The Brave Gurkhas vs. the “Baathhay” Bilayetis

Who do we blame, and starting when...?

I guess the answer lies in a conscientious, clear and committed reading of the story of the Gurkhas. The historic wrongs-and there are many-must be addressed, and where appropriate and possible, corrected.

Not all Gurkhas were-or are-heroes. It cannot be denied, however, while in service of the British Army, they were certainly treated as second-class soldiers, and their compensations similarly reduced, though the challenges they faced were no less than that of their British compatriots.

Recently, efforts have been taken to redress the situation. The present Gurkhas are a happy lot. But this improvement came about largely after long and concerted protests and legal actions from several 'grieved' ex-Gurkhas and organisations sympathetic to their cause. How wonderful and just would it have been if the British government could have claimed sole credit for this belated change of heart. But we all know it is not so.

And while we are taking the bilayetis to task, I would recommend looking into the history of our own country, and examine the 'treaties' that were made by then Nepali leaders. If the British took the services of the Gurkhas at a nominal price and for granted, I'm afraid we will discover that they were brigands and betrayers of our own who also readily sold their brethren while taking the glory and the gold for themselves. Looking at present naya Nepal, this policy is unchanged; history repeats and continues. Perhaps the Gurkhas were never a brave lot, just benighted and betrayed.

In all of this, Joanna Lumley's 'victory' need not be labelled 'hollow'. Though wonderfully blond, fair and rouge-lipped and terribly well meaning, she is but a bit player, and her cameo role a welcome distraction in the ever unfolding but never ending Gurkhas vs. Bilayetis drama.

Kunal Lama 13.02.2010/300

Kurseong ko Katha (Kurseong Story)

My trip to Kurseong was short and sweet, with a minor hiccup. When I reached Kakarbhitta, it was confirmed that the Darjeeling hills were on 6am-6pm hartaal. Bother! Luckily, Siliguri was still open, so I decided to wait it out at Sevoke Road at Hari Prasad bara’s.

Hari Prasad bara looked good, but obviously he was not quite with us. First, he wanted to know who the 'visitor' was. When the 'visitor' told him that he ran a restaurant in Thamel, his devastating reaction, one hour later, came in the form of “Tyeso bhaye timi dinbhari chiya bechdai baschhau?” (So you while away your days selling cups of tea?) I had no choice but to nod my head; any explanation would have gone right over his head, in any case. As it turned out, since there was confusion if the strike would, indeed, be over by 6pm, I did the wise thing and stayed in Siliguri for the night.

The house had been recently renovated, freshly painted, and was looking beautiful. Ramba mainju cooked a delicious meal, the pièce de resistance being fish tripe, apparently Anant's favourite. (He should be eating hilsako gidi! (Himalayan trout brain) Jaya was looking just the same, but with a wave of Indira Gandhi grey hair above her right forehead. Dinner over, mainju, Rekha the Bodo maid, Anant (in between cigarette breaks) and I gathered in the TV room to watch Hindi serials (Jaya wisely went off for her ritual après dîner bath). It was a bewildering 2 hours of Hindi serial surfing, and it had begun to take a certain pattern when they all cried, “Eh, chitto, lado aayo!”(lado = dick in colloquial Nepali) I was totally shocked and didn’t quite know what to do or say when ‘LADO’, in huge, florid letters, appeared on the screen, and a complicated drama set in some Punjabi village unfolded. ‘Lado’ turned out to be a Punjabi word for a girl, so it was all about village belles being bought or abducted or both. ‘Lado Sarai’ in South Delhi now started to make sense. An ancient camping ground full of comely lasses!

The next morning, bara made the effort to walk unaided (but with help of a crutch) to the kitchen, where I was having my farewell breakfast, to wish me 'good bye' (I thought he was saying 'good boy' looking at Anant, which I did think was rather odd!). No idea how he figured out I was due to leave. He very solemnly shook my hand and shuffled off to his morning nap.

Finally reached 26 Upper Doomaram Bustee around 1pm, having got caught up in a traffic jam at Giddhay, and once again as we took the right turn from Hill Cart Road up towards Devisthaan/Dowhill. It just so happened schools were shutting down for winter, so there were jeeps parked all over, with parents waiting to pick up their children, and trains were coming from both directions. One hour in a traffic jam in Kurseong Bazaar. Unheard of!

Scattered fields of marigolds greeted me as I reached the house. Saila kaka’s entrepreneurial scheme had spectacularly come a cropper: because of this year’s early Dashain/Diwali, the flowers only bloomed after the festivals were over! “Saalaa, ek duin hazaar aunthyo ni, tyeska baajay, Tihar chhito bhayera khattam bhayo ni” (If Diwali hadn't been so early this year, I would have earned couple of thousands of rupees at least). The house was looking totally run down, the rooms crowded, littered with fabric-covered boxes, broken window panes replaced with a plastic sheets stuck with multi-coloured tapes, floorboards coming apart. It was quite a shock from Siliguri’s clean and clutter free rooms, and as the day progressed, it started to get damn cold!

Both kakis rushed to make tea; Saili kaki’s cuppa came first, so I had that, followed by Maili kaki’s. They both looked just the same and, to my slight dismay, so did Saila kaka!

I hadn’t been home for over three years, and I knew I couldn’t go visiting folks empty-handed. So instead of taking pashmina shawls and sarees, I went to Bhatbhateni and bought lots of tinned fish, sausages, toffees, chocolates, preserved fruits (especially for Rajni bari, as per Bandana’s advice, which turned out to be quite expensive!), packets of instant soup and Glysolid hand cream. I had 10 pokas to deliver, so I hit the bustee trail immediately.

