at

first, he was unwilling to believe that I was an ordinary person too.

Along The Canal

A new dawn, a new beginning: how majestic the arrival of the sun looks
from the plains I had quite forgotten. Gilded fields sparkled and mesmerized,
as the fog that hovered over the fields retreated to the edge of the jungle. The
soldier whose house I was in had left before dawn to collect firewood. He had
not carried his phone. After waiting for a while, I proceeded out of the
village, thanking his family for the hospitality.

An under construction water canal, the proportions of which I had not seen
anywhere else during the walk was met. It was at least twenty feet deep,
forty wide, and ran for miles. To fruition, it would come someday and
resemble a great river. Some women and children were gathering chunks of
red mud from an excavated pile. They told me that it was to color the floors
and walls of their homes.

“Are you involved with the contracting?”

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One of the women in kurtha pajamas inquired, after figuring out that I was
taking snaps of the scene. I laughed in response. The laughter only served to
make them nervous; they quickly disbanded. No one looked back.

Further, up the canal, an old man wearing a dhaka cap inquired about my
whereabouts. Tired of providing explanations, I served only a brief one to
him. Strangely impressed with the odd response, he invited me home for
lunch. Never could I deny free food on the road; I did not have such privilege.
At their cozy courtyard, I had an unexpectedly wonderful conversation with
the family. It was an alternative perspective on migration to the plains. They
had escaped the utter depravity of the hills and found hope in the fertility of
the plains.

The basic farmer‖s meal, which was rich in lentils and had hard rice, they
served was satisfying. The way their cat ate beside me made the mealtime
entertaining. The family insisted that I accept a small donation from them,
which I reluctantly did. Before parting, the man suggested that I should meet
and spend time with a saint who had organized a festive observance in the
city with grandeur. I could not tell the kind man that grandeur did not appeal
to me. He was too engrossed in the myth of the saint to consider my take: If
there is holiness, it must lie in simplicity.

Every Man‖s Land

The border was reached in an hour. It had little meaning for the people who
lived around it. There were houses on either side of the border pillar,
separated only by a road that ran on the proverbial no man‖s land. Children
played cricket on that piece of turf, cycles and carts, which were not
restricted by number plates, moved freely. Wide, green fields stretched afar
on both sides, and there were occasions when I slid into supposedly foreign
terrain without notice. While walking from Jimuwa to the grand border entry
point at Gaddhachowki, I had traversed across the political boundary and
back at least a dozen times. It was only there that the teeth of state were
visible and the border attained dreadful legitimacy. Yes, of course, the
extractive border patrolling troubled people, people on both sides to be
honest, but those instances were rare. Animosity was rare, and so it made it
to the news. The free flow was too benign of a matter to deserve coverage.

From the border, after a brief meet with a friend of Binod‖s who worked in
the Customs Department, I commenced my walk on the East West Highway
that spanned across the plains, right under the Chure hills for most part.
Relying on social media feedback, to get a perspective on the history of the
city and the indigenous population, I went to an old hamlet to the north of
the highway from the main city junction. Villagers assisted me with
directions to the Bhalmansa‖s (chief) house.

Two men were about to end a conversation with the Bhalmansa about a land
deal, when I reached there. I came to realize that the meet was not an
ordinary one; the heads of three large zamindaar (feudal landlord) families
were together. The rich insights they provided, displaced the notion that the
history of the place was a black and white affair. What surprised me the

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most was the casual honesty with which the man with hill origins admitted
that the migration after the eradication of malaria in the plains and its
consequences had not been fair to the Tharu people. They all agreed that
historic redress was necessary, more pressingly in the areas adjoining
Dhangadhi than Mahendranagar.

On the way back, I observed how the hamlet largely retained a vibe from a
bygone time. It had close knit houses of mud and straw with large, lush
fields surrounding the settlement. The calls of cattle could be heard at every
turn. While almost all women could be seen dressed traditionally, some men
had moved on to basic modern apparel. The intricate drawings and carvings
on mud houses remained, but such reproductions eluded brick walls.

Juliana had linked me with another friend of hers, Priyanshu. The savvy
teenager was a singer and badminton player, due to give his school leaving
examinations in a month‖s time. After having ridiculously large samosas at a
famed local joint, I joined him and three of his friends for the night at his
house. His parents were not home. We got food from a local joint, since
cooking started seeming like a difficult ordeal. The friends then started
playing music and dancing in a frenzy. A popular 1974 AD single was played
and danced to a million times. Celebration certainly required no cause for
the young bucks. The festivities continued late into the night.

Eastwards Across Rivers

Mahendranagar seemed like a sorted out city in need of reinvention. The

fogged up winter streets, lined with houses of a style reminiscent of the
eighties, chimed with the sounds of cycle bells. Droves of students and
laypeople in cycles appeared out of nowhere and disappeared back into the
whiteness. People wearing sweaters and scarves huddled around little fires
on the roadside. The odd gaadhaa (ox cart) sped with agricultural supplies,
while colorful motorcycle rickshaws waited for their first tips of the day.
There were no takers for the shade that roadside trees offered.

A swindler with an orange beard, a green scarf, and a portrait of Sai Baba
before him drew a huge crowd on a highway stop. His game of stones was
theatrical. The elderly man had a tone of voice that swung with the
momentum of the stories he shared. It was excellent stage acting on display,
interrupted only by a hint of fear when he noticed that I was taking one too
many pictures of him. At the end of the market, a board that encouraged
artificial insemination of cattle with visual representation disgusted me.
Then, there were bullet points that talked about how calves could be
disposed of. Others emphasized soullessly on increased production. The
brutal language caused a moral storm in my mind. Was I wrong, was I an
oddity, to be troubled? I wondered.

Beyond the market lay swamps and marshlands, reclaimed as fields and
highway buffers. Buffaloes were tied on little wooden poles and left to graze.
A yellow board marked the advent of the Shuklaphanta National Park. There,
it could be seen how the marshy grasslands would have looked without
intervention. Chunks of untended grass piled atop each other extended to

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the far off trees in the horizon; a scene reminiscent of untended savannah
grasslands. It was perfect camouflage for deer and other creatures; a couple
of roamers could be made out but only after careful observation.

The extent of the national park lasted for some five kilometers on the
highway, after which the town of Jhalari came. Quite a few rivers were
crossed on the Kanchanpur stretch of the highway. It was late winter and
they seemed more like streams. However, by the depression of the
surrounding land and the gabion walls built on the edges, the havoc they
would be wreaking in monsoon was obvious. The land around, rid of forest
only in the past few decades, was unquestionably fertile. The highway roads
around Jhalari were full of cycles, perfect for navigations into the agricultural
settlement beyond the highway and the market towns on it. Kids speeding
on cycles made crazy noises to keep motorcyclists away. Another stretch of
forest began. I continued on the highway as it went dark.

Hurt

With Anita, a longtime well wisher, I had regular exchanges throughout the
walk. Upon learning of my departure from Mahendranagar, she informed me
that her uncle‖s doors in Attariya of Kailali would be open for the night‖s
stay.

Over thirty kilometers of walking was not enough to see me through to

Attariya. I was in the middle of a forest stretch, when I got a call from Anita‖s
uncle. It was already dark. He and his friends had already been waiting for
me for some while.

“Shall we come to pick you up on a motorcycle? ...”

The usual requests followed. I remained stoically opposed to the idea of

getting on a vehicle. However, I felt morally obliged to speed up and make it
there as quickly as I could. As I neared the bridge of Mohana, my left ankle
bent inwards and clacked with an odious sound. It was a consequence of the
toll that foot had borne on the downhill road spins of Dadeldhura and
Baitadi, or so I told myself, and hoped that it was not a matter that
warranted serious attention. There certainly was a slight limp, but my mind
was dead focused on moving ahead.

I made it to the city at eight. Anita‖s uncle and his friend had started a little
coffee shop, a testament to the times and changing culture. I was invited into
the bright red space. Even though they could not grasp the extent of the
endeavor or the rationale behind the walk, they spared no effort in
welcoming me with a prideful sense of amusement. I stayed at their under
construction apartment that night.

The next day began with a stroll around the settlement, which had emerged
as a sister city to the trading hub of Dhangadhi. The highway junction was
lined with little shacks on the footpath and stores on the side. The
establishments that served tea with quick snacks were the most active in the
morning. A slew of large buildings were rising up from the dust and

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construction materials were piled on the roadsides. Not too far away from
the main market, people with only tents and utensils to call their own
camped by the highway side. There were hundreds, if not thousands of such
people, reduced to a belligerent label – Indian beggars.

After visiting the gloomed pond to the east of the city, I ventured into an
adjacent ground out of curiosity. A large stage was being set up there. Ahead
of it lay a thousand chairs. I took a closer look, and found one of the men I
had met the night before there. He told me that he was one of the key
organizers of the event. A protestant cleric was set to arrive from India to
deliver a sermon of significance. The man who wore a red jacket and bore an
uncertain smile offered to take me out for lunch.

As we had daalbhaat at a fine restaurant, he shared his story of conversion

and rediscovery. Believed to hold powers to connect with the spirits as a
dhaami, he had routine hysterical episodes. In the faith, he had found
recourse. A group of pastors who were too intent for general comfort joined
us at the table. After hearing about the walk, one of the pastors asked in a
hushed tone:

“If you do not mind, can we pray for your safe journey?”

I nodded, thinking that it would be a somber prayer. Before I could utter a

word, all of the pastors arose, put their hands on my shoulders and head,
and started delivering an intense sermon of sorts. One of them took pictures
too, some of which were later posted on social media. I did not agree with a
lot of stuff they said, and the manner in which they conducted themselves. I
wondered how someone with a more fundamental religious conviction
would perceive such a push. I left Attariya after lunch.

Through wide blue day skies and the golden dusk I kept walking. Stopping
only to observe amusing events that brought revelations, like when joyous
children on a swing flew up without care to kiss the golden skies. Further
down the line, the sun set at a river — an incredibly moving sight! With the
pain on my left ankle intensifying, at paracyclist Yamlal‖s mother‖s place in
Rajipur, I arrived just in time for dinner.

The One Legged Cyclist And His Mother

“Oh, look at those feet... how swollen they are!”

Yamlal‖s mother was aghast.

“What will you get by doing this? How worried your mother must be! Get on
a bus tomorrow.”

After a pause, she continued:

“Look at how the world has treated Yamlal. With only one leg intact, he
cycled around Nepal, not just once or twice but many, many times. Did the

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world care to ask twice? Your ordeals remind me so, so, much of him. To
him I‖ve tried to explain that all that suffering will get him nowhere, but in
vain... I hope you listen to a mother‖s words. Get a job, marry, have a good
life, leave this senseless ordeal, I beg of you!”

By that point, her eyes were red and slightly teary. She laid before me a huge
heap of daalbhaat with a dollop of ghee. It was her way of showering
affection. I exited the house the next day a pampered man.

The plasticky horses outside the Ghodaghodi Lake were frankly repulsive,
and the way the waste laden migratory bird haven was cordoned off killed
any interest I had in visiting it. Despite not being a worthy role model,
contemporary Kathmandu serves as the ultimate development aspiration for
this part of the globe. The imitative city and highwayside town structures
that poured concrete over the corpses of fields could easily be described as
unfitting and unaesthetic. Lewd bulls roamed around, scavenging in the
alien maze. In the outskirts of such towns, brick kilns no more than a few
floors tall fired the foundations for the future amidst fields of green.

A kid lay crying on the roadside. It seemed like he had slipped, but it was a
more severe case, a highway accident. A speeding vehicle had roughshod his
ride, the boy was fortunate to have survived only with a few bruises. Soon, a
crowd gathered. His mother came forth cursing the driver and the boy alike.
By the looks of it, the boy would not be allowed to cycle on the road again.
He did not have the means to either; the wheels needed extensive repairs. I
reflected upon the times I had seen young children grounded at home, for
their parents thought the roadside was unsafe to play around. The lack of
play space is not just a city issue anymore.

At Lamki that night, for the second and final time during the course of the
walk, I lost my good sense and got on a vehicle. The excitement of meeting
paracyclist Yamlal at his tailoring store, an absolute rehash of the experience
from my 2016 cycle trip to Tikapur, blinded me. He offered to take me home,
a couple of blocks down the line, on his scooter and I gladly obliged. It was a
face palm moment; midway through I realized that I should not have gotten
on the scooter in the first place.

“Don‖t worry now, you‖re already on it. You‖ve reached Lamki. Your walk for
the day is over. It doesn‖t matter whether you go around on foot or not!”

The self described one legged cyclist‖s words of consolation did little to ease
my misery.

Yamlal, his wife, and two children shared a small flat to the south of the
main market. His wife ailed with a foot issue too. Together they had found
happiness, and a reason to strive for better days, in the fact that the children
were without pronounced disabilities. The next morning, the younger of the
two children woke with fever. How their life halted after that, I bore witness
to. I had encouraged him to move to the capital, so that he could pursue his
dream to represent the country in the Paralympics with seriousness.
Howbeit, as fate would have it, a lack of necessary assistance from sports
bodies and his less than ideal grasp of English hindered all aspects of that
push. He could not apply to tournaments or communicate effectively with
contacts across seas. On that matter too, he had placed hopes of salvation on
his children. Not only did the couple invest all their love in the children, but
also their earnings, with hopes that they would be able to speak good

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English and achieve the dreams that had eluded them. His love for his
children outweighed his dreams.

I placed the responsibility of my jarred left ankle on the slippers thinned by a

month and a half of walking. At Lamki, I could not find the pair of
Hattichhaps I was comfortable with, and settled for another kind of rubber
slippers. With those on, a renewed sense of optimism took hold. In no time, I
reached the splendid bridge at Chisapani.

Through Bardiya National Park

Before the bridge at Chisapani was built over the Karnali River in 1993, a
ferry service used to help people and vehicles cross it. For most people, it
was simply more convenient to get across the border, and use the railways
there to get beyond. The East West Plains Highway, and the bridges built as
a part of it, altered the north south movement of trade and people. Many
border side trade and transit hubs went bust, while people who shifted along
the highway that tore through forests in the flatlands to the immediate south
of the Chure hills benefited. The black topped expanse that I was walking on
had torn old bonds and helped created new ones; forever altering the fate of
this part of the globe.

The highway ran through the Bardiya National Park and its periphery,
inhabited by tigers, rhinoceros, and wild elephants among other less
popularly captivating creatures, for around fifty four kilometers. Two
military personnel met me across the Chisapani Bridge, from where the
national park commenced. They were headed eastwards too. On the way to
the main checkpoint, I developed a rapport with them.

The conversation had started with the question:

“Are you not afraid?”

I told them of the experiences I had in the mountains. They seemed assured
that a higher power was with me, after I shared with them that, none of the
wild creatures I had previously encountered on the road had hurt me. At the
checkpoint, they vouched for me with enthusiasm. Albeit, they were not sure
if the higher officer whose consent was required would let me through.

“What will you do if we do not let you through?”

An armed personnel asked.

“For I cannot get on a vehicle, I will simply have to retreat, get down to the
new bridge at Rajapur, and traverse along the southern boundary of the
national park to Banke.”

I sighed.

“Three, maybe four extra days of walking ...”

It was a route that I had trodden on before and certain of.

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At that moment, a sympathetic soldier added:

“We have let a hermit who bows on the ground after every step through.
This person seems spiritual too. He is young and will walk faster as well.”

I remained stoic as my request was relayed. It was the last piece of argument
that tilted the balance in my favor.

Tall grass had grown beyond the black topped bit of the highway, despite the
best efforts of road department workers. The only people I met in the forest
stretch were them – two women and two men. They came in cycles, worked
in broad daylight, were aware of animal movement patterns, and in case
elephants came in out of nowhere, knew where large concrete pipes had
been placed.

Fearing larger wild mammals, vehicles sped with abandon, especially trucks
and motorcycles; they were the real risk. There were a staggering number of
large deer and monkeys in the immediate vicinity of the highway, who ran
helter skelter whenever I stopped or pointed the camera at them. There
might have been other animals too, but the foliage had them hidden. With
loud music playing on the phone, I continued on the track unabated. The
only time my self assuredness shook was when I heard what seemed like a
large boar grunting and scouring the ground right by the road. It continued
on its way, and so did I, things were fine.

Puspa, who was in touch with me via social media, had arranged the night‖s
stay at a Tharu village. Unfortunately, the settlement was twelve kilometers
away from the highway; there were limits to going with the flow. I made a
call and apologized to the Bhalmansa, who seemed eager to take me to the
village on his motorcycle.

I reached the town of Bhurigaun at dark. It was a little highway town that
served as a gateway to communities and resorts that flourished in the buffer
zone to the south. To the east of the town, the road again ran through thick
jungle; further progression was replete with risk. I spent a considerable
amount of time in an effort to find the lodge where I had stayed while cycling
to Tikapur in 2016, for it was more affordable than other equally dingy ones.
As soon as I reached there, I thrust the handle of the rusty water pump with
all my might and cooled my head, hands and feet down with the water that
burst out.

Paper Boat

Beams of light tore through the fog, nothingness engrossed all else. Where I
had seen farmlands stretch to the horizon the previous evening, nothing
remained visible. Waves of cool air suddenly ceased to trouble; I was amidst
the thickets and woods again.

The personnel in fatigues were far more lenient there. Precedent for them
was paramount: I told them of how the personnel at Chisapani had let me
through. I continued, as the skies lent a rosy hue to the darkness of the
forest, giant power towers and cables were my only company on the way.

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They served as yardsticks in a world of floating leaves: strange ant mounds
and road signs that warned of animals, with the only constant being the flow
of the road.

At the dam on River Babai, I paused to witness the sun peek out from the
hills. The higher the sun arose, the closer its reflection on the waters came to
the bridge, creating a wonderful sight. East of the river, the dry canals of the
long delayed irrigation project, which were in a state of dismay, altered the
dimension of the landscape. Farmland covered with grass extended
endlessly to the south, with only the canal cutting through.

I had lunch at a decent eatery beside a school in Dhadawar, such eateries are
always more affordable and hygienic than others. With only one hundred
rupees spent on a large serving of daalbhaat, I could spare forty rupees for a
bottle of sweet soda to beat the heat. As I stood outside the storefront sipping
it, a deep connection and conversation ensued with the young man who ran
it. His father had fallen to encephalitis, and then the years of conflict had
decimated his childhood beyond repair. To submit to the flow bottled up
remnants of heart rending events, he found in me the perfect paper boat. I
tried my best to reassure him.

At the end of the market town, a shallow rivulet flowed. From the bridge, I
observed the dance like movements of a group of women in colorful, richly
patterned apparel gathering ghongi (snails); they came together in a circle,
dipped their nets, waddled around, collected the trapped snails on a pot,
spread apart, repeated the act, and came together in another end again. After
taking an overhead photograph, I had proceeded forward, because
requesting close up shots seemed like a futile endeavor. Yet, I was drawn
back by the splashes. Although the women were reluctant to engage in
conversation, they did not mind having pictures taken. Those pictures, for
the stream of memories they unleash, are indeed precious.

Sundry bullock carts, cycles, ponds, and rivers passed by on the road
providing bits of amusement under the monotony of the beaming sun. From
Tithiriya the district of Banke began, and a few hours later, I reached the
burgeoning city centre of Kohalpur.

One Of The Poets

Astika came with a friend to receive me at the north gate of Nepalgunj

Medical College. Interactions on social media had brought us on the same
page. After a moment that rippled barriers, where the real world emerged
out of the cocoon of the virtual and the humanity behind smooth portraits
was laid bare in an exchange of handshakes, I was informed that they would
have to sneak me into the hostel. They had arranged for me to spend the
night in one of their friend‖s rooms in the boys‖ wing. At the gate, the guard
halted us. With the minimal khaadi apparel on, I stood as an incongruous
figure, not just in the college premises but beyond it as well.

“Who is this guy?”

The guard asked, pointing at me.

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It was not that the girls did not quiver, but their inventiveness was
remarkable. They immediately replied:

“He‖s one of the poets.”

He could only nod at that. There was a poetry recitation program going on in
the premises, where spoken word stalwarts like Nawaraj were performing.
My look fitted the bill perfectly.

There are times when I wonder how fortune could be so kind to me, the
evening in Kohalpur was one of them. Not only did Astika not let me spend a
single penny for all the arrangements that were made, but she introduced
me to her friends and showed me around the college too. We had dinner at a
local eatery with three of her friends, an excellent opportunity to get a sense
of the lives and vision of those future doctors. After that, we strolled around
the huge premises of the medical school. There was night cricket action too,
in that city infamous for its heat, which provided me great amusement. All
in all, it simply felt good to connect with young, ambitious, and hardworking
people, after weeks and months of somber interactions in settlements denied
of youth. Before departure, she loaded my bag with a bunch of sweets. One
of them was a gently sweet bar of oats, which became my favorite sweet for
a while. Whenever I have it, it still evokes the sense of connection I found
there.

The pillar erected to mark twenty five years of the long gone, partyless
Panchayat rule stood in a dilapidated state where the wide way from
Nepalgunj met the West East Highway, some sort of renovation effort on the
open space around it was in works. I was informed that a wide, unsettled,
forest stretch would follow the city limits: having lunch was a priority. A
shack eatery that catered to passing vehicles had just enough leftovers from
the morning for me. The meal was dull but the excitement of the owner
there added an element of warmth to it. He was fascinated by the nature of
the walk, so much so that he brought his entire family of seven, who seemed
unimpressed and unaware of the context, together for a picture with me.

“It‖s not every day that we get to meet a guy like this!”

He kept repeating.

The thick forest of the Banke National Park‖s buffer corridor area began from
there. I went through the better part of it listening to an audiobook – Zen and
the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. There was a part in the book, where the
narrator discussed how a rider experiences distinct elements of the road and
nature first hand; how one got to feel the wind, the roughness of the surface,
the smell of dirt and vegetation among various others, unlike in a car. With
that, I could relate completely. Howbeit, walking slowed things down and
amplified the experiences mentioned above further. It is undoubtedly the
best way to experience the road and the wider world as it is.

I met the kowtow sage the military personnel at Chisapani had let through,
in Dhakeri; a settlement that spanned for no more than one and a half
kilometers, in the middle of the jungle. The saffron clad man‖s routine
inspired reverence and curiosity in equal measure. Yet, he seemed greatly
irked when I approached him. The military personnel had told me that he
was on a pilgrimage to Pashupatinath from Haridwar: on that, he added very

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little, quite reluctantly. I let him be. When I turned back for a final look at
him, another man had begun engaging him.

After checking the Maps.me application and confirming with bystanders on a

bus stop at a steep highway turning, I decided to head south to the banks of
the West Rapti River and walk along it instead of venturing into the,
previously trodden, dull forests of Banke National Park. The road that led to
Shamsherganj was not black topped but fairly wide and pleasant to walk on.
The settlements along the river were mostly forestland claimed by
immigrants a generation ago, constantly ravaged by floods. The few people
that I talked to on that sandy stretch with scant tree cover chose only to
elucidate on their helplessness and loss. A dry riverbed that stretched up to
the horizon, and decimated bridges on smaller rivulets enabled a better
visualization of how the situation must have been during monsoon. Large
trucks and tractors loaded away whatever sand and stone they could there
without interruption. What cut through the atmosphere of despair was a
raucous Tharu wedding celebration that could be heard from a mile away; a
man was swirling around dressed as a horse to the tunes of a chaotic
instrumental, the procession that had gathered around cheered him on. It
seemed to mark the beginning of wilder celebrations, but it was dark and I
had to move forward.

Saint Basanta

Into the forest the road went again, eventually transcending along one of the
broad canals that I was informed would lead to my destination for the night
– the Sikta Dam at Agaiya. The forest thickened with every step, as miserly
moonlight replaced the abundant hues of dusk.

A drunkard with a bent face, who popped out of nowhere, issued an

ominous warning:

“The tigers hide in the bushes. The tigers are hungry. Beware!”

No warning could be taken lightly during the walk, and so continuing along
the canal with the calls of beasts prevailing in the surroundings was a tough
task indeed. The sight of a hut window or two, lit incandescently at a
distance, provided a sense of reassurance. I could stop and ponder not; there
was no turning back. There was no alternative to moving ahead; no respite
from the cards that fate dealt. It was a routine zone for me; concentrating on
what my phone‖s flashlight highlighted, and nothing beyond.

The dam, lit with three dozen lights, could not be mistaken, even from a mile
afar: albeit, it took a considerable while to tread across the crooked paths on
the sandy banks to get there. When I reached the highway stop, I began my
usual search for the cheapest lodge. I landed up at a lodge that was more of
a home stay. Basanta, an enthusiastic youngster with a saintly smile and
tone of voice, had led me to that place. With Dia, a well wisher in
Kathmandu, he shared resemblance not just in looks but mannerisms too,
and that helped establish an immediate connection. Helping travelers and

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lost souls was a routine endeavor for him. Two young girls who lived in that
house were reluctant to have me as a guest because their mother, the
proprietor, was not there. Basanta vouched for me and assured them that I
would do no harm. He even declared the price of the bed in the dorm type
room for the night, which was determined on a person to person basis, at
one hundred rupees – the local rate. While I had noodles and a packet of
biscuits for dinner, he sat beside me complaining that because people who
had come back after working abroad were opening the same kind of
businesses, the ones that everyone believed would work – revolving around
construction, the sale of electronic appliances and services, the limited
market had stagnated. To fly either to Malaysia or some Arab country was
for him a pressing obligation. The inevitable uprooting of this sprightly soul
was indeed unfortunate.

The highway undergoing expansion ran straight and soullessly after that for
the most part, yet not without exception. Khaaskusma: the only settlement
along the East West Highway without proper electricity access, for wires
could not be run on the power poles by the highway after the area was
declared a part of Banke National Park, was home to oldman P. With his
dhaka cap, Gamchha, and a mark of vermillion on the forehead set, he
donned a white shirt that barely fitted his protruding, dominant figure. In
2015 and 2016, too I had passed by Kusma, and on both those occasions
found him resting under the shade of the very same tree, with the same
attire on. The déjà vu scene, a similar exchange of greetings, marked a full
circle.

On the periphery of the settlement, an elderly man supporting himself with a

stick in one hand could be seen holding his wife‖s hand tight with another,
as they moved towards a shack settlement. The sight compelled me to
approach them with curiosity. In a grumpy manner, he disclosed that his
wife was visually disabled. That, he attributed to a curse accrued in the
forest. He assumed that I was a Hindu ascetic and declared in a bitter tone
that a way to heal his wife had been found at a local church. Denying further
conversation, they limped on, leaving me both puzzled and sad. The road
offered an emotional dizzying array of such encounters.

Another person I tried to reconnect with was a frustrated eatery and lodge
operator, who had given us (me and my friend Lochan) a free stay in 2015
with oldman P‖s reference, in Chappargaudi. He had gone out but I managed
to meet his partner. She was part of an encephalitis immunization drive. One
of the members of the team noticed that my left foot was unusually swollen.
She presumed that it could be hattipaaile (literally elephant foot), the disease
they were vaccinating against and pushed me to get a test.

I convinced them that it was because of the toll the walk had taken on it, but
took the medicine nonetheless. It had not become debilitating at that point,
so I had been ignoring it. Later on, with an anxious voice, she rang me upon
the insistence of her coordinator. He was annoyed at her for letting a
probable patient of encephalitis slip through.

I continued towards Dang, but the awareness of the size of the swelling
made it feel progressively worse. It started hurting badly too. Later that
night, I got another call from Chappargaudi. I was expecting the man to be
annoyed at me for my thanklessness, for I had not contacted him after the
previous visit. He was certainly annoyed, but for an unexpected reason:
because I had not halted to stay at his place. His goodness embarrassed me.

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 Greasy Markets And Forest Highways

Ameliya was a busy yet shabby highway crossroads. It was way past
dinnertime when I reached there. I was tired and wished to settle down as
quickly as possible, but the game of supply and demand did not favor me.
There were hundreds of vehicles parked around. The busy hoteliers had little
time to respond. For arrangements that did not even meet the most basic of
standards, ludicrous rates were declared. I went to one, then another, then
another, but none budged on what seemed to be an unfair price. If I did not
stay there, someone else would. Meat, fish, and alcohol were being profusely
served all around. I eventually found an eatery that offered a fair meal.
However, they were about to close and did not have lodging arrangements. I
put forth a suggestion that I could spend the night in one of the chairs in
their compound, to which a stern thumbs down was given.

“Why‖d they trust an outsider? This isn‖t a village. It‖s a soulless market.”

I remember blabbering in frustration before moving on.

The map showed that before me lay at least fifteen kilometers of perilous
jungle. The energy of the frustration drowned out the dissidence of fear. I
was set to walk overnight if needed. Fate though had other plans. The map
had not depicted a final village that lay only fifteen minutes away. It was
there that I encountered a motherly woman. She dissuaded me from
entering the jungle and suggested that I stay at the homestayish lodge there.
A thinking man, who later introduced himself as an ex police officer,
welcomed me to his place after asking a few questions and suggested that I
could have food at the neighboring eatery. It was one hundred rupees for
food and another hundred for the night‖s stay in a shared room; a sliver of
what the hoteliers before had commanded! I shared some tales from my
travels before going to bed. It made members of the community smile
strangely in wonder. There however, was a strange bit too: I was told not to
keep the door of the room closed. I shared it with a member of the family
who was a bit troubled. The host merely told me that the man had a
tendency to leave and come back in the night. After I fell asleep, like a log,
none of my doubts held meaning.

The next day I tramped unabated across the highway extension of Dang:
sixty one kilometers, fifteen hours, to Bhalubang. There were three effective
reasons for the push: the unremarkable stretches of forest, fields and towns
like Lamahi, the bitter experience of the previous night setting a dim tone,
and the word I had given to my well wisher Bishal‖s friend from the town.
There was also a gathering in Lumbini, around a month from that date, to
which I was invited by a well wisher whom I could not deny. I was
compelled to ramp up a few more miles every day to reach the eastern
border, and conclude the walk, a day before the commencement of the event.
There were times when I approached people with the hope that I would find
a conversation that would set the mood right for the day. Only if it were not
one of those days when frowned responses were less commonplace, I
probably would have slowed down and fallen back on my word. It must also
be disclosed that I would certainly have reached Bhalubang at 8:30 instead of
11 PM, if it were not for the condition of my left ankle. It had started
becoming a mildly debilitating trouble. Mind over matter – I told myself every
time it hurt. Such buffoonery!

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Banke: Floodplains on the way to school

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Bishal‖s friend and his family were courteous enough to wait an extra hour
for my arrival, keeping a shutter of their highway hotel open. I rumbled
down the dinner on offer and fell flat after a courtesy conversation with
them. The next morning, he disclosed that he had been following my works
for a significant while. The young man ran a cell phone shop, was firm and
wore a leather jacket. He had high expectations from me, and it puzzled him
when I indicated that I was no longer a person of great ambitions. As we
shared samosa at a sweet shop, flanked by personnel in fatigues on a
training exercise, I felt sorry for not being able to connect with the concerns
and expectations of the spirited buck who had welcomed me with such
honor.

The mighty embankments that saved riverside concrete entities in

Bhalubang from the fury of the West Rapti in its monsoon avatar, was the
only feature that saved the highway town from seeming largely generic.
Across the elusive bridge, the highway briefly brushed Arghakhanchi, before
approaching Kapilbastu.

Two Hermitages

As the temple of Dhankhola neared, memories from 2015 overtook my active

perception. It felt as if I was transported back in time. There, during my first
walk across the plains, I had been invited in by a hermit – a minimum
charge for a night‖s stay and food. It made practical sense for a large jungle
lay ahead, and I desired to be acquainted with the life of and motivations
that drove such people. I shared an empathetic conversation on the dinner
floor, around a fireplace, with the three hermits who had since early
childhood, for a large part of their existence, been treated unjustly by the
world. Tired beyond measure, I slept in peace, the lean arrangements
sufficed.

In the middle of the night, I woke up to find myself being abused by one of
the men. For I was feeling unusually drowsy, I presumed that the dinner
could have been drugged. It took me a while to react, but I mustered all
strength, rushed out, and made a call to my well wisher Pukar.

After passing on my location and other details in a loud, clear voice, I had
said:

“There‖s no coverage indoors. If I don‖t call by 6 AM, please understand that

I‖m in trouble.”

I slept by the fireplace on the porch. The manner of the call had deterred the
hermits, as I intended.

A few hours later, the police arrived with a fiery flair that I had only seen in
movies. They started cursing upon and bashing the hermits. I dissuaded
them from engaging in further violence. My calm demeanor surprised them,
for they had received orders to rescue a helpless, kidnapped youngster. A
case of the telephone game! I relayed details of what had happened to the

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officer, as he escorted me to the nearest station on his van impetuously. He
seemed to be annoyed with me for not letting the team bash them or wishing
to register a case. I had heard their stories, understood where they came
from, and in spite of what they had done to me, wished for their suffering to
end. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, pain for pain: that sort of justice
was beyond my understanding. I believed forgiveness could help heal them
and end a perpetual cycle of misery. I snapped back to reality, and wondered
how little the years that had gone by had failed to alter such convictions.

Throughout the Dang stretch, the highway had gradually gained altitude on
its progression into the inner plains; from Bhalubang it began a sharp
descent. The road cut through cliffs, making for cockeyed views. On a couple
of odd turnings, a pair or two of straw roofed huts with solar panels were
seen. Hens and pigs scuttled around. I wondered who lived there, how they
got water, or whether they were only there to serve a limited set of truck
drivers. However, I was aware of the semi urban norms of the highway and
wished not to infringe upon their space. After three hours of ceaseless
walking, the flat plains came. The shrill sounds of zooming long distance
busses and other vehicles were still there, but the audible chuckles and
cackles of the people that rode the local ones added an element of warmth.
First the line that marked the end of dense trees, then the horizonless fields,
then the ponds and scattered huts, and finally lined houses on either side of
the wide road: the city came to being as I progressed southwards.
Construction materials were scattered on the roadside, many a vehicle,
especially colorful auto rickshaws, were parked too. An equal number of
motorcycles and cycles were visible in the city: a sign of changing times and
increasing wealth. Yet, the only structure worth notice was the grand Jame
Mosque. It had rented out the shuttered rooms on its wide, green, outer
walls to businesses, and was a center of buzzing activity.

I reached Kharendrapur at dark. Locals told me that the best option I had
was the Swargadwari Hermitage; it was cleaner and better managed than
any lodge around. I acquiesced to the popular recommendation. There was a
grand worship event going on there, two women of faith and decent
influence had donated idols, and contributed to maintenance. Their invitees
were a reflection of the community each was from. One group of invitees
was humbly dressed and silent, while members of the other were loud and
dressed in a flashy manner. It could be seen that they were not impressed by
each other‖s way of pleasing the same gods that had united them. Despite
my efforts to gel in with the humbler group, because of the color of my skin I
was better accepted by the other. I was served offerings; it was a free for all
buffet of the traditional kind. The priest assured me of all arrangements and
I spent the night in a dorm room with students of religion. It was probably
my first stay in a hermitage of that sort since the incident in 2015. It had to
happen then, it had to happen there. I was woken, at 5:30, by a boy reciting
prayers.

Diverse Journeys

Hukka Bar and Chinese Restaurant: Snack Shop – read the flex board outside
an eatery with pictures from the web of dishes on offer, followed by a note in

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smaller text – meals for marriages, Bratabandha (initiation ceremony), and
various other ceremonies can be prepared as ordered. Such flashy
signboards, which usually included the proprietor‖s name and number, and
the establishments they represented, served as metaphors for the transition
and spirit of emerging towns across this part of the globe.

Slightly ahead, on the edge of the settlement, was a cow shelter. A saffron
clad hermit and his family operated it. An elderly hermit dressed in a saffron
kurtha and yellow dhoti was there as a guest. The institution that took care
of abandoned cows was founded on forestland, thus, lacking legitimacy.
While the founder prepared a cup of lightly brewed tea, I made note of the
shabbiness of the place. It was a fly infested wooden structure covered by
thin, worn out tarpaulin, with only a plastic mat by the fireplace to sleep or
sit on. He still offered to share the lunch under preparation with me: an
incredible act of generosity! The oxen that roamed around the camp in hopes
of being given some leftovers had grown to intimidating proportions, for they
had lived beyond the years of industrial relevance in relative comfort. They
all had trident marks stamped onto their sides – a cruel exercise, but one
that deterred others from hurting them. If only the hermit had not spoken, I
would have retained a saintly impression of him. But no, he kept
complaining of how his earnest efforts were not supported by the
government or other donors. And, in a district known for its contentious
religious history, he made some distasteful and intolerant remarks. Not
everyone has the privilege to have faith, be motivated, and well exposed at
the same time.

I noticed at least three Gyalbo Lhosar, a celebration native to the upper hills
and mountains, gatherings that day in open grounds by the highway. The
turnout spoke volumes of the diversity of that stretch. Women in red
donning their finest pieces of jewelry, men wearing traditional attire, and
children dressed in casuals danced to the tunes of blaring pop songs. Tens, if
not hundreds, of busses and other vehicles carried people to the venues.
Amidst it all, another well wisher of mine, Bishal‖s friend took me to a fancy
hotel in Gorusinghe for lunch. The man, much like his friend, was a treat to
be around with. I believe I did myself a great disservice by neither asking his
name, nor staying in communication.

The highway in Kapilbastu ran straight; vehicles zoomed about at a perilous

pace. The unforgiving nature of the road was on exhibit: a woman carrying a
significant load of firewood from the community forest on her cycle was
nudged by a truck right before me. To my astonishment, her response was
rather stoical. She simply picked up the cycle, giggled nervously for having
been spared, checked the load, and continued unaffected. That meant one of
two things: either she was of a saintly temperament, or such accidents were
an everyday affair. I fear it might have been the latter.

It was then that I started noticing several defects on the highway. Derailed
barriers on bridges were left unattended to, there were no sidewalks,
roadside trees had been relentlessly cut down or trimmed to non existence;
there was not a dearth of basics gone wrong to complain about. A settlement
of temporary cottages that had encroached upon a river‖s sandy sway banks,
and thus risked its wrath in monsoon, sought legitimacy by putting up a
board marking it as a colony. Several haat bazaars (rotational markets) on
roadside grounds knew not what to do with the waste accumulated, and left
the spoils to be attended to by scrap collectors. There was much on the way
that seemed wrong that day; maybe the beaming sun was to blame.

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At Banganga, I went to a medical store that specialized in ayurvedic offerings
out of plain curiosity. The proprietor was surprisingly welcoming and had a
charming smile. He found the walk to be relatable, for his father had once
undertaken a similar endeavor. Stories from the fabled journey were on
offer: my ears peaked in amusement – an instant connection! Not only did he
insistently offer fruits, but also a small donation. With the healer, I have
been promised a reunion.

Tinau Connections

The essence that Siddhartha represented was difficult to find in the

industrial highways of Rupandehi. Figures of him on junctions that led to the
Mayadevi Temple, the site believed to be his birthplace, shook whenever
large trucks full of sand and other building materials rattled through. During
the walk across the southern Hulaki Highway in 2015, I had noticed how the
site brought to light through the efforts of a curious German Indologist in the
penultimate decade of the nineteenth century, and experiencing a
commercial boom had become a dividing line of sorts. East of the site, large
hotels and other commercial establishments were propping up, while
towards the west, for a large part, widespread poverty and dismal living
standards prevailed.

There was an abundance of relatively pricey hotels on the stretch. An hour

and a half after sundown, I decided to call the day‖s walk off at Ramapur. I
was made aware of police regulations that did not allow the hotels there to
host people without a government issued identification card. I was not
carrying one; no lodge had asked me to present one before. Despite
elaborating that it was a matter of moral policing over all else, with a
significant number of couples coming in, a lodge owner refused to make an
exception for me. A sense of fear did not allow trust to bloom in that town.
As I moved ahead, hoping to pull off an all nighter to Butwal, my friend
Prajjwal who hailed from the city came to mind. I made a call to him and
relayed my troubles. After a few seconds of helpless pondering, he
responded with a smile that could be heard in his voice saying that a mutual
acquaintance lived close to where I was. Within minutes, a connection was
established; Mohan called me and relayed directions to his home.

Mohan was excited to see me. It had been years since we had worked
together on a sociopolitical movement, yet he retained a greatly positive
impression of me. I took a shower and washed my clothes, as I did once
every twelve days or so; whenever a welcoming place of convenience was
reached. We had a wonderful conversation after that. The young man with a
cheerful disposition was deeply worried about the fate of the country and
curious about what I had seen. That night at his place reenergized me; not
finding a lodge turned out to be a boon in disguise. It was a reminder to trust
the journey.

My left ankle really got sore that night. It was fine when I was walking, but
got stuck and could not bear the burden of my weight after a bit of rest. I felt
handicapped and vowed to find a pair of Hattichhaps in Butwal; for the

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aggravation, I had laid all blame on the replacement rubber slippers bought
in Kailali. As I limped up the stairs, I hoped the terrible swelling would
subside overnight, as it had done in the days before.

It was only after breakfast that Mohan, his brother, and mother, let me bid
farewell. My foot felt better but the swelling had not lessened. I persisted
nonetheless. Instead of continuing on the highway that went north and met
the hills at Jitgadhi, I crossed the Daano and Tinau Rivers to get to
Devinagar. A seasonal road was crafted on the dry Tinau riverbed on which
motorcycles, three wheelers, cars and trucks hustled, a motorable bridge was
under construction. I was duly impressed both by the breadth of the dormant
river‖s sandy banks which it consumed in full without inhibition in
monsoon, and the audacity of the people who had built houses on or close to
it. The forts of gabion had been ripped asunder.

In 2014, I had cycled to Rupandehi from Kathmandu with my friend Parbat.

Nawaraj had invited us to his café at Chauraha, which he proudly declared
was the first one in the city to serve machine made coffee. The highway to
the industrial city of Bhairahawa on the border had been widened that year.

“Look at how wide and free these roads are!”

He spoke with great fervor.

“Butwal will never experience the kind of congestion and development

limitations that Kathmandu does!”

The city had experienced unprecedented expansion, swelling of land prices,

and increase in wealth, in the years that followed, rendering the prediction
obsolete.

Archana, an old friend, linked me up with her family. At their residence, I

had late lunch and listened to stories of how the city had changed since their
arrival a few decades ago. After calling for and receiving several
recommendations on things to do in the city, I headed out for a stroll. The
roads were busy and the smog was thick. I paused for a while in Mahendra
Chowk, observing the difficulties people faced while crossing the road. I
conversed with street vendors and a few laypeople. I found optimism in the
fact that the city was making efforts to create diversions for the highways
that met at its center; it was needed to make the place more hospitable.

I could not find the kind of rugged Hattichhap slippers that suited me
perfectly in the city. From Kailali to Butwal, not a single city on the highway
had it. Little things like that reminded me of the privilege of being a
Kathmanduite. My search for pressure cooker coffee in Traffic Chowk failed
too; the stalls were only laid after dusk. I was set to catch up with Bheshraj,
who had hosted me at his place during an earlier visit, at another junction. It
was nice to get a perspective on the city from him and other activist friends
over tea. One of the friends accompanied me to Ramanagar, where I was
invited to stay at Sandesh‖s house. The young man residing in Kathmandu,
influenced by my walk, had undertaken a fortnight long one in the hills. His
humble parents were amused to have the person who had inspired their son
to attempt such a crazy endeavor among them.

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Nawalparasi East: Debilitating ligament injury on left ankle

133
 The End Loomed Before Me

On the one hundred and seventy first day of the walk, powered only by a
bottle of soda and two packets of biscuits, I went past Sunwal, Bardaghat,
and the pass of Daunne, to reach the town of Dumkibas. In a highwayside
shop, I even found the kind of industrial slippers I had spent a fortnight
searching for. However, it did not help as expected.

For all my energies and attention were focused on dragging that incompliant,
swollen left ankle of mine, I noticed only a few things on the way and made
very little conversation. A faded revolutionary portrait of Prachanda on the
wall outside Lumbini Sugar Mill, a huge golden statue of Siddhartha labeled
– the watching eyes of Buddha, large ponds where buffaloes swam to escape
the heat, an elephant idol with strands of cloth tied on the trunk in the
forest, and the tortoise like pace of trucks dragging their load up Daunne, are
visuals that come to mind when I reminisce the day.

On the way down to Dumkibas, my left ankle started failing me. It could not
have failed me at a better place though; the ever supportive brother Sandy‖s
house was there. On two previous occasions, I had spent multiple days
there. I was already familiar with his extended family. His mother had the
guest room set for me, as usual, and encouraged me to rest. I believed that
like in the previous days, my foot would recover after a night‖s sleep. I took a
paracetamol tablet to curtail the feverish inflammation and pain.

The next morning, I woke up with a left foot that seemed to be paralyzed. It
was incapable of bearing my body‖s weight and collapsed when I put the
slightest pressure on it. When I first made attempts to move the foot, it hurt
terribly and my eyes watered with pain. Yet, I swallowed gulps of saliva and
kept pushing on, eventually managing to limp around a bit, applying all
pressure on the other foot. With Anshuka and Anita, medical students, and
steadfast well wishers, I conversed extensively about the situation. They
advised me to get an x ray scan immediately. Wishing not to trouble Sandy‖s
mom, I limped to the nearest medical center at turtle speed. I knew that if I
were to accept the injury as being disabling, it would only feel worse.

The best medical facility in Dumkibas, the center of a rural municipality with
a population of over thirty five thousand, was basic and without a full time
doctor. Locals had gotten used to the idea of going to Bharatpur, whenever a
check up or medical attention was needed. A medical attendant took the x
ray in the emergency room behind the medical counter. I took a picture of
the scan and sent it to the aforementioned well wishers. It was not a
fracture, as first feared, but my ankle ligaments had been ruptured. I
breathed a sigh of relief, thinking it was a less serious problem, before they
told me it was in fact a graver, more persistent issue. The doctor‖s orders
were as follows: RICE – Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation, an array of
medicines to help ease the pain and swelling, and a bus ride to a good
hospital in Chitwan or Kathmandu. The end, of the walk, loomed before me.

Nevertheless, I promised to give the foot at least five days of rest before
making the call. Sandy‖s mom left to attend a family function in another
town. The house, upon his recommendation, was left all to me. I only went
out three times; to the nearest shops to get vegetables and other essentials.
A liberal amount of gel that helped ease swelling was applied and the ankle
was wrapped tightly with crepe bandage. The bandage remained on at all

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times; I only removed it to apply the gel in the morning and at night. I kept it
elevated above the body whenever possible and walked only when
necessary. I really did not want the walk to end.

The enforced rest period was fruitful. I read a few books on the ebook reader
I was carrying. Particularly impressionable was Hermann‖s Demian. I also
found plenty of time to go over notes, rewrite and publish pending
conversational quotes on social media. I experimented with cooking and
even spent the better part of a day in the neighboring bakery observing how
bread was prepared. I slept well; with the curtains down and without the
alarm on. The swelling seemed to have subsided slightly every morning. My
mind untangled as my body felt better. In retrospect, the break could not
have come at a better time.

Slightly Limp Yet Rhythmic

After five days of rest, I left Sandy‖s house in Dumkibas. I hit the road with a
strange, ungrounded sense of confidence. The swelling on my left leg had
significantly subsided, but the chronic pain remained. It felt like an iron nail
was being hammered into my left ankle, each time I took a step. The pain
was constant, so constant that it eventually lost meaning. Like all recurring
affairs in life, it lost its edge with each strident blow. The right leg always
took the leading stride and bore the greater share of weight (a subconscious
affair) to help its ailing double. A slightly limp yet rhythmic movement was
established.

Across the bridge, a great stretch of forest that extended down from the
Chure hills began. It extended up to Danda, with only the majorly
agricultural settlements of Arun Khola and Chormara (literally thief killed) in
between. At what was most certainly a community managed forest inhabited
by creatures rare and vulnerable, around the plaque that marked the
midpoint of the East West Highway, logging beyond an objectively
understandable scale was going on. I paused to observe the plunder, and
after a while, ventured into the depression to ask the loggers, who were
residents of a nearby settlement, if what they were doing was a routine
affair. No one gave a clear answer and I was discouraged from taking
pictures.

Hung on the branches of a maimed, almost leafless, tree were old tires, torn
tubes, and broken parts. It stood at the beginning of the town, with a red
scooter awaiting repair, and felt as if it was a landmark offering commentary
on the savagery of our race. Further down, a life size statue of a rhino, bound
by railings and pots, stood before a concrete gateway with paintings of wild
animals on the junction that led to the Amaltari buffer area of the Chitwan
National Park. A boy napped standing, with ghongis (snails) laid before him
on a dirty plastic tarp, right beside the bizarre monument.

At Danda, I was welcomed by my friend Prishank‖s family. His grandparents

were especially warm. Grandma was emotionally moved by the nature of my
endeavor and her affectionate manner of speech made me feel at home.
Grandpa took me for a walk around the town. The former educator
reminisced how the town looked decades ago at every turn. Happy, he was

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not with the course of development there – how people had chosen earning
over education, and flashy consumerism over investment. I stayed at his
relative‖s place that night, for the new house had an extra room. The middle
aged man was a contractor and had a concrete understanding of the world.

“Only if you wear a dhaka cap and carry a large flag will people know that
you are walking across Nepal! Without doing that, it makes no sense!”

For I was grateful, I humbly listened to all of his concerns. The next morning
grandma invited me home just to offer parting blessings. She remained in
touch throughout the walk.

On the way to Narayangarh, through the industrial hub of Pragatinagar and

city of Gaindakot among other settlements, houses were lined along the road
for the most part. The plains around the Narayani River were richly fertile;
the forests around it had been cleared decades ago to make way for new
settlers. If the Chitwan National Park had not been declared, perhaps not a
single stretch of forest in those plains there would have survived. The fields
met the hills to the north and extended beyond the horizon in the south. At a
bus stop on the way, I chatted with two Tharu women. They had grown up
seeing wild animals and knew how to deal with them fearlessly. The older of
the two, whose arms were decorated with several tattoos, shed light on how
the Kamaiya (bonded laborer) system used to be practiced there too.

From the Hanuman temple, at the end of a short forest stretch before
Gaindakot, the immensity of the Narayani River was clearly visible. The
priest there was from Kanchanpur, a district on the southwest end of the
country, which I had traversed through to get there; that fact served as
ground for an instant sense of connection. He welcomed me for conversation
over prashaad snacks. I rested there for a while, and then proceeded to
Gaindakot. The city remains distinctly memorable for the intricately carved
and painted corrugated sheet roofs, usually exhibiting patriotic themes,
which most houses along the highway possessed.

Sailing Past The City

As the urbanite relishes the peace found in open fields and rolling hills, so
does the countryside soul find the clamor of high rises and elements of city
life wondrous. Vice versa, the abhorrence of mundaneness prevails. And
upon loss, nostalgia; it is only human to take abundance for granted, and
long for what is denied. Steadfast romanticists are a rare breed. I for one, for
the efficient congestion of cityscapes share very little love, if at all, and
Bharatpur was no exception.

In Nubri valley, during the preliminary phase of the walk: across the
mountains, I had shared my social media handle in a brief, hurried exchange
with three young trekkers. Only when I got to Butwal did I realize that one of
them had been consistently observing my posts since then. Raju had sent a
message welcoming me to stay with him in Chitwan. The connection, for the
odds it had defied to come to be, seemed miraculous. I had not imagined a

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walk beyond the Kanchanjanga Base Camp at that point, let alone across the
hills, and then the plains to Chitwan. Thus, I approached the possibility of
completing such a circle and living the consequences with great enthusiasm.

Curiosity enticed me to observe the making of falooda at Shahid Chowk, and

then eventually have it. The Rajasthani man preparing it was in his early
twenties. He had the simplest of dreams; to continue the work for a few
more years, amass enough money to fund marriage celebrations and have
minimum savings, then to tend fields at home for a life of contentment. His
gravitating smile was not without reason. I then proceeded towards the
Birendra Campus junction, where Raju had called me.

Raju had woes of his own: a close relative was in the infirmary. Yet, he put
on a brave and welcoming smile for me. He took me to a hip cafe for dinner.
Such food places were a rarity beyond the valley of Kathmandu, up until half
a decade or so ago; in this part of the globe subsistence and conservative
middle class spending culture used to hold strong. We spent the night with
his peers from the agricultural campus, who were genuinely fascinated by
the walk and offered tremendous encouragement. Through their fraternity,
they helped me find links throughout the eastern half of the plains. The next
day, he took me to his home, north of Bishal Chowk, for lunch. The open
fields in the area were fast disappearing; plots were being carved out and the
road had been recently black topped with perfection. There, I met his shy
three year old cousin and got acquainted with his heart rending past. The
family had, without question, made him one of their own. Graciousness, it
seems, ran in their blood.

After lunch, and then an exchange of greetings with some young leaders of a
political party involved in contracting endeavors over tea, I parted ways with
Raju. Following the map, I took the road that traversed through Bhojad, and
then the northern extension of the Tikauli jungle to Kalika. The relatively
heavy traffic on the route first surprised me, followed by the sight of a
drinking water truck filling its tank with water from the river basin. The
significant number of Buddhists there was also a revelation. As I continued
eastwards, I realized that Tamangs and Lamas had a consistent presence on
the plains, to the north of the highway, which met the hills. There were a
few industries here and there; ones that registered their presence with fumes
that spanned the skies above the fields and banana plantations. The only
notable interaction on that day was with a longtime beekeeper. He happily
gave a tour and offered a perspective on the history of the place. Since his
children were not interested in the hassle ridden ways of agriculture and
honey harvesting, he worried for the future of the business, and the world at
large.

Tied To The System

I arrived at the Ladhari Barrack an hour after nightfall. Sanjay, the contractor
I had met with Raju that morning, had invited me there. Unlike the barracks
of common parlance, the large house was home not to military personnel but
a contracting contingent. Theirs was the annually leased right to exploit the

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Ladhari River basin in Khairahani, which lay dormant for the better part of
the year, for sand and stone. With several large dorm rooms, mattresses and
blankets aplenty, the barrack was crafted to accommodate up to fifty brawny
people at a time – laborers, drivers, managers, operators, and fixers. That
night, there were only six – all close friends.

One of the younger, more muscular partners had a tattoo of Siddhartha on

his left arm. His was a story of despair. Despite making twice as much as he
spent on his share of the contract, he had not managed to save much.
Celebrations with relentless drinking drained his pockets. The heavy handed
approach he had to adopt to maintain the business made his friends detest
him. An escape though was not possible; he was tied into the system.

The man of few words, Sanjay, intercepted the conversation:

“You are living the life! We have always wanted to do what you have done,
but one thing or the other has tied us down.”

His eyes remained cautious, observant, and still, throughout the night. Only
on rare occasions did he eke out the gentlest trace of a smile. From him, I
sought permission to head to bed: another young man had started exhibiting
videos from his odd exploits; the conversation had taken a raucous turn that
made it both exciting and abhorrent, but above all draining. I was led to one
of the more comfortable beds there, and told to inform before leaving.

At 5:30 AM, I woke Sanjay up. He was dazed, but somewhat happy with the
fact that I had followed up on his request. Right after parting hugs were
exchanged, he slipped a bundle of notes into my front pocket. I always
denied such unsolicited donations, especially when they were significant
amounts. I pleaded for him to take it back, reasoning that I had enough
money with me to last till Jhapa. The previous day, I had for the first time
during the walk sought funds from my father; the requested amount of six
thousand rupees had been promptly delivered. The man, whose proportion
was almost twice as large as mine, frowned and glared at me.

“The money is yours now. Don‖t even think about giving it to me. It won‖t be
good to do that.”

My resistance fell there. Half a block down the line, a statuette of Siddhartha
on the façade of a home was lit by flashing lights just bright enough to help
me discern the notes. There were ten of one thousand: accepted and marked
on the phone as a contribution.

Innumerable trucks whisked by, as the sun kissed the highway tarmac and
gently rose up. By nine, it had attained scorching potency. Summer had
arrived. For a while, I rested under a tree of sacred fig in Bhandara, around
which a chautara platform had been built. I sat there thanking the tree and
the builders of the platform; never before had I felt truly grateful for such
sanctuaries.

“Lookie here! Lookie here!”

An old man halted me on the roadside at Debichaur.

“Are you wandering in search of work? I‖ve got work for you.”

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I felt offended by the nature of his approach and responded coldly. The usual
barrage of questions followed – where, why, and who. After receiving
satisfying responses, he offered to serve lunch. I accepted, and was asked to
wait for a while, as the meal was under preparation. Three adorable rabbits
roamed the garden outside the house. It felt good to know that they were
there as pets, and not to be culled for meat. The wrinkled man with a bent
finger, one that had been chopped long ago while dealing with wood, and
sewn together terribly, shared his concerns about the lack of field workers.
Only the son of a Chepang family, to whom he had given tracts of lands in
the hills to the north (once considered to be of little worth) as a reward for
years of serfdom like service, was readily available. I wished for his
presence.

A young guy, dressed in jeans and tshirt, appeared on the scene.

“Come here! This man from Kathmandu wants to see what a Chepang looks
like!”

The patronizing old man kept chuckling, while the guy gave me an
uncomfortable stare. In the dialogue that followed, he kept repeating that
Chepangs from the region had modernized and prospered, that they should
not be stereotyped as disadvantaged and primitive.

With a tummy full of farmer‖s diet, I sped past the bridge at Lothar and
crossed into Makwanpur. Worth note was the fact that the highwayside land
was encroached by a large number of decrepit cottages, whose inhabitants
perhaps lived off the river basin. The market of Manahari was reached in
very little time, and Hetauda seemed to be an achievable destination for the
day. Yet somehow, that did not work out. I had to halt at Rajaiya for the
night, beyond which lay a forest whose length I could not be sure of.

East Rapti Down Chure

In the tiny settlement of Rajaiya on the banks of the Eastern Rapti, I went
around looking for a lodge. It seemed like there were none, and people were
reluctant to offer a night‖s stay to an outsider. Instead, they redirected me to
a hermitage by the river. In the pin drop silence of the dark, I walked on a
short stretch of sandy track in the middle of small cottages to get there.
Ruffles caused by curious onlookers from those cottages made me think
about the repercussions of a misunderstanding; someone could easily label
me a thief, and only seek a proper response after a barrage.

The hermits welcomed me to their abode wholeheartedly. The clarity of the

space and their conduct, assured me that it was a safe space. Before putting
forth any queries, they offered me dinner. Two disciples seated on traditional
cushions on the mud floor of the kitchen shared the leftovers with me. From
the division of work, it could be understood that theirs was an egalitarian
hermitage. Albeit, also a somewhat sophisticated one. After dinner, I joined a
group of hermits who were busy going through ancient Vedic texts on their

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laptops. The grey haired leader, who used to be journalist for a leading
television house, wore a black tshirt coupled with a dhoti. His wife seated
next to him, was a guest at the community and dressed casually. There were
two other men, both young engineers, draped in uninterrupted pieces of
saffron and white. The warm, casual conversation eventually proceeded to
details of their exploits. The hermitage was an anarchist Vedic research
institute, not one of absolute renunciators. Their work was centered on
producing scientific rationale for events and objects found in religious
scriptures, and finding supposed long forgotten ways to purify the
environment. A chart on the wall exhibited the blueprint of an airplane, as
described in the Ramayana. Then, there was talk of how burning certain
kinds of wood was good for the environment. The need for cow protection
was given a supposedly scientific explanation as well. As much as I was
grateful for their welcome, an oriental sense of superiority and pride was
something I had long outgrown. Mixing matters of faith and science was not
palatable. Yet, I certainly did not lament landing up at the place and the
unique experience.

After waking up, I explored the banks, back dropped by a sizable suspension
bridge, to realize that the hermitage was expanding precariously close to the
dormant river. Before leaving, I relayed my concerns about it to a hermit who
seemed least bothered. I proceeded on the dusty road to Hetauda.

Mid way through, I had a pleasant exchange with activist Mahesh and his
friend at a roadside eatery. They linked me up with their friend Anurag, who
was in the city. A humongous flex board hung on electric poles that praised
the erstwhile Managing Director of Nepal Electricity Authority Kulman,
famed for reducing electricity disruptions, set me thinking and distracted
from the conversation for a bit.

Remnants of the long redundant, rusty ropeway that used to transport goods
to Kathmandu welcomed me to Hetauda. It was a fairly new city that had
come to be and prospered through the grace of the highways that intersected
it. For I had made several trips to the city and surrounding regions in my
teenage years, the element of novelty and motivation to explore was absent.
After resting for a while at Anurag‖s place near Buddha Chowk, he
recommended that I meet the founder of the acclaimed Kamane Bilingual
School. She had recently had a baby and was resting at home. After a failed
search for the nostalgia of the once ubiquitous snack of haluwa pauroti at
Sano Pokhara Chowk, we headed south towards her place. Anurag rode his
bike at a snail‖s pace, while I followed him on foot.

Pratibha had fought the elections with a baby within her, and throughout the
struggles of door to door campaigns, speeches under the sun, and all, she
had retained a bright smile on her face. It was a demeanor she had acquired
in the years spent developing the center of progressive learning in Kamane.
She kept referring to the school as her first child. Listening to her
experiences was a meditative experience. I wished her and the baby well
before parting, with a promise to meet again. Down I went, across plotted
fields to the southern end of the city. There, at a small eatery, I had my meal
– a doughnut, noodles and a cream roll. A kindhearted woman in her thirties
took great interest in my way of being. After a short conversation with her, I
continued. The Chure forest was much larger than I had imagined. It got
dark midway through, where there were several signs to mark elephant
crossings.

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 Roots And Dreams

At Amlekhganj, after quite a bit of scouting, I found an affordable lodge. Not

without some negotiation though. The town was in the middle of the jungle,
and housed the Nepal Oil Corporation‖s petroleum reserves, and other
smaller depots. It seemed like only people with official work stayed there
overnight.

“What do your parents do? Are you married? Do you adhere to a religious
path? How much have you studied?”

Many, many questions followed, to which I gave fair answers.

“Thukka!”

He spat on the floor.

“You are a rotten person! All your efforts are pointless! Your life is pointless!”

High on alcohol, the official of the Nepal Electricity Authority who was a
guest at the lodge, unleashed a demeaning tirade upon me. As was my
practice, I exercised restraint and listened. I internalized every bit of venom
he spewed at me without complaint. Fighting back would have only
interrupted the walk, and carrying on was of pivotal importance. The lodge
owner nodded at every expression of his more perceivably powerful and
better spending guest. Such bouts of humiliation came few and far in
between, but they did come. Somehow, maybe because of his demonic face
and the resentful tone of voice, the one from that night has remained fresh
in my memory.

Large parts of the East West Highway were constructed with support from
the (then) USSR. At the junction of Pathlaiya, an arc marking the contribution
stood tall. An hour later, I arrived at a wrecked bridge on the highway. It was
probably built around the same time as the arc, and much like it had not
received necessary maintenance. Vehicles were compelled to ply down to the
edge of the seasonal river‖s bank and blow clouds of dust to get to the other
side. Having traversed the way on foot, I can say with certainty that many of
the bridges that have been serving with broken backs and railings might not
hold strong for too long without proper intervention. The uncapped
withdrawal of sand and stone from rivers is not helping.

A woman called me out in the middle of the jungle. I was not sure if we were
familiar and so she had to remind me of our previous meet. She was the one
who had taken a liking to me at the eatery in Hetauda the day before.
Dressed in dreary clothes, she along with two of her friends, were out to
collect fodder. After a short conversation, the women stopped a truck and I
helped load the bundles of leaves onto it. I politely declined their request to
get on the ride though. She passed me on her number and made me promise
that I would see her in Nijgadh.

Until the vast, sandy expanse of the Lal Bakaiya River was seen, the only
major interruption to the jungle was a wide road track that went north; the
fast track that promised to reduce the travel time from the capital to the
plains to an hour. The army, entrusted with construction responsibilities,

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had put up a large, yellow flex – entry prohibited! A defiant man with goats
tied on his motorcycle was being interrogated.

The promise of the international airport and fast track projects had made
land prices swell and ushered in a new wave of prosperity for the denizens
of Nijgadh. Many a high rises were under construction by the highway.
Memories of the place from my previous visit were useful for vague
comparisons, but nothing else.

I met the woman outside her house. She looked at me with a strange sort of
affection.

“What might your mother be thinking? How worried she must be! I can help
make arrangements for the night around here, if you wish to stay.”

She served me fruits and gave me a bag full of biscuits as she continued:

“Look at your feet! Get on a bus. What good can traveling on foot do?”

Her relatives were watching from afar. When they were momentarily
distracted by a loud vehicle, she quickly shoved a thousand rupee note onto
my hand. I tried to return it, but to no avail. She kept calling me long after
we parted, and I never quite was able to give her a satisfactory response.

Responding to a query on social media, Rachna had said that I could stay at
her grandparents‖ place in Chandranigahapur. Fifty four kilometers of
walking done with, I reached there just in time for dinner, took a quick
shower, and washed my clothes. It had been nine days since the last round,
and I wondered what they thought of the ragged man who they had simply
welcomed for being in touch with their granddaughter on social media. After
dinner, I sat with the old man. Rachna‖s recommendation was not without
reason, the conversation with him revealed.

The old man had gone rogue at the age of twelve, traveled and worked
around India throughout his teenage years and early twenties, before finally
settling in at Chandranigahapur; where when the highway was built, vast
expanses of farmland were available for a bargain. Towards the end of his
years of wander, a Tharu woman in Thori had adopted and helped him save
enough money for a decent piece of land. The stories went on and on. The
man who donned a lungi, with a dhaka cap and checkered shirt, had lived a
life larger than ones that usually grace the big screen. Through his words, I
had relived his early life. I went to bed, a comforted soul, that night.

The voices of children singing familiar tunes at a nearby school meant that it
was time to continue. At midday, on the highway, I witnessed the aftermath
of a forest fire. The scene seemed sad at first, but golden leaves started
falling on the burnt ground, laying the seeds for a revival in a magical scene.
The Bagmati River was not too far away from there. Even in peak summer, it
was exponentially greater in volume compared to the flow in Kathmandu.
Much cleaner too; people could be seen selling fishes netted from the river on
the highwayside, many were taking a dip, children were playing at the
beach, and stalls had popped up to serve people. Summer life around the
river, flanked by the Bagmati Irrigation Project dam, was vibrant.

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Bara: Hitchhiking after fodder collection in the forest near Nijgadh

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 Night Walker

Between the rivers of Bagmati and Kamala, time seemed to fly by without
much meaning. Perhaps, it was because of the stinging pain on my left
ankle. The sandy track on the edge of the highway, despite being unfit for
walking, was my best linear option. At times, the pain grew strong and I
walked, daring speeding vehicles, on the edge of the tough tarmac, to keep
steady. I had also given my word to attend a gathering at Lumbini in the
third week of the month, but only after touching the waters of the Mechi
River, for which I had to maintain pace. Since all my attention was devoted
to walking, a struggle against the limp foot, there were only a few
substantial impressions. The sight of sugarcane stalks being loaded onto
carts by farmers donning bright pagadis, and tens of bulls dragging those
incredible masses to the sugar factory in a procession, was too dramatic to
ignore though.

In Hariaun, I stayed at a place recommended by my steadfast well wisher

Anshuka. Her best friend Mandip was a kind and gentle youngster. I was
greeted at his place with the local delicacy of khajuris and by his brother.
The chubby cheeked boy, with a Juventus jersey on, kept shooting cheeky
puns. Albeit, the only ones laughing were me and him; everyone else was
near silent. The house possessed a melancholy mood, which I rationalized as
being consequent of the roaring generator in the courtyard. The family had
strangely not found time to pay the electricity bill for a significant while, and
then I noticed how my host‖s mother was draped in a teal saari and spoke
very little. After a while, he revealed that his father had recently passed
away in a tragic car accident. I too grew somber after that; not quite because
of the man‖s untimely death, but more so because I felt sorry for the coy,
young man who had to take up the reins of house and manage his studies
simultaneously. He had taken up a job at a local school. Dreams had started
growing distant, and, the young man‖s courage would be put to test in the
months and years to come.

The next day, I stopped only to observe the construction of a Hanuman

statue outside a temple, and to have a conversation with health post
officials, who had imbibed a sense of defeat – anyone with major health
issues, or seeking a reliable checkup, opted for the hospitals of Kathmandu,
Chitwan, or Dharan. By the highway, there were tens if not hundreds of
boards installed by the traffic police, which seldom fails to live up to its
quixotic reputation, on electric poles with the message – after whisky,
driving risky. A tattered board, sponsored like the rest by a company,
welcomed all to Lalbandi with the road safety message – if you want to stay
married – divorce speed. Street vendors, lined cycles, and crowds of buyers,
left very little room on the roadsides of the city. The rotational market (haat
bazaar) seemed to be on.

Kristina, Raju‖s (ref: Sailing Past The City) junior from college, had suggested
that I could stay at her place in Dharapani. I talked to her brother over the
phone, and alerted him about the possibility of being late. Having started
from Hariaun at 6:30 in the morning, I hoped to reach there by 8 PM. My left
ankle started failing me in the forest stretch of Mahottari around mid
afternoon, I chose to continue regardless. I reached Bardibas at 6:30 PM,
Dhalkebar at 11:30 in the night. My ankles too froze there, but I still carried
on. Nine kilometers remained; it was one of those rare occasions where I

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really felt stretched. Had I found a comfortable barn or place to lie down and
sleep on, I certainly would have. Once the midnight hour came to be,
Kristina‖s brother started getting worried. He offered to pick me up on his
motorcycle: first, he rang with sympathy, then as the clock ticked on with
irritation, then with frustration. I assured him that I would get there no
matter what and call him, which I did at an hour and a half past midnight.
Sixty three kilometers had been walked that day. With a befuddled look, the
brother welcomed me and took me straight to the kitchen. The conversation
that followed mellowed any sign of frustration, or, maybe it was just my
state that had drowned him in a sea of curiosity.

I woke up at eight the next morning, eager to continue. Yet, there were
curiosities that had to be addressed, and, not without having lunch would I
be allowed to leave the village of mud and wood huts decorated with Mithila
markings. The family was a religious one. In fact, the matriarch was hailed
as a maataa, a spiritual healer who channelizes Hindu goddesses and spirits.
At the temple outside their home, the woman shook vehemently, and
delivered mantras (sacred utterances) both from religious texts and ones of
her own invention meant to scare away bad spirits. She applied vermilion to
her patrons‖ foreheads and shared offerings (fruits and flowers) before
suggesting changes in lifestyle or outlining the need for special rituals.
People suffering from illnesses and haunted by troubles were lined up
outside the temple, ready with a monetary offering. It all seemed strange
and fascinating at the same time to me. A surprisingly large Tamang village
decorated with Buddhist elements stood apart on the alternative way to the
highway.

I rested at a bus stop at midday. While I had biscuits and a bar of Chocofun,
many colorful people and vehicles stopped, then went away. No one engaged
with me, and that seemed like a boon in disguise; I was simply too tired to
creatively engage with people. Two hours later, I was on the bridge above the
Kamala and on my way out of the district of Dhanusha. I looked down and
wondered why there were a great number of dead fishes in the river. Had
they been poisoned? At that very moment of reckoning, a man stopped his
car on the bridge, took out a sack, and started tossing dead fish into the
shallow waters. Oh, the ways of the world!

Off The Beaten Track

Right after I crossed the Kamala River, I checked the map and found an
alternative way that bypassed the highway for a significant bit. I had done so
keeping my ailing foot in consideration – dirt tracks were preferable to sandy
contours and hard asphalt, and for a change of scenery.

The trade off turned out fairly well. The canal brought all to life around it.
Laid back hamlets with traditional mud houses that possessed roofs of straw
and terracotta were a common sight on the road. On those roofs, little pieces
of colorful dough were laid out to dry on flat trays of bamboo, which made
for a wonderful sight. Clumps of dung and hay were neatly piled outside
houses.

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Cattle were not allowed to roam free, for farms of swaying grains extended
to the endless horizon on either side. Instead, they were guided by their
caretakers. Some took a dip in the waters of the canal and nearby ponds to
beat the heat, while the caretaker sat under the shade of a tree looking at the
skies and pondering, and nothing else. As the sun grew fiery, much like the
waters, canal side trees glowed with a golden hue. After a while, the canal
took a southward turn, and so, I had to abandon it.

Through the good graces of Rajkumar, an activist working for the welfare of
marginalized communities in the plains, I was offered a chance to spend a
night in a Musahar settlement. I had heard several times that there was no
other community, in this part of the world, as marginalized as them. The
destination for the night was set: Dharampur, north of Choharwa. Thus, I
was spared from giving a second thought about entertaining a dubious
hermit‖s appeal to spend the night at his abode near the canal. At the very
same junction, a sturdy man going about with two large trunks tied to his
cycle, offered to show me the shortest way to the highway. The man had
come on holiday from his job as an expressway cleaner in Dubai. He was full
of praises for the city‖s system, in spite of the risks posed by his work. For a
lack of discipline and a strong system to enforce it, he had concluded that
this country would never accomplish that level of development. When asked
about the trunks, he simply stated that they were dowry gifts shared with
him by the groom.

By the time I got close to the highway, it was already 7 PM. In that courtyard
like small town settlement to the south of Mirchaiya, I was drawn by the
singing of religious hymns to a Harekrishna congregation. There, I sat,
listening to and recording the tune, with complete disregard for the pace of
the clock; the walk ahead was going to be in darkness, with or without a
rush. An old vocalist guided three youngsters energetically playing dholak
and chimes. They were happy to have an outsider amongst the small
audience.

Contrary to expectation, the settlement of Dharampur was several miles

north of the highway. It took me a further three hours to get there. Shrill disc
jockey mixes in the vernacular marked the arrival of the village. News had
spread in the community that a helping hand representing a non
government organization was coming for a visit. Elders from the community
welcomed me to the settlement with glee, despite the unprecedented delay. I
told them that I was an ordinary person, but they shrugged that off as
modesty. The youngster, who had coordinated with me, struggled long and
hard to understand my endeavor, without much success. I shared the room
that night with goats; the young man‖s shed happened to have an extra bed.
With bits of poop pellets scattered all around, I could not but abhor the
space. However, I knew that sleep would cure all disgust and did not
complain.

The next day, I woke up to find a woman with a ghunghat on sobbing

outside the shed. For certain, there was more to the community than what
met the tacit eye. One‖s eyes could be easily tantalized by the intricate
Mithila carvings and paintings on the homes, but it would take a radical
reshaping of social bounds to be able to get an honest opinion from their
creators. Children and women started their day by carrying plastic
containers to the nearest water source. The smartly dressed elders gathered
again, outside a new concrete home, to meet me. They complained in unison
of their depravity. I, with a relative perspective, wanted to offer a different

146
opinion. The village exhibited signs of economic progress. Remittance money
was flowing in but the spending had a heavily consumerist inclination. Two
of the decrepit cottages I visited had large television sets. The family that
inhabited the grand concrete house had taken a huge loan to build it, instead
of opting for an exponentially cheaper traditional one. I sought to better
understand the decision, and a reply by the youngster shall forever remain
etched in my memory:

“My brother has to do this to show that he‖s doing well in life.”

Land was the greatest issue of concern. The community lived in contested
land, and sought the attribution of legitimacy or proper relocation. Feudal
lords had brought in the community from the south to work on their fields
decades ago. For multiple generations, they worked for only a part of the
proceeds from the land. They were denied the most fundamental of rights.
The word Musahar literally translates to rat eater, which I believe must have
been the only way to escape starvation in the feudal era. The fact that
surprised me the most was that the oppressive feudal lords in that region
were Tamang immigrants from the hills. Tamangs themselves are known to
be one of the most historically marginalized communities in this part of the
world. The complexities of oppression, social relations and poverty were laid
bare before me. Nonetheless, the landowners still needed the community to
work their fields, and the community needed the land – for it was the only
home they knew of. And thus, the tricky relationship continued despite
underlying struggles. With escalating land prices and urbanization knocking
at the door, contention is bound to rise in the years to come. The youngster
bade me farewell and kept reaching out over the internet expecting aid for
months. My inability to help meet his expectations still troubles me.

I took another alternative route and crossed an immense riverbed on that

torrid day. The ground had shattered in the fields and domesticated
creatures seemed paralyzed by the heat. After crossing the Chure River, for a
while there were trees on both sides of the road: the relief it provided was
priceless. I was left wondering why the entire highway could not have such
trees planted along it. The market of Dhangadhi arrived then, I remember
the place by the hymns of bhajans that were heard at every corner. Perhaps,
it was a festive period. The Ram temple that housed a party office also
remains memorable for its Mughal construct. Contradicting intersections are
a constant in this part of the world. At Lahan too, I interacted with members
of the community for an alternative perspective. The narratives there were
similar too.

Hysteria

During my walk across the mountains, I had noticed that the rainfall,
temperatures, and resultant vegetation were greater in the east compared to
the west. The same reflection, of the way the country had been
geographically carved out, stood generally true for the plains, with the nayaa
muluk districts of the west being perhaps the only notable exceptions in
terms of temperature. If my memory serves me right, I saw, consequent of
the factors discussed above, more rivers and streams in the eastern plains
than in the west.

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I was scheduled to spend my first night in Saptari in the town of Bisanpur; at
a well wisher‖s friend‖s place. However, my attempts to locate his residence
failed. A shopkeeper took pity on me and shared that he knew of a nearby
lodge that would welcome me. I accepted his proposition, and he made a call
to the proprietor. It took me a further hour and a half to reach the lodge in
Kathauna.

The proprietor at the lodge was a humble man. I was his only guest for the
night and there was no stock food. Instant noodles were my only option.
After laying the soupy noodles before me, he started talking about how he
had transitioned from his work as an assistant health worker to operating
the hotel and a branchless bank. While the previous work placated his soul,
the new ones filled his pockets. He also elaborated in length about why and
how the Tharus in the east, and especially in the district of Saptari, were
better off than the ones in the west.

The next day in Rupani, my high school teacher Rani‖s uncle too added to
the perspective offered by the proprietor. The retired overseer discussed his
family history too. Tigers that used to roam the forests around the town,
which were cleared to make way for the highway and new settlers, had
killed his grandfather and uncle. His great grandfather had worked on the
Rana Prime Minister Chandra‖s ambitious canal project. The family had lived
and worked there for generations, and yet he still faced questions about his
origins because of the color of his skin; something that had become a source
of immense frustration for him. The highway that ran through the town was
undergoing expansion; owners of properties that had suffered significant
damages could only yell abuses at the bulldozer protected by security forces.

At Jandaul, I abandoned the highway and followed a way down south that
led straight to Bhardaha. It was dotted with small villages, with wide lanes
that passed through great fields of swaying green and large aqua ponds. It
was on this way that an unforeseen incident happened.

I was drawn to a courtyard of mud houses by the sound of traditional music.

I thought that a cultural ceremony must be going on, that there would be
joyous, enlivening celebrations going on. Instead, to my horror, I saw a girl
in shock being taunted by a faith healer. It was an occurrence that I had read
about in books and watched cinematic portrayals of, but the actual sight was
deafeningly traumatic. The crowd of villagers that had gathered in
veneration to observe the exorcism stared at me with fury. I was dragged to
a corner by a young villager and sternly asked to either give up the phone or
immediately delete a piece of footage I had taken. He was convinced that the
spirit that troubled the girl could escape through the video.

Not before the ritual was completed could I go away, I was instructed to sit
with the villagers. I followed instructions to avoid confrontation. The tune
being played was dizzying, the manner of the ritual, haunting. Under a state
of command hypnosis, the girl shook vehemently, perspired, and cried
hysterically.

“Do you promise to leave this girl alone?”

The shaman kept yelling at her, striking her with a broomstick whenever she
nodded her head sideways and screamed in denial.

After a while, as the rituals continued, an elder whispered into my ear:

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Saptari: Horizonless fields, a constant feature in the plains

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“Leave now, everyone is engaged. I understand you arrived here by accident,
but others might not.”

When I stood up, the shaman gave me a riveting look; his eyes signaled me
to halt and sit down. Some mumbling women, seemingly enraged, came
forward to confront me. However, at that moment two or three elderly men
interfered:

“Let him go! He‖s a Pahadiya (hill person). He doesn‖t understand our
customs. The Pahadiya doesn‖t know anything!”

They signaled me to get out. With my heart in my mouth, I went out of the
courtyard.

I walked at a brisk pace towards Bhardaha. The heinous scene and satanic
ring of the tunes had not abandoned my mind. Across fields and cottages of
bamboo, I flew by, without much thought or regard. When I finally reached
the periphery of the town, I felt assured enough to talk to people at a
stationary about what I had seen. Everyone took it casually, and some even
vehemently defended the practice. It did not come as a surprise, for matters
of faith hold strong, but I felt completely alienated.

The highway junction of Bhardaha was where the third Madhesh Movement
had started. Abed, an old well wisher, had participated in and experienced
all that had happened first hand. Over the years, I had visited his home
several times; watching his children grow and keeping account of subtle
changes, each time was a joy. Over lunch, he expressed thorough
displeasure at the aftermath of the movement. He felt that the sacrifices
made by the populace and those months of compromised business had not
yielded any worthwhile benefits. I empathized with his frustrations over
lunch.

Since a few daylight hours were still left, I insistently set out. He repeated
the question he had asked me after an initial exchange of updates:

“What have you thought of doing in life?”

To which, I did not have an answer, and replied with blank honesty. His
parting words were:

“Start thinking for your own good … Think about the future!”

I crossed the bridge on the magnificent Saptakoshi River at dusk. To all I had
seen before, the extent of the river was beyond compare. The dark teals of
the sky and the river blended serenely with the hint of pink on the horizon.
Only a few boats were out at that time, but the traffic on the road was still
strong. The road ran along the open border and led me to the market town of
Bhantabari. Droves of people from the dry state across the border came to
drink and party there. The case elsewhere along the border was similar, but
the concentration there was staggering. After several inquiries, I settled for a
dingy room under a staircase. I went to bed, to put the horrors of the day to
end, after having the only vegetarian options available — noodles and
biscuits.

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 Beyond Koshi

North of the great barrage, the highway ran on the periphery of the Koshi
Tappu Wildlife Reserve. Splendid sky blue pools defined the watershed
landscape there. In distant island like pieces of fertile land, people were hard
at work under the beaming sun. I wondered about the incredible, perilous
lives they lived, by the untamable river. Some men and children could be
seen busily rummaging through rocks that constituted a dam to save the
road, in hopes of finding snails and fishes.

In Laukahi, I reconnected with the eccentric Prabhunarayan. He had during

my initial walk across the plains with Lochan in 2015, provided shelter and
enlightened us about the nuances of the Madhesh Movement. He was far
from a perfect person, but did not utter a dishonest word. Never did he let
any acquaintance go away from his place, without having a meal. Above all,
he was a loving father. Jaundice had gripped his child right after birth, and,
the way he shivered and passionately spoke about the lengths he had gone
to save the little one was tear inducing. I hugged him and promised to come
back later with a photograph of the family.

As the busy city of Inaruwa neared, the population started becoming more
diverse. There, I was set to meet Doctor Bishal, another old friend. He could
barely manage to spare twenty minutes to catch up. The exhausted man,
and a handful of other medical personnel, ran all the operations at the
worryingly under staffed district hospital. Not without reason do only the
most resource stricken of people, in this part of the world, choose local
government hospitals over commercial ones in large cities. Bishal had
worked without pay for months, and was compelled to consider private
opportunities. The man lived to serve, and his earnestness knew no bounds.
The job must have been an exceptionally burdensome one, because it had
left him agitated.

There were a fair number of motorcycles and auto rickshaws, but cycles still
constituted the majority of traffic in the city. The architecture was yet not
overwhelming; it retained middle class humility. However, some strange
development plans were afoot around the highway like ridding trees of all
their branches. With eyes set on reaching my friend Roshi‖s place in Belbari,
I did not wander around the city or the metropolis of Itahari for too long.

Roshi was working abroad. Only her father, stepmother and stepsibling
shared the humongous space. The father was not too old, but was an
alcoholic and suffered from resultant complications that had pushed him to
the brink. He was an exceptionally gifted man, but also an underachiever.
The deep, mesmerizing poetry he posted on social media, stood in contrast
to the paleness of his existence. He was warm and humble, yet disturbed by
the consequences of his past deeds. His eccentric partner was unsure about
how to deal with a surprise guest like me at first, but after a bit of an effort to
engage became tolerant. My friend despised the house, which her father had
poured blood, sweat and tears to build. As the house had grown, her life had
crumbled, and that is all that I feel fit to say here.

