the colours of pashupati

Lying on either side of the sacred Bagmati River, Pashupati is one of Kathmandu's holiest Hindu temple complexes. Cremations are performed on the river banks daily, and I must say, witnessing one certainly makes you ponder impermanence, and the fragility of life. Pashupati is a beautiful but strange place— I'm not sure why, but I felt a distinct unease whilst walking around the complex— a sort of pressure on my nerves. Perhaps it was the closeness of death, or the heavy history of grief that seems to have soaked into the soil, and moves with the trees. When I later mentioned this to Lama S.T. , he merely grinned and nodded his head.

a walk down phulbari road

bhaktapur

It was a quiet, clear blue afternoon in Bhaktapur. My skin was slowly changing shades, as I had forgotten my sunscreen, having gotten used to the grey, billowy blanket clouds of Boudha. From around a corner reached a beat and a cacophony of voices, both growing louder and louder until suddenly, I was swept away in a flood of colour and song. 



I found an island to watch the crowd from, and was tossed a marigold. I put it in my hair.



And just like that, it was quiet again.

all the pretty details

changu narayan

High atop a lush, green hill stands the humble and stunning Changu Narayan Temple. One of the oldest Hindu temples in the Kathmandu Valley, it is believed that Changu Narayan was built in the 4th century to honour the god Vishnu. Any attempt to describe my impressions of this holy, ancient place would fall short of how special it feels. Sheltered by bending, brick buildings, it is near silent, except for the chatter of myna birds and the occasional ringing of a bell— which I was told is meant to alert the gods to the presence of a devotee, wishing to offer a prayer. Curved eyes watch from figures frozen in carved wood, stone and embossed metal, the heavy scent of incense hangs in the air, and offerings of fiery red and magenta pigment mark the foreheads of gods. There is a feeling of a slow, deep pulse that beats from the soil upward, and the world you know, seems ages away.

boudha by night

Blue sky bleeds into inky black as the faces of buildings turn orange by the light of a hundred butter candles. Sleepy dogs awaken in packs, hoping the butcher will be generous before he closes shop. Cricket and frog melodies compete for air perfumed by night-blooming jasmine and incense. Dark coolness soothes mosquito-bitten skin, which will be feasted upon once more.

swayambhunath

While I recover from a bit of culture shock and get used to sleeping in my own bed, I thought I'd continue sharing with you some more photos and stories of my trip to Nepal.



These funny little boys were impressed by my sketches and decided to perform a series of Michael Jackson inspired dances for me.

my own monsoon

I'm sitting in Doha International Airport moping over a cup of coffee, kata around my neck, waiting for my flight to Istanbul. I miss my friends, I miss my kids. I have a family in Kathmandu, I have a home. Saying goodbye to the students was the hardest part of the last three days, and I've been bawling like a baby— having a monsoon of my own. Watching those impossible mountains fade off into the distance ached.

It's going to take me a while to settle back into my life in Istanbul. This parting has been a hard one. Perhaps over the next few days I'll feel up to telling you about it, but right now I feel pretty damn sad. Knowing I'll be returning is an enormous comfort, and really, all I have to do is think of my kids' smiles and I feel instantly better.

I miss you already, my artists— I love you.

laundry

the microbus to kathmandu

You bump, shudder and twist your way down the crumbling road at a suicidal speed, staring wide-eyed into the rushing river below, tonguing a prayer that you avoid the sensation of plummeting. To wrestle down your fears, you distract yourself with the lush, emerald beauty of the hills, the swallowing grey clouds, and the wild combinations of colours your fellow passengers chose to wear. You feel like a drab wren among peacocks and parrots.



High-pitched and nasal, a woman's voice uncoils from the staticky radio in a wail, singing something about pyaar and zindagi. Dust, exhaust and sweat blend into a thin coat of sticky brown on your skin, exhausted from the rigorous scratching of mosquito bites. The window offers some relief from the heat, though you often have to cover your face with your faded scarf to avoid breathing in the dark clouds of passing trucks and buses— vehicles adorned with eyes and serpents, Buddhas and Shivas, cryptic messages about having no time for love and claims to being the "Road King."



You shift your legs to get the blood back into them, and scratch another blushing bite.
Four more hours. Could be six.
You smile.

blinding white

Wandering through the jungle grass, with the constellation of red welts on my legs in a maddening itch, we navigated our way past nonchalant water buffaloes toward the golden spire in the trees. Passang's crimson robe gathering barbed grass seed, our foreheads running, the sweat stinging our eyes. We followed the flash of gold, which appeared then disappeared, like a sun behind passing clouds. It seemed so sudden and unexpected, this blinding white dome, its mathematical perfection contrasting with the wild, twisting trees.
The Japanese Peace Stupa.

We hid in the shade of a nearby café, sipping on cool mango juice and soda, Passang meticulously pulling at the grass seed, which studded his robe. A crane flew silently above, and every so often, the sweet, heady fragrance of gardenias wafted by.

Too hot to eat, I left Passang with the ramen noodles he ordered, to circumambulate the stupa. The silence was thick, the heat of the ground burning its way through the soles of my shoes. A young boy in white called me over to a tamed bush, pointing to an unfortunate frog being swallowed by a snake. His excitement melted into great seriousness.

images of lumbini

the birthplace of buddha

It was here in Lumbini, somewhere around the sixth and seventh century BCE, that Queen Maya gave birth to Siddhartha Gautama under a sal tree while grasping a bough for support. The young prince would later be known to the world as The Buddha. Ancient ruins and a stone marker of the very spot where Buddha was born are safely housed within the stoic, white walls of the Maya Devi Temple, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Passang and I followed Acharya K.S. in silent wonder as he recounted the story, explaining the holiness of this site.

I am still at a loss for words.
There's a peace that vibrates in the soil, in the air and in the light here.

the terai in july

Whenever I travel, I feel a great widening, or inner expansion occurs. The more I experience and grow to understand, the more I realise there is so much more to experience and understand. I feel like I'm unfolding, layer by layer, spreading out, extending little green vines. I believe travelling alone opens you up to deeper personal experiences and allows you to meet people you otherwise never would have met, had you been with a group or travelling partner. You have all the time in the world to have those great, rushing rivers of conversation, to reflect, and turn strangers into friends. You learn to see through different lenses, you learn that there are as many colours in the spectrum as there are thoughts and perspectives in the universe.

I was lucky, so very lucky indeed that Acharya K.S. offered me a ride to Lumbini. He, a young monk named Passang and I climbed into his comfortable, air-conditioned car and began the seven hour journey to the Terai, the southern flatlands of Nepal. We flew down the Prithvi Highway, swerving and twisting around massive hillsides that dropped off into nauseatingly deep valleys. As we weaved past scars of landslides and ramshackle tea stops, I found my thoughts drifting off to last year's roadtrip to Pokhara. The scenery zipping past my eyes had remained unchanged, but an entire year had past, and though my sense of awe and wonder had not diminished, I was being carried in the arms of familiarity.



We arrived in darkness, and though I could not see the landscape, I felt its flatness— as though the heat and humidity had somehow ironed out the hills of the north. The night was heavy and thick, the stillness broken by the whining of mosquitoes. I spent a restless night seized by the heat and a rattling cough, occasionally startling myself awake with a slap to my face in some unconscious attempt to slay the tiny flying terrors who attacked any inch of exposed skin.

The Terai in July.