Travelogue: Kathmandu
Shraada is a sight-seeing Nazi and its well enough as I'd have seen more than Connaught Place in Delhi with her around. Might of even gotten around to seeing the Taj Mahal.
The palace at Patan (one of the three "burroughs" that make up Kathmandu) was so overwhelming I had to collect my thoughts on a window seat, while Shraada hid herself somewhere to smoke the illicit Surya cigarettes I purchased for her in the square. Something about it being unseemly for Nepali girls of her caste to smoke...
Observing the people coming and going on the plaza below, I think of the goddess Lakshmi. She is in almost every artifact. In the lotus blossoms floating on oversized brass water pots, in the fragrant air that smells of jasmine, in the fiber of silk of the fine silk sari. The palace statues capture my imagination as the names and stories circulate furiously in my mind: Ganesh, Vishnu, Shiva, Buddha. Oh, and the tantric positions that signify one person, not two! That bafflingly unattainable look of peace on the god Vishnu while his consorts writhe happily amidst limbs that cannot be distinguished one from the other.
* * *
Hours later I’m hustled to a cab with my belongings by my gracious hosts who ask me again if I can’t postpone my trip back to India. I wish I could, but the Ganges beckons. The whole family sees me off after a round of pictures and the presenting of a grocery bag of snack food by Shraada’s mother. Beautiful family. I can see why Shraada is so happy here.
My taxi breaks down a few miles from the bus station. I wait politely as long as I can before I throw more money than necessary at the driver and jog down the deserted dirt road looking for another taxi. A long 30 minutes later, I approach the bus station and get out only to start sprinting for the departing bus and consequently cut my big toe on a jagged rock. BLOOD. And lots of it. Gushing, even.
Note: Never wear flip flops in Nepal
The palace at Patan (one of the three "burroughs" that make up Kathmandu) was so overwhelming I had to collect my thoughts on a window seat, while Shraada hid herself somewhere to smoke the illicit Surya cigarettes I purchased for her in the square. Something about it being unseemly for Nepali girls of her caste to smoke...
Observing the people coming and going on the plaza below, I think of the goddess Lakshmi. She is in almost every artifact. In the lotus blossoms floating on oversized brass water pots, in the fragrant air that smells of jasmine, in the fiber of silk of the fine silk sari. The palace statues capture my imagination as the names and stories circulate furiously in my mind: Ganesh, Vishnu, Shiva, Buddha. Oh, and the tantric positions that signify one person, not two! That bafflingly unattainable look of peace on the god Vishnu while his consorts writhe happily amidst limbs that cannot be distinguished one from the other.
* * *
Hours later I’m hustled to a cab with my belongings by my gracious hosts who ask me again if I can’t postpone my trip back to India. I wish I could, but the Ganges beckons. The whole family sees me off after a round of pictures and the presenting of a grocery bag of snack food by Shraada’s mother. Beautiful family. I can see why Shraada is so happy here.
My taxi breaks down a few miles from the bus station. I wait politely as long as I can before I throw more money than necessary at the driver and jog down the deserted dirt road looking for another taxi. A long 30 minutes later, I approach the bus station and get out only to start sprinting for the departing bus and consequently cut my big toe on a jagged rock. BLOOD. And lots of it. Gushing, even.
Note: Never wear flip flops in Nepal
Comments