There was a considerably large interlude of forest, between Belbari and the
Teli River by Mangalbare. If I remember correctly, no such stretch existed
east of Bardibas. In the two centuries preceding this one, the jungles of the

151
plains in the east were ravaged like none other in this part of the world – for
wood, and to make way for farming settlements. Cemeteries, places of
worship, temporary settlements, among other structures, infringed what
remained. One of the refugee camps of the Lhotshampas, who were either
evicted by the Bhutanese Government in the late 1980‖s or escaped the
resultant conflict in the 1990‖s, was on the eastern part of the forest in
Pathari. The majority of them had found favorable resettlement
opportunities abroad, only some remained, only some wished to return back
to Bhutan. In that very town, I reconnected with Roshan, an old well wisher.
Right after which, I met Ecka from Letang, who had been in touch through
social media. She passed on a bunch of goodies, after a short exchange. I
was dumbfounded by that surprising show of love and generosity. The
Mawa Rivulet marked the end of the district of Morang. On both sides of the
rivulet, rendered unusually dry by overexploitation, lay large urbanized
expanses characterized by a sense of disparity. Bright concrete towers
shadowed little shacks of tin and bamboo. The distinction between people
who could afford to make their dreams come true there and ones who could
not was clear as day.

By The Mechi River

From the sky bridge on the triangular main junction of Damak, distinct
elements of the organized chaos that defined it could be made out. Scattered
food stalls and rickshaws parked in lines were present on the roadsides
around a large structure that depicted the upper hemisphere of the globe,
with snow capped mountains and two danphes on top. It was an ode to
popular patriotic ideals. In the visible vicinity, plastic hoarding boards were
hung on the façade of every house. Big pots with young trees were set as
road dividers. The traffic was heavy and parked vehicles occupied pedestrian
paths. Subas and Padam instructed me to arrive at a nearby junction, from
where they guided me to a meeting of young local activists. I was graciously
hosted by Subas‖ family that night. News also came in that the event
planned at Lumbini, for which I had rushed the walk through the eastern
plains, would not be taking place. Oh well.

Prominent among the figures at the activists‖ meet, was Bheshraj – the
founder of Damak Public Library. An enervating spinal injury had limited his
body to a wheel chair, but his spirit had found freedom through books. The
next day I made time to visit the library, which was a forum to share his
passion with the world. The previous night‖s conversation was instrumental
in helping us see beyond the difference in political opinion we had. My open
ears and unwillingness to argue, during the walk, calmed storms. In fact, by
the time I was ready to part, he was pleased enough to offer an umpire‖s hat
as a gift. I politely declined it though, explaining that someone who would
actually wear it might be a more worthy recipient.

There were many coconut trees on the roadside, east of Damak. Stilt houses
too were a common sight. For the land was as flat as a pancake; flash flood
prone, denizens must have seen no better alternative than to adapt their
living spaces. The Mai temple and houses that surrounded it seemed
miniscule with the basin of the Kankai River in the backdrop. It was a

152
considerably large expanse of sand. Nowhere else within Jhapa must wilder
floods occur in monsoon, I thought as I crossed the bridge.

I was greeted by Santosh and his friends at Birtamode. A Police Inspector

approached the group with questions about me and the affair.

“What‖s the guy‖s full name?”

He asked.

To which, Santosh promptly replied:

“Sir, he only goes by a single name. He doesn‖t want to entangle his identity
with any caste or creed. He belongs to wherever he goes.”

The entire group expressed agreement, the suspicious inspector left with a
bewildered expression.

The bearded man, who always had large glasses and a cap on, possessed a
refined and calm demeanor. Santosh had left a well paying IT based job in
the United Kingdom, with a mission to understand the city better and help it
prosper through political engagement. The comforts of his home, which he
shared with his siblings, were for this journeyman a welcome change.

A local youth group organized and recorded an interaction the next morning.
I am certain that I was unable to offer the sort of inspiration they were
looking for. So much hinged on growth and big dreams, and there I stood a
wayfarer, discussing in length about the defeat of idealism. Before leaving, I
met Newton, a friend of a well wisher who was battling for her life abroad, at
his sports store. He was set to welcome me that night, with bottles of alcohol
and meat in store, because, from what he had heard, he thought I would be a
carefree, rugged journeyman. We had a good laugh about that. I apologized
to him, for I desired to reach the Mechi River on that very day. I headed
eastwards after Santosh showed me some prototype public dustbins he had
commissioned and a trip around the city. Like most pashchimes
(westerners), I had synonymized tea production with the hill district of Ilam.
The presence of a significant number of tea gardens on the way to the Mechi
border came as a surprise.

Beyond the concrete border gate, topped by three pagoda elements, the
traffic was heavy. Lines of trucks and rickshaws waited for a pass across the
border. Thousands of people were traversing across the open border. Many
went to the other side looking for a bargain on daily essentials. It must be
mentioned that the border with India along the Mechi River had a lighter
atmosphere compared to one along the Mahakali. It could be attributed to
the demographic composition of people in power, or, a general sense of
popular empowerment.

At that time, I had no interest in going to or across the gargantuan bridge

that stood on no man‖s land. I only wanted to reach the river. I checked the
map and found an alternative northwards path that led straight to the
riverside. Through the banks of gravel, I went straight to the river and dipped
my tired feet in its waters. My walk across the plains was complete. It was
the one hundred and ninety first day of the walk, (approximately) five
thousand three hundred and two kilometers and counting on the tracker.

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A group of boisterous young children asked for my phone, I acquiesced after
several pleas. They took several self portraits with indiscriminate gestures,
that to them seemed cool, and upon request, also a picture of mine. One of
the mischievous kids teased running away with the phone. Seeing me sprint
towards him, they all giggled uncontrollably.

Beard Clan

Even after traversing across the mountains, hills, and plains in full, I did not
feel like ending the walk. The energy was still there, the excitement had not
dissipated, my left ankle felt significantly better, and there was still some
money left in the kitty. I could not, not carry on. Ilam and Panchthar, places I
had not set foot on previously, awaited me to the north.

It was through a series of unlikely events that I ended up in Nutan‖s house in

Dhulabari. The wanderer deeply empathized with me, put forth a helping
hand, and dragged me out of a conundrum to his home.

“Hope you aren‖t a Dalit, or low on the caste ladder, and even if you are, just
don‖t reveal it to my parents. Their state of mind is beyond alteration. Please
don‖t mind me mentioning this.”

Many acquaintances, from the Dari Gang network that he proudly claimed
association with and beyond, had helped him on his hitchhiking journey
across the country the previous year. The warm hearted soul could not but
pay the kindness forward, and serve wanderers as he was served. He wore a
Guevara hat, sported a Rajaneesh locket and beard, and possessed eyes that
sprung alive with intuitive compassion. The youngster had spread his mind
wide to find himself. In his humble yet magnificently detailed abode of
wood, he showed me the great number of handicraft products he had made.
The lanterns were especially delightful. As we chatted after dinner, he sewed
a splendid band that read Nepal Traveler for me, in a matter of minutes. I
shared the bed that night with him. Like on any other night, before going to
sleep, I applied diclofenac gel and draped crepe bandage around my left
ankle tightly to address the swelling from the day‖s walk.

On the way to Nutan‖s paan (areca nut and other savory stimulants wrapped
in betel leaf) shop in the junction, we witnessed an epic line of young people
outside a bank. They were applicants for a Korean working visa call. The
district was a commercial and agricultural haven. Nevertheless, that
potential was not adequate for youngsters who possessed globalized
aspirations. They were not to blame, staying out of the rat race like Nutan
did was nigh impossible for most. Before I knew it, he and his mother had
already prepared a serving of paan for me at the stall. It was a stimulant,
which I had no desire for. I refused it to their surprise. They gave me packets
of biscuits and juice instead, as a parting gift.

Reader‖s solution: to value for great readers – read a sign painted on the
header of a store shutter. Yet, books were nowhere to be seen; a shop that
sold packaged goods had taken its place. The not too old change
summarized the transformation the town was undergoing. Elsewhere too,

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Jhapa: Ever growing urban bustle along the highway

155
many people had subtly implied that earnings for them were more important
than knowledge, which they synonymized with a dysfunctional education
system. Everyone I saw in the town, which lay close to the border trading
point, was engaged in some sort of trade related endeavor.

Northwards, I went from the town, consistently improvising ways. First

through inundated fields, then a broad forest, followed by plantations of
rubber trees and areca nuts, then inundated fields again. After which, I
crossed a bridge in disrepair and a river basin where a motorable bridge was
being constructed to enter, through the most unorthodox of ways, the district
of Ilam.

My final conversation in Jhapa was with three women of different

generations in Madanpur. They were chatting and popping beans out of their
harvest of dried cods. They seemed startled and suspicious at first, when I
asked them if I could have water from the jug, they had placed in the
courtyard. It was unusual for them to be asked about it. Passersby had the
water without seeking approval. It was customary to do so. Water is
considered a gift from nature in the countryside, in this part of the world.
How can one in the right mind not share what nature has offered? Broadly,
that is how the thinking went. A fact that I was well aware of: albeit, I still
practiced politeness, more than anything else, out of habit. And so,
inquisitive inquiries followed. They drew comparisons to make sense of the
walk. However, after I mentioned that I had been to their ancestral village in
Sankhuwasabha, the conversation lightened and attained a jubilant tone.

Up The Eastern Hills

Tea gardens, green hills, cool climate: this wayfarer too was guilty of holding
all of Ilam hostage to a generic image. To not merely conform to tourist
traps, for the coveted self portrait; to experience a place as it offers itself, is
essential to move forth on the path to truly know it. For four hours I walked,
across wide, sandy river basins, great fields, and an immense forest – all on
horizonless terrain within the bounds of the district of Ilam, before scaling a
hill.

People did not seem too welcoming in the first settlement I encountered past
the forest, which could be best described as a dank trading junction of
shacks. Persisting to a settlement further up became imperative. I reached
the village of Shitali right after it got dark. There, rusty corrugated sheets
provided bare shelter from the elements to a congregation of fragile wood
plank houses, a handful of modern structures stood as oddities around
them. In one of those brick houses was the lodge recommended assuredly by
two locals I had briefly conversed with on the way.

“You need a guru! Without spiritual guidance, all the sacrifices you‖ve made,
all this walking you‖ve done, will be in vain!”

The lodge owner was an astute person of faith. He followed a cult maataa; a
portrait of hers featured prominently on the wall behind the counter, she
was draped in a white shawl with floral prints. The assertive man

156
commanded me to take a picture of and meet her once I got back to
Kathmandu. I calmly complied with his request to avoid further proselytizing
rhetoric. The children, who were fidgeting around, occupied his attention
thereafter. Like in most places in this part of the world, the women of the
house were busy managing kitchen affairs, and kept to only the most basic
of exchanges with men who were not members of the clan.

There was another man in the hotel‖s kitchen, observing all that was
happening. He was a friend of the lodge owner and lived in a small hamlet
on the other side of the river. Despite wanting to head out a journey like
mine, long, long ago, he had been trapped by responsibilities. Therefore, he
looked at me with great admiration and hope; his eyes sparkled when he
spoke. To his friend‖s opinion, he too conceded; citing that the lodge owner
was better educated and wiser. Howbeit, he vouched to pay for the night‖s
arrangements as a pat on the shoulder. I spent the night in a dorm with
three beds, which by the dust they had gathered stood testament to the
limited engagement the lodge witnessed.

Disheveled terrain, crafted into tea gardens, commenced beyond the village.
The tea plants grew on flats, slopes, corners and falls. A contrasting
clearance, a red mud path, ran on the top of the hill through the dense
shrubs that grew not beyond knee length. Then, after a while, into and out of
a thin forest that seemed too organized to not have been farmed. By the way
the heat piqued from thereon, it became apparent that the altitude was
plains like. Colorful wooden houses, surrounded by coconut trees and little
fences, some of them raised on stilts, reminded me of the structures I had
seen in the plains to the east of the Saptakoshi. Children in white, waiting for
the commencement bell, engaged in a fierce game of football outside a
school built primarily with bamboo. Sweaty and ashen, I continued on the
road. Where the fields met the forest, the trail that splintered away from the
swiveling road began on a drastic uphill trajectory. For, a month and a half, I
had been walking on leveled terrain, the sudden subjection of the body to
tough hiking proved taxing. At a settlement close to the hilltop, I had biscuits
with a serving of juice, and rested for a significant while. The shopkeeper
told me that, from the top, I would have to go down again to meet a river.

Several hills that could be seen from the top were barren, flaxen in color, and
landslide ridden. The Maikhola Hydropower project could be seen far below.
To descend there, took the better part of two hours. The last bit, which
involved navigating through mounds and diversions created by excavators
on the riverside, was surprisingly time consuming. It did feel relaxing to
have my feet caressed by the cool currents of the Mai River though. Once the
river was crossed, it took less than an hour and a half to reach the town of
Ilam.

Ilam, in its peripheries and houses of old, retained a character heavily

influenced by settlements across the border. The wooden houses, the neatly
arranged flowerpots on the façade, the bright colors, and the slanting roofs,
were vestiges of colonial influence. The tall structures of concrete and glass
that dominated the city center were neither pretty nor neat, but brutishly
efficient. The city was free of litter and had made an identity out of it. Yet,
breathing space was being muffled in the density of the development. In the
city center, where it was hard to find a free bench beneath a waving flag, I
waited for my arrangements for the night to be sorted out.

Old friend Ronaj, who I would have met in the town had I arrived half a week
earlier, had suggested that I could stay at his relative‖s hotel. It just did not

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seem right to leverage a free stay at such an establishment. Also, for me a
night on the couch or the floor was always a worthy trade off to experience a
home environment and have engaging conversations. After all my options
became clear, I decided to accept my well wisher Sabin‖s offer to spend the
night at the telecom‖s guest house. He had once worked with the state
owned telecommunications company and was on good terms with the man
in charge. I was grateful for the stay. The man though happened to be
awfully busy that day and my conversations were limited to the dinner table
at a local eatery. There seemed to be this invisible line of distinction that I
could not transcend without creating unnecessary ripples. I found
contentment in the stable WiFi, a luxury beyond city limits in the hills, and
bided my time posting first person accounts and engaging virtually.

Remember Me

To stick to the highway seemed like the path of least resistance from the city
of Ilam on. Up and up, gradually past Biblyante and other smaller
settlements I went. Then, straight down to Puwa Khola, only for another
steep uphill climb through trails that broadly evaded the highway to begin
from there. Throughout the day, the narrowness of the road and slippery
trails proved to be suffocating. Reckless vehicles paid little heed to the
plights faced by this and other pedestrians. Utilitarian structures, long past
their prime, were a common sight. Where the hills were not too steep, there
were terraced fields, and those patches stood as exceptions amidst large
tracts occupied by trees. The forlorn monotony of it all was broken by the
odd pretty house flaunting a range of flowerpots.

Right above the depression of Puwa Khola, over lunch, I had a memorable
conversation with a couple that had faced an unexpected health scare, yet
come out completely unscathed. It was only through the aegis of luck that I
could have encountered a man from Sunakothi at the same eatery. The stout
man paid for my lunch, as a sign of courtesy, for no reason other than the
geographical connection we shared. Perhaps he missed home, and paid an
ode through me.

Another unexpected encounter was with Kewal and his partner.

“Remember me?” asked Kewal, with his helmet still on, and after a pause
added, “Have you forgotten me already? I was a part of the group that
welcomed you in Birtamode.”

“Oh, okay. I do now.”

I replied unconvincingly.

Then, he took off his helmet, and I finally was able to make better sense of
things. The surprise meet had amused the couple whose excursion was set
in motion by soaring mercury in the plains. And so, we made a pact to meet
at Ranke that night.

“Everything has already been taken care of. This is the least we can do for
you.”

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With those warm words, the couple bade me farewell in the morning. The
night before, I had done my best to address their curiosities, before the
modern construction made resisting the cold of the late PMs in the dining
hall virtually impossible. I felt guilty for not being able to match their
goodness with sufficient attention.

The road in its descent became wilder after that parting. It had to be skipped
at several turnings, for its circumnavigations through hills that could not be
tamed were an absolute waste of time. While at first, only barren hills of the
terraced kind could be seen, after about two hours of walking, dense greens
took over on the penultimate ascent. There, I followed a trail (like the many
below it) that seemed to lead above, and beyond. The weed became denser
and thorns tore through my skin, but there was not another way. I hoped
that it would widen at some point. It did not. Instead, the sight of
rhododendrons, ones that people would not have left had they passed by,
became more and more common. It was one of those rare occasions, when I
halted and pulled back. An hour of struggle, all in vain: but, maybe not, a
check against bullish adventure was imbibed.

As I neared the town of Phidim, more and more signs of entrepreneurial

activity were visible. At Pauwabhanjyang and other adjacent hamlets, cheese
production was a major deal. I even came across a young man who had
started a factory at the age of seventeen. With glee, he showed me around.
At a slightly lower elevation, thin white sheets were being dried on wooden
frames at every turn. Arranged in neat rows, they made for a splendid sight.
Upon inquiry, I found out that those were lokta papers in the making.
Residents of many a hamlet worked night and day, to satiate the demand for
the medium used in official paperwork and handicraft products. Several
temples and religious landmarks stood by the roadside.

From a vantage point on the road, an immense urban sprawl could be seen –
on and around a huge, flat hill. It certainly was Phidim. A trail seemed to run
straight down along power line poles. I followed it, but only after verification
from a local. Rectangular flags with religious verses in Sirijunga script,
besides a smaller, triangular one with a religious symbol, marked the
beginning of the town. Trees and shacks had fallen victim to the whims of an
excavator busy, charring the mud of red and widening a road.

My immediate families were not aware of the fact that I had undertaken
such a lengthy walk. On the couple of occasions they were informed of my
presence by mutual friends, they lacked the pretext to understand where
exactly I was, or the struggles I had embraced to reach there. Almost a
decade of disconnection from them; absence being the norm and presence an
anomaly, meant that they thought I was staying at some friend‖s place, as I
usually did, for the better part of the extent of the walk. It was a comfortable
arrangement for me; one where I was not compelled to deliver the
explanations they desired. To that understanding, some of the younger ones
were an exception though. I had not erected virtual barriers against them.

Except on the odd occasion, I sought to stay with locals: if not as a guest at a
home, at a basic lodge. In Phidim though, Aditi convinced me to stay with
her father. It was quite the peculiar experience for me, staying within the
confines of a heavily guarded fortress. I had for a long time harbored a
strong sense of distaste for bureaucratic manners and operations. Yet, the
comforts of the house, the warm welcome, and the high esteem others held
me in for being the man‖s own, served to erase the heaviness. I guess that is

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how power corrupts, and I too was only human. Nevertheless, I gathered my
senses, and made a pact to myself to not spend more than a night there.

There was a time when I was involved in a political outfit. In fact, it was that
very ambition that had fueled my departure from school. From those days, I
knew Sagun, whose father was one of the tallest political figures of
yesteryear from the eastern hill districts. He connected me with Medini, who
ran a local advocacy organization. Owing to tightening of government
restrictions on international funding for non government organizations, they
were compelled to downsize and reassess priorities. There was not much
work, and so, he offered to show me around town. Despite the significant
number of modern buildings coming up, the town retained a country feel. It
had lots of spare land, tracts of barren field, in between houses. The banana
plant and other trees grew tall in every corner. The forests in the grand hills
that surrounded the town thrived unabated. Except in the main road lanes,
most of the town was quiet. Flights of stairs and little passages over swirling
roads were the most efficient ways to get around.

He encouraged me to meet a senior journalist too. I was not interested in

being featured or interviewed, during the course of the walk, but assented
out of courtesy. The encounter with the loud journalist was not at all
rewarding. As was the case with my families, I felt compelled to deliver an
explanation that would suit his worldview. Luck was good to me though.
Sagun‖s brother, Mahendra happened to be in the same building for a
political discussion. Medini made a call to him, and he was courteous
enough to come down to greet us. It was a pleasure to meet the man whose
publications had helped expand my political perspective and broader
understanding of this part of the world. He possessed an admirable element
of calmness. The burden of placating the journalist, he took upon his
shoulder too.

“What is there not to understand about this man‖s journey? He is walking to

understand the country. He is walking to witness the lives of people, first
hand. I am on a similar journey too. It is strange to see someone like you not
being able to comprehend it.”

It was a perspective that I could not fully agree with, and yet it was
sufficient, for it sufficiently toned down the man.

I left Panchthar for Yasok, two hours after midday. Medini informed his
contacts there that I would be arriving in the evening. From Jorsal, a colorful
settlement lined with exquisite aristocratic houses from an era bygone, the
road to Yasok (The Mid Hill Highway extension) separated from the Mechi
Highway that went to Taplejung. The gloomy skies yielded a full downpour,
after a few teasing drizzles. It was right at that time that I found a rest
shelter on the roadside. On it was an inscription. To mark the first death
anniversary of a family‖s matriarch, they had built it as an act of public
service. I thanked them, from the bottom of my heart, for saving me from the
rain that my raincoat could not withhold. Further down from there, the road
to Yasok descended down to the Siwa River. It marked the end of the black
topped portion; from there it was muddy all along. Up a hill and through
forests I persisted for another two hours to reach the periphery of Yasok.
Madan, who used to be a secretarial assistant to Sagun‖s father, was my host
for the night. Worried, he had come with friends to the northern end of the
village to receive me.

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Tehrathum: A typical rural settlement on the uphill climb from Tamor

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A glistening statue of the late strongman stood in the main junction of what
once was his political bastion. I spent the night in his ancestral home, which
Madan was taking care of and operating a small hotel in. I had met and
walked with the man in his latter days, and those memories found new life
in that old house. The next day started with an exploration of pictures from
various moments of significance of his life hung around the main hallway.
Monochromes from his years of infancy in Afghanistan were particularly
fascinating. Then, accompanied by Madan and his son, I went to the two
famed temples on opposing hilltops, on the north and south of the village,
the holy spot on both of which were marked with numerous tridents. I had
lunch with the family before leaving with mostly fond memories.

I went down through mostly dry grassed, barren terrain, to the Tamor River
basin. There, a couple of large stretches where the river had receded were
the only ones that seemed to be farmed. The trail led me slightly to the north
of Dhuwa Khola, where a sizable motorable bridge was being constructed to
accompany a pedestrian suspension one. It looked like an impossible
handshake, an impossible extension between the two, far apart, steep hills,
chiseled with similar swiveling roads. However, it was certain that human
ingenuity would one day conquer it. Excavators and people were at work.
The connection, everyone agreed upon, would one day bring prosperity and
attention to the forgotten region.

Towns In Transformation

An epic uphill climb began under the beaming summer sun. Little did I know
when I started that it would take another two and a half hours to get to the
next settlement, otherwise I sure would have stocked some biscuits and
carried a bottle of water from the makeshift eatery for construction workers
by the suspension bridge. The hillside had been not too long ago ravaged by
a fire that had died only because there was nothing left to consume. The
charred ground was laden with ash. It still coughed up fumes; the way the
wind hustled lengthened the fire. The trees that had survived the fire were
smoked and rendered leafless. Somewhere, along the way, I came across
what looked like a resting place built ages ago. It was made of stone and a
fading inscription marked the spot, which would soon be one with the forest
around it, or whatever remained of it. An ape faced rock formation looked
down upon the dry hills of Panchthar and the green Tamor River, which gave
the landscape a unique character.

I begged for water at the first cottage I saw. I was terribly dehydrated. A
wrinkled woman called her daughter in law to bring some in. They were
more than happy to help this exhausted wayfarer. I was surprised when
they informed me that the entire extent across the Tamor River was a part of
the municipality of Myanglung. How could such desolate terrain be labeled
urban? My attention though immediately shifted to the unique way in which
pumpkins had been stored with sukuls (straw mats) in a slanting structure of
straw, held up by stilts and a frame of weak branches. The way I excitedly
looked at it, and then took pictures, made the women laugh. The petite
structure of multi storeyed cottages, made with mud, wood, and roofed with
straw, uniformly painted brown and white, was unique to the region too.

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The place was somewhat stuck in time. The Mid Hill Highway‖s arrival
would warrant investment, and certainly change it all though.

Forests of pine commenced, from where I met the swiveling road I had
bypassed for the trail. The town area of Myanglung was reached right before
sundown. A boy moving around tipsily with the tshirt he was wearing drawn
over his head, resembling a Scooby Doo headless ghost, welcomed me there.
Everything started seeming absurd after that, but not for too long; the
priority shifted to finding a place to spend the night in. Despite not wanting
to trouble my well wisher Sabin, I had to; because of the failed promise of
another friend and the lack of decent options that suited my budget. He
connected me with Devendra, the Nepal Telecom executive there, and
arranged a stay for the night. I did not get to meet the man that night. I was
attended to by one of the overnight staff at the quarters. He could not
understand why I was there or who I was, but still did his best to help. I
reached a local eatery that I had identified earlier for dinner, minutes before
it shut down.

The owner, after clearing her plate, spared time to address my curiosities
and shed light on the etymology of the name of the town. Meyang was
onomatopoeic for sounds made by cats, lung meant stone in the Limbu
vernacular.

The myth went like this: A porter was once compelled to spend the night in a
cave in the middle of nowhere. To start a fire, he gathered stones and
firewood. One of the stones happened to purr and the rattled porter instantly
hit it with his khukuri (a curved steel knife). The stone bled. He concluded
that a cat must have turned into the stone; and so, it must not be an
ordinary cat, but a goddess. After he shared the experience with the people
in his village, they came together and built the Myanglung Devi temple on
the spot. The town adopted the temple‖s name as its own and grew around
it. With the entrance, which possessed a structure of a fierce cat coming to
life out of a stone, painted bright red, and a humongous tree, it was the most
prominent landmark in the city.

Most major towns in the east, with a history, are urban extensions on top of
an elongated hill. Myanglung was no exception. Different parts of the city
though seemed to be in different phases of evolution. The old market still
had wooden, mud, and stone structures: many of which had brightly painted
wooden verandas with flowerpots and other decorations. The streets were
narrow but cemented and neat. Contrastingly, the area around the large cat
statue with a digital display below it, built not too long ago, had modern
concrete structures and wide roads. Spaces in the immediate periphery of
the central hill line too were being filled up by them. The presence of auto
rickshaws and outlets like KTM CTY Apparels in the not too large town came
as a surprise. After going down to the town‖s college to meet my host, who
encouraged me like few people did, I went back uphill again and dropped
down the other side. Before leaving the town, I sat right outside a barn;
because beyond it, the 3G network was inaccessible. It was almost midday,
and I knew that I would not be going too far that day; so I rested to my
heart‖s contentment.

The terrain to the south west of town was not much different than the one to
the southeast of it, through which I had arrived there from Yasok. I was on
the shortest feasible trail to the town of Sindhuwa via Okhre. It went sharply
downhill to the Dhuwa River. At times, the rubber slippers I was wearing

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could not offer adequate friction, and I thought a bad fall was impending.
Where I was greatly doubtful, I chose the swirling dusty road track over the
steep trail. From the river, I had to climb up another steep hill charred by
forest fires. The pale grass that grew around those parts seemed to be perfect
fodder for fires. There were scant settlements on that side of the hill, all of
which suffered for the lack of water sources. To my surprise, on top of the
very same hill, I saw many aristocratic houses of yore. The multi storeyed
structures of brick, with thatched roofs, bore structural resemblance to Rana
era palaces, but were smaller. When I inquired about them with a local I met
on the way, she merely said that they belonged to kaazis (lords).

I spent the night in the junction of Shukrabaare, which still was within the
district of Tehrathum. The people that I shared the dinner table with, one of
which was the lodge owner himself, condemned me for not keeping a proper
record of my travels. When I showed them pictures, they dismissed it.

“You should have gotten letters signed by the CDOs (Chief District Officers)!
You should have asked police officials to attest to your journey. Who will
believe you without such validation? Your hard work has gone to waste!”

Could have, should have, would have! They were defeated people, who saw
value only in work attested and praised by the bureaucracy, media, or
popular figures. Yet, they were not an exception to the rule in this part of the
world, or perhaps any. Rarely do fickle arguments help; their validation was
unnecessary and sleep was dear.

The dusty road track: on which buses and trucks plied by the dozen –
making the morning hellish for this man on foot, cut across the top of a hill
and led to a conglomeration of modern buildings. I was in Sindhuwa. I was
back on the highway. From a mound I scaled, it could be clearly seen how
the highway navigated the hilltop and branched out into multifold dirt roads,
all of which curved beyond sight. A string of brick houses lined the road,
beyond which there were fields and sparse settlements in the slopes. The
highway was on the verge of reaching Kimathanka to the north, and met
Jogbani in the south; it would one day facilitate trade between India and
China. Regardless, a large number of buses and trucks were still plying to
cities like Khandbari and Basantapur to the north. After having daalbhaat at
a local eatery there, I continued south on the highway, through mustard
fields, caffeine gardens and grazing land.

At Hile, a town whose main junction was marked by a large tongba (millet
based alcoholic beverage) container surrounded by little statues of laughing
Buddhas, I explored the Urgye Namdo Chholing Monastery compound. Some
of the younger monks draped in red, on the backside of the main structure
decorated with intricate artistic representations of various fierce deities and
symbols, were tying bundles of straw together to make a figure. They told
me that they would cover the straw skeleton with mud, and then paint it, to
make it a representation of the demigod Maamo. It was a practice there to
perform rituals on the day after Buddha‖s birthday and leave the figure on a
hilltop to placate the demigod. The monks informed me that the hill where
the town stood used to be a burial ground, and that no structure had been
built there before the monastery in 1964. Holungs from Olangchung Gola, a
village near the northern border that I had been fascinated by during my
walk across the mountains, were the first to settle in the town and the
monastery was an extension of the one there. I was overwhelmed with an
irrational feeling of belonging.

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It took me around two hours to walk to Dhankuta from Hile – the thunders,
thankfully, transitioned into an absolute downpour only when I reached the
outskirts of the city. There, I felt like they had taken the city of oranges
moniker too far; the façade of all buildings in the old part of the town were
painted in a cringe worthy tone. The genuine glory and character of the city
lay in its enviably pleasant environment, its rich history, and especially the
sheer number of trees with chautaras (paved areas for seating) it possessed.
It was startling to see how many of those trees were being maimed and
chautaras sacrificed to meet perceived modern development norms. Albeit,
intelligently placed stencil art pieces, that represented the confluence of
symbols of the past with futuristic design elements, provided some welcome
respite. The palace of Dev, occupied by a school, splendid as it was, was in
pressing need of maintenance and could have been better utilized as a
museum. Rooms on the upper floor of the structure were filled with scrap.
The southern end of the city, which retained an old town Newah outlook,
deserved more attention too. I remained unaffected by the more fanciful
elements of the town.

Jayanti, a steadfast well wisher, had linked me up with her friends who
worked for a women‖s rights organization. They were not well articulated,
but shared hints of their struggles with me. The office had a bed, and they
said that I could spend the night there. I was looking forward to meeting a
civil society stalwart and staying at his hotel though. I thought that the
conversation would be enlightening. However, once I got there, I realized
that the man did not wish to engage with me. He did not know who I was or
what I was doing, and had promised to provide arrangements only because
he could not deny the person at the other end of the phone. The room I was
given was damp and possessed an obnoxious smell. The food was no better.
Accepting the charity without respect accorded to me did not seem
worthwhile. Early next morning, I cursed myself and insistently paid for all
services in full.

How Do I Get To Dharan?

I initiated a conversation with an entrepreneur who had started a green tea

café. I had seen a number of such establishments in Dhankuta that seemed
fairly new, and was curious about the trend. She highlighted the health
benefits of the drink, with a bit of exaggeration, but gave no particular
reasons. Her husband worked for a tea estate. He was the one who had
introduced the drink to the family. It did not take long to figure out that we
had a lot of mutual acquaintances. Jayanti was one of them. The familiarity
led to warmth. She first requested me to try some green tea, without pay. I
declined the request; because, since the commencement of the second phase
of the walk, I had shunned away all drinks that contained caffeine. That
refusal led to her inviting me in for lunch. I accepted the offer without a
second thought.

Despite mentioning that I was a vegetarian, due to a mix up, I was served
curry that contained traces of chicken. I realized that only after having some
of it with rice. The iih before the walk would have been deeply hurt and
reviled by such an occurrence. But since then, a sense of sobriety and deeper

165
understanding had been imbibed. I calmly pointed out the issue out to her.
She seemed unnerved, and disappointed – because there was not another
curry.

“Plain rice will be fine… with a bit of salt, maybe?”

I told her.

When it came to food on the road, energy was of prime concern, all else was
secondary. After lunch, I had a wonderful conversation with the responsive
couple. Inquiries on issues ranging from the Chhintang incident, to
Suryabahadur‖s legacy, to the food culture there, were all addressed in
detail. Their narrative was inclined towards the establishment.

The walk had proceeded on a random trajectory after the waters of Mechi in
the plains were touched. I could have halted in Dhankuta, but curiosity set
me walking south towards Dharan. Of the many routes that I could have
taken to the city, acquiescing to the suggestion of a group of elders, I chose
the forgotten trading trail that was of great significance before the highway
came to being.

From Ghumaaune Chautara, in the southern end of town, the trail went
straight down. It ran through terraced fields and, for the most part, was
accompanied by a newly dug road. Settlements were sparsely spread; there
were neighborhoods of a house or three, tens if not hundreds of meters
apart. Many of the older cottages of mud and stone had been long
abandoned. In the distant background, layered hills of gradually lightening
tones of blue overlapped. On the closest of those goliathan hills, the one that
was on the opposite side, details were better visible; the enormous turns the
main highway took could be seen. The highway traffic was not beyond
hearing; well, not until I reached the very bottom. It took me a while to figure
out that the rocky, dry, riverbed had to be walked upon to move forward.
There was no other way. It led me to a point where the Bakhre Khola met the
Tamor River amidst verdant hills. An angler laying his trap gave me those
names and helped with directions.

I followed the riverside road and got to Mulghat, where a motorable bridge
ran over the Tamor. Even though it was a gloomy day, the blues of the steel
that intertwined on the bridge shone magnificently. The milestone by it read
– Dharan 35 kilometers. It was midday and I was certain that there would be
trails on the way that skipped loops that characterized hill roads; the city
would be reached by early evening. While crossing the bridge, I saw a boy
catching and fiddling around with pigeons, ones that were already injured
and unable to fly away. I asked the child what he was going to do to the
birds. He squealed and turned away. No one would have understood me if I
made a fuss about the boy‖s actions. I had been in such situations before and
my faith had been weakened. There was no helping it. I moved on.

A string of colorful cottages by the road was the last settlement of

significance, before Simsuwa, on the highway that winded along a thin river.
It was on this stretch, where only a person (who was by no measure
unkempt) sleeping on a roadside divider caught my attention (also, a strange
sort of admiration), that my left ankle started swelling badly again. The
toughness of the surface and the searing heat were to blame, but perhaps
not as much as my insistent manner of conduct. I skipped the touristy
waterfall, for infinitely more magnificent ones had certainly been witnessed

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in the mountains by these eyes, and instead headed straight up to Bhedetar.
The old hiking trail had not been actively used for long and lacked
maintenance of any sort; weed and thorns had to be navigated through. Burs
got the best of me. It was all worthwhile though; experiences and views from
lesser taken roads have a charm of their own.

The hill station of Bhedetar stood tall above most of the multitude of hills
that surrounded it and the plains to the south. Cool winds from all directions
embraced it. The difference in temperature between the riverside I had hiked
up from and there was clearly palpable. An absurdly placed sankha (conch
shell, of religious significance) that resembled a spacecraft, and a brass
(seemed like it) statue of the historian and folklorist Imansingh, were among
the many prominent sculptures placed on the top of the hill that marked the
end of Dhankuta district and commencement of Sunsari. Many domestic
tourists, especially young people, had come on their two wheelers there
seeking respite from the heat of the plains and for Friday night celebrations. I
for one sought a quick escape; the descent appeared to be significant.

It was athwart strange and steep terrain that I went down to Dharan. I had
surely taken a wrong turn somewhere, and it was too late to retreat.
Through forest, landslides, half constructed roads, and farms, I had to
consistently improvise and stay alert. On my scuttle down a forest stretch, I
startled a man who was hard of hearing. He immediately took out his
khukuri. If I had run away, the man would have probably chased me. But, I
put the most natural of queries before him:

“Daai (brother), how do I get to Dharan?”

After finding convincing answers to a string of questions, he eased up and

even allowed me to take a picture of his. He had been digging up wild tubers
for dinner. My manner of arrival had made him think that I was either a boar
or a bear. He giggled wildly while justifying that initial response of his. After
he calmed down, he pointed out the trail that led to Dharan. From that point
on, darkness prevailed. There were stars in the sky and stars below me – a
fantastic sight! The fluorescent city lights that burned bright seemed to
remain at a steady distance, no matter how much I walked. Yet, they held a
promise, and I strived on.

Markers Of Purity

First through streets lined with restaurants and dazzling Friday night lights,
then through deafeningly quiet and dark neighborhoods, I made it to my
friend Sunil‖s uncle‖s place in Temkemarga at 8 PM. In autumn, I had
trodden across the Temke Pass in Bhojpur, and the connection was apparent.
It was a late arrival; everyone was long done with dinner, and I sensed
discomfort in the faces of those who were entertaining me. In fact, the
uneasiness prevailed throughout my stay there, despite the best facilities
possible being ensured. After letting my tired muscles ease up in bed, I
reflected upon the cause of the uneasiness and my consequent
disappointment – perhaps it was because they were not well informed,
perhaps it was because of my grimy appearance, or, perhaps it was because

167
they were not happy with the way their nephews were living life. Perhaps,
perhaps, perhaps… but, above all, I realized, it was because of the sense of
entitlement, I possessed. No one owed me anything, and it was a privilege to
receive what I had.

The morning chat with boju (grandmother) though could not have gone
better. The vivacious woman, well into her nineties, sported a bandana and
possessed a desolate tone of voice, which attained jubilant fervor only while
making sarcastic remarks that came few, and far in between. When I
inquired about the significance of the traditional ornaments she wore on her
nose and ears, the Bulakhi and the Godwari, she revealed that they used to
be markers of purity. Individuals who refused to have their noses and ears
pierced used to be banished from the community, for the people feared
reprisal from the spirits. Everything, including her marriage, was decided by
elders; traditions and men had dictated all aspects of her life. About how the
lahure (military recruit) culture, which had shaped the region‖s fate, began,
she had only bitter memories. She told of how several simple villagers were
tricked, with a flurry of tall promises, into fighting the Second World War as
part of the British forces. Many of them never returned. Yet, without those
wars, the feudal order would not have been weakened, democracy would
have taken ages to arrive and Dharan would not have been the grand city it
had become.

Fanciful, exuberant houses with wide lawns or open spaces and a couple of
trees around them were not uncommon in the city. An appearance that stood
in stark contrast with the, frugal and congested, manner of construct that
every other city I had been to in this part of the world embodied. The wealth
and manners of laahur had left an indelible imprint on the ways of working
there. The pride of the city folks was not without reason. On the way to the
extent around and across the Sewti River, where urbanization was lifting its
head, not just the roads but the pedestrian paths too were wide and quiet.

I met UK based artist, and steadfast well wisher, Subash‖s brother in a

rehabilitation center there, upon his recommendation. It was a building
whose walls were painted with the most vibrant shades of red and orange. It
possessed a small lawn and was surrounded by tall cement block fences
with barbed wires wrapped around the top to keep unwarranted contact out
– basically, a prison cell, but the kind one pays to get into; somewhat
boarding school like. He had undergone rehabilitation and was now helping
operate the same center. Drug addiction was an issue that had plagued the
city for several decades, and many youngsters‖ lives had been ruined by it.
Rehabilitation centers were a common sight, especially in the city periphery.

The conversation with him was deeply moving. A testing sample mix up had
led him to believe that he was infected with HIV – the best years of his life
were spent in a doomsday mood. He and his family went through pains that
words cannot justifiably describe during that period. Nonetheless, a string of
efforts on their part, over many years, was finally rewarded. The revaluation
of his health status proved to be a critical piece of motivation. And, after a
recovery that surprised all, the soft spoken man‖s beliefs changed drastically.

“Absolute freedom does not always lead to good. Everyone needs a bit of
guidance. Everyone should be helped to orient positively.”

Several times during the conversation, he had reiterated.

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Udayapur: Stilt houses in fertile floodplains

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The environment around the main market lanes in and around Mahendra
Path had a different vibe than the rest of the city. It was busy and chaotic,
even on a Saturday. I went to one of the better reviewed restaurants there for
an uncharacteristic splurge, and had a vegetarian burger and fries with hot
chocolate for the first time during the course of the walk. Not with absolute
relish though, somehow it seemed to lack the finesse of good joints in
Kathmandu. The crowd, the noise, and tremendous number of auto
rickshaws and cars parked around the city center‖s clock tower, was too
much for me to bear. I did not stick around there for much, and proceeded
towards the northern part of town.

Uphill through neighborhoods lined with coconut trees, which endowed a

sense of familiarity, I went to the Dantakali temple. The horizonless view of
the city expanse and a brilliant painting of Durga, were treats in an
otherwise mundane complex that surrounded the pagoda temple. A few
minutes later, I came to the edge of a forest – the Panchakanya Park, home to
the sixteenth century Bijayapur Fort complex. There had been a bout of
controversy over a development bank backed water reservoir project in the
area. About it, there were mainly two divergent local narratives. Voices of the
first kind claimed that the palace area was an indispensable part of Kirant
history and deserved uncompromised protection for its archaeological value.
The second sort claimed that the fort was long gone, very little remained,
and water needs were of primary importance.

“If there was real concern, why had it not materialized into serious
preservation attempts? For a great number of years, young people vying for
the Gurkha Regiment have been tossing bags of sand on top of the hill, and
no one has said a thing.”

A businessperson argued.

When I went there, I found that both narratives had a bit of truth to them.
The reservoir was to the east of the main fort complex. To mark the site
where the once great palace stood, only a modern marble pillar put up by a
political students‖ body and a trishul amidst a pile of stones adjacent to it,
surrounded by cement pillars and barbed wire remained. Cemeteries had
been made in the forest, and no one had complained. Anyone ever so slightly
concerned about history and relics of ages bygone could only feel bitter
there; like the fort, suffocated, buried under piles of sand bags. Cacophonous
tunes rang loud on the exit end of the forest; a criminally littering picnic was
under way. I met the businessperson again.

“Was I not right about the place?”

He asked.

To which I replied in defeat:

“You were right. They were right. But, this should not have been about being
right.”

I took the bottle of soda I had asked him to keep in the deep freezer and left.

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 Unable To Walk

I spent my second night in Dharan at my friend Smriti‖s place. Only her mom
was at home though, and that too for a short interval to manage affairs. The
family, like many others with a laahur history, had shifted to the United
Kingdom. From the initial exchange of greetings, it was apparent that
Smriti‖s mom bore a spiritual inclination. She had short hair, a stirring
personality, and with utterances was majorly reserved. Yet, when she spoke,
she expressed herself with absolute command; one could only feebly listen.

“Was it a girl?”

She asked, and then expanded upon the query.

“What made you a bairaagi? People become hermits for three reasons … The
first, when one loses everything one has. The second, when one has
everything, and yet still doesn‖t have answers. The third… is a path of
spiritual calling.”

Her precision of delivery humbled me; I could only smile in contemplation.

Later on, after several attempts at drawing an answer that fit her rationale,
she delivered her verdict. For her, I was, without a shadow of a doubt, like
her a devotee of the Hindu god of destruction – Shiva, who lived like a
hermit.

Day 202 was the day of fooling; the weather too had me fooled. Sweat
dripped by the mug loads, and there was not a whisk of cool wind to make
life easier. My left ankle suffered in particular; the swelling kept getting
progressively worse in the heat.

After a stroll around the former British quarters, which had been converted
into the B.P. Koirala Institute of Health Sciences – a teaching hospital, I
headed westwards on the road to Udayapur. The sandy banks of the
dormant Sardu River had to be navigated across, for a bridge did not yet exist
on that section which was to be a critical juncture on the Inner Plains
Highway. It did not take much time to reach Chatara from there; but it did, it
just did not feel like it, for I had concentrated all my energy on walking, to
escape the trepidation of the heat. The main market there was one of shacks
that housed little shops and eateries. Humongous idols of gods and temples
dotted the shoreline of the Saptakoshi. At an open hermitage, where I
engaged with a Spaniard in conversation out of pure curiosity, I was invited
in for lunch. Food money – saved again! The middle aged man shared that
there were many like him in the town of Malaga, and around that part of the
world, who sought escape from an agonizingly busy life. The subcontinent
for freedom seekers like him was not just a spiritual haven, but heaven
itself. After lunch, I went northwards to meet the bridge, but through a
shortcut that ran along the river. It ran through canals, small reservoirs, and
involved a bit of climbing. I crossed the bridge to Udayapur minutes before
sundown.

The highway was wide and empty around that part. It swiveled through
fields and narrowed down as it progressed. It had gotten dark, and people
did not accept me as a guest, out of fear, at a small roadside settlement. A
local tried to assist me, but one of the lodge owners I had previously

171
approached did not budge. Over the limbo, as usual, I chose commencement.
A significant stretch of forest began. People who lived in the largest
settlement within the forest also shied away from engaging with me, a man
recommended that I continue on to Rampur. It was somewhere in the forest,
where pin drop silence ensued, that my left ankle snapped audibly. From
there on, I could only limp forward.

The hotel in Rampur was dismally managed and functioning without a stock
of essentials. The owner had come back from years of hard labor under the
sun in the Gulf with entrepreneurial ambitions. He told me that he had a bit
of beaten rice, onions, and carrots, among other stuff there. I suggested that
if he were to fry them together, it would suffice for me. He agreed. Before
hitting the bed, I followed the usual routine, but applied a bit more
diclofenac gel and fastened the crepe more tightly than usual, to address the
increased swelling. I had a paracetamol pill too. The next morning, I was
presented with an unjustifiable bill, which, like always, I chose not to argue
over. Also, the swelling had not at all subsided.

Through a landscape dominated by fields, with a hint of trees on the

horizon, I limped ahead, hoping things would get better. They did not.

My ankle oozed out troublesome amounts of puss and started failing under
my weight. If it had not, I would have probably walked back to Kathmandu
and beyond. On the long and dusty road, with the sun relentlessly pressing
me to call it quits, I raised my hands and surrendered. Five thousand six
hundred and eighty six kilometers trodden on in two hundred and three
days; I felt like I had walked enough. I waved my hands in the air, calling for
a lift. A motorcycle stopped.

I felt a sense of relief. No more aversions, no more resistance. I felt normal.

The ride was dizzying; it had been months since I had hit that sort of speed.
To the teacher in the front seat, on the way to Beltar, I had the toughest of
times explaining my journey and the strange celebratory mood its end had
brought. Rakesh and his friends from the local handball academy greeted me
there. I had to explain my situation to them, for they expected me to arrive
on foot. After snacks, one of the guys dropped me to Gaighat on his
motorcycle. I spent the night at travel enthusiast Pratik‖s place there. He
showed me around the town in transition the next day, then dropped me
across the remnant of the Chaarkose Jhaadi to Lahan, and also generously
paid the bus fare. At Bardibas, I met my longtime well wisher Hulas, who
operated a hospital, before boarding the jeep back to Kathmandu.

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 Sixteen Days Around
Humla And West Mugu

173
174
 Hunch To Mughumla

The end is but a new beginning. After two and a half weeks of suffering in
the chaos of early summer Kathmandu, as the swelling and pain on my left
ankle showed no sign of abatement, I felt that going to a cooler place might
be of help. It was a hunch, borne perhaps by the desire for peace. I still had a
sufficient amount of money left, courtesy of Sanjay of Ladhari, the contractor
who had shoved ten elephants into my front pocket. It was in a meditative
moment, with all the above mentioned reflections on the back of my head
that a realization struck me.

There was only one district in the entirety of this part of the world that I had
not set foot on, and there could not be a better season to venture there. I
concluded that a walk across Humla would be the perfect epilogue tour. With
the belief that it would help me; help me make the curtain call and untangle.
I went straight to Gongabu and sought to find a bus to Surkhet.
Unfortunately, the last bus for that day had left. The next day‖s attempt
though was successful.

It took twelve hours to get to Birendranagar of Surkhet on the night bus. It

was a tacky journey; on that banal highway ride, humidity and dust had
gotten the best of all passengers. Obnoxious odors pervaded, but my
olfactory guard, like everyone else‖s, simply got used to it. The case was the
same for the blaring pop songs. A part of me just wanted to get off and start
walking, but another warned me of the troubles that walking under such
heat would induce. Better sense prevailed. In the bus park of the city, I was
informed that the ride to Mugu was an uncertainty. To board the pricier and
unfriendly four wheel drives, I had no wish. I promptly asked for a ticket to
Nagma of Kalikot instead, the junction from where the roads to Jumla and
Mugu diverged. In 2016, I had undertaken a walk from Jumla to Rara in
Mugu with Prasanna, and then in 2017, walked from Mugu to Dolpo through
Jumla: hence, the familiarity.

Instead of shooing away flies while waiting for the bus, I contacted my friend
Ashesh. His partner Debbie hailed from the city. Her mom ran one of the
more prestigious schools there. I headed towards the school after receiving a
green light. With a wide smile, I would have reached there, were it not for
the thug of an auto rickshaw rider. He commanded one hundred rupees for
going around a block! At the school, on whose top floor Debbie‖s family lived,
I had lunch and was treated well. Despite the season not having fully
commenced, the hustle and bustle; the buzz of student‖s chatter in various
classes combined, made for a nostalgia ridden environment. After a chat that
revolved around the rich history that surrounded her Anglo Indian origins; at
the time of parting, Debbie‖s mom gifted me a tshirt that marked a school
anniversary.

God Save Us

The highway to Nagma and beyond was barely a decade old. It was a double
lane thrill ride, harsh braking on sharp turns was not uncommon. Narayana

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Narayana chants ensued whenever another vehicle came close to kissing the
one we were on. The geriatric folks crammed around the front engine top
wished not to perish anytime soon. The driver seemed wholly unconcerned;
he must have seen worse days. As if the bus was not beyond its seating
capacity already, people were picked throughout the way by the ones and
twos. Then somewhere in a Kalikot the conductor and his serving hand took
in an entire wedding procession. To stand atop each other‖s foot, to lean in
wholly onto the passenger seats, to shove and push was a fate that could not
be eluded. This is how lay folks get around in this part of the world. There
are no complaints, because a better scenario has not been known, and more
importantly, memories of times when one needed to walk for days to get
from one town to another still remain fresh in popular memory. When in
Rome, do as the Romans do.

After getting off at Nagma, for there were no buses that went further north, I
scampered around looking for alternatives. After fifteen minutes of relentless
searching, on that narrow bazaar strip by the Karnali River, I came across a
man heading north that I had befriended on the ride. He was assured that no
other vehicles would be coming in that day, and that I could stay at the lodge
he was familiar with. Defeated, I dropped my bag there.

Withal, only moments later a vehicle arrived honking aloud. It was a

Mahindra transporter, referred to as tipper in common parlance, on its way
to Gamgadhi. I confirmed a reasonable fare with the driver for cramming in
on the front seat extension, rushed in, offered my apologies, and rushed to it
with the bag. The tipper had already moved forward and was waiting for me
at the end of the market.

The driver was not sure if we would make it to Gamgadhi though. I was
aware of the fact that relentless snowfall, best described as insidious, had
enfeebled life on the sub thirty five hundred meter passes on the way to the
town. Beyond Nagma, the ninety odd kilometer road was barely blacktopped,
and at places had slippery mud on edgy terrain. Through snow piled roads,
on the alpine terrain, the driver navigated carefully. He put on blaring music,
stayed focused, and spoke very little, for he knew that a laugh or loss of
attention at a wrong turn could spell doom. Deep into the night, we arrived
at the Bhulbhule Zero Point, beyond which an army camp lay. The people in
green did not let vehicles ply on the hazard ridden terrain in the night.

For not much was visible, apart from impressions of a snowy, hill terrain,
vaguely lit by moonlight, and the cold was bitter as it could be, we made a
dash for the fireplace in the kitchen. A group of schoolchildren on an
excursion had occupied all decent (by local standards) rooms in the lodge
and finished all the food. While the driving crew indulged in local spirits, I
kept bay and waited meditatively for things to be sorted out. The kind
woman running the kitchen took notice and offered me a cup of herbal tea.
The body warming concoction was a local specialty. I smiled back, as she
continued conversing with the crew about the state of the roads ahead. An
hour later, with my tummy filled to the brim with daalbhaat, I went up to the
attic. The arrangements were menial, and it took a bit of shivering and
shaking around, before fatigue could work its charm.

At 5:30 in the morning, the driver commanded me to wake up. Rise and
shine. He argued that the way ahead would only get more slippery once the
sun came out, and a maximum amount of distance had to be covered before
that. All understandable! I rushed out to the plastic pipe tap that had

176
miraculously resisted freezing, and washed my face risking chilblains. Some
schoolchildren had numbed their hands, but were still fooling around with
the water. The sun blessed the hills that backgrounded their silhouetted
presence with a gilded tone. There were steaming trees of pine and other
kinds. On the other side, the resplendently blue sky and dawn lighting made
the simple wooden cottages, half buried in snow, the ones we had spent the
night in look heavenly. After a honk from the navy tipper, which echoed
around the valley, I had no option but to abandon the appreciation session.

We were back on the road. The snow thickened as we moved north towards
the pass of Bhulbhule. There, we submitted our names to the military
authority, under whose aegis the Rara National Park was, and moved ahead
without much fuss. As the snow grew deeper, the tipper swayed with
uncertainty, possibilities of a slip loomed large. The warm front window
became translucent with mist, and often a cleanup stop was necessary. The
most horrendous section was of the downhill turnings beyond the pass. It
was a road that I had previously walked on and knew well. Gravity was not
on our side. A truck had slid several days earlier and was stuck on the edge
of a difficult turning. The driver encouraged me to get off the vehicle,
infamous for bearing loads beyond its capacity and getting into accidents,
with the conductor; he truly feared that things could go wrong. While the
teenage conductor guided the vehicle, tilting worrisomely and only making
stuttering movements down, I stared in amazement. With great skill, he
made a quick, definitive cut. The man, sweaty with nervousness, prayed to
his gods, before he could sigh in relief.

Apart from a half an hour long stop in a small shop where he dropped
almost half a ton of noodle cartons, rice, alcohol, and consumerist products,
the vehicle proceeded at a consistent, breezy speed thereon, on terrain which
had not seen snowfall. The drop off was a reflection of how those valleys
once known for their agricultural abundance were changing. By the sum of
money he had received – retail standards did not apply, the risks he had
taken were duly rewarded. Several cartons remained in the back, destined
for Gamgadhi.

The gloom cleared. Verdant fields and rolling hills, with snow capped
mountains that glowed in the far background, gave the day a romantic feel.
We reached the town of Gamgadhi at 10 AM. Compatriots, survivors, mates;
the driver, the conductor, and I, shared smiles before we parted. There was
something about that journey that filled our hearts with mutual endearment.
We knew that we probably would never meet again, but bade farewell
wholeheartedly. They even offered a discount on the decided fare. From
there, the third and final phase of the walk began.

Musical Trail

The town of Gamgadhi had to it a dusty, old world charm. It felt like the
Asan of yore in the narrow streets of the core town; except, of course, for the
deluge of plastic that had replaced traditional vessels, among other everyday
paraphernalia. The gradually sloping hillside that the town had germinated
on was flanked by exploitatively terraced, steep hills on one side and

177
luxuriantly forested ones on another. Beyond the main street, sparse
localities, made prominently visible by the widespread adoption of blue
corrugated sheet roofs, existed amidst terraced fields. Many of those fields
wore pale yellows of abandon, which stood in contrast to the serenely blue
waters of the Mugu Karnali that they went down towards. Illustrious
mountains looked down upon the river valley with graceful solemnity.

On either side of the river, the road track to Humla had witnessed significant
progress. The placement of gabion walls was underway on the way down to
the river. However, for a motorable bridge had still not been laid, mule crews
that chiefly transported daily essentials and construction materials still
served as the definitive lifeline for the settlements beyond. At a shop across
the bridge, which also served as a tollbooth, I asked for some water. A
common jug was available. The feeble tollperson pointed to a sign that listed
an extractive entry fee, instituted by the local government, for domestic
tourists heading to Gamgadhi (something that the judiciary later ruled
against). I pointed out that I was heading out of the town, not towards it.
With a flimsy bill pad, and a flimsier tone of speech, he lazily muttered:

“Dinu ta parne ho…” [Akin to: It must be given, but…]

The conversation ended there. I continued, no one came forth to stop me.

The way up from there was as steep as any mule track could be. Being back
on such terrain after the hiatus was an enjoyable endeavor. The hamlets on
the way were stuck in a time that had long forsaken outsiders like me. Flat
roofed structures of mud and stone, whitewashed, painted brown in places,
and wholly faded, that heightened not beyond the second storey, some of
which had colorful verandas of wood supported by logs unkempt,
congregated indistinguishably. Firewood was stocked in the shaded porch
and gates in most houses were but mere slabs of wood. There were no stairs
of the familiar kind, but external ones etched onto logs. All the hamlets on
the way were deprived of main line electricity; solar power was the only
recourse. Nevertheless, a minority of privileged denizens had secured the
necessary battery backup and antenna based connection to operate
television sets. Women donned simple drapes with a tightened patuka (cloth
strap to hold tools and support the back), or, kurthas and pajamas.
Traditional gilded jewelry was a must. Children were widely disregarded and
left to take bumps in the dirt, as they are usually in the countryside in this
part of the world. Adult men could only be seen few and far between; it was
quite apparent that they had ventured abroad in search of work. Those that
remained mostly wore modern apparel, but were not an exception to the dirt
and grime that toil in such an environment was sure to produce. In such
circumstances, many a relic of the past, including derelict stupa like
structures were ignored and left to fade away into obsolescence.

Disconnection and depravity though was not allowed to be a hindrance to

happiness by the people there. A group of children had created what they
claimed to be a prototype motorcycle by carving the structure and wheels out
of wood. On a downhill slope on the trail, they rolled the prototype down,
and let gravity do the work. After I took my phone out to film it, the boys slid
down with further excitement and vainglory. Girls and women on the other
hand laughed their heads off at the shenanigans on display, but ventured
not to participate. Some of the women donning headscarves were laboriously
grinding grain using a traditional lever and a large piece of log the entire
while. The happiness too sure was subject to dimensions of privilege.

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I had for once considered heading towards the village of Mugu, northeast of
Gamgadhi, then the wonders of the likes of Chhayanath and beyond, and
only thereafter Humla. However, due to my limited budget, I was compelled
to stick solely to the latter. For a while, a tinge of regret remained with me.
Yet, it was all gone, by the latter half of the afternoon. It became apparent
that I was on a musical trail — a matter that the dynamic artist Salil had
shed light on in Kathmandu. Women carried loads of wood or fodder and
worked in the fields singing songs in the vernacular. Perhaps, those tunes
endowed them with a sense of liberation and power. They were poetic
expressions that had sprung from their everyday joys and struggles. And so,
they could not be sung heartlessly; the tone and lyrics were either full of
dismay or celebratory. Nowhere else in this part of the world were such vivid
and artful expressions expressed in an admirably care free manner!

At five after noon, I arrived at a wonderfully verdant settlement. The village

was an anomaly, not just for its spring splendor, but also for the level
topography of the hillside it occupied. My heart, for a while, was torn
between walking on and spending the night there. There was very little
active volition exercised in continuing; a towering, hazy hill on the other side
just drew me in, as a herd of cattle scurried past. There were children trying
to scamper onto the back of some of the larger calves. I photographed them,
while suspicious adults looked on.

After their passing, another steep uphill climb commenced. Midway through,
I fell at the doorstep of the only lodge in the area, only to be turned away.
They were out of beds and mattresses, for a large family had been
welcomed. It was almost dark. A man advised me to continue for half an
hour; he claimed that there was a stone hut, where an old shepherd who
occasionally entertained mule handlers lived. Navigating the climb in
unmarked terrain was certainly not without difficulties. Deep within, I had
readied myself for disappointment. The sparse jungle reeked of wild
animals. The lone hut could be missed and the next settlement was at least
another hour away.

It was the chinks and tinkles of the bells tied on mules that alerted me to the
possibility of the hut being nearby. It was slightly off trail. What made the
location of the hut clear were the gentle billows of smoke that emanated
from it. Were it not for the young handler who had parked his mules there
out of exhaustion, and requested food, I would have missed it for sure.

The old shepherd wore tattered clothes, an old black coat, a torn dhaka cap,
and not an end of him was saved from being smeared by a thick layer of
charcoal. Not for a moment did he abandon his smoke pipe, the top end of
which lit with furious orange. The man was hard of hearing and could not
stop coughing. I had to rely on the mule handler to carry essential
conversation.

“The guy wants to know if there is any food left!”

The boy would yell at the man‖s very ear. To which, the man would only nod
in reply, and mumble a bit. He was not by any means an unwelcoming
figure, just an extremely fragile one. He set rice and the bleak lentil soup that
remained on the mud stove, where on a large vessel local alcohol was being
prepared.

After a while, I was treated to the not too pleasing meal with a smile.

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“This is what we have here. We hope you do not mind. ”

The old shepherd said.

It was fine, what worried me was the bed for the night, which was set in the
grimiest corner of the hut. Understanding my concerns, without an exchange
of words, he brought out a spotless fluffy blanket and bed sheet for me. The
fact that he had them there startled me, and shed light on the nature of the
people of those highlands. Regardless, for that gesture of his, I was
tremendously grateful. The boy told me that the old man had a decent
amount of land in the village, but for disagreements with his family had
chosen a life of solitude.

“Sing me a song, can you?”

The boy, yet again, had to convey my message with great vigor. The
shepherd put his right hand, on which he wore a large turquoise ring, to his
ear, and crooned a song drenched in melancholy, beautifully so. For a
quarter of an hour, he left us startled and mesmerized.

Early next morning, I gave him the tshirt Debbie‖s mother had gifted me. He
received it with tears of gratitude. Perhaps, it had been years since someone
had last gifted him anything. Perhaps, it had been a lifetime.

“I knew the city folks are good. They aren‖t like our people.”

He muttered in melancholy joy.

It all seemed strange to me. He hesitantly received the sum I passed to him. I
had not paid him more than what the local lodge rates there were, yet he
was absolutely pleased. He insisted that I have some herbal tea before I left. I
gladly obliged.

Fairytale Woods

The thirty six hundred meter odd pass of Chankheli served to mark the
commencement of the district of Humla. It was an obtuse grazing ground for
passer by mules; the tops were capped with snow and the grass was light as
a drizzle elsewhere. The slightly iced grassland surface made a crunchy
sound whenever one took a step on it; an equal cause of joy and slippery
woe. Beyond the pass, there were as many rhododendron flowers of pink
and red hues as stars in the sky, not just perched high on the trees that
surrounded the pass but also carpeting the alpine forest floors.

I came across a man with distinct features while having my daily filling of
daalbhaat at a hut. I expressed intent to take his picture after the meal.

“I know how you can get a great picture…”

The man with a great white pagadi (head drape) and coat on declared.

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Mugu: Basking at home

181
“Let me climb up that rhododendron tree for you. The mountain range shall
appear grand in the background.”

Without awaiting my response, the man sprinted and sprung up the

branches of the massive tree effortlessly.

“Do I look okay?”

He screamed at the top of his lungs.

I assented with my stretched out palm held high and took a few shots. Once
he got down, he asked me to transfer the pictures to his phone. Seeing his
pictures on the phone erased a strange, slight bit of, grimness that had
haunted the man. He partnered along with me on the trails ahead and, much
later, revealed that the electronic shops in Gamgadhi had been unable to fix
his long serving, prized radio transistor.

I followed a gurgling stream down from the pass – music to my ears in the
fairytale woodland. The steepness of the descent was annulled by the
fascinating play of the sun; how it caressed leaves, mossy rocks, and the
waters of the stream with a midas touch. Settlements similar to the ones on
the trail in Mugu, of both the lush and barren kinds – abundantly described
in previous writings, followed. The denizens also shared a common heritage
and music was an essential part of their life too. The only difference perhaps
was in the scale. Where fields were terraced, they were resplendent and
stretched to the horizon; where forests existed, they were dense and covered
entire ranges; where settlements congregated, they consumed hill faces. At
Deuli, there was not just a photo studio but a private dental clinic too.
Romanticize one could, about the ancient pristineness of these lands, but the
reality was that modernity – modern desires, institutions and ways had
slowly, but surely, caught on; for better or for worse, but not without agency.
Many a people I interacted with, told me that the roads and times had
become easier, yet to me they seemed still uneasy.

Mister RJ Falls

A massive circumvention and an uneasy downhill slide, where a few

unceremonious slips were incurred, later, the verdant village of Darma
arrived. Greens, with their audible, thrifty sways, welcomed me to the
village. There, my sight was first caught by a decrepit house, on top of which
was basking in the sun an even more decrepit elderly man. I climbed up a
ledged log to the roof, and took a picture of his. He remained stoic
throughout. A crowd of fifty or so highly enthused children had meanwhile
gathered outside the house. One of them yelled:

“That‖s Mister RJ!”

An identification that left me perplexed. When I got down, many of them

asked in unison with wide, gloaming eyes:

“Are you Mister RJ?”

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“I am not.”

I asserted, but asked back if any of them could sing.

The fact that I wanted to record their songs enthused them furthermore.
Tens of boys, wearing bandanas and flashy tshirts grimed by dirt, lined up;
taking turns, they sang to their heart‖s content. I was more than happy to
stay put and record the modern, hiphopish, songs they sang expressively.

Mister RJ, one of the boys revealed, was an artist who sang similar chart
topping numbers. They had seen him in music videos on palm sized
smartphone screens. For I had long, untamed hair like the artist, they had
mistaken me for him – a fact that greatly amused me. It also led to the
realization that none of the men in the villages I had passed through had
long hair, unlike their high mountain Buddhist brethren.

Before taking leave, I asked all of the children and other curious onlookers
who had gathered to come together for a group photograph. While recording
the chaotic manner in which they were coming together, I took blind steps
behind to accommodate them all on the frame. I happened to step back
beyond the ledge. Snap, I fell! A log slammed on my back on the way down. I
landed on the field with a precariously overstretched back, scarred by the ten
foot fall, stung by nettle leaves, and yet still on my two feet, with the phone
still in my hand. I was laughing, for I wanted to defy the gravity of the
situation and knew not another way to respond. The entire crowd looked
down with stunned faces, unsure of the state I was in. My nervous laughter
only belittled them. As adrenaline wore out, and I started assessing the
damage incurred, I saw how the stick I was carrying had helped retain
balance and saved my head from slamming on to a rock. A blessed couple in
Gamgadhi had given me the stick, after a short consultation. I had merely
asked them where I could find others like the one they had. The very same
stick had, in all probability, saved my life. Would not this incident make for a
good wide angle camera commercial?

I somehow climbed back onto the trail. A group of worried adults awaited
me. For some reason, seeing my bruises made them greatly anxious. They
shooed away the children helter skelter with furious swings of their arms.
One of them ran to her home and brought a small plastic bottle filled with
mustard oil. They suggested me to apply it on the wounds, I obliged. They
were relieved to see that I had not sustained any debilitating injuries. I
thanked them for their concern and assistance. As I descended to meet the
road track that ran below the village, I was halted by a sweet child drenched
in sweat. He had escaped the furious adults and sprinted like anything to
catch up with me. All he wanted was to have his song recorded. Pressing the
record button was the least I could have done to make the kid happy; I could
see in his eyes how much it meant to him.

Shortly after, I met a narrow rocky rapid that flowed down to meet the River
Karnali in Sallikhola. The trail that ran long it had been greatly affected by
the construction of a road right above it. Rocks slid down the dust ridden
hills whenever the wind blew hard. In fact, there were thousands of such
impediments on the trail. The serene sunshine did little to alleviate the
suffering of traversing through such a treacherous terrain. There was a part
where a climb of no less than fifty meters had to be made up the hill. Not
once did I find a solid surface to grip onto during the endeavor. I encountered
a road construction crew a quarter of an hour after the climb. At least a

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dozen men were at work on rocky edges of the cliff side. Four men were
perched precariously on top of a sizable tree trunk that rested on the cliff
they were trying to break down, blow by blow, rock by rock. It took at least
twenty hammer blows, on a lever sunk into a gap, to break down a single
rock. The entire cliff had been set back at least fifteen meters from the edge,
one rock dislocation after another, to clear a track for the road. The team
leader who was screaming instructions to the men informed me that they
were working for the British Government backed RAP3 project, which
intended to employ as many people as possible; replace machines with
human labor wherever possible. He also added that most of the workers
were not locals, but migrants from adjoining hill districts.

“The people of Humla are rich. They won‖t work for loose change here!
Instead, they‖ll head to Taklakot on the China side.”

I waited for the men to finish their work for the day. They led me to what
they deemed to be a trustworthy lodge in Sallikhola, from where the trail ran
along the Karnali River. The shack settlement had swollen to cater to
working class migrants. The arrangements were menial, and, everything in
the dorm room reeked of sweat and strong body odors. Nothing was clean,
except the host‖s heart. It was, more often than not, all that mattered on the
road. Seldom did city folk trek up that way, and so, they greatly appreciated
my presence there. They readied the daalbhaat and allotted me a portion
before they started with the fish. Little gestures like that go a long way. The
best of places can seem bleak when warmth is not imparted, also vice versa.
I shared the four beds in the dorm room with five workers, and yet slept
mighty well.

You Will Reach Late

The harsh, continuous strokes of the broom employed by a woman, apart

from unyieldingly releasing bulbous clouds of dust, also served as a morning
alarm call. A quick face wash and I was on my way out. Trees of pine stood
tall in the depression where the not too humble brook met the mighty
Karnali River. Sallikhola was the most obvious, unoriginal name the junction
awaiting a fated boom, where the roads to Humla from Kolti (being
constructed by the army) and Gamgadhi were one day set to meet, could
have been given. From the clearest aqua to the deepest teal, the blues of the
Karnali changed hues with the time of the day, the clarity of the skies, and
the foliage in the adjacent terrain. Between narrow and wide fissures, amidst
mighty hills, it roared with a deafening sound that resembled white noise.

The lands around Sarkeghat had over millions of years been crafted by the
river in a way that made the terrain relatively smooth, the valley wide, and
the soil tremendously fertile. It was an exception to the rule in this part of
the world; not one plot of accessible land was devoid of agricultural
initiative, though mostly of the subsistence variety. Hence, unsurprisingly,
the central hamlet was teeming with activity. There was a barbershop with a
flex board, and a fine lodge next to it. A woman hailing from the hamlet had,
upon a brief meet on the way, sung spontaneous verses whose vivacity could
not be praised enough with mere words: when I reviewed the footage a while

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later, I noticed not just the charm of her eyes, but the amount of golden
jewelry she was wearing, also how she was dressed better than anyone else
I had met on the trail before. As much as I hate to admit it, such aristocratic
finesse has without exception served as a deterrent for this budget
wanderer. I acquiesced not to my hunger and vowed to remain fervently
disciplined with my limited finances. Without a second thought, I skipped
the possible comforts of the market hamlet and continued on the trail along
the river.

The food mathematics in Humla was simple, something which I only learned
of in Sarkideu. The two and a half hour fast had been in vain! Daalbhaat was
the major and at times the only offering. It was offered for one hundred
rupees south of Sallikhola, two hundred north of it; with only the finer
lodges in Simikot as questionable exceptions to the rule. While a girl in her
early teens reluctantly attended to her duty of setting the rice and curry on a
medieval firewood stove, an uncle of hers played rustic tunes on the flute
excellently in another room. Her brothers, meanwhile, were helping each
other style their hair. Everyone seemed to be busy in their own realm, which
only bothersome swarms of flies could transcend. Amidst the flies were
midges that delivered irksome bites that caused minor infections. It all had
to be tolerated.

“Why are you wearing a half pant? That‖s foolishness!”

That was the consistent local decree.

After lunch, further up and up I went from there – through flush fields, dense
timberlands, uneven brook beds, wheezing waterfalls, not too old landslides,
and narrow cliff trails. With my filming of all that made a distinct sound,
from a large brood of fumbling chicken to a game of volleyball at school, I
either enthused people, irked them, or had them in splits. My manner of
documentation was all new to them. What was mundane for them was for
me special, and that only a handful of denizens could get. I walked until
sundown, and spent the night in a lodge in Laali no different from the one in
Sallikhola. Everything went about as business, except for an early morning
request from the woman who ran the lodge. She wanted me to help her boy
find a job in Kathmandu. Gratified by the hospitality received in Humla, and
in other parts of this world, I could not deny the request. In fact, I was
uncharacteristically positive about helping the lad in that manner. After I
gave a realistic picture, we exchanged numbers. However, later on, things
did not work out, for like most other young boys, he harbored expectations
that his abilities could not reap.

As Simikot neared, the landscape became wilder. The hills were intimidating
and the trails, that ran high above the squeezed river, narrow. Cliffs of
unyielding rock were edged in only a slight bit; just enough to lay a small
pathway of chipped granite steps, broad enough for a mule to tread on. Even
those interventions seemed recent, and I wondered how people must have
gotten to the other side before. One wrong step and there was no gradual
slope on the way to save the fallen. Such trails were the norm beyond
Simikot too, and since I had encountered thousands of them before, fear
could dare not grip me.

On that way, a hamlet of around a dozen cottages with roofs of hay and a
minimalist build was also notable for its distinct charm. Only an hour ahead,
the trail progressed towards relative flatlands where several lodges that

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embodied a more modern sense of construct were coming up. There were
boating and fishing operations in the settlement that had sprung around the
triangular hill of Kharpunath, at the confluence of the River Karnali and
another bluish rivulet. A Shiva temple and hermitage had been not too long
ago built below the hill. Interestingly, a notice board that displayed a list of
in demand herbs that could garner anywhere from thirty to fifteen thousand
rupees a kilogram was hung outside a small home in the periphery. Good
things, it seemed were happening. And only, if it were not for the arrogance
of the denizens I came across, I would perhaps have had a rosier opinion of
those developments.

A risk ridden road track to Simikot also commenced from there, on which
jeeps plied. Despite the fare on the seventeen kilometer ride being an
atrocious three hundred and fifty rupees per shoved squeezing, there was no
dearth of passengers.

“Are you that poor? Get on the jeep; it is much, much quicker!”

An unsolicited opinion was sent my way by a middle aged man. I ignored it

and kept walking. His intentions were clear. The jeep would not budge
before every nook and cranny on it had a living soul stuffed in. Half an hour
ahead on the unruly road that had wrecked damning landslides on every
turning, I came across a text written on a large, clear rock with a marker –
Please don‖t rely on the vehicle. You‖ll reach late.

Ludo On Smartphones

Rarely did I find trails enervatingly steep. The trail from Kharpunath to
Humla, a path chiseled onto a perpendicular hill face, was one of them. The
newly built road track had only served to make matters worse. There were
parts where the stick became my savior; without it, a ghastly slip or two
would have been inevitable. The paleness of the steep terrain covered with
yellow grass could only accurse lone travelers with a sense of desolation,
which the gloomy weather and vertigo inducing heights did not help with.
On the way, as far as living souls were concerned, I encountered only an
avalanche of mules, which the helmsmen had whipped unforgivingly to a
rush. A slight bit of miscalculation, and I would not have been here writing
this! No apologies though, as was customary. After scaling a height of almost
a thousand meters in two hours, from the riverbank to the top of the hill, the
snow capped mountains I had to look up to see were now on almost level
terms. Yet, I was left baffled, for I could not yet see the town of Simikot. Two
roads went ahead, and it was beyond my faculties to figure out which the
one more taken was. Fortunately, on such occasions I possessed an offline
map on the phone to consult.

My entry into the town was marked by an intense storm. Billows of dust
made unguarded eyes swell red and muddied palates. The chicken ran helter
skelter, I bet some of them were, like clothes hung to dry unpinned and tarps
of plastic, blown away. People covered their faces and cooped up in corners.
Trees swung wildly dispersing leaves. A drizzle only added to the torment,

186
worsened by the demonic bustle of the wind. The jeep that I had chosen to
avoid taking speeded by. Taking firm steps, I continued undaunted towards
the town center: I knew not another way: cometh the hour, cometh the
person.

Simikot was a small town, the kind where everyone knows everyone. The
main market lane, adjacent to the airport, was experiencing an incredible
transformation. The boom of Kailash tourism spelled redundancy for a lot of
the old town ways and structures. Chewan had connected me with his friend
Tharik there, and I started asking directions to his home from the lower Dalit
settlement that retained medieval structures out of nothing but absolute
impoverishment. At the entrance of the main market, I stopped at a general
store, where apart from being given detailed directions to the man‖s home, I
was educated about how almost every consumable in the city came in via air
from Nepalgunj and was resultantly pricey. Regardless, I still managed to
lose my way. Without regrets though, for the circumvention was enjoyable.

Tharik‖s home was in the upper recesses of the town, a narrow path beside a
drain from the main junction led there. He worked at an organization that
maintained a Seed Bank, helped introduce modern farming techniques and
propagate vegetable farming to address nutritional deficiencies. Tharik‖s
family, migrants from the village of Kyermi – a couple of hills away,
welcomed me to their cozy abode wholeheartedly. The patriarch was a
sizable man with a stutter and curly hair. His partner wore colorful
traditional garments. She was constantly occupied. Their lives centered on
delivering the best childhood possible to their chubby and confident progeny.
An animated family friend was there too. In jovial mood, taking sips of local
alcohol, they had waited for me. The kitchen cum living room was of a
popular mountain variety; golden wood was abundantly used and a rusty
firewood stove covered with soot served as the centerpiece. It was simple,
but cozy and charming.

He took me to his hangout junction – the Raling Hotel, in the other end of the
town. A large number of townsmen regularly assembled there to
meditatively play virtual ludo on their smartphones and strike casual
conversations. The free internet access and strong battery backup were novel
draws. By the manner in which he proclaimed my existence to his friends, to
host me seemed to be for him a matter of great pride. On the way to the
main junction, he was kind enough to point out places of interest. There, I
split from him for a while to go to what was proclaimed to be the best hotel
in town, in search of good internet and a cold drink of all things. The internet
was a disappointment, but they had the only lemons in town. I asked for
lemonade, but the waiter seemed clueless; I had to enter the kitchen myself.
I can never forget the bitter look on the face of the waiter, when I asked him
to squeeze an extra precious lemon! The only saving grace was my
encounter with a worker who sang of his pains in the vernacular. His tone
conveyed tear inducing emotions. I listened to him for a while and promptly
retreated to Tharik‖s home. After a sumptuous dinner of local red rice with
beans, I was led to a room in his office. My pleas to spend the night in their
home were possibly disqualified on two grounds, one declared and another
unuttered; the first one being the tradition to offer the best arrangements
possible to guests, the second one – on religious grounds, their home it
seemed was a sacred space.

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 Against Popular Advice

Dawn brought with it a spectacle. The winds from the previous night had
cleared every trace of dimming haze and stray clouds. The jubilant fields of
Simikot were bejeweled by a string of shining mountains, ones that seemed
to be within a stone‖s throw of the edge of the hill the town stood on. The air
was light and the atmosphere inexplicably wondrous. Tharik and his friend
were playing badminton in the premises of the office. It was the pops of the
bat hitting the cork that had woken me. After freshening up, we went around
town and after having coffee, at what was said to be a fashionable café
outside the airport, landed back at Raling. There, I had sumptuous syakpa
(local flat noodles) – possibly my favorite specialty from the mountains. On
the way to the town‖s private school, where my host‖s son studied, I got to
interact with a group of privileged traditional weavers whose efforts were
rewarded by non government facilitators and workers from communities
deemed untouchable whose laborious efforts were yet not fairly rewarded.
At the school, I was free to interact with children. Despite the presence of a
Samata (one hundred rupee fee) and state funded school, the privately
owned institution was the favored option, like anywhere else in this part of
the world, for those who could afford it. English medium education, stringent
discipline, and an aura of exclusivity are part of the appeal. In the general
eye, there is as much disenchantment with the vernaculars, as there is with
the state.

At four hours after noon, I left the town to proceed towards Hilsa, against
popular advice. I knew that I could walk at a speedy pace, when required,
and did not want the inertia of comfort to get hold of me. I climbed up a hill
to the west end of the town. From there, the dreaded army hill that towered
above the town amidst a dense forest of pines could be seen. Gunshots were
being fired there; some sort of training must have been going on. How
mountains spectacularly surrounded the curved hill terrain full of fields and
scattered housing from not just the north but all directions was also clearly
visible. Through settlements of flat roofed houses and a large forest driven
nuts by the winds, an epic descent back to the Karnali River followed. On the
way, a team of officials accompanied by a man in fatigues passed by me
recounting how the vicissitudes of the trails passed had made them suffer
greatly. I was later made aware that one of the men was the Chief District
Officer.

The mountains again had to be looked up upon and the descending sunlight
shadowed the lower regions of hills. Till Hilsa, the Karnali River would be my
guide. Walking on the trail nudged on cliff walls along the river, I reached
the riverside settlement of Bara, near Dharapori, a while after nightfall. The
lodge there was merely a shop with extra beds. It stood opposite to a police
station; thus, I thought inquiries about the strangeness of my walk were due.
To my relief, they seemed too busy with their card games to care. The lodge
owner was kind enough to prepare a proper meal for this lone wanderer. He
abandoned his bed in the shop, which was the best one he had, for me that
night. Would a single person in Kathmandu trust a stranger with his home
or shop for the night?

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Humla: Simikot neighborhood

189
 Namaste Shot

Like waves in the sea, intermittently melding with the newly wrought road
track, the narrow trail rippled up and down. It curved and caved in where
hills met, or in other words – where they were wedged by vertical brooks.
Seldom did the first unannounced droplets on the face, accompanied by the
sight of a pool on the pathway full of slippery stones that had to be carefully
trodden across, not exasperate me. Although it did not take the magnanimity
of that construct of nature to mesmerize and blind me to all that was
beyond. A thousand waterfalls seen, yet the most meager of drizzles pouring
down coarse rocks was enough to seduce my attention. On the other side,
scant settlements could be seen, peppered on pale, sandy hills. Only a
handful of houses were encountered in my path though. The far higher up
congregations eluded me. The blues of the squeezed Karnali sobbed and
sorrowed below.

A lone house I entered, for nature‖s call bequeathed me to ask for the keys to
the wooden box that stood outside. The owner promptly obliged and the
deed was done. Upon returning with the key, I noticed that an assortment of
consumables – sodas, noodles, and alcohol, were stacked in the racks that
stood two arms length away from the central fireplace. Nothing that
appealed to my heart, but the gracious demeanor of the owner made me feel
like a buy was due. I promised myself that I would do so on the way back.
Layers of such promises essentially formed this lone walker‖s modus
operandi. The solitude was not to be for long.

From an overnight festivity in Yalbang, pilgrims were descending by the

hundreds. Only during Yarsagumba collections had I seen a larger
movement of people in the mountains before. There were men and women
of all ages. People with wealth and power, like the rotund lamas dressed in
bright red robes, plied comfortably on chiming horses guided by young men,
while those without, especially the elderly, staggered on. A limping old
woman took me for a healer and asked if I had any solution for her aching
legs. I offered the Zhandu Balm I had in my bag. Sitting on the ground, she
pulled back her lengthy robe and applied a dollop to her knees. Seeing the
look of momentary relief on her face, her friend too sat down on the dusty
ground and asked for some of it. Two other less elderly women wearing
splendid stone jewelry and carrying essentials on a basket in their back
followed. It felt good to know that I was able to help them. I took the
opportunity to ask them if they knew any songs. There, the limitations of our
communication were exposed. They tried hard to get what I was saying in
Nepali, but could not. One of them posed with her hands held together; she
thought I wanted the namaste shot.

For reasons still unbeknownst to me, unlike the terrain before it, the area
around the three thousand odd meter pass on the way was blessed with lush
vegetation and alpine trees. A man who was resting there obliged to my
request to sing a song, but he put forth a condition before it. He wanted me
to click a picture of him and his partner, and later get it printed in Simikot. I
happily obliged. In return, he not only sang but danced gleefully. Spirits were
probably at work. After a brief conversation, I continued. The steep trail led
down to picturesque grassland, whose pristineness was only hindered by a
handful of cottages packed with pilgrims. A stream had to be crossed from
there, before an unexpectedly long climb to Yalbang. Foolishly presuming

190
that the settlement was nearby, I had postponed lunch. The matter assumed
priority when I got there. Post lunch, led by markers of stacked rocks
endowed with sacred verses, I visited the then empty monastery grounds.
The grand white monastery stood tall in the middle of the complex, flanked
by smaller buildings where young monks were not only schooled but also
resided. Hints of recent renovation were present, yet not a soul could be
found anywhere. Winds made the flags that guarded the entrance fling and
flutter wildly. With the use of bright, primary colors, the facade of wood was
decorated. The walls by the entrance below it had richly painted Buddhist
representations. Two little monks running around inflicting cinematic kicks
and chops on each other were the first people I saw. They led me to the
kitchen, behind the main courtyard. All the monks there had just had their
lunch and seemed bereft of all energy.