I first went to Rajni bari, who was watching TV. She looked just the same (which she asked me to affirm at the end of the interview: “Ma kasto dekheko chhu taile bhaninasni, Kunal?” “Jastako tastai hunuhunchha ni, bari”, at which she gave me that Meryl Streep smile of hers!). She has a slight thick tongue, and her mind wanders occasionally. As we were chatting, Purnima bhauju appeared in a printed blue chiffon saree, a thin shawl which was falling off her frail shoulders, her hair severely cropped à la Posh Beckham, with 11, yes, eleven, pugs of varying sizes doing the ungainly pug walk about her! Quite an unlikely Purnima De Vil of Kurseong! The end-of-the-year-farewell-to-seniors was about to take place in Himali School, and Purnima bhauju was on her way there to preside over the function. After this strange distraction, a cup of tea appeared, brought in by Pinkie, and bari and I continued our chat.

Next stop, Rajju mainju, who was in the front room, lying on bed, looking just the same, watching telly, and she was covered with 5, yes, five cats, of various sizes and generations! Her cats and kittens follow her everywhere; one even clambers up to her shoulder and, perched there, watches her cook! After another cup of tea, and another rambling guff-suff, mainju gave me a tour of the new extension. She doesn’t have tenants yet, but is planning on taking some soon. She seems pretty lonely, and I wonder if she would be better off selling the land and relocating to Siliguri. Just then, I caught sight of a huge orange sun dipping beyond the horizon, with the TV tower silhouetted beneath it. Magic!

Next day was the day reserved for my ‘official’ chat with Saila kaka about the land. He was okay with my plans to sell land, but did manage to slip in a tiny request for a tiny bit of land for himself. I told him I’d have a tiny think about it.

Then down to Hansa phupu’s. Mother, Father, Son, all looked well. Told them about my plans for the property, and I informed them I had also spoken to Akal phupa in England about it. Of course, the Kurseong folks are still not speaking to one another. I decided not to interfere since I don’t live there anyway. They blame each other. I’ve heard it before, and I couldn’t be bothered any more.

Met Robi daju briefly the second afternoon. We talked about the land, and he brought up the subject of perhaps developing it into a housing project. This was quite a surprise as I had once thought about it as well, but had dismissed the idea as highly improbable. Now, I am quite strongly thinking of pursuing this once again, and might visit Kurseong in February 2010 to see if it is at all feasible. I need to talk to banks about loans, property developers and a local architect to come up with a master plan. Since the land is on terraces, I was thinking of maximum 3-storey buildings with up to 20 or so units, on different levels. I would sell most of the units, which I must to fund the project, but I will retain few units for myself (including one or two ‘grace and favour’ apartments for Saila kaka, etc. in lieu of land). Since Nepal is so unstable at the moment (not that the Gorkhalis are doing much better in the future – but highly unlikely – Gorkhaland), perhaps it would not be wise to remove myself completely from India, a behemoth which is moving ahead with an internal momentum not easily stoppable by outside forces, save a nuclear war or if the Mayan calendar proves eerily correct.

Only two nights in Kurseong. Frightfully cold this time, but the days were sunny and a little warmer. I had packed a fleece blanket that came in really handy. Both mornings, I saw the sun lighting up the himalayas through my window without even having to get up from bed. But of course I had been woken up a lot earlier, in fact at half past 4, by Maili kaki – not to mention Saili kaki from the other side! – doing her morning poojas. I know it’s been a long time since I have heard anyone intoning shlokas and bhajans, and I’m not an expert on them at all, but I think Maili kaki’s version was pretty pidgin, to say the least. But I put my unusual early rise to good use because my Airtel connection had an unexpectedly good Internet service. So there I was, in Aamaaji’s ancient teak bedstead, doing my Gmails and updating my status on Facebook. Pretty surreal, if you ask me!

And, oh, I finally managed to give Mummy and Baba’s Japanese dinner set to Kunjini! I had been meaning to do this for a long time. Kunjini was the right recipient for a couple of important reasons: first, the dinner set was a wedding gift from Sharda bari and bara, so it was something from Mummy’s side, now given back to her sister’s only daughter; second, Kunjini has a son, who is supposed to be an adept cook. I have acquainted Adwitya with the history of the dinner service. I hope he remembers now and again to repeat it to his guests.

Time swiftly came to hit the road again. Saila kaka decided to accompany us to Kakarbhitta. ‘Us’ because I was taking Maili kaki to Kathmandu as per Bharati’s request. Mother and daughter hadn’t met for almost 4 years, though they used to talk constantly on their cell phones.

We took the Panighatta road this time. As one hits the bottom of Pankabhari road, one veers to the right, over Dudhay khhola, and haats such as Baangay*, then straight on to the Naxalbari road just minutes away from the India-Nepal border.

Since the Panighatta road turned out to be shorter, we reached Bhadrapur 3 hours before boarding time. However, I managed to get us on an earlier flight, and reached Kathmandu to witness an epic Mother-Daughter reunion.

* Called so because everyone who goes to Baangay returns baangindai (legless). The local brew there is notorious for being super good AND strong! Saila kaka told me this story before he set off for Baangay when I was in Kurseong once, to get the best pork, and came back late bhayankar baangiyera, minus the pork!

