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If you are a neophyte, at first glance, Tibetan singing bowls look no more than plain bowls you use to store food or even eat things like your morning cereals or soups at dinner.

Tibetan singing bowls, also known as Himalayan Singing Bowls, are not just commonplace. Crafted from pure copper, they resonate like the sacred bells in temples. Their unique blend symbolizes the divine 7 Chakras, the energy cores in our body. These Chakras, each associated with specific physical, mental, and spiritual aspects, are believed to be balanced by the sound and vibrations of the bowls. The composition of the bowls and spiritual beliefs has it, resonates with and balances these energy centers, promoting holistic well-being. 

The unique composition of these bowls supposedly channels perceptive energy to nurture your bodily organs, mind, and intellect. Tibetan singing bowls come in various sizes. The smaller the bowls, the higher the pitch; more giant bowls produce low-pitch bass notes. There are nine kinds of bowls, each with their unique shape, size, and sound: Thadobati, Jambati, Manipuri, Mani, Lingam, Pedestal/Naga, Trapezoid, and Ultabati. These bowls, for good measure, are also available in crystal ware, producing better unbroken and sustained sound and vibrations. 

How to make a Tibetan singing bowl sing

The singing bowls available in the many antique shops are either hand-hammered or others that are machine-made. Some hand-hammered bowls also carry the compassion mantra, Om Mani Padme Hum, in Tibetan script.  In truth, no two bowls emit the same sound as you might expect. The difference between the hand-hammered and machine-made bowls is the slightly different notes, with the hand-hammered throwing a more resonant pitch. 

Next, place the bowls flat on cotton mats or donut mats woven from straw. You can also use them by placing the bowl in the center of your palm, straightening your hand out, facing upwards. You are not supposed to touch the sides of the bowl with your fingers while playing.

Playing a Tibetan singing bowl is a specific process, a unique ritual that connects you with the instrument and its healing powers. First, place the bowl flat on a cotton or straw mat. Then, hold the wooden mallet, with one end wrapped in leather, suede, or felt (the male end) and the other plain timber (the female end). Gently strike the side of the bowl, then firmly press the mallet against the outward rim of the bowl and move it in a circular motion. This process, when done correctly, produces a continuous, soothing sound. 

As you rotate the mallet around the bowl's rim, a unique, soothing, bright, clear tone fills the air, accompanied by perceptible vibrations and resonance. The friction between the mallet and the bowl's rim creates a rich and soothing timbre that is truly one-of-a-kind, inducing a sense of calm and tranquility.

Singing bowls emit sound frequencies between 110 Hz and 900 Hz, with variations based on the bowls’ size, weight, and composition.

These bowls are played in an inverted position, with the face upwards, so they are also called standing bells, unlike the conventional bells in temples.  

History of Tibetan singing bowls

Shrouded in the wisdom of antiquity, Tibetan Singing Bowls have served as a gateway to spiritual awakening and healing for time immemorial. Their history, dating back to the era of Buddha Shakyamuni (560–480 BC), adds a layer of mystique and reverence to these sacred instruments, connecting us to a rich cultural heritage. According to Buddhist legends, the great tantric mystic Padmasambhava, or Guru Rimpoche, one of the founding fathers of Tibetan Buddhism, brought the bowls from India to Tibet, along with Buddhist teachings, in the 8th century AD. These bowls have been integral to Tibetan and Himalayan culture and used in religious ceremonies, meditation, and healing practices. 

However, the true origin of the Tibetan singing bowl remains an enigma, adding to its allure and fascination. Some theories suggest that, despite their Tibetan name, these bowls originated in Mesopotamia (modern-day Syria) over 5,000 years ago before finding their way to Tibet, Nepal, and India. 

The speculation about the roots of those singing bowls does not end here. Some researchers argue that they originated in the Himalayas of Nepal and India before fanning out to countries like Tibet, China, Japan, Vietnam, and even America. The craftsmanship of the bowls reflects the culture and tradition of the land to which they belong, signifying different spiritual values.

Discover the healing powers of Tibetan Singing Bowls. These ancient instruments are cultural artifacts and tools for sound therapy, offering a unique way to alleviate stress and promote relaxation. 

We know about prescription medication (allopathic medicine), Ayurveda healing, therapeutic healing, and homeopathic treatment. However, in addition to these conventional practices, healing with sound therapy and vibrations has become a norm today in therapy technology. It's also called vibroacoustic sound therapy, which uses audible sound vibrations to alleviate stress and anxiety, enhance relaxation, and improve health.  