The trail from there was difficult; it ran on sandy terrain and passed below a
recently drawn road track. Perilous landslides affected the path. Rainfall
added to my woes. Seldom could a place to seek shelter in the event of rock
falls be seen. It took a strange sort of persistence to speed through that slim
way littered with fallen rocks. By the time I reached Muchu, the skies had
become clearer and the blue waters calmer. Thorny alpine shrubs that
produced cheerful yellow flowers carpeted the ground, behind which a layer
of alpine trees grew below a towering navy and white mountain that did not
seem to be too far away. Flowers white and pink grew on tall trees as well. I
met two boys who studied in Kathmandu while clicking pictures of the
landscape. The dullness of their home had bored them. They sought to know
if I had any movies on my phone. I did have a few, unexciting ones. They did
not mind; they started the file transfer app on their phones. The mountains
for them were too mundane and were unable to inspire them. Any escape for
their restless hearts was dear.

This Is A Lama‖s House

It was only six, an hour to go before dark. The Tumkot hilltop that could be
seen from Muchu was to be my destination for the night. There was a small
settlement by the river – a trading center where road workers too were
based. Empty blue barrels that had brought in fuel were strewn all along the
riverbank, tarps too. Its messy nature only served to hasten my push to the
monastery. Alas, it was a draining, confusing, climb, and by the time I
figured out a way to get to the top guarded by thorny barriers, it was pitch
dark. Not knowing what was beyond, entering the monastery I believed
would only be cause for further trouble, thus, I ventured to a parallel
settlement where the lights had not been dimmed.

At a house whose door was open, around a dozen people had gathered, food
was being prepared. I acquainted the gathering with my intentions. The
family resided in Kapan, and the Kathmandu connection was instant. The
headsman let me in without the slightest inhibition.

“There are no lodges here. It is only natural for something like this to happen
to a traveler. We too might have to face a similar ordeal someday!”

191
He declared, before proceeding to ask if having rotis for dinner would be fine
for me. Absolutely, even nothing would have been fine. All I needed was
shelter for the bitterly cold night, to see another day. The common room was
not at all shabby, as the bare, traditional exterior had made it seem. It had
comfortable carpets on the benches that bordered the room. The wooden
pillars and cornice were decorated with family photographs. The kitchen was
limited to a neat corner, beside which the shrine with water cups and butter
lamps that almost every Buddhist house possessed lay. A thumb tacked note
read – This is a lama‖s home. Smoking cigarettes is strictly prohibited. When
I read the note aloud, the man revealed that his father used to be one. At the
lama‖s home, I slept comfortably that night.

The centuries old Tumkot monastery that I had strived so hard to reach was
closed for renovation. The renovation was so heavy handed that very little of
the original structure seemed to remain. The monks lived in stone houses
below it. For communities that wholeheartedly accepted impermanence, it
was quite natural for preservation to not be a matter of active concern – a
fact that rang true throughout this part of the world, and took some time for
me to realize.

I had to descend the same way I came up. The shorter trail was laden with
landslides, certain to be confusing. Cold desert terrain, the likes of which I
had familiarized with while walking across Dolpo, was the constant from
thereon. Golden hills, scarred by a million landslides, towered above the
Karnali River. The vegetation on the parts that had been spared was scant. In
fact, with an astounding tendency to fall apart, those hills seemed more like
dunes of sand. Behind them, stood a sublime mountain range, which was on
that day clearly visible. The road that I was on was full of debris, dusty and
dry. A truck that bore no number plate, such lands were beyond the reach of
law, to my amazement dared to race on such a road. People who sat on the
back carrier waved at me, because they thought I was a visitor from lands
beyond – most likely, of the crazed, hippie kind. At the only settlement on
the way, I later caught up with the truck. The people were embarrassed to
realize that I was not a white person. And for I was not, their curiosity was
amplified tenfold.

Magnificent pieces of nature‖s artwork; products of the wear and tear of the
winds and snow could be seen all over. There was a mound that looked like
a stupa, another like a minaret, and then another one that looked like a duke
in uniform. Locals would often explain such occurrences as the grace of
gods. Often, an accompanying myth developed. With me, there was no one
to do the explaining though. It took me six hours to reach the village of Yaari
and by a couple leading a cabinet of yaks, I was told that crossing the Nara
Laa to Hilsa that day was simply impossible. Furthermore, they deemed that
crossing the pass, littered with six feet of snow in some parts, with slippers
on, was the stuff of imagination. To attempt to beat such odds that day was
the kind of buffoonery that even this idiot was reluctant to indulge in. The
hamlet of Yaari, blessed by mountains that appeared larger than life, trucks
that could not travel further until the snow gave away, and an alluvial soil
around the river that could sustain sufficient produce, was to be my abode
for the night.

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 You‖re Going To Die

“You‖re incredibly lucky!”

With those words, the senescent lodge owner welcomed me back from my
stroll around the hamlet. It just so happened that a teacher bound for Limi
had decided to rest there that day. He was there, in the very same room,
crouched by the fireplace. Highlighting presumed commonalities, he
immediately tried to establish a deeper connection with me. Despite having
served the region for quite a few years, he had not found a sense of affinity
or brotherhood with the people there – for which he was not entirely to
blame. A pile of discontent was laid before me, whispered into my ears, with
the confidence that I would understand and empathize in disgust. I could
not. I made it clear that I could not relate to his biases. For the lamas I was a
rongba (hill person / outsider), for the hill man I was an ignorant betrayer.
They looked down on each other, and by choosing not to embody the role
bequeathed on me, I became no one‖s own. Our journey together had started
on the wrong foot.

Yaari also perhaps possessed the northernmost permanent Nepal Police

Post. It must be mentioned that the police officers stationed there also
approached me in a manner similar to that of the teacher. They felt isolated
and misunderstood. It was clear that the denizens shared no fondness for
the people in blue. Lay folk complained of how they not only ate and took
stuff away without paying, but struck the dagger of law onto a land governed
by community understanding. For the seasonal police station in the valley of
Limi I was told, the community had provided land in the middle of nowhere,
miles away from the nearest village. The conversation took a turn when I
mentioned that I wanted to see Kailash and Mansarovar.

“Look at this person!”

The officer in charge drew his cohorts‖ attention. His expression was a mix
of pride and regret.

“He has come all the way from Kathmandu to see the holy abode of Shiva!
And here we are, provided with the privilege to not just go there alone, but
also to take our families along, sitting and swatting flies. What a shame!”

Then he proceeded to sing praises of the Chinese administration for the

honorary treatment it offered to Nepali officials of all ranks.

In a dingy, odorous room, I had spent the night with four men. It had taken a
considerable effort to fall asleep. Before night had given way to day, the
teacher donning a thick green down jacket, a rainbow poly fiber scarf, and
maroon gray woolen cap woke me up. He was ready to go.

“Get ready!”
He said.

To which, still half asleep, I lazily replied:

“I am ready.”

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White half pants on, a white cotton shirt atop a tshirt: the slippers and bag
were right by the bed.

“You‖re going to die.”

Sighed the teacher tersely. I acknowledged his concerns with a nod.

Amidst Mountains

The sun kissed the mountains as it arose with hues of purple and gold,
deafening all beyond it with its shine. To the grandeur of the mountain
range before us, a string of flowing haze served as the icing on the cake.
Towards them, we headed on the spiraling road of frozen dust. Every step
was crisp, every sweet breath one of renewal. Albeit, only the most stringent,
thorniest of bushes and shrubs were able to bear the jejune and frigid
climate whose ills the blessed morning sun had tamed to our benefit.

Somewhere along the way, my clamoring partner had rested. The fears he
had prophesied for me had become his own. I waited for him watching
ravens that roamed in circles in the sky, perhaps for they had sighted a dead
pika, but continued after the birds escaped the scene. Landslides and
avalanches had ripped apart the pale, sandy landscape, transforming it into
a spectacular work of art that no sentient mind could replicate. There were
stacks of tiny stones that supported cliffs, which with the slightest
intervention would have brought down half a hill – first with a grumble, then
a thud.

Extensions of snow that had survived winter added to the gorgeousness of it

all. As I inched towards the top of the four thousand five hundred and sixty
meter Nara Pass, those extensions merged and expanded, until they
whitened the entire landscape. The skies and distant mountains of blue had
to be turned towards to escape the maddening dazzle of the white. Even the
prayer flags at the top were frozen. The mercury certainly was below zero.
Nonetheless, the exhaustive climb had warmed my body sufficiently. Things
though were worse beyond the pass, where sunlight had not been allowed to
sufficiently warm the land. The snow was about three feet deep, the descent
perilous. Footsteps ran helter skelter on it. I waited for the teacher. His
familiarity with the path, I was sure, would make moving ahead a lot easier.

The teacher helped me get across the first downturn from where a singular
stream of footsteps etched in snow moved ahead. He thought it would be
better for me to take the lead. I felt that he had made the call for his own
well being. He did not want me to sweep him away when I slipped –
something that looked inevitable. Thereon, the descent was consistently at a
steep angle on a cliff side. Every step had to be carefully placed, for my
rubber slippers seemed excitedly willing to slip. The stick, my savior, served
as a third and most reliable foot. I looked down more than once: it was a
straight fall, almost ninety degrees at some points, hundreds of meters
below; all slippery, solid snow, with not an ounce of friction in between. One
slip and there would have been no return. Worrying would not have helped;
all of my previous falls had been the result of a loss of focus. Thus, I did not

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take steps when my mind strayed away from the objective on hand. I took
short, calculated steps.

Around twenty minutes later, we were back on less uncertain terrain; the
trail was not completely clad in snow. The scene was clear. Through an
endless expanse of cold desert mountains, the river had cut a steep valley.
The teacher rested at an edge and asked me to wait for him. I obliged. He
was kind enough to describe in detail the convoluted way to Limi, beyond
the imposing mountains across the river, and the Chinese settlements to the
west above it. The settlement of standard white, single storey, houses was
an oasis of order in those chaotic lands.

Through avalanche ridden terrain, partly on the newly carved road half
consumed by piled up snow, partly on steep trails that circumvented its
spins, we descended towards the border. What a bewildering sight it was:
the lively blue waters of the Karnali, winding up the desolate yellow terrain.

On the way, a young woman, who happened to be from a village near

Simikot, stopped us. She told us that despite her best efforts she had failed to
reach Limi to conduct the national economic survey. It was quite apparent
that she had done so out of plain, bureaucratic laziness. The teacher was
asked details about the valley and the businesses in it. He replied half
earnestly. If that was the matter in which the survey was carried elsewhere
too, it was certainly a swindle. Later, on the way, he explained why he was
hesitant to help.

“For all these years I have worked like a dog in Limi! Risked my life several
times, just to get there… And now, this woman wants to cheat on her duty
and make quick money from the state coffers! Why should I help her?”

His qualm was understandable.

Houses with aqua corrugated sheet roofs and the plain mud kind could be
seen clearly, along with the zigzag road track to Limi and the grand, white
gateway to China – which many locals claimed cost upwards of five hundred
million rupees to build. There was what seemed to be a fairly new
suspension bridge on the Karnali, and a newer motorable one a bit to the
south of it. We were on a hill directly above the settlement of Hilsa. The sight
endowed me with a strange sense of accomplishment. However, my detour
around Humla was only half over.

Gateway To China

We reached Hilsa at 11. My companion requested a hotelier he was familiar

with to prepare daalbhaat. While it was being readied, I strolled around the
half abandoned, and in many ways dilapidated, hamlet. It only sprung to life
in Kailash season, May to August, when helicopters came in by the hundreds
from Simikot bringing pilgrims for a fee of around three thousand rupees.

Construction materials, crushed utensils, beer bottles, soda cans, plastic

wrappers, gas cylinders, wheelbarrows, and petrol barrels – all sorts of

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objects were strewn around the ghost town. Expectedly, there were quite a
few number plate less Chinese vehicles too – outlaw rovers, trucks, and
motorcycles. The wind had started gaining momentum and blowing sand
away from piles stacked for use in construction. Only the gateway to China,
and to a lesser extent – Hotel Snow Lion, were prominent artificial creations;
all else was made obsolete by the blue river and the mighty mountains that
surrounded the depression. The fact that they occasionally yielded rocks and
were in perpetual landslide mode seemed alarming, but only to me. Securing
potable water, at times, the hotelier said, was a significant concern.

With six hours still to spare before dark, I desired to leave the forlorn
settlement and head to Til. To that decision of mine, the teacher mightily
objected.

“How can you leave without me? You‖ll lose your way.”

He first expressed concern, and then later, after I reiterated the intent,
lambasted me.

“Your city folk nature‖s been revealed. I helped you throughout the way …
and how do you repay? By abandoning me, your companion? You‖re foolish
and selfish.”

With absolute calmness, I made an effort to explain that my desire was not
to abandon him, but to proceed instead of lazing in the cottage. It took some
effort to deduce his anguished logic.

After lunch, I crossed the suspension bridge above the breezy Karnali, and
raced up road track landslides like a blue sheep. With each stride, as I gained
altitude, the settlement condensed in proportions, while the mountains
attained goliathan ones – the lower rungs of which were scarred with pale
slides, trails, and road tracks in between stretches of thorny vegetation.
Nature‖s call had been troubling me since the ascent began, and when Hilsa
appeared out of sight, I took refuge behind a rock – only to much later realize
that affairs were visible from the Chinese side. Well, there was no helping it.

The landslide ridden trails beyond the road track, carved onto a massive cliff
face, offered sights that could not to any heart not bring incredible elation.
All around were mountains, the intricacies of snowfall on which were clearly
visible along with the wilderness of the earlier described lower rungs. No
human had ever stepped onto those advances, and except for two families
returning from Limi, I met not a single soul on the entire stretch. Incredible,
incredible, solitude! If it were not for the winds, one could hear one‖s heart
beat, and meditate upon it. The trail grew wilder as it proceeded, so did the
terrain and the weather. Dark clouds started populating the skies.
Nonetheless, the way they fairholed sunlight only served to add to the
splendor of the place. Whatever eluded the sun was devoid of tangible color,
all that was graced by its emanation seemed to be draped in gold. The clouds
though never gave way to rain and the fog cleared up after a while. The
elements were merciful to this lone walker. Even at the forty four hundred
meter pass, marked by a yak skull, which was allowed to shatter but not
decay completely by the arid cold, there were just iced stretches, no slippery
snow – the presence of which might have lifted the stakes on that steep
crossing to insane levels.

In such places, instructions imparted by locals were of unparalleled value.

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Hilsa: Settlement in the border with China, access point to Limi

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“To reach Til, after the descent, move up the first major brook that descends
from the mountains to the left.”

A flight or fight encounter with a herd of estranged blue sheep, and a twenty
minute gradual ascent later, I reached the peripheries of the settlement. The
sky had turned navy blue, and with it tuned all to its hue. I first encountered
two elderly women working in a field. The brook had sustained enough
agriculture for subsistence. They could not understand Nepali, which was
understandable. It was a language they had very little use for. Not until I
mentioned the name of the ward chairperson, which had been given to me
by wildlife researcher Yadav, who had visited Limi previously, did they stop
being overly wary. They signaled me to head to the main village.

Lost In Time

The hamlet of Til was lost in time. It stood on an elevation of terraced fields
and resembled medieval castle towns of the kind portrayed in European
fairytales. Multi storied, gray, stone block structures converged tightly, with
hay littered lanes that could barely allow two yaks to pass. The houses had
small windows to prevent loss of internal heat. Their flat roofs were
decorated with prayer flags. In corners, piles of firewood were stocked, and
in the fields, manure. In some parts, there were tunnels with doors that
could seal out intruders. The older, now dilapidated, extent of Kagbeni in
Mustang must have been like the hamlet during its heydays. Til itself, was
on an altitude of almost four thousand meters, yet two visibly imposing
ranges of higher mountains – one on the north and another in the south,
were a permanent part of the landscape. The first person I met there referred
me to another one. My presence was already an anomaly, not too many
people ventured there. To add to that, the attire that I was wearing added to
the disbelief of residents; startled, their eyes seemed affixed on me. Who‖s
this idiot? They must have thought.

A significant number of people in Simikot had given me a negative

impression of the people that lived amidst the mountains. They had told me
that the people of the valley were mean and did not entertain outsiders, that
the Limels were backward and engaged in archaic practices like polygamy.
The glaring issue was that none of them had ever been to the valley. I shared
a conclusion drawn from the walk with them: There are good and bad people
everywhere. No single place or community is inherently bad.

They were not convinced, although a youngster suggested that I could be

right. It was getting dark, the mercury was falling, and I had not found
shelter. My belief was being put to the test.

At a junction, I came across four men. One of them told me that the ward
chairperson I was searching for was not based in Til. Another suggested that
he could lead me to the community hall and provide me with rice and
firewood to cook, for a fee of five hundred rupees – that was how they had
been entertaining visitors that came few and far in between. A sleeping bag
was necessary to spend the night there, and that, I did not have. Unable to

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witness my conundrum, with an air of responsibility, the third man invited
me to his home. The fourth man could not but impart a comment.

“You‖re one lucky person! He‖s the kindest person in the village. Things
could‖ve been difficult had you not met him.”

My host‖s house was like any other in Til. In scale, it was profoundly grand,
but in constitution as basic as a house could be. The pitch dark ground floor,
without windows, was dedicated to stocking firewood and keeping yaks.
Stairs carved onto a log led up from there. The first floor had a locked room,
items were stocked in the mini hallway, by it there was half a verandah and
a small enclosed space. There was a hole there. Defecation was passed down
from there to be one with the cattle manure. The brook banks and fields
were backup options. There were no conventional toilets in the valley, and
perhaps they were not needed; the population was minimal, the conditions
arid and cold, and epidemics it seemed were unlikely. In Simikot,
preparations were afoot to declare the district open defecation free, and I
wondered whether policy makers and the other people in high places truly
thought of Limi Valley as a part of the district. The top floor had a
significantly large opening its roof. The kitchen, living space, and another
room were on that floor. A log stair up from there led to the rooftop that
provided ecstatic views.

I was invited straight into the kitchen and, after being served butter tea, was
asked if roti with curry would be fine for dinner. I replied without a second
thought that it would be excellent. In that room endowed with carpets and
other amenities of comfort, yet dimly lit by solar powered lights, I sat by the
swiveling, modern window pane. My host told me that he had a house
around Bouddha in Kathmandu too. He went with his family there during
the winter, when life in the valley became unbearably harsh. He spoke very
little and smiled when I ate. His partner spoke fewer words and smiled even
more. Language had drawn its boundaries. I showed their child some
downloaded YouTube videos. He was a restless brat though, and more than
once tossed the phone onto the floor. Generally, kids of relatively privileged
Buddhist families in the mountains are inundated with such unbounded love
that they often are a menace. Even the most despicable of devilries
committed by boys are dealt with compassion.

After the meal was done, a thick mattress was laid out under the open area
for me. It seemed like an odd place to sleep, for it was bitterly cold and there
was by it a manure pile of all things, but once I was snug, it all felt right. The
rains dared not drizzle heavily that night and the skies burned with a million
stars. The winds did howl with terror, but their existence became void after
tiredness took its toll.

Life Along The Frigid River

I went round and round, amidst fortified walls, under pristine blue skies,
from one narrow alley to another. No corner of Til failed to endear me with
fascination. The sun had started soaring high though; an escape was long
overdue. It was right when I made a conscious call to do so that I met a man

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spinning a prayer wheel seated on a short barrier outside his house. He was
one of the men I had met the day before. Gleefully, he showed me the way to
the revered monastery high up on the hill beside the settlement. The path
traversed through a congregation of sandy sacred structures, chief among
which was a set of stupas with stacks of circular maroon blocks on the top
spiral. It was not just the landscape but those holy structures too that
reminded me of the visuals of Ladakh I had viewed on the internet.
Absurdly, right behind the ancient relics stood a Nepal Telecom satellite disc
that saved the town folk from absolute isolation.

The views the monastery, with elaborately decorated elongated golden tops,
offered proved to be worth the diversion from the main trail. The mountains
and skies shone with holy clarity and the river valley below was visible to its
most unremarkable nooks. There were three main quarters there. The first
one was reserved for meditative monks in solitude. To trouble them would
have been perilous. The second one contained the main idols and place of
worship. It was locked. The third was a lively one. It was where
congregations and tea talks took place. I was invited in for tea by a group.

An old monk seemed to be leading discussions on a matter of worship. I had

seen the same group proceed forward on horses from the hamlet, blowing
dust, and likewise they had spotted me too. Among the people seated was an
elderly woman wearing a black robe with her hair braided by colorful cloth.
She had a judicious smile on her face throughout. Unfortunately, the
expression troubled me. While climbing uphill, I had seen that very woman
fold her robes up and take a dump. Even when our eyes met then, the
moment she turned around, no inhibition was projected. Instead, she had
greeted me with that very smile. Shame was indeed a matter of culture. The
kind of shame I knew, had never been taught to her. My host‖s family had
already inundated the entire village of my presence and doings. Whispers
travel at the speed of light in close knit communities. Thus, the people in the
gathering had no questions for me, and were merely amused by my
presence. I had the butter tea silently, after which they helped me with
directions to Halji.

An elaborate, splendorous mandala was painted on the ceiling of the

hamlet‖s peripheral gateway. I admired it for a while before leaving. The
trees further ahead on the path, leafless though they may have been, were
what really caught my attention. They had somehow defied the tree line in
the arid damnations of the cold desert. Their presence was certainly worth
wonder, unlike the ghastly trail that led back to the river. The Karnali, the
rivulet that fed it, roared even at that altitude, but there was little substance
to the noise. Snug, it flowed transparently between rocks that were ever
churning into sand and naked cliffs with fossil veins. Only in monsoon could
it possibly prohibit humans from traversing across. Evidence for the
presumption was witnessed not long after it was made; in a part where the
altitude had sunk enough to let trees of pine prosper.

A gathering of people, men and women, frail and middle aged, were working
to build a secure wooden bridge. The embankments were being especially
strengthened with piled up rocks, the bridge was being placed high above
the waters, and the logs used were thick. The previous bridge it seemed had
been washed away by monsoon floods. I observed the proceedings for a
while. People were yelling at each other, trying to beat the roar of the river
and the winds with their voice: at times to impart instructions, at other times
to exhibit frustration.

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Out of nowhere, a stud came to me and demanded a contribution for the
bridge. He first spoke in English, and then repeated the request in Nepali. For
my host from the previous night had refused to accept remuneration, I felt
comfortable making a small contribution. The money it seemed had its own
karma. The ward chairperson I had been looking for in Til was there too.
Once I took Yadav‖s name, an immediate familiarity was established. Yet,
like the people before him, he asked about Naresh – whose photograph of
the wild yak, once thought to have disappeared from Humla, now adorns the
five rupee note. Naresh had somehow struck a distinct cord with locals.
Apart from that, he along with his buddies complained of how Limi had been
for decades persistently ignored by Simikot. It must be said that the
narrative in Simikot was starkly contrasting. It was a struggle of priorities, a
struggle between distinct communities, a struggle between population and
area, but perhaps bureaucratic and political embezzlement had a more
significant role to play in the despair of all.

Halji lay in a wide valley. Its arrival was marked by wide, open grazing lands
filled with hundreds, if not thousands, of yaks. The greens ascended to the
lower rungs of the pristine mountains bleeding streams that gave life to all.
Stupas of the aforementioned kind, but better maintained, and lines of
stacked rocks made holy by the carving of sacred verses, coupled with the
placement of religious artifacts, led to the settlement. The road from Lapcha,
at the unregulated northern border, had been easily carved along the rivulet,
and was broadly visible from that part onwards. In fact, the trails had been
consumed by the road. Like in Til, the streams and riversides around the
settlement were condemned to a deluge of colorful plastic, mostly wrappers
of daily essentials brought in from China. Every other sort of waste was
digested by those blessed lands, and so, callous dumping habits were
obviously set. These new arrivals though were a clear exception.

The hamlet of Halji had prospered around the Rincheling Monastery.

Founded a millennia ago, it was one of the oldest places of worship in this
part of the world. It was adorned with two deer, a mandala like centerpiece,
and two tall side pieces, all gilded, on top. Two large black curtains guarded
the bright red entrance to the main temple, to which three conjoined wooden
stairs, which were a storey high, led. The pillars that held the main building
together were wooden, but the structure was essentially made of mud and
stone. It was simple, painted with red and blue, yet possessed immense
grandeur in its jaded age. As I inspected the premises, the monks who had
gathered for lunch stared at me with silent curiosity.

This Is Not The Way To Kailash

The monks‖ eyes moved with me as I went around. There were chatters and
hums, but no one spoke to me. I liked the obliviousness of my presence, akin
to the thin, cool air that rejuvenated every ounce of me, and was reluctant to
make the first move. A moment of eye contact with a mischievous looking
monk, dressed in red like the others, brought me back to the ground.

“Khaanaa khaataa hai? Kahaan se aataa hai?”

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[In obtuse Hindi: Do you want to have food? Where are you from?]

Many a people ventured to India in search of work, before Burang became a

viable alternative, so most of them knew some Hindi. The question was
followed by murmurs in a mix of Nepali and Tibetan.

One said: “The stupid Indian pilgrim‖s lost his way.”

Another added: “He seems to be crazy. Look at the scanty clothes he‖s
wearing!”

A third discernible voice proclaimed: “He‖s going to die. Someone tell him
that this isn‖t the way to Kailash!”

I nodded and sat down where they pointed me to – on the lengthy tarp laid
out on the yellow earth. In a bowl, I was first served rice, then by a moving
contingent with buckets – spinach and kidney beans soup. In the valley,
where there was no vegetable or rice farming of significance, it was a meal of
privilege. Only after I had the meal did I feel compelled to reply in Nepali. It
astounded all when I did, primarily for the guilt they felt at having passed
rude comments that they did not know I could comprehend.

After lunch, one of the monks offered to show me around the millennium old
monastery where extensive renovation work was going on. A lot of concrete,
and other modern building materials, were being used; not unlike in other
places of worship undergoing replacement in the name of renovation around
this part of the globe. For firm believers in impermanence, such changes that
result in a loss of architectural tradition and archaeological value are bound
not to be of significant concern. He showed me fading paintings, of events
from Buddha‖s life and great spirits, which endowed the walls outside the
main chapel. They were charmingly simple, and stood in stark contrast to
the mightily detailed contemporary style. Someday the murals might be
redone or replaced. I would not be surprised.

When I asked the monk if I could see the main chapel, he asked for a sum of
one hundred rupees. I was confused. He pointed to a notice in English,
intended for fair skinned visitors, that said a payment of five hundred rupees
was required for taking pictures. Oh, worldliness!

He then whispered softly:

“Look, it says five hundred. I‖m only asking for one hundred.”

I acquiesced to the request, saying to myself that it was remuneration for the
meal. There was no defined, accountable authority to pay the greater sum to,
and my budget was austerely limiting.

Inside the chapel of decorated red archways lay a large gilded statue,
encrusted with precious stones, on an equally grand throne. Right below the
statue lay water bowls in rows and right by it a photograph of a rimpoche.
The room was full of ancient religious scrolls in boxes of red, which I am
sure much investigation has not been done upon. An adjacent chamber had
a much older statue on a glass paned rack, which the monk informed me
was believed to be as old as the monastery was. He was in a hurry to get
back to renovation work, and so I had no choice but to leave the chamber. I
went to the rooftop after that for a better view of the monastery courtyards
and surroundings. Apart from the usual wondrous scenes, the trajectory of

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the dormant glacial stream that had wreaked havoc on the hamlet many
times, each time with a greater magnitude, and most recently in 2011, was
also starkly visible from there. There was also significant erosion on the
cliffs by the monastery. Monsoon and winter always threatened the hamlet,
and one cruel stroke by nature could reduce a thousand years of history to
dust. Aware of it all, and yet living ephemerally, diligent monks on ladder
tops were busy perfecting the hammering in of new window frames.

I took a stroll around the hamlet. First, I looked inside the cottage by the
monastery, with a Nepal Telecom satellite phone. There, exorbitant bills for
calls to relatives in Kathmandu and abroad were being issued in the
vernacular. A narrow lane of gray walls with colorful, large, relatively
modern windows was entered thereafter. The way led to a chamber where
elderly women were spinning handheld prayer wheels and counting rosary
beads, chanting prayers. They all wore thick black or maroon robes, with
vividly decorated lower rungs. The younger children were with them, naive
and uninterested. To keep them warm, there were thermoses filled with hot
butter tea in the wide and cold hall. I, though, was captivated by a beam of
shining light that enlightened a frail woman. Very little interaction was
possible with the elderly women in the room, for the lack of a common
language. I went out and randomly entered another alley, shaded from
above and pitch dark. It led out to a courtyard, from where the straight lane
led to a gateway like structure. Right by it, middle aged women wearing
boots, trousers and jackets were working with a simple, extended weaving
loom, creating what looked to be like woolen blankets for the winter. A lot of
rebuilding was going on around that part of the hamlet, most probably with
money earned from seasonal work and business in Purang, across the
border. Pieces of rocks and logs were scattered. There were piles of sand
divested from the adjacent mountainsides with a scanty spread of cactus like
shrubs. There were large piles of Chinese cement too. Further on, by the
office of the sixth ward (Namkha Rural Municipality) which was
unsurprisingly shut and only existed for the sake of existing, numerous logs
were being shaved to size. I continued eastwards. The squeaky sounds of a
prayer wheel, spun by the force of a littered stream overrun with children
washing their clothes, was my parting call from Halji.

The herd of yaks I had seen from afar was now close. I was on their grazing
ground below a mountain range with pointy summits. Surprisingly, there
were horses roaming around too. A stud of a brown stallion looked up and
snorted at me, after which I dared not trouble it for pictures. Failing to find a
shortcut through the marshy grassland, I went back searching for the main
trail. Large red rock stacks enshrined with sacred verses lay along it, and so
it was found without much difficulty. A series of wooden roofed, yak horn
studded, white stupas united by the aforementioned line of rocks and thorny
shrubs marked the end of the village grounds. I looked back: a blessed view
of the valley – a green stretch in between pale fields and mountains, great
clouds above it, ant sized yaks roaming around, the rocky river on the edge,
and the narrow stream that throughout the heart of the valley spread its
shiny, blue tapestry of veins.

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 Dark Skies And Hailstorms

The trail from Halji to Dzhang had been widened into a road that ran along
the demure rivulet that fed the Karnali River. It seasonally entertained
limited traffic that brought in goods from China through Lapcha. That day,
the overcast weather served to gradually strengthen the current on the green
river and blunt sharp peaks with wistful curtain clouds. I got to see the
seasonal police outpost that Limels had allegedly conspired to relegate to the
middle of nowhere – not wanting the state to hinder their autonomy. Cruel
winter had ripped parts of the roof and wall apart from the modern
structure. Beyond it, landslides had consumed large sections of the trail – a
sight that I had grown accustomed to.

Dzhang was the greenest of the three permanent settlements in Limi Valley.
Grasslands that fed mountain goats and yaks were aplenty, terraced fields
too. The old gateway to the hamlet had been brought down and replaced
with a shiny concrete one. Its houses were more modern too, bolstered and
renovated using materials easily accessible from across the border. The only
shop of significance in the valley lay there too, where noodles, soda, juice,
varieties of alcohol, cereal grains, and biscuits, among other stuff were
stocked aplenty. Wherever road tracks have been opened in this part of the
world, the first arrivals have not been medicines or other objects of social
benefit, but the kind of goods mentioned above in plastic packaging. It is
only human to exhibit prosperity by using and accumulating goods that are
beyond common affordability. The growth of Kailash tourism and
infrastructural investment across the border had brought significant wealth
to Dzhang where, like in the other hamlets, many people owned businesses
or at least found work in Burang (Taklakot).

A boy that I met in the store suggested that I could spend the night in his
place, arguing that it was too late to get to Dhungling. He even pointed out
his house on the terraced hill extent, one of many sandy cottages that stood
indistinguishably in neatly constructed rows. Another man, who happened
to be a rich trader, said that he could help me charge my phone, for further
on there was no place with a good solar chargeable battery. I then proceeded
to the monastery, of the settlement believed not to be more than three
hundred years old, which was a simpler replica of the one in Halji. The
caretakers though were much calmer and the environment more pacifying. It
began raining sporadically and I bided time having butter tea, while charging
my phone at the trader‖s home. His partner, for some reason, was not happy
with my presence there. Understanding subtle cues, I declined the man‖s
offer to spend the night there. It was clear that the drizzles were not going to
subside soon. I thanked the trader and ran towards the boy‖s home.

The rains unexpectedly gained momentum and hailstones began shooting

down like bullets. Snowfall occurred shortly after. No matter how hard I
knocked at the door of the boy‖s house, it was not opened. Deep down inside,
I knew that I was being ignored. Smoke was coming from the chimney,
which meant that there were people there. However, I did not have a better
option. I went up a path by the cottage and from a point climbed onto the
lower terrace. After screaming bhaai (brother) at the top of my lungs quite a
few times, the door was opened by the boy‖s younger brother. He seemed
curiously dazzled, till date, I remain unsure why; perhaps it was because,
despite being drenched, I was taking visuals instead of entering the home, or

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there was greater context to it – something his parents said, or a matter
beyond my comprehension. The hamlet‖s many cottage terraces with
openings and billowing chimneys made it look like a work of art, and I let
the sight sink in before I entered.

There was a slight bit of tangible resistance on the part of my hosts.

Nevertheless, they did not back down on their child‖s word. After informing
the family that I did not eat meat, I was told that thukpa would be readied
for dinner. It was the first meal of the day for me. Thukpa did not sound bad.
Yet, when it was served, it brought my jaws to the floor. Since there were no
vegetables or wheat flour, in the valley, the dish was prepared with sisnu
and chhurpi (nettle leaves and hardened cheese). I took a deep breath before
putting the first spoon of it into my mouth. It was a grave test for my palette;
stoic commitment was required to clear the bowl. I kept telling myself that I
could not keep going the next day without having it.

A group of people, mostly men, had started assembling in the hall, as I was
having dinner. They were chatting in the vernacular, which I could make
little sense of. Later on, the debate took a fiery turn. The verbal jousting was
all clearly audible on the top floor – where, like in Til, a mattress had been
laid on the floor for me. The words budget and nyaaya (justice) were being
tossed around a lot. I had heard from people in Simikot that Limels were
fiercely autonomous; that they argued among themselves, made decisions
through debates, but presented a united stance to outsiders. The process
obviously applied to matters of politics as well. I got to witness the insular
yet democratic process first hand that night.

The chilly early morning winds woke me up. I went straight up to the
terrace. The night‖s rain had annulled all of the dark clouds. The skies were
of the clearest blue and the cliffs sprinkled with light snow. A short stroll
around the hamlet and a visit to the prayer wheel house later, I continued
eastwards comforted by the warmth of the sun and uplifted by the sanctified
air.

Symphony Of Ripples

The sun played its game, painting the mellow, meandering brook in shades
of emerald and pink. Like the skin, the sandy banks looked almost flawless
from afar, but upon closer inspection revealed a spectacular array of
shadowed grooves and channels. The riverbed by the bank was populated
with wavering green algae. Myriads of black pebbles no larger than a human
toe that were obstacles to the unwary, served to add character to the
landscape. Together they all worked to produce an exquisite symphony of
dancing ripples. I wandered along in wonder.

In between Dzhang and Dhungling (Tholing) there was just a single

temporary site of residence, and that too amidst marshy grassland. When I
got there, a family of herders was busy trying to shove hundreds of
domesticated mountain goats back into a pen fenced with a low stonewall,
disregarding their beats and pleas. Grazing time was over. Newborns were
cordoned separately, for they could have easily been crushed on the other
pen. They were protected from the cold using blankets. Yaks too roamed the

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expanse. There was no need to congregate and pen them. Predators like
mountain cats, wolves, and snow leopards rarely found success against
those mammoth beings. The marshy, rich soil was a constant up to and
around Dhungling.

Dhungling was a herding settlement of six or so fenced houses, slightly

north of four thousand meters from sea level in altitude. As it was the closest
settlement to the border at Lapcha, it was set to gain prominence. To the first
person I met there, an elderly man who was wearing a traditional maroon
robe of wool above modern apparel – a jacket and shirt, I asked for
Kunchyo‖s lodge. The unique, not easily forgettable, name had been shared
with me by the family in Dzhang. I was led to his gate by two herders. One of
them turned out to be the father of the trader who had helped me charge the
phone in Dzhang. It did not come as a surprise because the population in
Limi was sparse and everyone shared the same bloodline.

Kunchyo was in his thirties, a hospitable man with strange mannerisms. He

was straight headed, well built and stuttered occasionally. It took a serious
conversation and the mention of several familiar names to secure his
welcome. Like others, a herder too, and his house was no lodge. In fact, it
was as basic of a residence as there could possibly be. There was no
firewood; dried yak excrement lit the stove. The rice, served with a soup of
fermented dry radish, was basic as it could be. There was no lentil or beans
soup. Dried meat soup was an adequate staple for my host, which I was
disinclined to have. Bitter as it was, the rice and soup would not have been
hard to consume had it not reeked of defecation. On one hand, I was
thankful for the food, on the other abhorred by its nature. I later realized that
particles from the cakes of defecation went up in the air while combusting
and landed on the food. Water, which had to be warmed before being
consumed to avoid hypothermia, was not an exception either. Yet, if it was
fine for Kunchyo, it had to be fine for me. I strolled around a bit that
afternoon, and once the winds took hold, rested indoors. Proceeding further
in either direction was not possible that day.

People along the way had told me how Kailash and Mansarovar could be
witnessed without crossing the border from the heights of the five thousand
meter odd valley of Lapcha. The proposition had excited me. As the walk
progressed, I became more and more certain of making the attempt. After
having another bout of defecation strewn food, I was assured by Kunchyo
that the border at Lapcha, the northernmost extent of the Nepali state, was
only twenty seven kilometers away from Dhungling. I made my calculations.
Twenty seven kilometers to the border, twenty seven kilometers back, fifty
four kilometers of walking with an ascent of almost eight hundred meters; it
would take me sixteen hours to get there and come back. There were no
settlements or camps in the wild yak territory beyond Dhungling, getting
stuck or faltering could mean death. Seeing that I was serious about
attempting, Kunchyo tried talking me out of it.

“No one has gone that way for months. There is a dirt road, but the snow
must be deep. If something happens to you, I can‖t come to look for you. I
can‖t rescue you.”

My sights though were set on it, and acquiescing to my adamancy, he finally

agreed to cook rice and bhaale (thick bread) for me at 4:30 AM. In that room
which reeked of a mix of dry defecation and butter, I slept snug and well that
night. My body thanked me for the rest.

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Limi Valley: Stuck in time, the isolated settlement of Til

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Only at 6 AM was the meal prepared. Sixteen hours and back would have
meant a probable return time of 10 PM on risky terrain. My hopes seemed to
have been dashed. I pondered for a while and with myself made a deal: I
would charge at full speed, with disregard for the elements and altitude, and
try to reach there as soon as possible. If I did not reach or discover the point
by midday, I would begin the retreat. I drew in a deep breath, shoved loads
of the stinking rice down my throat, packed the thick rotis in the bag, drank
a liter or two of water, and carried another half a liter with me. The skies
were clear, the air was just light enough to be energizing, instead of being
draining. I rushed up a cliff by the loud river behind a triangular hill. Only by
a curious herd of blue sheep was I momentarily interrupted. A little ahead,
the path was frozen. In an hour‖s time, I was in a valley of snow, amidst
mountains. The road was barely visible; a gurgling stream was my only
guide.

Into Chinese Territory

In the valley of snowy knolls, every step was a challenge. Where snow had
concretized, it was incredibly slippery, where it had melted, the marsh was
deep and muddy. The seasonal dirt road was in parts clearly defined, while
in others it had succumbed. It would disappear into the snow at one point
and appear hundreds of meters ahead, having taken an incredible deviation.
It took quite a bit of effort and attention to make sense of it. On two
occasions, a deep depression had to be transcended to rediscover it. The
mercury too was certainly only slightly above zero, but the awe inspiring,
clear skies, and sunlight, as mild as it may have been, helped make things
easier. The heat that my body generated from speed walking saved me from
freezing. I could only attain a significant pace on intermittent hard surfaces
though.

The magnanimity of the topography, the likes of which I had not seen
elsewhere, drowned my heart in delight. I kept on wondering how such an
incredible expanse of flattish terrain could exist at sub five thousand meter
altitudes. It was there, I was walking on it, and still it had me in disbelief.
Where the snow melted heavily, serene blue pools of proportions larger than
most revered ponds in the hills and plains had formed. Their existence was
momentary, but to those few moments, they brought unparalleled sublimity.

Most rivers and ponds there, frozen and unfrozen alike, were perfectly
transparent. Their innards of golden ground littered with a stupendous array
of stones were open for adoration. Far, far, away, larger mounds of snow
backgrounded the valley on all sides. It took a while to realize that they were
great peaks, most probably well above fifty five hundred meters in elevation.
The anomalous plain had rendered their greatness obsolete. On and on, I
continued north.

After an hour or two, less glamorous, but equally incredible terrain came to
be. Even though the landscape was on higher altitude than the prior one, it
contained less snow. Only the areas around the streams that flowed down
from it were frozen solid. The rest was an immense ground of crunchy ice,

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sparsely carpeted by pale grass. By a stream, the backside of an abandoned
oil tanker had been left to the elements. It stood out because of its absurd
location and maroon red color. However, my attention soon shifted to a band
of wild horses at a distance. Whenever I attempted to get close, they galloped
helter skelter blowing dust. Something that I later realized was fortunate;
things could have turned sour had they chosen fight over flight. In the higher
lands of this part of the globe, animals of all sizes are deeply traumatized by
human presence. Even though it was for a lone walker like me a good thing,
it still did not feel right. Before long, the mountains draped in snow were far
behind me, only the top rungs of a handful of peaks visible around there
were gently sprinkled with snow. Despite the lack of snow, winds blew
bitterly and the temperature fell perceptibly – strange, strange, lands. The
frozen marshes had within miles transcended into a cold desert. Here and
there, only mounds of moss could survive. My bottle of water long emptied,
the rotis in the bag too cold to consume, over twenty five kilometers walked
on, and yet the abode of Shiva was nowhere to be seen. I further upped my
pace.

A while later I felt misled, due to an unexpectedly steep descent. It was then
that I checked the GPS tracker on my phone, only to realize that I was well
within Chinese territory. For there were no markers of significance – no
walls, no check posts, no people, no flags, just uninhabitable cold desert
terrain, I had, like the wild horses, transcended the border without a clue.
What would have been in most parts a sacrilegious act was there without
consequence. All constructs of human creation dissolved in those lands,
which truly were no man‖s. At the distant horizon, a slim range of
mountains could be seen. Between them and me were a thousand mounds
of icy sand decorated only with shadows, bereft of any sign of human
indulgence like it was for miles behind me. The heavenly blue skies were
above them, coolly prominent.

I retreated uphill to notice a border pillar that I had missed earlier. It read –
Nepal 12 2018, in the Devanagari script on one side, and had Mandarin text
on the other. The two thousand and eighteenth year of the Bikram calendar
corresponded to CE 1961/62; the year the border agreement was signed. The
engravings on it were imperfectly painted in red, possibly by authorities
from the other side. I sat there for a while, in relief, and in peace.

It was almost midday. I had made it to the intended point in five hours,
walking five and a half kilometers an hour on average. Upon reflection, on
that sort of surface and altitude, it seemed nothing short of miraculous.
Despite it all, I still had not seen Kailash or Mansarovar as I intended to. I
wondered if they had indistinguishably melded into the scene. Yet for the
magnanimous landscapes, I had traversed through to reach the spot, I was
not regretful. All matters considered I could not linger there for long. The
winds had started attaining troubling pace, and an escape was mandatory to
avoid hypothermia. My lips, and to a lesser degree facial skin, already had
been badly chapped by the arid cold. My water reserve was completely
depleted and the packed food, by then soggy, was good only to cause distress
to my stomach. I saw how the mountains behind me were starting to fume
ripples of mist; they had started becoming obscure. It was not a good sign. It
seemed like rains were imminent. If it did, snow could fall by the bucket
loads on every inch of the surface. A speedier retreat had to be made.

Within hours, the sun‖s warmth had undone the snow in several places.
Some of the pools had doubled in size. The marshlands had become

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muddier, and on occasions, an inevitable wrong step was taken; the sludge
only let go of the stuck ankle after great effort. The snow that had held firm
before also had been considerably weakened. On certain spots, it just
collapsed under my weight, especially where it had piled up over brooks or
edges. An escape on such occasions was not at all easy. Chilblains and
bruises marked every inch of my legs. There was no use complaining, there
was no one to listen. I would drag myself out and on. The toughest bits
though were transcending snow laden hillsides that had become extremely
slippery. I was fortunate not to incur a debilitating fall. The only upsides
were that the dirt road track was better visible and a familiarity with the
landscape had been established; significant improvisations were not
necessary. Emergent clouds had started curtaining the skies, adding a fresh
visual element that sapped away vibrancy and took a toll on the already
negative mercury. Speed, speed, speed! Push, push, push! So much so, that I
started sweating profusely. My body was a hot rod. At thirty minutes past
six, twelve hours after my departure, I arrived back at Dhungling, having
walked almost sixty kilometers, on the tracker, in uncharted snow laden
landscape. My mind was lit with joy on those final steps. I smiled, I actually
smiled, relieved.

“What are you?”

Kunchyo asked.

It was as if he had seen a ghost. I simply asked for some warm water.

“You can walk man… you can walk...”

He kept mumbling. Later on, after dinner was done with, I showed him the
pictures I had taken. On the picture taken from the border, he pointed at an
indiscrete peak under which a blue shade was visible.

“That‖s Kailash, and that‖s Mansarovar below it ... You saw them. Your goal
has been fulfilled.”

I had expected the sight to be grand, a feast for the senses. Instead, it was
only an unsatisfying, distant darshan (reverent sighting), enough to make
believers hold the point in high significance. I did find solace though, in
having borne witness to such unexpected magnanimity, in that quest which
seemed futile in retrospect. The elusive dragon scroll from the Kung Fu
Panda movie was in essence a perfect representation of the point. The walk
to Lapcha was a rehash of an old but ever relevant lesson: the beauty and
worth of a journey is not in reaching the destination, but in the journey
itself.

Improvisation On Slopes

It was time to bid farewell to Limi valley, a world of its own, and to conclude
the walk too. Kunchyo, after serving me my fourth consecutive meal of plain
rice with dried radish soup in three days, placed before me a simple request.

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“After you reach Simikot, tell Tharik (my host who also led the district
chapter of an agricultural organization) to send me a plastic tarp that can be
used to make a greenhouse with someone who is coming here. Tell him that
I will pay for it when I come there later.”

He intended to make an attempt to start vegetable farming in the hamlet, so

that he could serve not just his palette but guests that came few and far in
between better too. Nutrition, or a lack of it, was a question beyond common
consideration. Wild plants, barley, derivatives of milk, and bartered salt had
sufficed for centuries. At fifteen minutes past seven, in the morning, I left
Dhungling (Thongling) to face the toughest challenge of the Humla phase of
the walk.

A gurgling, vile, yellow and green hot spring by the rivulet that released
fumes that smelt like rotten eggs, marked the point from where the
southward ascent to the near five thousand meter Nyaalu Laa began. There
was a massive glacial lake on the plains below the recently drawn dirt road
that I was told ran across the pass. From the streams running down the
mountains to the white sandy floodplains on the northern end, it appeared
to be comfortably over two kilometers in length. Its central depths were
emerald in color, and shone like the precious stone. The algae rich marshy
peripheries were light forest green in the north, and in the south sawdust
maroon. Hundreds of birds of numerous kinds chirped there. They were too
far away to be discernible though. What was obvious was that the cradled
body of water housed and nourished migratory birds on their way to the
ends of the subcontinent, and possibly beyond. As altitude was gained, the
lake gave way to marshes with intricate channels, the marshes to grasslands
and a meandering brook of blessed blue that ran between it, only for it all to
later succumb to bedazzling ice cover. The chirps and whistles of birds
slowly died down too.

The prospect of being on mountains and walking on vanilla snow tantalized

me, like always. But, as I continued up, the snow kept on gaining depth,
such that the dirt track and other trails were rendered obsolete. It was all
improvisation on slippery mountainsides after that. Each step could have
been my final one. The need to plot steps with precision was paramount. In
the first half of the ascent on snow, patches of black or golden rocks were
seen under the bluest of blue skies in abundance. In the upper half, snow left
almost no ground bare. Reliable footprints left by a previous group made
navigation easy in parts, but sometimes they continued to an edge and
disappeared into oblivion. This is it! – I repeated to myself several times on
the way. Fortune could only save me so many times before being jaded and
blunt. Seven times, or was it eight, the ice below my feet collapsed
unexpectedly. It came with a thud and left me reeling. Every time I dragged
my legs out, they grew redder and further bruised. On one occasion, the
extent up to my shoulders collapsed into a pit. It took three minutes of
desperate strife just to slither out. It was all very unexpectedly troublesome.
Never had I dealt with so much snow, not even on higher altitudes! When
the sun disappeared, prospects of snowfall loomed large from the clouds that
arose from and became one with adjacent mountains, when the sun showed
up again, the ice weakened a slight bit more – chances of a random collapse
grew and so did the slipperiness of the surface. Almost triggered was a bout
of snow blindness. The intense highlights of the snow bred halos and then
short periods of darkness; a lengthy loss of vision seemed imminent. I was
completely exhausted and knew not when the pass was coming. It could
have come in fifteen minutes, perhaps thirty minutes, maybe an hour, or, I

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could lose my way and never find it. Parts of my red feet had started turning
blue and there was a notable loss of sensation in the toes. It was inevitable,
for whenever a bit of snow collapsed, it inundated and stuck to my slippers.
To address the issue, whenever I saw the smallest rock baring its shoulders
above the snow, I rushed to it. I removed my slippers, rid it of snow, and
frantically jumped on the limited rock surface several times to create friction,
and ensure blood flow back into the feet. Despite it all, my body was fine; the
quick ascent and the tension of the situation had heated it up sufficiently.

At an hour past midday, I sighted colorful flags atop a ridge – half buried,
half fluttering, just enough to garner my attention. I was at the top,
surrounded by grandiose mountains on all sides, which I was too troubled
by the wind and snow to admire with patience. A battle had been won, but
the war was only half over. Before dark, I had to make it to a settlement at
any cost.

Slippery Slippers

Getting down from the pass was a horrendous ordeal – slippery slippers on
slippy snow. My sanity and life leaned on the wooden stick; there were
numerous slips, but dipped in six inches, sometimes more, of snow, it
sabotaged the momentum adequately each time. I nullified the steepness of
the descent by creating elongated spiral paths on the snow wall. The
curving, crunchy, perfidious ground was unable to significantly deter me.
There was a moment of absolute scare though. A minute after I passed what
seemed to be like a frozen waterfall, an avalanche erupted from above it.
Boom, it went! The sound of the explosion echoed across the mountains. It
brought down tons of ice and rocks, along with a release of a massive
volume of water. Had I only been a minute late, I would have surely
perished. The perils of lingering there for long were laid before me and haste
was my safest resort.

There was a glacial lake to the south of Nyaalu Laa too. It was although not
as blessed as the one to the north; it was frozen solid and of a far lesser
volume. The terrain facilitated effective draining of water. The range of
mountains that the pass was a part of fenced the parts to the north of it from
extreme weather events and high precipitation. Parts around the range bore
the brunt of it all. Its morose character was not without reason. It was the
dividing line between the core Tibetan Plateau and fertile mountains. Past
the glacial lake, there was no snow on the trail. It ran down a brook that in
parts because of the terrain seemed like a mini waterfall. The windy silence
of the high mountains was replaced by gurgles. By the brook, the sight of a
purple flower, the first one I had seen in days, filled my heart with a sense of
joy that I could not truly make sense of. The grasslands erased all memories
of the travesties faced earlier. There were still treacherous pointy peaks that
towered above the brook valley, yet even they lost their strangely
intimidating white and black prowess as I proceeded. They were eventually
replaced by sawdust cliffs that exuded soothing waterfalls. The sound of
numerous streams that crashed into the valley was music to the ears. Scenic
woodlands emerged as the valley widened. I was back in familiar turf.

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I encountered a group of people discussing where to set up the camp for the
night. As soon as they saw me, they started laughing. Before I could think of
a response, they waved their hands to signal invitation. They offered me
some of the snacks they were sharing.

“Are you okay? We saw you from the top. You were desperately shaking off
snow from your slippers. It was really funny.”

For a moment, I felt bitter. They had been silent spectators to my travesty. In
a way, they had left me to the elements. However, I reasoned that neither did
they owe the waiting to me, nor the snacks, nor the revelation that they had
only been a mile or so ahead of me the entire while. The positives overruled
the negatives. Having heard my tales from Limi, with a sense of familiarity
established, they even invited me to join them for the night in a cave. With
them they had everything needed – utensils, dry meat, grains, spices, tea,
weapon grade knives, and mattresses; only a collection of firewood was
required. Limels always traveled fully equipped, for they were well aware of
the uncertainties of the lands they inhabited. I was feeling refreshed,
reenergized, and thought it would be appropriate to push to the next
settlement instead of facing further uncertainty. I asked them about the way
to Hepka via Sechi Pass. Responding to my query, they strongly advised me
to avoid the pass and instead head straight down to the junction of
Sallikhola. Expressing confidence in my ability, they told me that I could get
there in the early hours of the evening, under moonlight. I thanked them for
their graciousness. Right when I stood up to part ways with a smile, a man
from the group nervously put forth a curiosity.

“Are you a lama?”

I could only shyly giggle in response. That seemed adequate, for they all
started laughing too. I left them the same way I found them – laughing. The
nature of the laugh though had changed, from one of ridicule to amusement.

Through enchanting woods of pine, tainted only in parts by incessant

logging, I descended speedily. To have familiar soil under these feet again
was greatly pleasurable. I had forgotten the comforts of a soft, well meaning
surface and walking under the shade of greens. The air was lively again. The
mountains descended far back – the further away they went, the more
beautiful they appeared. I crossed a wooden bridge and, since daylight still
held strong, discovered Lhakpa‖s cottage without much effort. As was
custom, I relayed to him specific instances from my walk to earn his faith.
He spent the majority of the year in the cottage alone, had become used to
being alone, and developed peculiar habits. For hours, he sat outside the
cottage, waiting for passersby to initiate conversation, while meditatively
spinning the handheld liu phere (traditional weaving tool). Acquainted with a
portrait of my character, he was satisfied. He was not the kind of person who
could converse endlessly. Even as he was preparing dinner, he chose to bide
intervals doing the same. Around his left hand, he had wrapped several
strands of white woven wool that resembled a thick rope. It was quite
unclear what he was going to make of it. Serenity was dear to the man, and
perhaps it was solely an endeavor to keep the mind from straying. The
dinner prepared by him felt regal. Only once during the preceding week had I
had a meal with vegetables and lentil soup – a complete daalbhaat set. It
was nourishing, and brought elation to my heart – so much so, that spending
the night in a hard, makeshift bed did not seem to affect me.

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At the cottage, the trail had met the one that went west to Hilsa and east to
Simikot; the same one that I had walked on before. Hence, it failed to offer a
radically different perspective. The only difference of note was that the skies
had been impeded upon by radically pressing clouds determined to rain
down, but the winds blowing northwards had them tamed before long. The
Karnali River roared below, as I soared up effortlessly, like a helium balloon,
to Simikot. It took me no more than four hours to get there; I got there just in
time for lunch at Tharik‖s place. It had been more than a week since we last
communicated. He was greatly relieved to see me alive and well. Apart from
a walk to the Raling Hotel hangout, then a government office to get my
phone charged, and a brief expenditure of effort to wash clothes, I spent the
rest of the day in bed – my happy place.

To Raling Before Dark

I knew not when I would next visit Humla. The celebrated monastery of
Raling, only half a day away from Simikot, had eluded me. Having already
traversed the lifeline trail from Gamgadhi to Hilsa, and across the seldom
intruded sanctuary of Limi beyond the mountains, it made perfect sense to
visit Nyinba valley and complete the circumambulation of points of interest
in Humla. On Day 217 of the walk, after lunch at my gracious host Tharik‖s
place, I speeded up the trail that exited Simikot from the north east,
intending to get back that very same day. The family had disqualified my
intention as impossible foolhardiness.

There were unexpected delays along the way. Just to get out of the town, I
had to seek directions from locals on more than a couple of occasions. A
newly built road track was eventually met and it led me to a point from
where the posterior of the hill that the town stood on could be seen. On it
were carved an extraordinary number of terraced fields, some of which
defied rational angles and ran down to the brook below. They were
connected by various distinctly visible, horizontal dirt pathways. Unlike in
the gargantuan hills under the mountains in the backdrop, the forest cover
on the Simikot hill was scarily scant.

As the trail veered away from the town, winding into and out of chasms
between hills, smaller hamlets that retained a medieval architectural form
reminiscent of the kind seen in Muchu and Kyermi appeared intermittently.
Many of those flat roofed houses had sacred hymns painted in light red on
their front facades of white. Stupas of stacked rocks with unique towering,
cuboid and conical, tops lined the way. The extents down to the Karnali
River were visible from a turning and so too was the stark disparity between
hills. On the very same altitudes, some were landslide laden, some full of
green terraced fields, and others, left to the wild – not completely though, not
without heavy deforestation, possibly for firewood.

It was two hours to dark and a downpour seemed to be impending. How far
Raling was I still did not know. To admit defeat and draw the day to a close
was the soundest thing to do. Before the voice of reason, I kowtowed. Since
there were no lodges to be seen around, I asked a charming elderly woman if

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Limi: Vast snowy expanses of Lapcha

215
I could spend the night at her place. She was more than welcoming and
invited me in, promising to make the best arrangements she could. As she
readied tea for me, a large man with a disdainful expression appeared in the
kitchen. He must have had a bad day, for from the get go he started asking
obtuse questions. In the most impolite of ways, he declared that I could not
stay there. The woman tried to speak for me, but he refused to listen.

“You can have tea and go.”

Such disdain! I declined the tea and went out. It made no sense to appeal to
a man who was dead certain that my intentions were not good. In a
congregation of villages constructed to resemble a mandala, another ode to
my dying faith. There was no settlement beyond the village, I was told, and
so to make it to Raling and get back to Simikot, be it at nine in the night,
became imperative.

From thereon, except for the last portion, in which the trail dropped down to
a brook and went up via multiple ways, the way was pretty straightforward.
It was there that I ended up taking the wrong path, for I was rushing, but in
retrospect, it could be seen as the right one. The trail became more and more
difficult as it went on. An almost naked cliff side I had to go around, being
further unsure as I proceeded. Seeing the trail enter a deep forest from the
bend only escalated the pounding of my heart. I imagined myself walking all
night through a never ending forest, but the path had been chosen and there
was no going back. It was the sight of a stupa, of the aforementioned kind,
that brought a sense of reassurance, and then the sound of dog barks
prevailed. I saw a couple of old houses towering above a ridge.

Wrong Way Right One

I came across a middle aged woman there. To her, I relayed my troubles. She
assured me in the calmest of tones that every once in a while someone like
me happened to end up there and they were used to having guests otherwise
too. All well and good it seemed, after I was welcomed to the kitchen, which
also served as the primary living space in most houses, by another group of
guests preparing butter tea. Their bemusement at my act of adding sugar to
the butter tea proved to be the icebreaker. I liked it that way, but to many
high mountain locals it seemed sacrilegious. The initial repulse, almost
always, became a joke, and the joke marked the beginning of an earnest
conversation.

As the conversation proceeded, the fact that the house was a great lama‖s
was made clear to me. In one of the rooms, he was in silent meditation.
Apart from his partner and another young girl of the family, he saw no one
else. It was believed that it would affect the deep meditation if he did.
Donations from believers, mostly foodstuff and alcohol, were stacked in a
corner of the kitchen. Special food was prepared for him and served in the
room itself. Such meditative practices in the mountains of this part of the
world are not uncommon. The community takes care of healers that adhere
to traditional orders in return for religious guidance and other services.

216
The night‖s meal was a lackluster porridge, but having it by the diminutive
window that nevertheless managed to invite jarring chills made me realize
what a luxury it, along with the night‖s shelter on offer, was. Like elsewhere,
they made me a bed under the top floor‖s opening, with an offering of stacks
of the warmest locally procured blankets. I slept blissfully, yet not without
for a while being troubled by my inability to convey Tharik the news that I
would not be arriving.

A steep climb on a slim trail through shrubberies, it took two and a half
hours to reach the monastery of Raling from the monk‖s residence. It rested
right below an encompassing mountain at an altitude of four thousand
meters. The isolation of the trail that led there and the makeup of the
landscape though, perceptibly lent the point the feeling of being at a higher
altitude. Photographers and other storytellers usually make it a point to go to
such places at the peak of festive fervor. I, for one, being nothing but a
walker, sought to witness all places as they were in mundanity.

The view from the steep height, looking at the valley below, was undeniably
marvelous. How the amalgamated hills of sawdust pale and vivid green,
mauve and navy, white and black, were only divided by the tiny, winding
Karnali River, performing a deep incision was indeed wondrous. On towards
Raling, a mountain was bequeathed to slow decomposition, little black rocks
that were once at the top, littered the grounds. Past the rubble, the
monastery grounds began.

Nestled beneath the monastery was a cave, to which a door and wall
structure had been sorely plastered. It was the cave that had initially brought
reverence to the sight, I was told, for Padmasambhava it was believed, had
meditated there eons ago. The main monastery structure was led up to by a
flight of plastered stairs, and had the most basic of structures. The exterior
cornice though was endowed with great, colorful detailing. Upon closer
approach, I saw that the door to the main chamber was locked. In believers
of impermanence, fears of the kind should not have held sway, but the world
is far from idealistic or truthful. From the windowpanes, the prayer hall
could be seen. There were statues of commonly seen deities, except one in
the far right corner that resembled the Shakti goddess Kali, which for its
(perceived) oddity caught my attention. I tried the windowpane to the left of
the door too. Two sacks of rice were distinctly visible. I went to the upper
part of the grounds after that, where flags were tied onto rocks. With the
clouds and mountains in the background, it made for a picturesque sight.
Not for too long though, the clouds started coming down haphazardly, and
within minutes, the mountains had been swallowed by them. It was not a
good sign. The winds started gathering pace too.

A significant while of wandering done with, descending was not a bad idea.
After four hours of zooming down, taking wrong turns, and being given a
scare on thin trail by mules, I made it back to Simikot before the weather
soured on me.

217
 Day 219: The Final Day Of The Long Walk

I woke up to a blessedly verdant Simikot; not that it usually was not, but on
that day it was particularly so. On the fields, defying clouds dark and white,
the sun shone wildly. Those scenes could put a spell on anyone! The cool air
was rejuvenating, yet the weather was not too chilly – perfect conditions! I
just wanted to laze around furthermore. Tharik, my well connected host, had
already talked to his friend at the airport about my ticket to Surkhet though.
My first domestic flight was about to be on a single engine airplane that had
served beyond its years of relevance. After a quick meal, we headed towards
the airport. On the way, I stopped at a studio to deliver on my promise to get
the photographs of the man I had met on the way to Yalbang and his family
printed. It was somewhat expensive, enough to set me back a meal on the
way, but I was bound by my word. I told the studio owner to either deliver
the picture to the man, or to Tharik, who had vowed to help pass them.
Everyone knew every other in that small town, and all matters revolved
lazily around trust.

The airport building had a balcony built by the parking runway that offered
perhaps the best view of the terrain beyond. The openness of the runway
was complimented by the faraway mountains shining white and blue, and
the alpine density of the army hill. Stacked in the end of the side runway
were blue barrels awaiting a filling of fuel, and sacks supposedly packed
with local grains. Since the winds had been unstable, there was confusion
over which flights would arrive. In fact, no one could say for sure if any
would land that day or not. Tharik, I, and tens of others like us, stared at the
runway, hoping for an airplane‖s deafening flapper to be heard. It took
almost an hour for an airplane to arrive, and it was declared that it would be
the last one for the day. Unfortunately, it was not the one that flew to
Surkhet.

The airplane fare from Simikot to the plains was only about half as much as
the fare from the other direction. It was a discount specially institutionalized
for and popularly commanded by the people of the Karnali region. Despite
that, the fare to Nepalgunj – that airplane‖s destination, was still one
thousand rupees greater than to Surkhet. I had just enough left with me to
cover the purported Surkhet flight and the bus fare back to Kathmandu from
there. The increase in expenditure was unexpected. There was no option but
to seek help from Tharik, with the promise to pay back later of course. The
blessed soul offered the money without a second thought. The ticket was
secured. Right then, the officer, who also was Tharik‖s friend, declared that
the airplane was at full capacity. It could not bear any more weight. The
declaration anguished my host more than me. I would not have minded
spending another day there. He confronted the officer and told him to make
things right. The reluctant officer assured us that he would check if
something could be done, and went to the airplane. He ordered the
withdrawal of a couple of sacks of rice, or so I was told, just enough to get
my weight on board. I was haphazardly dragged to the airplane and could
not even bid Tharik goodbye properly. He did not mind. He was used to the
manner in which affairs were conducted there. The airplane sped off the cliff
that the runway stood on, and that was how the walk definitively ended.
Approximately six thousand kilometers of walking, across the mountains,
hills, plains, and a few hundred more miles, done with, I was ordinary again.

218
Forty minutes of buzzing at an altitude of mostly around thirty five hundred
meters, right above the hills and valleys that surrounded for the most part
the Karnali River, the airplane landed in Nepalgunj. In less than twenty four
hours, I had come down from an altitude of four thousand meters above sea
level, to merely a hundred. The almost five thousand meter Nyaalu Laa, I
had crossed less than seventy hours ago. The understandable increase in
heat and humidity had started affecting the airplane cabin mid flight, but the
intensity of it was only felt after the landing. The environment at the airport
was strangely casual. I just got my stick from the baggage compartment of
the airplane and walked out – no questions asked no barriers, no markers, or
directions.

Busses from Nepalgunj only left for Kathmandu in the evening, and so I had
half a day to spare. The line of hotels around the airport all had familiar
names. They were named after places of significance in the mountains, all of
which it seemed I had reached during the walk. The cold of Humla had
subdued the pain and swelling in my feet, particularly the left ankle with the
ligament injury. Nepalgunj could not be equally kind to me. The swelling
immediately rebounded in the sweltering heat. Being alone in that atrocious
weather did not feel right, and so I sent friends in Kohalpur a message
saying that I was around. Then counting on an affirmative reply, from at
least one friend if not others, I got on a bus to Kohalpur. Expectedly, the
reply came from Astika. She and her two friends treated me at a café there. I
was not in a condition to contribute, but I found satisfaction in the delight
they felt while going through the pictures freshly procured from beyond the
mountains. They accompanied me to the bus park, and waited until I found
a bus. Such moments of genuine connection, I cherish beyond all else.
Grateful, I parted from them and from the journey too. That end was without
an immediate new beginning; the day count was over. I was reborn, but the
walk was finally over.

A couple of days later in Kathmandu, I received a call from Tharik. He spoke

with great anxiety.

“You‖re really lucky. After you left, a vicious storm took over Humla. Even in
the surrounding hills, there‖s been some 3-4 feet of snowfall.”
I expressed relief at having taken the flight at the right time, stating that I
might have had to walk for days if the weather had worsened.

“No, no, it isn‖t that. Just imagine what would‖ve happened if you‖d spent a
couple of more days in Limi and been at Nyaalu Laa! You‖d have certainly
died!”

219
220
 After The Long Walk:
Retracing Steps In Eastern Sindhupalchok

221
222
 Tere Naam

It all started with a jive over tea at Patan on an unusually cold spring night.
Kindred souls we were, without much of a shared past, but united in seeking
escape – from the circle of the city, from the circle of prosaic life. Divergence
was the call of the moment, and after the most irrational of deliberations, the
destination was set – Panchpokhari.

A mere three days later, ten of us were on the 7 AM bus to Manekharka – six
from the meet, two invitees, and two from a social media appeal put up only
a day before. With half of the faces on that spontaneous crew ready to
gamble on fate‖s roulette, I was not familiar. They however spoke to me with
a tone reserved for bosom buddies. And so, out of courtesy, to each of their
chas, I added another. By Melamchi, after several rounds of conversation, I
was able to correlate faces with all these names: Aashish, Jamal, Prakash,
Rizwan, Sabin, Sagar, Sagar, Samundra, Surendra. The virtual connections
that preceded our meeting were simmering to the fore of my dim mind.

It must be mentioned that we were on the wrong bus. Our intended

destination lay miles ahead of its final stop. Spontaneity sure has its costs.
The burden though of a dire scramble to Chhimti under the graces of the
stars was lifted off our shoulders by the turtleous pace of the bus destined
for it.

Right about the time the skies had begun embracing a grayish hue, we met
Biru at Chhimti. He was hiking up to Deurali with essentials. If only the
hotelier at the stop had shown a hint of welcome we would have halted
there for the night, but that was not to be the case. The hike foreshadowed
the journey; while the young bucks flew, the rest huffed, puffed, and halted
several times on the way.

Biru was a man who had little to offer, and even less to lose. He readily
assented to the bargain we proposed. The Tere Naam hairstyle was in no
way misleading. His fiery love, wild flurries of emotion, had run roughshod
and burned down the very home it had built. Yet for every ounce of misery
that haunted him, he had another of pride, and that, that kept him going. He
played songs of heartbreak and lived for pats on the back. The crew had
plenty of those to offer.

Rejuvenating Waters

By the banks of the Seti in Bajhang, a wrinkled mystic had once persuaded
me to dip my tired legs into the raging, chilly waters.

“The waters will take the pain away, far, far, away, away to the seas!"

He had declared resolutely.

223
Up to the knees, I dipped my legs in the rapids, and stood still, bearing the
currents, for a few minutes. For a while, they went numb, albeit when the
sensation was restored, the muscles felt greatly rejuvenated. He was right.

I used to see river crossings as a hindrance prior to that day, after it, they
started seeming more like rejuvenation zones.

Halfway through to Panchpokhari, right before an epic hike, lay a brook

crossing. I followed the usual course, snap, snap, snap, while the others
were content with being caressed by the cool winds amplified by the rapids.
The smooth boulders by the brook were the perfect spots for respite, so was
the shaky bridge of tied logs above it. From the speedy folks to the frail ones,
the waters brought us all together. We regrouped, listened, and found ways
to help each other.

The way ahead sure was not easy, especially since our stock of snacks had
been exhausted by that point, but had not the cool waters rejuvenated our
souls, it would have been nigh impossible.

Little Things

We were certain that we could get from Bhotang Deurali to Panchpokhari in

a single day. By midday it was clear that it would take two; there were only
three of us capable of continuing in the imagined pace. Monsoon beckoned,
but the heavy snowfall from winter had still not given away substantially.
So, we were told. I took the warnings lightly. I was sure that whatever
obstacles lay ahead would be manageable. On the trail, there was not a
single settlement beyond Deurali with people. We only met a group of four
on the way who had abandoned their bid at Nasimpati. They had survived
the night by breaking into a cabin and seemed a bit traumatized.

It was only after the climb up from the river was done with that the grave
nature of the impediment started becoming apparent. The first traces of
snow brought cheer to our gang of tired souls. Yet within an hour, as we
approached altitudes north of thirty two hundred meters, they gained in
proportions in a manner that struck fear into our hearts like a cold dagger. In
parts of the hill that the sun had failed to bless, the snow was around three
feet deep. Whenever the snow collapsed almost my entire foot was gulped in
by it with ease. And we had not even reached Nasimpati! Those trails had
yet not been regularly trodden upon by lay, unequipped people. The boys
that led the file scampered helter skelter in a bid to chart the most feasible
way ahead. It was during that fateful transgression that we lost track of half
our companions. To make matters worse, a snowstorm started brewing.

Within minutes, the blue sky turned dismal gray and fiery pellets of hail
rained upon us. Visibility was at a minimum. The insulating clouds and
frosty surface emulated a refrigerator. Two of the boys, Sagar and Samundra,
proceeded ahead, while the other Sagar and I waited for the rest of the crew.
The cold was bearable while we were walking, but the halt initiated mild
symptoms of hypothermia. Sagar, at one point, shivered dangerously.

224
Knowing that the snow would only get worse as we moved higher, I decided
to call off the trek. We tried our best to call back the boys that had gone
ahead, but to no avail. We waited for someone to arrive from either side.

After half an hour, boys from both sides came there. The ones ahead came
with worried looks on their faces, for they could not make out our earlier
cries to retreat, and had eventually presumed that we were in trouble. The
ones that came from below were calm. Hunger had driven them to
desperation; they had plundered an abandoned barn to find a bagful of
musty beaten rice. It was the effort and a period of rest that had delayed
their arrival. The gang was together again! All suffering was forgotten.
Confusion ensued for a while though. I restated my case for a retreat. The
boys who had gone ahead however managed to convince us to proceed
forward. They had seen Nasimpati and it was almost dark.

We all huddled into an open cabin at Nasimpati. It had probably been broken
into by the gang we had come across earlier. It was bare as a structure could
be – mere slabs of wood nailed together with a corrugated sheet roof, lay on
the edge of the trail, supported by logs on the nether side. Amazingly, unlike
some of the other cottages, it had survived the winter battering unscathed.
More importantly, it had a significant reserve of dry firewood, utensils, and a
stock of grains. We broke the lock on a chest that aroused our curiosity. It
was full of goodies. We were saved!

The two Sagars worked hard to prepare dinner, which included going out to
get snow for water, while the others rested. One of them was understandably
irked. Anxiety hit some of the boys hard, but the others reassured them.
There were ten of us, but only five sleeping bags, six blankets, and three
foam mattresses. We made the best out of them on that subzero night. The
fact that the cabin had just enough space to fit ten people was a boon. Warm
bodies by warm bodies, insulating each other from the chilly winds that
managed to infiltrate the narrows cracks between slabs.

After having daal and bhaat, which was made palatable by Sagar‖s gundrukh
pickle, we worked together to manage the dishes. We reminisced about the
day. For the little things we were grateful. That night, our camaraderie was
cemented.

Giving Up And Waiting

The trail was not about to get any friendlier. The further I moved ahead on
that ghastly ridge, the more it became clear that my life was at risk. I looked
down: a four hundred meter drop with only intimidating boulders to break a
fall! It all came down to the slippers, whose gentle rubber grips had worn off
ages ago. The chances of a slip grew with the inclination of the bends and
the firmness of ice. Both those measures were, unlike the width of the trail,
on the up. And so, only an hour away from Panchpokhari, I called it quits.
While quitting, I felt no shame. Perhaps, out of habit more than anything
else. Without retracting at such points, and figuring out an alternative,
usually longer, way to move ahead, I would not have been able to survive

225
the four month long Himalayan walk. For the tortoise, there is always a
tomorrow.

With me, compatriots Prakash and Samundra, who had limited trekking
experience, decided to retreat too. Ashish, Sabin, Sagar, and Surendra
though had sped beyond the horizon. The other Sagar was in audible reach
though. He assured us that he would lead a retreat if the trail became
unmanageable and sped ahead to join the group. Samundra and I took
careful steps and retreated to the cabin at a pace that could have made slugs
seem speedy.

Prakash had reached Nasimpati well before us. He and Jamal were frantically
trying to find some bars on their phone. They wished to hear the voices of
their dear ones, and let them know that they were safe. Life is much
different for people with children. I came to see that they could not risk it all,
for other lives depend on theirs too. That fact never abandons their mind. To
bide time and wish well for those who had dared to proceed, Rizwan with a
large stick was writing Allah on the snow.

After a while, they huddled in and started playing cards. I, for one, did not
know how to, and was reading a novella to bide time. Bang! A shabbily
dressed man armed with a khukuri (large warrior knife) barged in
aggressively, without warning. He stared at us resolutely and stood still. We
all were taken aback. I saw Prakash‖s eyes dramatically swell with fear.
Somehow, all of us showed the good sense to not panic, and continued our
endeavors pretending to be calm.

We slowly found the guts to engage him in conversation. He turned out to be

a surprisingly humble person. The cabin belonged to his brother. Since we
had not returned as planned on the first day, his brother had assigned him
to check whether the cabin was alright. Turns out, the villagers were used to
visitors breaking into their homes out of desperation. Before he could take
the initiative, we honestly revealed the amount of things used from the cabin
and the chest there, and asked him what we owed. We had planned to
reimburse the owner after getting to Bhotang. The fairness on our part
calmed him down. He called his brother from the CDMA phone he had and
proposed a reasonable price to us. We were so happy with the price that we
decided to offer an additional sum out of gratitude.

He revealed that he had brought another group of visitors with him. Twenty
minutes had elapsed, and they still had not made it there. Once they did
though, there was no room to spare in the cabin again. The winds blew cold
outside, and the boys were nowhere to be seen.

Youth And Dissent

I abandoned the pursuit, but four of the boys made it to Panchpokhari.

Of course, there were hurdles. A snowstorm was brewing. The snow was
assumedly five feet deep at the top, and they had to draw their way through
that. Two of the lakes were frozen, and three were under the snow. One of

226
Trail to Panchpokhari (near Nasimpati) after heavy snowfall

227
them suffered from a terrible case of altitude sickness. The path was dead
slippery and they lacked proper equipment to deal with it.

Yet, they made it. They made it because they listened to, but chose to go
against, this experienced walker‖s opinion. I too had defied experienced
voices before, for they led only to a path of convenience, and the path of
comfort is not always the one that leads ahead.

The journey will certainly be etched into their memories for life. It is not a
simple accomplishment. To get to experience life from that paradigm is
indeed a rare privilege.

Dissent is imperative for progress, and I enjoyed being proven wrong.

Thrill And Pain

It is easier to come down than to go up, they say. On the trail, and in life,
that is not always the case.

Jamal was terrified of heights, and often closed his eyes to avoid a view of
the descent. The hike uphill had helped him get over his fears a bit, but it
was not enough. Some of the boys at the back took turns to hold his hand
during the tougher bits. Two other companions had knee issues. One had
been hit hard by altitude sickness and was on the verge of complete
exhaustion. The boys that sped ahead, including the ever energetic Aashish
who had exchanged his light bag for a heavier one, soon discovered that
their pace was in vain. They had to wait. The line could not be broken.

As night fell, contrary to expectation, the walk became more arduous for
those at the back. Their suffering showed no signs of easing. Even a short
break near the brook could not reinvigorate them, as it had done on the way
up. Now and again, it drizzled. The path was muddied and slippery. A
downpour seemed imminent. Thus, the group had to be split.

I advised the faster walkers to proceed ahead with abandon. With the ones
that had floundered, I stood back. Along with mine, I carried two other bags.
It was not a difficult task, for my bag weighed no more than a kilogram. It
just had the barest of essentials. Still, things only got worse for them – numb
knees and all. There was no viable alternative. We either had to make it to
Deurali, or freeze under the skies throughout the night. The dense and dark
forest, where sounds of creatures unknown echoed, promised no respite. We
must have stopped over a hundred times on the way. Each time, words of
motivation and the fear of the alternative made them pull their selves up. In
the end, despite being close to breakdown twice, at 11 PM in the night, we
made it.

In Deurali, everyone looked energy sapped. The boys were lying in the beds
of the shabby lodge‖s dorm. Dinner was not yet served, but some had fallen
asleep. An atmosphere of disorientation prevailed in the room. Things had
turned sour, and I knew I was responsible. I offered my apologies. However,

228
no one accepted it. They did not want to put the blame on me. They argued
that the trek had not been in vain. In a way, they had relished the odd
experience. It was for them a break from the monotony of mundane
engagements. The thrill and the pain were strangely pleasurable. I
understood. After dinner, I proposed to extend the trek.

For the love of their families, three of our companions left to catch the bus to
Kathmandu from Bhotang. Commitments called another. The six of us
decided to continue walking.

Shifting Sands

Following the Panchpokhari fiasco, our bodies begged to recuperate. We

made a conscious call to slow down; we started late, walked at a leisurely
pace, and stopped intermittently. Surendra, who had grown up in the hills,
identified many edible wild fruits and plants on the way. There were enough
around to serve as a breakfast of sorts.

I led the gang, now reduced to six, to the brook of Yangri, an hour downhill
from Bhotang. There, the boys submerged aching bits of their body in the
cold, speedy, gurgling, and sparkling water, for relief. I merely dipped my
feet on a small diversion, where sand was sieved and extracted to serve (post
earthquake) rebuilding efforts. Sabin meanwhile dived straight into the
depths. The boys loved it! Two local fishers, in their early teens, peered at us
amusedly for a while, before intently reverting to the task at hand. We too
had asked for daalbhaat to be prepared at the eatery beside the school, and
could not linger around the waters for long. It had been some twenty
minutes by that point.

At the eatery, all but two of the boys dozed off. Relieved expressions on, they
looked like angels while asleep. After a while, daalbhaat was served. For its
uninflated price of one hundred and twenty rupees, it was as splendid as it
could be. It was made using produce from the village itself. The staple diet of
a lesser grade was served for upwards of three hundred and fifty rupees,
only an hour away, where the trail to Panchpokhari began. Tourism!

The owner of the eatery, as we were about to depart, inquired about the
poncho raincoats we were carrying. It had interested him, for it would be of
great help while working the fields in monsoon. I promised to send the pair I
had with me to him later. He was a fair person, and I wished in vain that fair
people would be treated better in this part of the world.

We aimed to halt at Bolgaun of Baruwa for the night. Except for two
landslides that with every drizzle of significance rumbled down the newly
carved roadway, the way up to the village was breezy and risk free. However,
once we got there, we came to know that the village apparently did not have
a proper lodge. The few tourists that trekked that way usually skipped the
village for its lack of amenities, and hence locals had not thought much
about related prospects – a chicken or egg situation! After being sent from
one house to another, and pondering upon the grim possibility of having to

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walk another two hours, we finally found a house with six clean makeshift
beds. A decently furnished structure of concrete, it was perhaps the only
house in the village with a modern washroom. The owner was quite well
intentioned and cheerful. He had commissioned the house in a
contemporary kathmanduesque fashion, so that his children studying there
would not miss urban comforts while visiting their family. For we probably
were the first group of tourists to have halted there, he did not have a set
rate. He proposed an amount quite nervously, and agreed without fuss to the
slight compromise we requested. Everyone was happy.

The next morning the family bid us farewell with smiles. First through fields
of finger millet, then into a light forest the trail led up. From halfway to the
top, how much the settlements on either side of the hill had transformed in
the past few years was clearly visible. I had trekked up the same way in
2016. Parts of settlements in the region seemed like Kathmandu in construct;
a conglomeration of concrete houses.

Traditional homes and makeshift shacks defined those neighborhoods

before. While the latter could still be seen, the former had almost completely
been wiped out. I had seen many elderly locals who wore daura suruwal or
bhoto dhoti with a black coat and cap during the previous journey, but in a
period of just three years, those attires had become a rare sight. For travelers
of yore, the villages and denizens must now be near unrecognizable.

Past the hill, through forest trails carpeted by golden leaves and red flowers,
without adventurous ascents or descents, we comfortably made it to
Sermanthang, and then Tarkeghyang that very day.

Hail Pellets Galore!

For the third time in as many years, I was in Tarkeghyang. Yet for the first
time I was not alone. I took the group straight to the hotel I was familiar
with. Its name, if I remember correctly, was Yangri Peak. In names, I have
not been able to find ample value to devote the required effort to remember
perfectly for years. This mind is an abode of impressions.

The family that ran the hotel remained as sarcastic, elitist, bitter and, at the
same time, kind as ever. The privileged son remained perennially adhered to
a mobile phone, as he was on previous occasions, while his (adopted) sisters
toiled without fail. The mountains are a world of contradictions! Or, perhaps,
it could be better put this way – the world is a mountain of contradictions.
The manner, in which I conversed, with excellent familiarity, made the
family welcome us heartily, in a way that is reserved for regular clientele.
Any careful observer though could notice the sense of confusion in their
smiles; they were wayward, a tad bit awkward. Only a while later did the
slim mustached owner‖s eyes gleamed with realization. A sarcastic smile
consumed his face.

“Now, I remember!”

He remarked excitedly.

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“The first time you came like a Nepali Babu … that‖s with the black cap on …
And then, you came again, like an Israeli … with long hair and in tatters.
And now, you‖ve come here again looking completely different … How could
I recognize you?”

Daalbhaat was stocked in our saggy bellies with relish by an hour and a half
past midday. We had just enough time to scale the golden peak of Aama
Yangri, which was the patron deity of the Hyolmos (people of Helambu), and
make it back before dark. Bags were piled in a dorm room and the climb was
commenced on with confidence.

Half the way up was blessed; carpeted with fallen rhododendron petals, full
of swell roots that curtailed erosion and served as steps, and surrounded by
wise old trees, none of whose parts were not home to life. After the junction
where the road track was met, the trail escalated straight up a cliff with
intimidating bare rocky features. Far down below large extents of dim green
and mellow blue hills laden with trees could be seen. Whereas, only scant
thickets and grasses of pale, unexciting color surrounded the trail we were
on. The skies had turned grim and a downpour seemed imminent. Shrill
winds were on the loose.