November 27, 2009/Thamel, Kathmandu

Rule of King Passed Over in Parliamentary Motion

NEPAL HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVE (HoR) Proclamation B.S. 2063
Kathmandu, B.S. Jestha 4, 2063 (AD May 18th, 2006)

1. LEGISLATIVE

1.1 All the rights regarding the legislative body of Nepal shall be exercised through the House of Representatives. The procedures for formulating laws shall be as specified by the House of Representatives.
1.2 The procedures for moving on the path of Constituent Assembly shall be as fixed by the House of Representatives.
1.3 Calling of the session of the House of Representatives and its conclusion shall be as follows:-
a. The calling of the session shall be by the prime minister and will be concluded by the speaker on the recommendation of the Prime Minister.
b. The speaker shall fix the date for the session or meeting to hold within 15 days if request is made before the speaker by one fourth of the total members at the moment in the House of Representatives citing that it is appropriate to call a session or a meeting when the House of Representative is not being held or if the meeting is stalled.
1.4 The House of Representatives shall formulate and implement the House of Representatives regulations.

2. ON EXECUTIVE

2.1 All the executive rights of Nepal as a state shall rest on the Council of Ministers.
'His Majesty's Government' shall be termed 'Government of Nepal' from now onwards.
2.2 Persons who are not the members of the House of Representatives can also be nominated in the Council of Ministers.
2.3 The Council of Ministers shall be responsible towards the House of Representatives. The Council of Ministers and the ministers collectively and for the works of their ministries shall be personally responsible towards the House of Representatives.
The administration, army, police and all the executive organs shall be under the purview of the government that is responsible towards the House of Representatives.
2.4 The allocation and transaction of business of the government shall be presented at the House of Representatives after its passage from the Council Of Ministers.

3. ON ARMY

3.1 The name "Royal Nepal Army" shall be changed to "Nepalese Army".
3.2. The Existing provision regarding the National Security Council has been repealed. There shall be a National Security Council under the chairmanship of the Prime Minister in order to control, use and mobilize the Nepalese Army.
3.3. Chief of the Army Staff of the Nepalese Army shall be appointed by the Council of Ministers.
3.4. The existing arrangement of Supreme Commander of the Army has been revoked.
3.5. The decision of the Council of Ministers on mobilizing the Nepali Army, must be tabled and endorsed within 30 days from the special committee assigned by the House of Representatives.
3.6. The formation of the Nepalese Army shall be inclusive and national in nature.

4. ON RAJ PARISHAD

The existing provision of Raj Parishad has been revoked. Necessary works being performed by the Raj Parishad shall be as per the arrangement made by the House of Representatives.

5. ON ROYAL PALACE

5.1. The right to make laws, amend and nullify regarding the succession to throne shall rest on the House of Representatives.
5.2. Expenditure and facilities for His Majesty the King shall be as per the decision of the House of Representatives.
5.3. The private property and income of His Majesty the King shall be taxed as per the law.
5.4. Acts performed by His Majesty the King are questionable in the House of Representatives or in court.
5.5. Existing Royal Palace Service shall be made part of the civil service.
5.6. The security arrangement for the Royal Palace shall be as per the arrangement made by the Council of Ministers.

6. THE EXISTING PROBLEM REGARDING CITIZENSHIP SHALL BE INSTANTLY RESOLVED.

7. THE EXISTING "NATIONAL ANTHEM" SHALL BE CHANGED BY MAKING ALTERNATIVE ARRANGEMENT.

8. NEPAL SHALL BE A SECULAR STATE.

9. MISCELLANEOUS

(a) All the state organs and bodies shall exercise their rights as having been authorized by this House of Representatives and with full faith towards it.
(b) Specified officials holding public posts shall take oath of office from the House of Representatives in specified manner. Officials who ignore receiving oath of office shall be relieved of their posts.
(c) The inconsistent legal arrangements of the Constitution of the Kingdom of Nepal-1990 and other prevailing laws, with this declaration, shall be nullified to the extent of inconsistency.
(d) Any difficulty that may come while implementing this declaration shall be removed by a decision of the House of Representatives.
(e) A committee shall be there in the House of Representatives for the purpose of implementation of sub-clause (c) and (d) above.

Source: RSS (Rashtriya Samachar Samiti)

'Moving' Slogans

People's Movement for Democracy, April 6th-24th, 2006, Nepal

Some of these slogans were expected, some were creative and some were just cheeky

"Rajtantra murdabad" - Death to monarchy
"Loktantra jindabad" - Long live democracy
"Jhyalbata herera loktantra aaondaina" - Democracy won't come if you just gaze out windows
"Orla janata sadakma, ganatantra aaondainchha" - Pour out into the streets, republic is on its way
"Gyanendrako curfew, ish khha" - Gyanendra's curfew, eat this! (with suggestive gestures!)
"Gyanendrako parale, dukha paye sarale" - Gyanendra's ways have brought difficulties to all
"Gyanendra ra Paraslai fansi de, fansi de" - Hang Gyanendra and Paras
"Aryaghatle ke bhanchha, Gyane, Paras le bhanchha" - Aryaghat demands, "Bring Gyanendra and Paras"
"Shahi ghosana dhoka ho, dhoka ho" - Royal proclamation is a betrayal
"Paras gunda, rukhma jhunda" - Hang Paras, the hoodlum
"Paras tyapke kasto chha? Ghonda, kukur jasto chha" - What is Paras, the rogue like? Like horses and dogs
"Yespaliko hainja, Gyane, Paras laija" - This year's cholera, take Gyanendra and Paras
"Kathmanduko janata, kati herchhaun ramita?" - Kathmandu's citizens, how long will you watch the spectacle?
"Netaharu hosiyar" - Beware leaders
"Kin, Paras, katro kin, tero bauko ayo din" - Paras, buy funeral cloths, your father's end is coming

Reign no more

The system of governance in Nepal definitely is in dire need reform and purification. I think some of us Nepalis are taking matters in our own hand and doing something about it, which is commendable. The question is: are they going about it the correct way? Or are they being
manipulated by interest groups who have their own perverse agenda?