Surprisingly, even science today backs the efficacy of sound healing through Tibetan singing bowls. The sounds the singing bowls produce are said to create a kind of energy that may align the frequencies of the body, mind, and soul. This scientific validation adds a layer of credibility to the ancient practice, reassuring those who may be skeptical. 

The therapeutic benefits of Tibetan Singing Bowls are not mere folklore. The sound waves they emit harmonize with the body's vibrations, inducing a profound sense of relaxation and inner peace. This unique process aids in reducing stress, a significant factor in elevated blood pressure, heart rate, and blood sugar levels, offering hope for those seeking natural healing methods. 

It would help if you were enthusiastic and always cheerful to maintain a healthy life and stick to a nutritious diet. Scientific studies suggest that poor mood and elevated anxiety lead to increased incidence of disease. Tibetan singing bowl meditation has also come in handy in this issue. It has also shown that it helps reduce negativity and boost positivity.  

Listed below are the health benefits of listening to the ethereal note of the Tibetan singing bowl:

• Relieves stress (low self-esteem, worries, fear, anger, anxiety, and depression)
• Maintains a stable blood pressure level
• Enhances sleep (cuts down on insomnia)
• Energizes the immune system
• Improved concentration
• Relieves chronic pain 
• Synchronizes inner harmony 
• Stimulates your alpha and theta waves

The Tibetan singing bowl therapy

Often used, the Tibetan singing bowls also serve as tools for healing in sound therapy and guided meditation sessions. These sessions involve strategically placing bowls of various sizes around the room or on your body. A healing practitioner, often a meditation guru or a sound therapist, then performs the therapy by playing the bowls to produce a variety of notes. The practitioner's role is to create a harmonious and healing environment through the sounds and vibrations of the bowls. 

Caveat: Regarding such therapy, certain people should avoid it, such as: 

• Individuals who have epilepsy.
• Those who carry metal implants or devices in their body like a pacemaker, artificial heart valves, coronary shunt, or metal pins. 

The bottom line: We have five basic senses: sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch, which all make our lives meaningful. In truth, what we experience through those senses is life, offering nourishment like water and food. 

Sound is energy made by vibrations creating movement in surrounding air molecules. These molecules bump into the molecules close to them, causing them to vibrate as well. The resultant sound possesses characteristics that convey emotions in various nuances and subtleties.

History stands firm as a testament to the authenticity of the charismatic Tibetan singing bowls. These bowls have an untold past and, for ages, have been used for spiritual awakening, healing, and transporting us on the emotional and spiritual planes.

Frank Perry, a leading expert in Himalayan singing bowls, a composer, performer, astrologer, artist, and healer, says:

“Listening to the singing bowls of Tibet is like taking a ‘sound- massage’, the sound swells and ebbs away again softly, like the great rhythm of the ocean, conveying the feeling that it is massaging or washing clean the listener’s soul. There is also the sense of a profound spiritual presence living in this world of ringing harmonic overtones.”

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After Syange, the terrain transformed into a rugged beauty, with challenging climbs and narrow roads adorned with rocks and gravel—tricky to navigate. Raju took it in stride, but I had to dismount frequently and push my bike. The elevation gain had begun, and we felt a slight chill in the fresh morning air, a reminder of the breathtaking beauty surrounding us. 

We stopped at Jagat (1,300 meters) to regain our breath and rest briefly. Like other towns, we left behind a row of back-to-back tea shops and lodges flanking the road with tilting, colorful roofs, primarily two-story. We had a cup of tea, some biscuits, and a brief chat with Ghale Gurung, the owner.  

Upon my casual questioning about his business, he shook his head. “Not as it used to be after the road opened. Trekkers prefer traveling by jeep to Chame, the district headquarters of Manang. The teahouses have lost their business by as high as 60 percent, if not more; many have quit,” he said, his frustration echoing the plight of many local businesses affected by modernization. 

A little further, we ran into a group of American hikers taking a break by the roadside. They were hiking back from Manang. One of the guys looked my age, but when I casually asked, I found he was only 65. He looked surprised when I told him my age and that we were doing the Annapurna Circuit on our bicycles.