On the arduous climb there were three sights that brought great elation, and
with it a renewed sense of hope, to the group: the superb view of the
Langtang and surrounding ranges before the last climb, the way the rainbow
flags of faith melded with the final bastion of snow on the hill, and the
ecstatic feeling upon reaching the top. We were on three thousand seven
hundred and seventy one meters, with no peak that came halfway close to
its stature around for several miles. The dazzling view only lasted for so long
though. Darkness and gray clouds gave the mountains a curtain call within
minutes. If it had not, I would have had the most splendid picture to present
before you. An idol of the deity in a concrete frame stood close, and was
clearly visible, all else marooned in hues of hazy navy.

Hail pellets galore! A quarter of the way down, it began raining raucously.
The Banshee winds sought our immediate banishment. It was a hasty
retreat. The ones who had raincoats were fortunate; the conditions were not
kind to the ones who relied on umbrellas. We had limited torchlights, on
mobile phones whose batteries were on the verge of exhaustion. Only when
we entered the forest was a sense of refuge and certainty felt. It was not
without bane though, for the slippery red mud warranted cautious
navigation. Altogether, we must have garnered at least a dozen strikes on
the miserable slips column. Once the battery on my phone died, we were
deprived of not just its beam but offline GPS navigation too. Despite
harboring doubts, we were left without choice. We had to trust the trail, the
journey, and the absolute darkness.

It felt like we had been absolved of all our sins when we saw a couple of
tittering lights below. Is this the real life or is this just fantasy? Another slip
affirmed reality. It was 8 PM. Hot syakpa (traditional noodles), long past its al
dente form, awaited us at the lodge.

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 Separate Ways

On our last morning on the trail, we took a stroll around Tarkeghyang. Piles
of debris, remnants of articulate structures of mud and stone that had fallen
to the great seismic thunder of 2015, were finally being set aside. Pieces of
elaborately carved pillars and richly painted ceiling blocks lay rotting among
them. And then, there were moss trounced steps that led nowhere. Pillars of
cement and steel rods stood tall on most empty plots, only some brick
houses had acquired form. More than anything else, it was perhaps a
shortage of construction labor and expertise that had stymied the pace of
inevitable renewal.

The expansive grassland that defined the hamlet served a neat view of the
mountains, but not for too long. Aashish performed an array of yoga moves
for the camera there and invited Samundra, and later the man behind the
lens Sabin, to tag along. Surendra meanwhile arranged a loan from
Kathmandu to trek solo to the holy lake of Gosainkunda. It had always been
a dream of his to get there and, for he was sure to not get another extended
leave from work, the gang spared no effort to enshrine him with confidence.
With the rest of the boys, I started the tame descent towards Timbu, hoping
to find a truck going down, and that we did within minutes.

We reached Talamarang at dusk. On the way, I had called steadfast well

wisher, the ever kind Moin – a teacher at the community school there. He
made arrangements for the night in a spare room next to his. The blankets
and sheets were just enough. For his daily one minute video of happenings
in and around the school, our gang provided a never ending stream of
content. There was so much that the boys had undergone in the trek, pain
and pleasure alike, and they shared it all with excitement.

The next day, the buses did not defy a closure announced by a political
outfit. The boys were worried. They had missed work for too long.
Fortunately, they found space on the back of a large yellow truck that
transported cement to Melamchi bazaar. From there, Kathmandu was only a
half a day‖s walk away. Somehow, some way, luck stayed strong with them
and another day long walk was avoided.

I, for one, was not done.

Whimsical Reboot

My appetite for walking was not satiated. It had been months since I had last
tasted the fresh air and endorphin rushes of the trails – during the extended
walk. To Moin, I proposed a trek to Melamchighyang. With three days left for
the school to reopen and no responsibilities of consequence to attend to, he
agreed without hesitance. Our mutual friend Rubik was in the nearby town
of Melamchi. He had room to hit the refresh button as well. We agreed to
meet at noon in Taramarang, outside the school Moin was teaching in.

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“Is there anything that we should keep in mind? Is there anything that must
be carried?”

A light bag with essentials, a paltry budget, an umbrella or raincoat, and

slippers will suffice I assured them.

Rubik came at 1 with a blue fitness shirt, blue shorts, and candid slippers on.
He had a good stick with him, something that would prove tremendously
useful later on. Moin was dressed in similar attire and with him had his
beloved camera. We were ready to go.

For an hour we bit dust on the brazen road, even meeting Rubik‖s long
estranged relatives on the way who would not let us pass by without offering
a proper welcome, before finally finding a vehicle that was willing to offer us
a lift to Timbu. There, the trail of old diverged from the road. A drizzle served
to endow us with joy and worry alike.

It was, without a doubt, our kathmanduesque manner of speaking that saw

us through the military checkpoint sans hassle. After an entry, we were free
to traverse through the trail that ran within the bounds of the drinking water
project and even enter the tunnels. We just met one guard on the way, and
he was occupied stoically observing the entanglement with mortality of a
fawn treacherously trapped on the cliff across the river. It could neither move
up, nor come down without risking a terrible fall, and was moving along a
thin ridge in vain. The guard presumed that it must have been threatened by
a predator; otherwise, it would not have dared venture there. He was waiting
for a word from the national park authorities. We could not be more than
meek witnesses to its ordeal. We moved on.

Shining Beacon Of Hope

In this part of the world, the wounds of conflict remain fresh in the minds of
masses. Many a hamlets and people, that were of outsiders all embracing,
closed their doors during those years. The faith required to open those doors
and hearts has still not been found everywhere.

Following a sprint up the dam wall on a flight of plywood stairs, a descent,

the time consuming conquest of another hill, a tedious descent, two river
crossings, and one more ascent, we arrived at a hamlet. The sun had set half
an hour prior and our best pleas failed to secure a night‖s stay in any of the
homes that had lights on. There was too much suspicion regarding our
appearance, so much so that even the sole lodge denied us a stay. Tourists
and locals alike had long abandoned the trail excursion in favor of the much
easier road trip, straight up. The three of us were absolute oddities.

The possibility of having to cross a dense, creepy forest, and walk up until 11
PM to get to Melamchighyang itself, started finding acceptance amongst our
defeated selves. Right before the plunge into the forest a glimmer of smoke
arose from a distance. Those lean grays stood apart in the darkness. The GPS
showed that the cave where the Buddhist saint Milarepa had once meditated
in was nearby. We had to carefully navigate across a brook that ran down a

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landslide ridden hill to get there. Our perseverance was duly rewarded. An
old, aching man took us into his fold. We were saved.

As the family shared the dinner they had prepared with us at their humble
kitchen that also served as the living room, the old man revealed that he was
one of the caretakers of the caves and the adjoining monastery. His life was
bound by convention; countless voluntary hours were spent for the upkeep
of the monastery – both material and ceremonial. We came to know that his
was the only house in the area that readily accepted visitors. We were lucky
to have arrived there. They however did not feel lucky. Torn between
convention and responsibilities – chief among which were rebuilding the
house which had fallen during the great earthquake, and schooling children
in Kathmandu. The younger girl was there, requesting with a look devoid of
expectation for some extra funds to buy stationery items. After dinner, they
made the best possible arrangements for us to sleep in that room warmed by
the bare stove.

The next morning, much to our surprise, the man adamantly refused to
accept remuneration for the services he had offered.

“I just did my dharma.”

To every argument of ours, that was his retort.

We begged him to accept, saying that it would be adharma (a sin) for us to go

without paying, and he finally acquiesced.

The encounter with the man made me wonder about the injustices imparted
upon such saintly souls by this world. The man was too proud to beg, would
not bow down, cheat or seek to profiteer. The world can do no better but look
down upon him, while the very same people that possess the audacity to
step on people like him and reach higher up are celebrated. In this day and
age, there is no country for such people, and yet by some strange grace they
find the strength to be shining beacons of hope.

The light of day revealed a heap of construction materials around the caves.
The great earthquake exponentially raised the common person‖s faith in
concrete; structures of faith were no exception. The cave had been sealed by
an inner wall, in front of which statues of deities were kept, to protect which
a solid door was required. Fortunately, unlike in some other places, the
guardian with the keys was unhesitant and graceful. From there, following a
suspension bridge crossing, the cool morning climb up to Melamchighyang
was not too taxing.

Blissfully Amused

The vivacious fields of Melamchighyang smiled at us. Through a maze of

streets impeded by bars to limit cattle movement and creatures of the wild
out, we struggled to find the way to the school. For its academic excellence
and disciplinary borders arrangement, the school was hailed in common

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Enchanting forest trail to Thadepati from Melamchighyang

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faith as being the best in the district. The institution‖s success was popularly
attributed to the principal, who had occupied the seat for well over three
decades. Thus, for my companions, getting a sense of his vision was a
matter of interest. He albeit could not be found in the premises and lunch
was due.

During the great walk, I had come across an inconspicuous and cheap eatery
below a grocery shop. The local hub served fresh food far superior than what
an observation of the place would warrant. After placing an order for
daalbhaat, we went back to the school.

The next hour was spent with the man himself. He was six feet tall, had an
authoritative presence, and shared an uncanny resemblance with Marlon
Brando. With an envious command over words, he shared his tale. It began
with love – for the place and a daughter of the soil, progressed to overcoming
adversities, then to the evolution of the institution and his methods. My
idealist, scrutinizing self was not in absolute agreement, but feeling a sense
of reverence for him was inevitable. Moin remained attentive the entire
while, but Rubik and I could not. We were like flowers wilted. Hunger had
turned into impatience. An escape though could not be immediately
engineered. We did not want to be rude.

After the meet was over, we went straight to the eatery. We ate speedily and
voraciously, bought some biscuits, rushed down west to the bridge, and
began the steep ascent to Thadepati. The trail up the fairy tale forest of deep
green and maroon was fascinating. Monsoon was beckoning but not all
spring flowers had fallen. A meager drizzle that could be easily repelled by
our raincoats and umbrellas started unexpectedly. For two hours it rained
lightly, in the third, it gave way to light snowfall. The whites added to the
charm of the forest, and, ignorant of what lay ahead, we were blissfully
amused.

I had assured them that slippers and half pants would be adequate. Such
heavy snowfall, with monsoon right around the corner: who could have seen
it coming? Furthermore, the snow from the long gone winter had solidified in
parts devoid of sunshine rays. It was a slippery, slippery, way up. At one
point, the ice beneath our feet cracked, and immediately gave away. The pit
was no less than two feet deep. Steps had to be placed carefully; our pace
was dead slow. The ground around us was draped with shining snow, the
sky above gloomy white. Rubik started shivering. Moin started shivering. The
spell of enchanting snowfall, those little floating husks, had been broken.
They had begun feeling numb. Our destination, Thadepati, was nowhere in
sight.

Snowstorm Memories

Somehow, someway, we made it to the top. The snowfall had not stopped. It
showed no sign of slowing down. Only two of the three lodges in Thadepati,
where two districts converged, were functional. The first one, on the
Sindhupalchok side, was right at the top. The other was slightly downwards

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on the Nuwakot side. The trail to the cottage was not visible; the structure of
planks itself could barely manage to peek out from the snow that
surrounded it. But, I made the call to push there.

As we plowed through the snow, down the hillside, the winds attained a
rabid chill. A wild snowstorm began. Rubik and Moin, at that point, started
showing visible symptoms of hypothermia. Gripped by anxiety, and in a
pace suited to avoiding slips, we made it there in around five minutes; five
minutes that seemed like an eternity.

The lodge owner was shocked to see us there. She had seen us, at the top,
from the window.

“Why did you not stay at the top?

Our foolishness puzzled her.

“Well, I had stayed here before, with the boy from Kerung, remember? I was
on a long walk back then … I just wanted to reconnect.”

With a jovial smile, I replied.

Her face lit up.

“Oh well, come in quick! Stay by the fireplace. Let me offer hot water.”

The air of familiarity made things easier for us from that point on. They, the
woman and her husband, had almost completely forgotten about me, but I
knew details of their lives with such precision that they almost took us for
family. The meeting was our third, and I did not care to mention our first,
which involved an unkind exchange while haggling over coconut biscuits.
We had come a long way from that day.

Rubik, Moin, and I, joined a group of trekkers and guides by the fireplace. We
dried our bags and clothes there. As the conversation progressed, and the
fire served to relax our minds, we saw how the better aspects of the journey
outweighed the downfalls of it exponentially. For the first time in their lives,
my companions had experienced the unadulterated magic of snowfall. It was
the first time that they had embraced spontaneity and actually trekked
during their teaching tenure, which was into its second year. In their hearts,
a love for the unknown had sprung, like it had in mine long ago.

After dinner was done, I requested the owner to play the tungna. I had
filmed him playing it during our previous meeting, but the footage had been
lost. The time to complete the circle had come. All is well, that ends well.
The unpolished tunes of the tungna became our lullaby.

Promise To Walk Together Again

The sun had come out and the landscape induced ecstasy. The snow that we
had so feared the previous day had, in recession, become friendly. Under the

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warmth of the clear skies, everything seemed alright. The drop to
Melamchighyang, through the forest of charms, could not have been easier.
From there, an hour's walk later, we managed to find a vehicle back to town.

My two week walk around the mountains of eastern Sindhupalchok was

over. At Taramarang, the three of us parted with a promise to someday walk
together again. I spent the night at Rubik‖s place in Melamchi bazaar. A long
overdue shower was taken. Living alone, he had learned to cook like a chef
of the highest order. We shared memories from school over and after dinner.
The Antariksa Podcast played in the background. Slowly, our tired souls
submitted to sleep.

All was good. All seemed right. It was a good night.

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Annapurna Base Camp

239
240
 Boats Swinging Apocalyptically

Subin and Bishal, friends back from the US on their summer vacation, made
me an offer that I could not refuse. They desired to venture to the mountains
to trek; anywhere that was feasible and worthwhile within a ten day time
frame. I suggested a trek to the Annapurna Base Camp, as it was known for
its accessibility and scintillating views, and wished for my company. It is not
that I did not want to go for the trek, I had never been there before and was
curious, but, as always, I was on the verge of absolute brokedom and utterly
confused. I made my situation clear to them. Without a single bit of
hesitance, they promised to vouch for all my expenses during the trip. I was
overjoyed by the prospect of an escape from the muddy lanes of monsoon
Kathmandu. Saturday – the day for departure was set.

Friday night was spent discussing current affairs and making last minute
arrangements at Subin‖s house in Patan. The maze like building had
numerous corridors and cross connections to various apartments occupied
by his extended family, yet it was quite the cozy place. Early next morning,
we went to Kalanki and got on a microbus to Pokhara. The almost six hour
long ride was as mundane as it could be.

The moment we got off, it started raining like crazy. We quickly got onto a
cab to the lakeside, but not before getting slightly wet. It rained with such
thunderous ferocity that the cab had to stop twice on the way due to poor
visibility. The drains seemed to be overwhelmed; in some parts of and
around Lakeside, the water swelled to about a foot‖s depth. We got off near
the main junction and started looking for a good old friend‖s restaurant,
which we knew was along the lakeside trail. Boats tied farther out in the lake
swung apocalyptically. SOHO was soon found. The garden seats had been
abandoned, and everyone was snug inside. Suzee was not there yet, but
there were a bunch of familiar faces. It was a pleasant surprise. We ordered
hot drinks and joined Tenzing‖s table for conversation.

As a mesmerizing sunset was glistening on the waters, Suzee appeared.

After pleasantries were exchanged, my companions went to look for a hostel
to spend the night in. We, on the other hand, went out for a walk along the
lakeside. Being the good listener that she is, Suzee has always been pleasant
company. Treats were up for dinner, of the eggless variety as requested. A
friend of hers joined us too. She spoke reservedly but had a blissful presence.
Cool breeze from the lake, incandescent lighting, good food, and warm
company – what more could one ask for?

Living Dreams

The hostel that we had chosen to stay at seemed splendidly clean in

daylight. At night however, we arrived to discover an incredible centipede
infestation. They were everywhere – on the floor, under pillows, and inside
blankets. I would have shrugged them off and slept, but my friends were in

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horror. We left the place and looked for alternative accommodation – an hour
and a half of precious sleep was lost.

Early next morning, we met Sushila and her friend at a café that seemed to
be beyond our modest budget. So, we requested her to take us to a local
place instead. She would have happily vouched for us, but it just did not
seem right. The place that she took us to, Sheela Bakery, turned out to be
quite the revelation. The multiple decade old lean establishment served
incredibly generous portions for a reasonable price. I was taken aback by her
excitement at first. Those mundane semblances of words that I had shared
with the wider world on social media seemed to have really affected her in
many more ways than one. The rationale of such a warm, almost family like,
welcome and interaction was difficult to understand at first, yet somehow,
as the conversation progressed it seemed mildly comprehendible. In a way, I
was living her dreams.

We went to the jeep station at Harichowk, reserved our seats on the four
wheel drive to Matyu, and waited for the remaining tickets to be sold. The
movement of public jeeps was guided, as in most other places in and around
the mountains, not by timings, but by fillings. As I was wandering around, a
kid, who seemed not to be more than twelve years of age, approached me
seeking chocolates. I resisted his attempts to convince me to repeat the
original touristic sin. After much persistence and want of affection on his
part, I asked him what he really needed. He mentioned that the pair of shoes
that he had to wear to attend school was beyond repair. Privileged by my
companions‖ assurance to cover all expenses, I could buy him those shoes,
and I did with little hesitance. It was all about paying it forward. I mean, I
would have only spent the money on things that I really did not need on the
trail. Gleaming with excitement, the child opened up, after the laces on his
shoes were securely tied. He relieved his heart of his dickensian discomforts.
The boy‖s father was a chronic boozehound, and it was a condemned
existence for him, not a childhood, as we see the word to mean. I hoped that
his father would not sell those shoes for another bottle of beer. I wished the
child strength and parted, while knowing that bitter fate would only
antagonize him even more.

On the ride to Matyu, up winding highways and rollicking hills, we had a

wily old man as company. He was loud and profound with his indictments.
The man was not at all sober, and served as an entertaining distraction from
the rotten ride. Bumps aplenty!

Distorted Bodies

On the first day of the trek, our legs felt featherlike. There was very little
resistance. We zoomed up the trails from Matkyu, the furthest point the jeep
could take us to, slightly north of the village of Ghandruk. The forest on the
way chimed with the chirps of birds and, despite the limited sunshine, was
soothingly verdant.

Over the Kyumrung River gorge ran a lengthy, swinging suspension bridge.
For a while below it, could be seen a multi layered cluster of cottages with

242
roofs rustic and shiny new, a child was springing up a maze of stone stairs,
along which clothes were hung out to dry on ropes and plastic water vessels
were dispersed. I wondered what life would be like there, under such a
surreal bridge. The roar and then the sight of the bluish gray river then
caught us in awe, relegating all other concerns to the backburner. The bridge
kept swinging. A woman carrying her newborn child was only steps ahead of
us. Her confidence surely inspired us.

An insignificant hike later, we were in the hill junction of Jhinu, and then by
the time the clock struck four, to the hot springs we had descended.

The river was swollen. It growled and roared unabated. The embankments
that saved the cemented hot spring pools from being overwhelmed seemed
unreliable. A grumpy haggard guarded the pools, and boy was he mean at
first. He laid out the rules of the pool and insisted on collecting the toll
beforehand. However, he did later accrue a milder disposition, following the
sharing of some sweets. In all three pools, the water was only lukewarm at
best. While we went around, we unwillingly perturbed a number of visitors
having a good time; particularly a rapturous couple whom the guard was
stealing gazes of. Our apologetic escape did not help. For the long descent
had been made and the toll paid in full, my companions saw no reason not
to take a dip. A quick shower later, they folded their legs and submerged
their bodies, only their heads peeked out. This made for a humorous sight;
the water distorted their bodies out of proportion, while Subin led a yoga
routine. I, meanwhile, was satisfied merely dipping my feet into the pool and
observing the meticulous algae growth on the pool floor.

Rejuvenated, we decided to push up to Chhomrong. The grand mountains

beyond the hills, curtained throughout the day by grayish clouds, began
revealing themselves, albeit shyly. We walked until sundown and settled on
a guesthouse for its organized but accessible look. Its name was Lucky, and
it sure did foreshadow the journey ahead. The chills outside, and inside the
cemented rooms, were troubling at first, but a few cups of hot water helped
resolve that issue. We all felt strong that night and were optimistic about the
way ahead. I had an uncharacteristically tough time falling asleep though,
and spent an hour holding my phone up, then moving it in circles, in the
lodge‖s yard, in an attempt to download a movie on the frail 3G network.

Vicissitudes Aplenty

Down, and down, and down, we went from Chhomrong, on stairs decorated
at every turn by fluttering lines of prayer flags. The mighty Annapurna range
towered above and beyond perceivably juxtaposed layers of rich, resplendent
hills. At the Trekker‖s Shopping Centre on the nether end of the village, we
chatted with the old man who ran the place. As a drove of asses reluctantly
plied by carrying construction materials, seated on a low stool in between a
humongous display rack and a shelf of even larger proportions – all full of
brightly packaged edibles, he keenly informed us about the debate
surrounding the introduction of motorable roads. The younger people
engaged in businesses, he told us, argued that the road must not be drawn

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in beyond the upper village, for it would ruin the trail and the trade it
ensured. He, however, was staunchly opposed, and argued that accessibility
was critical for the elderly. To those frail feet of his, not having to scale up
that hill, every time Pokhara or Kathmandu beckoned, was a heavenly
proposition.

As we proceeded ahead, Subin offered an excellent observation:

“As outsiders, we tend to think that the people here don‖t have agency. But
look at that person; he knows what he wants, and is clearly articulating it.
There‖s an active debate about the road in the community. It isn‖t that the
community is being forced to do things against what it identifies as its
interests.”

It was an observation that I did not fully agree with, but it sure did offer a
new paradigm on matters.

In between infinite woodlands, there were patches of fields green and well
tended to. Beyond Chhomrong, houses were scant. Old bridges of wood, that
would have been tough to cross, had been replaced by new ones of metal.
Remnants of those could be seen in deep gorges, mossed up, messed up, and
rotting away. Corrugated sheets and cement were effectively spelling doom
for straws and stone. A wind down and another climb up, we were in Lower
Sinuwa. In the heart of the settlement, decorated with recycled flowerpots, a
lodge owner shed light on honey hunting practices in the region. As a
daredevil gatherer of wild honey from cliffs and caves, himself, he had
documented, printed out, and decorated the lodge hallway with flex sheets
full of details about the practice. His friend talked of the difficulties of
vegetable farming, which might seem like a mundane matter, but was
equally revelatory. A notice hung by a flex sheet read – Wifi Charge two
hundred per person, enjoy nature rather than monitor. Terrific!

Enjoy nature we did, the forest trail of vicissitudes aplenty, as troublesome

as it was, endowed us with a feeling of rejuvenation. It blessed us with
shade that nullified the energy sapping sunlight. Our pockets were set alight
though at the next stop. For me, an ever ready binger of daalbhaat, things
were fine. The rate was a local one and with a swell belly, I could leave.
Although for my companions, whose palettes and bellies had gotten used to
American choices, it was a lose lose situation; first, the portions were not
enough for the demands of the trail, second, what was promised in the menu
was never delivered, as it was supposed to be. And, it would have all seemed
fine, and tolerably fair, if the price was not exorbitant, and the ingredients
not out of date. In most other trails prices, set in the menu for visitors
spending dollars, were negotiable. Here, they were not. Supply and demand;
for the better part of the year, the volume of tourists was exceptionally high,
but the lodging capacity was limited. Also, the conservation authority had
enforced the use of Liquid Petroleum Gas for fuel; the cylinders were carried
up by porters, instead of firewood that could be abundantly found. The
extractive, syndicated, economy of the halfway gentrified mountain trails, to
my companions who had for so long lived in a realm of meritocratic
certainty, was a rude awakening.

The fact that it began raining did not help matters. Beyond Dovan, the trail
became somewhat wilder; perfidious waterways infiltrated it, a dubious
wooden bridge had to be crossed above a waterfall. A slip, and there would

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Annapurna: Downhill from Chhomrong

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have been no resistance to the fall — such was the slickness of the rocks
down whose faces the waters flowed. Yet, all in all, the energy to smile for
pictures was not lost. My companions, in their colorful raincoats, could not
but project a playful aura.

Gushing Tears Of Mountains

The way a guide at Himalaya, a junction named after a pioneering lodge,

warned us was dubious. His attempt at persuading us to stick to the place
lacked good faith. Clouds that could deliver heavy rainfall lingered above us,
and ahead of us lay the trail to Deurali, tormented by falling rocks. It was
only 4 PM though, and there was not ample uncertainty to ground us. We
downed our cups of tea quickly. I could feel the hot fluid rushing down the
esophagus and then to the stomach, warming every organ in between. The
system had received a necessary kick. Our bodies were ready to rush, roll,
and rumble – whatever may come.

The courage we exhibited was duly rewarded. Light winds swept the clouds
away revealing exquisite waterfalls, down which the tears of mountains
gushed. On a couple of occasions, the wind drifted the other way, delivering
a rush of fluffy mist towards us. A barrage of little droplets struck our faces.
To be there, a witness to anomalous ways of the powers that be, was an
elating experience. A look above and shy caps of snow that concealed
everything but their foreheads, behind towering cliffs of gray and green, with
hints of dark patterns, could be seen. As the soothing sound of the
tormenting gush blended with the chirps of birds in the woods, the trail of
stacked rocks became steep and rugged.

My companions began showing signs of debilitation, for the first time. As we

moved above three thousand meters in altitude, it became apparent that the
primary bounds of their bodies‖ exertive capacity had been reached. Their
stamina and will power was being tested. Yet, at every corner, a heavenly
white flower, an ecstatic stream, a cliff jagged yet soothing to the eyes, a
funny hill – one or the other inspiring, miraculous sight existed. Their souls
could not be unfascinated; no, they could not falter.

An occurrence from the day still lingers fresh in my mind. Never one to
dawdle and dally, I had moved ahead navigating a plausible way across a
frozen hillside. For fifteen minutes, I waited at a point where the trail had to
be improvised upon. Convinced that my companions must have lost their
way, I started climbing back up the slippery hill. A minute later, they
appeared on the horizon. They had not lost their way; they were merely too
tired to continue without resting for a while. Have you ever felt happy and
ghastly upset at the same time? Well, I sure did at that moment. We
proceeded together, at a leisurely pace, from thereon.

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 Milaaera Hunchha?

We reached Deurali in time. We could not however breathe a sigh of relief

before securing accommodation for the night. The first lodge seemed to be
packed, the second‖s attendant seemed too arrogant, and so, further up we
went and knocked at the door of the third one. The owner seemed hearty
and well. He was immersed in a board game with a group of guides. To my
inquiry about the rates, still unflinchingly focused on the board, he
responded by asking if all of us were Nepali nationals. To which, after
receiving an affirmative reply he just mumbled:

“Milaaera hunchha!” (It will be adjusted.)

Then, I asked what that meant. After which I added that I did not wish to
bargain belligerently, but was just looking for certainty. He looked at my
eyes and saw that I might be dismayed if a clear answer was not received,
and offered a deal that seemed fair. We assented, kept our bags in the room
to which keys were given, and huddled around the fire stove in the hall.

On which end the attitude was flawed, only a neutral observer could know,
but with the international visitors in the room, we could not strike a proper
conversation. It was something that troubled my companions exponentially
more than it did me, for in America they had on several occasions been on
the receiving end of bigotry, and thought they were witnessing a repeat of
the same from other internationals too. The room was warm but the air
rather cold. We engaged with a young and lively guide from Kathmandu
though.

After daalbhaat was devoured without apologies, and warm water gulped up
to elevate the body‖s mercury, Subin began meditating. A newfound
enthusiasm for yoga, embrace of the self love ideal and an empathetic
perspective, defined his personality at that point in time. The tiredness
amplified their relevance. It was an absolute departure from the hardheaded
productivity orientation of the fiery lawyer activist Subin I had first been
introduced to. Bishal was content getting snug into a blanket. The tepidness
of quite a few people we had met on the trail had not left a positive
impression on him.

“If it was only for the scenery, for sixty five dollars, I could have gone to this
amazing skywalk around an alpine lake in Canada! A night‖s stay with great
service included for that price!”

There, of course, was another side to the story. All perspectives are relative.

Like me, he was reviewing pictures from the day. I had carried my laptop too
with me, hoping to write in the evenings – something that I only managed to
do in two of almost a dozen days spent on the trail and in Pokhara. It and the
ebook reader seemed to be nothing more than dead weight on my shoulders.

An excellent view of Machhapuchhre (Mount Fishtail) heralded the new day.

We decided to proceed ahead without our bags and left them in the room.
We knew that we could reach Annapurna Base Camp and get back to the
lodge in the night. That much confidence, through all those ups and downs
together, we had accrued.

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 Following Winding Footmarks

On the way to Machhapuchhre Base Camp (MBC), at least three walls of

toughened ice – hundreds of meters wide and tall had to be carefully
navigated across. Monsoon was not in full swing, and winter had been
harsh. In some parts it was muddied, in some others ready to collapse into
crevasses – the depths of which could not be ascertained, everywhere else –
slippery solid. There was little room for error; the river full of boulders roared
below, and there was not much on the way down to create halting friction.
Scant traces of protruding vegetation – that was it! Fortunately, there were
footsteps of previous travelers carved onto ice to retrace.

Thus, thrice up following the winding footmarks, we went, at a comfortable

pace, and thrice down we came, reliant on sticks to achieve a sense of
balance. Throughout that stretch, rays of the rising sun deflected from the
left edge of Machhapuchhre (Mount Fishtail), creating a miraculous beam of
light shaded green and pink that decorated half the sky in its shimmering
wonder. It rid our hearts of doubt. Stretches of dim green forests that
appeared below the mossed up cliffs that lay forth, the clear blue sky, the
waterfalls above that sprinkled joy, and the river that became gentler as the
trail progressed further served to pacify us.

Following a change of direction, one of the Annapurna Mountains, drenched

in rich pastel blue, peeked at us from the horizon. As we moved ahead, as
the crescent moon behind us faded, it grew bolder. Its presence was not yet
overwhelming, for on both sides, we were surrounded by massive cliffs – the
higher reaches of which were covered in snow, and glowing sun kissed gold.
Ours was a way drawn by the persistent river over thousands, if not millions
of years. We only met it for a short stretch in its avatar of ultimate calm, but
the gorge itself was its work, and it could not but be held in veneration. It
was on the penultimate ascent before MBC that my companions shuddered.

Little nagging problems had accumulated and led to greater troubles.

Nothing debilitating, yet a significant bit of rest was required. Subin lay on
the ground and stuck to a yoga posture for regeneration. He had not been
able to sleep well the previous night. The sun generously bathed him in its
warmth, for the first time in the day. That period of rest turned out to be
quite fruitful, as from then onwards, we did not require another halt.
Corrugated sheets of shining denim soon appeared on the horizon. MBC was
in sight.

Frozen River

The idea of having a cup of steaming hot tea loaded with sugar, something
that could deliver a much needed kick; at MBC was what primarily motivated
my exhausted companions to get there so quickly. Nevertheless, when we
realized that to reach the lodge would have meant taking a slightly longer
trail that involved another upward ordeal, a consensus was reached to head

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straight to ABC instead. It was a decision that proved to be the right one;
right in retrospect. We had been blessed by the series of events, endowed
with a shot of luck, in a mysterious way.

We followed a frozen river up. Its inclination was gradual. The iced section
grew thicker and wider, so much so that it eventually covered the entire
depression. Our troubles seemed to have been taken away. Instead of being
an onerous one, as we had expected it to be, it was a wonderful ascent. The
Annapurna Mountains, in all their grandeur, came closer with each step,
backdropped by an uncharacteristically spotless, ink blue monsoon sky. It
sunk deep into one‖s heart and spurred joy. The stretch of ice that met the
mountains at the horizon seemed like a regal white carpet, under which the
river flowed in gurgles. It sought to break free, but the layer of ice beneath us
was too thick. Somewhere, far on the sidelines, far away from sight, it had
found an escape. There it must have roared, but to us, it was but a whimper.

Each step had the potential to yield a tricky fall. We took sturdy strides. The
sticks, once again, became our saviors. Meanwhile, from above, tens of
tourists, their porters and guides, some of them with kettles and stoves in
their hands, descended in glee. They did not worry about slips or falls, and a
few of them even dared to slide down recklessly. It must be noted though
that their footwear was sturdy. It was a complete contrast to our careful
approach. They were having fun. We, we were in awe and had lost ourselves
to the landscape. Their presence merely added to our astute sense of
wonder. Our pace was sluggish but the path clear. Subin decided to pertain
to his own pace. Bishal did too. So I did. The company could have only
distracted us from being one with the precious magic of that space and time.

Vertigo Inducing Catwalk

I looked back. My eyes followed a trail runner who gushed by like the winds.
Subin and Bishal were nowhere to be seen. An endless sheet of ice stretched
down, on the other end of which lay four L shaped cottages. That was MBC.
On a ridge that had risen above the swathe of ice endless, the runner
suddenly halted. His silhouette stood still. The very next moment, I too was
captivated by the infinitely magnanimous Machhapuchhre (Mount Fishtail).
Nowhere else could one perhaps feel so insignificant and incredibly
privileged at the same time.

Of a pond beyond the preliminary Annapurna Base Camp, I had heard for
ages from hardy travelers, ones who saw no significance in sharing the
ethereal enchantment it had elated them with. A visual I had seen not, yet I
assuredly knew of what awaited me there.

Subin surprisingly reached the camp a few minutes after I did. His solo,
meditative ascent had proven fruitful. Albeit, as soon as he reached the
congregation of lodges pelted with one too many avalanches the previous
winter and in absolute shambles, he collapsed onto a seating. The
exhaustion was dire and he wished to descend into a sound nap. I knew that
it would be some while before he recovered. I knew that it would be some

249
while before Bishal got there. With my companion‖s consent, I proceeded
alone.

A considerable amount of reconstruction work was going on outside. A team

of workers was taking measures, while another was cutting logs into shape.
One structure was merely elevated pillars. Another had attained a frame.
Seesaw, seesaw, up and down moved a two person saw, sawdust fell like
glitters to the floor. Somewhere a drill rang loud, bags of cement were
scattered throughout. Puffed, gloved, and covered with dust; everyone
seemed busy with the work at hand. No one questioned me as I traversed
across and past the settlement. I felt like a fleeting spirit on that path marked
by footprints on depleting masses of ice. Crunch, crunch, crunch!

While the pond had happened to deplete into a dismal pool, leaving the
promise it held unfulfilled, the way that led to it was beyond ecstatic. The
edge of a glacial cliff had to be carefully navigated across to reach that
promised glimpse of heaven, or perhaps it was me who was on a way
reserved for eccentric people; a vertigo inducing catwalk on the edge of space
and time, that is what it seemed like. The thuds that echoed, of odd rocks
peeling off cliffs and crashing down, did little to calm the soul. It seemed like
the crevassed cliffs, flanked by iced peaks, wished to unite with the
moraines below in a fit of lustful agony. Akin to the tapestry seen on skin
when closely observed, exuberant patterns adorned the glacial retreat that
extended from and far beyond Annapurna. Little pools of green had emerged
in that sandy stretch on which masses of ice floated – the kind of solid ice,
that was sprinkled like salt elsewhere in the depression. One could easily be
led to ascribe the lack of ice to the whims of summer and monsoon, but the
fingerprints of global warming were everywhere.

The stellar landscape though left little room for the mind to stray away from
losing itself in the mystique of its magnanimity. Infinity and nothingness
met at the edge of vertigo cliff, and I was there all alone. I longed for my
companions and wished they could have witnessed the same. The weather
though had other plans, billows of mist that bejeweled mountains only
moments before, began to swallow them whole. Luck had blessed us with
wonder, now it was taking it back.

All Pains Forgotten

Before the haze had its way, spelling doom for all things bright and
wonderful, the three of us were most joyous. With our bellies stuffed with
daalbhaat and our minds eased with rest, the smiles that had abandoned us
returned. A sense of achievement was in the air; the unthinkable had been
done. Subin and Bishal had originally planned only to venture up to
Ghandruk. Before meeting with this idiot, not even in their wildest dreams
had the possibility of being so close to the mountains manifested. The way
in which I had argued for the cause, with the utmost aloofness, tossing aside
all practical considerations, had seen them through. It sure had made them
suffer, for which I cannot be sincerely apologetic, but I believe it must have
also led to a life altering paradigm shift. Only time will tell. What was clear

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Annapurna Camp: Reconstruction after wild winter avalanches

251
was that we left Annapurna Base Camp happy. If not for long, at least for
that moment all pains were forgotten, and it all seemed worthwhile.

The selfie session, which I stayed out of because I did not wish to publicize
my new look, was done. Subin took a head start. Bishal soon followed. I, for
one, had just retreated from the pond beyond the camp, and within minutes
filled my tummy to the brim with daalbhaat. The urge to move was simply
not there. The pair of binoculars I had discovered on the table by the lodge‖s
counter was to be my ticket out of dullness. I began instinctively playing
with it; I took it out and fiddled with the dials. Through it, I looked down and
saw Subin, who was at least a mile away by that point but distinctly visible
for he donned a red jacket, then at the intricacies of the mountain faces – the
details and proportions of which were astounding, then at the mists that
were plaguing the bluest of skies above. And then, after a while, as my heart
soared with wonder, I thought – why not draw out the phone and add its
camera to the mix? The startling results made me for the first time consider
upgrading to a purpose specific camera.

Sunny Side Up

A strong swoop of wind sapped away all life. Curtain call! Within moments,
everything was consumed by cold whiteness. Time stood still; only ships of
mist moved in far off distances. The gurgles of a brook were discernible, but
only the misty ships that danced to their tunes. The ice had moistened a bit
and become more slippery. Still, occasionally, I saw Bishal, far ahead,
waving at me, waiting for me, and that was comforting.

Somewhere, amidst the mist though, caught in a mire of aloofness, I started

moving up a hill, instead of going down it. It was not icy, and of finding a
path, I was inexplicably certain. Crazed instincts were in charge of making
calculations, and there was no helping it. Twice I found the way, marked by
footmarks on ice, and thrice I lost it, landing on a rocky conundrum the final
time. Nor Bishal, nor Sudim, nor any other soul was in sight. The uncertainty
was deafening, it was blood warming, but it was familiar territory. The
senses came alive and guided me through. The gurgling river led me to a
hillock below what seemed to be the Machhapuchhre Base Camp.

The promise of a view from the gorge that lay a sobering climb above had
been washed away. Life is all about tradeoffs, and we had traded the view
from there for the one from Annapurna Base Camp. It was a choice we had
zero regrets about. Why cry over the unseen, when the magnificence of what
has already graced one‖s sights been so profound?

I met Subin at the point where we had played our stakes. We were worried
for Bishal, but he too soon joined us at the point. He had apparently spent a
considerable amount of time in the haze looking for Subin. We could have
been annoyed, for the weather seemed to be worsening, but the happiness of
knowing that we had each other‖s backs tore the gloom asunder. The skies
turned sunny side up for the first time in hours.

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 Subin Saved My Life

We were decidedly methodical on the way back. There was no kidding with
iced paths. I was wearing rubber slippers and my companions‖ shoes did not
have firm grips either. A fast and furious approach would have surely
delivered a faster and more furious slip; but occasional bumps were
unavoidable, once or twice in ways that were more comic than tragic. Then,
there was mine, which was rather horrendous.

On a tricky bit down an icy slope, a group of local youngsters, arrogant,

boisterous, and a dozen strong overtook us. With hefty boots on, they slid
down the path, laughing jovially. It all seemed okay, until I realized that they
had leveled out all the footsteps of previous trekkers. Those served as crucial
holders; points to stake a grip on. Far down, the river roared, rocky and
rugged, with nothing between us to lease fiction, instead, just smooth ice to
amplify the pace of the fall. Subin and Bishal proceeded ahead carefully, not
without damns and sighs, as I became more certain of a slip. I requested
them to keep some distance from me. While we were in that conundrum,
moving up were men carrying logs equal to their weight. They did so with
majestic grace and confidence. The sight was indeed momentarily inspiring,
but I had also heard one too many stories of such people falling into doom,
during my previous walks, to have a starry eyed perception of it. Anyways,
at that moment, they endowed me with the confidence to approach the task
at hand with a more courageous demeanor, which led to my literal downfall.

One wrong step and I slid into doom. I was wearing a raincoat, whose
smooth surface combined with the moist ice, amplified the pace of my fall. In
a familiar reflex action, I happened to curve my fingers to hold on to
something, anything, but there was nothing but smooth ice; nothing concrete
to cling on to. The world went black and white. This is the way the world
ends, not with a bang but a slip: I remember something along those lines
ringing in my ear. As time slowed down, it all seemed like an endless
travesty. Like a rolling reel of film, fleeting glimpses of life ran across my
mind. Snap! The reel halted. Reality asserted itself again. Somehow,
someway, Subin had outstretched his arms and instinctively grabbed my
foot. I was beyond thankful. He had, in all probability, saved my life.

What Am I Like?

Subin had an important call, related to his academic endeavors in America,

to make, so we speeded down and sought to reach a place where there was
stable network reception. Apart from a brief glimpse of a Mardi trailesque
view of Machhapuchhre, there was no other wondrous sight that made it
through the mists; there was little to distract us from the mission on hand.
We went down to Himalaya. No help there! Then, Dovan – false promises
there too! I was motivated to reach Chhomrong, and had started walking at a
brisk pace that fitted the long haul. I had flooded my body with sugar, and
shaped my mind‖s expectations likewise too. All this was quite new for my
companions however; their minds and bodies started breaking down under

253
the strain. At last we settled, defeated for the day, at the place named
Bamboo, for a lodge by the name existed there.

As long as we engaged in negotiations, seeking a fair rate, the man who

seemed like the lodge owner held a bitter, uncompromising demeanor.

“Let‖s push to Chhomrong, or at least Sinuwa!”

I remember telling my companions, to no avail. We submitted to the man‖s

stand, and strangely enough, he became friendly after that. Later, I even
heavily empathized with him, for his village had been hit hard in the great
earthquake. He and most other workers there were from Gorkha. All of them
had lost family. The food (daalbhaat), I admit, despite not being able to
justify its price, was perhaps the best on the trail; all factors taken into
account. We slept comfortably. Except for a few squeaks, squeals and thuds
from the neighboring rooms early in the morning, there was very little to
disturb us.

My companions had felt ignored, racially boxed, by a group of fair skinned

tourists the previous night, during dinner. We spent considerable time
commenting on it in Nepali. Somewhere, somehow, an introspective bolt hit
me.

“Have we even made a sincere attempt to connect with them? Are we not
displaying a trait that is typical, especially on the trails; conveying dodgy
comments in the vernacular – something we have found equally
condemnable?”

The previous day we had discussed power relations in our society, how
inferiority complex plays a hand in similar domestic cases. For a moment,
we all went silent. Then snap, Bishal took the initiative. There was a group
from France, another from New Zealand. We had a wonderful conversation
with them that touched on a range of issues – everything from football to
politics. With some of them, we retain touch.

Outside the lodge in Bamboo was a mirror. On it was written in Nepali –

What am I like? Then, a sticker on it read – public nuisance. Accurate!

On the way back, I remember observing a complaint box stuffed with trash
with amusement, and a garbage management project, which for all its
positive will seemed counterintuitive. People were trying to emulate good
things on the trail, but a copious dash of critical thinking was lacking.

Subin had the perfect, consistent answer to it all:

“Their agency must not be denied.”

At Chhomrong, I ordered a burger at the Lucky Hotel, which had almost

become homelike by our second arrival. What arrived was a potato chop in
between two pieces of bread. It sent a group of visitors from South East Asia
into a miserable fit of contained laughter. Some of them were thinking of
ordering the same and I had, in my misery, saved them the trouble.

Intending to transition to the Mardi trail, we made it to and spent the night
in New Bridge. New Bridge – because the bridge that connected Landruk to
the Annapurna Base Camp trail was fairly new. So much for ingenuity! The

254
stay was basic, well and good. That night, for their bodies were in agony, my
companions announced their call to abandon the pursuit. It was
disappointing yet understandable. With a promise to meet in Pokhara, we
decided to part ways.

The next morning, I woke up at four determined to make it to the highest

lodge on the Mardi trail. I had done my calculations the previous night. The
hazy weather though sapped all excitement out of me. All haze, no rush trek.
I abandoned my pursuit and went back to sleep. By nine we were on the bus
to Pokhara at Matyu.

Paradigm Shift

For my earlier, highly objective self, Pokhara was nothing but a false
promise. Tick marks by all major points of interest were put long ago and the
city of lakes seemed terribly banal. The world for that self existed in black
and white.

As my love for a particular shade of blue grew though, so did my admiration

for Pokhara, particularly the lakeside area. The wide pavements, blessed by
sweeps of breeze from the lake of cerulean infinite, comforts one's soul in
strange ways. One could ponder upon what it means to be, lose one's self to
those jovial waves that while chuckling telltales of the skies and the hidden
world beneath, and sit still by the banks, let centuries pass by without
notice. The flush aroma of cuisines from all around, and, the kind of
diversity of faces and perceptions that screamed — the world is here! I felt
that a sense of clarity, that eludes most urban expanses, sanctifies the
holiest bit of the city of lakes.

In the winter of ―18, as I walked into Pokhara, I had asked myself:

How could I have forgotten the grandeur of the mountains that defined the
city? How could I have no memory of how they appeared to be only a stone's
throw away?

Life has never been the same again. For years, I had seen it all but seen
nothing. Thank you, Pokhara. Blessed may thy keep being!

255
256
Gosainkunda Circuit

257
258
 Roulette To Rasuwa

For the seventh time in four years, the consecrated Langtang highlands
beckoned me. Autumn, 2019.

This life, a game of roulette; there is no respite from randomness. Like a

tornado, it takes for a swing all that lies in its path. The bedlam rids one of
all essence, and, until the winds change, only the flow remains.

Tarjib had been in touch with me through social media for years. His
appreciation for the accounts from my journey was simply overwhelming.
After he came to Kathmandu, our paths could not have not found unison. It
was an inevitable meeting. He excitedly introduced me to his brother Tawfiq,
and a companion, J, whose wish to remain anonymous I seek not to violate.
After an exchange of pleasantries, over a clatter of cutlery at Fire and Ice,
instead of acceding to their wish to join them on the trip to Pokhara, I laid
before them a barrage of suggestions to embellish their travel plans.

A week and a half later, we met again. The trek to Mardi had only been half
successful. Blood, sweat, and tears. Regardless, much to my surprise,
Tawfiq, who hailed from a land of endless, inundated plains, was incredibly
pleased, the highland forests and distant, shy mountains had enchanted him
beyond measure. It was an academic emergency of all things that had
brought the trip to an abrupt end. J and Tarjib could not abandon him, never,
not even in their imagination.

Tarjib and J had a week to spare. They had conceded their wish to witness
the mountains up close, but sought my company on an excursion to points
of interest close to the valley. Seconds of contemplation that followed that
proposition stirred my inertia into non existence. Snap!

“Let‖s go to Gosainkunda!”

I uttered those words without much thought.

“Is it really possible to go there and get back in time for our flight?”

Tarjib‖s eyes glowed.

J had a puzzled expression on her face. I extended whisks of assurances to

every inquiry.

The next morning, I caught the last bus to Dhunche and stalled it at Kalanki
for them. I had not made proper inquiries about the timings and relied on
confidence bestowed by strange faith. Redirections and rush! The bus
operators‖ greed won over the dissent of a few impatient passengers. Tarjib
and J frantically leapt out of the taxi and onto the bus, as it began moving.

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 Gulp, Gulp, Yulp!

A cash count, after permits were secured, made it evident that the journey
ahead would not at all be smooth. Any rational observer, a witness to the
drama at play, would have surely had stern, dissuading remarks to offer, but
we were guided by a strange faith – Come what may, it shall be dealt with!

Bumps and bashes, the rustic shell of a bus, the pot ridden, winding road:
the resulting fatigue had my mates from the coastal flatlands completely
bewildered. Nothing like sugar, steam, and caffeine to jolt the body on such
occasions; nothing like a cup of tea. We were lucky to find a shop that made
a mighty strong brew, for a price that seemed too fair to be true. Blessed, we
had been.

A group of persistent local kids, with moist, conniving eyes, huddled around
us, to deliver a cantankerous exhibition of bad salespersonship. I did end up
buying one of the wet branches on offer — a decision that defied reason, for
it was quite useless. Absurdity? Idiocy! Fortune must have felt remorse, for I
later found a sturdy stick. My companions were better prepared; they had
secured sturdy sticks, jackets, munchies, and other such items beforehand.

I remembered from my previous walks that till a temple, the trail ran
straight, along a river, through a lean forest. Halfway through, and halfway
through sundown, we met two police officers. Seldom have I come across
bureaucrats or security personnel, perfunctory arms of the state apparatus,
who do not blindly deem the unknown to be a hazard. Their shell is thick,
but inside they are all jell o. Those fearful men tried to stoke into our hearts
the fear of bears and other wild creatures. I knew better. I assured my
companions that the presence of humans traumatized animals far more than
the other way round. I checked the map, figured out where the nearest lodge
was, made a call, and requested arrangements. The temple was reached
moments before sundown. From there, a decently steep climb began.

Tarjib had seen enough of the ways of the mountains. It was his fourth
foray. J though, was new to it all. It took us a bit more than an hour to cover
a distance slightly north of a kilometer. By the time we reached the lodge, we
were famished. Not fully assured of our arrival, the owners had delayed
dinner preparations.

In the common hall, where we waited for things to fall into place, some
young boys were in high spirits and in a world of their own. The lodge
owners were not of the engaging kind and chose not to spring beyond the
confines of the dark kitchen. The atmosphere was not hospitable. Anxiety
was in the air. Tarjib displayed great maturity in handling the situation. He
got himself and J hooked to the television, in a game like effort to decipher
the Devanagari text rolling in the news ticker. He also surprised me with his
knowledge of this part of the world. He knew about several alpine lakes and
pristine mountain trails, more than most Kathmanduites do; through the
internet, of course, but I am sure it must have taken countless hours of
research.

Food, as plain as it was, was served to our frantic delight. It was not
delicious, but it was, and we ran roughshod over it. Gulp, gulp, yulp! My
companions then braved the cold for the comfort of gray haze. Soon after,
sleep — sound and well!

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 Rendezvous With The Elements

The new camera added a dimension of joyous excitement that I had not felt
for eons. I felt like I had a fresh pair of eyes; eyes that sparkled stupendously
— for every glimpse marked a rendezvous with the brilliance of the most
subtle natural elements. The way the sunlight that percolated through many
leaves curved on a solitary rolled up leaf of gold, the manner in which red
leaves flaunting spores intertwined with lush green ones in quite corners,
the procession of fumbling bugs all around, the smooth chachas with
bouncing lights of dangling epiphytes: these intimate visuals made
accessible by the new lens filled me with life.

The ascent to Chandanbari, up steps carved out of large rocks that more
often than not required an abrupt and wide extension of a leg to move up,
was a taxing affair for J. She was faring better though, compared to the
previous night. A brief yet pleasant meet with a couple, hailing from the land
of the Rhine, and in the eighth decade of their lives, descending the steps
briskly in a jolly mood, set a better tone for the day. They had dared to
retrace the trail after a hiatus of decades, and that provided us with an
appreciable boost of inspiration.

Our parsimonious trio mixed up with a quartet of suave young bucks

scrambling to find a bargain for lunch, without question daalbhaat. We
struck a hassle free, fair deal. In this part of the world, it is not uncommon to
be offered prices defined by how one looks or who one is. My companions
blended with the group seamlessly; had they only indulged in conversation
with the hoteliers, and expectedly failed to respond in Nepali – a dismal
barometer of judgement, a two and a half fold rate would have been slapped
upon them. Such was the covert nature of underlying realities under the
soothing sun at the hotel‖s lawn! The plus side — with the quartet we started
gelling well. They were, as expected, from Kathmandu. They were, as
expected, dreamy trekkers, enticed by aesthetic pictures and adventurous
narratives.

To cater to the body‖s needs for bursts of energy in the uphill climb, I made
an unwise investment in cheese from the famed factory of yore. Considering
our tight budget, biscuits, or even chocolates, would have been a far more
sensible purchase, but my lucidity, and egregious idiocy, knows no bounds.
On a positive note, one might argue that these cracks let the light get in.

Sin Gompa — in every visit, I had seen the elements eat up the brilliant
artisanship that adorned it, while the idol‖s statue shone with the same
grace. Tarjib in teal — always willfully inclined to be optimistic; a few puffs
had restored his composure. J in purple — the colorful bandana, previously
soaked in sweat – was dry, was brilliantly colorful, and like her face gleamed
with renewed energy. The forest beyond was a mere extension of all the
characters at play.

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 Continuity And Recollection

It took us an hour and a half to reach Cholangpati from Sin Gompa. Two
lodges faced a leveled area; the one on the left was admonished with a
heftier set of colorful, woolen weaves on sale and looked prettier. Howbeit, I
headed straight towards the one on the right. I had chosen to stay there on
two previous occasions. The first time by chance, the second by will. There is
a certain beauty in continuity and reconnection that seldom fails to allure
me. A woman, a familiar face, approached me there. I spoke to her
cheerfully, with unmistaken familiarity.

“Remember me? I stayed here two years ago, and the year before that. You
had boiled potatoes for me and my companion on the first occasion, despite
it being quite late. Then the year after that, I had come with the guy from
Kerung.”

Those words flew from my mouth like a gun on rampage. Ra ta ta ta ta ta!

With a slightly puzzled look, but a reciprocal sense of familiarity and

warmth, she shot back.

“Of course, I do! How could I not? What do you want to have?”

We exchanged smiles. Fill in the blanks – that is how memory works, I

assure you.

We ordered a round of tea to mute the rigor inflicted upon the body by the
morning long ascent through the tall woodlands of mist, moss, and falling
gold. Needless to say, we received a generous discount.

As we sipped on the sugary drink, seated on one of the several benches set
out, Tarjib initiated a conversation with the young bucks from Kathmandu,
who had been intermittently accompanying us on the trail. The tone of the
conversation had acquired a kind of grounding warmth, the kind that
heralds friendship. I felt embarrassed when he needlessly hyped me up
though. Most of the talk revolved around whether reaching Gosainkunda
that very day was possible or not. Some were keen to push for it. Others
were not. For us, it was imperative; my companions‖ return flight was at
stake.

The heavens throughout that day were not fully vestured by puffs, but had
shades of blissful blue relief; the sun‖s grace was sufficiently felt. Fie, by the
time we piously paced our steps to Laurebina, whose name literally
translates to drop stick – a ritual for pilgrims, it was all misty, all white. The
mist first regally consumed the far hills, then the landscape below
aesthetically, and eventually all that was around us, unforgivingly. Tarjib
worried for the fate of the camera he had hung on his neck, and kept it in his
bag. It felt phenomenal to be there, especially on the edge of the cliff, like
there was nothing below or above us, like we had taken flight – caressed
infinity and sunk beyond. A group of travelers playing with a ball of rolled
cloth invited our amusement. Their field of play had no bounds, it seemed.
Those young bucks, our intermittent companions, were reading on a bench
on the edge – a floating piece of earth in the skies. We rested too. My
companions‖ agreed to push to the ephemeral lake, after an inquiry of the
miles remaining, but our confidence begged for a break to rejuvenate.

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The final stretch of the trail to Gosainkunda

263
 Melancholic Mist

A place of worship stood as it had been after being wrecked by the great
earthquake, almost half a decade before. Amongst the debris, an idol of
Buddha stood tall. Impermanence? It foreshadowed the trivialities to come.

“Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

J particularly was fatigued beyond words; every step of hers appeared to be a

triumph on its own. Tarjib‖s anxiety had started cutting at the roots of his
persistent optimism. Even some of the young bucks had collapsed to the
ground, weeping in grimace. Things were falling apart and the sun was a
ball of melancholic white. People descending the trail looked like raining
silhouettes, cutting through the vicious mist. First, the buzz of namastes,
then of sunbaked men uttering: Half pants! Nuts! Dhoti!

Such bitchy nefariousness! Punching up, maybe. Dismal, certainly.

Sundown provided a colorful display of natural exuberance though. Not just

the skies but the landscape too turned blue, then turquoise, then crimson,
transcending into darkness through shades of pink and burgundy. What a
spectacle it was! The ire of the mists was perceivably nullified. But, when the
body is wrung of vitality, no spectacle can sneak a smile, and so I feared that
I might have been the only one charmed by it all.

“Almost, it is right around the bend!”

The bend on that cliffside, bedecked by moss ridden boulders peeling apart
and, petite blooms red and blue, seemed to stretch infinitely. It had a
frightfully narrow trail drawn across it. Throughout the way, I kept offering
assurances, for experience had shown that hope was fundamental. The
greatest shot of hope, and paradoxically dejection, was the sight of the lake.
Why? Well, it was not Gosainkunda but Bhairavkunda (Saraswatikunda
would have taken its place, had it not been deep in the misty mire), and
some in our band had mustered their final ounce of energy to reach it,
thinking it was the former. It shone exotically, but such were the state of
affairs that it was cursed and damned, instead of being praised and adored.

Our band of eight reached Gosainkunda half an hour after it got pitch dark.
Needless to say, by that point, most of us were without an ounce of energy
and exhibiting symptoms of hypothermia. I was entrusted to find the best
lodge and secure a bargain, by the band. Yet my assuredness too had been
significantly worn out. Perhaps the air was too thin, perhaps the promise of
warmth was too dear, for I went to the door of the first lodge I saw and made
a terrible deal. No one cared though. To get in and warm up was all that
seemed to matter at that moment. Money was devoid of all significance.
Tarjib and J limped inside the lodge last. Not before their bodies warmed up
and daalbhaat was had could the exhilaration of their achievement lift their
spirits. Tarjib finally mustered a bleak smile. J followed. We had made it.

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 Going By The Menu

Gosainkuda, like many other prime points of interest in this part of the
world, is, in my displeasing opinion, a syndicated tourist trap. In my
previous trips, I had consciously avoided staying there overnight, but time
was not on our side, and the bitter pill had to be swallowed. Furthermore,
the deal for the night had been hastily negotiated (circumstances greatly
expounded upon in the preceding post).

J and Tarjib only had a dismal portion of the lackluster daalbhaat served for
dinner, which we did not have the good sense to attribute to altitude
sickness until much later. Post dinner, my eyes fell upon the laminated
menu, which was only passed to visitors of a different tone. When I checked
the prices, it became abundantly clear that our stay would have been
cheaper if we had gone by it. I consulted with the band and approached the
lodge owner highlighting the fact.

"We have a fixed rate for Nepali people. Why? Because they all have
daalbhaat. Why? Because, three Nepalis squeeze into a two bedroom ... You
guys just have one item, while the khaires (fair skinned people) have dinner,
drinks, and breakfast! How can we go by the menu like that? We are giving
you guys hot water for a cheaper price too."

The man looked at us with contempt for questioning the age old practice.

"Going by the menu... ha ha ha!"

His partner chuckled. There was no way one could further a rational
argument against such humiliating derision.

Yet again, for our budget was close to exhaustion, I humbly asked:

"And, about my companions from Bangladesh ... Could you please charge
them the same rate that you are charging us, or maybe let them go by the
menu?"

To which he sternly replied:

"Nepalis are Nepalis. We can be good to our own brethren, but not to the
dhotis, Bengalis, or khaires! You don't know what kind of scoundrels they
are in their own place!"

I was not even surprised, xenophobia and such abhorrent didactics are
commonplace, especially among the upwardly mobile. The man knew we
had no fangs to bare against him. We were powerless. We were unable to
highlight the contradictions in his argument and fight back. There was no
way in this kafkaesque world that he would let humanitarian sentiments
hurt his pockets.

Later on, when the conversation progressed to other matters, he did speak
with an understanding tone, but that was about it. Some of the young bucks
went out to photograph the lake under clear, starry skies. Tarjib and J were
mighty tired. I joined them in the room with two beds that we were
condemned to, the night was chilly, the mercury had dipped well below zero,

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and so were the rooms – for only a thin wall of wood, with gaps in between,
lay between us and the elements.

I sighed before I made an umpteenth attempt to close my eyes and sleep:

"So this is what happens when three do gooders travel together!"

Foodnommics Saves The Day

Hoping to play with the waters of the esoteric Naukunda (nine lakes) and
make it back to the lodge in Gosainkunda by late morning, I woke up at
around 5:30 AM. As much as the seamless, wispy horizon elated and the
sight of a the starfish like Bhairavkunda flanked by obsolescing shadows of
the neighboring hills intrigued me, it did not take long to realize that the
push was a lost cause; for it took around a quarter of an hour just to find the
path that winded down to the join the edgy trail on the opposing hill. In that
time, the ruthless, chilly winds had almost pushed me to the edge of
delirium. I rushed back indoors, and went snug under the blanket.

Tarjib and J looked as fragile as ever. An upbeat duo from the Middle East
heated water on a portable burner, with the intention of sprinkling in some
leaves, while swooping and swooshing on bowls of steaming porridge. They
looked at us with remorse and offered some tea. Man did that steaming cup
lift my spirits! Luck though was still not completely on our side. Our budget
was dead lean. I thought ordering pizza for breakfast would be a good idea,
assuming that it would be shareable and loaded enough to help with the
steep climb ahead. What was served was not pizza at all; it was a roti
(round, flatbread) with stingily kept raw greens and sprinkled morsels of
cheese. Tarjib deliriously laughed, less at the serving, more at our luck. Sorry
Hotel Tibet, but I would not even advise sworn enemies to avail of your
services.

Sunlight had started growing strong. The hillsides shone in shades of gold,
the wide open skies and calm waters, the richest blue. The peace of the
valley was shuddered by intermittent, ear jarring chopper landings that blew
dusty billows. Here jovial travelers arrived, there tired travelers made a quick
exit. We had begun our walk to the edge of the great lake, looking down at
the most recent crowd of arrivals. At that moment, I heard my name, or so I
thought; doubted the possibility, and kept moving down.

“iih daai!”

I looked back. It was a familiar face, glowing, childlike. It took a while to

figure out who it was. Foodnommics! Yes, her. That is how I knew her,
through social media. I had only met her once before. Customary
introductions with her group followed. She was a godsend!

The desperation of the moment compelled me to unashamedly seek a loan of

two thousand rupees – an amount just barely enough to get us through, I
believed. She seemed startled by the request at first, since it came so
uninhibitedly. Howbeit, her generous self could not deny me. She drew the

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amount out of her surplus kitty. My gratitude knew no bounds. We shared
tips and good wishes before parting, rather quickly; time was not on our
side.

From afar, the lake looked profoundly consistent. A closer inspection though
showed how it rippled with grace, akin to a glass of water shaken lightly. Its
movement transcended to the air above it, imparting upon our shore side trio
a comforting feeling of slow submersion. The rocky, underwater surface
chiseled light in such a manner that it unleashed long strings of mostly
golden semi rainbows. The waters were holy blue, perfidious green and
electric gold, at the same time – shifting, rippling, tilting, gently. All while
carrying a reflection of the surrounding rocky landscape, embellished by
stretches of pale grass and masses of red hedges, with psychedelic
imprecision, more so in the parts where a layer of frozen still contained it. I
revisited the edge where the stream racing down from Gosainkunda makes
its way to replenish Bhairavkunda. Observing how those white rapids lash
down to find stillness below felt like a rare privilege. It is almost meditative.
In fact, for those who dwell from realms of concrete bustle, the entire
landscape is. While dwelling upon it, many people had stacked stones and
little rocks atop each other on the banks – an ancient practice that had defied
realms and time.

Our detour of the lake ended at the opposite end. There, we met the main
trail again. J was not in the best of shapes, nor were we. Nevertheless,
whenever we lost ourselves, daydreaming in an ode to the trance nature had
conjured before us, all ails and troubles seemed irrelevant. Where the lake,
from that vantage point of ours, bluest of blues, met the bluest of blue skies,
on the horizon, time came to a halt. Infinitude, nothing else mattered.

Is This Really It?

Water, water, everywhere, not a single drop to drink! The stream that fed the
heavenly lake behind us raced down the face of mossy rocks like electric
sparks, where it intersected with the trail. The spot had been marked by
decorated stone taps and myriads of colorful flags, all with benevolence to a
higher power – awfully human to do so! My companions had begun being
troubled by thirst. For in the previous night, and in the morning, they had
only meager amounts of food, their bodies were greatly weakened. Our
initial supply of water had been exhausted and it was time to refill. Tarjib
stretched his bottle out to the sparkly fall. His hands swelled with blains.
They took a shade of purple and yellow like his chapped lips. His body
instantly paralyzed.

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”

A lightning quick retreat.

We agreed that it would be wise to hang the bottle in the bag for a while.
Hypothermia could not be risked.

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Nibbling on cheese and having sips of water, our trio, perhaps, made a
hundred stops on the way to the pass. We only realized altitude sickness
was at play, four fifths through. Anyway, the possibility of turning back had
not visited our minds. Occasionally, while dragging our slack bodies up the
rock laced hill face, we looked back to see how far we had come. With each
step up, the view gained in magnanimity. The lake seemed smaller, bluer,
and its location more miraculous. It was held on three sides by gargantuan
rocky hills of pale grass, like hands that presented it before the endless
expanse of divine blue. Behind the hills, mountains of the Langtang range
and beyond, curtained by clouds of white, peeked in for a view. Their
proportions grew majestically as we rose.

One, two, three ... It was imperative to count steps to slug the climb out. The
trail flattened after the first of two ponds on the way to Suryakunda was
reached. It winded beautifully on the stretch. Sunshine had been generous
all morning long. The ascension became easier, speedier, so much so that we
could not believe it when we reached the lake and the pass was in sight.

“Is this really it?”

Tarjib and J‖s faces glowed with wide smiles of disbelief. Fatigue, for that
moment, lost all meaning. We had made it!

Dire Straits

Deep blue for the most part, Suryakunda, the sun lake, was blessed by a
marvelous shade of purple in its contours – the sun‖s fancy at work! The
extent behind it was dominated by the presence of the pyramidic Surya
Peak. In the few minutes we spent admiring it, the ghoulish clouds behind
grew wistfully and started surging towards us. At forty six hundred plus
meters above sea level, one cannot expect the weather to not get crazy.

From there onwards, till Ghopte, it was a vertiginous descent. J had trouble
in her knees, thus we took it slow. Tarjib, not without troubles of his own,
never ceased to offer words of encouragement. His devotion was inspiring. J,
meanwhile, simply wanted to focus on the trail; words simply could not help
her. How she kept the volcano of agitation in her heart from exploding, I
shall never be able to comprehend. The haze rendered all elements obsolete,
only the crooked, tall steps and silver rocks in the vicinity stood out. A river‖s
gurgles could be heard, but how far or close it was, we could only guess.
After about an hour, the vicinity changed. Dense golden grass, red hedges,
and short green trees became the norm. Slowly, we entered a rich, verdant
forest, and the mountains, wherever they were visible, seemed to be far, far,
above us.

Wherever the water ran down strong, it had dragged boulders with it. There
were at least a dozen landslides or stymieing waterfall crossings on the way.
One in particular was a climb that revealed the existence of a trail, or what
remained of it, only when it was surmounted three fourths of the way
through. The trail went downhill, then uphill, then ran straight for a while,

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Gosainkunda from the trail to Suryakunda

269
before running downhill, deceptively flat, and uphill again, several, several,
times. It tested our patience like nothing else.

As the sun started fading down, Tarjib‖s confidence started crumbling before
his anxiety.

“Another uphill? Man, I thought you said the last one was the last!”

I had Soniced (like the hedgehog) across that trail, on my previous treks, and
did not have a positive idea of the number of uphill climbs. To me, every
climb seemed like the last one, every descent seemed to lead out of that
wilderness to Ghopte, but that sadly was not the case. My assurances lost
meaning. Yes, Tarjib and J were feeling better because of the drop in altitude,
but the extreme fatigue annulled all positive implications. What does not kill
you makes you stronger? The sun made its curtain call elegantly – a ball of
orange, befogged, yet oozing brilliance. Its beauty merely befuddled our trio
in dire straits.

Healing

Nothing heals like compassion. At the lodge in Deurali, where we crashed

out of despair, we undoubtedly had the best stay. The soft spoken woman
who managed affairs at the place was a fountain of love and sapience. There
was something in her stellar eyes that comforted us. She understood my
companions‖ pain. Whenever she could, she stood by them; she healed them
with her presence. J, who even after the most fatiguing of descents in the late
lunch stop at Phedi had only morsels, finally had a decent meal. We were
seated around a fire place in the cabin. Tarjib struck a wonderful chord with
a group from Tel Aviv, particularly with a lifelong service member. They
exchanged views on contentious issues, the likes of Palestine and US policy,
with a conciliatory tone, and in a well rounded manner, which allowed a
sense of benevolent understanding to evolve.

At dawn, the moon stood alone in the sky above the sequined hills and
horizon. J could not help but shed tears while parting. Tarjib promised that
they would come back again, with more time in hand. Time, because their
flight was on the next day, and catching it had become a difficult
proposition, for we had not been able to reach Thadepati the day before, as
we had sought to. Somehow, throughout the steep descent down, and until
much later, we held an enviably relaxed demeanor. On that relatively
unperturbed forest trail, decorated by flowers of yellow and purple, glowing
leaves, bright fungus, striking thornberries, intricate branches, and an
amalgam of auditory infusions, our hearts danced with gentle winds that
whispered que sera, sera. Silhouettes of mighty trees hobnobbed with
asymmetrical cliffs, and so did autumn moss with masses of boulders. The
strong tea at Ghopte proved to be just the elixir we needed. We soared like
birds, and unlike our friends from Aviv avoided the rest stop atop the hill.
We descended effortlessly to Helambu.

The woodlands of Helambu possess a hazy, idyllic charm straight out of the
realm of fairytales. Amidst giant moss covered trees – some bent, some

270
straight, but all laced with lichens and odd leaves, a narrow trail, carpeted
spongily by fallen leaves, wiggled down to Melamchighyang.

Familiar

The clamor of the rapids grew stronger as the river neared. Melamchighyang
was close by. A troop of langurs sped away, hastily leaping from one tree to
another, howling viciously, as soon as one from the pack registered our
presence.

“Are you sure they will not hurt us?”

Tarjib asked worriedly.

“If only other people hadn‖t traumatized them …”

I responded reflexively, and elaborated, drawing from experience:

“They don‖t even have the heart to come close to us humans. It‖s only if the
encounter is sudden and a fight response is registered that wild animals
might hurt us.”

Monkeys, in this part of the world, typically, inhabit forest stretches close to
human settlements. Within minutes, the hamlet was in sight. Little houses,
with corrugated sheet roofs of pink, blue, green, and gray, straddled amidst
fields on a hilltop surrounded by tamed forest. Despite how close it appeared
to be, it took a further half an hour to get there. On the way, slightly off trail,
was one of the celebrated Milarepa Caves, marked by a dense cluster of
prayer flags. Having witnessed the sorry state of affairs at another such cave,
I had concluded that such sites, in this part of the world, could only be
meaningful for the dearly faithful or the resolutely academic.

The trail that led to the heart of the hamlet had over many arrivals become
quite familiar. Before the water mill that marked the advent of the hamlet
came, I anticipated its arrival, so was the case with the old man who always
wore a black cap, at the first house on the left. As I had always done, I
headed straight to the Basnet eatery. One of the young guns from the Aviv
group had abandoned his mates and raced ahead. He joined our trio, out of
curiosity, after I told him there was a place in that touristic junction where
he could get great tea for twenty rupees. At the eatery, we filled our tummies
to the brim with cheap snacks and hot soup. The strong tea was the perfect
elixir for our ailing bodies. Our friend from Aviv was unsurprisingly
impressed. He went to fetch his mates. Such humble services, more often
than not, elude guidebooks, and are disinterested in savvy marketing, much
to the detriment of outsiders.

Taramarang, in Melamchi Municipality, was set to be our destination for the

night. When we started descending from Melamchighyang, it was already
mid afternoon. The only vehicle that went towards the town had left early in
the morning. Timbu, around fifteen kilometers away, had to be reached in

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three hours to catch the final bus that parted from there. I had confidence
that we could do that, and reach Kathmandu by noon the next day to catch
their flight, but it did not take long for our hopes to crumble.

Mission Airport

Worst case scenario, we would reach Taramarang by 10 PM, I had thought

while leaving Melamchighyang. Yet, by that hour, we had only made it a
little more than halfway through. We were in the middle of a forest: the
shoes of my companions wetted in a stream crossing, their bodies writhed of
all energies. J and Tarjib, hand in hand, shoulder in shoulder, staggered and
reeled. For hours, not a single vehicle had passed on the dirt road, obstructed
by waterfalls at several points. A nightlong slug seemed inevitable.

The way J limped down steps that afternoon had foreshadowed what was to
come. The nibbling rekindling of an old joint issue on her knees, we all
wrongly thought was momentary. We had expected to make the descent,
like the spotted fawn I had the pleasure to witness on that trail, with a
sprightful, spirited grace. Such high hopes, on a trail falling apart, impeded
by foliage that clawed on one‖s skin, and long abandoned by casual trekkers!
Across the beastly Melamchi, on a rusty trail bridge, that left us in awe and
unnerved at the same time, a steep, steep, climb in the dark it was. It was
full of slips and fumbles, and the occasional rustle of leaves that poked a
ghastly hole into the hearts of my exhausted companions.

“It is fine. We are three. We have lights.”

I, always a few meters ahead, would keep restating.

Anxiety having gotten the best of him, a rush of blood to the head, a red
faced Tarjib kept rumbling:

“Please, I say please. Don‖t go too far ahead of us!”

Past the cave of Milarepa – déjà vu! We missed the main trail at a waterfall
landslide, took the lower way, and then, lost our way in the hillside hamlet
of a dozen paths and tall crops, like I had done on a previous journey. There,
straddling through fields, climbing walls, and leaping down terraces, in
search of a way that led to the road, we lost a good hour. The village was
unusually paranoid, a matter I have greatly expounded upon in a previous
travelogue from Sindhupalchok. When our cries for help were heard, after an
exchange of flashlight signs with a man on a nearby hill, the electric grid of
the entire village was turned off. I put my hand to my face. Like before, some
of the residents had presumed us to be robbers. Sigh! All we could do was
persist. Somehow, someway, we found a trail that led up and out, before
things got worse. We landed up at a house, whose elderly residents were
compassionate, late night soap opera loving people. Fortune does favor the
persistent, it seemed, when they offered us a jar of water. They even invited
us to spend the night there. Tarjib and J‖s plane to Dhaka however was
scheduled to fly in less than twelve hours; and so, we politely refused their

272
offer. Out of dharma, one of the residents offered to show us the way to the
road, which surprisingly turned out not to be more than four minutes away.

This takes us back to the beginning. We had slugged on that road for an
hour or so, losing pace by the minute. My attempts at offering reassurances
had become futile.

“I might just crash here.”

Tarjib, half dozed, was muttering, supporting and supported by J. It was

right at that moment that a light flickered in the distance. We bore witness,
with a glimmer of hope in our still eyes, to how the roar of light grew and
echoed throughout the hills! It was definitely a vehicle.

The jeep had a man dressed in a red robe, a monk, on the front seat. He
made the vehicle halt and listened to us attentively.

“We are carrying supplies to the monastery on that hill you see over there.
The driver will most likely return after the supplies are dropped.”

Those words served as a glimmer of hope, but we could not sit still, waiting,
for nothing was guaranteed. Yet, right when we were on the verge of
hopelessness, the jeep came and stopped for us.

“Look, there‖s no way I‖m going to Talamarang. I‖m staying at Timbu tonight
and can drop you there, and that‖s about it.”

The driver declared with a certainty akin to a period, period.

Tarjib appealed to his sense of humanity, but to no avail. The driver argued
that he had his priorities like we had ours, which was understandable.
Finally, he budged; he asked for five thousand rupees to take us there, a
figure meant to deter us, more than anything else. We did not have that sort
of cash with us. J though, in desperation, acquiesced to the demand. The
driver was surprised, and so were we. Everyone just yielded to the gravity of
J‖s exhausted gasps and a feeling of helplessness. On that dirt road, it took
almost an hour to get to our destination. I was on the back carrier; only two
people could fit on the front, and I was used to holding onto railings for
balance on rocky roads. My companions must have been shocked, observing
the distance we had thought of covering on foot.

That night, Moin, a teacher at Taramarang‖s Terse school, and an old well
wisher of mine, became our savior. After a phone call earlier that evening, he
had vowed to arrange an overnight stay and a minor loan. The jeep fiasco
meant a greater sum was required, and he helped with that too. Our bond
had been strengthened by a short summer trek that we undertook together,
but he was under no obligation to help us. For every act of kindness of his,
we were immensely grateful. In need of rest, we were accommodated in the
boys‖ and girls‖ hostels, after a quick round of exchange of greetings and
conversation. It was only the next morning that we really talked. While we
shared breakfast, being the fountains of goodness they were, Tarjib and J
extended a warm invite to the two of us to visit Bangladesh. A round of hugs
followed before we boarded the bus to Kathmandu.

A rush to Thamel from Koteshwar on a taxi, then a frantic, failed search for
Juju Dhau while Tarjib and J quickly got hold of their bags from the hotel,

273
then a rush to the airport on the very same taxi while sharing the tub of ice
cream I got: with only memories as souvenirs, somehow, someway, we
made it to the airport just in time. I requested the taxi to stop on the turning
before the gate, so that, having served my purpose, I could go my way. It was
there that the journey reached its climax. Tarjib got off the taxi and hugged
me tight, with no intention of letting go. He was crying hysterically. Never
had I seen an adult cry like that. I was taken aback by the surge of emotions.

“No one has ever done something like this for us. We will really miss you.
Thank you! Thank you!”

Tarjib muttered tearily. J expressively concurred. I felt like I had done

nothing of consequence, and did not feel deserving of such praise. If
anything, I felt guilty, for if I had planned better, they would not have had to
endure such suffering. It was all quite seamless for me. Wherever the river
flowed, that is where I sought to be. While parting ways, I just really wished
them well, from the bottom of my heart.

I am still in touch with Tarjib and J. The winds of time have, as they usually
do, ironed out all remembrances of suffering. Even those pains that are not
forgotten are remembered fondly. Their love for me has only grown, and so
has my adoration for them. Someday, we shall all meet again, and retrace
these very stories with nostalgic fondness.

274
Around Upper Mustang

275
 Elementary

Intro One:

Wearing shoes for the first time in a decade, I went for a long walk late last
year.

Intro Two:

A spark of fascination, lit somewhere in the long forgotten alleys of

childhood. It lived on within, way, way beyond the years of Seven by Seven
Desk Lane, Chalkdust Avenue. The telly is to be blamed. Supernal
discoveries in corners blinded by darkness, the promise of frozen time
beyond walls: the air of the hidden kingdom, the liberation it promised, it
was certain would fill these lungs with liberation. The ancient has always
been dear; for the soil, that this soul took root in was enriched, more than
anything else, by memories of lost grandeur. That calling could not be
forgotten, and it sprouted when all else seemed …

Intro Three:

I had made an open call, via a social media story. Five people said yes to an
unplanned foray into and across Upper Mustang. On foot, of course! Yet, of
those five, for reasons several and unfortunate, four were compelled to flip
their upheld thumbs. Cheerful Karan, my sole companion, had joined in to
break the, proverbial, walls down. Albeit, by the time we reached Jomsom,
after a nightlong bump ride on the godforsaken stretch of expanded ass trails
that connected the town of Myagdi with the Thakali heartland, the only thing
that seemed to be close to breaking was our backs.

Intro Four:

“Karan, this is where we will embark on this fantabulous walk from. That
bridge before Ekle Bhatti is quite the thing.”

“Then, there is this point, on the hill above it. I had been there while walking
across the mountains in 2017, on the way to Throng Laa. A fabulous view
awaits us there.”

“It is not necessary to go up there, but you will love it. It is a good
opportunity to test those lungs as well.”⠀
⠀
We paid the extra fare, for the initial ticket was for Jomsom, got off the dust
ridden bus, tried to shrug off the thick layer of dust that haunted our clothes
and bags helplessly, took a few pictures at the bridge, and started walking.
Oh, did I tell you that Karan forgot the thermos that his mother had
unwillingly parted with in the bus? The practice of letting go had begun.

276
 Fumbled Meating

“Yes, I told her to mix yak meat in the vegetable stew. This is my test. If
you‖re T‖s friend, you must be a Buddhist. If you‖re a Buddhist, you must eat
what is offered. If you don‖t eat it, you sure aren‖t his friend!”

T‖s uncle gave me a piercing look, and mumbled:

“I have my doubts about you now, errrrr!”⠀

⠀
The man‖s rage was accentuated by his mean, lean buzz, haircut. He had
raging, delusional, eyes; so was his speech. Intoxicated he certainly was, in
some form. My humility by him was perceived to be a lack of confidence.
Karan blended in well, somehow. I could not. If it were not for the
sentiments of 2017, I would have not landed at the hotel; the lodges along
the main trail were evidently better.⠀
⠀
T‖s aunt though was an absolute contrast. She was humble and smiled with
glee. It was a confusing smile, accentuated by the language barrier that
tumbled interactions between us. I had met her before, but the intervening
years had rendered me unrecognizable. It took a while for her to figure out
what was wrong. Albeit, the moment she did, she gave the man a mean
look. She atoned for what she believed to be was an unwelcome
transgression of my supposed religious vows. In that kitchen of grim white
and dark patched shining wainscots, the moment of my disgust and
objection had long since passed; what had been, had already been, and could
not be undone. My mind was calm, my heart clean, and did not find spirit to
induce clamor.⠀
⠀
“Sorry for wasting the food. I had a couple of spoons, but I now cannot.”⠀
⠀
“No, no, I am sorry. This old man does not have his mind in the right place!
Let me make another stew for you! It will not be trouble.”

Aunt made things right, with a reciprocal show of goodness in spirit. ⠀

⠀
Karan chimed in:

“Don‖t throw the food away. I‖ll have it. I‖m still tremendously hungry! The
walk sure has been exhausting.”⠀

Web Of Narratives

“That is the cliff that I almost slipped down from while trying to find a way
down to Kagbeni at night, before I had the good sense to retreat and find that
road that spirals down from the far right. Now that I look at it from here,
damn, there was no way I would have survived the fall.”⠀

277
“The young woman who ran YacDonald‖s was exceedingly kind. That is
where I had fast food for the first time during the long walk. Boy, did I
splurge greatly that night!”⠀
⠀
“I think that is the mischievous monk I had a funny conversation with, last
time around. The one that is batting.”⠀
⠀
“Did I tell you? There are walled towns just like old Kagbeni in Upper Humla,
and they are still so vibrant, full of life.”⠀
⠀
“Oh look back, how wonderful the entire town is. I had never seen it this
way. Sawdust fields and orchards shining yellow! And that river, damn.
Nature in its randomness creates such beautiful pieces of art!”⠀
⠀
There was a narrative, consequent of my previous journey, to bind each and
every element visible in Kagbeni with a sense of familiarity. I wonder how
Karan saw it all with a fresh pair of eyes, on that first day of the walk to
Upper Mustang. I was trapped in a web of narratives, from which he was
quite free.

The Power That People Wield

The rich tapestry of wear, tear, and flow, on the way to Chhusang from
Kagbeni enthralled us. It was not a serene trail though, in fact much of it
aligned with the dirt road. Vehicles whisked by with little care for those who
dared to slug it out the old way. Clouds of dust, aligning gently with all: dust
in the air, dust in our mouth, dust in the hair, dust in the face, we bore. Yet
every now and then, an amusing sight. Here an orchard, there a herd of
sheep, on the riverside a photo shoot – models draped in red, rickety drones,
mischievous winds running wild. The trick was to look away from the
miseries of the shoe sinking road.⠀
⠀
At one point, I thought I saw a person on top of a rock, sitting in a crouched
position, far, far, away from the main trail. Karan affirmed that he too saw it
the way I did. For a while we wondered, how could the person have gotten
there? Was the person defecating? Was it a yeti? Presumptions of all kinds
brewed, until I zoomed in using the camera. I knew a rational explanation
was due, like always. So it turned out to be. It was simply a mirage; a rock
stacked atop another, in the weirdest possible way. After seeing the picture,
our senses readjusted. We stopped seeing the man.⠀

A string of such trifles amused our senses, and had it not been for that white
jeep, 235, the day would not have been remembered as being a sour one. It
stopped right ahead of us.
⠀
“Hop on! We are going to Lo Manthang too.”

The man in the front seat, who by his features, seemed to be a local,
commanded. For a second, I smiled, admiring what I saw to be his
generosity. We intended to walk and could not take up the offer, I explained
that, and apologized.