To quote a friend of mine, the army is, theoretically, under the command of the Prime Minister and the Ministry of Defence, members, amongst others, of the Security Council. But, in practice, it, of course, defers to the palace. If democracy (a notion with wide-ranging forms and definitions; do we really know what it is?) comes, the army should follow the theory in practice, without political interference. The same applies to the police and armed polices forces which has loyalties more to politics than to the security of the Nepalis and the enforcement of the laws of Nepal. At this point, whether it is a king who leads the nation or a president or a chairman is a moot point. What the leaders have to understand is that the nation, Nepal, and its people, the Nepalis, come before them. It is sad that His Majesty has obviously missed this very crucial point. There is no guarantee, either, that the leaders to come will appreciate this dictum.

Over the years, I have come to value the individual enterprise of the Nepali people. We can put up with a lot of shit, but we still carry on living, surviving and progressing with a smile on our faces most of the time. Our spirit is almost always more optimistic and positive than the reality in which we exist. For this alone, we deserve a better nation. If that can be achieved only through a change at the very top, so be it.

Jai Nepal!

Jomsom Journal: November 17th-29th, 2004

I. Fall off here, but don’t forget your long johns

In case you were wondering where I’d disappeared to, I was up and away in lower Mustang. Yup, the same region that has appeared in a recent Time “Asia’s Best” issue as the “Best Place to Fall off the Map” (Incidentally, the accompanying photograph was of Jharkot, the intriguing but brooding fortress-like village at 11,500 feet, half-an-hour below the pilgrimage destination of Muktinath.). You don’t have to pay the US$ 70-a-day fee to enter this lower region of Mustang; if you cross from Kagbeni to upper Mustang, towards Lo Manthang, then you do.

I was fantastically over-prepared for the eight-day trek into this arid Himalayan region: -10-degree sleeping bag with a micro-fleece liner; Leki “spring” walking stick; layers upon layers of woollies and wind-and-rain-and-chill proof clothes (including a red-and-green striped thermal long johns which made me look like a mad harlequin on the lam from an exceptionally colour conscious loony bin!); UV-screening sunglasses and SPF 60 sun lotions; waterproof boots. You name it; I had it. But what I wasn’t prepared for were the series of glorious and utterly unimaginable visual assaults and human exchanges that lay in store for me. The fun started on the 17-minute Cosmic Air flight to Jomsom from Pokhara. Ten minutes into the flight, there was a sudden and dramatic change in the landscape below: from green, flat, tree-dotted to craggy, sparsely vegetated, brown-grey, rock-and-boulder strewn terrain. At times, it felt that we barely managed to scrape through the narrow mountain passes as we flew towards a mysterious land. The air hostess insouciantly passed out sweets and cotton-wool and huddled in one corner, wrapped up in her pashmina and thoughts.

Watched over by the Nilgiri, Jomsom airport was new and efficient. I walked out of the terminal straight on to the one and only Jomsom (Puthang, actually: Jomsom, prefixed now by “Old”, is the settlement further up the trail) street, lined by hotels and lodges on both sides. I made contact with a guide/porter at the Alka Marco Polo Guest House and I set off immediately on the road to Kagbeni, about four hours walk away. Just before Old Jomsom, I was stopped at an army check-post. My baggage was searched; my driving licence retained, to be collected on the way back, and issued instead with a ilaka pass; asked the much-repeated questions: Why are you travelling? Where’s your group? Alone? When I replied that I just wanted to get to know my country, I was given a disbelieving look, but allowed to get on with my native quest.

For the next few days, from Jomsom to Kagbeni; from Kagbeni to Muktinath via Jharkot; Muktinath back to Jomsom; Jomsom to Tukuche via Marpha; I was astounded by the outstanding nature of the barren landscape shadowed by snow-covered mountains: Dhaulagiri, Dhampus, Tukuche, Tilicho and Annapurna, among others. The trail almost always followed the Kali Gandaki river. There were amazing cliffs riven with fissures or displaying diagonal stratifications, sometimes dotted with grazing sheep and goats, occasionally accompanied by the lone herder! Along the way, endless pony and mule caravans rang the air with their cheerful bells, littering the trail with copious depositions of their dung and urine. There were highland plateaus with nothing more than thorny, scrubby low bushes. And all around, all the time, mountains and the blue sky speckled with playful clouds and the dancing rays of pure sunlight. The wrap-around, panoramic views took my breath away. I felt humble and ecstatic to have the privilege to be there, to witness, in mute respect, this astonishing beauty of Nepal.

I rode a pony from Kagbeni to Muktinath, having overnighted at the Nilgiri View Lodge which sports a rooftop solarium. The pony was to hurry me along because I wanted to visit the seldom-explored villages of Purang and Dzong across the river valley from Muktinath. The pony was not much faster at all. All I had to show for the ride were a sore bum and hitherto undiscovered muscles that were aching after having sat wide-legged for hours. Along the way, the pony attendant, a boy of 17 from Myagdi, initiated a strange and long conversation expounding his personal and unique theory of horse riding being singularly erotic and orgasmic, especially for women. Side-saddle riding, presumably, is not an option for the ladies to undergo this Freudian experience!

Prayer flags a-flutter above red, yellow and blue striated, flat-roofed mud houses packed together to create narrow lanes and underpasses; silent villages, dominated by crumbling forts; green barley fields; rushing streams; spiralling yak hair insulation around solar heating pipes; frozen ponds with patches of turquoise-green and purple water; apples in every form: juice, air-dried chips, pies, brandy; soaring mountain faces pockmarked with caves created for religious retreats and escapes from marauders; the incongruously-named Bob Marley Restaurant in Muktinath.