For the next two hours, we slugged it out on grueling uphills, an isolated gravelly road across forested hills with sheer escarpments that dropped way down to Marshyangdi. But if anything, we were still pedaling across Lamjung, the Manang border a long way away. We were already late for lunch but mighty relieved to see a town in the distance, Chamje 1,430m). 

Well, well, well, what do you know—another colossal waterfall! Fascinated, we gorged on our dal-bhat, peering out the tea-house window, the waterfall across the Marshyangdi, cannoning down a steep hill that looked like 100 meters to me. It was called the Boong Jharna (waterfall). 

Chamje, as the teahouse owner told us, was also a popular haunt for water canyoning adventure sports. As we left, my eyes fell on hedges of flaming crimson poinsettia in full bloom around the small settlement. To add to the appeal, clumps of yellow marigolds appeared scattered around the locale, a vibrant display of the local flora that adds to the village’s charm. 

It took us barely 20 minutes to arrive at the main town of Chamje, a tight cluster of teahouses and hotels on a sharp incline fringing both sides of the road.

Hardly had we left behind the town, an excited Raju hollered out: “Another waterfall!” A small crowd, primarily motorbikers, was gathered at a teahouse next to the waterfall to watch the arresting sight. 

It was called the Octopus waterfall and cascaded down to the roadside in a dramatic multi-pronged configuration that evoked the flailing tentacles of an octopus, thereby dubbed with that name, we figured. This unique natural formation, with its striking resemblance to an octopus, is a testament to the diverse and awe-inspiring landscapes of the Annapurna Circuit. 

Although we ran out of time, we couldn’t resist and hung around for quite some time. “Wow! Lamjung seems brimming with incredible waterfalls,” said Raju, sounding euphoric. Suddenly, it struck us that we did not have all the time in the world, and we hastened to spin; it was already past 3 pm. 

The sun lurked on our shoulders as we left, warning us with each spin that it would get dark soon. The road got rockier and narrower as we huffed it up steep ascents, Tal still dim and distant as far as we could stretch our eyes.

When we sighted Tal (1,700 meters) from a bluff, way up, outstretched along the banks of Marsyangdi, it was a sight for sore eyes. However, the dirt roadway to Manang did not lead through the imposing city across the Marshyangdi. 

Darkness soon crept in after Tal, and the road turned into a mess. Navigating the slush, the road spattered with rocks and debris from the aftermath of the post-monsoon flooding and landslips, over the narrow beam of our bicycle light was anything but tricky, nay dangerous. The road conditions were treacherous, with the constant threat of slipping or hitting a rock, making our progress slow and cautious. 

Then we froze in our tracks. It looked like we had hit an impasse as a frightening water chute fell with a rumble at a curb, surging over the road, inundating it, and crashing down a ravine to our right. 

“Ke garne (what to do)? It looks like we are stuck,” I said, mighty alarmed, and looked at Raju. The pool appeared deep, but we could not figure it out. We could not walk our bikes across either, as the entire road was waterlogged, and it was not wise to wet our only pair of shoes. 

“Uncle, I’ll attempt first to pedal across,” Raju said. I genuinely admired his grit and gumption at such tight corners; he always held on to a forerunner. Over the din of the crashing water, Raju, without a second thought, tore across; I watched with bated breath. Thank heavens, he made it! 

It was my turn, now. It was a moment of truth for me; with my heart in my mouth, I shot at the pool. And I did it, too! Phew! Granted, we had overcome the hurdle but landed with dripping shoes soaked to the socks as the water level almost reached the bike’s mid-tire.

I was past hope about making it to our day's layover at Dharapani but dragged along the pitted and muddy road, which seemed to play tricks on my eyes in the narrow flare of my light. After about 7:30 pm, we finally arrived at Dharapani (1,860 meters), an elevation gain of almost 800 meters that day, and it felt pretty cold. 

What on earth! To our misery, no lodges had a vacancy. However, one staff member from the hotel we had dropped by volunteered to scout around and eventually managed a crummy room for us. Near desperation, the thought that we might have to bunk under an open sky made me shiver involuntarily. 

Cold, exhausted, and wet, we hit the bunk early after a hasty supper, with a comforting and lasting feeling that we had, after all, a roof over our heads—and thankful to the guy for doing us a good turn. The relief and gratitude we felt at that moment were palpable.