278
 Kagbeni: Cricket in a monastery

⠀
⠀

279
“Mother *ucker … going to walk … *uckers!” ⠀
⠀
The venom with which it was delivered seeped deep into my heart. I felt
paralyzed, as the vehicle sped away on that winding highway. The power
that people wield over us is undeniable and profound. Not until sundown did
the heart feel lively. ⠀

Ring Jhing Quick

Where there is water, there is life. Nowhere does that ring more true than in
cold deserts. Chhusang was an oasis amidst endless, perverse isolation. Its
soil had been sweetened by the waters of the Kali Gandaki. Kali Gandaki, a
vast expanse of sand on which lean streams spanned like arteries, towering
cliffs embroidered with character by wrinkles of the winds, a canyon that
had been stymied by winter. ⠀
⠀
We could have given Ring Jhing Chheto a call, as the wayside signboard
beckoned, and halted at Tangbe, but I had faith that better things were in
store only a pass beyond. Golden mountains high up turned blue. They went
snug behind the cover of billows. Golden orchards and fields far below
turned orange, and so did the clouds with them. The streams grew in
proportions, settled into a magnanimous shade of purple, as the winds blew
wilder, and the tiring descent pacified.⠀
⠀
The oasis was reached. Instead of settling for the first lodge, I insisted that
we continue on, into the alleys of the whitewashed, stone racked hamlet.
Absolute darkness, but we had our phone flashlights, and faith that Braka
Guest House, wherever it was, whatever it would be, would be comforting.
Manang had been good to me. Nostalgia held the promise of healing the
heart. ⠀

Person Without A Name

Although the Braga connection did not hold significant weight, the lodge was
good in all necessary ways. The hosts were kind. (Well, to be frank, it took
some effort from our part before...) The staple diet served was wholesome
and varied; they prepared a local variety of mushroom, and had a good
selection of pickles. The prices were decent, and it had options for affordable
rooms; affordable rooms that were not unclean. On the road, I have always
preferred to be a nobody – a person without a name, and the air there made
it easy to become one.
⠀
A group of guides had amassed in the kitchen in the evening. They had
caught wind that we were thinking of taking the alternative trail up: across

280
the Paa Pass, and down to Tangye; a trail that we had only discovered the
existence of that very day. We were greeted with a tirade of emotional
dissuasion.⠀
⠀
“You are a couple of city punks from Kathmandu. We cannot go this way
without breaking our bodies. How can you? You will die.”⠀
⠀
If the case put before us was laced with facts, I would have perhaps paid
heed. Instead of arguing with them and expending energy that could be
better utilized the next day, I listened to and acknowledged their concerns.⠀
⠀
“We have already told the hosts to prepare an early meal for us tomorrow.
We will have enough water and biscuits with us. It is a straight climb. It is a
tough way up. I know we might fail. You guys are right. We are not half as
strong as you are … Consider your concerns heeded to. If by midday, we are
not half way through. We shall admit defeat and come back.”⠀
⠀
We woke up late the next morning – shame on us! But, our will had not been
weakened. We quickly tidied up, sorted our bags, shoved the meal – leftovers
from the previous night as requested, down our throats, grabbed a few
packets of biscuits, paid our bills, and headed out.⠀
⠀
We had connected well with a Buddhist practitioner hailing from Europe, his
companion, and their guide the previous night. He had worn puffed up, red
feet warmers, which could not be ignored; a conversation was inevitable.
They ventured out, as we did. The guide, who in his middle age had earned a
wise outlook, provided indispensable last minute guidance.

Waves Of Sullen Plasma

"If we slip, we die. That is the worst that can happen. There is nothing to
fear."

With great gusto, Karan and I scaled up the barren cliff west of Chhusang.
The trail was flimsy, sandy, and hard to get a grip on, making the climb
tough. It winded up, up so high that a jostle with the skies seemed all but
certain.⠀
⠀
Every time we looked back, the hamlet shrunk in size. Fields, barren and
tamed, melded together indistinguishably, orchards looked like patches of
grass, and cottages became mere inconsistencies. It all started looking the
same, like a blob on the map to mark a city. Conversely, the Kali Gandaki,
that gray stretch, gained prominence in the landscape, so did the hills on the
other side. As we started meeting level terms with them, they became
fiercely goliathan. Each streak and mark on sandstone cliffs, tapestries
crafted by winds and snow, began dwarfing the village below. Far, far away,
were interloping wrinkled dunes, like waves of sullen plasma. Mountains
arose, further behind, like pyramids of ice and cream. The skies could not
have accrued a deeper shade of blue, interrupted only by self absorbed
clouds that sunk large parts of the canyon into darkness. No artist could

281
conceivably put such sincere detailing onto a piece of canvas. Each grain on
the face of the irredeemably decorated rocks that surrounded us was a story
on its own.⠀
⠀
My companion was torn between sheer wonder and repentance. Repentance
for the way he had abused his lungs for years. He saw the trip as a perfect
opportunity to part ways with sticks and flints, but what has been done,
takes time to be undone. I advised him to put his earphones on and focus on
the music to tame his breath. It had always worked for me. We made a
promise to each other, to utter as few words as possible, until the climb was
concluded. Something we both soured upon and detracted from.⠀
⠀
“Surreal!” “Magnificent!” “Amazing!”

We kept repeating those words on a celebratory loop. The scene beyond the
first of many passes on that trail, resembled a spotted leopard‖s skin. There
were scant patches of coarse shrubs on the dim yellow hills infinite. If only
there was a stop on the way, a hut where we could spend the night in
stardust affection, safe from the shrill winds that had started gaining pace.

Paper Boats In A Sea

We had seen two people with horses, moving up a path that we later found
tough to even tread on foot. It was that narrow, that unforgiving. At midday,
we met a man guiding a black horse ridden by an elderly woman down. We
exchanged information about what lay ahead. He indicated that the end of
the climb was nowhere near. We told him of the harrowing gorge that we
had struggled to get across; one slip – no friction, no retreat, no tomorrow. To
which, he just replied assuredly:

“The winter rains must have done that. We can manage.”

That sense of optimism lent us some much needed strength. Before sunset,
we met a couple, accompanied by a team with essentials. They had little to
worry about. Throughout those twenty four kilometers of visually delightful
but unyieldingly barren trail way, those were the only people we met. In fact,
there were barely any birds or other creatures.⠀
⠀
The stellar ascent challenged our lungs and threatened to wrench sanity out
of our minds. We had to ration water, biscuits, and rest periods, with great
discipline. After the first pass, each time a peak where a pile of stones was
ritualistically stacked came close, our hearts and bodies, unable to see
beyond, sprung to life. We munched and gulped, rested before making the
supposed final push, only to encounter another soul shattering
disappointment. Up four thousand meters in elevation, down a few hundred,
then over four thousand again; scale up, go down, facepalm, repeat! The trail
seemed to loop to infinity. Each time, we picked ourselves together, and
continued, only to fall apart again. We believed the fourth pass was the final
one, and emptied all our supplies before it.

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⠀
On the way to Paa Laa: Upper Mustang landscape

283
Oh, how insignificant we were, toddling amidst those endless pyramids and
cliffs, like paper boats in a sea. Relentless, feral winds battered and ate into
our faces. The very way they had sculpted faces onto towering clumps of
pale yellow. Some stared at us. Some stared at the clouds. Some stared into
the blue infinitude. Blues and yellows, they are like lines of poetry with a
sprightful rhyme. In that desolation, greens could not thrive though. Those
that withstood the elements whittled maroon and were up in arms. A frozen
stream was found only two hours before sundown.

Dried Fruits To The Pass

Another unconvincing descent after the fourth pass meant a fifth one was
coming. In any other season, the high intermittent pastures would have been
rich and green. There would not just have been shy yaks that stared from
afar but herders at the hut by the frozen stream. We could have stalled for
the night there. Only, only if peak winter was not knocking at the door … but
then again, it was for sure that the exquisite detailing and clarity we had the
best of fortunes to witness could not be reproduced at any other time of the
year. Nature could only be so generous.⠀
⠀
In retrospect, it is easy to say that the gamble paid off well. Then and there,
matters were up in the air. Great uneasiness had befallen upon my
companion. On the way up to the fifth pass, which I figured out was the final
one because it was richly decorated by an array of colorful flags; every step
of his was an applause worthy accomplishment. No water to relieve our
parched lips. No food to oil our movement. Waves upon waves of impetuous
winds prevented us from gaining any momentum. Our strides were fueled by
sheer will. Will that we sometimes gave too much weight to.⠀
⠀
Karan discovered leftover dried fruits in his pockets. He shared some with
me. They did not look too good, but desperate times call for desperate
measures. After having them, he shot up and with faith ran, ran like he
would leap beyond the pass in no time. The sprint lasted for a mere twenty
paces, maybe a couple more. Karan crashed, desperately trying to catch his
breath, and we took a five minute break for the umpteenth time. Like all the
ones before, it was an obstacle that only the slow and steady could conquer.

Moments before sundown, we made it to forever gem. The impetuous winds

and violently fluttering flags commanded an immediate descent, but we
stuck around as long as we could in adoration, of all that lay before us.

Moonrise Down Paa

Paa Laa, four thousand one hundred and eighty three meters above sea level,
for miles not a soul. Chhusang was some seventeen kilometers behind us.

284
Tangye was still almost eight kilometers away, the descent however was
sure to be a swifter affair. We were at peace with where we were. There was
a newfound sense of confidence in the air.

Karan stood on the ridge with the beaming sun on a curtain call behind, the
flags above him fluttered with rage. To his left lay the harsh terrain flanked
by snowy mountains we had spent the entire day lumbering up, to his right
an endless desert. The infinite proportions of that Martian terrain riddled
with gorges and dunes made our eyes swell with wonder. How the morose at
times can be spectacular, the fancy of shadows and sundown light at work,
made me wonder if times of great suffering in life could be held in similar
regard, that perchance it was merely a matter of seeing the light at the end of
the tunnel.

The obsidian blue skies turned pale orchid in a dearth of yellow. The
oxidized reds and sunny gold of all that lay ahead of us turned to a pale gray
bereft of hope. The trail was sandy and steep. It was bound to become
troublesome without heavenly grace. We swung all limbs to and fro, and
mightily charged ahead.

An uncharacteristic halt:

“Look at that Karan!”

My eyes glowed. The moon was rising! Four fifths of it was behind a
mountain, which by its graces had regained its daylight splendor. Never had
I seen the moon lift up its head from the horizon in darkness. Karan gasped,
and joined me in that moment of reverie; an appraisal of our sweet
insignificance. It could have lasted longer, had the skies not suddenly
dimmed further. Tangye!

The moonlight was no longer adequate to guide us down those treacherous

trails; trails that winded down cliffs of straight fall and were not wider than
two feet. Every misstep was punished by a slip, a push that took us close to
the point of no return. Our cell phone torches became our saviors, but no
matter how much we walked, electric lights could not be seen on the
horizon. My companion‖s heart was beginning to be riddled with doubt. Mine
too leaped to the mouth, when we followed yak stomps down a fiendish
ridge to meet the river.

Fast Asleep

In spite of making the river crossing from a point that was wholly
inappropriate, sandy mush and all, we managed to get to the other side.
Moonlight was generous but a proper assessment of the topography could
not be made. It took barely half an hour from there to get to the suspension
bridge that heralded the commencement of the village of Tangye. For Karan,
who could but barely stagger by that point, those thirty minutes must have
felt like an eternity. I kept on motivating him throughout the way and took
some weight off his shoulders. Sleeping out in that menacing cold was not
an option, no way!⠀

285
On the twelfth hour of the second day of the walk, we reached Tangye. A
ghost town it seemed. All lights turned off, except on one home atop a
mound. Gigantic red cone pagodas along an equally grand maane wall, at
the entrance, defined the settlement.⠀
⠀
We came across a single floor white, fortified cottage of a medieval build,
with stacks of firewood on top, marked as a lodge. People were certainly
there, for Chinese sports bikes were parked right outside, covered in sacks to
protect them from the elements. No one however responded to our knocks
and calls – not there, not in the next building, not in the building atop the
mound, which seemed to be a monastery, nowhere! By the time our
prospects for a peaceful night‖s sleep started seeming bleak, the clock had
only struck eight. Just when we started questioning ourselves, luck turned
the tide. We happened to cross paths with a humble man. He had a cap on, a
funny mustache, and had a face that glowed with affection. Without a fuss,
he took us to Laxman Hotel. The sheet sign hung outside it had been ripped
apart by the winds and made unrecognizable. Were it not for that man, we
would have never found it.⠀
⠀
The place was a bit shabby, but our souls had been saved. An exchange with
the navy and purple bakkhu clad woman who ran the place erased all
concerns from my mind. There was a subtle aura of warmth in her ways;
one could feel it, feel at ease because of it. While dinner was readied, we
went out to wash the dust and grime that plagued us – a torrent of near
freezing water flowed from and by the tap. For a sense of peace, I took the
dare.

Attack Of Anxiety

“Wake up iih! Wake up! I‖m having a really bad anxiety attack, just like in
the old days. It‖s been a long time since this last happened. I don‖t know
what to do!”⠀
⠀
Karan was sweating profusely, his eyes were wide and dead still, and the
room was filled with thick, gray smog. Exhausted by the day‖s walk, half
asleep, and encumbered by the smoke, I could not really muster the energy
to respond well. I just offered placating words and requested him to adhere
to some distraction.⠀
⠀
A bit later, he woke me up again. He was not better off in any way. He asked
me for my phone. No sign of the network, but there were a lot of downloaded
YouTube videos on it. I was hesitant but gave in sympathizing with his
despair. I offered him the ebook reader I was carrying too. Then I stood up
and opened the door to let the smoke out. I explained to him the necessity of
doing so. Had I not done that, the asthmatic condition would have brought
me to my knees the next morning. After requesting him to be more
contextually aware, if possible, for a final time, for he had screamed in terror
twice making our hosts come out for a check, and agreeing to start the walk
later than we had planned to, I closed my eyes.⠀

286
When I woke up, my companion seemed to be in a better place. He had
spent hours watching an array of videos, i.e. until the phone‖s battery was
exhausted, before falling asleep a good deal of away through an Arundhati
Roy classic. His promise to give up on the stick had fallen flat, but all else
seemed fine.⠀
⠀
Our host had waited for us to wake up. Everyone else had left for work in the
fields beside the hamlet, closer to the river. She said that it was some twenty
minutes away on foot, and the duty to deliver lunch as soon as possible was
hers. We decided to have a healthy serving of daalbhaat before leaving. It
was convenient that way. At the dining bench, she inquired if we wanted
yarsagumbas. The price seemed fair, but we were on a shoestring budget,
and what would I even do with that aphrodisiac? ⠀
⠀
As we were about to pay dues and leave, after packing in some biscuits, she
offered us a ton of apples, free; a surprisingly inspiring bit of kindness. They
were fresh and bright, bound to be juicy. We could not accept it without
remuneration though: Is it not unfair how the ungenerous prosper, while
circumstances make the ones who cannot stop giving bow down before
them? Citing sin, the only argument she would buy, we made a
contribution.⠀

Beyond The Slim Void

Again, the sun sails away

No bay in sight
The heavens ripen red
And gray, and black, and blue anew
Roll back again without abate
No sorrows for tomorrow
No tomorrow for sorrows

Broad, beaming, daylight, the immensity of the canyon around astounded

us. The hamlet itself turned out to be larger than expected. Tattered
terracotta cliffs, which bled sand and pebbles, towered above us. Somehow,
a road had been drawn on it. Somehow, we had to climb up a winding trail
that soared up it. It did not take long for my river soaked shoes and socks to
dry. Bellies full and bags loaded, we headed out.⠀
⠀
The pagodas we had seen at night could only be fully appreciated under the
sun. The maane walls of orange and gray that lined along them had
intricately detailed slates with prayers in Tibetan script and religious
symbols. Apple trees with golden leaves shaded the way. The walls of stone
structures were not of a basic white but printed with wrinkles; like the
rebelliously colorful doors, windows, and prayer wheel encasements, they
had stories etched onto them. On a clifftop far above, resembling a pastry,
was a fort that had fallen to time.⠀
⠀
As we pushed higher up that winding path drawn on sand, the hamlet grew
insignificant in proportion to the landscape. The mighty mountains whose

287
foothills we had come down from the previous night regained their grandeur.
Trees became orchards. Field plots became indistinguishable stretches.
Houses became blotches of white. The river though grew wider and how it
gradually slanted down could be seen tangibly from the height we were in.
We were also surprised to see how its gray pseudo banks outsized the
settlement many times over. All that was created by humans was so
insignificant in the greater scheme of things.
⠀
Staggering, slowing down, panting, and punting, we pushed on to a slim
void, like the ones between teeth, carved in between two four storey or so
pieces of sandy boulders. Up it, a narrow, tricky, slippy path ran. It appeared
to me that we had crossed the four thousand meter elevation mark again, for
the air had palpably thinned. Halfway through, I looked back for a final
glimpse of the canyon. Such a magnanimous semblance! ⠀
⠀
It was a wildly different world beyond that pass. A flat dry desert with scant,
thorny red shrubs it was; its existence there verging on the miraculous like
the myriads of electricity poles that had been sunk into the heart of that
desolate terrain. They sure were brought in on tractors. Tractors whose
tracks prevented us from going astray, into nowhere land.

Tsampa And Chhyang

Far, far, to our right climbing up an impossibly cliff face was a man. We had
seen him before, tottering on steaming desert terrain, on the horizon. There
were a few depressions on the way, channels carved by monsoon streams
and winter snow melts. Beyond one he appeared, then after another
disappeared, and then a while passed before we saw him again, up there.⠀
⠀
We had stuck to the trail. It was drawn up at a not too inconvenient angle.
The cliff face around us had a remarkable texture, as seen from a distance,
almost elephant skin like. It took us almost half an hour to reach the top.
From there, a dramatically different extent could be seen. What lay before us
looked like a bizarre, surrealistic tapestry, more than anything – strokes of
thick yellow, accented by light purple, dotted with black caves, purple
mountains in the far flanks, and endless blue above. Somewhere, in between
was lodged a scant mass of dead greens, a settlement, which we later
identified to be Charang. It was all simply breathtaking, all of immense
proportions. One could only truly comprehend the aura of it all by being
there.⠀
⠀
We were on a ridge with an infinite drop, the trail was some five feet wide at
the best places, barely two in the toughest bits, and the winds blew with
distinct rage. If it were not for the churning stick that T‖s aunt from Kagbeni
had so graciously parted with, I would have had a tough time getting my
balance right on two feet. Karan, who was verging on exhaustion (by then it
had become clear that he had suffered a bout of altitude sickness), and I
decided to halt at a point, which was slightly wider, but no less steep. We
had found a sense of support by a boulder. There we shared some of the
apples that our host from Tangye had given us. From thereon, the trail
flattened a bit again, still ravaged, desolate, terrain.

288
⠀

Tsampa And Chhyang: The lone wanderer we met

289
The endless meandering trail way and a stellar climb behind us, we
surmounted the final pass before the descent to the Dhechyang rapids. ⠀
⠀
There, we met the figure whom we had followed all day. He was a feisty,
wrinkled, harshly tanned man. It looked as if he had tripped more than once
on the way. There was a red belt clasped tight around his waist to keep the
back straight. He stuttered and mumbled, but in good senses and faith; even
offering us a share of the tsampa (roasted flour) and local hooch he was
carrying. Karan, a medical student, did not take long to identify that the man
had cataracts. He admitted that his vision was poor. We tried to counsel him,
tried to explain to him the necessity of getting immediate medical attention,
but all in vain. Ignored by those who he thought were his own, and being
steadily weaned off the fundamental faculties, he kept sighing that he had
no future to look forward to. We offered him some water.

“Aaaah … I don‖t need water. I don‖t need anything. I have my tsampa and
chhyaang with me. I have all that I need!”

The man charged down towards Charang. How, with such a frail gait and
weak eyesight, he had ramped up that cliff, and traversed that desolate
terrain alone, was downright admirable, but also terribly heartbreaking.

Separation

After a morbidly vertical descent from the pass, at two past noon, we
reached the literally named Dui Ghare, on the banks of the braided
Dhechyang. There, we had sugary tea and biscuits: an intentional choice.
Yara was our proposed destination for the night. From the pass, I had
noticed how dismal the trail that led up there was – a seemingly thousand
meter high sandslide with no tangible trail. Karan had announced his
intentions the moment he saw the way. It was too much for him. The
previous night‖s unexpected anxiety attack had sapped all vigor for undue
adventure out of him. It was understandable. We calculated our spending
and divided the money. I passed on some of my clothes and other non
essentials to him. Not that my bag was not light, but I wanted to make most
out of that tea, eke out a couple of extra breezy miles. He declared that he
would walk to Charang, which was at a comfortable distance, and look for a
jeep. Despite not having any way to communicate; there was no Ncell
network in that region, we parted ways with a promise to meet at Lo
Manthang.⠀
⠀
I zoomed out and desperately tried to find a crossing across the rapids that
would not wet my shoes. Soggy shoes – a mighty curse on sandy verticals! I
retreated and went up the conventional bridge trail drawn up a cliff.
Synchronicity was the order of that late afternoon. It was as if the elements
had conspired to make things right. The winds were breezy, the mercury had
just fallen enough to balance out sweat, and the altitude was not alien to my
lungs. The phone and camera were in my bag. There were no distractions.
All there was to do was walk sincerely. I stopped not to capture the ecstatic
rapids and waterfalls, or that wildly long suspension bridge. For the most
part, I flew up the footstep marked sandslide effortlessly. On the upper

290
echelons, back over four thousand meters again, I made stops of twenty
counts, after every hundred steps. I knew I could not afford to let the slack
get to me, for Yara was still some way off.
⠀
After the pass, an immense plateau followed, traversing across which was
straightforward. The isolation though was deafening. For as far as the eyes
could see, no human marking or presence could be recognized. I was well
and truly alone. At around 4 PM, I was greeted by a pack of some two dozen
wolves on the outskirts of Yara.

Commotion

The wolves cautiously stared at me for a while. I did not let go of my gaze
either. They were about thirty meters away. I brought my bag forward to get
the camera out. As soon as I made that movement, they ran helter skelter
beyond the mound they were in. Flight, over fight! I thought it wise to not to
pursue those tormented souls.⠀

Leaps and slips were inevitable on that path down an abysmal creek. The
weather though was on my side, the waters were narrow, and, the walls
could have been less dry and without ledges. Making it to Yara, that tiny
hamlet of white cottages and terraced farms nestled below an avalanche on
a timer, a cliff so beautifully detailed yet equally baneful, from Tangye that
day was quite an accomplishment already. Then again, there was possibly
an hour more of daylight, and with that breezy mood still intact, I wished to
make the most out of it. After a brief consultation with a family maneuvering
bulls on their field, I was assured of the possibility of making it to Ghara in
an hour.⠀
⠀
Many ways led to Ghara – a road track, a conventional trail, a dry creek, and
ravenous climbs up mounds untrodden. I did not know which one I was on;
possibly a cocktail of them all. When I arrived at the edge of the village,
climbing up a field wall on a troublesome ridge, a woman saw me. She
screamed to warn the villagers of the arrival of this outsider in such an odd
time, through a path reserved for frolicking creatures and bandits. Quite a
few people came out of their homes to see what was happening. I smiled at
them like an idiot. I guess that toned down their vicious looks. They figured
out they were dealing with an urban buffoon. Why else would someone pick
that life endangering path over the familiar trail? ⠀
⠀
A horse in the field neighed at me aggressively. In a bid to avoid it, I
approached the village from the far end. Fortunately, after hearing
Kathmandu, everyone showed the way to the best lodge the village had – the
one at the top. I tried to explain that I was looking for a more budget
friendly, grounded place, but no one really paid heed to that. I reached there
just as the curtains were about to be pulled on the purple heavens.

291
 The Religion Of Accessibility

It was the allure of witnessing an unsullied Damodar Kunda that had

instigated the mid winter trip to Upper Mustang. Ghara was the final
permanent settlement on the trail that led there. A distance of twenty three
kilometers and elevation of fifteen hundred meters separated them. That
night in Ghara, I decided that the endeavor was not worth it. Not that I had
not covered greater distances before, in even more arduous conditions, but
the kind of spark that I had had then to power my hunch was missing.
Instead, with a promise to visit the monastery of Luri, a few miles down a
horizontal path, I just enjoyed the familial hospitality on offer. The elderly
hosts were very calm and understanding. They had not had guests for quite
a few days; the off season was setting in. The best room and warmest
blankets were given to me. There was an element of sympathy to it as well;
while they wore multiple layers of puffy jackets, I just had a tracksuit, which
for me was generally sufficient.⠀
⠀
Early next morning, before setting out, I had tea and bread. As I did, I got
along well with a young child, a relative of the hosts, who had been dropped
there for daycare. Children who grow up in rough spaces have a special
regard for affection. He kept following me around. When the hosts
sarcastically asked him if he wanted to go to Luri with me, he seemed
genuinely muddled.⠀
⠀
Throughout the way, Dhaulagiri looked mesmerizing. A quaint puff of
mushroom like cloud floated above it. Then, there were the ruins; walls of
medieval structures. Sheep were out by the hundreds to graze upon the hills
above them and fields had been drawn around. It is always sad to see
history neglected, but for a lack of narrative that is just the way it goes. The
story of the settlement‖s fall had been long forgotten. I wondered if an
avalanche, flood, spate of drought, or earthquake had led to its abandon. The
mountains, beautiful as they are from afar, can be quite unforgiving. The
streams on the way were frozen. Everything was quiet still.⠀
⠀
The, at least seven hundred year old, Luri Monastery was reached in little
less than an hour. There were two main structures, one atop a rough hill,
another closer to the main trial, but in essence, the entire hillside was a
monastery. It had numerous caves embedded into it, some rendered
inaccessible by the test of time. I had heard that frescoes and other
immaculate artworks decorated the walls of the caves. However, the main
entrance was locked. To open it, I had never wished to beckon the caretaker,
not with my miserly outlook. Also, for my ardent conviction, that locks mark
a failure of faith. What is made inaccessible is always prized, while what is
easily accessible is not celebrated. The landscape had already filled my heart
with joy. The immensity of the extent of the structure and the hills that
surrounded it all, under the endless blue, was astounding. It was a space
that in its silence provided for soul stirring reflection, as I wandered around.
I meditated upon the farce of a trail that led to Damodar Kunda – on what I
had become, and what had become of my dreams.⠀

292
Yara: One of many precariously situated plateau hamlets

293
 Coming To Terms With Fate

For it was almost 10, it made sense to have lunch before leaving. Nothing
could serve better and be efficiently served than the staple daalbhaat.
Considering the uncertainty of what lay ahead on the trail a short wait was
tolerable. The playful kid was there, fumbling around, occupying my
attention, and, the sunshine and blue skies could not have been more
gracious. The old man was also out on the yard. He had dead bluish gray
eyes, which I suspected to be a case of cataracts; for the man Karan and I
had met the previous day with the condition had similar eyes. I inquired
about them. He told me without grimace that the doctor had said that it was
too late. I could not help feel sorry, but he insisted that he was fine. In a way,
he had come to terms with his fate.⠀
⠀
From Ghara I went down to Yara on a more haphazard course than the one I
had come up from. It takes a special sort of idiocy to follow the road and end
up in a creek where crushing rocks crash intermittently. It also takes a rare
sort of luck to surmount those odds. I made it to Yara, then the riverside,
rather quickly. The newly cut road track aligned with dilapidated Manes on
several stretches. The cliffs around were full of caves. Everything was of
infinite proportions, amidst it all this lone walker‖s existence was ant like.⠀
⠀
It was at the riverside that confusion consumed me. The dirt road ran up the
hill to the left, on an alarmingly vertical trajectory, while a tractor track
seemed to proceed along the mushy riverbank. I knew the settlement of
Surkhang or Dhi would come next, but did not know where they precisely
were; up in the hills, down by the riverside, or beyond all that I was seeing.
In the end, the promise of certainty won.⠀
⠀
It did not take long to realize that taking the road was a mistake. I was at an
incredible elevation, with a bird‖s eye view of all that was below. I was at an
incredibly needless height, and the road could not stop meandering. If only
there was a decent path that winded down the cliff, I would have taken it. On
the far corner, a settlement started becoming visible. Above it was a zigzag
sandslide trail, the wondrous immensity of which compelled me to rub my
eyes.

Not Forsaken

Of all the settlements on that alternative trail from Chhusang, Dhi seemed to
be the most organized, yet also the most precariously positioned. I remember
being struck by handlooms paused, midway through producing exquisitely
detailed shawls, and a beautifully lit courtyard within a house. The
sandslide right above it though dwarfed the little white cottages, and
terraced fields that descended to the river, many times over. The Mustang
Khola itself must not always be such a saintly, gurgling blue. For sure, there
must have been a history of disasters; calamities that might be accentuated
by climate change. However, the people that I conversed with, guides and
owners of a lodge, seemed to perceive such existential threats as being

294
wildly abstract. They were busy sulking over how a horse of theirs left to
graze around the high passes of Makhchung had been taken away and
supposedly resold by a buffoon from Dolpo. ⠀
⠀
After having tea, biscuits, and a whole lot of water, I started the monumental
climb up that sandslide, with the sun right above my head. I took a
meditative approach to it, sticking to the basics. Vertigo: I did not look back.
Anxiety: I did not look up. Sanity: I set my eyes to where the next step was
due. Every two hundred steps or so, I took a break from that routine; stopped
to catch my breath. Each time, the village, its fields and orchards, became
more minuscule. Eventually they went out of sight. All that could be seen
were endless sawdust plateaus, cliffs, gorges, and mounds. Some hills
higher up had reddened iron oxide faces. The winds had unkindly shaped
the landscape.⠀
⠀
Two faux passes offered false promises, false victories. Thus, the
penultimate one was surmounted up a winding path without expectations.
To the accomplishment, there were no emotions. Immediate concerns
overruled what little remained, even the sight of the dirt road highway far
below to the left, and much later a glowing pyramid hill. On that side, the
winds were condemning and for a few minutes, a barrage of bullet like
hailstones swung my way. Snowfall looked likely as the skies became grim.
Seeing how the trails channeled across hillsides were thinning, and how
dismal weather loomed large, I thought it wise to pick pace while going
downhill. It was not without risks, but snowfall would have proclaimed
greater calamity, especially since it already was so chilly. My hands were
swollen red. The skin on my face was in radiated tatters. Throughout it all,
fortune forsook me not. It carried me through.⠀
⠀
The trail reunited with the main road about a half a mile before Lo Laa. All
behind me had started graying, but the flags there fluttered with glee,
exuberant snow capped purple mountains backdropped them.⠀

The Walled Town

Was Lo Manthang close by or was it not? On the first descent down that
flagged pass, things were not that apparent. It was a brazen, large valley, the
kind that is rarely spared from human involvement in this part of the world.
So, it must be I thought. Nonetheless, it took time for some of the structures
in the far end to assert their presence. A few minutes later, the walled town
was within reach, just a minor uphill climb across a brook, into the gateway.

The town was silent still; the winds howled and the canals gurgled, but there
were no people out in the streets. I had to get in touch with Karan, but had
no way to, and it was late dusk. A shop was open, but it could not be of help.
So, I took the best bet – strolling around. I entered random, narrow alleys
and zigzagged across the town aimlessly. Then, a sudden shot of
consciousness hit me.

295
My feet were jarred, since I was not used to wearing shoes. In fact, the walk
was the first one I was on without slippers for a decade. My body, battered
by the harsh walking and chilly winds for hours, had swollen. With a rare
passerby, I inquired about the nearest apothecary. I was assured that the
Tourist Information Center was the place to go to. Precise directions were
relayed, but I had to be redirected by another passerby later. It was after
some perseverance that I reached the center. The medical professional in
charge of dispensing medicines had already left though. Yet, luck endowed
me with no time to be grim. Someone‖s prayers were possibly at work,
although level headedness denies the heart an unquestioned
acknowledgment.

The two Buddhist practitioners that we had parted with in Chhusang just
happened to be there. We looked jovially at each other, and laughed at how
circumstances had brought us together again. What more? They said that
their guide had caught up with Karan that afternoon, and that he might
know where he was staying. Hope was again with me. I followed them to
their hotel, on the other end of the town.

Torches lead the way. Mind one‖s head. Enter. Enter the flowerpot courtyard.
Go up the flimsy wooden stairs. A room full of people. Everyone huddled
around the fireplace. Among them was the guide, and with him Karan. Their
eyes were riddled with disbelief. There was magic in the air. Time stopped
for a while. Then we smiled and hugged tight. Against the odds, reunited!

Stroll After Sundeck Magic

We managed to secure the last room available in the unanimously

recommended Lotus Holiday Inn. The lodge crafted out of modern materials,
with contemporary creature comforts, was by no means flawless, but it was
decently clean and had the basics right. The fact that the hosts there were
welcoming and easy going, despite being overstretched, helped. Karan was
already on good terms with them. With his almost lyrical, expressive,
explosive, colloquial manner of speaking, he had already left a memorable
impression. The staple meal was wholesome. The water was just warm
enough. I took my first shower since the commencement of the walk. Then,
as the locals did, I went out to the canal beckoning to freeze and washed my
clothes. Steaming hot tea served in a stainless steel cup, perfect to remedy
stalled fingers. It was a night of renewal.⠀
⠀
The next morning, I was woken early by shimmering light. It was the rising
sun. I looked out of the pane and was awestruck by what I saw: a silhouette
of leafless trees backdropped by the raging sky. Half the heavens were on
fire, the other half ready to douse it out with dark clouds, their battle was
refereed by a sliver of blue. I could not help but go to the sundeck to see how
everything else fared under such a magnanimous contest.⠀
⠀
A shade of purple had won over the skies, but the mountains and mounds,
and everything around them, had been liberally blessed with whisks of
fleeting gold. From it all, only the moon stood aloof and apart. The mercury

296
was clearly well below zero. First my fingers froze, holding the camera
became difficult; I had to put my hands back into the pockets regularly.
Then, I started shivering ridiculously. Moments later, conditions eased up a
bit, but my body demanded that I go down and get some hot water. After
having careful gulps of which, I went back to bed. By that time, from the
kitchen window, it could be seen that the unceasingly devoted had already
started with their daily circumambulations.⠀
⠀
The sun showed no promise of breaking out. Snowfall instead seemed to be
looming. It had already graced the nearby hilltops. In the backyard, I was
shocked to see that all the clothes that I had washed and left to air dry the
previous night had frozen. That feeling was momentary though. How could it
not be? – I asked myself, and felt silly. While I was trying to separate two
ends of an apparel, stuck together with ice harder than glue, it shattered and
broke. Quite a piece of achievement! Have you ever broken an
undergarment? ⠀
⠀
At around 8:30, Karan and I decided to take a stroll around the old town. For
my usual attire was frozen, I walked out in my drab night pair. The fortified
palace within the medieval walled town, later converted to a museum, was
under repair and closed to the public. Monarchical privileges had been
broadly rescinded after the declaration of the republic and the last king was
no more. Yet his son, engaged in the tourism sector, was still referred to as
Prince, and the institution had not lost all reverence. Our hosts encouraged
us to try to see him.⠀
⠀
Apart from the palace, three monasteries were deemed essential visits. The
first of which we stumbled upon was surprisingly unwelcoming. An Austrian
couple had gone there before us. They were, without hassle, entertained, and
imbued with fascination, or at least that is what they told us. Yet when we,
two drab young men, brethren by statehood, approached the monastery, we
were told by a monk that the dog there was crazy, could bite us, and he
would not bear responsibility if anything went wrong.

“You don‖t want to face the dog right? Then, don‖t come in!”

The red door was never opened. Perhaps, the monk took us to be hooligans.
Perhaps, by our scraggly appearance, like many others, we did not seem like
the kind of people who would benefit the monastery. Fatalism at its best,
laziness, or resolute capitalism? We turned back. It was not the first time
something like that had happened to me. Such denial saps out veneration.
There was much more to see, anyways.

Unfeeling

How did I feel while wandering around the maze like streets of that
medieval, walled town? I do not know. I am quite the unfeeling person. The
reverberating chirps of sparrows, the mystic aroma of juniper in flames, the
white and orange, the exotic percolation of light in narrow corners that for
brief moments rebelled against the lame, grayness of the snow coveting

297
weather; I remember them all vividly, without the slightest bit of lust or
disconsolation. I relive them with a straight face. To blame the chilly weather
of that day for my numbness could be a worthwhile excuse, but here I am
pinching my skin, and it is still dead. That my friend is the price one pays for
an unrelenting pursuit of reason.⠀
⠀
Time and time again, we hit dead ends on those eerily narrow streets. An
elderly denizen with a broad smile was always available to say that there
was no way ahead. We smiled back. They seemed to be used to intruders.
Fascinating it was how some houses had to be accessed by climbing up
ladders, others by ledges on walls. Bow down, mind your head, lights out
and back to revision bell. Only windows and doors, and relics announced a
departure from the duotone scheme. Nowhere else more than inside the
tapestry laden monasteries, home to many priceless scrolls and countless
more bestowed wishes. To those revered portals, people came from lands
far, far, away, hoping to see a glimpse of the light, the light that I would
argue is abundantly available under the infinite skies. Yet, there was a
certain satisfaction in lighting lamps there, bringing a momentary respite
from the tyranny of darkness to that chapel. The smell of burning butter
coupled with ceremonial hymns was warm soup for the soul. To each his
own!
⠀
It is common practice, for mountain denizens, to retreat to the comforts of
warmer cities as the mercury drops. I observed the hamlet from a
monastery‖s terrace. It had a particular hairstyle – bushy; piles of branches
on rooftops. Cone shaped pagoda tops, rolling flags, protruding satellite
dishes, and solar panels, amidst it all, inconsequential intermissions.
Ravaged hills, with a myriad strokes, like in one‖s palm, curtained the world
beyond.

Free To Ponder

North of the medieval town, across the river, skeletal structures stood atop
two mounds higher than the rest. I was curious. Those were ruins of the
summer palaces older than the town itself I was told. One the king‖s palace,
another the queen‖s, bastions of a long forgotten regality, by present
residents visited only to fulfill ceremonial obligations.⠀

“There is nothing there. It is just a stack of pale bricks. There is nothing

worth the harsh climb.”

Turn of the Inn of Lotuses made his case to dissuade me.

“Oh, what a wonderful pilgrimage!” ⠀

I thought.
⠀
My companion Karan had already made up his mind to return to
Kathmandu, he was waiting for a pickup truck; a deal with the driver had
already been struck. Not that I did not try to convince him to continue, but,

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⠀
Lomanthang: Dawntime circumambulations

299
as always, my walk knew no end, and I could not hold him hostage. I must
praise him for his generosity though. He insisted on giving me a greater
share of the remaining funds than was due. Somewhere, I wished for him
not to feel guilty, but, with his high morals, he could not help. The fluffy,
tattered, white bag, I left at the hotel. For the second time in the course of the
journey, we hugged and parted ways.

“If I return soon enough, we shall meet again!”⠀

It took an hour‖s slug, an endless stream of sweat and heavy inhalations, in

the midday heat, on that dead pale path of my creation, to get to the higher
palace. Atop, like I had been throughout, I was alone. There was nothing
there, yet, everything. To ponder upon all and none, I was free.

High up, all below me; talk about feeling godlike. Wind kissed, sailing with
the clouds; talk about feeling clodlike. Vertigo, pull me down. Slip not, for the
walk has to go on.

Towards The Caves

Back to Lo Manthang; back for the bag, back to go again. Much to my

surprise Karan was still there at the hotel. We chatted as I had my late break
lunch, as usual daalbhaat to the fullest. He was desperate for a word from
the pickup vehicle driver. Again, he came out to the edge of the town to bid
me farewell, only with a different coat, one of exasperation. That was our
third and final parting.

Groups of dirt bikers zoomed ahead of me on that road to Chhosher drawn

on the banks of a meandering river. They buzzed me off bouts of drowsiness.
The gloomy weather had rid all elements of vivacity. The gray, blunt river
would otherwise have been blue. The charmless mountains that surrounded
me would otherwise have been golden. That incredible maane wall would
have been fiery red, like a stream of lava rush in between the dusty road.
But, it was meant to be a dull walk. Chilly winds blew, and mini typhoons of
dust clouds erupted. The work to better the road and the embankments that
saved it had been left half done. It worsened my plight. Horses, sheep, and
load ridden asses, equally perplexed, grazed lazily on scant stretches of pale
grass by the road.⠀
⠀
On the far right horizon, I saw a beautifully sculpted cliff face with
perforations. As I progressed ahead, those were revealed to be caves. It was
an instant of strange delight. Chhosher, famed for records of prehistoric
existence, was within reach. I had set my sights on staying at the Shelker
Guest House for the night, recommended by many, and whose brochures,
kept in every Lo Manthang establishment, promised an excellent
experience.⠀
⠀
There was a tent and hall by the road, which at first I thought was the entire
establishment. The promised exquisite snooker house was a mean pub of
sorts. I stood observing a rowdy young group of jeep operators, the clothes

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they wore, the way they spoke, the songs they listened to, as they engaged
in a never ending game, over drinks and meat, ignoring repeated calls to
attend to an emergency. It all seemed very perplexing; the shifts set in
motion by the onrush of soulless modernization. I climbed up to the roof of
the concrete building. The caves that seemed so near had retreated further
afar.⠀

Half pants suffice when one is in motion in the mountains. Not while staying
still, surely not in winter. Seated in a plastic chair in that tent I began to
shiver, waiting for dinner to be readied. Like the furry black dog that lay
outside, I too had coiled myself into a lump. Steaming tea helped restore a
sense of normalcy, but not for long. The young woman preparing dinner was
unusually fidgety. The sole light in the tent was right in front of her, above
the stove. She grinned, with stellar, protruding eyes, presenting an ominous
look; she stopped fidgeting, a strange silence consumed her whenever I
sought to converse. A riddling pain inhabited her soul. She did not have the
words to express it.⠀
⠀
After dinner, the middle aged woman donning a colorful garb announced
that arrangements had been made for the night in the village and the
younger woman would lead me there. Under starlight, I followed her on a
zigzag path across the river, then into, and around the village. Next to a little
barn of weeping cattle was what seemed to be a family home, but no, it was
a shop and a lodge as well, mightier than all neighboring structures. The
room was quite basic, just as I liked it. Sheets and blankets had to be dusted
off, meaning that it had been inhabited.⠀
⠀
The Shelker Guest House was not based in one building, but spread across
Chhosher. For the fanciful there was even a fifty dollar per night room up in
the cliff face; a renovated cave, renovation the appropriateness of which I
doubt. With the other woman, I had inquired about the caves right above
Chhosher. From as far back as she remembered they had been used to keep
sheep, goats, grains, and fodder in winter, and that was it.

“The Dzhong Cave is the special one. I have the key to it. These are ordinary
caves.”

She had reiterated.⠀

⠀
When I woke up, there was no one around. So, I thought it fit to head
straight to the roadside tent.

“No one there, really?”

The woman gave me a doubtful look. It took a detailed explanation and

payment of dues to gain her confidence.

“Pay for the tickets. Go around. Visit the monasteries. I will be there, outside
the cave, in an hour at most.”

Assured by that promise, after tea I proceeded.⠀

301
 No Sisyphus

It took me a while, a sort of heartburn, to realize that the packet of biscuits I

had bought for thrice the marked price had expired three years ago. I
brought the fact to the woman‖s notice. A pause of breathless fear took over
her momentarily. For my eyes were not ridden with angst, to callousness it
gave way:

“Oh, we‖re in the mountains. Things don‖t sour here!”

They sure did, so did promises.⠀

⠀
It was a clear morning, just a few cheeky clouds above the mountains pelted
with a fresh batch of snow. The waters were blue again. Across the bridge of
colorful flags, I walked left into a stoic gate shining bright. Its ceiling was
painted brilliantly, so brilliantly that it had to be guarded by a bamboo net.
The settlement that it led to was eerily silent; leafless trees and the dark
shadows they cast upon huts washed in light sapping white, with vividly
decorated locked doors, added to the effect. Almost all residents, it seemed,
had already left for their winter homes in hill cities. An elderly woman I met
could hardly communicate. She just showed me the way ahead. The
monastery with a unique wooden cuboid pagoda, which seemed to be
undergoing reconstruction, too was locked, yet from a higher vantage point, I
got a satisfying view. Each house had a sizable, stone walled, cattle
enclosure with flimsy, tin sheet gates. Rearing still remained central to life,
certainly more so than in the places I had been to in the previous twenty four
hours.⠀
⠀
The dusty trail to the higher monastery was aligned with mighty caves,
almost like the cliffs had opened their jaws, and thorny shrubs with petite
red flowers. Some buildings had been built onto those steeply vertical
hillsides in defiance. The higher monastery though was an exception. Its
deep orange body, with blue windows and little brown chimney tops, which
sank seamlessly into the massive cliff riddled with caves behind, was
reminiscent of Petra. The monk‖s quarter below was painted with delicious
colorful stripes. The caves of course were more ancient; the rest a later
invention necessitated by the human desire for grandeur. Something that
had to be saved by embankments in that hostile environment, where by
norm things fell apart.⠀

I have always been content to endure what life presents before me. My rare
protestations are of abstract origin. These lips have kissed dirt far too many
times to be insinuated by obstacles for too long. A habit has been irrevocably
wired; I am not someone who knocks and gnaws at closed doors for long. I
am no Sisyphus.⠀
⠀
There were digits scribbled on a piece of paper, stuck to the mirror outside
the gate, and monks in the quarter too, but I was content with what was on
offer. An incredible imprint of the infinite blue ranges on the windowpane
lay on one side and a hawk‖s eye view of the river valley expanse on
another. Ruined forts dotted tops of frantic hillsides in the vicinity,
tomorrow‖s ruins in the making below. I looked up in admiration of the
imperfect, droop dried, paintjob; blessed I was to be on the balcony of that
stumbling arc. Minutes passed by in wonder, hours could have too, but I had

302
to move on. The woman with the keys would be waiting for me at the cave.
No one should have to needlessly suffer because of me.⠀
⠀
The cliff that the Shija Jhong caves were dug into was somewhat similar to
that of the monastery. However, instead of an elaborate façade, it had a
profane but functional concrete staircase and a large sports ground in front.
Not ideal, but convictions of the tribe cannot be contested in nooks and
crannies of the mountains. Forty five minutes on the dot, but the woman
was not there yet. I explored around, waiting for her.⠀
⠀
From the top of the staircase, again a scintillating sight. But, when
scintillation becomes the norm, it blunts out. Inside, there was a wooden
ladder and above it, a locked door. I went out, hobbled up a sandslide face,
and managed to get a peek into a cave face. The more I saw, the more it all
seemed benign. The fascination that I had harbored for the caves from
school days wilted away. For an hour, I waited; basking in the sun on the
bottom ledge, but the woman did not come. There was not a way to contact
her either. Fountain blue skies had my fate penned. Wilted wonder cannot
be resuscitated. Motion, I saw, was my true love, all else was fleeting.

Good People

With the great circumambulation, half complete, as I was hovering back to

Lo Manthang, the clanks and clutter of a mechanism compelled me to pull
brakes. I could not help but go up a mound and look across the wall. A
middle aged woman was operating a rustic, wooden loom held together by
nails and wires. Her husband was assisting. Like me, they were both badly
sunburned. When he saw me peeking with a camera in hand, the man
suggested that I could take pictures without hesitation and invited me in. I
assumed that they were used to dealing with visitors, but the tone of voice
was unmistakably simple and warm.⠀
⠀
After I took some casual shots, to my surprise, they offered tea, then tsampa
porridge as well. Those I later insistently paid for. Since it was time for lunch
already, I gobbled a couple of packets of sweet biscuits as well to secure the
energy needed for an effortless advance.⠀
⠀
They were good people; their hands swollen and scarred, their mannerisms
meek, their words even humbler. Their relatives, they mentioned, were
doing well in Kathmandu, but they wished to avoid unnecessary humdrum
as much as possible, understandably so. When I pointed out how the
wholesale people had sold them expired biscuits, they appeared troubled, it
was a big deal for them, but helpless.

“If only we knew better.”

They sighed.⠀
⠀
The trail leaned into, across and around snowmelt creeks. The sharp edged
gray mountains ahead seemed within reach, fresh snow made them look

303
like sundaes. What was in actual proximity though was dismal. Ruins of a
medieval stupa had been completely obliterated and replaced with a dull,
concrete replica. A statement on a flex board called for funds to continue and
expand the project – aiming at H.H. the Dalai Lama‖s good health …
Nonetheless, by no means was that an exceptional affair. In fatalistic
Himalayan realms, concrete heralds modernity. It is seen as a hallmark of
privilege.⠀
⠀
To the tunes of Old Town Road, I marched across the silent alleys of
Thinkkar. Only the riveting beats of fluttering flags could be heard at a
distance. Like every other white house under that brilliant blue sky, the
palace of colorful windows, undergoing reconstruction, too was locked.
Instead of continuing on the trail that led towards two massive ruined forts, I
plotted my way down towards a distant road. A vast expanse of pale
grassland, with barricades and creeks in between, where cattle and horses
were set free to roam, lay before me.

⠀
Family

Back to Lo Manthang again, back straight to the Lotus Holiday Inn: the
Chosher Thinkar circumambulation complete, the one that began in
Chhusang still remaining. By that time, a great many people there – from the
kid that played outside, to the young girls that helped in the kitchen, to the
couple that owned the place, to a group of tourists that had stayed there
overnight, were in gracious terms. A series of warm conversations had led to
that air of familiarity. It took me fifteen minutes just to exchange smiles and
greetings, and settle in.⠀
⠀
“Don‖t know how, but you‖ve already become like family. I‖ll really
remember you for a long time.”

The round faced, fair woman who owned the establishment commented,
smiling.

“How can I help you?”

After offering a cup of steaming tea, she asked.

“A bowl of syakpa please!”

With moistened eyes, I pleaded.⠀

⠀
Every noodle slurped in, it was three past midday. I announced my intention
to rush down to Charang. If it was anyone else, the hoteliers would have
contested such an attempt, but they had more faith in me than I had in
myself by that point.

“Are you a Hirachan?”

With that question, I had left a bitter first impression on the aristocratic Bista
foreperson there. Yet, by that moment of parting, he thought of me to not

304
just be a respectable man, but also a lovable one. I was presented with a can
of juice, after I denied beer, and honored with a khaadaa. I thought myself
undeserving of such goodness. I had only listened with an open heart and
answered queries earnestly. It was Karan who must have heedlessly hyped
me up!
⠀
The two winding dirt roads, old and new, were all mine to blow dust and
zoom across. Cotton candy clouds floated across the skies before snowfall
gloom set in. By that point, the army camp, the dilapidated sky caves, and
the goliathan, wire barred, pagoda visible from the Dhee trail, were way
behind me. It must be mentioned that the latter two had been jeopardized by
the Kali Gandaki corridor highway set to connect India and China. That great
mission outweighed all, including long term touristic reputation. Within
moments, the infinite tapestry woven cliffs and mounds were deluged by
purple, the skies by red, as sundown brewed.⠀

Bravo!

For the most part the trail from Lo Manthang to Charang was aligned with
the dust puff road. There were what the locals called shortcuts though, trails
that ran down and up steep hillsides on which roads took lengthy swivels. A
particularly consequential but difficult one came after it got dark. The
moment I lunged down a landslide of rolling pebbles and debris into that
creek, the hums of an engine subsided. I looked back. A smiling man patted
the back seat of his motorcycle. It was an offer for a lift, which I politely
declined by tapping my left chest and waving back with a smile. He
reciprocated the gesture and continued. The kind gesture sweetened my
evening. Throughout the way down, I could see his headlight illuminated
trajectory; it was a lengthy turning. The uphill climb that followed was
easier, for maintaining balance was less of an issue.⠀
⠀
It was quite dark when I got to Charang. Its pattering canals shone in the
dark. The racing waters reflected the moon. Their waves tore it asunder and
yielded a silvery flow. There was no one to ask directions to, the hamlet was
as barren as its trees, so I kept on following the road. I was looking for
Dolma Hotel. Tenzing of Lotus Inn, whose people had been so gracious to
me, had recommended that I stay there. It was his sister‖s lodge.⠀
⠀
The place had a dingy feel to it, which I took for a reflection of the people
who ran the establishment. Like elsewhere, everyone was huddled around
the kitchen flames. While dinner was being readied, my hunger for
connection found respite in a Basque forayer. He too was an outcast, for his
English was not fluent. His self loathing guide was mighty stewed. To each
of his antics, the man responded by cheerfully exclaiming – baale! Every time
he did that, he sent the entire room into splits. We chuckled over how the
Congress Party's symbol had been placed among idols in the worship corner
of the room too. He had a hefty Nikon of a bygone era. I had a light zoom
compact. We compared pictures and exchanged stories.⠀
⠀
“Give me the cheapest room, the common one will work fine.”

305
I pleaded, as usual, when a two bedroom with an attached bathroom was
offered to me.

“But you have to keep your things safe!”

Dolma retorted.

“Look at my bag, there‖s nothing! Four thousand rupees is all I have! If

someone‖s going to come at me for that, so be it!”

Those words I pronounced loudly, for all to hear.

Nothing, not even the foul smelling blankets, could dull my sleep. For sure,
the blankets in the other rooms were not worth the upgrade. I had a pocket
deodorant spray that helped though.⠀
⠀
Early next morning, as I was having tea, I overheard a man who was also a
part of the establishment talk of how he had been swindled out of his horse
by another. In a delayed payment, he had received bagfuls of Shaligram –
round, black stones, that contain intricate fossilized remains of long gone sea
floor straddling Ammonites, chiefly found close to the source of the Kali
Gandaki River. He complained of the troubles he would have to undergo to
sell them. I am not a man who collects souvenirs; pictures and memories are
all that I carry. Yet, somehow, in that moment, a scintillating spark ran
down my spine, and raced all across the body. It was the thought of
someone whose affection had sparked a rare moment of delight in this
barren soul. And though, it was not much, an inspired sense of faith, led me
to secure it.

Falling Palaces

It was a hazy, hair raisingly cold morning. Snowfall seemed imminent.

Instead of heading south, with a blatant disregard for all that could go
wrong, through maze like alleys lined with canals and under forlorn trees, I
proceeded to the eastern end of the hamlet. There, atop an eroding mound,
stood the dilapidated palace, verging on total ruin.⠀
⠀
Of the massive extended fort complex, only a white block with numerous
windows remained reasonably intact. I had heard that there was a museum
there, but the person with the keys was not around. The rest had become
one with the tapestried hills, stones and sand falling apart.⠀
⠀
Out of curiosity, and because it was possible to do so, I ascended the ruins,
to the rooftop, through the backside. In the external, accessible, locations,
except a fading religious artwork on a wall, all else had unsurprisingly
dulled away into obsolescence. The pale walls were falling apart, stone by
stone. Pigeons had made inaccessible bits of the timber stacked roof their
home. To its rise and fall the mauve mountain, which towered above the
hamlet on the opposite end, had stood testament. Charang, its promise of
verdancy stifled by winter, melded with the infinite sawdust desert. I took a

306
stroll around the half a century old monastery, guarded by hustling canines,
before hitting the highway again.⠀
⠀
There were light showers, but the snow only pelted hilltops. I had been
spared by fortune. The dusty road extended infinitely. The way it warped up
mounds, gently teasing the mirage of mauve mountains, was poetic. Those
mountains had many creases and seams, steepened ridges ran down it like
arteries. Each had an impressive personality, which the weather served to
accentuate. I might have missed clear views, but there was more substance
in the haziness of it all. Without glaring sunlight, the red, Grand Canyon like
cliffs of Ghami studded with caves appeared haunting. As I descended via
the footstep marked sandy shortcut from Tsarang Laa, I could not help
stopping at every road loop, to be befuddled, and bogarted into reverence, by
the oblique stratification of the landscape that lay before me. Only a group of
motorcycles, two jeeps, and a lorry had passed; serenity was mine to rejoice
in. To a couple of young locals, out scraping dry grass, who took objection to
my wanderings on foot, I could not offer a satisfactory response. The burden
of giving the world palatable answers was not mine to take.

Fluidity

It was disappointing to see how that celebrated maane wall of Ghami had
been reduced to a road divider. But, then again, what is born from the earth
returns to it, that is only natural, and our presence here is just an anomalous
blip in the larger scheme of things. The cold deserts of Mustang, those
tapestried cliffs and mighty mountains, in fact the entire Himalayas and the
plateau of Tibet, were the seabed eons ago. It is apparent in the character of
the landscape, an observation that does not elude critical minds. If the seas
can rise to form mountains, and the mountains can drown into seas, what
purpose is there in holding any entity too dear? Change is the only constant.
The quicker one comes to terms with the fluid nature of reality, the better.⠀
⠀
From where a bridge was being built, I scaled up a hill face. I assumed it was
a shortcut, for a dirt road swung up that hill. Many a barriers – walls, thorny
shrubs, tricky ditches, deployed to contain yaks and curtail wild creatures,
were surmounted on that ascent. It required careful, time consuming,
calculations to make it. An infinite extent of cone patterned, faltering hills,
graveyards of ancient sea creatures, was behind me. Where one country
began and another ended was of little consequence. It was all the same. The
only pressing reality was hunger. Rarely do I feel hungry, as people say it is
felt. It usually takes a gastrointestinal reflux, a fit of tinnitus, or a bout of
dizziness to signal that the tank is empty. Tea and biscuits had been had
that morning, but it was midday already. It was at that troubling hour that
the road split into two, then three, and uncertainty began to loom.⠀
⠀
Four thousand and twenty six meters, Karki Laa. I had not planned to get
there. Somewhere, I took a wrong left turn, and by the time, I realized that it
was not the main trail, I had battled breaths short and slim to claw up a
significant way. In hindsight, I did not seem to have the energy to think
straight. My rationale to persist hinged on what I had merely assumed to be

307
the right direction. Throughout it all, the illusory prance of light and haze, on
all that was around, did not let me be too jarred or jejune. For this idiot,
there was much to be grateful about.

Where Am I?

A road flowed down the slanted landscape, another meandered steeply up a

hill on the horizon. Could there be a settlement in between? Would the trail I
was on lead to the road? Uncertainty loomed. ⠀
⠀
First, a lone cottage was revealed. Then, five or so minutes later, swathes of
brown fields. I did not know where I was headed, but it was a settlement
nonetheless; there was reason to be hopeful. The scurry down the final,
intimidating, sandy slope involved dexterous maneuvering of the feet to
battle the will of the body to capitulate to gravity. If I were any younger, if
my feet were any less sore, if I had not had those numerous ghastly falls, I
would have simply given in to rolling down. Yet, the inertia of experience
was too great.⠀
⠀
“Which village is this?”

With a ridiculing laughter, the children tossing around a rag ball affirmed in
unison that it was Ghiling. Luckily, they were not the kind that played
mischief with directions. The sole, functioning lodge was behind the pagoda.
The hunger had by then transcended into brutal weakness, debilitating my
breathing. To their enthusiastic calls to visit the monastery and ruins atop a
hill first, I could not acquiesce. Almost every collective has a narrative that
makes them feel more significant than others, and it is not possible to
graciously acknowledge them all the time. In fact, from a purely objective
standpoint, the call to respect cultures and faiths is a veiled call to respect
power hierarchies. To be honest, I had seen similar structures in every
village, and did not possess the academic intellect or purpose to delve
deeper.⠀
⠀
“I‖ve no qualms about even having leftovers. No qualms as long as it‖s
vegetarian and filling.”

I delivered my regular line, after making preliminary inquiries. Sumptuous

daalbhaat was efficiently made by the sole woman running the
establishment. She had without hesitation taken a break from weaving work,
for which I was truly grateful. Food good, mood good! All set to soar: to
infinity and beyond! ⠀
⠀
The caves and monastery, despite their precarious position, made for quite
the sight from the exit hill. For a wanderer, it is not unearthing layers, but
being graced by unexpected good that is of consequence.

308
 Soaring Spirit

On lean ways cut across sandy hillsides, up the pass I frolicked like a blue
sheep. Then, to Shyangbochen, I raced down like a gazelle. Throughout the
way, a snow crested black peak offered a disorienting sense of distance. At
times, it seemed to be a stone‖s throw away. Then, at other times, it seemed
to be a celestial component, impossibly distant. It was 4 PM, dim and dark,
when I reached that line of houses by the road. At Ghiling, I had been
informed of a shorter way, via which the swiftest of messengers could reach
Samar in three hours.

“Can I make it in three hours?”

I asked myself.

“You can make it!”

The voice within reassured.

I sprinted for the better part of thirty minutes, stopping only once, at the
bottom of the first hill, to exchange timings with two teary, exhausted
travelers. It had taken them six hours to get there from the other side.
Reality check!
⠀
The slim, sandy trail was crafted along a creek, on the gorge. The cliffs on
either side were humongous. Fallen rocks, big and small, were scattered on
every stretch of that spine tingling, creepy way. It felt as if something was
about to go wrong the entire while. I only spent a quick minute at the
venerated Cave of Chungsi, before getting back to the trail. The penultimate
ascent, which at that time I assumed to be the final one, was surrounded by
mighty caves that were infested by bats and possibly other malignant
beings. Strange sounds that came from those added to my sense of
insecurity. The energy to be sprightful, I did not possess anymore. It was a
slug for survival. Ten steps forward, then a ten second halt, then another ten
forward, and so on.⠀
⠀
Good news: somehow, someway, I reached the top. Bad news: it got dark,
quite quickly. The last, lustful wave of gold rolled down the horizon. The
ugly news: another steep descent! Nor could I afford to be too careful with
my steps, neither too reckless; a steadfast, deliberate pace had to be
maintained. Flashlight and mind focused on the feet; constant vigilance
delivered me down to the brook and up to Samar without a scratch. Things
could have been wildly different though. On that focused descent, a cranky
herder almost leapt at me with a stick. I could only see his silhouette under
the scant moonlight. He had without inquiry taken me for a thief. Ignoring
his enraged slurs, offering only a tame explanation, I kept pacing on, as the
dogs kept barking. I was informed later that if I had been only a few minutes
late, the most vicious of his giant canines would have been set free.

309
 Unwinding

The people at the hotel in Samar, especially the brutish men watching a UFC
bout with charged expressions, treated me with vilifying suspicion. As
always, to allay concerns and lighten the air, I infused my speech with
intricate details: of the place I had spent the previous night in, the state of
landmarks, descriptions of people, coupled with admission of comically
flawed choices. As if the day had not been spooky enough, a teddy bear was
hung by the neck on the hall‖s wall. Theodore on the cross! The conversation
eventually changed tone. That fate had been avoided and dinner was a
matter of celebration. Arrangements were basic, as sought. A team of guides
packed one dorm. The second one was left solely to me.⠀
⠀
The morning was clear and generously warm. Even in broad daylight, the
moon shone unabashedly. The yellow peaks around were peppered with
sweet, white snow. Trees painted the way with their artsy shadows. It was a
good day to walk. I bid farewell to that hamlet nestled below a mighty hill
after a shot of tea. I looked not at the dusty road where tornadoes brewed,
but embraced the skies of healing blue and kept my eyes on the moon. That
is how I landed up in trouble, again.⠀
⠀
I had blissfully continued, even past an excavator at work; on and on, and
on, without much thought. By the time doubt started creeping in, especially
because I had not come across anyone, eight or nine kilometers must have
had been walked. Turning back did not seem to be feasible. I continued, even
as the track seemed to get worse, hopeful of finding a trail.⠀
⠀
I arrived at a cliff, all traces of road or trail that must have winded down it
erased consequent of expansion efforts. Rocks rolled down intermittently, on
what I assumed to be was at least a five hundred meter, near vertical drop. I
paused for a minute, plotting a way down that landslide and running
numbers through the mind. There was a significant chance of death or
severe injury. Did I care for life enough? Blank. Did I care enough to walk,
back and down, fifteen kilometers? Maybe not! Amidst those thoughts, I took
the first step down that cliff. Sheer, lovely, thrill! The sand and dust beneath
my feet collapsed. A menacing billow of dust surged up.⠀

Shimmy Downslide

I lost balance and had to quickly take another step down. That step too sank
in deep. Billows upon billows of dust blew up! After a dozen lapses, my left
foot found a rock to hold steady on. That sense of relief, of having been
saved, did not even last for a full second. That rock started to slide.
Miraculously, trusty stick in hand, I managed to ski down on it. Another rock
bumped down by my left, missing me by mere inches. It was all very
thrilling. I was high on adrenaline.⠀

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Women working on the road project, far down to my left, began screaming.
Down twenty five meters, the stick stuck into a crack. Balance at last! One
foot in the air, another on an edge, the stick held me up. I carefully plotted
my way down from there, taking calculated, firm steps. From a point, further
vertical descent became impossible. I started nudging rightwards with my
face towards the wall, grasping on to whatever I could. The women were still
yelling at me, the crowd had grown bigger. Stakes possibly had been placed
on my fate and they were eager to see what would happen. Rocks that had
fallen from above were stacked more abundantly on that side. They became
my stairs, my ticket out of that mess. I just had to be alert. If the rock wished
to roll, I had to shift my weight with it, gracefully, something that I had
managed before on glaciers and alpine canyons. The trick was to not give in
to anxiety. Focus! Focus! Focus! Only a couple of hundred meters more
remain!
⠀
From head to toe, I was covered in dust. After I dusted my shoes off, I looked
up at the cliff to chart the way I had taken, marked more by foot drags than
footsteps. Impossible! I had to turn my head all the way up just to get a
glimpse. If I had seen the inclination of that landslide from the bottom, I
would not have had the heart to attempt it. I shook off the buzz, approached
an excavator, and asked the driver for some drinking water. The young man
looked at me like he had seen a ghost. His hands trembled as he passed me
the water. He must have seen me shooting down.

“This is the way to Chele right?”

He nodded.

“No more free falls I hope!”

He shook his head.

Not a word was exchanged. I brushed off the dust in my clothes and carried
on.⠀

Towards The End

The walk thereon was pretty straightforward. I dashed down the narrow
alleys of Chele, a hamlet where each home had atop it a tattered yet
fluttering white flag, to the dusty highway track. The stunning proportions of
the meandering river put the village of Chhusang in the distance and the
high peaks behind it to shame. To my right was a perfect semblance of two
peaks and excavator riveted cliffs. Those cliffs were embellished with
hundreds of faltering caves. Hundreds, with their myriad secrets, must have
succumbed to the expanded road. One was accessible and so I entered it. In
fact, it might be more appropriate to say that I flowed in to it. It was an
effortless endeavor.⠀
⠀
Inside the unguarded, undecorated cave was a strange sense of comfort.
There was an opening to wiggle higher, from which cool air gushed down. It

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was as if I had been cuddled by it. The view of the spotless blue heavens and
purple mountains was framed in the cave‖s intricate yellow contours. I spent
a considerable amount of time there, somber but at ease.⠀
⠀
As I was crossing the Kali Gandaki Bridge to the familiar realm of Chhusang,
numerous jeeps passed by me. Ever since the walk began, I had not seen so
many vehicles at once. The warm weather, after days of meek and
impending snowfall, also felt unusual. At the Braka Guest House, I surprised
the hotelier with my return. It was a sense of purpose in completion that had
taken me back there. She was busy setting things right. The group on the
jeep had only left moments ago.

“They said that they were heroines, and models or something, from
Kathmandu. For a shoot of some kind … but I swear I did not recognize a
single one ... It was a huge group!”

She shared further irrelevant and odd details before getting back to work. We
had a good laugh. Daalbhaat was soon prepared and stuffed into the tummy
by the heaps.⠀
⠀
The circumambulation of Upper Mustang was complete. I had started
walking, with Karan, on that bridge to the south of Ekle Bhatti, gone up from
Chhusang, and lassoed back there.

Aiming to catch the last bus to Kathmandu, in time, from Jomsom, I sat on
the roadside looking for a lift. Vehicles passed, only few and far in between,
none stopped for me. Forty five minutes of basking under the midday sun! A
wicked dirt bike finally retreated after passing by.

“Do you recognize me?”

The man asked without lifting his helmet.

“Sorry, I can‖t see you.”

I replied confusedly.

“Urgh, I‖m Tenzing from Lotus!”

He exclaimed irritatedly.

“Tenzing Turn, of course. How good to see you!”

I smiled and shot back.

He told me that he had recognized me by the white khaadaa tied stick. The
very same khaadaa they had bid me farewell with for good luck, and that
was reason enough for him to not leave me stranded, despite having a bag
tied to the tail end. Adjustments had to be made.⠀
⠀
It was a wild ride to Kagbeni. On that rock strewn road he sped at sixty to
eighty kilometers per hour. I saw death at every corner. The landslides and
canyons had only spared me for an unworthy demise, I kept telling myself.
Being human, I had contradicting hope in my heart as well. With the winds,
holding on to the khaadaa tied stick was the biggest challenge, but I had
plans for it. I refused to let go. Somehow, someway, despite ricocheting out

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of control on two occasions, and both shoes dripping wet from a lunge into a
stream, I made it unscathed. Tenzing flipped up his thumb and wished me
luck. We connected on social media before parting.⠀
⠀
From there, it was a somewhat expensive shared jeep to Jomsom, followed
by a wild bus ride back to Pokhara. Pokhara, despite the midnight arrival,
was good to me.

The journey never truly ends, until it actually does, yet here I choose to draw
a line. For weeks, the wallpaper on my phone remained unchanged – lauro!
A reminder to not forget the life saving stick, black on white it read.

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314
CONVERSATIONS

315
316
Darchula

Midas Hunter | Sunsera

In the mountains, a hard working, honest person can make six hundred
thousand in one month (yarsagumba season). This is a place of abundance.
The bazaars (town markets) are another story though. There is scarcity and
insecurity there.

I, myself, have been looted by goons in the bazaar. They did not even spare a
single penny. Nor did they show any pity, neither did the bazaar, after seeing
that my pockets were empty. It was a bitter experience.

It is not a big deal here. Nay, it should not be a big deal anywhere to feed a
guest, to help a wayfarer quench his / her thirst. There should be a certain
bit of civility in people.

Spreading Wings | Api Nampa Conservation Area

What will Nepalis do? Whatever is to be done will be done by white skinned
people! All kinds of mischief! Last year an old German person came here. He
was carrying a large load up to the pass where Bramhadaha is. I asked him
what was in his load. A parachute, he said. Whoa! The next day the old
person leapt from the pass and landed straight in Bajhang.

Tell me, can we do such things? These foreigners are incredibly brave.
Incredibly clever! They carry their maps, and stuff, and travel alone. They
know more about our country than we do ourselves.

Laid Back Roller | Api Nampa Conservation Area

Why are you uttering such nonsense? How can I have a dog? My dog at
home had this dog! I am a person! I have human children!

Because I wear shabby clothes, you might find it hard to believe me. I
understand that. Do not judge people by their looks. My son is a mechanical
engineer in Bangalore. I took a huge loan to send him there.

Yes, I am capable of handling my finances. We have some land elsewhere

too. I had the foresight to educate my boy well. Now, he will take me out of
this lurch.

Oh, so you are looking to get to Khandeshwari? You cannot make it there
alone. There is a lot of snow in the pass. You will have to cross a large jungle
too. The trails are confusing. Do not worry though, I will take you there. I
will not charge a single penny. I will come to Thaisain early tomorrow
morning. We shall go together.

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The Ladle Wielder | Api Nampa Conservation Area

Every year, during the yarsa season, I come from our village (Eyarkot) to run
this tent hotel. I started coming here with my parents. Now that their feet are
tired, I have requested them to take the backseat. With my brother by my
side, things have been running smoothly.

Our village has a culture of hospitality like none other. We share what we
have and offer a stay to any visitor that comes in. We believe that is what we
are supposed to do – to be kind and welcoming. Frankly, running this kind of
business in the village is unimaginable. And even here, I try to stay as true
as possible to the values of the village. I do not want anyone who enters this
tent to go away frowning or angry.

I aspire to be a HA (Health Assistant) someday. There are many NGO (non

government organization) and government projects that require a HA in the
village. If I become a HA, I will get a good, stable pay. I can stay in the
village, and serve the people there.

Opulent Pangs | Thaisain

My land spans from the hill you see below to the one on the right, all of it is
mine. I am from a well respected family, you see. And that tree, on the cliff,
that is where I had the bad fall from. I presume it was a fracture on the hip
that I got after the fall, the swelling was terrifying. Sadly, at that time, there
were no immediate family members around to carry me to the hospital. So, I
dragged myself home, and rested, just rested for weeks and weeks, till
things got better. The hip and my back are still sore, guess they never
completely healed. Walking uphill, ever since, has been a damning struggle.

Stretched Hands | Gokuleshwar

I have been like this (limp foot, using a crutch) since birth. Please do not feel
sad for I am begging. I am a beggar. I beg. I do not steal.

Butcher Thesp | Latinath

I too have gone to a lot of places. There was a time when I even donned the
clothes of a jogi (Hindu hermit), took a room in Kathmandu, and spent
months begging around Gaushala, making a decent living. Every time I went
to a new place, I came up with a new idea to make ends meet.

In one's twenties and early thirties, one does not need to think about
tomorrow. One can just live life as he / she wishes. The party does not last
forever though; things get tougher as time goes by. One needs to have an
explanation for oneself. My family abandoned me long ago, due to my
carefree ways. I still live in isolation, but have now chosen to work for a
living.

I painted these goats to make them look like tigers. They look eye catching,
do they not? Every passerby asks me about them. They take pictures of these

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tiger goats and share it on social media too. This is my innovation – an
advertising strategy. Ever since I have done this, I have been selling twice or
thrice as much meat as before.

I have no regrets for what I did in the past, because my experience helps me
come up with this kind of shenanigans.

Blinking Badda / Breezy Brother | Latinath

A: Brother, are you coming from the temple? You can have as many parathas
as you desire (in the shop).

B: Brother, you are on a journey. Here, the snacks are on me. If you so wish,
you can feed a destitute person (on the way) with the money you have saved.

Moustache Twister | Melkhet

I have been having / smoking tammaakhu since I was a little child. I am

eighty now, and if I do not smoke this, there is a lot of discomfort. But I do
not have beedi or cigarettes – for those I do not crave.

I grow all the tobacco that is needed at my home. The months of Mangsir,
Push, and Maagh (autumn months) are best for the crop. Here we mix
sundried sugarcane residue with the tobacco, without it the Tammaakhu is
no good. Mixing in the right amount is essential to get the best feeling.

Swag Out | Kharra

I had a cataract operation in Geta (Kailali). My son took me there. I hope to

see better, and, see him better now.

Son: Do not show your bad teeth. He is taking a picture.

Bindi Lover | Darchula Khalanga

It rained all night and then the floods came. All the families in the
neighborhood fled to the hills above, but I did not. My husband was seriously
ill and he could not move much. I decided to stay at home with him.
Fortunately, due to god's grace, nothing happened to us.

Of course, it was terrible to see the houses by the riverside get washed away.
Those were mostly sukumbasi (landless settlers) homes. Many coolies
(laborers) had spent years of savings to build those temporary houses. But
then again, no one here died. Not even a chicken was lost.

Our shop was swept away by the floods. The government once provided a
compensation of thirty thousand rupees, and then twenty five thousand, that

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is all. This is frustrating because on the Indian side, the relief schemes are
still ongoing, and we can just look at them. The royals, Himani, provided us
with utensils, clothes, and other things. More than the government, it was
them, and then, the UML and other parties, that gave us much needed help
after the floods.

Old Man Bandana | Chaimadola

Every family around these parts makes at least six hundred thousand rupees
in the yarsa season (April to June).

The first Chinese traders came in with samples around 2052 (CE 1995). Back
then, in these kharkas (high meadows) we could find a yarsa in every second
step. During those times of abundance, the price was two rupees apiece.
Nowadays, it is five hundred, sometimes higher. But, one can barely find a
dozen in a day, and that too after hours of hard searching. Recently, we have
had to reach higher passes and ridges than usual to find them, and we know
that after crossing a certain altitude they are not to be found. We are worried
that the yarsagumba might completely disappear in a few years.

Masterji | Dhankang

There was a time when we had to spend nights having chhaain (buttermilk)
with salt and khursaani (powdered pickle), because we could not afford two
meals a day. Cornbread with chhaain was our staple diet.

All these modern clothes you see us wearing these days, we could not even
dream of wearing them. We used to sew clothes out of the bhaango plant
(marijuana); clothes just to cover our body, nothing like tshirts. That is what
I wore to school. Affording shoes was out of question, most people walked
around barefoot.

Right before the festival of Tihar, we used to go to Dharchula in India. There

we used to get salt and other commodities, but rice – that was the biggest
deal! We used to be able to buy just enough to last three days of the festival.
Rice was an incredible luxury.

Times have changed now. The change though is quite recent. Things were
like that until 2058 (CE 2001), the year that the keedaa (literally insect, here
yarsagumba trade) became significant. All that has happened, all this change
you see, is because of the keedaa. If it were not for the keedaa, things would
have remained the same. Nowadays, whenever I feel pride over anything, I
look back upon those times. I look back upon those times to see who we
really are, and to be humbled.

There are no lodges in the village of Dhankang, Darchula. Any traveler

seeking a night‖s accommodation is taken to Masterji's home – the Mahata
house. The Mahatas have always welcomed guests, and refused to accept
remuneration. Having once kept five people involved in a local drinking
water project, for a period of five years, without seeking money, the Mahatas
say it is their dharma to be welcoming.

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Masterji of Dhankang with family

321
Baitadi

White Beard | Seltaadaa

I am digging a channel to drain out the swamp that has formed on the road. I
had some free time and this swamp caught my attention. After the swamp is
drained, pedestrians can get by easily. This, I believe, is my dharma.

Reverie Man | Dilasaini

Neither are the people of the plains bad, nor are the people of the hills bad. It
is market culture that destroys common goodness. With the market, the egos
of people grow too. Here, in these hills far away from market amenities,
working as ward secretary has been quite a pleasant experience. People are
respectful and willing to learn.

Before this, I was posted in another ward in this very district, half a day's
walk away from any sort of road access. The people were even more
pleasant there. In these places, I have never faced any insult or animosity.

My hometown of Simraungadh also had a similar atmosphere of common

goodness, when I was young. Then, as life became more convenient, as
people became richer, they became rowdier. It has become a sad, sad place
now. The innocence of these hills reminds me of Simraungadh, as it used to
be in my childhood, and so, I have never felt homesick.

The Designer | Nanara

The fashion today might be something. Tomorrow it will be something else.

Fashion changes every day and I like to stay updated. I keep looking for new
magazines and styles, so that I can impress my customers. If I could have
started a shop in a big city, I know I would have done incredibly well. But, I
am satisfied with what I am doing here now. There are minor nags though,
like using this coal iron. It is not that there is no electricity, but the wire is
too thin to use an electric iron. It is only good for a few lights. There is no
alternative to using coal, but it is okay, I guess. It gives a fine press.

Quivers And Tea | Patan

I was married off at the age of eleven. I had a child at seventeen. I became a
widow three years later. That was an eternity ago. I only have vague
memories. My husband used to be a veterinarian. He was working in
Mahendranagar when he had a sudden heart attack. He died in 1980. My son
was only two and a half years old then. Family members from Baitadi came
to participate in his final rites. I returned to the village with them.

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Living life as a widow is less painful in the village. Widows are treated with
great respect and cared for. My nine sisters in law became a constant source
of support – helping me with household chores and offering emotional
comfort. Whenever I had trouble working the field, men from the village
would offer a helping hand. Sometimes, they would even work my field
without asking me. People used to bring in firewood at times too. My
influential father and father in law were there for me. Life would have been
unimaginably hardship ridden were it not for the village.

Within Eyes | Bipiktal

The Tharus call us garubas. The Buddhists call us lamas … No, errr ...
aamchis! Yeah, that is the word. The people from the east call us jhaankris.
Here in the west we are called dhaamis. We are all the same – spirit
mediums; we are possessed by gods. We help identify faults that allow
spirits to harm people and rectify them. I have been a spirit medium since
childhood.

A person of our kind has formed a federation of dhaamis in Attariya. There,

we discuss techniques we use and the mediums we connect with. The
federation gives classes to any potential spirit healers. It has also been
offering all dhaamis in this region an allowance of three thousand rupees
every month. Such an encouraging initiation!

I received these golden earrings after helping treat a patient recently. Our
techniques work. Why else would people bestow us with such impressive
offerings?

Aghast Big Eyes | Baitadi

We are replacing old fashioned slate roofs with cemented ones. Cement
surely does have its fair share of disadvantages — the room gets unbearably
hot in the summer, in the winter it gets bitterly cold, but it is stronger. We
need a roof strong enough to withstand the barrage of fifty monkeys.

It has been a few months since a swarm of monkeys came here from India.
There are almost five hundred of them! They go from one human settlement
to another terrorizing people. Because of them, I have had to get up there
and repair this slate roof three times this year already! They get into our
homes and steal whatever food items they can.

They do not come in all at once. First one or two monkeys show up and
scout the area. Then, they disappear, only to come back with hundreds of
companions! There are rumors that the Indians (Border Security Force)
brought them on a truck and set them free on the Nepali side of the
Mahakali River. It sounds highly improbable, but so does the idea that the
monkeys could get to this side of the river without human help.

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Bloating Belly | Jhulaghat

The Nepali side of the Jhulaghat market thrives on people from the other
side who come here to drink. The alcohol policy is strict on the other side.
There is only one alcohol shop in the entire settlement. On top of that, one
cannot drink openly there. One buys a bottle of alcohol, retreats into his
home, and has it. They are not even allowed to make a lot of noise. Here, one
can gather with friends and have alcohol openly.

We were lucky, simply lucky. The British made this bridge during the
colonial era. They probably looked for a place where they had a settlement
and the Mahakali was narrow. If it were not for the bridge, there would be no
settlement on this side.

This place is undeniably tense. All the border points are like this. The
security is heightened; there is strict checking and enforcement. Thinking of
it again, things did not use to be this tense though. The border has become
stricter over time. The leaders at the top make decisions. The ripples are felt
by commoners like us.

Calming Kids | Patan

I passed out from Budhanilkantha School in 1993. Like most of my friends, I

aspired to go abroad and study in a reputed university. Right about that time,
my mother fell terribly ill.

I realized that I needed to be there for her, that I could not go too far away.
So, I decided to study in Kathmandu instead of going to another country. I
tried applying to a few good private colleges for my intermediate degree.
They turned me down explaining that only people with a house in
Kathmandu, meaning wealthy kids, could study there; the fees were simply
too expensive. It was a different time; scholarships were not as common as
they are now. I concluded that ASCol (Amrit Science College) was the best
alternative. After all, it was a reputed, science only college. That turned out
to be a false assumption. The college was rife with silly politics. My studies
suffered as a result. I did manage to persist however and completed my
intermediate degree.

Then, after taking a few wrong turns, I found an IT bachelor's degree course
in Bangalore. Computers had just arrived back then. IT held a lot of promise.
I went to Bangalore and gave the interview. I was taken in. The fee was sixty
thousand (Indian) rupees – quite a significant sum back then. But, the college
officials were impressed by my humility. They assured me that I could pay
the fees by the end of the semester. I was happy. Life had taken a positive
turn, I believed. My heart was filled with hope. My eyes gleamed with
dreams.

The good times were not meant to last for long though. I could not deal with
the environment in Bangalore and caught a terrible illness. I had to abandon
all my dreams and come back home. There was no going back.

Later, I somehow completed my bachelor's and master‖s degrees from

Pithoragadh in India. The town is quite close to our village. Those were

324
The Designer of Nanara

325
degrees with a major in English. They were the shortcut kind of degrees, the
courses finished in fewer years than in Nepal. I chose the easy subjects and
the shorter route. Time was running out for me. I was getting old and could
not afford to waste my years. I then came back to the village, got married
and took up a job as a teacher in the campus. I just could not stay idle; the
villagers would have labeled me a wasted, useless person.

Lately, I have been contemplating leaving the village. I cannot though,

because a change in climate would affect my mother's health. But still, you
know, the village is not what it used to be.

When I was young, the villagers used to be there for each other. If the
irrigation canal was blocked everyone would come together to clear it. If
someone needed to rebuild his house, the entire village would bring one
material or another to help. If a woman got pregnant in a house, other
women would take up all her chores. It did not matter in whose house you
ate or slept; everyone's house was your house, everyone was a brother. Now,
if the canal needs to be repaired, the villagers await the budget. They wait
for the officials to do their job. If someone is ill and cannot get firewood, they
do not intervene. The family has to get firewood on a pick up van.

There used to be nights where all the young men of the village would get
together and go to the riverbank to camp. This used to happen a lot. We used
to fish, have simple food, and enjoy all night. That does not happen
anymore. Having alcohol and meat is the new luxury, neither of which I like
to have. The hunger for money has spoiled the village. I am left wondering:
Why am I here?

Trusting Branches | Aruwatar

Tell me. What does one fear? One fears what one has not faced. I have been
climbing trees since my childhood. We have always had cattle. I do not feel
afraid while doing this. It has become a habit. Climbing up a tree to cut
fodder might be scary for you, for me it is as easy as anything can get.

Bajhang

Panting Wildly | Khaptad

We are from Dhangadhi. I am coming to the fair after quite some time. We
used to have our barn right here in Khaptad. Even though we spent years
working hard in these hills, coming here now has been a rather tough task.
For us, living in the hills now is difficult. Our sons and daughters, who were
born and brought up in the plains, do not like coming to the hills. But
hopefully later, they will come here like tourists do – for enjoyment.