II. Wee cold for a wee at 12,500 feet

I’m not terribly religious, nor was I on a pilgrimage, but I had to walk up to the white-walled compound from where the temple and the gompas gaze serenely down. A sacred site for both Hindus and Buddhists, Muktinath is mentioned as Shaligrama in the Mahabharata because of its ammonite fossils known as shaligram and said to represent deities, especially those associated with Vishnu. I was pleasantly surprised to see a Buddhist nun open the doors to the shrine that housed three idols, all of them looking more like the representations of Buddha in monasteries than the Hindu gods in temples. Hinduism and Buddhism are indeed two faces of the same coin, but General Bharat Simha should have chosen the aftermath of a less politically-loaded occasion than the recent Second World Buddhist Summit in Lumbini to voice his unsettling opinion, seeing that he is the chairman of the World Hindu Federation.

Muktinath, at 12,500 feet, was cold; the trips to the nearby toilet in the middle of the night weren’t at all amusing. However, I lazily dreamt of Dzong, the seldom-visited ancient capital of this region across the river from Muktinath. Dominated by the ruins of a crumbling fort, Dzong exists in its own empty, esoteric, exotic world with only an upa swastha chowki (sub-regional health post) to show its links to the government of Nepal. The next morning, we did what I call the “Lupra Loop”: instead of descending to Jomsom the same way, via Jharkot and Kagbeni, Kamal Pun–my faithful guide/porter–and I took a left turn up into the hills, then dropped down steeply to the river to reach Lupra. The walk in the hills was pure joy. I threw away my hat to have an unbrimmed view of the panoramic scenery and to develop a high Himalayan tan, photo-ageing be damned! Lupra was a fascinating Bon-po village, the only one in the heavily Nyingma-pa dominated region. Traditionally consisting of 13 households, each with their own household lama, the number has now grown to 16, including a Biswakarma family at the far, upper edge of the village. It was poignant to observe this caste separation, even by the pure waters of the Panga Khola.

After a night in Jomsom, full of tourists unable to fly to Pokhara unless they paid 200 dollars for a chopper ride, I took the trail to Marpha and Tukuche, avoiding the tractor track which runs all the way to Kalopani. Marpha was a picturesque revelation. Tucked into the folds of the mountains, safe from the scathing winds sweeping up the Thak Khola, it prides itself as the “Delightful Apple Capital of Nepal”. Though sick of apples by now, Marpha was, nevertheless, delightful. Full of curving, cleanly swept, flagstoned lanes and two-storey houses constructed of roughly dressed stones, it could be the perfect setting for the next Harry Potter sequel should they decide to borrow the magic of Marpha. Bhakti Hirachan, charmingly chaperoning me about the town, proudly told me how the lanes were widened by covering up the free-flowing sewage system. He wryly added that alcohol-soaked locals now did not have to fear falling into it. I was also taken to Tashi Lhakhang Gompa, host to the Mani Rimdu festival every Laxmi Puja. The present, third avatari (reincarnate) Lama was away in Denver, married to an American, teaching Buddhism at a university. The revealing, savvy, globe-grasping guise of Buddhism never fails to bemuse me.

Leaving Marpha, I made a quick side trip to Chhairo, the site of a decaying gompa set in a pretty pine grove with a brook bending through the trees. Conservation efforts are afoot. Then it was a steady trudge to Tukuche into a biting wind on a seemingly endless, dusty road marked by a string of lofty electrical poles. It felt quite eerie to be the only two souls in the middle of nowhere. The Niligiris still watched over us, and the landscape now began to sprout pine trees. When we finally reached Tukuche, I was deeply disappointed. Once the most important Thakali village, houses–decorated with carved windows and doorways reminiscent of the Newari architecture of the Kathmandu Valley–on the riverside were rapidly falling apart, heavily padlocked as if to stop them from disintegrating completely. The only saving grace of Tukuche was the discovery of High Plains Inn that proudly and defiantly advertised a Dutch bakery. A cosy hostelry run by a local Thakali lady married to a reticent Dutchman, the rooms were quirkily arranged in tight corners, on different levels. This was the only hotel I stayed in where even the faucets were fastidiously gleaming with polished chrome. I woke up at six a.m. to the salivating smells of pastries and bread baking away and the astonishing aroma of freshly brewing Douwe Egberts coffee!


III. Have a nice journey and Goodbye from Mustang

Glistening haughtily, the magnificent Dhaulagiri Icefall signalled that we were approaching Khobang, the next significant village after Tukuche. Khobang merges seamlessly with Larjung and is, indeed, significant. The “La Phewa Kumbha Mela” is held here every 12 years. Due to take place January 12–29, 2005, and also known as the “Thasang” festival, Thakalis from all over congregate to renew family ties and celebrate their culture. While doing so, I hope they tidy up Khobang as it is dark, dingy and dirty.

Larjung ends at the river. As I crossed the dry river bed, I suddenly spied a straggly shrub laden with small, yellow berries. Seabuckthorn! Since the start of my trek, I had been drinking seabuckthorn (Hippophae rhamnoides) juice, super rich in vitamins A, C and E, flavanoids and other bioactive compounds. It has a tart but complex flavour; higher up, the colour is more peach than yellow. It is especially yummy drunk warm, while sitting by a fire in the evenings. On the far side of the river, the vegetation changed dramatically to that of the low-lying hills: lush trees and thick undergrowth. By the time we got to Kokhethanti, the forest air was heavy with pine fragrance. My destination was Ghasa, the last outpost of the Thakalis. I stopped at Kalopani for lunch. On the menu, I saw yak steak offered at 450 rupees! I steered clear of it and, instead, settled for a delicious Nepali thali, while studying the nearby school that was in full session, out in the open. Groups of students distractedly listened to their teachers droning on about Nepali literature and such, blades of grass sticking out of their mouths. The education was definitely being given but one wonders: was it being received?