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All psyched up, Raju and I left Besisahar the following day in the morning—our mountain bikes were well-dialed in Kathmandu. The challenge had ultimately begun for our bid to accomplish the Annapurna Circuit. 

For my partner, Raju, at age 35, it appeared it would not be much of a sweat. But the thought I was daring the Annapurna Circuit at age 70 kept wriggling like a worm in my head—a daunting prospect.  

Following a hearty breakfast and a once-over of our bicycles, we left Besisahar. Raju appeared excitedly bursting at the seams. So was I—a little apprehensive, though. Both of us were first-timers in the Lamjung district. Our itinerary for the day was Syange, some 30-plus km away. 

Given Beshisahar's low elevation (760m), the weather was warm and the sun bright. Surprisingly, after barely pedaling an hour, the hubbub of the city receded into thin habitation. Soon, we were feasting our eyes on a laid back rustic countryside. The Marsyangdi River, we never lost sight of, did one better to steal our hearts.

River Marshyangdi (translating to a raging river) drains high up in the glaciers of the northwest face of the Annapurna massif and Manaslu Himalayan range. It is further fed by glacial runoff from the Larkya Himalayan sub-range; seasonal and perennial springs further feed the flow, turning the river bigger and fiercer, churning and crashing over huge rocks and boulders.

The river works eastward across the Manang Valley and then steers southward into the Lamjung district. It travels further across the Lamjung district to end its long journey to tumble into the Trishuli River at Mugling, where a horde of tributaries joins in on the way. 

With class 4 to 5 rapids, Marsyangdi River is one of the world's top-notch rivers for white-water rafting, offering a mind-blowing, white-knuckled two-day ride from the put-in point at Nagadi to Beshisahar. 

Contrary to our expectations, the dirt road until Khudi proved a breeze, with mild ascents and not so gravelly. The first thing that struck us at Khudi was a portal opening on the face of a hill—a tunnel built by the Upper Marsyangdi hydro-power project in 2019, measuring 296 m lengthwise. 

The motor passage was wide enough for two vehicles to drive past. Amusingly, we had to switch on our bicycle light as it was pitch dark within—an interruption in the power supply, we figured. Fascinated, we pedaled across the dark, oddly wet passage, dodging small puddles. On closer look, we noticed oozing from the ceiling and the concrete wall of the tunnel. 

The weather remained clear, and the sky was indigo; Marshyangdi appeared almost neck to neck with the road. “Hell, look at the road, uncle,” Raju called out. After Khudi, the road in one section was a complete mess with mud and slush as far as our eyes traveled. Pedaling across that stretch seemed impossible, and we resorted to walking our bikes, trying not to muck our shoes in the ankle-deep mud.

The weather remained warm for the fall season as the elevation gain was piddling when we arrived at Bhulbhule (840 meters). Given the low elevation, the tropical riverine vegetation and moist and dry deciduous scrub forest with Sal (Shorea robusta), Banjh (oak), and Sano pangro (elm), to name a few, looked lush and flourishing on the way. 

Although on the go, we could not help but stop at Bhulbhule as we caught sight of a massive waterfall. It dropped from a towering forested hill, crashing at the base with a loud boom. When we approached closer to take snaps, we could feel almost 25 feet away, our faces sprayed by a fine cloud of mist. “Wow,” said Raju, relentlessly clicking at his cell phone camera.

We kept pedaling along the quiet, unsullied countryside, the road almost deserted save for a few passing motorbikes and a couple of jeeps. The greenery appeared ubiquitous, punctuated by small pockets of settlements, farmlands, and verdant forests dotting the hills.

The recent post-Dashain rains, floods, and landslips in Lamjung and Manang had left tell-tale scars on the landscape—mounds of debris and rocks lay piled up by the roadside. 

With the bounding Marshyangdi to our left, we stopped at Nagadi (930 meters), a decent-looking town with teahouses and lodges flanking the road. We hit the road after a brief rest, a cup of tea, and light refreshment. 

After Nagadi, the elevation gradually rose, and we had to huff it up several steep climbs. At Dobhantar, we were in for a stunning view. We crossed a bridge over a turquoise reservoir while densely forested hills stood on both sides—nothing short of picture-perfect.  

At Ghermu, Shildhunga, we stopped to stretch our tired limbs and sip water from our bottles. At that moment, our ears caught the sound of crashing water nearby. Within minutes, we were gawking at another waterfall that barreled down from the crest of a hill. 