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Uprooting Down | Khaptad Periphery

As much as we are used to the life in the hills, we are alone, and living alone
at this age is not easy. Menial bits of farming – that is all we have been doing
here, with terrible difficulty. Our son is taking us to his place later this year.
He is a successful dairy entrepreneur in Geta (Dhangadhi), and has recently
completed building a sound house.

Good roads, stable electricity, good schools, and a good hospital – it will
surely take at least fifty years for these things to reach the village. These are
all available in Dhangadhi. Everyone here has some land in Geta, and half of
the village has already settled there almost permanently. Perhaps, the next
time we meet, fate allowing, will be in Dhangadhi.

The Lantern | Jhota

This thirty six kilowatt micro hydro operation powers wards one, two, three
and four of Kedarsyun.

After receiving training at the Nepal Electricity Authority in Teku,

Kathmandu, I have been working every day, from 6:30 PM to 8 AM; since the
very day this micro hydro started. Because of the limited capacity, the
operation does not run during the day. Throughout the night, I have to
regularly check water levels on various channels and set operations
accordingly. If I do not make it to work, the area will not have electricity for
that night. If I do not switch on the operation, no one else can. It is a serious
responsibility.

The residents here have been demanding that the hydropower operation be
run throughout the day, but the committee has been unable to provide the
extra equipment and labor necessary for that. There is a dearth of funds.
Even I have not received my salary for quite a few months now, yet I have
not stopped working. Regardless of what the committee does, this is a
responsibility I cannot abandon.

Wrinkled Freeman | Khaptad

When I was studying in school, upon noticing how talented I was, an

American woman offered to take me to America. She said that I could study
in a good school and get a well paying job there. I refused her offer. Later,
when I finished school, I was approached by officials for a government job. I
refused their offer too. The offers kept coming. I kept refusing.

See, I never wanted to do a job. If you do a job, you have to work under
someone else; be at the mercy of their mood. The employer will never be
satisfied with you. You will never be satisfied with the employer. You will
always have this thirst for freedom, but you cannot escape because you are
already caught in the trap.

What did I do? I chose to become a gothaalo (cow herder). I milk cows, move
with the cows as the season changes, live in a simple shelter, and chant the

327
name of gods. I survive on what the cows give me. I work when I please and
rest when I need to. No one has any authority over me. Neither do I owe
anyone anything, nor does anyone owe me anything. Here I live, offering my
humble hospitality to anyone who passes by. I am a truly free person.

Do not judge me by my looks, if you can. I have indulged in local politics,

own land in three places, and have always been a good student of life. That
said, I do not have a lot of money; money never mattered much to me.

Please feel free to drop by my humble shelter whenever you want to. You
can have as much buttermilk and bread as you like.

Grappling With Reality | Beechgada

His father has been abroad for quite some while. There is no news of him.
We do not know where or how he is. In his place, someone has to work the
fields. So, we have made him do it – the new man of the house.

(Said the boy's uncle without a hint of remorse in his eyes)

Perfumed Trader | Khauladhar

The loathing that we did before is getting back to us. Long ago, our
grandfathers and ancestors used to greatly despise them by saying – Eww!
Jyaban folk! Now, Jyaban has become Japan … all because of that insect
(yarsagumba).

Back then, the people of Jyaban used to come down here with their dokos
(containers) – to exchange wheat with rice. Nowadays, none of the people
that live up (in the mountains) look down.

Time changes everything. The coming of the road has further spoiled the
local trade here. Previously, all the people living in surrounding villages used
to come to buy stuff here. Now, the roads have divided the markets. There
are market goods in every village.

Mobile Healer | Jhota

I am a dhaami. I have tied this pagadi on my head because gods possess me.
Those gods do whatever they do to me. They do not hurt others. As regards
to why I am running this mobile phone shop … Religion has its own place.
Work has its own place. Without doing work the stomach will not be filled.
The stomach roars. To silence it, work must be done. Now this is the kind of
work that is relevant in these times, that is why.

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Wrinkled Freeman of Khaptad Goth

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Lost Man | Kalukheti

Look. This creature called human can endure any sort of misery. No matter
how much we get, we still seek more. Once we get to a point, we start
looking for another to get to.

The road has done more ill than good. You can see people moving around
covering their faces. Look, there is so much dust! Before the roads came in
people used to be really helpful here. Ever since the road came in, with it has
come influence from the bazaars (markets) and an unquenchable desire for
money.

Before the roads came in, if any one got ill in the village, there would always
be people ready to give a hand to carry that person in a doko (traditional
carriage) to the hospital. Now, they bluntly say – Get on a jeep!

What if one does not have money to get on the jeep? Well, the jeep will not
take the ill person in. That is where one feels the pinch of poverty. The
community (feeling) has gone with the jeep.

Bajura

Braveheart | Pandusain

I come walking from Chanpharukh, which is on the other side of the hill to
school (Pandusain, Bajura) every day ... It takes half an hour to reach school.
I walk alone.

I like ice cream... and watching TV. I watch the news and films regularly ... I
also help with bringing home water from the (community) tap ... and help
take care of my baby brother when mother is busy.

Sieving Conceptions | Chhededaha

Do not look at us with pity. You have misunderstood our place. We have
always had enough to eat. We have always had enough rice to eat – at least
once a day, as far back as I can remember.

To Aaru With Work | Jugada

This woman from the organization had called us to a meeting in Martadi – a

five hour walk from our village. But now, midway through, she calls me and
says the meeting has been canceled; that due to electoral guidelines, which
have come into effect this week, we cannot hold any meetings. We have

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been trying to start a (finance) cooperative in the village. We have seen such
finances opening up in other villages and transforming the lives of women
there. But now, this situation... shucks! My friends have been deeply
annoyed. Then, this gap! I do not know when this cooperative is going to
start. It will take a lot of convincing.

Headstrong Willman | Baandho

One has to face a lot of resistance while trying new things in a village. They
do not understand the value of farming vegetables here. Everyone is satisfied
with their seasonal produce of grains. Once that is secured, all the cattle are
set free to graze as they please. I have erected these stone walls to keep
them out. Some villagers, they talk behind my back – What buffoonery is this
person indulging in, building walls and working on the field at such an odd
time? That is what they say. But, I choose to ignore them. They do not know
that I grew enough cabbages and onions to fulfill last year‖s need at home.
This year, I am planning to grow two hundred kilograms of onion. I am also
planting tomatoes and peas. I have learned to use improved seeds, manure
and fertilizers. Thus, I have firm ground to be optimistic.

Linking Pipes | Aam

After finishing class ten, I fled to India in search of work. Then, the conflict
began, and I could not return to the village for ten years. In that period, I
worked in restaurants and did odd jobs all across India – from Madras to
Kolkata to Gadhwal.

While I was in India, one of my brothers happened to join the Maoists, and
as his life was in danger, my father sent him to Lucknow. He has settled
there. Another brother of mine joined the police, and is now stationed in
Jumla. He would have been home now to help with the rice planting were it
not for the elections. He could not get a leave. My younger brother and eldest
brother look after the fields when they are free. They cannot manage it all
alone, so they involve the lower caste villagers too. They get a share of the
yield from the land they work on.

In recent years, as father and mother have grown older, despite their
displeasure, we have sold some land that we have not had the time to look
after. I have tried to take them to our place, to settle permanently, but their
love for this land is too great. They cannot stay away for too long.

I run a hotel in Haridwar these days. There is good money there. Also, a
brighter future for the children! The only reason why I have retained my part
of the property here is that the children might wish to return here someday.

Picking Kafals | Jilli

I spent the past two months in Mahendranagar, at my sister's place. She was
married off there and works as a police officer. The weather is terrible there

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though; the heat is unbearable. The winds here blow coolly at a smooth pace
all day. There it is hot and blows really strongly for fifteen minutes, and then
there is no wind at all. Yes, there are things called landslides and floods that
happen here, but the heat is worse.

I completed school this year, and there are no good schools around for
further education. I do not want to go to Mahendranagar, but I have no
option. Anyways, I am just happy to be back in the village. Here I take care
of my grandmother, cook food and help with other household chores.

I will call your name out loud if I see you again!

Pink Panther | Dogadi

Can you tell me what is it about me – a guy who has only completed the
seventh grade in school that makes girls who study in the eleventh and
twelfth grades fall for me? There must be something, right? Well I do not
know what it is exactly. Maybe, it is this charm that I possess. Maybe, it is
my fearlessness that they admire.

They say the leaves of a neem tree are bitter. I was born in India. My parents
were working there. I studied up to the sixth grade there, and mastered the
Gadhwali language early on. Then, my parents decided to return to the
village.

In the eighth grade, I committed a heinous crime. Let us not talk about it. I
had to flee the country to escape the police. In India, I started a new life. My
brothers were working as drivers for a delivery company. I joined the same. I
deliver products to rich people in New Delhi. They live the good life. Ring
tring tring, they make a call and things arrive at their doorsteps. I would be
lying if I said I did not despise them.

Now, I am thinking of returning to the village and starting a small business

or lodge. Just look for me the next time you are here. I will give you the best
khatardaari (service / welcome).

The Forgotten Boy | Birseni

I lost my father when I was in the second grade. He had gone up to the high
passes to get firewood. There he fell from a great height. Since then, my
mother has taken care of me. She runs a shop in the village and makes sure
all our needs are met. I help her with household chores and bring firewood.
The only qualm I have with her is that she worries a bit too much about me.
I am not allowed to go out for more than an hour after I reach home from
school. I have a sister and a brother too. I am actually waiting for them right
now. I take care of them and do whatever a father should do for them. I
never quarrel with them. To them I am more of a father than a brother. The
villagers do not talk to us, but I try to make sure that does not affect them.

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Sieving Conceptions of Chhededaha

333
Mugu

Shooing Sheep | Rara National Park

There is your life – a life of comfort, and there is our life – a life of misery. For
eight months every year, we stay with these sheep on the edge of the jungle.
We get to see our families quite rarely. On top of that, we have to be
constantly aware of wolves and leopards that roam around here; if they get a
chance, they will leap at the sheep – all to get some wool and make two
paisa! This is not easy work.

In Kathmandu, the vehicles come at your doorstep. There is no need to walk;

you never have to climb up stairs. There are lifts everywhere. You do not
even have to work for a living; you can just relax at home! There is no way
you can understand our pain. We will always be at the bottom, and you
people will always be at the top.

Writhing Heart | Sera

This is not a vegetable. We call it kaach here. You must know what
tammakhu (tobacco) is, we use it to make that. I use some of it myself, and
sell the rest in the village. The old people smoke it. The young ones make
surti out of it. One has to find some way of making money in the village.

Our village is on top of this hill. Since time immemorial, we have had our
fields here, but the settlement here is quite new. We came down because the
roads were slated to pass through here, which would have meant good
business. It has only been a month since we built this house. Now, they say
that the roads will pass through the other side. Preposterous, is it not it? All
because of the hydropower project...

They say they have to bring the power lines this way, and because of that,
the road will be going through a bridge to another village. This place will
always remain the same. Nothing is going to happen here. It is all up to our
sons who are working in Kolti and Jumla now.

Withering Coughs | Mugu District

It has been days since asthma and cough have been troubling me. Despite
being unable to, I have been pushing myself to go to the hospital. What can I
do? It is not that there are not people at home. I have a husband but he also
has asthma. I have a son, a daughter in law, grandchildren, an entire
family… but no one to accompany me.

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Lone Brothers | Jyaamire

We are collecting sand to build an irrigation canal in our village, the village
of Jyaamire. We won the contract to build it.

One has to find a way of making a living and fulfilling children's wishes. For
all three of us do not have any brothers (to look after family matters), we
have been unable to go abroad. In a way, fate has been good to us. Going
abroad would have meant either making a lot of money or going bust. Here,
these days, we have ways to make a decent living. We get to work as we
choose. Best of all, we get to see our children at the end of each day, and be
with them.

Jumla

Blocks On Blocks | Jumla District

A huge earthquake in the west – are you kidding me? We are the architects,
we are the engineers, we are the builders; we are doing everything here. We
know what we are doing. Hopefully, if you come here next year, you will be
able to stay in this hotel of ours, which is also going to be our home.

Taakho Spinner | Chautha

Oh, how can I forget you? You are the person who took my picture when I
was spinning the Taakho. You came walking from Jumla last winter, right?

You want to take my picture again? Where is the print of the last one? You
just take pictures and never print them. What a waste of time!

The Wordsmith | Chhotra

Well, let me tell you the only truth I know, brother. The world hangs on your
lips. If you spill ill verses, the world becomes an uneasy place. If you speak
humbly, the world becomes an easy place. I worked as a guard in
Kathmandu, for many, many years, before entering the construction scene
here. Sometimes, I did not get my pay on time, at other times, an emergency
would come up, and I would have to send all of it back home at once. An
empty pocket, to make it through the month! Yet, never did I have to spend a
single night hungry. I rested my case most humbly before the owners of the
restaurants I regularly went to for lunch and dinner, and never was I refused
food. With gratitude, I returned the sum I owed them, as soon as I got my
next salary. I seldom failed to stay true to my word. Strong, humble, honest
words, that is how I have made it through life unscathed.

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Confused Rider | Gothichaur

Are you sure you are not trying to confuse me – cast a spell on me...
something like that? There is no trickery in this right?

I will place my trust in you. Okay, go ahead, take my picture.

Hmmm. Delete the one in which I am showing my teeth and smiling. It is

easy to cast spells using such pictures. Keep this one.

Rippling Distortions | Dewalgaaun

I am from Rolpa. I have come here to see my daughter, son in law, and
especially my grandson. He has grown quickly. He is thirteen now. They
have come to Rolpa several times, but this is the first time I have come here.
My daughter called me saying – You are nearing the age of demise. Don't
you want to see how we are living? It was then that I decided to come.

This is spinach, river spinach. We call it kholiko saag. I am making lunch for
my daughter, her family, today. I want to help as much as I can, before I go.

Mystical Eyes | Jumla

We have forgotten Gorakhnath. We have forgotten the story of how

Gorakhnath came to be. This is the reason why idols are stolen, this is the
reason why holy people have lost their way, this is why there is so much
chaos in the bazaar right now.

The great sage Machchhindranath had once given a childless woman a

strange substance to consume, telling her that if she did, she could finally
have a child. He offered blessings and left, only to come back to the woman's
house twelve years later. When he asked to see the child, the woman told
him that she had not consumed the substance but instead thrown it on a
heap of dung near the forest. A furious Machchhindranath ordered her to
take him to that place, and there on the same dung heap lay a boy –
Gorakhnath.

Machchhindranath took the boy with him, and instructed him in the
mystical arts. Gorakhnath was Machchhindranath's disciple. He was born in
a heap of dung. He grew up in filth, without complaint. He was covered in
mire. His appearance was awfully shabby. And yet, he was the wisest of all
yogis – performing incredible miracles wherever he went. The people of
Chandannath have forgotten where true wisdom comes from. The people
have forgotten that the footsteps in the temple they worship are his. This
causes me great sadness.

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Blissful Hermit | Radikhalla

I used to be a teacher of agriculture. I was also the vice chairperson of the

Nepal Workers Peasants Party. I was elected the chairperson of the (Jumla)
village committee. I had thought of correcting the sins of my father and
uncles who were chairpersons previously, and had made the people suffer. I
tried making a lot of changes back then, so much so that I had to resign,
because I could not compromise upon my ideals. Then, I was jailed for
several years, for publicly advocating democratic reforms. There were a lot of
ups and downs in those times. This was around the 2030's and 40's (CE
1970's and 80's).

Later, I started questioning political leaders. They used to talk about the
rights of farmers and laborers, but no one got their hands dirty. None of
them worked for a living. I got disenchanted with them, because they did not
practice what they preached. I returned to Jumla, to this land right beside the
forest. I began farming and beekeeping in Radikhalla. Later, I added cows
and made a fishpond too.

In Jumla there is a possibility of creating a multi billion rupee economy of

jadibutis (medicinal herbs). I have been growing various rare breeds of
jadibutis here to show people that it is possible to do so, to educate anyone
who wants to learn about them. To work as a farmer, to work with jadibutis,
is a higher work than any politician can do. In recent years, I have also been
processing them to create medicines, and supplying saplings to a large
company.

By the way, you can also see that I have been using the pond to create
hydroelectricity to power eight bulbs here, and run a ghatta (water mill).
There is no load shedding (electricity outages) in my place. I went to the high
mountains of Mugu once, to study the yarsagumba plant; there I saw
hundreds of streams and waterfalls capable of producing many megawatts
of hydropower. I questioned myself – What are we doing? Why are we not
using this gift of nature? That inspired me to work with the community to
create a small scale hydropower project to power four villages. We have been
working on it for the past two years; the project is on the verge of
completion. I want to show that if one is honest enough, these projects can
be done in a small budget.

I am a poet, a lover of nature, and a person who likes to work with his
hands. I do go to the bazaar at times, but I cannot be there for too long.
There is no place dearer to me than Radikhalla. I believe it is the good air
here, the clean environment; this place in the lap of nature, and I believe it
has allowed me to stay this strong even at seventy. Here I have found inner
peace. My mind is free of worries, my heart full of bliss. I do not want to go
anywhere else.

Basking In The Twilight Hour | Jumla

Our eyes are getting weaker by the day. Our ears are useless. Our backs hurt
a lot. We cannot walk like we used to. Yet, every day we wish to live longer.
We know our time to die is coming. We are awaiting death. (But) This makes
us want to live a bit more, to see a day or two more.

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When we were young, we did not think much of death too. You have many
good years ahead to see the world. Make the most out of these years, this
time will not come back.

Shining Face | Jumla

It was in my early teens that I left my home in Saldang (Dolpa). I went to

Pharping to study dharma. In our faith, we hold the guru's word sacred.

One day the great guru asked in an assembly – Who here can go to China
and spread the word of faith? I lived to appease the guru. I had my fears, but
… Without thinking twice I stood up and said – I will guru. I thought there
would be others too, but I was the only one who stood up in the hall. So
then, with the blessings of all the gurus, but without any paperwork, I set
out to cross over to Tibet.

I took an old route from Dolpa. If the Chinese Army personnel had seen me
in those remote crossings, I might have gotten into trouble. But, I did not see
a single person. I just walked, and walked, and kept walking, across the cold
deserts, with bare essentials. I ran out of food, water was really scarce too. I
became as thin as a stick, but still persevered. The gurus had blessed me;
they did not let me die. Sometimes, I would find things to eat in garbage left
over by campers long gone.

Finally, after walking for a month and three days, I saw a person. He was a
person of faith. He gave me some tea. Then, I crashed, and could not gain
consciousness for three days. He had given me ashes mixed with water, and
other traditional medicines. I was saved.

For, nine years, wearing tattered clothes, begging, I spread the word of faith
across Tibet, meditated, and learned a lot from great gurus. Then, I was
called to Dharmashala (India), where I met the Dalai Lama. I was showered
with gifts, and given some money there. They asked me to stay there as a
monk, but I wanted to return to Nepal. Looking back, that seems like a
missed opportunity now. I have a karma of rejecting comforts.

I came to Mugu, meditated in the forests for four years. After that, I came to
Jumla, fell in love, and started a family. You see me all tidy now, I was never
like this! But now, to fit in the bazaar (town) I have to look clean. Here, I help
heal people, and perform rituals. I make just enough to get by. In this, I have
made my heart happy. That is where it all is, in the heart. If you have it
under control, there is nothing anyone can do to you.

On The Roof | Garjyangkot

People without capital live in these kinds of old houses. People with capital
live in big houses made of cement, stones and bricks, with pillars. We are
not proud of this house we live in. We are living in this (house) because we
are poor.

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On The Roof of Garjyangkot

339
Dolpa

Lost In Transition | Kageni

The Khaams speak better Nepali than us. The age when they could not
speak, read or write in the Nepali language is long gone – that is an opinion
held by people who have not really ever come here. Only a few old people
remain as exceptions.

Do you know where the Khaam children study? They go to places as far off
as Himachal and Karnataka in India. Consequently, they are well versed in
Hindi and English as well. There is a lot of support from donors and lamas.

Once they grow up, they trade with people far beyond these lands – this they
have always been doing. But we, we are stuck here, in this little village, just
getting by life. We speak a different sort of Nepali, and are terrible at
speaking the Nepali that everyone understands. I used to speak some Khaam
as well, but ever since the Khaams stopped coming here seeking basic
amenities, that I have forgotten too. Things have changed brother. Things
have changed.

Spinning Tales | Jangbatoh

Where have I not been? From the valleys of Dang to the hills of Baglung, I
have trodden it all on these two feet. In an age where there were no
highways in the hills, there was no option.

Taking my little bag of herbs with me, I traveled as a medicine person, a

mystical healer from the land of Dolpo. I sold herbs and prescribed
treatments. At the same time, I encouraged people to uphold faith, and
gathered water from all the sacred rivers. It must be in a bottle here
somewhere. Hmmm ... Here it is. Take a sip.

You say you have traveled a lot. Do you know where the best people in
Nepal are? … They are in Batauli (Butwal). Batauli: with its wide, open fields,
and cheerful people! That is my experience. Ask me why. Well, I will tell
you. The people of Batauli are humble, they have faith in goodness, and they
listen to you. The time that I spent there has been etched into my memory
unlike any other.

You son … is it okay if I call you son? Son, you seem like a person of faith
and goodness too. If you are not, then you are good at playing tricks. But be
careful, one might be able to fool people, but god, he is always there, is
always watching. The people of Batauli, those many, many years ago did not
charge me for food. And here, I shall pay it forward.

You do not need to pay for the food. Just remember me when you pray at
Muktinath.

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Beans‖a Beaming | Ringmo

Oh yes, a lot of people here have been wearing this sort of hat. It is quite
useful, keeps the sun out, and keeps you cool. The horse riders in Tibet are
the ones who actually started wearing this kind of hat. Later, everyone found
it to be convenient and useful. I got this hat from Tibet, when I went there
for the annual fair.

These beans have been brought here on the backs of mules. Not much grows
here. No one grows anything here. Everything served in the hotels was
carried in. There is no alternative. Back when we had to barter for
necessities, there were no beans or proper vegetables, rice and lentils were a
far cry.

Rayless Days | Pungmo

My home is in Phoksundo. This is my neighbor's hotel (lodge). I am just

looking after it for the month. They have gone up to the lek (high pass) to
look for yarsagumba. I, myself, have never gone to pick the insect. Going to
the mountains is an impossible task for me.

Carrying a load, I used to be able to get to Phoksundo from here in an hour or

so. Now, it takes many hours. I am ummm... sixty three now. I move a foot
ahead, then another [exhibiting that movement], slowly, slowly, very slowly.
And all the while, my body hurts, everywhere. My back hurts. My chest
hurts. My arms hurt. My legs hurt [pointing to those parts]. You must feel no
pain at your age, right? Here, I am, pondering for hours, about how to get
these sacks of rice to my home.

My husband has passed away. I have just one son. He lives separately. I live
alone. Let us just say that he has grown up. I have no ground to harbor any
expectations from him, and that is what hurts me the most.

Warming Tsupur | Phulbaari

This is my youngest child Tsimer Tsupur. He is just ten months old. I have
three other children – a boy of ten, a girl of seven, and another girl of five.
They are all hostel students at the best school in Dolpo ... You might have
seen it on the way to She Phoksundo lake. As it is supported by foreigners,
the fee there is quite affordable – one thousand five hundred a year for the
girls, and three thousand for my son, who has reached the secondary level.
Besides that, we have to send rations. They get to learn Tibetan as well as
English there, a bit of Nepali too. The arrangements there are so comfortable
that the children do not miss home at all. There is just one small problem:
the children need to either go to Kathmandu or Dunai to study the tenth
grade and give their SLCs (now, Secondary Education Examinations). It is a
minor hassle.

The school runs for seven months (due to the weather conditions). It is
closed now for the yarsagumba picking holidays. The hostel is still running
though. Unlike most other families, we have chosen to leave our girls there
for the break. They are too young to come up to the high passes and search
for yarsa; they might get sick. Money is not everything.

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The Tired Herder | Yak Kharka

Trust me. We have no interest in staying here at five thousand meters, in the
middle of nowhere, collecting yak shit to cook meals. We just have not been
able to sell the yaks and move on. Yes, this is the way our ancestors spent
their lives. But, there is so much more we can do, if we let go of the yaks;
maybe start a hotel or something. Taking care of yaks is tedious business.
You cannot stay in one place. You always have to keep moving – from one
meadow to another.

We had negotiated a deal with a guy from Dho to sell these yaks, but he
never came to seal the affair. We later found out that a family member of his
had passed away. Perhaps that is why he could not come here. If he had
taken these yaks, we would not have been here this year. We would have
gone to our home in Samdo (Mustang). Since there is no buyer, here goes
another year of our lives!

The Guardian | Namdo

This son of mine is a tulku – a reincarnation of the neighboring village's

lama. The children of the lama discovered this last year. They came here
with his clothes and other personal items. My son easily recognized them
and wore the clothes. They bowed down to him and left gifts. He blessed and
embraced them. It was a very moving moment.

Ever since the lama passed away, the gompa in that village has not had a
guiding figure. If they ever express the desire to take him there to reassume
his past life's position of reverence, I would be okay with it. In fact, it would
be a great honor. But, if they do not approach us, we will send him to a
regular school next year. Let us see what happens.

Sweating Turquoise | Ringmo

We are from Jajarkot. We could not find much yarsa this time. We came in a
bit too late, I suppose. The people at home, my wife, my children, they have
expectations, you know... We cannot go home empty handed. That is why
we took up this work.

We are making a campsite for foreign tourists, by elevating this bit of the
terrain. They apparently like this kind of a thing.

One of the hoteliers got the contract to build this from some organization.
We are working for him. He is a Lama. There was a time when Lamas
worked for us, now we are working for them. One has to run according to the
times, what can we do?

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Breaking Rocks of Shey Gompa

343
Walking Tall | Saldang

Here, the men look after yaks in the high passes and bring in essential goods
from Tibet. The border is open for a limited time during the post monsoon
fair. Women are responsible for almost everything else – the fields, the
home, the children, and daily matters. We are the kings of our homes.

After working in the fields for six hours, I feel like I have finally done enough
for today. Time to make some tea!

Red Face | Nyaauri

There has been foul play in the yarsa trade this year. Those thieves ... Some
contractors hired coolies and swept away all the good yarsagumba, before
we could get to the kharkhas (pastures) around Kagmara Pass. We are only
allowed in the (Shey Phoksundo) national park for a month: between the
10th of Jeth and 10th of Asar (late May to late June).

The authorities charge three thousand rupees per person for picking the
damned insect! We could just find around sixty good ones, no more, that is
why we are returning early.

This was my first yarsa season. Last year, I was looking after our cattle and
sheep in the village. There is no money in that! My brother is looking after
them now. Next year, I intend to bring him here as well.

Father Longings | Chharka Bhot

At this school, I work as a cook. I am in charge of preparing daily meals and

tea. This is not a full time occupation though; I also run a lodge in the village
with my wife. These days, she is off to the high passes looking for
yarsagumba.

I see a lot of kids here every day. I even take the odd class. I too have a child,
but he is not here. The kid lives with my wife's sister in Kathmandu. He
studies in Tinchuli there, in Phulbaari Montessori School. I last met the little
one three months ago. There is no phone, no tower, no network here.

Last week, I missed him quite terribly. Sigh, being a father is tough. So, I
walked to Jomsom, just to place a call and hear his voice – of course, on the
pretext of getting some stuff for this school. What can one do? One has to
eat, one has to make money, and one has to ensure a good upbringing for
his child – all at the same time! What can one do? That is how things are.

Student Of Life | Komas

I must have been nine or ten years old when I felt an odd twitch in my back.
At that moment, it did not seem like anything significant, but gradually I
could not move, as I desired. I could not stand straight. I still cannot.

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Engaging with others in the society, living as others do, became quite
challenging after that. I became a recluse, and did not know what to do ...
The confusion ended when I entered the monastery at Nisal. I found a home
there. I was appreciated. I had a sense of purpose in being a jhomo;
performing rituals and duties, being an obedient daughter to the mother
there. I spent the best years of my life there.

Unfortunately, last year I fell seriously ill. My family brought me back home
to care for me. I did not want to leave the monastery. My heart and
happiness remained there. As I began to recover, the chairperson of the
school committee, who has always cared a lot for me, requested me to
become a teacher for the kindergarten section. I could not deny him. And so,
here I have been for the past year, caught in a frustrating struggle with a
crooked body and circumstances. A frustrating struggle to teach children
who are too young for school or do not want to learn at all, but just make
noise and play, the basics of language and math. This is where fate has led
me.

Pious Gray Hands | Tiling Goth

These mountains are not as dangerous as they appear. There are no

landslides during the rainy season; it does not rain a lot here. A few
avalanches here and there during the winter – that is it. But of course, the
creek goes mad, at times. Last year, in a sudden, unexpected gush, it swept
two hundred of our sheep ... I mean of these three shepherd households ...
away.

I later heard that the people of a village, about a dozen miles downstream,
found their carcasses on the river shore. They ate the meat and had a good
time. Well, that is a good thing. It feels good to know that the meat did not
go to waste; that someone got to have them.

Light Shadow | Chhaanchu

I had just had my daughter. The first Maoists came to the village. There were
two young girls and one man. They said that they were terribly hungry and
asked me to cook food. I told them that I had just had a child two days ago,
was impure and living outside the house. They said that that did not matter.
So, I cooked food for them. Later, others came too. I could not help feeling
remorse for them. I fed them all.

One night the army surrounded our house. We had caught word of the
army's arrival. My husband fled the house. He was not with the Maoists, but
it was just too risky to stay. The army forced their way in. They asked me if I
had seen or was helping the Maoists in any way.

How could I help the Maoists, sir? I work in the fields all day, and have never
seen them.

I answered all their questions reassuringly.

My father in law though was a person of the old times. He did not
understand most of their questions, and those that he did, he answered

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truthfully. Out of nowhere, the interrogator slapped him twice in the face.
When he retorted, the army personnel slammed his rifle's butt hard on his
chest. This kind of thing happened often. The men of the house were beaten
up several times. Is it not amazing how the Maoists, other parties, and the
army have now reconciled? Even my eldest son has applied for an army post!

We are of the UML party. But this time we, quite unwillingly, voted for the
Maoists. It was a collective decision of the village. We had to do this to
secure the development interests of the village. We now have collective
bargaining power. There has been quite a lot of development in recent years.
The roads have reached us; tractors run here, sometimes jeeps come too.

We have to leave the village in the month of Saaun (July), and can only come
back from the high pastures on the other hill in Asoj (September). This is
because there are a lot of landslides above our village, there is a risk of
flooding as well. We work in the fields during the day and go up to stay in
these months. We take the animals with us as well.

Striking Caroms | Kaaigaaun

My name used to be Dharma. When I was six, my parents found out that the
lama school in Solon (Himachal Pradesh, India) gave free education with
hostel arrangements to Buddhist children. So they changed my name to
Kunga and sent me there. I learnt the basic lama texts and practices well
there. We used to wear priestly robes to school, but casual dresses like these
when we were out. It was an altogether different world.

I studied there for twelve years. In those twelve years, I never left the place; I
met my parents only on a handful of occasions. After deciding not to be a
lama and returning to the village, I met my parents. I had a hard time
accepting them as my family. It took quite some time to get along. I
remember how some other friends of mine, with contempt, said that they did
not recognize their parents – that they were strangers, when they came to
meet them.

It has been six years since my return. I am not keen on making use of my
degree and getting a job. The income from this temporary hotel (tent lodge),
that I set up during the yarsa season (April to June), the money I make by
collecting yarsagumba and mushrooms (medicinal ones) is enough to have a
good time in the village throughout the year. Although, I dread that this
might not be the case forever. The yarsa is getting rarer by the year. If the
yarsa finishes, then this place finishes too.

There is a lot of looting on the trail to Tibet. There are bandits with guns on
the lookout for yarsa traders. They are not locals but people from
neighboring districts, maybe some even from Kathmandu. Nowadays, only
people without money take the trails. The traders use helicopters. They fly to
the border on a helicopter, and return with money on the same. This
Dashain, I plan to go to the border, to buy Chinese goats, take them to
Pokhara, and make some extra money. Let us see what happens.

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Walking Tall of Saldang

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The Guru | Tinje

We bring motorcycles here from China, through the Marim Laa – a quarter of
the way on yak back through hidden ways, and the rest by riding it. The best
VR bikes that ply the roads of Kathmandu cost only about one hundred
thousand rupees in China.

Dokpas; Tibetan herders who live around the border and never abandon
their pastures, help conduct dealings for bikes and most other things in the
three month (late monsoon) trading window. Sometimes, we give them a
used Samsung mobile – they like good Samsung phones, add a few thousand
rupees, and bring in a new bike. At other times, we barter with silver
jewelry.

It is really easy to get a bike here, but equally hard to maintain it. There is no
place to fix punctures, get replacement parts, or service the bike. We do the
best we know, ride the bike for two or three years, then it becomes scrap – fit
only to be dumped by the riverside. What else can we do? On top of that, the
petrol is really expensive. It is cheaper this year though. It was eight
hundred rupees a liter last year, now it is around five hundred. For two or
three months we get relatively cheap Chinese petrol, but how much of it can
one stock? The rest of the year, it is brought in by mules from Jomsom and
Jajarkot.

The contractor brought an excavator from China and started building the
road from the border eight or nine years ago. He is a Member of Parliament
too, the contractor. He became a politician because he had lots of money.
That is it. Every year barely seven or eight kilometers is built – sometimes
there is petrol shortage, sometimes the machine breaks down, at other
times, something else. The road has almost reached Dho now, and when it
does connect to Dunai these bikes will be outlawed for sure.

Young Hearts | Ringmo

A: From Parbat, I first came to Phoksundo as a primary school teacher,

around twenty five years ago. At that time, I had to walk from Chhinchu in
Surkhet. It took fourteen days for people who were old or carrying a load to
reach here from Chhinchu, nine days for the fittest of young lads like us. I
was nineteen years old then.

Back then, the year round staple diet here was potatoes, buckwheat, beans
and tibetan spinach. It was only on rare occasions that we got to have other
things. People here used to barter for a living, no one had money; money
was of no use. They used to go up to Tibet, get salt and other such
commodities, carry that to Surkhet, and get daily essentials in exchange.

The changes came in slowly. I opened the first shop in the village, to make
use of my free time. Another started a good lodge. Now, the people here are
incredibly rich; mainly due to the insect (yarsagumba) of course.

B: I do not know if it was he who liked me first, or, I who liked him first. It
just happened. The school here used to close from Mangsir to Phaagun
(winter months). We used to descend to the lower village. He used to leave

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for Chitwan where he had bought some land. That year, I fled with him to
Pokhara. We eloped. Oh, those days!

A few months later, I wrote a letter to my family saying that I was in

Chipledhunga, Pokhara for a tailoring training, that the training period had
been extended, that I was safe and doing well. Then, my brother came to
Pokhara searching for me. When he found us, he understood what had
happened. He dealt patiently. He convinced us to return to the village in
Phaagun. Mother had reservations, but she said nothing. Our marriage was
accepted; probably, the first inter caste marriage in this region.

Our life has been like a movie. Things have gone well. We spend around
seven months here, and the rest in Chitwan. It is equally cold in Chitwan,
when we are there. We had children here in the village. They finished school
from Chitwan, and are preparing to study medicine. They are taking a bridge
course at NAME Institute in Kathmandu now. I wish we could spend more
time with the children – not being able to is my only regret.

Wuthering Tears | Nisal

I, with my husband, have been running the (relatively) new monastery here –
Paljangchhuk Ghephel Ling. We do not have a child of our own. The young
one ... her parents passed away a few months ago in an unfortunate
accident. She had no one to look after her, so an aunt from the village
brought her to us. Since then, I have accepted her as my own; given her all
the love I can give. She does not look like the type that might become an aani
someday, but she will do well.

Breaking Rocks | Shey Gompa

I am thirty five now. Till I was nineteen or twenty, we were allowed to go to

Tibet freely. Marriages took place across the border. In fact, my uncle is a
Chinese citizen. In winter, when this place becomes inhospitable and getting
around is quite impossible, the people from these parts used to go across the
border. There, in places as far off as Kailash, they made maanes (prayer
wheels), chhortens, small temples and engraved religious items. Even
though we are all Khaams, the people in Tibet are much richer. Impressed by
our artisanship, they used to give many, many yaks, mountain goats, horses,
also other gifts.

The border was closed because many Tibetans fled to India and other places
in Nepal itself from here ... This has been a loss certainly, but over the years
most people have learned to be okay with it. We still get to meet our
relatives on the other side, for a ten day period, during the cross border trade
fair.

I am the guardian of the Tchakhang Gumba, the one that you saw on the cliff
while coming here. Because of my duty, we stay here year round. In the
month of Kartik (November), before heavy snowfall begins, we fill this room
with firewood and other essentials. Other than some lamas, we are the only
ones that stay here during the winter. Many tourists come here in the

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autumn months, but after that, we just stay here in the room meditating;
only going out occasionally to clear the snow.

Maple Voice | Chhepka

It was in the time of our great grandfathers ... A great lama came dancing
downstream from the mountains. He wore a baag (ceremonial mask). The
mask tore when he reached a place, so he named that place Baagraal. Then,
he came here and named this settlement Chugaat – meaning white water in
our language. The Nepali speakers might call this place Chhepka, but its
actual name is Chugaat. The lama continued downstream, and named
places after the things he found there. Where he found sand – Mugaar, and
then there is Aankhe … well, I forgot what that means.

Flickering Eyes | Namdo

It always troubled me, seeing the community monastery in ruins. Mired in

dirt and filth, some people used it as a cattle shed. The Dhungdar Monastery,
a monastery with a history dating back hundreds of years, in such a dire
state

When I completed my high school from United Academy in Kathmandu, I

pitched a plan and requested my brother to help me rebuild the monastery.
He is a monk in Taiwan. Back then, he said that he was not in a state to raise
necessary funds for the endeavor. The thought of rebuilding the monastery
never left my mind; the idea kept evolving.

Only a few days after I completed my Bachelors in Sociology from TU

(Tribhuwan University), my brother surprised me with a message on
Facebook – I am ready to help you rebuild the monastery. I can arrange the
necessary resources. Are you ready to commit the required time to oversee
the effort?

I told him that I was ready. I have been in the village ever since. It has
almost been a year without regular access to the internet, phone, or any
modern amenities. Rebuilding the monastery will take a year more. It is a
difficult job – getting wood from Phoksundo, arranging for the artisans,
making the most out of limited resources, but I am happy, the community
will have a place to gather and pray in. My dream is finally coming true.

Mustang

Draped in Fire Red | Jomsom

We have come on a pilgrimage, to perform prayers at Muktinath, from South

India. We were thinking of walking to the temple, but we have not been able

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to figure out the distance. We tried asking some people but the response was
quite cold, maybe they did not understand us.

Baba does not feel cold. This is how he has been traveling all his life. He
takes the name of god to stay warm.

Clattering Bangles | Khingar

We do not live here. We are merely working for people who are better off.

Oh, so you say you live near Thapathali? Do you know my brother Tek? He
runs a teashop near the hospital there. Oh ... what was its name? Norvic, yes
Norvic. His shop is in a big blue building. There is a tower or something on
top of it. My mother too is there with him, in Kathmandu.

Oh, you must know Tek! All the people around there do.

Plucking Weed | Thini

Previously, this land was reserved to farm grains: buckwheat during

monsoon and barley before that. Recently, we have started planting apple
trees here as well.

There was a time when apples were not as profitable as they are today and
food crops were vital. The demand for apples was low. There was no easy
way to transport them to the cities. So, due to the consequent oversupply in
the local market, we were compelled to sell apples at seven to ten rupees per
kilogram. People fed apples to their livestock. Only the richest farmers could
afford to plant apple trees in their land, or access the market well. This was
the scenario only a dozen years ago.

Once the road came to Mustang, everything changed. Demand began to pick
up. Traders from Dhading and other districts below started coming here for
apples. These days the price at the farm itself is sixty rupees per kilogram.
We hear that the traders sell these apples in Kathmandu for over three
hundred rupees. The farmer is bound to suffer, always. Farmers like us
make just enough to live a decent life.

Nowadays, some people have started experimenting with modern machine

implements for agriculture. In some farms, the tractor that runs on fuel has
replaced cattle – limiting them to the stables for manure. But, the tractor that
is available here does not go deep enough into the soil. It does not do a good
job. Some who spent a considerable amount buying tractors have gone back
to the old way.

Precious Shoes | Jomsom

Come on; let us go further up the river! I do not want to get my shoes wet!
There is a safe crossing a bit ahead. I am sure. It was there yesterday.

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I am seventeen years old now. I have been working as a laborer in the
construction sector for about a year and a half. Have you been to Malekhu?
Before this, I was working on a road right across the big bridge there. After
the work there got over, contractors from Mustang invited the whole Jajarkot
group to work here.

I have never seen a place like Mustang. The terrain is difficult. The winds are
wild. The dust blows into our eyes while working. It is a terrible place to
work in. A few days ago, we went to the edge of a cliff to get some rocks on a
tractor for the project. It was such a risky place. But, work has to be done.
There is no choice. While we were returning with the rocks, the tractor
flipped on a river crossing. The river current was really strong. I jumped out
as soon as the tractor began to tilt, the others escaped too, but the tractor
was badly damaged. They had to spend hundreds of thousands of rupees to
repair it. Look (pointing at the road), that is the same tractor!

Mustang is a bitterly expensive place. The other day I was tired and decided
to ride a jeep. It was a really short ride, but the fare – fifty rupees! Wow! I
silently paid the fare. What can one do in someone else's place? Here, even
in the meekest of restaurants, food (daalbhaat) costs two hundred to three
hundred rupees. I was rudely yelled at when I tried to bargain once.
Surviving here would have been impossible if the contractor had not made
adequate arrangements.

They say it will get really cold here in a few months. Let us see ... If the
temperature remains bearable, I will work until the project is complete.
Otherwise, I will disappear just like that!

Faith Bearers | Bheri Khola

You should have taken the other way. We will not lie to you, the trail ahead
is certainly worse than this.

Follow the footprints, no matter how bad the path gets. Do not go down the
river like you were doing before, the current will sweep you away! When you
are walking across the tough parts especially the sandy landslides, take off
your slippers and walk barefoot. And yes, at times look upwards, there
might be blue sheep. Stay alert! They tend to knock rocks down. Walk
slowly. Tread carefully. But, do not worry; it seems like you do not have a
heavy load to bear ... You will make it.

Rush On Ring | Muktinath

I am from Mahottari. I had completed my health assistant studies from

Baglung.

I did not know what to do in life. If I had the money, I would have started
studying MBBS, but that I did not, so I was desperately looking for a good
job. A doctor who knew me found out about my situation. He asked me
whether I was interested in serving in swami (Kamalanayanaacharya) ji's
name in Muktinath. I thought about it for a while. The money would not be

352
Faith Bearers of Bherikhola

353
good, I knew, but I had an opportunity to serve, to do something in life. One
has to do something. So, I agreed. Then he asked me again – whether I, a
person from the plains, was committed enough to bear the chilly weather of
Muktinath and all the challenges that were sure to come. With strange
confidence, I said – Yes, sir!

So, here I have been for a few months now. I live in the ashram with the
saints. I attend to patients all day without charge, at the clinic, and in
surrounding villages. There is not much free time.

This is the kind of place where you have to engage with the community.
There is no option. If you do not engage with the community here, you
become isolated. If you do, you become one with them. Even though I am
from the plains, I have been accepted because of my humility and untiring
dedication to this profession. I am on good terms with all the key people –
the police officers, bankers, saints, hoteliers, village leaders and others.

I plan to serve here for at least three more years. It gets difficult at times,
yes. The medicine stock is not adequate. I have to ration them out. I cannot
give more than one dose to a patient, at a time. In the winter and peak
monsoon months, the road is disrupted – getting medicines here is
impossible. Sometimes, I prescribe medicines, but do not have any to give.
Even something like paracetamol has to be rationed in tough times. At other
times, emergency cases arrive that cannot be treated here.

Once it starts snowing, getting around becomes difficult. If I had not spent
those few years in Baglung, living here would have been next to impossible.
Anyways, I hope all goes well and with swami ji's blessings, I may someday
be able to become a doctor.

Wrinkled Strongman | Tila

Eat a lot of rice. Eat vegetables. Have lentil soup. Have meat. Drink alcohol.
Eat what tastes good. Eat to the fullest. Work a lot. Sleep a lot. That is how
one can, even at the age of seventy three, carry such heavy loads! That is
how one stays strong.

Camouflage Anonymous | Kaisang

The government did not know much about the Khampa uprising taking place
here. It was only when Chinese intelligence officials put Nepal on notice over
the issue, that the gravity of the matter was understood. The (then) Royal
Nepali Army had to act, otherwise the Chinese would.

Lieutenant Satchit Shamsher, who later became a General, was assigned to

scout the extent of the Khampa presence here. He dressed up as a hermit
and went around the villages taken over by Khampas. He prepared
surveillance reports, which extensively documented the extent of CIA
involvement, the kind and number of modern weapons the Khampas had,
and the way their camps were organized. The Khampas looted herders and
local businesspeople, gave them a lot of trouble, and so they lacked local

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support as well. These reports were reviewed in Kathmandu, it was
recognized that the Khampa uprising could and should be quelled urgently.

Thousands of army personnel were brought to Jomsom quietly. They sent a

message to the Khampa commander Gey Wangdi, demanding his surrender.
An ultimatum was issued. By that point in time, the infamous Gey Wangdi's
aura had been greatly weakened. Infighting had caught hold among the
Khampas here, for the CIA had attempted to replace Gey Wangdi with a
young leader who had trained in America.

This building was Wangdi's palace and the secret headquarters of the
Khampa movement, but this was not the only camp in Mustang. Just in
Mustang, there were camps in Chhairu, Kagbeni, Chhupra, Chhusang,
Tangbe, Tetang, Somar, Ghami and seven other places. Initially, there were
thousands of Khampa soldiers. Wangdi promised the Nepali Army that he
would surrender, but that he needed to convince soldiers from all those
camps first. The army command in Jomsom decided to wait. It waited for a
week, then another, but there was no response. It took some time for the
army command to find out that Wangdi had already fled with hundreds of
his people and all the loot that they could carry. A prompt coordinate search
was conducted on the Kaisang camp, and it was captured with minimal
resistance. Most of the other camps were more or less abandoned, and the
army took over without the loss of many lives. Some of the Khampas that
abandoned Wangdi then, eventually assimilated into Mustangi society.

It was discovered that Gey Wangdi was looking to escape to India via Tinker
Lipu in Darchula. It was there that an army unit led by Jamdaar Dan
Bahadur Shahi showered bullets upon Wangdi and his people. The
charismatic rebel met his death there in quite the unceremonious
circumstance – while trying to flee with loot.

Kaisang was a vibrant village before the Khampas took over; most of the
original inhabitants were forced to flee. The entire area was transformed into
a Nepali Army training base. I have met a few villagers, who said that they
used to farm potatoes and cabbages here, but all that is just a distant
memory. Even the few Khampa built structures that we decided not to tear
down are sure to become redundant in a few years. It is a history that no one
is proud of and everyone wants to forget.

Manang

Sedan Carriers | Tilicho Trail

This job is too menial and risky for the people of the mountains, so people
like us have to come on contract from the hills to do it.

This is a contract to widen the trail, one we took without inspecting the
location – not unlike most deals. Turns out, this job is a lot more difficult

355
than what we had assumed. It rains a bit at times, and there are certain
locations – we have already got them marked, from where large rocks are
likely to fall off. Well, the occasional landslides are something that one can
avoid by being a bit alert. But there are only two points from where we can
get the right kind of rocks for the gabion barriers; we have to carry them in
from the far end of the trail.

One slip and that is the end of it! We are intent on finishing this a couple of
weeks before Dashain. We want to get back to our families with gifts and
supplies.

Hovering | Chame

Every year around this time, most critically at the end of Asar (mid
monsoon), we have a cash crisis in Manang. Businesses have to do quite a
bit of maneuvering to make it through monsoon unscathed. I have not been
able to receive my salary for a couple of months now.

In monsoon, the tourist arrival is low. Hotels that make millions of rupees in
deposits every day, during the touristy season, are bereft of business. Of
course, it is the end of yarsa season, but much of those transactions take
place beyond the banking sector. The banks here get cash delivered to them
via helicopters. Because of the terrible, misty weather, none of the
helicopters have been able to land here for quite some time.

Bent Back | Kharche

Turns out, the wood we cut was wet. We could not light a fire to cook dinner
with it. I had no choice but to come back here to look for bamboo. This place
has many fallen bamboo plants; a landslide occurred here a few days ago.
They had recently run a bulldozer on this track.

With Soul | Tilicho Base Camp

A person from the east goes to the mountains of the west to make a living:
what is so odd about that? People go to places as far off as the Arab countries
and Malaysia to find work. I am still in Nepal ... not too far away from home.
Ever since I abandoned my studies, I had been working in Kathmandu – odd
jobs in hotels. My uncles work here. They called me in, when a position
opened up. The pay is much better here than in Kathmandu.

There is nothing to be afraid of in the mountains. This hotel is right below

one, but for years, it has fared well. The terrain might suggest otherwise to a
tourist, to a person who is here only for a few days. But, unlike in the hills,
there are no landslides here; it does not rain as heavily as it does there. I
have been here for the past year, but not seen a big landslide, a huge flood,
or any large wild animals, except a few blue sheep. The people here have
driven away all troubling animals. The east has way more animals, a lot
more dangers. This place is safe.

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The Sedan Carriers of Tilicho Trail

357
Grooving To Bollybeats | Braga

I was terrible at studies when I was young. My parents thus concluded that
there was no future for me at school. And so, like many other children from
the village, they sent me to Dharmashala in India to learn Buddhist
artisanship. I grasped the trivialities and techniques of this art form rather
quickly.

I travel all around Nepal, places where monasteries are being repaired or
constructed. There is good money in this profession, also a high degree of
respect. With this work, I earn a lot of dharma. When I pass away, a
memorial will be built for me; I will be immortalized. What more can one
want?

Tearful Soul | Mungii

I do not know what has happened to one of my legs. It has been a month
and a half ... it has just stopped moving. The pain is so terrible! It feels like
chili is being rubbed on an open wound; the pain goes straight to the bone. I
do not know what to do. I keep crying. The lama says that I have been
cursed by a serpent. He is performing necessary rituals to banish the serpent
away. My mother in law is also performing rituals and calling upon gods in
the village. After she started the rituals, I had felt a bit of a relief for a few
days, but now the pain is bitter again.

If I were old, I would have accepted being disabled, but I am just twenty
eight! I have a long way to go – two children to raise, the hotel to handle,
chores to do, a life to live. Yet, I feel so helpless. Perhaps, I should take a
couple of days off work once my husband arrives, and go to the hospital in
Besisahar. I hope he comes back from Dang soon, until then I shall endure.

I am a Chhetri, my husband – a Magar, and here we are working for Gurungs

in Manang. My husband has been working in this hotel for two decades now,
as the head chef. I too joined in after marriage. Our older child was born
here. Our younger one lives here. Apart from me, all of them feel like
Manang is their home, not Dang. My husband does not like staying in
Satipur much, even when we are there in the off season months, he feels
restless and irritated by the environment. My son, whom we sent to a school
in Dang three years ago, tells me almost every time on the phone – Maamu,
when are you taking me home? I want to see how the road has changed
Manang.

Naturally so, the mother of the house here used to take him everywhere she
went, on horseback. From the Milarepa Caves, to the Ice Lake, to the
monasteries around here, he is familiar with the entire area. I hope he
moves on though.

I wish to go back to the village, open a small shop, and live a peaceful life. It
is just that the mother of the house is too old, her body fragile, she is entirely
dependent on us to run the hotel. My family too is attached to the place. So,
neither of us can betray the other, and we continue working. The hotel runs,
life goes on.

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Holding Hens of Chaurikharka

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Silhouettes In Mist | Tilicho

I am from Solukhumbu. He is from Ramechhap. We are both involved in the

tourism sector, which is how we met, in Kathmandu.

A few years ago, we started our trekking agency in Bouddha. He stays at the
desk there. I guide tourists to places. We have only been able to afford this
holiday of sorts because it is off season. Being busy is the order of the day.

I have been to Tilicho many times before, but this, this is his first time. Not
that we had not guided trekking groups to various places, but, this is our first
solo trip together. This is special.

Horse Whisperer | Thorong Phedi

Horses are like people. They have to be responded to like people are
responded to. The horse that ran away today … I recently bought it. It ran
away because I had not tied it up, but we will find it somehow. It, and its
buddies that led it away, cannot go too far. If not today, tomorrow it will
understand me.

The previous owner called it a mad horse. The complaint was that the horse
used to toss away people who rode it by lifting its forelegs. But this was by
no fault of it, I know. The horse is a tortured soul. He must have made it do
things that it is naturally unfit to bear – wicked tricks, severe punishment,
and carrying immense loads. On an occasion, the horse must have lifted its
forelegs in a salute, and the rider being an inexperienced one must have
fallen off. Then, the horse must have realized that when it lifts its forelegs in
a salute, people stop making it do stuff. Being punished for a while must
have seemed better than facing hours of misery. They called this madness.
They called it a mad horse. But, no way, this is no mad horse. This is an
intelligent horse. With proper care, training, love and attention, this horse
will be able to do things no other horse can. This I know for sure.

Drowned In Shots | Larke Phedi

I lost my brother in the earthquake. He was transporting goods on mules on

this very same route (across the Larke Pass). Back then, we tried our best to
search for him, but it was impossible to reach most parts. My wife's uncle is
an influential person in Bouddha, we pleaded with him to arrange a
helicopter – for search and rescue. He tried his best, exhausted his contacts,
but could not arrange one. Till now, we have not been able to find his body,
or any trace of the mules. A few months after the earthquake, we consulted
the lama and performed his final rites.

My brother and I were married to the same woman – that is the custom
around here. After he passed away, life became miserable. I lost my mind. I
became a mad person. I used to trade yarsagumba and medicinal herbs. I
stopped all of that and bought mules instead – one mule, then two, then
some more. These days, I work on the same route my brother did.

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I have come to accept reality now ... but every night, it feels like a needle has
been thrust into my heart. I feel a strong pain. I am compelled to drink,
heavily, even when I really do not want to. This is my only relief.

Holding Hens | Chauri Kharka

They lost their mother when they were young, they would not have survived
if I had not cared for them. I have arranged a cardboard box for them to sleep
in warmly as well. I really love them. If I had not loved them, I would have
sold them already. Someday, I will have them myself.

At first, I did not know anything. I learned to run the hotel and cook different
dishes from guides that accompanied tourists. I run the hotel alone. I rebuilt
the hotel after the earthquake. This is the only hotel here. The next
settlement is a few hours away.

My husband stays at home. He looks after the children and works in the
field. I happen to be the breadwinner of the family. [Laughing]

Tan Seeker | Bimthang

What is not here? For those who know – medicine, for those that do not –
poison! Kurki (cough relief), wild garlic, nirvashi (painkiller), paanch aunle,
and what not! There are all sorts of medicinal herbs around here. The wild
garlic that you see being dried here is worth twenty / twenty five thousand
rupees per kilogram.

We did not know about the herbs before. It has just been some six / seven
years. The Chinese traders taught us about them. Once the borders open (for
the season), they will come for them. What they do with these, we do not
know. I have heard that when these are mixed with yarsagumba certain
diseases can be cured. If we knew what to do with them, perhaps there
would be more money to make. But, it is something that will not be possible
just by saying. Whatever is to be done will be done by the traders. We can
only look for the herbs.

We have mules. When it is not tourist season, only the two caretakers we
have hired come to have meals here – that too on alternative days. I stay
here alone. I do all the work by myself. Only when a lot of people come in
does one make food. Sigh! Can I not make Rara (noodle brand) instead?

Gorkha

Dragging Bulls | Sho

This is the way we have been working the fields since time immemorial. The
cattle here are of a different grooming than the cattle from the hills and

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plains. In the hills, the ox is groomed from day one to plow the fields in a
certain way. Here, they are roamers – free and untrained. This practice of
guiding the bull through the fields, by pulling a ring attached to its nose, was
brought in from Tibet by our ancestors. It is not a primitive way, just
something that works. In all of Tibet, it is still done this way. These bulls
simply cannot plow on a straight line without guidance.

Philili | Philim

What does one do when one's village becomes unlivable? One moves to the
nearest town. That is what we have done. Landslides have made living in
our village impossible. We have also learned that traditional houses cannot
withstand earthquakes. We are constructing this new house with bricks and
cement. Expensive, yes, but is there an alternative?

Engaged Crafters | Keraunja

Christianity is a matter of faith. Until the Maoists barred caste based

discrimination, it did not matter whether you converted to Christianity or
any other religion. If you were born into a Dalit family, you would have been
unforgivingly discriminated. After the Maoists punished a couple of people,
water touched by us became acceptable to all. It was fear that eliminated
barriers, not a change in faith or education or anything else. People of other
castes had to either treat us as equals or leave the village. It was as simple
as that.

There always are problems. When one ends, another begins. The earthquake
worsened existing fractures and caused numerous landslides around the
village. Not just our land, but the entire village is at the mercy of the rains
this monsoon. It is just getting worse every year. One's house goes down,
then another's field, then another's house again. We do not have much time.

Radiant Smile | Lho

If only I had not missed the visa renewal deadline, I would still have been in
Turkmenistan. There, I worked in the kitchen of a large business operation.
It was hard work, and I was paid well.

It is not that I do not like living here. Life just promised so much more there.
But now that life has brought me here, I have no qualms helping my sister
run this lodge for the foreseeable future.

Bent Cap | Kashigaun

I struggled abroad for eight / ten years. Life had become more comfortable
there. But, at last, no matter what happens, one feels like coming back to the
place where one‖s umbilical cord was cut. Even though the place where it
was cut might be like a pig‖s sty, the heart refuses to accept otherwise.

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Rest assured. You have come to a good place. Here, if the people can, they
will feed you tasty stuff, if not they will feed you dheendo peetho (the plain
staple diet). Regardless, there is a culture of offering guests a healthy filling.
In our village, there is not a culture of assaulting or hurting guests. There
sure are places like that – where they just finish you off.

Khukuri Cap | Bihi

The earthquake did not take many lives in the settlement here; most of the
deaths took place in the hillside kharkas (high pastures). Right after the first
shock, without leaving a second for the people to escape, gigantic rocks came
rolling down from the mountains and flattened everything. Neither could the
startled cattle escape; they died by the hundreds just around this village.

After the earthquake, a lot of people have abandoned their ancestral pastors.
Only a few people have continued rearing yaks. As a consequence of that,
there is a shortage of milk. The price of milk and milk products has shot up. I
hope you do not feel bad about the price I have had to charge you for this
glass of curd.

Enchanted Knight | Samdo

A young person must explore. It is a good thing to travel. When I was young,
I traveled a lot too, but I did not have to spend a penny of mine.

At the age of twenty three, I was chosen to be the Pradhan Pancha (village
leader) of Bihi. Shortly after, an exposure trip was announced by the then
Panchayat administration for the leaders of all forty mountainous Village
Panchayats along the Chinese border. This trip was personally overseen by
the then King Birendra.

We went everywhere, from Darchula, to Parbat, to Solukhumbu, to

Taplejung on vehicles, as far as the roads went in those times, which was
not much, and on foot after that. In all these places, we had to give speeches.
Our mettle and loyalty was always being tested. The oldest Pradhan Pancha
was from Tatopani. He gave long, boring speeches. Being the youngest in
that group was difficult. I had no experience. More often than not, while
delivering my speech, people from the group used to smile or laugh at me.
Whenever that happened, I just froze. Nervousness took over, and I could
not continue. After embarrassing myself many times, I learned to continue
after a pause.

King Birendra really loved me, perhaps because I was the youngest in the
group. He once asked me to sing a traditional song from the Nubri Valley on
stage. I was really unsure. I was not a good singer. Obviously, I had never
sung on stage before, neither did I know any song from the valley well. But,
how could I say no to the king? There was no question of that. So, I pulled
my breath in, hit the stage, and sang whatever came to my mind. It was an
embarrassing performance; I was prepared for the worst flak.

This guy is the youngest person here – a true patriot, a true raajbhakta (loyal
to the crown), and now, as we all have seen, quite talented as well.

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Those words of praise from the king, I can never forget. It was all so
unexpected. I was deeply moved. King Birendra patted me on the back and
then proceeded to give me a baksheesh (reward) of five thousand rupees!
That kind of money, back then – incredible!

Rolling In Grass | Dharmashala

You are surely not traveling without some purpose. Are you selling mobile
phones? We think you are. We are taking this cow to Bimthang. We are
trying to sell it. Are you interested in an exchange?

Adorned With Coins | Kashigaun

In this pouch of mine, I have got a remedy for cough and a packet of
cigarettes. I consume everything – I have cigarettes, I have medicines, I have
food; there is nothing that I do not eat – that is how I have lived till now, this
is how I will keep on living. Someday we all have to die.

Salvaging Euphoria | Srip

Oh, wow! So you are from Thapathali? The people of Thapathali saved my
child. It was only seven months old; my wife had to be operated upon in the
seventh month of pregnancy. What was the hospital's name? Oh yes, Prasuti
Griha!

I thought I would have to pay a lot of money. I was worried about their lives,
but also if I would be able to pay for the operation.

My wife survived and I did not have to spend a penny. The good people of
Thapathali arranged it all. It feels so good to meet someone from Thapathali.
Please come in for tea. But first, let me get a khaadaa for you.

It takes a week to prepare the maachhaa (yeast base), and then two more
days to brew the first batch of chhyaang (local beer) in this kind of barrel.
Others add sugar and all sorts of other things to the brew, but that is not
good. For fifty rupees, a price that is not too expensive, we serve the perfect
glass of chhyaang.

Brother, why is she (a woman in the room) crying?

Oh, that is my wife. We have many children. One of them failed when she
was just nine (years old) ... that is why.

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Dragging Bulls of Sho

365
Dhading

Ruby Blues | Borang

This place is called the Ruby Valley because there is a literal abundance of
rubies here. Mine a bit in any of these hills you see behind us and white
gems will start pouring in. To find green, blue, red and other better gems,
one needs to know the right mountains. The Ruby Mountain, well it is
technically not a mountain because there is no snowfall there, has the most
precious of these gems. For years and years, locals and traders from distant
villages plundered it. Almost everyone used dynamites there, quite
relentlessly.

We brought down massive chunks of rubies and sold them for a price that
seems very petty now. Some still have big chunks in their homes, but
nothing like those. If we could get those kinds of large chunks now, we
would be instant multi millionaires. Later, the situation got so bad that a
businessperson from Kathmandu even started operating an illegal mining
operation using large machines there. Consequently, the landslides started
getting dangerous. We started getting affected by the environmental
consequences of such large scale operations. The dynamites had to go. The
marauding had to stop. A consensus was reached between the communities
here; we decided to end the heavy mining. We decided to not allow people
from other places to come and start mining here. And now, with an elected
Municipal body, the regulation will be better. We owe our prosperity to these
ruby mountains. We cannot let them crumble.

Facepalm | Somdang Besi

Oho! Just listen to me for once, that phone will not work like that. You need
to go next to that tree and crouch a bit, to get that call through. If you sit, it
will not work either. You just need to crouch a bit. The damned CDMA
network has only showed up there after last winter's heavy snowfall.

The Searcher | Yarsa

My wife had a terrible stomach ailment. Her life was a living hell. Ask me
what I did not do to get her cured? We went to the lamas (monks). We went
to the jhankris (animistic healers). We went to all the best hospitals in
Pokhara – from Charakh to Manipal. Nothing helped! The lamas and jhankris
kept blaming one spirit or another for the illness. Every time we went for a
visit or to conduct a ritual, we had to take a hen or some branded alcoholic
beverage – that is the custom around here. The doctors gave a medical name
to the ailment, but all their prescribed cures failed. We did not know what to
do.

It was then that a churchgoer we had met at one of the hospitals in Pokhara
convinced us to attend a Saturday mass. My wife felt good upon going there,
and so we started going there regularly. Eventually, we decided to seek

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refuge in Christ's words – the holy Bible, as it is, professed by the true
church. We got baptized, as my wife showed significant improvement in
health. Till now, any complications or terrible pain have not occurred, so our
faith remains strong. Contrary to popular belief founded upon ignorance, we
have not received a single penny to profess the word of Christ. Neither has
the pastor; he works voluntarily. We do get opportunities to go to Pokhara or
Butwal and get religious training.

I was one of the leaders of the group that got people together to burn the
church in the village a decade ago. We organized people from three
surrounding villages, people who were not satisfied seeing an increasing
number of people take up Christianity. It was that kind of age where one's
blood is hot. My blood boiled every time I heard of what I thought back then
was Christian shenanigans, fueled by money. Fortunately, the pastor
reasoned with the mob well, and the authorities intervened just at the nick
of time. By the grace of God, we were saved from committing a grave sin. The
church was locked by authorities for a month. It only resumed services after
things cooled down.

Look, I do not have a problem with Buddhism. The problem was that we
were only Buddhists by name, but not in practice. There never were any
monasteries or significant shrines here. We followed Buddhism as dictated
by the lama. Most of our rituals and ceremonies were animistic and had
nothing to do with Buddha. The lama chanted verses in Tibetan, read
Tibetan scriptures we understood very little of. There was nothing in the
Gurung or Nepali language (vernaculars). We were just blind followers. Now
look, here in our hand is the Bible – God's own words in a language we can
understand. We do not need to offer hens, alcohol, or money to access it. We
can read it ourselves. If the lamas had provided us something that could
bring us closer to God, maybe we would never have become Christians. Now,
almost the entire village is Christian even the elected chairperson. There is
no going back.

Exultant Feet | Tipling

Till about a legar (dozen year cycle) or two ago, even the Tamangs did not let
us enter their homes. We made their tools, we did their work, but we were
always trampled upon. In fact, the Kaami village is still on the outskirts of
the main village, outside the village entranceway.

These things though are now just remnants of the past. The law has
empowered us. Now, if anyone calls us a Dalit or Kaami with resentment, we
can file a case against that individual. If someone discriminates against us
because of our caste, we can get him/her punished by law. Everything has
changed, including the faith of most villagers. Old practices have been
abandoned, and now the Tamangs come to our homes, and eat the food we
cook. My grandchildren study in Narayanghat and Pokhara. We are equals
now; we are much better off.

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Combing Away | Borang

The village might seem normal now, but it is only because the houses have
been rebuilt. Except a couple, all the old stone houses are gone. The newer
ones survived the earthquake.

I lost my home in the earthquake, like many others in the village. But, I
received no compensation. The people in charge of compensations said that I
have another house, so I am not eligible to receive any compensation. The
other house I have is a goth (animal shelter). I tried explaining this to them,
but they did not care to listen. I guess it is too late now to receive any
compensation, right sir?

I must admit that we were quite fortunate though, no one who was in the
village died. All those who died were on the trails, seven people involved in
building a new trail died by the river. One of the casualties was my sister's
daughter; she was only sixteen ... [silence followed]

Sir, I try to forget about the compensation by reminding myself that I

survived, that as long as there is life everything is possible, if not – nothing.

Tongue in Cheek | Tipling

My friend's father's name is Gu (feces) Ghale, and his mother's name is Tatti
Maya (toilet love)! No, I am not joking.

(Turns out the locals in Upper Dhading used to keep sour names with the
belief that it will keep evil spirits away from them.)

Kafka Karma | Somdang

A person like me first got on a helicopter at the age of sixteen. Hard to

believe, right? I was working as a porter, for a group on the Rolwaling trail.
In the initial stage of the trail, I twisted my ankle. It kept stinging and
swelling up as I struggled on. A few days later, we were in Naa, our group
leader realized that I had a bad fracture and could not continue. Luckily, a
tourist fell ill at the same time. A helicopter was called in to send him back.
As I was about to get on it, the pilot shoved me out – saying that the ride was
for the foreigner only. It was not until the leader and tourist stood up for me
that I was allowed in. After that injury, I could not carry large loads for years.

I always wanted to go to school, but my parents thought it was more

important to work. If only I could have studied, I would have been a
successful and happy person ... My father once came to the class, gave me a
tight slap, and dragged me back home. He was an indulgent alcoholic and
smoker. Later, he even got into legal trouble. When I was twelve, he
succumbed to tuberculosis. Thereafter, I had to win bread for my three
brothers and two sisters, working as a porter. Those same brothers yell scorn
and spit at me today. Fate, shucks!

After the injury, life became bitter. I tried various agricultural ventures, but
that was not my way ... My first wife eloped with another man. Then, I had

368
Grimly Rosy of Borang

369
five more failed live in relationships. The sixth one, she was sweet. All she
asked me was for some time to complete her high school. But mother
pressed me to marry her, and well I tried to pressure her. Then, she fled.
There was a time when maagi (request to family) marriage was strict – there
was no way out. Now, the women are free to do as they wish.

It was only a year ago that a friend, who knew I have good English and
experience, encouraged me to become a guide. I asked my mother for some
money to help me attend the training in Kathmandu. But no, she wanted me
to remain at the farm. I took out a loan from a friend of ten thousand rupees
and ran away. That day changed my life. I have been a licensed guide for a
few months now. I make a decent amount – around two hundred thousand a
month, during the season.

Blurred Feet | Near Benighat

We do not walk because we want to. If only the busses stopped for us, we
would not have to carry this manure to the fields on our shoulders.

Sister Orange | Majhimtar

To travel, even I desire. Maybe it is because I have not found a friend that I
have traveled, till date. Brother, you are traveling all alone. Seems like it is
possible that way too, right?

Sister, how much is it for an orange?

Five / ten rupees, but let it be. You are on foot. You do not have to. You will
feel fresh after having a juicy orange.

Black Stars White Stripes | Saat Kilo

We used to sell sugarcanes at the Kalimati market for around five hundred
rupees a bundle. Here, we have been selling it for eighty rupees a stalk –
twice the profit! Many private vehicles stop by every day, at times the
village's produce is not enough.

We are traders, not farmers. We sell this year round. Farmers from the
village come out to the highways to trade in Kartik (October/November).

We are working for our kids. They crave packaged food and sweets, they
want to wear the kind of clothes they see on the television, they want to do
as their friends do – a lot of things! For them, we have to make extra income,
farming is not sufficient. If that means staying by the highway all day, so be
it. That is what parents do everywhere, do they not?

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Rasuwa

Earnest Orange Floats | Suryakunda Pass

We have set up a tent here (Suryakunda Pass) just for the (Janai Purnima)
fair. We are not allowed to at other times.

Our home is in Ghyangphedi. We are just ordinary farmers hoping to make

some extra income. But, unlike the big hotels of Gosainkunda, we refuse to
charge exorbitantly for simple foods and a warm refuge for the night. We
know that we will not reach saange (the realm of enlightenment) by
swindling people, by indulging in bad karma.

We know that the people in Langtang and other places that tourists throng to
have been showered with money from other countries after the earthquake.
We know how the people there act like they are helpless whenever they see
a foreigner. But, we refuse to do the same. Receiving that kind of assistance,
spreading hands for more than what one needs, is a karma that is hard to
correct. One is forever indebted. In this realm, we are happy to work hard in
the farm and suffer, rather than indulging in bad karma for momentary ease.

Grasping In The Murk | Gatlang

Parbatikunda (pond) used to be wide and clean. It is now a shadow of its

former self. This is worrying because Gatlang's fate depends on the well
being of the holy pond.

I will tell you why the kunda is drying up. It is because a lot of people around
here have become Christians! When people become Christians, they stop
worshipping the pond; this makes the gods sad and the power in the kunda
disappears. I can tell you for certain that if the majority of the people here
abandon Buddhism and ancient practices, Parbatikunda will perish. Gatlang
will then cease to exist. We have to prevent this.

Tsampa Lovers | Dursagang

Many rooms of our hotel (/home) became useless after the earthquake. But,
we worry, that if we tear it down and start rebuilding, we might become
ineligible to receive reconstruction support from the government. So, we
have put up plastic sheets and made makeshift repairs. We cannot go on like
this forever though.

I am a Sherpa. My grandfather and his family came down from the high
passes. My official name has the surname Tamang though. When
mischievous government officials came to distribute citizenship certificates
they listed the village as a Tamang village, and without consulting any of us,
set all of our last names as Tamang! And now, we are stuck with it.
Ridiculous, is it not?

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Hearty Heartache | Syaphrubesi

Not everyone around Syabrubesi has become rich after the Kerung border
opened. I am the only person who cleans and maintains this stretch of the
road ... I start walking from my village, Brabal, every morning at 7:30. I reach
the town at 9 and work till around 4:30, reaching home at only 7 in the
evening. Then, I have some food and get much needed rest.

Yes, Saturdays are holidays, but I have to work even during festivals – the
others celebrate, enjoy, dance and drink, but I have no time to do that for too
long. All for a meager pay!

No one has ever thanked me for doing this work. Instead, the businesspeople
around here, people blessed with great riches, throw trash in the roadside
drains. They know that I will clear them out.

Sindhupalchok

The Giver | Lama Yambo

A few years ago, the sugarcanes here started turning salty. They taste like
water mixed with sugar and salt. We still have not been able to find out why
or how. When I was young, I used to love having these sugarcanes.
Nowadays, we use the leaves to feed cattle and set aside the stems to dry in
the sun. We use the dry stems as firewood. This season, I am scraping the
stems to see if that will help make the sugarcane sweeter – a futile effort of
course! Sir, to tell you the truth, I do not know why we are still farming
sugarcanes. Maybe we will have to shift to some other crop next year.

Tung Trance | Tarkeghyang

The girls are not my biological children. When I met them, they did not have
a guardian to look after them; they had nowhere to go, no one to call their
own. I am a very emotional person. I could not look the other way. I had a
roof over my head, I had a family – they needed both. I took them in, and
have treated them like my own. They have become a part of the family. They
help us run the hotel as well.

I am waiting for the tourists to come in; they come in droves after Dashain.
Some foreigners have good links with charitable organizations. I am waiting
for someone who might be willing to adopt them; give them a better future
abroad.

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Tsampa Lovers of Dursagang

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The Checkered Mother | Tarkeghyang

Dear son, we are not like the hoteliers. We go out into the forests. We work
in the fields. Just like you, we are troubled by leeches every day. We feel no
disgust towards anyone who has dirt or wounds on their hands or feet. In
fact, that is a good sign.

The earthquake might have forced us to live in a shack, but our heart is not
shabby. It does not matter if you have a lot of money or none at all. Do not
worry, as long as one's intent is pure, we will not deny that person some
warm food at our place.

Reeling Dervishes | Balthali

The corn here is the best, the yield is good, but that is not enough for some.
Some fellow villagers have started using bazariya (hybrid) seeds. This is a
very recent trend. We have not jumped into the bazariya bandwagon yet.
Once the local seed varieties are gone, there is no going back. So, we are
waiting; waiting to see if the bazariya seeds will still be performing well for
others in four or five years time – whether the soil will fare better or not,
whether the yield will continue increasing or not, whether their profits will
see a significant rise or not. Only if it does well, will we start using bazariya
seeds.

We are Magars, but our mother tongue is Nepali. We have spoken Nepali
and followed Hindu customs since the time of our ancestors. The Magars in
the west have their own dialect, but that is not ours.

Two of our houses went down during the earthquake. We have received a
large portion of the relief funds promised by the government, and have
rebuilt one of the houses. Our son is studying in Kathmandu. His college fees
and other dues were pending and piling up. So, we withdrew the
reconstruction assistance of one hundred and fifty thousand rupees and
used it to clear those dues. It was our duty as parents to help him. We have
high hopes from him. He will rebuild the second house someday.

Just give fifty rupees for the biscuits – that will do. You do not need to pay for
the corn and tea. It is against our faith to take money from tired travelers
heading towards the temple. Yes, we run a shop, but we are not
businesspeople. A few days ago, three travelers came in during the night.
They stayed here and had daalbhaat (rice and lentil soup) with some
seasonal vegetables. As they were guests who arrived in the night, we told
them that we would not accept their money. Still, they insisted and gave two
hundred and fifty rupees. We should not have taken that money.

Roasted Returnee | Ghorthali

Most of our teachers are from the plains. They have to work in the fields
when the monsoon rains come, so they arrange an extended vacation during
the months of Asaar and Saaun (mid June to mid August). I am giving my
tenth grade examinations this year. I need to do well. Such a long break does
not help my cause. There can be no classes without teachers here, so we go

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Reeling Dervishes of Balthali

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to Bahrabise to take tuition classes during this time. I stayed at a relative's
place there. Some of my friends rented rooms. I wish I could have done the
same. It is more fun when the boys are around; when you have your own
space.

Whisper Worries | Melamchighyaang

Our family is originally from Solu. My father in law had a shop in the village
there. He used to bring in goods from Dharan and other major markets. The
family was doing well.

It was around the time of elections (the 2056 parliamentary elections?), when
my husband was still an infant, that things took a turn. My father in law had
gone out to the telephone booth to make a call. In the booth, goons affiliated
to the Congress party attacked him. They took away the bundle of ninety
thousand rupees he was carrying. He tried to get the money back, tried to
persuade the leaders, tried to fight, but nothing worked out. He felt helpless.
He fell into depression.

Eventually, he concluded that Solu was not the right place to do business in.
It did not have good schools at that time for the children either. At that time,
a family friend told him that there was a good school by the Melamchi River,
in Sindhupalchok for the children, and that he could also start a small shop
there. My father in law moved there immediately, and, in a few months,
brought the family along too.

Only a few months after that, the Maoists destroyed that school, along with
the school in Sermathang. Confusion prevailed again. For a while, he
pondered upon returning to Solu. He even set plans afoot to do so. At the last
moment, he changed his mind. He found out that, a school on the other side
of the hill was good too, and that he could even relocate the shop there. That
is how our family ended up here, in Melamchighyang. The family has been
here for almost twenty years now.

I too am from Solu. My mother in law's ancestral village is only five minutes
away from mine, which is how I came to be here. I have been slowly
learning the ways of doing things around here. I have been picking up some
Hyolmo words. But, being one with the community here is a distant
possibility. The plan is for the family to move to Helambu bazaar in a few
years.

Silent Entwiner | Palchok

I lost ten of my goats and an ox that used to plow the fields during the
earthquake, as the shed they were in collapsed. My house collapsed too. All
of that can come back, but the house fell on my granddaughter as she was
rushing out.

What does a person who works with his hands have with him? His kuto and
kodalo (hoe and plow?). And so, as soon as the shaking stopped, I rushed to
the spot where the rubble had piled up and started digging. I was sweaty. My

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palms became wet. Still, I persisted. After quite some time and an incredible
amount of effort, I finally held my six year old granddaughter in these arms.
Both her legs were broken, but she was alive. It took quite some time for her
to recover.

I have great faith in the gods, but I am an old fashioned person. I have
neither been on a pilgrimage to Panchpokhari or Gosainkunda, just the
Palchok Bhagwati temple that is nearby. Going to fairs is a new tradition,
before there were vehicles, lay people around here did not go to fairs or
distant pilgrimage spots. When I was young, there were no vehicles here.
Now, my knees get sore very quickly. I cannot go far off.

The Priest | Thadepati

My father was a soldier in the Assam Rifles. After being hurt in combat, he
was attended to by a nurse who happened to be Hyolmo too. They got close
and eloped. My father fled from the army, my mother from the hospital.
They later became contractors and started a company that would go on to
hire over two hundred people. I was born in India, during that time.

Later on, our family moved back to Nepal. When I was young, I learned lama
practices at home. One day, I was carrying a load from Trishuli. An army
person caught my arm out of nowhere and ordered me to be a part of the
Nepali Army, telling that a strong lad like me would do well. I was petrified
and ran away. When I told my father about it, he said that such an
opportunity does not come often and that I must attend the trials. He handed
me some money and sent me to Trishuli. I was a naughty chap back then,
and used that money to have fun with friends. Another chance did come, to
join the Indian army, but I asked for money and did the same again. Nothing
could hold sway over fate though. Mine led to the army.

When I was fifteen, I ran away from home and joined the Indian GREF – a
force that creates trails and bridges, during the army advance. Our unit was
based in Arunachal Pradesh. One day, a Tamang soldier died and so the
officers started looking for a lama who could perform his final rites. I did it.
After that, I was called to perform all sorts of rituals in all kinds of places. I
used to get good money too. My attendance in the army suffered though. I
was dismissed. And so, I continued as a lama and traveled across Arunachal
for many years.

When I returned, representatives of the government came in and ordered us

villagers to start lodges by the trails. When we refused, they threatened us
by saying that if any foreigners were to die in the (Langtang) park we would
be held responsible. They promised benefits too. That is how my family left
Ghyangphedi and came to open this hotel here. The benefits never came,
instead annual tariffs were imposed – rupees thirty at first, now one hundred
and fifty thousand! And threats of being removed upon non compliance! We
will see how they do that.

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Obedient Arrestee | Bahrabise

In Bahrabise, we live in constant fear. First, the Jure landslide trapped the
Sunkoshi River, forming a lake that came right up to the road outside our
house for an entire month. All of the houses below were taken by it. The
water eventually drained out. We were spared. Then, the earthquake came.
Our house was unfit to live in. The tremors kept occurring, and so we had to
live in a tent for six months! The landslide that you can see on the other side
... many like that have come all along the riverside.

This one (pointing to a hill across the river) in particular worries us. If it falls,
the river flow might be blocked. Bahrabise then will cease to remain. Just two
days ago, the bridge in Larcha (a few kilometers upstream) collapsed after a
landslide occurred and large rocks fell on top of it. News that the collapsed
bridge had blocked the river flow reached us in the night. Fearful that a flood
might be triggered, we could not sleep all night. Some residents of the main
bazaar even fled to higher grounds that very night. This is how life is around
here.

The repairs done on this home after the earthquake are quite makeshift too.
Since this house will surely be torn down for the highway expansion in a few
years, investing in it makes no sense.

Dolakha

Confusions Abound | Jiri

I cannot understand why the Jirels have stopped farming here. They are all
into technical studies at the JTS these days. This means that there are just
enough potatoes locally produced to satisfy local demand for two months of
the year. Beyond that, everything consumed here – vegetables and grains,
come from Kathmandu. Such an abundance of fertile land, and no one to
work the fields! Hoteliers like us have to pay and charge more.

Heavy Maizenary | Jiri

The burden of the fields has come upon the shoulders of old people like us.
Most of the young ones are into better paying jobs or have gone abroad. It
feels good to see them progressing in life, to know that they will not have to
carry these kinds of burdens to rear cattle and grow crops. If we had the
opportunity to be educated, we could have done so much more in life.

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Flightful Dreamer | Namdu

Man is just like a free bird: free to roam wherever it wants to, free to live as it
chooses. The notion that one needs to have a family, have children; that one
needs to live in a certain way is invalid. It makes no sense. The person who
realizes it lives, the person who does not suffers. When I was a college
student in Kathmandu, there were many fresh ideas and the will to
experiment in my heart. They all abandoned me once I settled into a routine
job. I try to find peace in the fact that I came back to the village and helped
make it a better place, but there is so much more that I could have done.

With a mobile phone in hand, the students here have entered the age of
digital learning. The old age curriculum is not fit for them, neither are they
fit for the curriculum. Except three or four students who make a sincere
effort to learn, all others are dismissive of the course in its entirety. All they
want to do is to go out to work, to leave Nepal as soon as school is done
with. This is the prevalent mentality. There is a dearth of imagination.
Anyone who makes the slightest economic progress leaves for or takes one‖s
family to Kathmandu. You might have rarely seen any youngsters on the
way. And so, like we used to shove up salt into an unrelenting cow's mouth,
for her own good, these days we force feed students the course, for their own
good.

Helium Wanderer | Charikot

I too live in Kathmandu, in Chhetrapati. From there, I go on long trips to

surrounding districts, with my cycle, the cylinder, and these Motu Aur Patlu
balloons. I particularly look for festivals and special occasions. I have
marked certain places for annual visits too. I came to Charikot a few days
ago, in time for Janai Purnima celebrations. Tomorrow, I will be going to
Manthali ... Manthali, Ramechhap in time for a fair there. After that, I will
descend to the Tarai highway towns, and then return to Kathmandu via
Mugling… I am traveling, selling balloons, almost all the time.

Melancholy In Sanguine Shades | Busti

My son was a driver. My son was corrupted by alcohol and women. Like his
father, he never listened to me. He kept being shamelessly indulgent; that is
how he caught a grave disease. After that, he could not continue working.
His wife left him for another man. He was restricted to his bed. I took care of
him, at home, till his last moments of struggle.

I have three grandchildren – a daughter and two sons. After their father's
demise, they had no one to care for them. I raised them, with the feeling in
heart that they were my own. I started rearing goats to meet expenses and
arrange for their education. My grandson, who is about your age, and
daughter have completed their plus twos (high school). The younger one,
who is seventeen, will be giving his SLC (grade ten) this year.