After a police check at the end of Kalopani, called Lete now (another seamless merging!), it was a precarious drop to a powdery path across the face of a large landslide. I was in a forested land, with the river raging to the left. There were yellow, blue and pink flowers blooming everywhere. I heard birds twittering; butterflies fluttered here and there. It was all very pleasant and pretty, but I missed the stark, treeless landscape of Kagbeni, Jharkot and Muktinath. That was new, dramatic and different; this was familiar ground: seen that, done that, and humdrum. Anyway, Ghasa turned out to be a small village with houses resembling–and in the same state as–those of Tukuche. After a night’s stay in the third-floor bedroom of the rickety National Guest House, Kamal and I hit the road. Just before we crossed an enormous suspension bridge 30 minutes below Ghasa, there was yet another army check. The officer in charge was a smiling Gurung. He clearly rued his posting, and hungrily shared with me his dream of building a house in one of the three plots of land he owns in Kathmandu. This was an important checkpoint. I had heard many stories of people and porters being turned back from here to Beni if they lacked IDs or a plausible excuse to be travelling in these parts. In fact, in Ghasa, there was an unofficial curfew after 8 p.m. Encounters with security personnel always shake me up a bit, so I was happy to get away and get on with my trek, admiring the premature pink blossoms of painyu (Himalayan cherry) along the way. The expected orange groves, in full fruit, also began to appear. An hour-and-half later, a sign at the tiny village of Pairo Thaplo wished us “Have a nice journey and Goodbye from Mustang”. It also reminded us that we were traversing through the Kali Gandaki valley, said to be the deepest in the world. I saw an old man being carried up in a cut-out doko in the traditional ways of the hill. I thought of taking his photograph but felt I was intruding upon his privacy, seeing that he looked ill and sad, almost angry, at having to suffer the indignity of being carried on the same trail he must have walked on unaided so many times over the years. We stopped briefly at Rupse Chhahara, a beautiful waterfall, and then walked through Dana, Suke Bagar and Guithe, before reaching Tatopani.

Ever since we left Ghasa in the morning, it had been spotting with rain intermittently. I was glad it was doing so because it made for a cool walk, though we were mostly going downhill. We met a few tourists struggling up. Minutes after I checked into the Dhaulagiri Lodge in Tatopani, the skies truly opened up, and it poured for the next few hours. There was no electricity. So, after a quick lunch, I did the only thing I could do in Tatopani: head to the fabled hot spring down by the river.


IV. A water nymph and a Gurkha

I was really looking forward to a long, hot, good soak. It was not that I needed a bath: after six days of tough-ish walking, it was my sore muscles that were demanding a bit of TLC. It was darkening and already four in the afternoon when I decided to drop down to the river side. The Tatopani hot spring consists of two stone-lined shallow pools fed by an underground source. The first pool was very hot at 50° C; the second had been cooled down to 40° C. After a quick wash under an outflow from the pools, I gingerly lowered myself into the hot water: toes in first, then the feet, then legs–ouch! steady!–waist in, then up to the neck. Boy, did it feel great to let the heat and steam work their magic on my tired body. All around me, a good number of trekkers and a few locals were in a similar state of grimacing ecstasy. It was quite a surreal sight to behold: bleached, white bodies turning pink juxtaposed with wrinkling, brown Nepalis. Some had ordered beers from the nearby kiosk. The mood was mellow, the voices hushed, the eyes drooping when a beautiful Nepali girl dropped her clothes and, clad only in a thin sarong and a bikini top, gracefully slid into the pool, water nymph-like. You should have seen the men jerk into action! The girl in question turned out to be the village belle. For the next hour or so, she nonchalantly lingered in the shallow waters, a slow, wide turn of her head here, a demure lowering of her eyes there, lost in the pleasures of the hot water steaming over her wet body, seemingly oblivious to the vigorous desires she was churning in the thoughts of men who were, by now, helplessly in love with her. She was a class act: no cheap flirting, glances or exchanges of words. And she never smiled. As the twilight gathered, she carefully rose and disappeared. Mirage muddled, the men hauled themselves back to reality and to the raised eyebrows of their female friends. Almost in unison, they got up, collected their belongings and headed back to their lodges. It was time for dinner anyway. The lights had come back; the dining room was heaving with hungry souls. Tomorrow, the descent to Beni awaited, marking the end of my trek.

The walk to Beni was not spectacular in any way. Some bits of the trail–especially those overhanging with drippy, droopy grass and carved into the sides of cliffs–were steep, stony and slippery. When we reached Beg Khola, the trail widened out unannounced and looked suspiciously like a highway in the making. It was; in fact, the Royal Nepal Army is soon to restart work on the Beni to Mustang highway. Tractors and wheezing four-wheel drive vehicles noisily and dustily drove past us, crowded with passengers and their crude cargo. Just as I thought that the trek had lost its romance, an encounter with a charming old man in Rakhu rescued the day for me.