I had finally overcome the loss of my son. I had faith in my grandchildren,

that they would take care of me; that they would understand the sacrifices I
made, and help make my life more comfortable. Alas! Things took a turn

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when my older grandson fell in love with a girl from another community. He
stopped listening to me. She does not help me with any work. They do not
talk well to me. Am I wrong to expect my son to listen to me? Am I wrong to
expect a family member to assist me in daily chores? The other children too
do not reciprocate the effort I put to make them happy. My husband is still
an irresponsible drunkard. What can I do, but cry?

Lately, I have contemplated becoming a bramhakumari (member of an

ascetic community) and leaving the family. Only then, might I have some
peace in my life, an escape from this misery, find people that will take care
of me. But again, I cannot take such a step until my youngest grandson
becomes independent. I cannot shy away from that responsibility.

Oh, I lost one of my little goats again. I have been searching for him all day.
One of the villagers said that it had scurried down the highway, so I went
down to Tamakoshi – checked the grazing fields, checked the forests, but it is
nowhere to be found. I am afraid that it might have been stolen. Maybe
someone with a vehicle has taken it away. That has happened before. There
goes my twenty five hundred rupees!

Still Fearful | Tallo Kot

Two floors of our three storey home were rendered useless by the
earthquake. We have rebuilt it now, brought it down to two storeys. Yet, I
still fear living in it. I have been living in a cottage (built out of corrugated
sheets) for almost three years now. I feel safe in it.

Right after the earthquake, families here got together around the fallen
monastery. The people who were working there helped arrange for basic
needs, for the entire community. It was really difficult to get tarps, at first.
So, four or five families had to get under the same tarp. The winds blew
quite strongly during those times, especially at night. We had to get up
several times in the night and hold the tarp – to save it from being blown
away. We were relatively fine though. It was not us, but the elderly women
who really suffered.

When the earthquake came, my younger daughter was in Kathmandu. She

studied there. My elder daughter was in Bangladesh. She still studies there.
For quite some time I could not get a call through to them, I just wanted to
know that they were alright, but could not. It was really frustrating. When I
finally got to hear their voices on the phone, I could not say anything. All I
could do was cry.

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Heavy Maizenary of Jiri

381
Ramechhap

New Age Meditators | Deurali

We are the oldest hoteliers here. We started this hotel twenty seven years
ago. Back then, only rich tourists used to trek to Everest. They used to come
with tents, all sorts of equipment, porters and guides. But then, ever since
the roads have come close, there has been a slight increase in the number of
Nepali guests, and the number of premium tourists who stay overnight has
fallen. Above all, it has been this recent trend to skip the trail from Jiri and
instead fly straight to Lukla that has hurt us the most. The trail is alive only
during autumn and spring.

I watch whatever they put on TV. My granddaughter watches Hindi serials; I

have gotten into the same habit. I do not understand Hindi, so my
granddaughter explains it all to me. It is a good way to spend the evening.

We usually charge six hundred rupees for a simple room and daalbhaat
during the trekking season. Sometimes, it is even hard to get a room here
during that time. A lean tourist stayed here last season. He wore clothes just
like you. He asked for a quiet room, had only a single meal a day and said he
was here for meditation. Maybe he did not have a lot of money, maybe it was
his way of life. He could not go beyond. How can one trek up the mountains
by having one meal a day? So, I think I get you. Please feel free to pay as
much as you like. Two hundred will be fine, one hundred will work too.

Solukhumbu

Sheets A Sour | Lukla

Not everyone in Lukla is rich. I, for one, am having a tough time figuring out
how to pay my children's fees.

We came here from the western hills, because this place promised a better
life. My husband is a tailor by profession. We used to live in and run a shop
in an old building closer to the airport, but that became unlivable after the
earthquake. We moved to the periphery, renting land here is relatively less
expensive, built this temporary structure, and are saving up to buy some
land. We are still offering basic tailoring services, but the business has
suffered since we shifted. We have explored other avenues of income too.
We are rearing some pigs.

A lot of visitors do not come to this part of Lukla. They do not know that this
slum like settlement exists. A boy like you came here last year and
expressed shock upon seeing this place, just like you did. He stayed here for
a couple of days. When he asked, what he could do to help us, we told him

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that if the burden of the children's fees were to be relieved from our
shoulders, life would be much, much easier – and to you, we say the same.

Bakkhu Enlacer | Lukla

I have lived the better part of my life here. I have embodied the Sherpa way
of life – learned the language, learned the ways. When I don a bakkhu, no
one can even vaguely presume that I am not of Tibetan origin.

Ours was probably the first tailoring shop in Khumbu. When people did not
have a lot of money, they used to value every piece of cloth; sew the same
shirt, pants, suit or bakkhu, over and over again, making it last for years.
This was not a highly profitable business, but a consistent one. Now that
almost everyone has a lot of money to spare, no one cares to mend old
clothes. A small tear and it is thrown away. A new one is bought to replace
it. Readymade clothes from China are the order of the day.

Apple Red | Khumbu

At the tender age of eleven, along with my brother who was a few years
older, I braved the Nangpa Laa and Renjo Laa passes, not to forget the
Chinese authorities, to get to Nepal. This is something that would be quite
impossible today with the strict border controls beyond these parts ... The
reason? The reason might sound absurd to you. We wanted to learn English
– just that, plain and simple! It was not a case of religious oppression or
anything. Those days are long gone. Chinese schools used to teach English
too, but the quality of English teaching there was dismal. I would not have
been this smart if I had not taken that risk. I am a Tibetan, but I am happy to
be Nepali too.

Rosary Slams | Lukla

We call dogs ki in our language. Ki also means happiness. We used to have a

practice of killing dogs here. We used to think that they were a nuisance.
But, once more accomplished, better educated lamas started running the
monastery here, killing dogs was disallowed. Instead, a vasectomy program
was encouraged. Once the monastery issued dictates with the explanation,
our eyes were opened. Killing happiness does not make sense, does it?

Wrestling is my life. I watch it all the time. I never miss an episode.

Attention | Nimchola

Several years have not passed since we shifted here. We used to live in
Deurali (Ramechhap).

My father is a lama in the local monastery, but it is not that but the chiraito
(Swertia Chirayita herb) trade that actually brought us to this place. This

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altitude is ideal for chiraito. For two straight years, we made a very
handsome profit by pooling the village's collection and finding wholesale
buyers. But last year, the chiraito price took an unexpected dip.

All this is last year's produce. We have decided not to sell it until the market
price rebounds. Our savings are trapped in these chiraitos.

Oily Palms | Sera La

We (the family) run this teashop in the pass, throughout the year, except in
the peak winter months when snow piles up. Albeit, tourists and travelers
only show up in great numbers during autumn and spring. So, the income
from the teashop is not regular.

We have rented a room in our house to a Chhetri teacher, but we just charge
a rent of three hundred rupees, plus the electricity bill – a meager sum right?
Well, we do not feel comfortable charging thousands of rupees, like people in
Khumbu or big towns might do. Well then, one has to do something for
money right? That is where these sheep come in. Rearing these sheep is not
an option, but a necessity. It is a troublesome affair, as you can see, but the
consistent demand from Namche is just too hard to ignore.

Pathfinder Phew | Lukla

So, there was this crazy tourist couple the other day. I took them to Everest
Base Camp, and when they saw the glaciers, they had this sudden urge to go
into the ice formations. I told them it was not safe, that there could be
avalanches or the rocks could fall, but they would not listen. They were
adamant. I knew that if I did not take them there, there would be complaints
at the agency... If something happened to them, I would be responsible.
Finally, I bowed down to their adamancy, but not without condition. I asked
them if they would look after my wife and children; hand over a sum of ten
million rupees if anything happened to me there. They agreed. Fortunately,
nothing like that happened. We went inside the ice formations. They took
tons of pictures. We came back safely. This, my friend, is the life of a guide.

Gracious Giver | Junbesi

I chose to become a monk at the age of thirteen. Having entered the

monastery at such a late age, there were times in the first few months when
I strongly considered returning to a lay life. Overcoming youthful
temptations, definitely, was the most difficult part. Every time those came to
my mind, I focused even harder on the meditation and practices. It is how I
eventually rose above them; it is where I discovered faith.

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Slugger Beam Face of Mahakulung

385
Slugger Beam Face | Mahakulung

I have five children, all daughters. The only son I had died in infancy. What
other reason does the village need to mark one as jinxed? Let them talk
behind my back, I said, and moved on.

Then, when we started this hotel – the first in this region, the clamor began
again. The jinxed one is lazy too, they alleged. Spreading one's skirt to make
two pennies – such was the talk around here! When I took a stand to send
my girls to school, instead of marrying them early, the hubbub ensued again.
I remained adamant throughout.

Look, how time has proved them false! My second daughter has completed
her CA studies, and has appeared for civil service examinations. My eldest
daughter has cleared her bachelor‖s degree. Another is almost done with her
BBS. The youngest one is doing her plus twos. The younger ones help me
run the hotel; eventually one of them may inherit it. They are learning the
art. These days, there are several hotels around here. Some of yesterday's
critics have become today's competitors. The so called leaders might claim
that their plans made this place what it is today, but I know that if I had not
started this hotel back then, if the hotel on the other side had not helped
create a haat (weekly market) here, the village would not have developed.

Being a woman here is tough, but I have always been adamant. Asthma
though has taken the fighting spirit away from me, over the years. I have to
get regular checkups. There might also be cases where I need to be rushed to
a hospital. So, I will have to move to Kathmandu in a couple of years.

God granted existence to Kulungs in Chemsing of Chheskam. The place is a

hill beyond this one. Kulungs have spread to Kathmandu, Sikkim, Darjeeling,
many other parts of India, the UK and beyond. But no matter where we go,
this place holds special significance for us. Recently, youngsters have made
efforts to reform our traditions. Most significant of which is the call to bring
together ancestral gods, worshipped in each home, to a temple in each ward.
I support this move. We have to progress. Performing sacrifices, spilling
blood, in every home, for each idol, is a great inconvenience.

Doused In the Dark | Nunthala

I had come here, to the market, to get my mobile phone repaired. My home is
a mere twenty minutes away, but I could not get there. I did not know that
work had commenced on the road this way, while I was busy in the market.
The usual trail had been destroyed, and the road was all muddy and
slippery. I tried my best to go up that way, but it was getting dark, and it was
raining heavily. I kept slipping, so I walked back to the market and into the
hotel.

I am seventy one, if I were younger maybe I could have reached home, but I
am seventy one and I cannot help it. I am afraid of encountering bears on the
way. They come to the fields to steal our corn. What will happen if a bear
rushes after me? I can neither run, nor can I hide; the way is so bad. It is
better to stay safe, than to try one's luck in this kind of situation. I wish I
could contact my husband, but the mobile is still not working. Never mind,

386
what will he think … that his seventy one year old wife is sleeping in some
other man's home? Ha ha!

All my daughters, except one, are abroad – in Italy and France. The other
lives in Kathmandu. My son is an elected local representative. He has made
me proud. He too lives in Kathmandu.

Bedrock Rainbows | Namche Bazaar

Khumbu used to be a region of herders. We used to live in shabby little

cottages; any luxury was a far cry.

Back when Hillary and Tenzing climbed Everest for the first time, I worked as
a porter for the expedition. Actually, the whole village did. I carried their
stuff up to the Everest Base Camp. I was as old as him (the boy working at
the hotel), around fifteen I guess, back then. They had a lot of things. It took
all the villagers to carry them up. Tenzing, he was a porter like us ... I
received six rupees for the work. Six rupees was huge money back then.
Such expeditions and pays later became regular.

This place has been built upon the hard work and suffering of the people of
our time. As a consequence of the lifting I did as a porter back in those days,
my legs have become weak. I recently had an operation; I guess they
inserted a piece of metal or something like that. Whenever it gets a bit cold,
in my bones I feel a pain unexplainable in words. I cannot stay here in the
winter. I have to go to Kathmandu.

Bag In Back | Tengboche

The Sherpas from Khumbu used to come down to Solu in search of work or
food. They used to bring in salt and livestock from Tibet, seek grains and
other essentials from us, Rais, in exchange. This is what we have heard from
the elders in our village, not something we have witnessed with our eyes.

The reality now has flipped. We work for the Sherpas. We work as porters,
we work in the hotels; we do the work that the Sherpas do not like to do. I
carry in meat from Namche: the suppliers stock it there, also vegetables and
other essentials from Syangboche. Today, I am taking this load to a hotel in
Lobuche. Sometimes, I have to deliver beyond too.

The owner is not there, as it is off season now. These materials have been
ordered by a fellow Rai who is running the hotel.

Frisky Ire | Surke

Around the time that the (Second) People's Movement was brewing, I was in
Pokhara. There, under the influence of a friend, I started attending church. I
was soon baptized, and encouraged to begin training to become a pastor.

387
I returned to the village with that friend, a few months later, and started a
church – doing so against my staunchly Sherpa Buddhist family's wish was
extremely difficult. After converting a few families here, we started
preaching in surrounding villages too. We started two other churches. Going
to those places once a week, we used to deliver sermons, gather children to
sing hymns and perform rituals.

At one point, there were seven other pastors like me around here. The
optimism that surrounded us initially gave away to internal strife. Some of
my compatriots discovered that while we were working merely for faith, the
senior preachers in Pokhara were receiving tons of money. Soon, they started
questioning the purpose of what we were doing. A few of them left the
church. My brother, who is a lama, too was putting pressure on me to come
back to the Buddhist fold. He had nothing good to say about the Christian
faith or my engagement. So eventually, I decided to leave the church as well.
A lot of villagers here and in the neighboring hills did the same. Now, there
is only one Protestant family in the village. The rest have come back to seek
Buddha's refuge.

I can now see clearly, why this happened. Like me, all the others had come
to the church with great expectations or under peer pressure – not out of true
faith. A change in religion has to be accompanied by a change in heart.
Expectations and money serve only to kill faith. With my family, I am happy
now.

Yielding Uwa | Kharikhola

Life has been terrible ever since the WiFi went away. No Facebook, no cheap
calls, no way to stay in touch with my children abroad every day! Now, we
are left with only the bulky phone. What to do? It had only been two months
since the WiFi was installed in the monastery, but the rains took it away.
Maybe, they will repair it after monsoon.

The monastery does not allow us to hurt or kill animals here. They do allow
us to bring in meat, but the killing has to be done beyond the village. A
slaughterhouse has been set up in the middle of the big jungle, on the
outskirts of the village. Furthermore, local groups and park authorities have
disallowed slaughtering animals in Khumbu. The reason behind it being that
slaughtering creates a lot of waste that cannot be easily disposed of. It is an
effort to keep the Everest region clean for the tourists. Although some people
do rear poultry locally in the villages above, bringing in animals for meat
from Solu is strictly forbidden. Almost all of the meat consumed above is
carried by porters from here. In the farming season, it is difficult to find
porters too. The price of meat is quite high, as a result.

Oh, click the picture already. Ha ha! I know what you are going to do with it.
Put it up somewhere and write – a woman with her yield of uwa (barley)
seeds.

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The Visionary of Namchebazaar

389
The Visionary | Namche

My daughter took me to the United States a few years ago. She wanted me to
live a life of comfort, to live the good life. It was there that I first started
having trouble reading. I thought it was natural, as I had spent years
working as a porter – scaling mountains, staring at bright snow, and
enduring terrible conditions ... something had to give. Things got
progressively worse, my field of vision narrowed. I could not keep working. I
chose to come back to Nepal.

There was no improvement, and so I finally decided to get a checkup at

Tilganga. The doctor there, who happened to be from Taplejung ... I forgot
this name ... told me that I was suffering from glaucoma; the nerves that
connect the eyes to the brain have dried up. He stated rather bluntly that I
would soon be completely blind, that there was no cure for my condition.
That it was time to retire, retreat and relax. If only I had gotten a checkup a
few months earlier, a cure could have been possible. It was too late. I have
been completely devoid of sight for the past three years.

We, Sherpas, are of Tibetan origin. Like the term poorbeli in Nepali, the word
syaarwaa means easterner – eastern Tibetan. Six generations of my family
have called Namche home. The oldest settlements in this region –
Pangboche, Tengboche and the likes have a history of over half a
millennium. Namche, originally Naakche – meaning dense forest, was
settled much later. The first settlers here came through the Nangampa Pass.
They were definitely nomadic herders in search of good pasturelands.
Historically, most Tibetan villages were not permanent settlements; they
moved every four / five years or so. The border here was unregulated, almost
nonexistent, until about ten / twelve years ago. The Chinese tightened
borders to prevent Tibetans from escaping.

After spending the best years of my life working as a porter in the Everest
region, being a part of numerous expeditions, I wanted to stop risking my
life and do something better. That was how I came to establish the first lodge
in Namche four decades ago. It set the tone for the village; gave a model that
others could replicate. But, I feel that the place has stagnated, there is a
dearth of innovation in Khumbu. The hospitality is not satisfactory. Anyone
can open a hotel here, and run it in a manner that harms the image of this
region.

A minimum criteria has to be set, hotels have to be regulated. Instead of

upsetting visitors in a crude attempt to make twenty dollars, we need to
learn to offer better services and make two hundred dollars from impressed
and happy tourists. I have shared tons of advice and tips with groups of
entrepreneurs, youngsters and women on this matter. But action, of course,
does speak louder than words. And so, I believe that I will have to step up
and set the tone for the future, myself. As a final act, I want to make a two
star hotel in Namche; a proper hotel with waiters, trained staff, construction
that reflects traditional norms, saunas, jacuzzis, wide open spaces,
uncompromised cleanliness, and top class hospitality. I want to inspire
young Sherpas to stay in Namche and help make it a better place. That is my
vision.

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Defogging Pains | Debuche

They call this a blessed sanctuary of dharma (beyul), but those are just
words. All the Sherpas here care about is striking a profit.

It is off season right now, and the owners have leased out or left the reigns of
their hotels to people from below (Solu) like us. But in the peak season, when
the owners come back from Kathmandu, there are hundreds of good (rich)
tourists who throng to this place every day; jholes (backpackers) and Nepalis
have no chance of getting a room. If a foreigner comes with two Nepali
guides, they too are denied a room, as the lodge has to feed the guides for
free. Mattresses are laid out in the main hall, and that is where most people
find refuge at night.

This has become the nature of Khumbu, and as sad as it may be, we Rais
have fallen prey to it as well. Money corrupts! We know that greed is no
good, but the environment here offers no room for morality. There have been
cases of muggings, there have been disguised murders, and there is rampant
prostitution! I have stopped believing in dharma or religious people. It is all a
facade. This is a sad place. The richest Sherpas have abandoned this place
for America and Europe. A lot of foreigners have married Sherpas and taken
them away. This place will be in the hands of the Rais in the future, that is a
given. But, that will not help one bit. We, Rais, too have become just like
Sherpas these days. We have lost our heart. This place has made us greedy,
and there is no helping it.

Tan Burns | Gorakshep

I am only eighteen, but as you said, I may look much older. It is because
working in the sun in this kind of altitude burns the skin. I am usually
outside, while my brother handles the kitchen, bringing in stuff, keeping the
place clean, doing a lot of manual work, arranging water … You must have
known about the shortage already. This is how my day passes.

Our father died after crossing the Amphu Labtsa. He used to be a porter. His
heart stopped working (cardiac arrest?), a few hours after putting the load
down. Maybe, it was a case of the altitude getting to him. Maybe, someone
killed him. This happened some fifteen years ago. We were too young to
understand what had happened or how.

Since mother had no experience or education, my brother – who is twenty

five now, had to start working to feed the family. I started working early too.
My brother found a stable position in this lodge, twelve years ago. A few
years ago, I too came here. It is extremely difficult to manage this place
during the trekking season. There is not a moment to breathe freely. Still, at
least it is better than being a porter.

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Bhojpur

Flickering Flash | Sarmatak

The girls from that village called us maajhis (fishers, also caste meaning)?
No, we are Rais!

How could they defame us like that? This is insane!

Look, we are fishers but we are not Maajhis. This is a temporary affair. We
built these temporary huts here to access the road. Our village is up in the
hills. It is a Rai village. This is a Rai settlement. We are just fishing because
there are so many large fishes here. Thukka! [Spitting in disgust] I cannot
believe that we are being defamed like this by the girls from the other village.

Do Not Mind | Aambote

All of the Buddha's teachings can be summed up in three words: Do not

mind. Rise above petty nuisances – do not mind, do not engage. If an ant
comes and bites you while you are meditating – do not mind, do not
respond; the moment you do, all your meditation goes to waste. If you fall on
the way – do not mind, do not complain, just pick yourself up and keep
walking. If someone speaks ill to you – do not mind, just smile back. If a
person shoves you – do not mind, pick yourself up, and move on. Do not
mind.

Feckless Gleam | Chakhewa

Do you know what a chindo is? It is a vessel that we use in traditional

ceremonies, carved out of a fruit. Here, in Chakhewa, our party has decided
to build a thirty five storey view tower in the shape of a chindo. The top ten
stories of the structure will revolve (ferriswheel?). From the top of the tower,
people can see the plains, the mountains and the neighboring districts.

Also, the plan is to install a gigantic light on top, a light that will be on all
day, all night. The light will be so bright that people from Kathmandu to the
Tiger Hill in Darjeeling will be able to see it. Our village will be known all
over the world.

This is an effort to preserve our identity and promote tourism in the village.
It is a great source of pride for us. It is a billion rupee project; tens of millions
of rupees have already been spent on making a base camp of sorts, for
construction storage and accommodation. We have been looking for
international investors as well.

Rest assured, this structure will be built! The world will be in awe.

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Skinny Lone Rock of Phedi

393
Angel Helphand | Near Aambote

I always make an active effort to help visitors find their way. I too might
have to go to a new and strange place someday. I believe that if I help
strangers here, a stranger will help me find my way tomorrow. Of course,
there are drunkards and rude people … how can I help them? I cannot. But I
try my best to help others.

My son and his friends love traveling too. A couple of years ago, they went to
a distant place and lost their way in the jungle for five whole days! They
were saved by strangers. When I look at you, I see my son. You look like you
are of my son's age. I do not want you to lose your way.

The Wrinkled Trailman | Yaku

Life has been easier since the roads came in, no doubt about that. That said,
road transport is more for the wealthy, less for us. The busses will never
arrive at my doorstep, my home lies in a silent corner. Even if it did, it would
not stop for a person looking for a short trip. Let us say it did stop. Then, I
would be charged a hefty sum for the trip, a separate sum for the load.

It is not just the roads, but the trails that need to be made better, to help
people like us. We have no choice but to turn to using it; it is shorter and
more convenient. Sadly, in recent times, trails that used to be maintained
annually when the roads had not come have been completely ignored. Weed
has taken over; the trail has become frail in many places. What can we do?

Skinny Lone Rock | Phedi

Look son! One has to bear the potato that grows on one‖s head (bear one‖s
fate).

I was born in the year ninety and one (CE 1934/35). I was born in suffering. I
grew up suffering. I am spending my final days suffering too. My sons live
below (in the plains), but I cannot live with them. My wife passed away not
recently, but a long time ago.

What can be done? Told you, the potato on one‖s forehead …

I have not abandoned old ways. I cannot. I made this daalo myself. This coat
of allo (nettle), I sew it. From where could the people of yore get foreign
clothes? Everyone used to sew clothes of allo like this. They used to cover
their bodies with allo. It is only now that everything has been lost!

Forehead Wide | Majhuwagadhi

We gathered at the community hall last year and decided to encourage the
village to not celebrate Dashain Tihar anymore, in accordance with the
decree issued by the central community organization in Kathmandu. For

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those who still want to celebrate Dashain, the use of red tika has been
forbidden. They have been advised to use white tika instead.

Similarly, if sacrifices have to be made in Dashain, the community has

encouraged the sacrifice of pigs instead of goats. Dashain and other Baahun
Chhetri festivals have nothing to do with our Kirant tradition. We have the
Chandi Naach, and our new year – which is the main festival.

Hindu priests might have lost their way ... Baahuns eat all sorts of meat
these days and recite verses in Nepali instead of Sanskrit, but our village
elder remains stern and disciplined. I cannot be sure of what is happening in
other Kirant communities, but in our community the elder is wise and knows
our traditions well. He guides all of us. Some of the youngsters too have
learned from him, and so our customs will not be forgotten.

My wife has a lot of Chhetri friends in her village. They celebrate Teej there
with great fervor. I am taking my wife and child there. She does not fast
though. She is just in it for the fun.

Cradle Rocker | Gothe Bazaar

In our times, becoming a lahure (migrant worker) here was inevitable. Money
was scarce and there were no jobs. Our fathers and great grandfathers
headed off to the north eastern Indian states – Assam, Bhutan, or Bengal, the
very day they became teenagers. It was harsh labor related jobs that we
mostly did, only a lucky few made it to the (Indian / British) armies.

Education changed it all. These days we compete for jobs in cities. A lot of
educated youngsters from this village have entered government service.
Tourism has also flourished: a few hundred foreign tourists, in a bid to
acclimatize, trek to the Everest region from Arun Valley.

Sankhuwasabha

Fermenting In Chakras | Gadhi

I was born and brought up in Khandbari (a town). My parents arranged my

marriage. I did not know where my new home would be, or much about who
I was being married to. Leaving the vibrant town for an isolated village was
difficult. It has been twelve years since then, I have gotten used to this life;
the stuff that keeps me occupied ... making nigaar (fermented drink), then
another brew of weaker alcohol with the same base, then another, and
feeding the residue to the pigs.

The village is becoming more and more like a town every day. Taxis (locals
refer to jeeps as) have started running. There is a new mechanized mill. I
went there, paid some money, and got this tsampa mix made last week in a

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jiffy. It would have taken me three days to make this on a jaanto. But, I feel
they might have mixed some sand in with the tsampa. I thought of throwing
it away, but could not get over my greed. It is a perfect blend of peas, barley,
grams, wheat, and other stuff. Having little bits of sand will not hurt, will it?

Raging Emperor | Khandbari

Me? Modi‖s son! Yes, I am Modi‖s son. I have a straight connection to Modi.

Oh, Saauni! You have no idea who I am. By relation, I am your father. My
name – Shahenshah.

Now, give me one hundred and fifty rupees for the pillow cover or give the
stuff back. I am laying it straight. Why would anyone trade for a loss?

Sleep Walkers | Chyamtang

To distinguish ourselves from Sherpas and Tibetans we, the Himalayan

inhabitants living to the east of the Arun river (turns out, this is limited to
Sankhuwasabha), have chosen to unilaterally call ourselves Lhomi
Shingsaba. The word lhomi means eastern, lhomiya means easterner, like
the Nepali terms poorbi and poorbeli. The word shingsaba means farmer.
Previously, a lot of people used to go by with the surname Bhotiya or Bhote –
that was the surname given by the administration on the citizenship by
default, but now they use the ancient clan names – Hangwa, Nuppa,
Syandara etc. followed by Lhomi. Using the Lhomi surname is profitable,
because it makes us eligible for certain government quotas.

My father was a bijuwa (shaman), my mother a priest's daughter. We were a

really religious and conservative family. My father used to liberate people
from the possession of spirits. The victims would be healed, but those spirits
followed him to our house. Whenever someone died or an unfortunate event
happened in the village, our house became a scary place. To calm down
these spirits, we had to sacrifice seven hens and one goat every year to the
kul (here, an idol of the clan god). Some more sacrifices would be necessary
at times. We had to continue spilling blood long after my parents passed
away. The kul was made of brass. It was actually a set; there was a bow and
arrow, and goat skin with it. Back in the day, with the kul we kept some
antique guns used by the Gorkhali Army during the war against Tibet,
swords from the same time – perhaps older, and some precious Tibetan loot.
The Maoists forcefully took away these precious items and weapons during
the war.

We had rented a room in our house to the person who runs the medical
store for six hundred rupees a month. We thought he was running an office
in the room. It was only much later that I found that he was running a
church in our home.

I was furious. I attributed the increased haunting occurrences taking place in

our house to their activity. But, he said that the devil was in the kul, not in
the church. He promised me that he could help get rid of the occurrences
completely with his prayers.

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The next day, I took him to the kul room. He simply threw everything out
and set it on fire.

Do not worry. Only the devil drinks blood. Do not fear the devil.

That was all he said. I was stupefied. I could not even react. I was really
fearful of the consequences of such a crime. The kul would be angry and the
spirits would make our lives hell, I thought, but nothing happened. Instead,
all the occurrences stopped. The spirits disappeared.

That incident turned me into a true believer. It has been seven years since I
converted to Christianity.

Chitraa Weaver | Hatiya

Now around here we make houses of chitraa. Not out of desire though. If we
had lots of money, we would have used corrugated sheets instead. Once the
corrugated sheets are installed, for years we can be free from worry. It does
not require repairs.

This chitraa roof will start decaying in two years. Again, to repair it is equally
tedious. It takes a lot of time. Just that it is cooler, and the alcohol that is
brewed will not stink. Food remains fresher for longer inside. Just that!

Now that the road has come to the village, transporting goods has become
cheaper. We will probably get corrugated sheets next time.

Pull Back | Kewaanbesi

Enjoy your time in jail little bugger!

You should have listened to me when I told you not to play on the road.
What were you thinking? I have spent the best years of my life to make you
what you are today. What if a speeding taxi (jeep) had hit you? Once gone,
you cannot be brought back! It is not safe to play outside.

[Talking to her son]

Man In White | Chainpur

Except when I am working in the fields, I wear white clothes, always. This is
because the color white relays a certain psychological perception. It soothes
people. A person in white is not perceived to be a threat. It encourages
humility. All my conversations are thus pleasant and insightful. I never have
to raise my voice.

There are no two lords; there are no two dharmas. Dharma is often
misinterpreted. Dharma is a set of rules to live life seamlessly, in a way that
does not hurt others, that is all I know. It is about finding out and living in

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the right way, not about preaching the right way. You have my blessings,
continue walking! You will find the right way.

Linking Battens | Lingam

We have an unproclaimed understanding in our village – to never let our

religious beliefs affect local unity. I started believing in Christ a few years
ago, but have not stopped attending Buddhist ceremonies. Similarly, my
Buddhist friends participate in our initiations. All the villagers gather for
rituals of birth, progression, marriage and death. This kind of disposition is
rare.

The construction of these dharma phalainchaas (memorial benches)

represents this special understanding. Constructing these phalainchaas, to
provide a place to rest for travelers in the memory of loved ones who have
passed away, is an essentially Buddhist practice. When I mean travelers, I do
not just mean trekkers, but souls who are transcending realms too. They
need some respite in that pursuit. Thus, these are made during the
mourning period.

The phalainchaa I am sitting on here was built by a Christian family, close

relatives of mine, with the help of Buddhist friends. One of those friends lost
a family member recently, so I am here to help him build a phalainchaa next
to this one today.

Seeking Horizon | Num

When you consider the basics, life in India is much easier than it is in Nepal.
But I returned to this place, my ancestral village, after spending a quarter of
a century in India, for one reason, and one reason only. I did not want my
kids to be without identity. Born and brought up in India, they did not feel
Nepali at heart, but they would never be accepted as fully Indian. This I
knew too.

There was one incident in particular that struck my mind long ago. I was
cooking meat, a three year old Nepali kid in Assam asked me for some
thyaang. I was not well versed in Assamese back then. I did not get him and
continued. Later, once the meat was distributed and done with, the boy's
father looked at me in disgust – Why did you not give him the duck's leg that
he was asking for? Have I wronged you?

It was only after some explanation that he calmed down. My children too
were well versed in Assamese, but not in Nepali. This, I was determined to
change.

Assam had its fair share of dangers as well. The militant group ULFA caused
a lot of trouble; not to people like us, but to anyone who displayed the
slightest hint of luxury. Extortion and murders were common. Then, there
were the elephants, which persistently came in large herds and kept ruining
crops. In recent years, the government has installed electric fences to solve
this issue though.

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Linking Battens of Lingam

399
The biggest problem, I must say, is the way the tribals treated us in the
North East. Regardless of what happens, one's own place is one's own place.
We never felt completely safe there. We worked as bricklayers. We spent
most of our time in India near the Bhutan border; a place called Khairakhola
in Assam. There were many instances where I was beaten up and had to flee
the place I was working in. Simple misunderstandings turned into a huge
ruckus. Here, I thought for the children again. When we did not have
children, it was easy to just pack up the bags and leave a house. With the
children nearing their teen years, our fears got multiplied manifold.

The tribals, they have their own laws and ways of order. For example, I met
a lot of people working as street musicians, artists and herders in
Meghalaya, without hands. Some of them attached a spoon to their arm
using a rope to eat. Whenever, I asked them what misery had befallen them,
they used to just say one word – accident. Since, I could not ask them in their
language that was all I could know. Later, a local explained to me that these
people had committed thefts. According to tribal law, they had their hands
cut, after being found guilty. This law was put in place so that these people
could go on living and act as deterrents to others who might be thinking of
theft. This system I quite liked, because cases of burglary were rare in
Meghalaya.

After coming back to Nepal, my elder son has had to repeat the seventh and
eighth grades because of his weakness in the Nepali subject. My younger son
goes for tuitions every morning at 5 AM, before school, to avoid the same
fate. Learning to adapt to Nepal has been quite an impossible task for them.

Silent Observer | Hatiya Gola

The Dalai Lama fled to India through this village [turned out to be a false
claim: he might have mistaken another for him]. He came with thousands of
his disciples through a pass close to the Makalu Mountain. I remember
seeing him as a child, passing this way. He was just a young boy. He was
accompanied by people playing damarus and other traditional instruments.
Seeing him was a moving experience. It felt like a dream. The courtiers, the
army, and the monks – they all were fleeing, but it seemed like a grand
procession.

We kept seeing fleeing Tibetans for weeks and months. We only came to
know later that their bags were not only full of scriptures but precious
jewelry as well. We did not know this. Otherwise, we would have asked for
some. Our villages gave them great hospitality.

I remember an incident that occurred at the frozen lake of Gairipokhari in

particular. The ice could not withstand the weight of the fleeing people and it
shattered. Dozens of Tibetans froze to death there. The Red Army that came
chasing them destroyed the great monastery and the lama's seasonal palace
at Chig. They even came to Nepali territory and destroyed really tall maanes
– one's eyes could not see their top, when one stood next to them.

After the Chinese took over Tibet, they started aggressively infringing upon
Nepali territory. The hills of Chotra were the traditional border. For ages we
had been taking our sheep to Chhakarbu, but the Chinese came there and
suddenly started imposing taxes. We did not have money, nor the strength

400
to question. We abandoned the meadow there. They took over. The village of
Lumde was a permanent Nepali settlement. It is now in China. The people
there have certainly benefited, but Nepali land has been lost.

The foul play gained legitimacy primarily during the border survey done
around fifty years ago. The Nepal Army and Red Army poured in on
helicopters here. The big shots were in charge of demarcating borders. I
remember seeing plenty of sheep and alcoholic drinks coming to the Nepali
side from China then.

Spice Stung | Jijinga

We are a Newar family. My great grandfather came to these parts from

Teendhara, Kathmandu. We still have relatives there, I guess. I have never
been there. We have completely assimilated with the locals here; we have
forgotten the Newari language, the culture, and other traditional practices.
We have even forgotten trading. I work as a porter and in the fields, like the
locals here do. My eldest daughter married a Bhote. My second daughter
married a Rai from Sikkim. She eloped. We never took photographs of the
family or any of the children, so when she disappeared, it was impossible to
find her. It was only after a year or so that a fellow villager brought news
that he had seen her in Sikkim – that is all I have heard of her.

We primarily farm elaichi (cardamon) here. With it, we have been able to
make the kind of money that was impossible with corn or vegetables. We
started doing so seven years ago. Three years ago the price of elaichi peaked
at one hundred and twenty thousand for a man (forty kilograms), last year it
went down to around fifty thousand, this year it has dropped down to fifteen
thousand for a man. Disease has also started spreading amongst the crop;
the produce this year has been minimal. Up until last year we produced five
to six mans of elaichi from our field. This year, it is certain to decrease.

We thought the party would last forever, that the elaichi price would always
stay high, and that we would keep making good money. So, we spent the
money earned from elaichi sales rather recklessly. The smart villagers
bought land and erected buildings in Khandbari (a major town). We spent
two and a half million rupees or so building this house in the village.
Construction materials, transportation, and labor costs were over the roof
because of the elaichi boom. Apart from that, with the money, we had some
fun and ate well. That is all. Now that this crop disease has spread, and the
market has saturated, we are considering alternatives to elaichi.

These are my twin grandchildren – Ganga and Jamuna. And this, he is my

youngest son. They do not get scared of strangers or new things like I do. All
my hopes cling to them.

Gambling Hard | Hatiya Gola

The masses find it convenient to blame contractors for all the ills of the
world. Well, as you can see, our hands are tied. I jumped into this project
without knowing this place, without knowing the people, without studying
the terrain. This is a multi arab (billion) rupee contract – to connect

401
Khandbari with Kimathanka. For a small share, I put all my savings on the
line here. The first time I came to this region, I could barely walk from one
settlement to another in an entire day – conducting surveys and
consultations. I kept panting, it was a terrible struggle.

It has been a year since I came here – a year of blood, sweat and tears. Only
a small stretch of the highway track remains to be opened, but local interests
have been impossible to manage. The people of Chyamtang want the
highway to be diverted, to touch their village. I offered them a compromise:
to build a road to their village too, as the track to Kimathanka is completed.
This, I convinced my friends at the company to pay for. But no, they refuse to
budge.

Such a diversion is impossible. Forget the additional distance and turns, the
terrain is insanely rocky beyond Chyamtang – cliffs that will take at least ten
years to open a track through using dynamites. Only the army has that
amount of explosives. I have tried explaining this to the people there, but
they are educated and well versed politically, so they refuse to compromise.
Every time construction equipment is taken beyond these hills on a
helicopter, a ruckus ensues on the ground.

I have been mobbed, beaten up and threatened, many, many times, but
never uttered an ill word. I cannot budge though. If we do not complete this
highway track in time, we will be heavily fined. I will lose everything.

Prudent Cap | Khandbari

I was born with a handicap; my left leg is smaller than my right leg. The
common occupation during our times was carrying loads – that is being a
porter. My disability prevented me from considering that route.

All I am today is because of my parents. They had the foresight to send me

to school. Especially my mother, she was the smarter one of the two. In our
village of Chyamtang there was just one primary school; one could only
study up to the third grade there. I had to come down to Khandbari to study
beyond that. Mother and father made sure that I had enough money and
resources for my studies. All they could do back then was labor to make
money, money was scarce, and they did that, day in and day out, so that I
and my brother could go to school. A year later, I got a scholarship of one
hundred rupees from the government – part of a program to support rural
students. This was around 2036 BS (1980 CE). Back then, one could get
twenty eight manas (enough for a month) of rice for twenty rupees! Local rice
of course, unpolished and rustic, quite unlike the fine ones that come from
Dharan or the plains these days. This was a huge boost to my efforts. My
brother, on the other hand, decided to discontinue his studies, and moved on
to India to work. He is still there. He is doing good business.

I was the first person in my village to pass the tenth grade. A few days after
the results came out I was invited to become a teacher at the same primary
school I studied in. In 2041 (1985 CE), the salary for a rural teacher was
around six hundred rupees, including benefits. With that kind of money, at
that time, prosperity was a given. I bought a lot of land in the village.
Unfortunately, I did not have the foresight to buy a lot of land around
Khandbari; just this old wooden house. The Krishnaprasad Bhattarai

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Government formed after the restoration of democracy made all temporary
teachers permanent. And so, my position was stable, and I continued
teaching up until late last year. I enjoyed teaching, I had not reached my
retirement age, but my ageing body just did not let me continue. Health
complications have left me no option but to slow down and settle here.

The Custodians | Khandbari

There were only seven houses in Khandbari, when my grandfather arrived

here with his family from Dhulikhel. My father, who was born in Bikram
Sambat 1988 (CE 1931), was only a two year old toddler back then.
Grandfather was a trader of spices, cloth, and other daily commodities. He
first started trading to the east of Dhulikhel, gradually extending to
Sankhuwasabha through Bhojpur. Back then, he recognized what a fine
place this was. If one feels cold in winter, the plains like heat of Tumlingtar
is only a few hours away. If one feels hot in summer, the cool pastures of
Chhyankuti are only two hours away. If one desires a median climate, this is
the place to live in. The Sherpas worked as porters for his shop. They used to
bring commodities in from Dharan.

My father was a noble person. He played a key role in making Khandbari

what it is today. He was dedicated to social service and later joined politics
too. He led the District Panchayat, and later found a place in the national
stage. Father always encouraged fellow villagers to read. He kept the kids
from the village with me, around him, and made us read various texts. The
way he viewed education and progress, that made him a visionary. Without
him, establishing a school and library here, in such primitive times, would
not have been possible. He would not think twice about sparing a few
thousand rupees of his own for any work that was of importance to the
community. The temple building and other institutions he built, by engaging
the community, still stand today. The Newa Mankha that safeguards our
culture too was his initiative. When he passed away, it was a time of great
mourning and contemplation for the townsmen. Even such great people have
to die, many said.

Most major markets of the east were built by the Newars. Before the conflict
period, most Rais and other ethnic people preferred to live in the villages, the
high hills and valleys. Khandbari was overwhelmingly Newari. The houses
were built of wood, in a style similar to that of old Kathmandu. The conflict
altered the demographics, and the earthquake changed the outlook – both
quite dramatically. All the houses built here post earthquake have used RCC
(reinforced concrete construction). Never were so many houses built here.
The proposed highway from the Kimathanka border crossing in the north to
Jogbani in the south has led to a construction boom here. Khandbari will
never be the same again.

Stacking Pho Pho | Namase

Dew (flavored soda), rum, and beer – these have formed the majority of our
sales, ever since we started this shop three years ago. The other shop in the
village started in the same year. It was around that time that the elaichi
(cardamon) trade peaked. Everyone was making good money. The villagers

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started acquiring new tastes. Everyone thought that a shop was needed in
the village for convenience, so we got into the business.

In the beginning, we filled our racks with Chinese products. Kimathanka is

quite close; getting goods from there is cheaper. But then, we came to realize
that our taste differs from that of the Chinese; their beer is not strong
enough, the Chinese Coca Cola carries a weird stench. So, we got back to
getting most of our stuff from Khandbari. The villagers do not mind paying a
few extra bucks for the good stuff. The pho pho though (Chinese noodles) is
an exception.

Ghoulish Strides | Saattaare

Our place is not a happy place. It is a sad place. Lots of people have hung by
the rope around these parts. I can recount twelve such cases in our village
alone. Let me share a recent case with you.

A Baahun girl fled her home to marry a guy of a mixed Baahun family. Her
father condemned her decision, derided her, and made her regret the
marriage. The girl kept trying to make things work, but he refused to accept
the marriage. It was in Dashain that her humiliation became unbearable. Her
father offered blessings and Tika to her, but refused to acknowledge her
husband. His pride was hurt, she felt worse. Her husband argued with her
over the matter. The next day she was found hanging on a tree near the
barn. She had hung herself using the rope that they used to tie calves. When
a girl from the family, who went out searching, saw her, she immediately
fainted.

Another case was of a teacher, a well respected, and well read person. He
could not pay a debt of ten thousand rupees. He too had an argument with
his wife, and felt deeply humiliated. He made a rope out of elaichi
(cardamom) leaves, went into the woods, and hung on a tree. When three
people who had gone searching for him saw him, they lost their wits and fell
on the ground.

Oh well, why am I telling you these stories? Let me get straight to the point. I
just wanted you to know that this is a sad place, and you should not walk
around here in the night. Stay here, you will not make it to the next
settlement before dark.

Reminiscing In Knots | Guphapokhari

It was a bout of illness that first took me to Kathmandu. I went there for a
checkup. In the checkup line at the hospital, I met a person from Ramechhap
who was looking to sell his teashop in the heart of Thamel for a bargain. Life
had provided us a golden opportunity, something that would not come
again, I thought. I sought a loan, bought the shop. The first few days were
good. I started serving new items like pizza and some other snacks. I felt like
I had finally found what I was meant to do. It was then that the hardships
began.

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There were people who simply refused to pay. Then, there were people from
travel agencies – they were the worst! They ordered tea. I delivered. Those no
good people sitting in their big offices! The bills kept piling but they never
paid. The bankers were better. They paid at the end of every month, gave a
little extra too. It used to be terribly difficult to sustain deliveries. I waited for
the month end pay to come. But, the goons who managed the complex our
shop was in that made the situation impossible! The rent at the beginning
was twelve thousand rupees a month, but after I made the place happening,
they raised it to thirty thousand. I could never make that kind of money. I
started sinking in loans.

My children helped me run the snack shop. I dreamt of sending them to a

good school in Kathmandu someday. But, there came a time where I could
not even buy them a new pair of slippers. They never went to school. At
times, my children express great disdain, with the tersest of words, saying
that I have ruined their future. I do not know what to say to them.

At the end, I decided to return to the village. The dream was over. Here, we
do a bit of farming, and run this hotel. We did manage to buy some land
here, back when it was cheap – that has helped. There are problems here
too. For example, I have realized that if I do not sell meat items and many
varieties of alcohol, the business will not be good. I am a vegetarian and that
kind of thing is tough for me, but I have no choice. Anyways, I have finally
managed to clear all my loans by working in the village. Knowing that gives
me some relief.

Taplejung

Sweetcorn Smiles | Lumthung

We have great respect for travelers. We understand the importance of

traveling. It is a great education in itself. During the time of our fathers, it is
said that the then Prince Mahendra had explored this region disguised as an
ascetic. The zonal administration was based in our village Lumthung back
then; the zonal administrator used to live here. This was before Jhapa and
Ilam were well settled. I guess Mahendra wanted to get some feedback from
people. There are many stories from that time.

Mahendra, in his tattered clothes, asked an old Rai man if he could help him
find some food. The old man, not knowing that this was his sovereign,
handed a huge bag he was carrying to the prince and proposed that if he
were to help carry it to his home, he could give some food in exchange.
Having not eaten well for quite a while, Mahendra obliged. He stayed with
the old man and did the chores that he assigned for many days. The prince
wayfared across these hills and mountains for many weeks. It was only
much later, when letters of suspension and transfers started arriving – some
police officials and administrators were involved in misdeeds, that the
people found out that the ascetic was the prince.

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Later, (former PM, then rebel leader) Baburam Bhattarai also visited these
lands disguised as an ascetic. He stayed under a tree next to the Monastery
in Olangchung Gola for many days, but never entered it. It was only days
after he returned that the locals and police found out that a central level
Maoist leader had come to these lands intending to network with other
rebels.

Those days are long gone. The zonal administration and regional police
headquarters moved out when we were little kids, the police station that
replaced it moved to another village a few decades ago. Now, there is just a
small police hut of sorts. A lot of people have moved to the plains from here,
we remain because the monastery has to be looked after. Lumthung has lost
its significance, there is not much left here. Yet still, I wonder, whether you
are really an ascetic, or if you are here with an intention like that of
Mahendra's or Baburam's.

On Pins And Needles | Amjilosa

I had always regretted not being able to send my children to Darjeeling, like
most families in these parts have done. The quality of education is much,
much, better, on the other side of the border, plus it is comparatively cheap.
The only caveat being that they have to learn Hindi, and Indian habits. But,
ever since the Gorkhaland struggles have started causing so much chaos, I
have felt like I might have made the right decision by sending them to the
school in Phungling.

Almost all the villagers have brought their kids back from India, fearing for
their safety. Due to these protests, the schools close for weeks every second
year or so, this time they have been closed for almost three months now. At
least my children get to regularly attend school, there is no shooting and
stone throwing going on here, and I guess that is what matters at the end of
the day.

Chilling By The River | Dobhan

About the fleeting time that will not come back, about the meaning of life,
about what tomorrow holds for me, I do not think much. Neither am I really
busy, it is a laidback life that I live. I enjoy the life that I am living – running
this shop with my wife, listening to Bollywood songs from the nineties,
watching colorful wayfarers cross the bridge while sipping some tea here.

Crouched Not Crumbled | Olangchung Goth

The Himalayan border terrain here is almost impossible to regulate. The yak
trade was not barred recently. The Chinese authorities declared the transport
of yaks to Tibet from Nepal illegal about a decade ago, but the selling of yaks
has continued, in fact prospered. Tibetan men come here to pick the yaks up
and take them to the other side through unguarded passes. This smuggling
has become the main source of our income; Tibetans are willing to pay more
than the local market price for yaks. The market price for a full grown yak of

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average stature is one hundred and twenty thousand rupees. The demand
for meat on the other side is insatiable. Chhurpis (hardened cheese) and
butter are also high on demand. The day the Chinese authorities really
tighten this border, running a hotel will be more profitable than rearing yaks.
I guess that is what we will do.

Between Passes | Aanedyosa

Well of course, I miss using Facebook and being updated with what is
happening in the world. I miss being in the city. But then, when I came here,
I came in mentally prepared. I just asked myself a simple question – Do I
want to keep struggling in the city for the sake of modern conveniences, or
get back to our ancestral meadows for a tension free life? I think I have done
the right thing by coming here. We spend our days here making Chhurpis
and butter for the Tibetan market, shifting the camp once in a while. On a
good year, our family makes around one million. I do not forget to post
pictures when I get to the bazaar (town) though.

Log On Edge | Phaktanglung

I had no idea that the trail up to Olangchung Gola would turn out to be this
difficult. I just joined the party without inquiring about the route. We are
delivering this batch of chiraitos (a medicinal herb) to Chinese traders on the
border. The demand for this herb is high. I have understood that there is a
contractual agreement with them.

Preacher Wet Eyes | Phungling

Kirant, yes, but I believe we are fundamentally Hindus. It is only because we

cannot disagree with the institutions formed by our elders, who of course
know better, that a separate Kirant religious identity has become prevalent
on paper. When I was a child, such discourses were nonexistent. I used to go
to Pathibhara and other Devi temples; worship as any Hindu would, offering
sacrifices, wishing for the fulfillment of my worldly wishes. It did not help at
all though.

I grew up to be a troubled teenager. I got married. My family became

troubled and misery ridden. I used to consume a lot of alcohol, even
occasionally take addictive substances, believing that it would lessen the
existential trouble I was experiencing. I could not explain my state to
anyone, I just swore a lot at people – at times, getting into minor scuffles.

Once, a person saw me in a miserable state on the streets. Perhaps, I was

contemplating suicide at that point in time. That person was associated with
the Om Shanti movement. He let me know about a course that they were
organizing in town. This was the way for me to find the purpose of my life
said he, and that was what I needed. I was not convinced but decided to try
it.

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It has been two years since that day, and I have not missed a single
teaching. I go there every morning. Without that teaching, I feel quite uneasy
and my day becomes bad. It has been some time since I touched anything
addictive, or even raised my voice against anyone. I have found peace. My
family life has become better as well. My husband was doubtful at first. He
raised objections saying that I was spoiling our Kiranti culture by following
the religion of Baahuns. Later, seeing the change in me, he stopped
condemning the movement. He has started believing in Om Shanti too. My
children are not like other children; they are peaceful and say that they want
to become Krishna someday.

Rising Suns | Gorja

After the local elections, the pace of change has quickened. New ideas and
discussions have begun to emerge. The road track is coming to the village
quicker than expected. We still have not been able to decide whether to have
the road pass right by our doorstep or to only let it come up to the edge of
our fields. While the road might be a disturbance, on the other hand we
might lose on business opportunities. So, we have not been able to make our
mind.

Another thing we have come to learn about is the plan to introduce new local
taxes. We have spent the past few days cutting the trees on our land, and
figuring out where we can sell it. We will be at a loss once some heavy tax is
implemented on cutting trees. The case with the electricity remains the same
though, three days ago after a few days of heavy rain the line in our house
stopped working. We have informed the concerned authorities, but the line
has not come back. We had given away the solar unit last year, as we
thought it was not needed anymore. But then, the electricity has not been too
reliable. Guess it is time to get an emergency light from Dobhan!

Boy On Back | Olangchung Gola

I did not know the Sherpas of Sankhuwasabha called themselves Lhomi. I

thought Lhomis lived in Manang. Anyways, our language and culture is
bound to be different from them, as it is from most Sherpas and Tibetans.
We, the Holung people, are originally from Peri in Tibet. A fox (howaa) led
seven families from Peri to Olangchung Gola, around four hundred years
ago. That is how we came to be called Holung.

Olangchung Gola retains its ancient feel for one simple reason. Many of the
original inhabitants have abandoned their old houses. They are either in
Kathmandu or America. There is a culture of sponsoring friends and
relatives to pull them to America here. The reason is simple: there are no
good schools or hospitals here. A seasonal road to China has recently been
built. The road was primarily sponsored by Tenzing Ukyab, the advisor of
the NRNA (Non Resident Nepali Association) based in America, and his
compatriots. They hired a Chinese contractor to open the track. The work
was done fairly quickly. This road will surely make life better for those who
remain.

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Between Passes of Anedyosa

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The influence of the Nepali state is minimal here. Even if a high level police
officer from Nepal comes to the village, it makes no difference to anyone. If a
minister comes, then the members of his party will welcome him. But, if a
Chinese official of the most ordinary rank comes here, the entire village
comes out to welcome him. And yes, the Chinese military personnel do come
here with weapons at times. After all, what has the Nepali state done for us?
China has contributed to making our lives easier immeasurably more. It is
only natural for the people to be respectful towards them.

The Escapees | Olangchung Gola

I have brought her from the town of Simmar in Tibet, via Papung. She has
run away from her family to be my bride. The herders there helped us on the
way. We had to run for two days and one night to get here.

What can I say? These things just happen.

[Crossborder marriages, often elopements, are common in the Holung

community. The topography and loosely guarded border crossings help. I
later heard rumors that a girl from Olangchung who had married into a
Tibetan family in Simmar had been arrested by the Chinese authorities, as
she had helped them elope. The girl was from an influential family. Her
father supposedly arranged for Chinese officials and police personnel to be
sent to Olangchung and demand her return.]

Night Howlers | Lhonak

The nearest Indian and Chinese settlements are a mere day away from here.
There is Chaao towards China, and a small village across the Laje Lajung in
Sikkim, so we have heard. We have never been to the other side of either
border. Our ancestors used to cross to the other side freely, but ever since
China took over Tibet, this access point has been sealed. This means we
have to travel four days from here, to another Chinese town – Reyu to trade
yaks and bring in essential goods.

This makes making a living here quite difficult. Even in our permanent
settlement of Khambachhen, goods come in at an incredibly high cost, due to
porter related costs. We have grown some spinach and potatoes here, but
they are at the weather's mercy. Everything else, we bring in while shifting
the barn here for the month of Bhadaun (Aug / Sept). While we are here,
there is no contact with the outside world. The brooks swell during the
monsoon – with the bridges down, crossing them is a great risk. We often
see what we believe to be spy planes, white in color, coming from the south
and hovering around these mountains – that is all we see of the outside
world. We have made petitions to concerned authorities about opening the
border to the north. Let us see what happens. If the border is opened, life will
be much easier.

Yes, there are snow leopards always on the lookout for a vulnerable yak that
might stray. But, the arrival of some mountain wolves from Tibet has caused
the most trouble. We take turns making noises all night, howling like
animals, to scare those predators away. We will drop down to Khambachhen

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in a week's time, once autumn begins; conditions then will be inhospitable
for the cattle – there will be very little grass and more predators will start
coming down. My son though stays here during the summer and autumn
months catering to tourists.

Shining In Purple | Hangdewa

Bananas grow well here. All of it used to be locally consumed up until a few
years ago. Nowadays, apart from the growing number of passersby, traders
come from Phungling to get these bananas on the cheap. You can get three
bananas here for ten rupees. I do not know what price they sell these
bananas in the market for that is none of my concern.

On good days like today, I have been making up to two thousand rupees a
day – just by basking here in the sun! I have also been selling the stock of
other villagers – that adds to the business.

Nimble Custodian | Ghunsa

You walk up to one in the night. You make it through the day on an empty
stomach. You do not feel cold in the mountains ... Do you know what this
makes you? A snow leopard!

If only my parents knew better of how the world was about to change, I
would have been able to go to a good school. I grew up taking care of the yak
herd we had. I was troubled a lot by snow leopards and other wild animals,
so much so that I started looking for a job. Of all the places, I got a job in the
WWF (World Wildlife Fund), sold my yaks, and became a conservationist.
There, I was one of the few people who could really empathize with the
locals and knew grassroots issues. I lobbied hard to establish a
compensation procedure for herders (herders get compensated for certain
cattle lost to wild carnivores these days) that are troubled by snow leopards
in the (Kanchanjanga) conservation area. This, I believe, has really helped
ease the animosity towards snow leopards here.

As a local representative, I had to track wild animals in dangerous terrain,

take foreign study groups across glaciers and to the high mountains. You
know how the mountains are – falling rocks, avalanches, unpredictable
weather. My life was constantly at risk; the pay did not justify the effort I
was making. So, around four years ago, I quit the job and started this lodge.
This job is much better.

Fuzz Serenade | Sekathum

Do not the people of the hills heckle you?

Where are you going? Who are your people in this village? Why are you
here?

Well, back when I could and did travel a lot, that used to be quite common.
There used to be many unwise people on the way to the towns. Traveling

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was not easy like it is today. We had to carry food, utensils, clothes, mats,
blankets – everything! And when we reached a water source, we settled
there. There were villages on the way too, sometimes we used to request a
night's stay, but you know ... being a bhote did not help.

Passing through the Limbu areas used to be rather troubling. There used to
be occasions when unwise people with weapons asked us to show how
much money we had. If they thought we had more than necessary for bare
survival, they would take it away. Often, we would just sigh and let go. I
think dharma does not prevail in the eastern hills – that is why these things
happened. But you say you have not had to face such problems, maybe the
hill people have become educated.

Tehrathum

Dozy Tale Teller | Meyanglung

The Limbu word lung means stone. Meyang may refer to a cat or the sound
it makes. Hence, the name of this town: Meyanglung.

The tale goes like this: A porter arrived where the town stands now at dusk
and had to spend the night in a cave. He gathered some stones and firewood,
set up a fireplace, and lit a fire to cook his meal. One of the stones in the
fireplace meowed. Shocked, the porter hit the stone with his khukuri. The
stone bled. Then, he realized that the cat that had transformed into a stone
was a god. He told all the people in his village about the incident. That is
how the Meyanglung Devi Temple and this town came to be. The temple's
name was later changed to Singha Bahini.

Two Sheets In the Wind | Khaalde Okhre

Oh, all the water is gone! Gone! There is just a small pipe delivering trinkets
enough for this home.

You will not find a single drop of water in this hillside elsewhere. The rains
have not fallen well this year. There used to be a little stream that ran down
the hill, it has run completely dry.

The water is gone. The trees are gone. Our children have left. I am only here
because I am attached with this place. I was born here and will die here.
This place is becoming a desert, a huge, barren desert!

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Waking Gods of Hile

413
Dhankuta

Comrades In Stripes | Leguwa

I am – hansiyaa (sickle). This is my brother – gaai (cow). We were born in the

same village, went to the meadows together. I arranged the fodder, while he
looked after the cows. You know how childhood plays a big part in life, right?
So, when the elections for the ward came, I got the ticket from the hammer
and sickle (election symbol) party, while he secured the ticket from the cow
party. Furthermore, the person that he had defeated in internal elections for
the candidacy, stood up as a rogue candidate. He cut some of his votes. I cut
some of his votes. They cut some of my votes. In the end, we all fell down.
Ha ha!

Waking Gods | Hile

What is being made here is a figure of Maamo. Maamo is an angry god and
has to be placated through worship. The straw frame will be covered in mud
— once that dries, it will be painted and dressed. Every year, on the day after
Buddha Jayanti, the figure is taken to a nearby hilltop and laid to rest after
certain rituals are performed. This has been done since time immemorial
here.

This entire hill, where the town of Hile stands today, used to be a burial
ground. This monastery (Urgye Namdo Chholing) is the oldest structure here.
It was built in the year 2021 (CE 1964). Extensive renovation began in 2034
(CE 1977), after King Birendra contributed twenty thousand rupees, and was
later completed through local fundraising.

The first people to settle in Hile were the Holungs who descended from
Olangchung Gola (Taplejung). This is a sister monastery of the medieval one
there. Everyone else came in later. Yet, only one Holung family remains here;
the family that runs the monastery. The rest have either descended to
Kathmandu or flown to the United States. The Sherpas that live here now are
either from Sankhuwasabha or Solukhumbu. Most of the disciples in this
monastery are Tamangs.

The Daughter | Sindhuwa

A: I need my bag. Where is it?

Give me some money for lunch, quickly!

B: Everything is set. Daughter, do well in the examinations, okay?

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Shining Green | Dhankuta Bazaar

What is the use of having green tea? The person grumbled.

If green tea was so good, why would the people who farm that tea suffer
from illness? Why would they die? We are all going to die anyways. I will
stick to my glass of sweet tea and alcohol, it gives me pleasure.

To that, I had a simple reply. Yes, everyone will die someday. Death is a part
of life. The only question is – Do you want to live with optimum fitness like
Salman Khan, with a set of six pack abs, or be a sloth like the Golmol guy?
That is the real question.

My husband works for the Sagarmatha Tea Estate. He used to bring home
fresh batches of green tea grown in the foothills of the mountains of
Sankhuwasabha. That is how we acquired this taste. I used to share the tea
with neighbors and friends. They said that their health improved quite a bit
after replacing the usual tea with this one. Some even mentioned that the
diseases that nagged them seemed to be cured. It felt good to share
something that was making people feel good.

The tenants that were running a business here were not staying true to their
part of the agreement. They were not maintaining this place, as they should
have been. After sending them away, this space was empty. We had a lot of
green tea and this space was empty. I had lots of free time. So, I thought –
why not start my own business? That is how this teahouse came to be.

Khotang

Mother In Smog | Pelung

My son had been asking for a good mobile phone for quite some time. We
just do not have the kind of money ... Nay, more than that; I just cannot see
what good a twelve year old kid would do with one.

A drunken customer had fallen asleep on the table here. He could not find
his mobile phone when he woke up. A mobile disappearing from my place!
That should not happen. This was an issue of prestige. So, I tried my best to
help the guy. I asked the neighbors if any stranger had passed by this way.
No one had. Only my son and I were around. It had to be him. I searched for
the mobile in the home the next day, and found it amongst the scraps in the
cellar. My son had tossed it in there. I was horrified. My son had become a
thief.

When he came back home from school, I asked him why he had stolen the
phone, and expressed ire. Tears filled his eyes and he scurried out of the
house like a rat. It has been four days since then. He has not come back. One
of the neighbors saw him the other day. He told her that he wanted to die. I

415
do not know what to do, or where to look for him. I can just stay here and
cry.

Today, I finally called his father – who has gone to Kathmandu, on some
kind of business trip. It has been a month since he has been away. I do not
know why exactly. Anyways, I asked him whether it would be okay to break
the child's leg, to bring him back home, and lock him up. But, his father
loves him too much to let me do so. He has asked me to be patient with him.
Patient!? Okay, I am ready to be patient with him, but how can I let him go
scot free? What if he starts stealing from others? What if he becomes a
criminal? What if he kills us some day? That kind of thing has happened. I
need to discourage him.

Child Within Robes | Halesi

A: Hey, little lama! This is your fifty rupees worth of chatpate. How many
spoons do you want?

B: Spoons?

A: Paper spoons ... How many of your brothers are you going to share this
with?

B: Eleven

A: Eleven! [Breaks out in laughter] Here you go, eleven spoons!

Ringing Keys | Bijule

I am an old, old woman, living off government assistance. My house became

frail after the earthquake. I spent a few days in the barn, before a family in
the village offered me their abandoned house to take care of and live in. After
the guy who used to live in the house lost his life in Saudi (Arabia), his wife
and child had moved to Kathmandu. He was a worker who came back in a
box. A great tragedy, since he was only thirty two.

Things were fine at first. The guy's stuff was on the first floor, in a room
locked and sealed. I lived on the ground floor. At times, I could feel a
presence, but that was it. It was only a few months ago that the haunting
really got bad. Whenever I stay in that house alone, I hear thuds and other
sounds coming from that locked room. Sometimes, I get sleep paralysis. At
other times, I feel something or someone holding me. The guy clearly wants
me out. After I started lighting a fire in the name of gods, as the neighbors
advised me to do, the paranormal activity on the ground floor stopped, but
the thuds continued.

I have been coming here (to the neighbor's place) whenever the haunting
gets bad. I put on a brave face and, for the first time in a week, tried sleeping
there last night. I spent the night terrified, after the thuds took a violent
form. So, I have come back here to spend the night, today.

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Child Within Robes of Halesi

417
My daughter lives with her family in Kathmandu. They have called me to
stay with them. But you know how the world is ... For how long will they
tolerate me? The world is a selfish place. Every time a quarrel ensues
between them, I will be wondering whether it is over me. I will be in
constant fear. How can one live with pride in one's son in law's house? This
is an awkward situation, but I am at an age where one does not have many
choices.

Okhaldhunga

Choo Choo | Hilebhanjyang

Growing surti (tobacco), smoking beedis (local cigarettes), indulging in hukka

– we have been doing these things forever. The doctors tell us that smoking
beedi is a bad thing, that it hurts our health. The doctors are wrong; having
beedis wrapped in bhorla leaves, found abundantly in the surrounding
forests, cannot hurt us. The only thing that has hurt our health is polished
rice! We used to grow corn and have loads of corn rice. Those days are long
gone. Our kids refuse to have corn rice. They will never be as strong as our
ancestors.

One of our ancestors carried up a humongous rock to Hilebhanjyang with his

bare hands. While building this road, the workers could not break it down;
they eventually had to bring in a JCB (excavator) to do the work. That is the
kind of strength that runs in our blood! But now, we are slowly losing it. The
strength is going away. The hukka is gone. This bhorla beedi is all that
remains.

Sindhuli

Perishing Hope | Dumja

The customers do not care whether the product tastes good or what it
actually is made of. All they want is the stuff they are eating to smell and
look good. If it smells bad, they cuss and complain.

I hope this one does not have the bad smell of oil that the last batch had.
And yes, do give a couple of sheets free when I buy a dozen. I think I might
have been paying more for these. Whenever passengers from the Tarai stop
by here, they say that they get such grams, peas and beans for five rupees a
packet there...

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Big Bag Wayfarer of Thankot

419
Give me enough stuff for a month; I am sure that you are not coming here
before Tihar from Kathmandu. The other day, I bought a few hundred extra
bottles of mineral water for the same reason.

I have spent most of my life in Udayapur and Saptari. It was only last year
that my husband decided to shift to Sindhuli and start this hotel. He had
spent years abroad as a chef. Having secured a foundation for a good future,
he decided to return to Nepal. He desperately wanted to spend more time
with the children. We had grand plans for this hotel, but we have not been
able to do the kind of business we thought of initially. We thought offering a
clean space and good service would do the trick, but no. It is all a game of
commissions. The (public vehicle) drivers stop where they get a good share
of the profit. It is all about contacts. The passengers do not care to explore
other options either. So, with the odd private car stopping by, we have been
merely surviving.

Kathmandu

Big Bag Wayfarer | Thankot Forest

I guess this was my fortieth walk from Pharping to Devghat on foot. I am on

my way back now.

Over the years, I have made several connections in the settlements on the
way. When I was young, I used to work in the fields in exchange for a night's
stay or some food. Now, the people who used to make me work have become
old too. They enjoy my company and welcome me.

Sometimes, I have to spend the night out in the open – that is where I face a
lot of trouble, especially from drunkards. They wake me up in the middle of
the night and ask silly questions. Sometimes they even try to snatch things
away from me. There was this drunkard, a couple of nights ago, who came
to me and asked for my blanket. I refused saying that I do not let others use
my blanket. It took quite a bit of convincing, but he was persistent. So, I
offered him this sack. I just finished washing it. I have left it out to dry. The
times have changed, what can one do?

I am from Mustang but have been living in Kathmandu since the late
seventies. I spent twenty nine years in Pashupatinath. I do not have a family,
and thus it is possible to way fare like this.

I do not walk believing that I will get blessings. I know that my wishes will
not be fulfilled through worship. I just way fare because it gives me peace.

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Tanahun

Biscuit Gifter | Khairenitaar

We tend to underestimate the role of luck in our lives. Like, the way this
highway came to be.

There was a time when we had to go wherever we wanted to on foot. There

was no choice. The trails used to be as narrow as the stretch of this palm of
mine.

We came to this place in 2015 BS (1958 CE). This was a forest like, fertile area
– wolves used to howl at night. People used to say that we were silly to have
descended from the safe hilltops. There were only fifty or sixty Kumaal
households close to the river. The Kumaals were forest people. They hunted
with bows and arrows, lived off the forest.

This highway was actually not supposed to come this way. The MP elected
in 2015 BS had decided to take the highway through his ancestral village, a
bit northwards – the usual walking trail. It went north from Saatmuhaane,
skipped Tanahun completely, and got to Phainjo (if heard correctly) in
Lamjung via Gorkha. Around seventy kilometers of track was already opened
in that direction. At that point, they encountered some difficulty and work
slowed down.

You must have heard Bhesh Bahadur Thapa's name? Well, what we now call
Tharpu used to be called Midethum – that is his village. He came here and
concluded that the highway must pass through his place. His father was a
Colonel in the army. They used their influence to draw the highway through
Tanahun. The Chinese came in and built this section of the highway in 2025
BS.

Now, imagine, what if the road had not passed through here? The people
who bought land here before the road came in prospered. Those who stayed
in the village regretted. We would have been downtrodden and forgotten if
the road had not passed this way. You would not have come this way. I
would not have met you.

In White | Eklephaant

The sin of blindly crushing life would be too heavy on our hearts. We do not
ride vehicles. We have come on foot from Banaras. We are going to
Kathmandu. We always walk. We have a wheelchair with us, not a machine
operated one but one that needs a push, to get on when we get tired.

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Filling Packets | Baradiphaant

I am filling these plastic packets with the soil that I carried from the forest.
The soil here is not good enough for vegetables and making packets out of
saal tree leaves has gone out of fashion.

We focus on cucumbers, some of our neighbors‖ farm pumpkins, gourd and

other vegetables. Buyers from the market come to our doorsteps to collect
the produce. Unlike in Dhading, we farm only once a year.

Almost all the seeds we use are genetically modified. We buy them from the
market. Improvised seeds reap a good harvest of grain in three or four
months, this saves a lot of time and effort.

Our children are not into agriculture. We have gotten used to this kind of life.
We have not studied, they have and so they have greater aspirations. The
youngsters might not be interested in agriculture, but almost everyone from
our generation is busy with it. There are people who have come from far off
villages, some even from Gorkha, to lease some land and farm. If you go
towards the north from here, you will see endless fields.

String Weaver | Damauli

Our homes will be torn down soon. Two months, three months maybe? The
countdown has begun. We have been living here for eleven years. Now, the
highway expansion is inevitable. We will have to go.

We came to Damauli from Sange [I might not have remembered the name
correctly]. Sange lies on a hilltop. The water supply is good there; it is only
fifteen minutes away, so are the crops. But, the village is isolated. One has to
work hard to survive there. Here, where the market is large, we can always
find odd jobs. It is not hard to survive and make some money. The ease of
living was what appealed to us. Yes, we could get a bus from Sange to
Damauli, but the cost would be too high. Anyways, we do not have any
choice now. We have to return.

Kaski

Smiling In Pain | Pokhara

I expended my youth doing odd jobs in Beni. My back took the toll, especially
because I am a tall person. That said things were bearable until last year.

I had gone to the great fair that takes place once every twelve years in
Khobang Larjung. After which, I hopped on a jeep back to Pokhara. The jeep
sped on the rough roads (maybe he wanted to make an extra trip, i.e. make
some extra cash). I asked the driver to slow down, but he did not listen to

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In White of Eklephaant

423
me. The jeep rocked across three huge ditches, one after the other. I flew off
the seat and landed hard on my back – that was it, I knew something had
gone wrong. Agony took over. I put my feet against the opposite seat's
support, made the driver aware of my condition hoping he would slow down,
and just stayed silent.

I got off midway, entered a hotel, and just lied down on the bed. It took me a
few days to regain some mobility. I caught a bus and went to Pokhara to get
a checkup. Since then, I have lived with my son in Pokhara. We have done
all we can, but my back has not recovered much. Instead, my knees have
started becoming weak as well.

Humble Riders | Pokhara

A: I sold a great chunk of my ancestral land to go to Germany to study

Agricultural Biotech. Since all my friends were going abroad, I thought that
was the thing to do. If I had held on to that land instead, it would have been
worth millions today.

The days in Frankfurt were the worst days of my life; I entered this really
dark place and became numb. Managing long hours of study, and having to
work equally long hours in an unforgiving place was too much for me. I
worked in about two hundred establishments while I was in Frankfurt over
the course of three years. I got fired from each one of them. They used to say
that I was a talented chap but they needed someone who could work harder.
It got to a point where all the establishments in town recognized me; no one
wanted to hire me. I struggled hard and barely amassed enough money to
buy a ticket, and took the first flight back to Nepal.

I was happy to be alive, I was happy to be home. It took me years to recover

from that disappointment, that dark phase. Things are much better now. I
have a loving family and this new restaurant. Everything that happened was
a lesson for life. That is how I like to look back at things.

B: Women are not seen as equals in our community. They are married off
when they are young. Their wishes are not entertained. Parents invest more
in their sons than in their daughters.

To show that their daughters too can shine, I have been working to organize
the Miss Tamang beauty contest. I was involved in a lot of beauty contests
when I was in Kathmandu, and now, since I am living in Pokhara, I want to
bring the culture here too. When the community sees these role models, they
will be compelled to think differently about women. This is also an
opportunity to promote our culture, traditions and art. Later in the year, I am
also planning to organize the Miss Mongol event here.

I started singing when I was young. I used to write songs for Tamang
movies. Later, I began singing them too. That was how I got to see the wider
world. But still, even for someone like me, who has made a name, things are
difficult. My marriage has still not been wholly accepted by my family,
because it was across ethnic lines and an individual decision.

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Dusty Shirt of Kusma

425
Wooden Hammer | Pame

You should marry. Life is not worth spending alone. My wife was paralyzed
four years ago. Before that, I never needed to make the bed, prepare food or
iron my shirts. I have been doing it all for four years now, and taking care of
her. These years have made me realize the importance of having someone
by your side. Look, at this age, I am thinking of marrying again! But then I
wonder – who will believe me?

I am an adhiyaa farmer; I work on another man's land. I have to send half

the produce to the owner, as a payment for using his land. I do not have to
share the straws though. I sell my half of the raw produce for two hundred
rupees a paathi (traditional measure) to a contractor. This is good enough to
keep things running. But, my children have no affection for agriculture.

The land prices here have shot up. The market around lakeside has
saturated, and a lot of businesses, especially hotels are moving towards
Panchase. After the international airport is built, the paragliding will shift to
Panchase too. Land on the hillside is dearer now than this fertile land near
the river.

My biggest regret in life is not having been able to buy enough land. I have
four aanas of land here, which is roughly worth six million now… This all
happened because of one person, a Gurung leader from Panchase… What
was his name? Errr ... Mahadev? The businesspeople from Baidam (lakeside)
did not want this road to be built. They were afraid that their syndicate
would be broken. But that Gurung guy ... He slapped the CDO (Chief District
Officer). He took a gun to his chest fearlessly. He rallied the people. He made
sure this road came through here. It was because of him that our lives
changed.

As wonderful as this place is, it is not free from risks. There was a huge
landslide only a few months after the earthquake (2015). Hundreds of tree
trunks gathered nearby and formed a natural dam. The lake that formed
swallowed all the land near the river, and almost came to our fields. Later,
the lake found a natural outlet and slowly emptied out. The trees that had
gathered here were sold by the local club to a contractor for ten million
rupees.

Parbat

Whimsical Chimes | Panchase Bhanjyang

Daalbhaat – such a unique dish! You can get your plate filled as many times
as you want for the same price. There must not be a dish like this anywhere
else in the world!

This rice is locally grown, guests like the polished variety. When it is called
ghaiyaa, that is the local name, it sounds cheap and unappealing. Call it
brown rice and it becomes appealing ... the power of words.

426
When we started this lodge in 2048 (1991 CE) we did not have fourteen
rooms like we do now. There was just a small shed like structure. We had a
box to put the earnings in. Our income was much better then. The box used
to fill up in a matter of days. Almost all tourists came with a guide, cooks,
porters; they camped. White people used to buy Coca Cola, beer and
chocolates. The Nepali people that accompanied them used to buy locally
brewed alcohol and cigarettes. Unlike now, snowfall used to be a regular
occurrence. What do they call it ... climate change or something … that sure
is happening!

Dusty Shirt | Kusma

We have brought down four mud houses this year. We are contractors.
There are many groups like ours. The earthquake weakened these old mud
houses. Since government assistance is available, the trend has been to tear
down mud houses with cracks and build ones with pillars instead.

Not everyone can afford to build concrete houses, so some people lift pillars –
meet the minimum requirements, and use stones and mud for the rest. The
cost of raw materials and labor has risen, so the approach to building new
houses has been a utility oriented one.

It is cheaper to build a plain concrete structure than to replicate the designs

and other nuances of older structures. These kinds of houses are bound to
disappear.

Baglung

Brewing Life | Baglung

I have gone to rehab thirteen or fourteen times. It has only been eighteen
months since I have been clean.

Every time I came out of drug rehabilitation, the numbness of the world
would get to me. I did not feel anything; I did not have any human
connections. I would just wander around and get back to using drugs again.
Then, I would have to enter rehab again. That is how sick life was.

One day, I woke up and realized I was thirty already. If I did not do anything
in life soon, I would forever be damned. I decided that I had to engage myself
in something.

The idea of opening a coffee shop was not originally mine. A friend thought
of it first, but he obtained a lucrative government contract and became a
thekedaar (contractor). A brother then tried to execute the idea, even looked
for a space and a machine, but lost interest. It was only then that I decided to
do this. Both of them have supported me quite well.

427
There are a lot of youngsters trying to recover from addiction in Baglung.
Coffee helps them to stay at ease during the recovery period. We all used to
get drips (filtered coffee) from Pokhara. Some of us went to Pokhara regularly
just for the coffee. Thus, a lot of my present customers are recovering
youngsters. It has been two months since I started this establishment. The
opening sales have been good. But, profit was never my motive; if I
breakeven consistently, that is good enough. This work has made me see a
different side of life, and that is what I value. I just want to keep working and
grow as an individual.

Restrained Blooms | Badigad

Forgive me if you cannot understand me. I have speech impairment. I cannot

speak clearly.

Last year, an artery in my head burst because my blood pressure went too
high. I used to work hard in the fields and in the home. One sunny day,
when I was working at home, I blacked out. I hit the floor hard and went into
a state of absolute unawareness. My husband carried me on his back and
took me to Bharatpur. He thought I was dead, but I remember being able to
perceive bursts of reality. I showed signs of consciousness. In Chitwan, they
performed an operation and saved me. I was in the Intensive Care Unit for
several days.

I returned home dazed, but feeling slightly better. The postoperative wound
on the back of my head used to itch, so I used to itch it. I got a terrible
infection and had to be taken to Bharatpur again. The wound had gotten so
bad that a piece of skin had to be removed from my leg and surgically
plastered on the back of my head. I survived again. I cannot do much work
now, but I believe I must have survived for a reason. Death just does not
come so close and go away, that too twice, without a reason.

I spent the majority of my good years in India. My husband used to be in the

Indian Police. I spent years in Dehradun and Banbasa – regions to the west of
Nepal. I used to do odd jobs and look after the family. He now gets a pension
of around two hundred thousand rupees every six months. Using some of
that money, my son has started a small business in the market. My daughter
is doing her own thing as well. They want me to live with them in the bazaar
(town market), they have done their best to convince me, but I have always
lived in a mud house and find the country setting comfortable. Now, they are
black topping the road, changes are bound to happen. Let those changes
come. Whatever is to happen to me will happen right here.

Myagdi

Pressing Cane | Galeshwar

There was a time when people like us could do without much money, but

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Restrained Blooms of Badigad

429
those times are now long gone. I just got some onion saplings from the fair –
took a fair bit of searching to find this! I grow onions to stay relevant. A lot of
restaurants and lodges have sprouted on the highway. People from those
restaurants come looking for onions in our village. The amount of onions I
usually plant is not adequate anymore.

Dharma has finally returned to the Galeshwar temple. There used to be a

greedy priest there. All he wanted to do was amass money. For years, he did
not give up his seat. This ill faith, this greed, tormented him. He never had a
son. Circumstances forced him to give up his position. Only a few months
after he left, he had a son. Then came another priest, that priest was greedy
too. He went mad, his family members went mad too – that is how powerful
the temple is! The new priest is not greedy. Good things have started
happening here.

Gulmi

Dirty Trousers, Clean Coat | Wamitaksar

Cut. They have cut it all – sacred fig trees, hundreds of years old! They were
already densely grown back when I was small. Such profanity! They have
cut over one hundred sacred figs and mango trees! They say it is to make the
road wider but it is all a ploy to sell wood. This used to be the Wami Village
Development Committee, now it is called Musikot Municipality. The
communists have won. This is what happens when they win!

O Hari | Indregauda

For many, many years, I pursued the path of faith and detachment. I am a
vegetarian and do my best to live according to the rules of dharma.

I used to run a simple bag shop in Traffic Chowk, Butwal and made just
enough to get by. Days used to go by as I chanted the name of Hari. I even
named my son Hari. Then, the world caught on to me. I had to make money.
I had to take care of my family. This soil called me back.

I returned to my village and started this highway hotel. Think about it, a
person who pursued the path of spirituality wholeheartedly having to sell
meat and alcohol.

If I do not, I will not be able to fulfill my family's wishes. I am shackled and

there is no escape. Since you are not, I do not want to accept money from
you. That money will make no difference to my business. To help an
unfettered soul is my pleasure. Harekrishna!

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On Strands | Musikot

Do you know a cure for my condition (paralysis)?

It has been four years since I have been like this. The doctors said it was
because my blood pressure had gone too high. I tried all sorts of cures,
performed all kinds of rituals, but there has been no difference. I have given
up hope in a way.

This morning, a mystic who claimed to be one hundred and four in age
crossed paths with me. He laid out seven stones, moved his hands around in
circles and figured out the day I was born, when I mentioned my birth date
and year to him. Thursday, he said. Yes, I was born on a Thursday. Another
young guy came by, and he figured out the day the guy was born in as well.
The old man had some power, it was evident. He added that he had only
recently married again. Now, that is bollocks, is it not? Marrying at one
hundred and four! Yet still, I listened to him, because he said he had a cure.

He has asked me to put seven rice grains, some honey, raw meat, and, some
other things, in a mixture, and to have that once every day. He claimed that
the mixture had worked for three people already. It did not work for
everyone. But maybe, it might just work for me. And these ingredients, they
are not too rare, right? I have lost all hope, I am not going to avoid sweet and
chilly foodstuffs – what is there to lose ... but this might just work. Hmmm…

Castle Builder | Seemaaghaat

I am eleven years old.

I have not left school, today is a holiday. I work only on holidays.

If we fill a tractor with sand, we get five hundred rupees.

Our (he and his elder brother) parents keep the pay.

Pyuthan

Mining Potatoes | Dhungethaanti

All that plastic ... Look how terribly tiny the potatoes are! How can vegetables
grow well when there is so much plastic in the soil?

Each monsoon the river overflows and inundates these fields. That is
supposed to make the soil richer, but it introduces tons of plastic into the
soil. Plastic is killing the topsoil.

431
As you can see, most of it is gutkha and khaini (tobacco products) wrappers.
There are such horrible pictures on the cover (of lungs of heavy smokers, and
of people who have cancer in their mouths), yet people still consume so
much of these things. I must say this is all happening because of a lack of
education.

Saari Strong | Okharbot Phedi

I do not work for the (government) road department. I was hired by the ADB
(Asian Development Bank) for this road project on a five year tenure. If they
had not encouraged and sought to hire women, I would not have got this job.
They looked for people who have suffered a lot. It must be said that some
that are well off and well connected have got in too.

I am the sole earning member of my family. My husband suffers from acute

arthritis. We might as well call him disabled – that is how bad it is. My
children are not old enough to earn, neither are they healthy. My son failed
in his SLC (grade ten) examinations. The mental tension was a bit too much
for him. He became ill and depressed. The same thing happened to my
daughter. They are broken souls. I would like to see my son start working
soon, but I have no expectations from him.

Well, what can I say? I have been making a living by working for a foreign
institution. I shall be digging roadside trenches until my body allows me to,
or if someone does not take my place five years later, whichever happens
sooner. All up to fate!

Rolpa

Spinning Spinster | Thabang

We call this fabric (himalayan nettle) puwaa here, in the local language. In
Kathmandu, they call it allo.

Before the conflict began, we used to supply this to traders in Kathmandu

from the village. The war made trade difficult. [Other villagers remarked that
her family was affiliated to the Congress Party and that made things difficult
for them.]

We moved to Kathmandu and started working there with the contacts we

had. We started from a small room in Gongabu. We spent almost fifteen
years in Kathmandu. By the end of it, we had an entire flat. Following a
series of supply disruptions, loss of margin, and other issues, it was only a
few years ago that we shut the business down.