Stopping to sample a plate of aloo dum, I spread out my map to see how far we were from Beni. While I was doing this, I noticed an old man, togged up in a Gurung crossover shawl, peering dimly over my shoulder. His apparent ability to read English led me to ask him if he had been in the army. He instantly straightened up and said yes, he had been in the Fifth Gurkha Regiment of the Indian Army, which he had left a long time ago when his hearing was impaired by an ear infection. As we chatted idly, he curiously asked me if I had binoculars. When I wondered aloud why, he said, oh, there is a certain buti (medicinal plant) I need to see on the cliffs yonder. What buti? Shilajit! He turned out to be a rare shilajit harvester, a dangerous work involving cliff climbing on dangling ropes. When I mentioned Dabur shilajit capsules (which I take daily), he scornfully dismissed them as tainted with tar and not fit for human consumption! But with bad hearing and failing eyesight, he had stopped harvesting shilajit. I got the sad feeling he wanted to remind himself of what he was capable of once, not what he could do now.

Warmed up by this encounter, I marched to Galeshwore, only to hear the alarming news of a Dhaulagiri banda the following day. I immediately hopped into an ancient jeep and rushed to Beni. Not wanting to get stuck there, I reserved a taxi at a considerable cost to whiz me to Pokhara. Two-and-half hours later, at 7 p.m., I was by the lakeside at the Hotel Barahi. My idyll in the hills was over.


Epilogue: The explended Lakeside

Disparagingly referred to as the “ghetto” by some mysteriously twisted minds, Thamel is the epicentre of the tourist industry in Kathmandu; in Pokhara, Lakeside takes that honour. Apart from their ready propensity to break out in a “street festival” at the merest of excuses and the roving gangs of youths hanging out truculently in bars and clubs, the two have little else in common. Thamel is furrowed with confusing, narrow, winding lanes overcrowded with shops, pedestrians and vehicles of all shapes and sizes. The only view one gets from here is the distant pinnacle of Swayambhunath, that is if you manage to get to the top of some of the multi-storey neo-Newari buildings that are rapidly replacing the cute and quaint rows of houses with dwarf-sized carved windows and tiled roofs. Amazingly, Thamel still harbours a vibrant Newari culture. Without any warning, elaborate palanquins housing clan deities, borne on the strong shoulders of festively inebriated devotees and accompanied by a discordant band, hurtle their way comically through the narrow streets, disregarding taffic rules entirely. More disconcertingly, I once I saw a huge headless carcass of a freshly-sacrificed buffalo being dragged into a bahal, leaving a long slash of blood on the street. In Lakeside I have seen very little evidence of the local culture, but the stunning presence of nature is more than adequate compensation.

There is much one can do in Pokhara: hiking, paragliding (or parahawking as Time magazine put it rather hyperbolically), microlighting, swimming, boating, sailing, cycling, etc. It’s a sporty little town full of adventures. I, though, always end up going through the same routine, my senses relaxed–dulled more like–beyond recovery by the languid atmosphere of Pokhara.

It’s always a delight to wake up to the sight of the sun slowly revealing Machhapuchhare in ever brightening light, a sure sign that the day’s going to be a good one. I usually set off for the Fewa Hotel, ironically one of the few hotels actually by the lake. Each morning, groups of neatly uniformed children row themselves across from the other side, docking their wooden boats with an expertise way beyond their collective age. They deftly step on shore, oars slung over shoulders as their only insurance against boat theft. Families of chestnut-headed pochard bob excitedly up and down, then dive out of sight for a few seconds. A red sail suddenly sweeps by, slicing the little island of Barahi Temple out of view. A gang of water buffaloes is herded into the shallow waters. They wade in splashily, tossing their heads and then, with huge sighs, settle down for a long, cool wallow. Between snaking water pipes disappearing into the far depths of the lake, a line of women on their haunches in the middle of sudsy patches beat the hell out of their week’s quota of laundry. Little ripples on the lake surface glint in the sun. A gentle breeze ruffles my hair. Totally mesmerised by the lake, I spend hours here, barely kept awake by copious cups of coffee.

The shops on the straight-ish, wide and clean street of Lakeside look very similar to those of Thamel. Wedged between them, curiously named restaurants–Moon Dance, Billy Bunter, Boomerang, Lemon Tree and Tea Time–vie for the attention of hungry punters. Pavement-side display boards proclaim their specialities: “Verities of international cousins”; “French fried”; “Fresh crap from the lake” and my all-time favourite: “Fantastic explended view from garden”! Without consulting the Oxford English Corpus, a database which provides an extensive picture of current English as an international language, I have decided that “explended” is going to enter my personal vocabulary. I will use it when I come across something so ineffably exquisite and splendid that only the word “explended” would cunningly catch and combine the nuances of these two words.

In the evening, the drinking holes rev up their music systems and switch on their twinkling lights. Some of them, like Club Amsterdam, Old Blues Pub, Club Paradiso and Busy Bee, feature live bands, but you quickly discover that the same band often hops from one club to another on different days. They all have giant-sized TV screens showing football matches. Colourful balls dart about the pool table. The air is thick with the smoke of tobacco and marijuana. Subliminal messages shout out “Chill out!”, “Loosen up!”, “Relax!”. Away from home and life’s mundane rigours and responsibilities, people gradually lose their inhibitions. They find themselves in an exotic and alien land. In some of them, the beguiling mask of anonymity begets confidence; confidence begets garrulity. Eager to share new experiences and adventures, they discover striking up conversations with strangers become easy. Like your newly-acquired friends, the holiday mood cheerfully grows on you. It’s no wonder then that I feel Pokhara’s Lakeside frequently beckoning me. Explended!