I stay in Liwang these days. I have built a house there. Sometimes, I come to
the village to visit my brother. I spin the Charkha only to bide time.

432
Saari Strong of Okharbot Phedi

433
Restrained Screams | Thabang

I was only ten years old back then. The army had set houses in the
neighborhood on fire, saying that they belonged to terrorists. The fire spread
and consumed nineteen homes before some army officers objected,
quarreled with their fellow officers, and convinced the officer incharge to
stop the mayhem. The entire village fled. My mother had gone to a friend's
home in another village and could not come to us. Only I and my younger
sister remained in the village.

The next day, a soldier came to us and asked some questions. We answered
as plainly as we could. We told him that we were just little children and
could not be Maoist combatants. He went away. Then, later that day, came
this evil officer. When he did not get the kind of answers he was seeking, he
threatened us. He swore at us; said awful, awful stuff.

He said that we were the bastard children of Maoists and pointed his gun at
us. We were petrified. We could not utter a single word. He ordered his
soldiers to search the house. They looked around, made noises and left. The
next day, another officer came, inquired about our parents in a kinder tone,
told us to stay safe and left.

Later, my father, along with a few other people, was taken away by the
army. The army said that they needed people to carry in goods, free labor of
course ... but my mother suspected that it was because they had accused
him of being a Maoist rebel. That kind of thing had happened before. We
thought that they were going to kill him. The day before, my sister had
broken her leg in an accident. We needed our father to take her to the
hospital. My mother went to the army camp. She knew that she too could be
accused of being a militant and killed, but she knew no other way. She took
my sister with her, cried and begged at the feet of every officer she could
find. No one listened to her. She remained persistent. Finally, days later, a
senior officer listened to her and let him go. He even said that if he had
known of the situation earlier he could have offered a helicopter ride. That is
how the world is. There are good and bad people on both sides of the aisle.

Dusty Dough | Deurali

We cannot hurt others or kill for a living; we cannot be goons. There is no

way out, hard work is imperative. Look at these kids! They play in the dirt.
They do not want to go to school. We have to feed them. They have to toil to
exist.

Seeking Warmth | Sulichaur

Have you heard of Koilabas? We came to Sulichaur from Koilabas. It is in

Dang. It used to be one of the most prosperous towns in Nepal. It was the
main transit point between Nepal and India in the west; anyone who wanted
to trade with, work in, or travel to eastern Nepal via India did so through
Koilabas. We have a big house and farm there. Our children are there too.
Yet, we have to work here. Koilabas is a ghost town. The Hulaki Highway

434
deteriorated after the main (Mahendra) highway was built. Koilabas lost its
significance, the market dried up. Then, a few years ago, the main motorable
bridge that connected the town to the highway was swept away by the river.
It has still not been rebuilt. Almost all Koilabasians are now working in other
parts of Dang, Rolpa, Rukum and other hill districts – mostly, menial jobs
and small businesses. This is what fate has brought us to.

Whiskers White | Sulichaur - Oowaa Road

Look brother, when I was young, there were no schools around. I never
learned the ka, kha, ga, gha ... (Devanagari alphabets) or the ABCs. I never
went to school, that is why I learned to shoot.

To go to laahur (foreign lands) and shoot – that was the only option our
generation was familiar with. That is what I did, went to India via Koilabas,
boarded a train, and headed for recruitment in the Indian Army. This was
back in the mid sixties. India was at war. I was sent to the frontline after
some basic training. I shot down many, many people there. Holding a gun
made me feel capable and powerful. Bengal, Calcutta, Kashmir, Delhi – I
have gone to all sorts of places around India, shooting at command. I was in
the army for fifteen years.

I get a pension that is just enough for daaru paani (alcohol and other stuff). It
is not more than one million a year, let me make that clear. To withdraw it, I
go to Dang once every six months. My younger son comes there too. He
drives a Colonel's vehicle in Bhairahawa. He helps me withdraw the money,
and takes half of it. I understand his scenario. The Nepali Army pay is not
good enough. My younger son is in Malaysia. He does not trouble me. Their
grandchildren do though. Oh, they are a menace! [Laughs]

Home Seeker | Tharpu

This is the first time I have come to my home. In fact, this is the first time I
have come to Nepal. I was born and brought up in Himachal Pradesh. I am
studying in the eleventh grade in Shimla. My father moved there long ago.
We have a small restaurant in Delhi too. My brother looks after it. I have
always wanted to visit my village. This time, the circumstances worked out. I
took a train from Delhi and came in via Rupaidiha.

I have been surprised by how expensive Nepal is. I do not drink or smoke,
but had to pay one thousand rupees for dinner and a night's stay in
Phuliban. Neither was the food good, nor was the room clean. In India, a
good lunch would cost around one hundred IC (Indian rupees) at a decent
place. The jeep and bus tickets here are incredibly expensive as well.

I hope my uncles – Rajendra and Surendra, will be positively surprised when

I get to Tharpu. I do not know the Khaam language, nor is my Nepali any
good. I hope I will be able to connect with them.

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Iron Hands | Uwaa

A political revolution happened, but the cultural revolution was a sham. The
people here never changed their ways. These people were the original
Maoists. They made the rules of the game. They have not abandoned their
religious practices. They have not changed the way they treat women. They
have not let go of their old ways. Almost all the people from this part of
Rolpa have land in Dang and other big cities of the Tarai.

Where does the money come from? From the hashish trade!

If you come here during the autumn months, you will see everyone busy
making a muddy pulp with their hands. That is hashish pulp. It is sold for
around four thousand five hundred rupees a packet here. A household can
make hundreds of those packets here in one season. If the villagers see
anyone new in the village during that time, they run away – fearing it is the
police. That is why the people are so distrustful here, there is a lot going on
behind the scenes.

It is all about the money. It has never been about anything else! We have
seen it all while working here. The sole reason why this has been the last
ward in Rolpa to receive a road connection is because the locals have not
been enthusiastic about it. When the road comes in, the police come in too.
Even I took some hashish for my brothers in my village last year. It is good
stuff.

Wooly Woolen | Thabang

We tried our best to keep the People's Government in Thabang running. It

only lost influence here after Prachanda baaje (Brahman priest, also old man
/ grandfather), Bhattarai baaje, and their cohorts sold the revolution out
completely.

The People's Government had banned gambling, the sale of alcohol, and all
other such malpractices. Upon discovery, we used to destroy alcohol bottles
that the traders tried to sell.

We kept fighting for the revolutionary ideal. The education system was still
in the hands of the community, and was the last to fall. We fought hard to
keep the boarding (private) school out, but the administration provided
heavy protection and we became helpless. Could it at all be right to have two
systems of education in the same country: one for those who can pay better
and one for those who cannot? Was it right to surrender to feudal and
imperialist stooges, and become one of them, after struggling for a decade
and losing many of our brethren? Is it not that Nepal needs a different
system than what has failed for all these years? These clear truths guided
us.

The absolute No Vote in the second Constituent Assembly elections did not
happen just like that, it took significant effort. We went to every household,
met every person in the village, and convinced those who were uncertain
that the election was a sham, that what was required was not another
election but a revolution to establish twenty first century scientific socialism.

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Home Seeker of Tharpu

437
Countless hours of dialogue led to the rejection of the election by the people
of Thabang. Even this time, despite the state condemning us to absolute
repression – large numbers of police officers under the command of high
ranking officials were deployed here, a lot of us had to escape the village to
avoid arrest, busses were deployed to take voters to the booth.

Two thirds of the voting population abstained from voting, despite a full
fledged national and international conspiracy to douse the revolutionary fire
here, right in the heart of the revolution (Thabang used to be the capital of
the Maoist People's Government), the resistance lives on.

The people's questions will have to be answered!

Rukum East

Tight Shoe Pals | Rukumkot

Unlike villages on the other side of the river (Rolpa), we have all sorts of
people in our village. There are Ghartis, Budas, Thakuris, Shresthas, Bohoras
– people from all ethnicities.

We do not know the Khaam language. We have forgotten it. Everyone speaks
Nepali in Seema. We grew up with the language.

There used to be a bronze mine in the village. The mine attracted people
from distant lands. People used to bore deep into the hills above the village
to extract bronze. Remnants of those holes can still be seen today.
Unfortunately, the mine has dried up now. It has been quite some time since
anyone has found a significant amount of bronze. The village is not as rich
as it should have been. Our grandparents, their generation, bartered most of
the bronze pieces they extracted for salt and other essentials.

Perhaps because of its diverse character, our village remained relatively

unaffected by the conflict. There were occasions when bullets fired from the
hills across the river flew towards villages close to ours. Our relatives lost a
few of their cattle, when a battle broke out in Mahat. The bullets hit the
cows. Many young people from our village were taken away by the Maoists.
We were a bit too young to fight back then. They took away our brothers, but
they escaped the Maoist camp in the night and ran back to the village. Most
youngsters were able to plot an escape a few days after they were taken.

White Stars | Rukumkot

I am from Nepalgunj. I have been working in the health post in Mahat. It has
almost been two years now.

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Mahat is right on top of a hill. The first time I came here, I was shocked by
the size of the hills. I had never walked uphill. I was born and grew up in the
plains. The bus dropped me here. After climbing up a hill, I got exhausted
and retreated back to a hotel. I concluded that I could not make it there on
foot; I gave up. I stayed here for eight days. On the ninth day, I finally found
a motorcyclist who was willing to drop me to Mahat.

During those eight days, I got really close to the hoteliers here. They are such
good hearted people! This feels like my second home. If I was at any other
hotel during these protests, I would have panicked, but here I feel secure.
There is a better hotel in the vicinity, but as they say – a hut where you can
find peace is better than a palace where you cannot.

Anyways, since then, I have always looked for a vehicle to take me to Mahat.
Now, the road is good as well. Yet, after hearing about your walk, I feel that
if I try I too can walk to Mahat.

Rukum West

Madira Blues | Shitalpokhari

I used to be a Colonel in the Maoist Army. Much like the society we live in,
we were not a perfect bunch of people. There were good people amongst us,
and bad people amongst us. There were brave people amongst us — a few of
us led the attack on Salleri (Solukhumbu) with only thirty seven people ...
thirty seven people, can you believe that? There were cowards too. I believe,
we generally did good things — this federal republic would not have come
into being without us. Yet, some of us committed the most heinous of acts. I
acknowledge that.

Now, I am an elected ward representative. Those times are long gone. This is
the time to build, not to destroy. Please, please, let your friends in
Kathmandu know that Rukum and Rolpa have changed for the better. Let
them know that you have been treated well.

Moonlight Shadows | Chaurajahari

Us Jumlis, we have become used to wayfaring. We stay in Jumla during the

farming season, but after that, there is nothing to do there. There is nothing
worse than staying idle, is there? So, we have this tradition of wayfare
trading. We get items from across the border, and go around selling it in the
villages. We have our areas. Me and my friends, we wander around Rukum,
Dailekh, Achham and surrounding districts. We reach doorsteps carrying
clothes, rugs, religious items, herbs – pretty much, everything!

Recently, big shops in major markets have started barring us from entering
towns. We offer items for a bargain, more often than not, and that is not

439
good for their business. Often, the police stop us, upon their insistence of
course, saying that we are not registered businesses. How can we be? We are
wandering traders. We do not have a permanent area of operation. The
permit would limit us to a single district. On top of that, this is our seasonal
business. How can a year round permit make sense? We cannot afford to
follow such regulations. So, we just enter markets after sunset, and leave for
villages before sunrise.

Filling Tickets | Near Musikot

I was taken away by the Maoists when I was young. I did not get to attend
school properly. Later, when I desired to study, it was already too late. I was
lost. A friend said that there was an opportunity to work for the bus
management committee. I stepped in. That is how I got into this line. It was
not by choice.

People think that everyone in the transport management line is a goon.

There might be a few goons in this sector, but most of us are well
intentioned people, simply trying to make a living. They fail to see the
circumstances that have led us to this work. That for me is a cause of great
dismay. How can I remain humble when they are rude?

The bus operation line used to be hugely profitable, up until around five
years ago. The roads that led beyond Musikot were muddy and narrow. The
fares were twice as much as they are now. There was not much competition
either; we were the only bus management committee in Rukum. There used
to be a hundred passengers on a single bus at times. The busses always
used to be packed. Nowadays, there are tens of busses and the roads have
become wider. The journey time has been halved. This line is no longer as
good as it used to be. There is no fortune to be made.

Salyan

Sipping Tea | Bange Lakhuri

Rukum used to be the richest district in this region. The people there used to
pick insects (yarsagumba) amongst other things, but now it is undoubtedly
Salyan. How? An orange farmer who has a decent amount of land can make
around one and a half million rupees a year! Contractors from other districts
come in and put in a bid before a single orange grows. They pick and take
away the oranges themselves. Fruits, vegetables, ginger – Salyan does it all.
Salyan is the agricultural capital of the midwest. Vegetables from here go to
all major cities of western Nepal – Bhairahawa, Butwal, Dang, Nepalgunj ...
everywhere! During the weekly haat (open air) market fifty to sixty trucks ply
in just to take away the district's produce.

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Sipping Tea of Bangelakhuri

441
All this has happened because of the road. The road to Salyan was built only
around eighteen / twenty years ago. Before that, oranges used to grow, but
just fall off and rot. There was no market. The people had plenty to eat but
not enough to spend. Things are different now.

Our hotel used to do splendid business when the road was not black topped.
It was a seasonal road; the road used to be muddy and rife with landslides in
the monsoon. This town used to be a transit point. Passersby had to spend
the night here. A great fair happens in Rukum. During the fair period, there
were days when we made up to fifty thousand rupees – that was how good
business was. Now that the road is good, people prefer to get to the district
headquarters (Salyan and Musikot) to spend the night. There is just enough
business to get by these days.

Badgeless Coat | Bhalchaur

I used to work in India long ago. It was the year 2036 (CE 1980), a few
months before the referendum between an improved Panchayat and
multiparty democracy took place in Nepal. I was working near Najibabad,
which is close to Lucknow. I had a hammer in my hand, by which I mean to
say I was breaking rocks. That was how the Indians built their
infrastructure, with their bare hands. It took years but they did it. I was
working on a road building project.

I used to have a badge with King Birendra's picture on my easta coat (half
coat). I felt proud wearing it. One day a fellow Nepali person noticed that
badge. He stopped and started talking to me. He said that the reason our
country was so underdeveloped and in the gutter was the monarchy. He
expounded that any king could never know the pains of the common people.
Those words struck me. I started questioning why our region was deprived
of basic necessities. Since that day, I took off the badge and became a
Communist. I helped the Maoists too. But the day the peace agreement was
signed, I took a back seat. I am a mere observer now.

Look, the development has finally come now. The roads have come, our lives
have changed. Not at the Indian pace, but with a bang! The dozers are at
work all day.

The Thakuris in our village still do not return our namastes (greetings with
joined hands). We greet them and they nod their heads. At most, they will
give back a one handed namaste.

Look brother, I will tell you something. The people of East Rukum and Rolpa
are alike, so are the people of West Rukum and Salyan. During the People's
War, a lot of people from East Rukum and Rolpa lost their lives. Those
people, they work harder than they need to. We, on the other hand, work
smartly.

Have you read the Geeta? It is written in the Geeta that one should trust, and
at the same time not trust everybody. The Thakuris do not know their days
are gone. Still, we play along.

442
Jajarkot

Hands In Pockets | Suigadaa

It has been three years since it has not rained properly. There has not been a
day of proper rain this winter. You might have seen the parched fields. All
the crops are dead.

The villagers here did not use to go to India to work before. There was plenty
to eat. Currently, six out of ten people from this village are in India. This
number is going up every year. After all, one has to survive. Most of our
brethren are in Shimla or other towns of Himachal Pradesh. They will return
after the winter and go back again after monsoon. Those are the only times
apart from Dashain when the bus that comes here is packed.

You say something, I believe you. People say things and we believe them.
But, I can never know what is going on inside your head. That has been my
experience. The villagers here suffered a lot during the conflict period. Two
villagers were taken away by the army for letting Maoists stay at their place.
They have still not been found. It is only natural for people here to be
distrustful.

A lot of Maoist cadre came and stayed at my place. At first, I did not know
they were Maoists. For us, they were just friends, distant relatives,
acquaintances, or say people like us, needing shelter. They came late in the
night. We had to help them. Later, they started being more open about their
mission. They used to tell us to not let anyone know. They usually left before
dawn. We obliged. What could we do? Sometimes, the administration would
find out that someone stayed at our place overnight. They would come to our
place and ask questions. We had to lie. Whenever I went to the district
headquarters for official work, I was ridiculed and threatened by fellow
teachers, and officials there. They used to call me the master who gives
shelter to rebels.

All in all, nothing terrible happened to us. Here we are now, running this
hotel. The busses that go to Surkhet stop here. Drivers come here late in the
night. We welcome anyone who wants to stay. We do not have any children
to work for. Running a hotel at this high pass is a service in itself. This is our
dharma. We are the only house in this area that trusts strangers.

Crinkled Knees | Near Karkigaaun

This is our traditional attire. We call it dharaa. It is easier to work in the

fields and move around in the hills with this on. It is a matter of ease.

I never wore pants and shirts like young guys do these days. My son
encouraged me to try them on, but they felt too constricting.

When one is young, the belly is tight. When one gets old, the belly gets
saggy. It is hard to work with a saggy belly. So, I use this other dharaa to
keep my belly tight.

443
I have heard that a lot of new jobs have been created in Kathmandu recently
(post earthquake reconstruction). My sons work in Kathmandu. One works
as a mason, the other does woodworks.

[Others in the background: Do not trust this guy. He says he has walked from
Kathmandu. How can people from Kathmandu walk in the hills?]

Splitting Logs | Pogara

Ridiculous, is it not? Our village has become a municipality — part of the

same municipality as the district headquarters, but there is neither
electricity nor a steady drinking water supply. Security and other services are
a far cry. Nonetheless, the Mid Hill Highway track opening has brought some
hope.

Our settlement is on a hilltop. Up until a year ago, we had to go to the spring

behind the hill to get potable water. It took an hour to get there and come
back. A pipe installation project that came in last year has brought water to
our doorsteps. It is not a stable supply though. Once the Brat Drinking Water
Project is completed, they say it will take another year or two; water access
will not be a problem.

Up until a decade ago, we used to rely on wood torches and kerosene lamps
for light. Then, a villager brought a solar panel from the town market, then
another, and then we got it too. When the panels first came, an eight
thousand rupee system was good enough to light two or three bulbs. Now,
we can get a system that lights a dozen bulbs for the same price.
Government subsidies reduce the cost of solar panels. We use it to charge
mobile phones too, not when the day is cloudy though.

They have laid poles for the main line to come in, but, as you might have
seen, those poles have been laid along the road. We are uncertain if the
poles will come towards the village. It might take two years, it might take
ten; for the main line electricity to come to the village. There is talk that work
on the Narsinghgaad Hydroelectricity Project will begin soon. It will be the
largest hydroelectricity project in this province. After it is built, it will support
all the electricity needs of this province. But, the question is when — by the
time of our sons, perhaps?

Dailekh

Tying Hair | Lore

Whenever she sees a man, she squeals baa (father). She squeals baa a lot.
She is just a year old. Her father is a soldier in the army. He comes home for
only four or five days every month. Then, he returns to his duty. I run this
shack restaurant to bide my days.

444
After the Maoist conflict intensified, the army started hiring more soldiers.
The villagers here saw an opportunity. It was a permanent job after all.
Farming had a very limited scope. There were only two or three army
families before the conflict. Now, almost every family here has a member in
the army.

Bleak Stitches | Hulak Daandaa

Lying on a sofa, in a room filled with billows of smoke, with a table in front –
a table with three varieties of meat and bottles of imported beer, a cigarette
in hand and girls all around. That, that would be the life!

I am fifteen years old. I have come to work on this road (Mid Hill Highway)
from Dang, along with my fellow villagers. It has been two years and seven
months since I have been working here. I work in the fields for a few months
in my village. Once that work is over, I come back here hoping to make some
extra cash. The pay is not great though, just enough to get by. My pockets
are always empty!

A piece of stone that bounced out of the crusher hit me on the head. That is
why I have this bandage on. I had to get a few stitches. Working to build
roads is risky business. Everyone is injured at some point. The contractor
pays the medical bills.

Smashing Hurdles | Paduka Kholaa

Strong men can break enough stones to fill a tractor crate in five to six days.
Women like me can break enough stones to fill a tractor crate, with the help
of children, in eight to nine days. We are paid two thousand two hundred
rupees for every tractor crate we fill.

The good rocks have started getting scarcer in this river. It has been years
since we have been doing this, nine years to be precise. That is after the road
came. Before that, we just used to farm and not worry much about doing any
other work or money. There were only a few places to spend money. Now,
the children want this and that. We have developed new tastes.

I am doing this for the children. My brother in law is a doctor in Kathmandu.

He got to study in a good school, made the right connections early on. Their
life is enviable. We could not do that and so we are stuck. I realize that the
jobs of tomorrow will not be like the one I am doing now. My children will
have to study well. It takes money to study well. I will do all I can to make
them doctors.

Red Pen | Badaa Lamji

A few years ago a person who claimed to be from Kathmandu came to the
village. He said that he wanted to tear down and rebuild these temple
structures. The local political leaders and civil stakeholders consented
enthusiastically. When we (him and some other teachers) found out about

445
the decision, we objected vehemently. We understood that the man's
intentions were not good. We set things straight. We told the person to build
a similar temple elsewhere in the village if he really desired to. He
disappeared after that.

We do not know how old these temple structures are. Adequate research has
not been done. The popular consensus is that they were built during the
time of the Mahabharata. The school owns this piece of land. The
Department of Archaeology has built this wall around the structures to
preserve it. They might have done some research, but we do not know of any
report has been released.

Pants Up | Bilaspur

No one really cares about historical monuments in Dailekh. When the most
capable and educated people abandon a town, the place loses its spirit. The
hills here have been perfectly laid and the climate is splendid, there is no
place like this elsewhere in Nepal. No one quite seems to realize that.

I have been trying to set an example. I have a large garden here. I grow fruits
and have kept cows for milk. Having the experience of working in many
towns around the country as a government employee, I have tried talking to
people about how Dailekh could be sustainably developed in the future. That
kind of talk just makes you seem like a buffoon here.

I often look at my grandchild and question: Why am I staying here? Is it

really worth it? Are the people here fools, or am I? I could just move to
Surkhet or Kathmandu as others have done, you know.

Frazzled Ferns | Dailekh

As the hiace (commuter van) tumbled down, all my dreams fell with it. There
was not a game that I did not play. I played football, volleyball, martial arts
— you name it, everything. I used to play Shitoryu Karate on the national
level. That fateful day, I was returning from a coach training camp.

You can see this scar in my forehead, what you cannot see is the stitch
marks that my hair is concealing. These hips suffered a terrible bump. These
legs are not the same. It is painful to move around. I was bed ridden for
months. I cannot move as freely as I used to now, going back to playing any
kind of sports or a coaching role is an impossible dream. I am trying to get a
desk job at the nearby rural municipality. There is not much I can do now.

Two Line Singer | Singausi

I am studying in Surkhet. I had come back to the village to have some fun
during the winter break.

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Tying Hair of Lore

447
I fractured my elbow while playing volleyball here. The doctors in the district
hospital are not worth trusting. So, with a sling on, I was taken to Surkhet
for treatment.

I am back and feeling better now. I will have to go to the hospital in Surkhet
again later this month.

You must have heard Gopal Nepal's name. He is my friend's brother … He is

a famous dancer in Surkhet.

Achham

Squinting Eyes | Belkhet

In the year 2024 (CE 1967), my father left the village to study in Kathmandu.
Imagine, a person from Achham studying in Kathmandu in that era! There
was no bridge over the Karnali River back then. There were no feasible trails
that went eastwards. Father had to go to India, get on a train to Raxaul, and
walk to Kathmandu via Birgunj.

His annual expenses came to around three thousand rupees during the years
he studied in Kathmandu. Food was cheap then, but expensive in a way –
fifty paisa for a meal; thirty rupees a month for meals. My grandfather really
wanted to see his son study, so he arranged it all.

My father came back to the village and became a teacher. Only a handful of
people from Achham were educated back then. Teaching was a highly
respected profession. He was a teacher for thirty years. My father never
expressed regret about what he had done in life – that is up until his final
days.

My father passed away last year. In that year, he kept muttering that had he
bought land in Kathmandu with that money instead of studying, our lives
would have been much better. He said that he would have been a much
happier person that way. Enough land to make a large house was available
for five hundred rupees in the heart of Kathmandu, when he was studying
there. He went to the pyre with that regret; of having studied, instead of
having invested.

Holding Tight | Thulasain

Come, come here. Take a picture of my granddaughter. Her name is Kavita.

Look how lovely she is! She is not even a year old.

Her father is in Mumbai. Her uncle too is there. They have a job there. Her
father has only been able to come to the village once after she was born. He

448
Spotted Lips of Paail

449
spent a month here, around Asoj / Kartik (autumn months). Oh, how happy
he was when he saw her for the first time. He ran to her. And, how sad he
was when he had to leave. He did not want to go, but he could not afford to
leave the job. Our family is in debt, an awful lot of debt. He has paid off half
of the loans, the other half remains.

He called yesterday. He has asked me to send a picture of her on Facebook.

Spotted Lips | Paail

Ever since I was a child, I have had a strange sort of affection for this bird.
One day, when I was in the Mangalsen market, I saw a bunch of geese chicks
on sale. It was the month of Asaar (June). I was delighted. I bought a male
bird, and then realized that he needed a female companion. I got these two.
These birds are amazing. I have not seen any creature that can eat and
defecate as much as them. They eat all the time! They never feel full.

I did not buy these birds to kill them. I just want them to grow big and old.
Neither do I want to have their eggs. I want to see them lay eggs and have
little ones.

When I was young, almost everything that we ate grew in the village. Salt
was a notable exception, we had to get that from Sanphe. Anyways, when
chauchau (ready to eat noodles) first came to the village, people felt scared to
have them. They thought chauchau was squirmy insect larvae. There is this
insect that looks just like earthworms that can be found in the forest during
monsoon. Well, that was what we thought it was. Now, it is the go to snack.
Whenever one thinks of snacks, noodles come to one‖s mind.

Doti

The Grandparents | Dang

Husband: Take me with you.

Wife: No! [Laughing nervously]

By The Bridge | Dipayal

Almost everyone who can afford to has left for the plains – either Dhangadhi
or Mahendranagar. That is why you see so many houses in ruins. The case
is worse in villages. People go where opportunities are better.

Another reason that the old town has lost its charm is that it is no longer
necessary to come here to buy daily essentials. Everything from cosmetics to

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The Grandparents of Naare Dang

451
jewelry stores have opened up in distant villages. The roads have reached
there. The market goes there. There is no need to come to Dipayal anymore.

Even the airport shut down after the road arrived – that was more than
twenty years ago. The airplanes could not compete with busses when it
came to fares. It is being rebuilt now, but it might not be of much help to the
market. I, for one, am only running this shop because it is better than
staying idle. The business is insignificant.

I completed my studies up to the tenth grade. There was a time when that
degree was of much value. I was invited to be a teacher in a primary school.
Back then, I was too busy raising my children. I let many opportunities slip
by. Recently, I considered getting back into teaching, but the minimum
requirement now is an intermediate (high school) degree. What can one do?

Warming Water | Talkot

I went to Dubai when I was nineteen. I was there for four years. Whatever
little I saved, I invested here. Father added a new block to the hotel with the
money I sent him.

It has not even been a month since the decision to have the provincial capital
in Dhangadhi was taken. Several hotels and businesses have already moved
to Dhangadhi. Land is at a premium there. One can secure half a kattha of
land for a million rupees. In a month's time, it is bound to double. The
pressure is on for us to take some land there in a couple of weeks. We do not
know how, but we have to.

The situation has become such that if I go looking for a bride, or, say to meet
a prospective bride's family to seek approval, the first question that will
come is – Do you have land in the Tarai? Parents feel that living in the hills
entails a lot of suffering for their daughters. The concept has been set in
society. It cannot be altered. One needs to have some land in the plains.

I went to a hotel recently, I ordered lavishly. Then, when I looked for my

purse to pay the bill, I simply could not find it. I had forgotten it at home. It
was a really embarrassing situation. Thankfully, the owner turned out to be
a good person. He said that these things happen at times and let me go
without a fuss. I feel like I have found the right person to pay it forward to
today. You do not have to worry about the room charge, just pay for the
biscuits and bread.

Dadeldhura

Scribbling Expressions | Sakhaayal

I have ambitions. If I did not, I would not have walked for two hours every
day, just to get to the school.

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I want to become a doctor – something that I aspire for but cannot be sure of.
There are many challenges. First and foremost, if I want to study good
subjects after I finish the tenth grade, I must leave the village. It is either
Dipayal, or more likely Dhangadhi or Mahendranagar. The problem with the
cities in the plains is that the rents there have skyrocketed in recent years.
Most of my friends are fortunate enough to have relatives there. I do not.

Chennai – that is where most ambitious students from our village have gone.
That is where I am most likely going next year. Chennai is cheaper than
Dhangadhi. The only problem with going there is that no youngster who has
gone there has been able to find a job here. Their skills are too advanced for
the local market to accommodate. They come to the village, toil for a few
years, do not find a job, and go back.

Being from a Tamrakar family, I used to be heavily discriminated against

when I was young. I could not touch the water vessel. If my family went to a
distant village, we could not be sure if the local shop would let us stay for the
night. That is no longer the case now. In some corners, maybe the situation
is still the same, but that will not last for long. Another thing that has
changed is the way we deal with girls. Up until a few years ago, they used to
get guys and girls married at a terribly young age. Girls did not talk to guys.
Guys did not talk to girls. It was a hush hush kind of situation. Nowadays,
with the advent of mobile phones, that has changed. There is no fear.

Selling Sweets | Dadeldhura

I was born in Rupal, which is not too far away from this town. I left for
Mahendranagar long ago in search of opportunities. I opened a hotel there
and was doing well. My wife and children are there too. My wife is a teacher
– a stable job. My children are old enough to decide their own path.

It was only in the month of Kartik (October) that I came back to visit
Dadeldhura. I noticed that there was not a single proper sweet and snacks
shop here. But more importantly, the peaceful environment here struck me.
It was a kind of peace that I had forgotten; the hustle and bustle of the plains
was all I had known for years. It was a split second decision. I decided to
move back to Dadeldhura and open this restaurant.

Things have been going great here. I never had a moment of peace in the
city; there were always tens of people I had to serve. Sleep was not
guaranteed either; sometimes the roar of a tractor awakened me at two in
the night, sometimes it would be a customer. Here, I open my business after
the sun shines brightly and close before dinner. I get to have conversations
with people. I have made friends. I have a community that respects and
appreciates me.

My son keeps asking me – Father, why are you staying in the hills?

He feels it makes no sense. My family does not get me. People in the upper
echelons of society are my customers too. A judge comes here regularly. He
asked me the same question. I answered that I have found peace here. He
smiled. People who have seen the world do not find it difficult to understand
me.

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Wet Hands | Gaira

My father's home was in Solukhumbu. My mother came from Darjeeling.

They came towards the west in search of work. The major highways were
being built around that time. They worked on the road in Nepalgunj for a
while, and then shifted further westwards, before arriving here to work on
the Dadeldhura road.

All the Magars migrated from the east and settled here during that time.
Most of us claimed scraps of land along the highway. We will have to move
away if they decide to expand the highway. That might begin in ten years,
or, that might begin tomorrow. We cannot be sure. We have bought a small
tract of land in the Tarai. That is where we will go.

Because my father passed away when I was young, I have had very little
ground to connect with my heritage and brothers in Solukhumbu. My uncles
say that it has become a splendid place. They will take me there later. I went
to visit Darjeeling last year. The place is incredibly developed. This place has
progressed, but is nothing like those places. Nonetheless, it is vain to think
like that ... to regret not being there. If those places had not been barren and
difficult, my parents would not have left.

Rugged Hands | Ryaaule

All these sacks are full of alcohol bottles. These sacks (twenty eight of them)
were collected this week. They are taken by trucks to Dhangadhi. There are
seven more collection centers like these in Dadeldhura and Dipayal. You can
imagine the amount of alcohol being consumed by people around here. It is
insane! It is the men who drink expensive alcohol, not the women. Imagine
the kind of effect this has on society. Men lend money to drink, and lend
more money to pay those debts off. Men used to be hard working, now they
have become rather indolent. People like you, people from Kathmandu are
walking here, but the people of this village cannot imagine going to the town
on foot. Indolence is the order of the day.

The glass shards used to cut my hands at first, but now they have become
coarse. These hands are no longer delicate, like a woman's hands should be.
I did not start doing this job out of choice. This job was available when I
desperately needed one.

My daughter is eighteen years old. All she can utter is the word baba. She
rushes towards vehicles when she sees them, even moving ones! I used to
tie her up at home when she was younger, to save her. I still do that at
times. You see, my daughter does not have a mind like yours and mine,
neither is her body in good shape. She needs special care and attention. I
started working because of her. I would have never taken up this job, if she
was able to stand on her own two feet. She must be wandering around here
somewhere …

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Wet Hands of Gaira

455
Sozzled Mutterer | Gaaibaandhe

Only people who have not been to India treat us disrespectfully. I am from
Bareilly. I admit that it used to be a mess of a place, but now the roads are
smooth, the market is bigger than any market here, and we live in fine
cement houses. People who have seen that progress do not demean us. Here,
in Nepal, I have seen people with millions of rupees living in little wooden
shacks and cottages. Is merely having lots of meat and alcohol the basis for a
good life? That is what the people here seem to think. The people here do not
save. They do not build for the future.

Another thing that I find uncomfortable about Nepal is the way the women
dress. They go around without a ghunghat and often enter other people's
houses. Is that not terrible? We treat our women differently. We keep them
in our houses. That is where women are supposed to be. Everything they
need is in the house – the kitchen, a good bathroom, a television, a good
wardrobe.

Once married, women should be treated like queens. Here, the men laze
around and let the women do the tough work. The women carry logs in from
the forest and work in the fields. Is that what men should be doing? I do not
get the people here.

I also take hair in exchange for candy. It is five rupees for a handful of candy,
a handful of hair will do too. Collecting hair is twice as profitable as taking
money. I sell a kilogram of hair for two hundred rupees to merchants who
send it to China. The merchants wash and sort it out. They say they use this
hair in the beauty industry.

Basking In Defeat | Parashuram Municipality

Oh, what will these children do? The way they misbehave makes my eyes
swell with tears at times. Those two guys just bashed this guy's nose over a
trivial fuss! It took a considerable bit of effort to separate them.

If this were a private school, we would have called this class nursery, but
since it is a government school, we use the term infants‖ class.

This is a hopeless bunch. They just know the village language (Doteli). They
do not know Nepali or English. The course is useless. Their parents love their
cattle more than these children. Still, half the children in the village do not
attend school. Their parents prefer to tie their feet and keep them at home.
Yes, they really do that to their children. They desire to make their children
rough herders. These children at least get to bask in the sun all day!

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Kanchanpur

Muddy Hands | Bramhadev Canal

Your supposition is correct. Yes, we are workers hired by a contractor to sort

the mess here. You got it spot on. Wow!

Did you not get the sarcasm? We are just looking for good red mud lumps
that will go to waste once the rollers come in to flatten the road. We will use
it to decorate our homes. We are not hired workers!

Frontierpeople | Bedkot

You have really been to seventy four districts? And that is all you have in
your bag? I have found one unique person today. Come, follow me. Come to
my place. I will arrange lunch for you ... I insist.

It is rare to find good hearted people like me these days. If you lie to people
like me, it will result in ill fate. You are not a CID (here spy) are you? Just be
honest.

Please do not mind me asking that question. I just wanted to be clear. Some
more daal?

In the year 2018 (CE 1962), King Mahendra went to Burma. There he listened
to the pleas of Burmese Nepalis. They were being forced out of Burma by the
government there, which insisted that Nepalis were outsiders and did not
belong there. That is how the settlement of Mahendranagar was envisioned,
as a haven for Nepalis from Burma to begin anew. The king issued a decree
stating that anyone from Burma could come here, clear the forest, and claim
four bighaas of land. That is what thousands of refugees from Burma did.

News spread throughout the hills too that there was free land available for
anyone who could claim it in a newfound town in the plains. In the decade
that followed, hundreds of thousands more people descended to
Mahendranagar from the hills – from Darchula, Baitadi, Dadeldhura,
Bajhang, Bajura ... The soil was good, the land aplenty. One could claim as
much land as one wanted by clearing trees. We came from Darchula in the
year 2024 (CE 1968) and chose to settle here.

Back then, elephants, tigers, boars and a host of other wild animals were
abundantly seen around here. The original inhabitants of these forests were
Tharus. They lived in scattered communities. We could not understand their
language. They could not understand ours. They were scantily clad; most of
them only wore a langoti (an undergarment). When the Tharus saw us, they
used to run away. We used to run away too when we saw Tharus. There
was very little communication. It took years to establish interaction.
Nowadays, we do not feel too distant. They have learned the Nepali
language. They started copying the way we dress up. There is no fear. We
are all one.

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Three Brothers | Mahendranagar

A: On one hand, the landlords who kept us as bonded laborers used to say
that if Tharu children went to school they would lose their minds. Most
Tharus actually believed this. On the other hand, our parents' generation
used to live by the saying — Kaagaj padhyo kaun kaam? Hal joto dhaan hi
dhaan! (What good does reading do? Work the fields; there will be a lot of
grain!)

School was our escape though. So, my brother and I worked out an
arrangement. He would go to school for a few hours for four days, while I
worked twice as hard. Then, for the next four days, I would go to school for a
few hours, while he worked. That is how we learned the baahrakhari
(alphabets).

That was how it was in Kailali — thousands of acres of our land were taken
from our hands, and we were turned to slaves. The situation was not as
terrible here as in Bardiya or Kailali, they say.

B: It is evidently clear that we Pahadiyas (people of hill origin) screwed the

Tharus. When people from the hills started coming to what is now
Mahendranagar, there were only sparse Tharu settlements — three or four
Tharu houses here, four or five half a mile away. They never stayed in one
place for too long and kept moving.

They invited the first settlers to live with them. That was the culture back
then. There was plenty of land, and not enough people around. So, if anyone
came to live in their vicinity, the Tharus gladly offered some of their land.
They were really innocent, actually really foolish!

The Tharus did not understand legal matters; they had their own system.
For example, up until 1951, the Tharu community leaders used to issue
reciprocal punishments; if you murdered someone, you would be killed in
the same manner.

Some of the new settlers became greedy and made the Tharus sign land
transaction papers — that is how they lost their land, became indebted
towards and later slaves of the very settlers they welcomed.

They also terribly undervalued the land, for example, the land where
Kanchan Vidya Mandir School has been built right now was sold for eight /
ten kilograms of ghee! If Labru Rana, who I believe was the Minister of Land
Resources in the latter days of the Panchayat had not issued certain rules
like forbidding the sale of small, three / four kattha, Tharu land holdings,
and making it compulsory for the land sale fee to be paid at the table where
it was passed, thousands more innocent Tharus would have suffered.

I was born into a family of landlords. I remember that my family kept Tharus
as bonded laborers too. There were two of them in the year 2046 (1990). They
used to be paid forty mans of rice for a year's work. Our land holdings are
mostly around Gobariya, a bit to the south.

We never thought of amassing land around the highway back then.

Elephants used to roam around here and had to be kept at bay from the
fields using torches. One could not venture into the fields without fire

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Three Brothers of Mahendranagar

459
torches. No one dared to take their cattle around the parts where the
highway lies today. They would be eaten by tigers. During an era when one
could claim as much land as one cleared trees from, we kept away from the
highway area, which now is the most valuable land in the district.

C: Like my friend here, my family too was one of landlords. Yet, we could
never build on the initial fortune. And now, the land has been split up
between four brothers and (their) seventeen children — into insignificant
pieces. The two houses that my grandfather had in that land have become
forty three households.

I am the Bhalmansa (leader/elder) of this community.

Our role over time has certainly become less prominent. One still needs a
Bhalmansa during times of marriage and demise. Yet, when there were no
government offices around, we used to solely deliver verdicts on matters and
resolve greater community issues. Say, if someone's daughter eloped, we
could annul that marriage, set things straight. Now, that kind of thing is not
possible. Kids take matters into their own hands; there are cases where
some have hung by the noose or consumed poison, upon being separated
from their love. We do not want our kids to kill themselves, do we? The
rulings have thus lost meaning.

Other things have changed as well. There was a time when a dowry of a pot,
a plate, and a net bed was the norm. Now, people of our community have
started emulating the hill people. The girl's parents have to give at least a
scooter, eight to ten tolas of gold, and a good furniture set for the marriage to
be accepted by the boy's family. How does one do that? By selling land, of
course! I too am selling some land to cover such costs. Another custom that
we have learned from the hill people is of burning dead bodies. We used to
bury our dead in the forest. Many people still find bones here while digging
pits. Now that there is no such land available, and because no one is going to
bury the dead in one's own garden, there is no option but to take the body to
Mahakali and cremate it.

The greatest change of all might be the increase in the number of Tharus
marrying outside the community. In our family, we have two daughters in
law from the hill community. I tried to talk the boys out of the marriage
initially, but it did not work. There was no choice but to accept. I think that is
where our community here is headed now — towards complete assimilation.
Our population is not significantly large and there are a lot of inter caste
marriages. We cannot do anything about it. Anyone can do whatever he or
she wants. Most kids of the new generation have studied up to the
intermediate level. They know better.

Selling Stones | Sisaiya

A true man of god never reads your hand. Such a man knows that revealing
your fate will lead to despair. Such a man will not sell you a locket or suggest
that you wear dead stones. These are not my words. This is what the baba
himself said.

Listen to me! Such a man will not ask for your money. Listen to these stones!
These stones are alive. They make sounds. These stones will speak to you. I

460
feel blessed to be here amongst you, people who are being patient with me,
even when I am speaking in another language. Listen to these stones and all
your worries will go away.

Kailali

Selling Filters | Attariya

Time has run out for the watch. The mobile phone has swallowed it whole. I
work from six in the morning to six in the night, and yet manage only to sell
four or five sunglasses at most.

Are you going to post this on Facebook? [Smiling] I have always wanted to do
something better in life. Maybe someone will come to the rescue?

Squarish Wheels | Gulara

I pleaded to him several times: Stop brother, stop! I will not come in your
way again.

He did not listen. He kept on bashing me. Then he threw my cycle on to the
rocks on the roadside, and went away. The cycle is broken. What will I tell
the people at home? [Sobbing]

I was casually cycling on the road. A motorcycle sped towards me. I froze. I
would have died if the biker had not hit the brakes hard. The biker got off the
bike and started yelling.

Ashes Rising | Pahalmanpur

My father used to be a Kamaiya (bonded laborer). He worked for years in the

master's fields in Sisaiya. When he was about my age, the master let him go,
saying that he had done his part and did not wish to trouble him anymore.
My father was free but did not have any wealth of his own. He started
working on the highway project for seven rupees a day. It was not enough to
feed us all, so he sent me and my brothers to work as Kamaiyas.

I was barely this [pointing to his thigh] big, when I began working for the
master. I started by looking after the goats, the next year I started looking
after the cattle, the year after that I was deemed fit to work in the fields. I
had to start working at 12 in the night, everyday. If I did not wake up myself,
the master would drag me out of bed and scold me. Unlike some other
masters, he did not inflict physical torture on me. I worked all day in the
bitter heat of the sun — up to 7 PM in the night. If I did not work, there
would be no food. I would be thrown out and left to fend for myself. It was as

461
simple as that. The pay at the first place I worked was sixty kilograms of rice
for a year's work. The master at the other place was more generous. He gave
eight sacks of rice. I remember taking home some corn from the fields when
my mother was pregnant. She relished having the corn dough. It was a rare
delicacy. That was how scarce sound food was. Forget about being able to
have vegetables or lentils!

There were times when my flesh, up to the knees, literally rotted and fell off.
This usually happened in the rainy season, while working the muddy and
humid fields with an ox. My knees got twisted and stalled. I had to persist
though. I feared the master's ire. Many Kamaiyas must have died! The weak
ones fell. They just could not bear the heavy work and lack of a sound diet.

It is not that we did not get angry; it is not that we do not harbor resent. It is
just that we could not fight with the big people. They would finish us if we
ever raised our voice. We still cannot go against the big people. We tend not
to object to what they say.

My father drew a boundary on this land, and claimed it, when he was
working on the highway. I have not studied at all. I never got the chance to. I
learned some basic mathematics and stuff through the adult literacy classes
that were run a few years ago. I have been growing vegetables though —
some cucumbers here, some bitter gourds there, some tomatoes too. I just
work as much as I want to work now, that in itself is a luxury. This, I realize
because of what I have been through. I want my children to have the same
luxury as well. I did my all to send my brother to school. To educate him, I
felt was the only way to break this cycle of suffering. He helped my son with
his studies. My son is studying, at the Seti Technical School in Doti, to
become an overseer.

Dancing Spirits | Attariya

Whenever I had any sort of bodily contact with a woman having her periods,
I shook uncontrollably. After that, more often than not, I would end up
punching the woman in her face. It was an automatic reaction. I had no
control over myself. Frenzy would take over me, and I would be deeply
regretful after coming to my senses. I could only eat food that was cooked at
home or by myself, otherwise I would get terribly sick. The villagers told me
that I was a dhaami – a spirit medium and healer, possessed by the gods. I
spent the entirety of my school life seated separately from the rest of the
class. People used to come to me with offerings, asking me for advice and
about their future. When I crossed paths with women in the village, they
used to throw money at my feet and run away. That was how I spent my
childhood, as a godperson, and, at the same time, a confused recluse.

In my late teenage years, I found my calling. I did not want to be a

godperson. I wanted to become a dancer. So, I moved to the city, and
passionately devoted myself to dancing. I started working stage shows and
moved to India. I still could not touch women going through their cycles and
that was always a problem. I often ran into trouble, bouts of illness were
constant. Yet, I persisted, worked my way up and became a part of
Bollywood choreographer Remo D'Souza's crew. I did many international
stage shows with him. Minor hassles aside, an excellent career in dancing
looked set for me.

462
Ashes Rising of Pahalmanpur

463
One day, while I was traveling with my crew on a train, a Muslim woman
going through her menstrual cycle nudged me. I punched her, right in front
of her family and friends. They retaliated. Tens of men beat me up ruthlessly
and threw me out of the train, probably thinking that I was dead. I suffered
several fractures and internal wounds. I could not afford the treatment.
Several background dancers who had worked with me and understood my
condition, from all corners of India, raised funds to help me. That though,
was the end of my dancing career. My legs did not feel the same. The doctors
advised me to never engage in any strenuous physical activity.

Remo sir visited me quite a few times as I was recovering. Saying that if my
condition was not cured I would not be able to do well in life, regardless of
where I went, he encouraged me to go to the church. Several other friends
suggested the same. They took me to the mass at the church of Siloam
Ministry. I was doubtful at first, but I could feel that my condition was
improving. The atmosphere of the congregation empowered me. Slowly, I
stopped having those fits and seizures, even when I touched women. It was
a miracle. Since then, I have been an avid believer and preacher.

I went back to my village in Doti seeking to build a new life, but was looked
upon with disdain and made to feel unwelcome. Since I was not having
those fits anymore, they said that the Christians had spoiled their dhaami.
They claimed that I had brought dishonor to the village, and could only stay
there if I renounced my faith. That was when I decided to move to
Dhangadhi.

Since I could not dance on a professional basis anymore, I started giving

guitar lessons. I did some minor jobs here and there, before starting my own
business. I still am not confident of eating things I have not cooked, but
having that condition of mine cured has been the greatest blessing. I am now
in the chamber of commerce and have been living an honorable life. Life
finally feels good.

Bardiya

Comrades In Orange | Bardiya National Park

So what happened that time was that the elephants came running in, and
we abandoned our cycles that very instant, then started running — that is,
towards the nearest concrete pipe structure. The management has kept
these pipe structures at various points, so that we can run and seek shelter
in case of encounters with large animals. We only dared to venture out after
the elephants had gone far away. The cycle was badly crushed.

Now is a fairly safe time, it is during the monsoon that most large wild
animals like tigers and elephants come out.

Our job is mainly to cut the foliage and grasses that obstruct the roadside.
We do not fear working here. We only work in certain parts in shifts. A

464
Comrades In Orange of Bardiya National Park

465
vehicle comes to take and pick us up, if not, the cycle is there too. There is no
work that is risk free.

Silenced Fairman | Dhadawar

People doubt whether I am a Chaudhary or not because of my fair

complexion. Mother tells me that my father was fair skinned. Perhaps that is
why I too am.

Grandpa was from Dang. He had enough of living a life of servitude. So here
he came, to this place right in the middle of the forest, to begin anew. He did
not want father to not face the same fate. He sent him to his brother's place
in Nepalgunj to study. There, he washed dishes to make a living and
managed to study well too. Father was an intelligent person. He managed to
get to Kathmandu to study to become a pilot. He never could though.

Fate is cruel. I was still in my mother's womb when my father got this
disease ... encephalitis! He died after a brief struggle. If father had not fallen
to that illness, we would have prospered as a family. We would have moved
to Kathmandu long ago. Then again, my elder uncle filled father's boots. He
did the best he could to support me. He was a teacher, a good guide.

Yet, fate came to play again, cruelly so. When I was studying in the second
or third grade, the army took my uncle away from home. He was accused of
being a Maoist sympathizer. For a couple of days, we saw him being hauled
in a vehicle from the barrack in the jungle to another in the east and back. I
was really angry and wanted to do something about it, but was restrained. I
was told that if I went to the army, I would be falsely accused too. Women
could clamor and plea a bit freely, so my mother and aunts went around
doing that. We did not see our elder uncle after that. He was not the only one
who was taken away like that. The smartest people in the community —
teachers, health workers, entrepreneurs, most of them were accused of being
Maoists and taken away, never again to be seen. We can only imagine how
much better the community would have been if they were still around.

I had to start working at a tender age. I simply could not manage the time to
go to college. I took over the family business, this restaurant, and that has
been pretty much it. I can only be thankful for the foresight my grandpa
showed, and try to forget what having my father and elder uncle around
could have meant.

Banke

Pattering Sermons | Chappargaudi

Well, you see, this elephantiasis eradication program has been going on for
quite some time now. International health organizations have collaborated

466
with the government to disseminate deworming pills. Yet, the number of
cases remains significantly high in this area.

The distribution was being executed by volunteers, and that, it turns out,
was the problem. People would take the deworming pills home and never
have it. They did not take the volunteers seriously; rather they feared that
the pills that could kill worms could kill them too. Since people were having
those pills only on paper, the communicable disease kept spreading through
mosquito bites, leaving program managers bewildered.

Starting this year, the program has deployed health assistants like me at
distribution stations too. I make sure that everyone has the pills. If they try
to make excuses, I show them these pictures on the brochure. I tell them of
cases I have seen. They are far worse than those that the pictures show.
Elephantiasis does not just make the legs or hands heavy, it might affect the
genital region or breasts too. Once I tell them that, they oblige. Not out of
reason, but out of a greater fear.

Peacock Carter | Baansgadhi

I followed the set trend, of going to India for work, as most young people in
our village do. For a few years, I worked in Jamnagar as a waiter. The pay
was eight thousand (Indian) rupees a month. I understood there, that if
possible, it is better to work for oneself rather than for a boss.

A relative of mine was in the business of carting around snacks. He taught

me how to make panipuri and chaat. Those dishes, even though they are
essentially Indian, are high in demand here. There is a panipuri and chaat
seller in every village. I got a cart of my own too.

After pushing a cart from my village to this junction for one and a half years,
I figured out that walking was not my thing. I am the type of person who
gets easily tired. So, I came up with this idea. I took out a loan from the local
cooperative, bought this mayuri (motorcycle tempo), modified it a bit. I used
wires to tie the stove and containers into place. Now, I can go around selling
snacks much more easily. The daily business is around one thousand one
hundred rupees out of which seven hundred rupees are pure profit.

Holding Hands | Kusum

I am holding my wife's hand because she cannot see.

First, she had a cataract, which was identified after a checkup. The doctor
operated it. After that, her vision became clear. She could send a thread
through the eye of a needle. Then, she started going to the forest to collect
firewood. We believe she got cursed because of it. Her vision started
degrading again. By the time we went to the doctor and realized it was a case
of glaucoma, it was too late. The doctor said that she had become
permanently blind. She has been blind for ten years now.

I too fell off a tree and suffered a spinal injury a few years ago. The doctor
told me that no procedure could help me. We just have one daughter. She

467
too is crippled. The local government representative has given us a paper to
prove that we are a family of disabled people without support or income. We
show that paper to people; we beg to survive.

I have started believing in Christ, with the hope that a miracle will happen
and our disabilities will be cured.

Sighing Straws | Rapti Sonari

The flood swept in at twelve in the night. It was sudden and unexpected. A
flood like that had never come before. We woke up to sounds of panic —
wails and cries. The entire village was submerged. There was no way out.
These kids were with us. We were stuck on the first floor of our wooden
house, and there we remained, frozen in fear until the next afternoon, till we
were rescued by army boats.

All the possessions that we had gathered throughout our lives — the
television, the jewelry, the furniture, the cattle, the house, they all were
taken away by the river in one swoop. We were not the only ones that
experienced this loss, most of the families in the village lost their
possessions — that perhaps, made the situation seem acceptable. We had
faced a horrible situation, but we did not feel terribly miserable. Unlike in the
villages across the Rapti — Binauna and Bejapur, there was no human
casualty here.

We shifted closer to the road, on this bit of the forest, after that. The
government distributed a few thousand rupees, organizations offered
noodles and temporary relief materials. The army offered tents to families
with members in the army, or with a pregnant or an elderly member. Those
were Chinese tents that the army had from the earthquake relief days.
People like us who did not receive those tents made temporary cottages. In
those cottages, we continue to live.

The river retreated after monsoon, and now we have got back to farming in
the rich soil. That is what brought us here from the hills some twenty five
years ago in the first place – the rich soil of the river banks.

The elected local representatives have assured us that they will give legal
recognition to the possession of the land we are living in right now. They
have stated publicly that they are ready to claim responsibility and go to
prison if the forest, road or other departments object and try to force us
away. I want to trust them, but I would not be surprised if we are forced
away at some point in the future. There are simply too many people seeking
resettlement.

Purple Butterfly | Agaiya

I have always felt like my job is to help people. Especially strangers, you see;
they have no one to fend for them. I always tell people directions. It makes
me feel good. Whenever I see someone stranded or confused, I ask them –
How are you?

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Purple Butterfly of Agaiya

469
I have given shelter to many such people at my place – usually to the odd
biker on a rainy day. I would have taken you there too, if guests were not
around.

Being a good person does not pay. I have my obligations. I do not want to
leave my village, but there are limitations to what one can achieve in a small
settlement. Yes, there are many development works going on here these
days; there are a lot of labor related jobs available. But, if one wants to do
anything better, the options are limited.

A person I know recently opened a photo studio here. There was already
another photo studio in town. Now, both the businesses are suffering. The
market is not big enough. It is evident that if I open a shop or restaurant, I
will just be eating into someone else's business. The most sensible thing to
do is to go to either the Arab countries or Malaysia. That is what I have been
trying for lately.

Kapilbastu

Heaven Seeker | Khairendrapur

The priest has been tremendously impressed by the work we have done for
the temple. I made these idols and cemented the floor in the temple
premises. Chaachi (here: an elderly woman) helped too, but I put in most of
the money. So, when I went for a pilgrimage to Swargadwari with my family,
the priest made sure ours was no less than a VIP visit. Turns out, he had
stayed in the hermitage there for fourteen years! He had a lot of connections.
He made a call to the priests there saying that a worshipper of the highest
order was coming. All arrangements were made in advance. We were given
special blessings and served sweet dessert. We rested in the hermitage,
before and after visiting the temple, in the company of holy men. It was such
a delightful trip! Are we not blessed to get to visit the Swargadwari temple
like that?

The Son | Banganga

My father was a professor of Sanskrit. He was a well respected person, held a

lot of authority. He used to smoke marijuana on a chillum wherever he went,
even inside the Ministry of Education in Kathmandu. While others would
have been punished for doing so, no one questioned my father. He gave the
best years of his life to academic and administrative endeavors. Having
achieved all that one could desire in his field, the sole thing that kept
troubling him was his unfulfilled youthful dream to travel across Nepal. He
could not be at peace without doing that.

So, in the year 2043 (1987 CE), he arranged for a three month leave — much
of it coincided with the winter break. With him, he carried a small bag. A

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The Son of Banganga

471
light blanket, a small pot, and a few other essentials: that was all that the
bag contained. He took my brother along as well. My brother was only eleven
years old back then.

My father was old and unfit when he started walking. He was suffering from
asthma as well. He could only walk for a few miles every day, from one
village to another. There were no roads like there are today back then; one
had to sometimes walk for days to get from one place to another. Yet, he was
adamant, incredibly persistent. He made it up to Mechi in the east and to
Khaptad through Dadeldhura in the west. Had my brother not suffered a
bout of illness induced by altitude sickness in Khaptad, father would have
walked much more!

In all, one hundred and five days — that is how long his walk was. He
passed away only a few years after that walk. He had written a book about
his journey, which we still have with us today. We are planning to expand
upon it and compile a volume in his memory.

Rupandehi

Owl Eyes | Butwal

I used to have a steady soda business. People from as far away as Bardaghat
and Ramapur came to have soda at my shop. When the Maoist rebellion
surged, the police came to my factory and locked it up, saying that the
Maoists could use the soda bottles to make bombs and other weapons. That
was the end of the soda business. Then, after venturing into a couple of
other businesses without success, I learned how to repair watches. The
business went well for a few years, well before mobile phones became
prevalent. People stopped buying and repairing watches. Then, another
business there and another station here …

Finally, I decided to sit on the street. Not that I do not have a home here. I
had a home here when none of these big buildings were here. There were
just cottages, swathes of little cottages around this area. No cars. No big
shops. I just do this to keep myself busy. I sell what is relevant. Before this, I
had kept toys and stuff. Holi is up in two days, so I am keeping colors and
water guns. If most of them sell, I will make a profit. If they do not, I will be
at a loss. But what is there in that? Life goes on.

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Concealed Tattoos of Kawasoti

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Nawalparasi East

Concealed Tattoos | Kawasoti

We deal with rhinos almost every day. We have crossed paths with them
several times around our village, a few miles east from here. We usually see
them while washing clothes in the river. They come to the riverside when
they are thirsty, and tend to stick around in the dry months.

The way to deal with rhinos is by letting them be. One should not react to
their presence, neither should one make eye contact; a straight eye contact
could invite a charge. Just do what you are doing calmly, or if you are close
to a tree or some formation — align yourself with it. They, like most other
animals, will go about their business and disappear.

Nay, she is my daughter. She might look less like a Tharu and more like a
person from the hills because she has adopted new trends. People from my
generation suffered a lot. Maybe that is why I look the way I look.

The Kamaiya (bonded labor) system was present here too. We used to be at
the beck and call of rich Newar landlords. Since we did not have any land of
our own, for many, many years, we merely worked for food. It was a terrible
existence. It has to be said that things have improved a lot since those days;
we have a decent amount of land, we are living a comfortable life. That
comfort seems odd though. The reason why people from our generation have
not been able to adopt new trends is that we have been habituated to live a
life of struggle.

Chitwan

Shaking Falooda | Narayangarh

My home is in the Mewar region of Rajasthan. I came to Chitwan when I was

sixteen years old.

It did not feel odd to come here. Crushed by the excessive competition in
Mewar, my brother had come to Kathmandu a few years earlier. He ran a
similar crate shack there for a few years, then later in Kawasoti — because
the municipality (municipal police) gave him a lot of trouble. With my
brothers around, it was not difficult to come here.

I sorely miss home. You have no idea how badly I miss home. If I get free for
a single minute, I just ring home without a second thought. My mother and
father are very dear to me; I cannot think of living without them. I plan to get
back home in a year or two, marry, and settle there.

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I feel like I have done enough to make a living. I want to live now.

Brother Karma | Chitwan

My aunt lost her life during delivery. It was a clear case of negligence on part
of the hospital; something that other doctors verified later. But, no one was
punished.

That is how our society is. Some people are just above the law – justices,
politicians, bureaucrats, military personnel, and doctors. Without a certain
bit of power, you cannot bring culprits involved in these professions to
justice.

Aunt passed away, he survived. Since he did not have anywhere else to go,
we brought him here. He is just three years old, and has no clue about those
events. He does not know about aunt; my father is his father, mother is his
mother. He is my brother now. Once, his father came without notice – with
the sole intention of taking him away. We did not let him take my brother
away. We could not trust him with that person. We made it clear to him that
he has already become a part of our family. This is his home.

Makwanpur

Fresh Air | Hetauda

I hit the campaign trail in the fifth month. I was in the seventh month of
pregnancy when the elections happened. He listened to speeches and
traveled on the trail with me as he came to be ... my second child actually,
my first child is the school (Kamane Bilingual).

I believe around fifty three percent of Nepalis are women. But when the
elections came close, I saw a newspaper article that stated that ninety five
percent of the first past the post candidates were men. Only five percent
were women! That was frankly infuriating.

I checked my party's candidates, and there were not many women either. So,
I decided to step up. Due to my condition, my name was placed on the
proportional representatives list, which meant that I could take the back
seat. I did not want to do that. I convinced the party to retract my name from
the list and entered the first past the post fray.

I felt my candidacy was a symbolic one; to show how strong women are, that
nothing can stop us if we truly aspire to achieve.

I used to hit the trail during morning hours, while the team went around in
the evening. If I walked for the entirety of a day, I had to take a break on the

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next. With brief rests and sound pacing, I managed to fare well. I secured
third position. The winner has gone on to become the Chief Minister. We
wanted to show our presence, and that I believe was achieved.

It was a great learning experience, an opportunity to know what people

actually expect from their representatives. Little things, you know — good
roads, water supply ... that kind of stuff. The talk was never about large
matters.

I had him at the government hospital. I was shocked by the state of things
there. I never expected it to be that terrible. It was a dirty place, the stench of
the toilets filled the hallways; one could get sick merely by being there. The
behavior of the nurses was no better. The way they treated people who had
come from villages was awful. Because I seemed to be educated and
somewhat better off, they were less rude.

What about doctors? Well, I barely saw them. There is no post partum care;
the concept just is not there. There is so much work to be done in matters we
take for granted like maternity care and the broader health sector, I realized.

Fanning Flames | Rajaiya

I spent seven years working for Image Channel as a TV reporter, and later for
Sagarmatha as well. This man is a computer engineer. He left a job in an
international organization that earned him ninety thousand rupees a month
before coming here. The other friend of ours had a showroom in
Khichapokhari. The other person has a degree in Major English. We all came
together in the year 2067 (2010 CE) and decided to start this hermitage. Our
collective call was to commit our lives to the study of the Vedas. We gave
ourselves a year's time to set aside our worldly duties, registered an
organization, and started this hermitage in the year 2068 (2011 CE).

Despite this being a celibate hermitage, we have not abandoned all our
worldly relations. This is more like a hostel. We visit our families regularly
and maintain communication. We have not abandoned our personal
fortunes either.

Look at that chart there. That is what the airplane that the sage Bhardwaj
made in the Vedic period looked like, and here in this chart are the ayurvedic
herbs we are working with. We are deciphering Sanskrit texts to help save
the environment as well.

Bara

Bundling Leaves | Nijgadh

We are looking for any truck driver that might know us and help take the
load to Nijgadh.

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Fresh Air of Hetauda

477
Leaves fit for fodder used to be abundantly found by the roadside here.
Nowadays, we have to venture deep into the community forest to find
enough to last just a couple of weeks. The forest on the other side of the road
was sealed by the army and national park authorities, a few years ago. Since
then, the forest on this side of the road has been the sole source of fodder for
people from Nijgadh to areas beyond Pathlaiya. We have caterpillar stings all
over our bodies. It is time to rethink whether rearing goats is worth all this
trouble.

Rautahat

Checkered Wanderer | Chandranigahapur

I left home at the age of twelve. My mother passed away at an early age, my
father remarried, and things just got uncomfortable. They tried to get me
married, so I ran away.

I wandered around, crossed many jungles, and got lost numerous times. I
did whatever work I could find. They said that there was better work in
India, so I crossed the border.

Doing odd jobs, working in the fields and labor related works, I went around
India for years. I briefly settled in Assam, where the authorities gave land to
anyone who wanted to grow sugarcane. I did that for some time, made good
money, settled in, but realized that it was not the thing for me. I left.

I spent quite a few years in Thori too, close to the border. There, a Tharu
woman, in a way, adopted me as her son. I stayed at her place and worked
for her too. She paid me generously, yet did not let me keep a single dime
that I earned. There was a container in the house, where she would save my
pay — not just from the work I did for her, but from every job I did. The
money remained there when I went wandering back to India.

Back in those days, there was a dearth of local technicians in Nepal.

Technicians used to be invited from India, sometimes even from America,
other countries. By chance, I met an Indian officer who was about to go to
the Department of Forestry in Chandranigahapur. We had a short
conversation. He saw that having a person well versed in Nepali with him
would be helpful and asked me whether I wanted to join him. I inquired
about the nature of the work. He assured me that it would be a decent
government position.

That is how I came to Chandranigahapur in the year 2015 (CE 1959). I started
working for the forestry department. With the savings my Tharu mother had
kept safely in Thori, I bought ten bighaas of land for six thousand rupees a
bighaa.

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Checkered Wanderer of Chandranigahapur

479
I went back home to Nuwakot almost a decade later. I found out that they
had thought I was long dead. They were shocked to see me. They had not
forgotten their old plan though; they trapped me and forced me to marry.

The new Chief Minister of this province seems like a good person. I saw him
don the Nepali attire. During the trade blockade, relations between us and
the Madheshi community got strained. It was not India but the Madheshis
that had organized the blockade. It was also the Madheshis, Indian
Madheshis, who brought in stuff from India and nullified the blockade. They
used to bring in gas and other essentials from obscure border points to the
market here. The stuff got a tad bit expensive, but we did not suffer much
during the blockade. Things might get difficult in the future too.

Have you heard the story of Khanayabas? It used to be in Nuwakot, but is

now in Dhading. During the Rana era, the Rijals there had terribly oppressed
the local lamas. The Rijals had military connections. But when the Ranas lost
power, the lamas — who were members of the Nepali Congress, rose up.
They looted the Rijals, raped their women, and made them flee the village.
The Rijals, who are our distant relatives, settled in places like Kathmandu
and Hetauda.

In retrospect, it is clear that the Rijals benefited by leaving. The land they
have in these towns is worth millions today, while the village has stagnated.
Some close relatives of mine too left Nepalgunj out of fear, a few years ago.
They have settled well in Kathmandu now and prospered. I have lived long
enough to see that no matter how bad things seem to get, they eventually
work out for the better.

Siraha

Silver Haired Soothsayer | Lahan

How old am I? I have no clue. All I know is that my time has come. It is time
to die, time to die, time to die...

Dawn Haze | Dharampur

Our grandparents were brought here by lama landlords. They needed people
to clear the jungle for settlement and work in the fields. We, Musahars, were
a natural choice. Only Musahars and hill people are strong enough to deal
with the troubles of pioneering settlement close to the (then) dangerous
jungles of the Chure.

The family that came here then, has now expanded to thirty five households.
Up until very recently, we were not paid in cash, and that was okay with us.
The previous generation merely sought enough food to get by and some land
to live in.

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Silver Haired Soothsayer of Lahan

481
The land prices here have escalated in recent years. The lamas have been
nudging us to leave. It is their land on paper, but we have been working for
them and living here since the forest was cleared. They know more than us
about these matters and are politically influential. So, they hold the upper
hand in negotiations. We cannot say no when asked for anything. We fear
that they will send us away if we do. The entire village voted for their
candidate in the elections.

We have historically been the type of people who compete when it comes to
alcohol drinking, but put both hands up when it comes to changing
traditions. My brother wanted to change that, so he built this brick house. He
worked in Malaysia for nine years, and spent most of his savings on it. It
cost us one million eight hundred thousand rupees to make this — a third of
which had to be loaned.

We are the first family in the village to have a good house. My brother
believes this will provoke other villagers to improve their living standard.
Conventional attempts at spreading awareness failed, so this he thought was
a better way.

My brother went to Qatar via an agent to work to clear the loan. He had paid
a good sum. Yet, he was sent back in thirty days. The agent's promises and
paperwork turned out to be false. My brother called the agent when he got
here. He pleaded explaining that he is from a Musahar family, that he only
has minimal savings, and his family will suffer if he cannot go to Qatar. He
even offered to pay extra by taking another loan. The agent got emotional
and assured that he would find a way to send my brother to Qatar again.

This Musahar village is more sorted out than most. Many men from here
have gone to the Arab countries and Malaysia. The children are going to
school, hygiene and cleanliness is maintained. When representatives of
donor organizations come here, they conclude that this place is well off and
does not need help. That upsets us. We do need help. The Musahar villages
a bit north from here are a mess of a place. They get the majority of donor
attention. It makes some of us question the benefits of improving our living
condition.

Saptari

Hanging Keys | Kathauna

We say — Aahaan kathi karichhe yo? (What are you doing?) The Tharus
beyond the Koshi River say — Tohe kathi karichhe re? More straightforward,
less polite; say like the use of tã in Nepali.

You must have noticed these nuances on the way. You must have also
noticed that the Tharus in the east are much better off than the ones in the
west. Like the Kamaiya and Kamalari systems crippled the Tharus in the
west, and that they still live like the Musahars and Chamars here do, in

482
poverty. That is what I have heard, but have not seen. Actually, I have never
been to the west.

I used to be an assistant health worker and have traveled my fair share for
work. The work did not pay well though. I left it, and then started this hotel.
I have also begun running a money transfer center, coupled with a
branchless banking operation of the Global IME bank. Money is the biggest
thing in life after all, right?

Nevertheless, having come to know about your journey, the wish to travel
more has sprung up in my heart. Is it not a shame, how so many of us never
even think of exploring beyond the village area we are in? There is so much
to explore just in this district of Saptari. Doing what you are doing is quite
something, but maybe we can just see what is in Saptari — like what is
beyond this village area.

Brick By Brick | Rupani

My uncle was mauled and eaten by a tiger in his own mango garden. The
garden is still there, only a mile south from here. My grandfather was eaten
by a tiger too.

The forests here were thick and wild before the highway was built. My great
grandparents worked to build Chandranahar, Nepal's first irrigation canal.
Chandra Shamsher commissioned the canal and made it compulsory for all
his local subjects to work on it. Those who refused to work under the begaari
scheme were punished.

I have served as an overseer all over Nepal.

All that, and still this question comes up every now and then: Where have
you come from?

Sunsari

Catapult Man | Laukahi

Remember that my wife was pregnant the last time you came here? This guy
here was in her womb then. A couple of days after his birth, he was
diagnosed with jaundice. Back when we were thin on cash, it cost six
hundred thousand rupees to ensure his survival. He is my most precious
possession. He made it and that is all that matters.

He has always been a little weak. He still has not been able to speak. He only
mutters mama and papa. Some of the villagers say that he will never be able
to speak. I refuse to believe them. They are not right, right?

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Swiveling Spatula | Bhantabari

They did not send us to school. They told us not to go out. They told us to
put the ghumtaa up. They discouraged us from talking to other people. Had I
done what they had said, I would not have been able to be where I am in life.
Had I done what they had said, my daughters would not have been able to
do their SLCs (tenth grade exams) and inter (high school).

I have thought a lot about being vegetarian, but I cannot. If you have meat in
your mind, and the temptation troubles your heart, it makes no sense to be
vegetarian. You are still doing a sin.

Atlas In Green | Inaruwa

To be decently functional the hospital requires seven medical officers, six

specialists, and a medical superintendent. There are only two medical
officers – me and another senior doctor, and just three specialists. The bulk
of the pressure lies on the shoulders of the medical officers. It is a full time
occupation. Two people here are doing the job of seven, which means there
is not even enough time to breathe.

I convinced a friend to join in as a specialist, to help lessen the load. He left a

frustrated person a month later and vowed never to come back again. The
reason – he had been working for a month, but had not received an official
appointment!

Add to that the fact that I, myself, have been doing the administrative job of
a medical superintendent to keep this hospital running. I usually end up
working sixteen hours or so every day. I have to go for rounds, diagnose
diseases, attend to emergency patients, and sign papers at the same time.
On top of that, we have not been paid overtime bonuses and other incentives
for the past two years. Ridiculous, is it not?

I have brought these matters to the attention of the concerned authorities,

but the response is not satisfactory. Mistakes have been acknowledged, but
there is no talk of solutions or remunerations.

Sometimes I feel like simply letting go and taking a week off. Then, the true
condition of the hospital will reveal itself. If reason fails to work, maybe a
halt will.

Digging Ground | Near Shikharbas

Up until a few years ago, there used to be lush fields of buckwheat and millet
all over this hillside. Something happened, we do not know what, but the
soil started turning unfriendly. The harvest kept going down. Troops of
monkeys started destroying what little grew on the land. Other animals also
started coming in greater numbers from the forest.

We eventually abandoned farming completely.

The jungle has started reclaiming this land.

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Catapult Man of Laukahi

485
These yams are for the pigs we are raising at home. These days we sell pigs
for a living. This land is only good to grow these bland yams; they grow
underground – animals cannot steal them, neither do they need much care.

Golden Oracle | Dharan

Was it a girl? I am curious … What made you a bairaagi?

People become hermits for three reasons, and three reasons only. The first,
when one loses everything one has. The second, when one has everything,
and yet still does not have answers. The third, and that is a path only
certain, special people have the opportunity to tread on, is the path of a
spiritual calling.

Are you a worshiper of Shiva? I bet no one has asked you this question. But
seeing what you have accomplished, it is certain that you are.

Do not lie. The truth cannot be hidden.

White Beard | Chatara

Real Madrid and Barcelona — those are the famous football teams. I am from
Malaga — not so famous ... used to work as a chef there.

A lot of Spaniards desire to visit India and Nepal. Life in Spain is stressful. A
lot of people from around the world want to go there, but those who have
lived there want out. Not everyone, but I would say almost everyone. Work,
work, work ... Money, money, money ... That is a shit life! I could not take it.

Life in India, and Nepal, on the other hand, is a complete contrast. We come
here to recharge ourselves, to grow spiritually. Some might stay for a week,
recharge, and go back, but my search is deeper.

My last trip took me to Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. I stayed in

Vietnam for three years, wandering from one monastery to another. Then, I
went back to Spain and worked for a while, before getting back to Asia.

I went to east India. There were hermitages there, but few and far in
between. It was not the kind of place I was looking for — not much spiritual
stuff going on. If I wanted to grow spiritually, they told me, Bihar and Patna
were the places to go. So, I decided to take a detour through Nepal.

I am looking to find myself here; I have come here to learn. I started by

attending Vipassana meditation classes. A friend that I made there was
coming here, so I came along. I had a pleasant conversation with the master
of this hermitage, got a glimpse of his philosophy. Now, I want to carry on
westwards and eventually get to Haridwar, Varanasi and Chaardhaam.

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Ripples of Dharan

487
Ripples | Dharan

The ornament I am wearing on my nose is called Bulakhi, and, the one on

my ears is called Godwari. Back in our times, if a woman did not have her
ears and nose pierced, the water she touched would be considered impure.
Anyone who refused to be pierced would have been banished, for fear of the
wrath of the spirits. The same applied to men. They had to get their ears
pierced too.

Nowadays, no one pierces their nose, no one wears the Bulakhi, but nothing
untoward has happened. The people of earlier times have been proven
wrong.

I was married off at a tender age. The men used to decide where we went. In
those days, there was no free will. Nothing like the playful stuff that goes
around today! The guy's family would come, talk to the father, and ask for
his daughter's hand. They would share a drink of alcohol and that was it. I
was not asked whether I wanted to marry or not. My fate was sealed when I
was a child; my husband to be was fixed.

During the big war (World War II), foreigners came to the village to rally the
men to join the army. The Indian and British armies were not separate then,
they were the same. The men were reluctant to leave the village. But with
their flurry of promises, the foreigners tricked our men and took them to
war. We were simple people. They did not know what they were getting into.

So, my younger granddaughter once asked her elder sibling to sit on a chair
here. She obliged. Then, the younger sibling started hitting her with a
slipper. I gave her a serious look, hoping she would stop. But no, she kept on
hitting her! Then, I picked up a slipper myself, and told her to leave her sister
alone. Since then, she has not hit her elder sister with a slipper. Kids!

Morang

Fizzy Shots | Pathari

A friend of mine left for Europe a year ago. Not because he had to, his
parents had plenty of wealth. Only because he could not use the wealth as
he pleased, only because he wanted to be free. He wanted to make his own
money and invest it the way he wanted to. I admire him for that. Perhaps, I
would have done the same. But, I cannot, I cannot afford to go to Europe. I
simply do not have that kind of capital. My father passed away when I was
around nine years old. It was all up to me after that. I could not afford to
dream big.

I am incharge of the Coca Cola distribution operation from Kanepokhari to

the river that divides Pathari from Urlabari. I have been doing this for around
four years now. While things have been going generally well; it is an
internationally recognized brand and I do not have to push sell, the biggest

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problem I have faced is managing labor. I employ twelve people now, but I
need at least four more people. It is tough to find competent Nepali workers.
Working responsibly is just not in the culture. Several of my workers arrive
at ten, instead of nine in the morning. Also, say for example, if the lunch
break is at twelve, they start planning for lunch at eleven — that is the
working culture here. I cannot make a fuss out of it either, because if one
person leaves, the entire operation will fall flat. I have learned to adjust to
this culture to make ends meet.

I tend to get frustrated at times. You know, with things happening in life and
the country, how I wonder about going abroad, but cannot — all these things
… Yet, when I see people like you. It gives me hope. Makes me think, if there
are people living life like this, maybe I can make good with what I have too.

Jhapa

Popping Pods | Madanpur

A: Are you the kind of person who has lost it after reading too much? But,
you say that you quit school early on, so even that is unlikely. Oh, I have got
you figured out. You have a bet right? I met a guy last year who was walking
to Damak to win a bet. You must be like him.

B: He does not look like a mad person. Neither does he look like the type of
person who would place a bet. I have heard that wandering on foot is a good
thing. Maybe he has a larger goal in mind.

A: Perhaps he is like my grandson. He goes around a lot too, not on foot but
in his car. Sometimes he goes to Taplejung, at other times to the Indian side,
sometimes to the west. He just keeps traveling with his friends. He says he is
in Taplejung right now, but only god knows where he is. He could be lying,
and be further away.

The Beardist | Dhulabari

There is no WiFi at home. My phone has issues, it does not support mobile
internet. Sometimes, I use my sister's phone to tether an internet connection
on mine to use Facebook.

The shop across ours in the junction has WiFi. The guy has shared his
password with me.

Whenever I get the chance, I watch YouTube videos; not for mere
entertainment, but mostly to learn new things. That is how I learned to
make these craftwork items – by watching YouTube videos. I never simply
replicate what I see. I try to add a touch of my own; do it a little differently.

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I studied accounting and used to work for a cooperative. It was a well paying
job, but the workload was always heavy. I realized that I am not the kind of
person who can fare well under immense pressure. I quit. I spent almost the
entirety of last year traveling across Nepal.

I eventually need to start working again. My family has expectations from

me.

I have been trying to sell some of my creations through Facebook. Let us see
how it works out.

Delearning Joe | Birtamode

I only came here from the United Kingdom a few months ago, intending to
do what I can to help make my hometown a better place.

This is one of many things I am experimenting with. I saw this barrel lying
outside this workshop here a few days ago. It was a piece of waste. So, I
talked to the guy at the workshop and requested his help to turn it into a
dustbin prototype. He agreed, took his time, and now here it is ready.

I shall see how people at the junction use this. If this works well, I am
thinking of approaching the Mayor and other local authorities to set up
dustbins like this, separate ones for recyclable, non recyclable and
compostable waste, all across the city.

Turning Pages | Damak

In the year 2061 (CE 2005), as I was rushing to get to school, I fell from the
stairs and suffered a spinal injury. As I sat at home, not being able to do
much, I started reading books. Those books gave me a glimmer of hope.
With the desire to share that hope with the community I started this library,
on the ground floor of my house, in 2012.

I get to meet a lot of good people here. If I had not started this library, we
sure would not have met. I can read all the books that I want to. Life is good.

Ilam

Folded Up | Shitali

It was my childhood dream to travel all across Nepal, visit every village, and
just look at what is going on. But, unlike in your case, the circumstances did
not favor me, or maybe I just was not strong enough to overcome them.

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The Beardist of Dhulabari

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My sister was mentally disabled. She could go away from home, but not find
her way back. She used to frequently run into trouble. My father too was
quite ill. Being the only son in the house, my brothers were away doing their
own thing; I could not leave them when I really wanted to.

My father passed away five years ago. My sister passed away two years ago.
But now, I am married and have a child to look after. I cannot fathom
abandoning them.

Panchthar

Cheese For Cheese | Pauwabhanjyang

Things were pretty straightforward for me. My parents are farmers; I grew
up in a family that had a tough time making ends meet. Although the
introduction of cardamon farming changed things a bit; cardamon is easy to
grow and gives a good price, I could not go out and spend money carelessly
as some of the boys do. I had to make my own money.

After working for a person who had a cheese factory, I started my own
around three years ago. I was seventeen then. I could not afford all these
expensive machines and implements. It would have been an impossible
dream if it were not for grants and government programs.

The factory has been doing well. The environment at this altitude is perfect
for cheese storage. Cheese has to be stored and aged at less than nine
degrees Celsius for it to be good. Most of the Kanchan Cheese I produce here
goes to tourist areas like Solukhumbu or to markets like Kathmandu. I send
them on busses. The locals have not developed a taste for cheese yet.

Dipping Frames | Lalikharka

We used to go up to the high passes to collect daphne barks. Nowadays, we

use vehicles to bring barks to the village. Ash was used as a processing
agent, but now caustic soda has become the default option — as it cuts the
processing time. Beater machines are gaining popularity.

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Cheese For Cheese of Pauwabhanjyang

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Udayapur

Navy Socorro | Katari

You know Byakul Maila right, the person who wrote our national anthem?
Well, he and I, we share the same ancestral village. When I was young, he
came to the village with a football and explained to us (the youngsters of the
village) the rules of the game. This was fascinating for us back then. We had
only heard of the game, but never played it. It was a break from the
mundane village life. He started a program to organize tournaments across
villages, encouraging youngsters to have bigger dreams.

I just came back from a practice session, and was just taking a short rest
here. Well, after that we started following football on television, and became
more passionate about it. We started knowing about the teams and
international leagues. Nowadays, that is all we watch on television. I would
love to play in the domestic league someday, if such an opportunity comes
by.

Scar Hand | Belaka

For thirty six years, I just roamed around. I did construction related works in
India, worked for the public works department. I worked as a bus driver too,
for many, many years ... used to drive the huge Sajha bus to Biratnagar at
one point.

There were only a few routes on the hills back then. Buses mainly used to
ply to the plains from Kathmandu. Those old buses were steady. Then, the
trolleys came, and the Indian buses came. Believe me, the new buses are not
anything like the old ones.

So, after thirty six years of doing all kinds of odd jobs, I was struck by a
realization. I could not roam around forever. My life was in shambles. I
realized that I needed to perfect an art to live well.

Around that time, I stumbled upon a cycle. It was just lying around. I took it
apart piece by piece, analyzed the parts. I found another cycle, took it apart
as well. I tried putting it back together again. The experience I had working
with buses helped. After destroying quite a few cycles, I learned how to
repair cycles. I never took classes. I did not have a teacher. It just came to
me. Since then, I have stuck to repairing cycles.

I am seventy now. I feel like I have lived my life well.

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Coach Hook | Beltar

We used to be handball players.

The more one knows about handball, the more fun it becomes. For people
who do not know the rules, it might be an odd thing, but for those who do, it
is an extremely enjoyable affair.

We wanted to give back to the sport that gave us so many moments of joy.
That desire led to the formation of the Udayapur Handball Academy. It is one
of only three active handball academies in Nepal.

Many youngsters have made it to the national team from our academy.
Many of them play in Bhutan and India. The national team competes in the
South Asian division. This serves as the basis for our pitch, when we go to
schools and approach youngsters. If they choose to pursue a career in cricket
or football, then even making the backup bench for a national club is
immensely difficult. There is simply too much competition. But, if they are fit
enough and committed, they can reach the handball national team in a
matter of months. They can have international exposure, compete on the
international stage, and make Nepal proud, without struggling much. Add to
that the fact that we provide them boots, jerseys, abundant sporting
equipment and good training. No other sports body has been able to do that
here. The difference is clear for the youngsters to see. That is how we have
been able to produce quality players. Because, no other sports body is
committed enough to make such an effort, the future of handball is
undoubtedly bright in Udayapur.

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 THE END
is but a new beginning

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