Kathmandu Valley, more than just a soulless city

It has to be said, of course, that the hearts of the three former principalities which make up the Valley, viz. Kathmandu, Patan and Bhaktapur–known as durbar (palace) squares–are living museums. Get up early and walk around, an atmospheric experience specially in the dense morning fog of winter, or in the lengthening shadows of autumnal afternoons. Browse through the bazaars; marvel at the overflowing mounds of rice, lentils and vegetables; duck into alleyways and hidden bahals, (inner courtyards) and make discoveries that guidebooks or even local people seldom talk about. In Nepal, religion, culture, commerce, politics, even domestics intermingle freely for histrionic public displays. Don’t be just a timid bystander: jump into the fray as the Nepalis often do with untrammelled and uninvited enthusiasm!

Thamel, tourist ghetto or tourist haven?

Disparagingly referred to as the “ghetto” by some mysteriously twisted minds, Thamel has been the epicentre of the tourist industry in Kathmandu for over two decades. From cyber cafés to caffe lattes, singing bowls to sleeping bags, hashish to hash brown potatoes, you get them all in this tourist haven. Thamel is ideally-sized, ideally-located and ideally-organised to make it the perfect base from which the discovery of the 'real' Nepal can be planned. The ‘real’ Nepal is not too far away either. Some of Kathmandu's traditional, historical and cultural must-sees: Ason Bazaar, Durbar Square and Swayambhunath are a mere 10-30 minutes’ easy walk away. Amazingly, Thamel still harbours a vibrant ethnic culture, practised by its core population of the Newar people who have been living here since time immemorial. Without any warning, elaborate palanquins housing clan deities, borne on the strong shoulders of festively inebriated devotees and accompanied by a discordant band, hurtle their way comically through the streets, disregarding traffic rules entirely. In recent years, more and more local residents from other parts of Kathmandu are being attracted to Thamel’s myriad attractions and services. The “ghetto” is no longer the haunt of tourists alone and is going native indeed!

Pico Iyer, what an ass!

A TALE OF TWO WRITERS
In a reversal of roles, Pico Iyer goes from hero travel writer to zero commentator


"…one of the most revered travel writers… Born in England, raised in California, educated at Eton, Oxford and Harvard, his essays and other writings have appeared in Condé Nast Traveler, the New Yorker… His books include Video Night in Kathmandu, Falling off the Map…"

Google Pico Iyer and this is what comes up: an immediate applause for his worldliness, erudition and accomplishments. So it was no surprise that when I saw his article Tale of Two Kingdoms in Time I thought, at last, someone who can put an intelligent handle on this silly Bhutan vs. Nepal thing (an issue hyped up by foreign press) into proper perspective. I should have paid more attention to the sub-title. Reading it, I got into one of those situations where one feels so insulted, invectives and murderous thoughts flow senselessly.

Mr. Iyer has obviously cobbled together one of his periodic essays for Time, his former employer of four years, with little respect for history or reality. His puerile attempt at comparing Nepal and Bhutan was irritating; the destruction of his usual clever language bemusing; his commentary clichéd and the conclusions specious. Let us get one thing straight: Himalayan Kingdoms both might be but that is where the similarity summarily ends. He regurgitated the oft-quoted litany of quirks that is supposed to confirm Bhutan as the new Shangri-La. All sentient souls this corner of the Indian sub-continent know that Bhutan's "Gross National Happiness" sags with sadness when 100,000 of its ethnically-cleansed population languishing in the eastern plains of Nepal for the last 15 years are taken into account. Get real, please. A few boutique hotels and a promise to relinquish the throne in 2008 make not a magic kingdom or a noble king. The Bhutanese subjects' attachment to their medieval costumes rapidly wears off in the shopping malls of Delhi, go-go bars of Bangkok and, one might add, Casino Tara of Boudha. And, pray, why drag in religion? The practice of Christianity, in any case, is now constitutionally allowed in Nepal, but it is a recent import largely spread by unspiritual promises of economic advancement.

Nepal is slowly coming to terms with the implications of democracy, instituted as recently as 1990. The going has not been comfortable or even certain, compounded by the 10-year-long Maoist insurgency. However, Nepal continues to remain a vibrant country full of appealing anomalies. Nepal may have welcomed tourists in the 70s with the easy promise of hashish and hedonism but the natural beauty and the curious charm of its pluralistic peoples have always been the real attractions. Even Bhutanese citizens are welcome here but it has always puzzled me why we are not allowed to enter Bhutan freely. We have never closed our doors on visitors: western governments have with their alarmist travel advisories. Its foreign, defence and economic policies all but governed by India, Bhutan can ill-afford to sneer at Nepal's present misfortunes with righteous sniggering. My suspicion is that Bhutan's widely-advertised disdain for Nepal is actually a perfectly-pitched but delusional ploy to mask fear and envy. Nepal represents all that Bhutan cannot be due to its geographical and international insignificance; its myopic vision that confuses self-preservation with seclusion and the ruling clutch's realisation that its hold on power–royal and political chicanery notwithstanding–is finite. To quote Mr. Iyer "…the first law of modern life is that everything is as impermanent as an image on a screen; the only form of continuity is change". Deep within, Bhutan knows that it cannot stop the clock from ticking and controlling the time it will inevitably tell.

Finally, by coining linguistically-challenged words such as "Nepalmed" with its non-Nepal connotations, clumsy stabs at promiscuous semantics and scurrilous second-hand comments about Nepal and, especially, the Nepalese women, Mr. Iyer has made an utter ass of himself. By criticising Nepal while romanticising Bhutan, he has merely followed trend, missing a chance to correct it. He once said that the most important challenge in the writing process for him was clarity. Since clarity was clearly lacking in his article, perhaps it is he who should be listening to the King of Bhutan, deposing himself of all literary and analytical responsibilities in 2008. Or, better, sooner.

Kunal Lama, February 27th, 2006