Bahundanda village could be sighted across the Marshyangdi, snugly hugging the hill of a brow with terraces of rice fields cascading down to the river bank. We learned the trekking trails from Besisahar to Manang cut across many villages of Lamjung but intermittently blended with the road after it opened a few years back. 

We ran past miniature waterfalls by the dozen on the way but soon lost count of them. The going so far seemed moderately challenging for me, but there was nothing to fret about much. I often needed to catch up with Raju on uphills, who waited on me coolly. Great guy! 

It almost felt like an eternity before we finally arrived at Syange (1,100 meters), our destination for the day, relieved, spent, and starving. We had to kick our heels for our cherished dal-bhat as we had arrived past lunchtime, about three in the afternoon. And all that time, my stomach groaned in protest. 

But to our surprise, the only occupant, a lady, rustled up our food within barely half an hour. We ate like pigs, no kidding. The lady owner, Ghale Gurung, suggested we visit a nearby waterfall, Syange's Pride.  

After heaving up a spiraling flight of narrow, crude stone steps for 15 minutes, we arrived at the spot. The dizzying height was scary as some sections did not have railings with steep drops hundreds of feet below. 

Whoa! It was another massive sight. The force of the drop from the soaring height was so ferocious that a fine spray of water virtually drenched us. Mesmerized, we stayed quite some time at the top, marveling about nature's unbounded bounty before retreating to the lodge. 

After a satisfying supper of egg veg noodles, we retired for the night early as we had to make it to Dharapani the next day. 

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Following my thrilling cycling escapades to Kalinchok, Sailung, Tarke Ghyang, and Chitlang, my 13-day trek to Upper Mustang in 2018 was the absolute humdinger. The rugged terrain, the breathtaking views, and the camaraderie with fellow trekkers and cyclists, who became more like a family, made it an unforgettable experience.

I then set my sights on the iconic Annapurna Circuit for 2020, the prize trail coveted by international and domestic trekkers and cyclists. Spring (March-May) and autumn (mid-Sept to mid-Oct) are the shoulder seasons for trekking the Annapurna Circuit.

The Circuit offers a feast for the eyes, with breathtaking views of the Himalayas. The majestic Annapurna massif, Annapurna I to IV, stands tall, followed by a whole shebang:  Dhaulagiri (8167m), Manaslu (8156m), Nilgiri (7061m), Machhapuchhre (6993m), Hiunchuli (6443m), Lamjung Himal (6983m), Tukuche peak (6920m), and Tilicho peak (7134m), among others (43 peaks overall).

Deemed as demanding, the trail/dirt road rises from as low an elevation as 760m to a soaring 5,416m (Thorang La pass). The Circuit, which encompasses 230 km, gets underway from Beshisahar, Lamjung, traverses Manang across to Mustang, and culminates at Beni, Myagdi.

The Annapurna Circuit also distinguishes itself for Yak Attack, touted as the highest and most challenging mountain bike race on earth with extremes of temperature and the harshest terrains.

The global pandemic, a force beyond our control, abruptly halted our plans for 2020, including the Annapurna Circuit. In early 2020, Covid-19 hit Nepal hard, followed by frequent blanket lockdowns, and life seemed to come to a grinding halt. Given the Covid-19 fallout, Mustang and Manang officially drew the curtain for visitors, and uncertainty loomed over the future of adventure travel.

Raju, my trusted cycling companion, and I meticulously planned our 13-day tour itinerary of the Annapurna Circuit. After the government lifted all Covid-19-related restrictions in the first week of March 2022, we began our preparations in earnest. We studied the weather patterns, mapped the route, and prepared our gear. After much brainstorming, we finally set out our trip following the Dashain holidays, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

Both Manang and Mustang had opened their doors to visitors, and Kathmandu gradually saw the influx of foreign tourists, but uncertainty and doubts still hung in the air. “Something could go wrong any time,” said Raju.

However, our journey was not without its share of unexpected challenges. Just before Dashain, a sudden bout of precipitation caught the country off guard. It persisted throughout the festival, triggering a series of landslides and flooding on the road from Beshisahar to Manang, bringing all traffic to a standstill.

We had no choice but to hold back with a snowball’s chance in hell for the roads to open shortly. And the Tihar festival was around the corner into the bargain. But we didn’t give up. Thankfully, the fogs cleared—the rains ceased, and the roadway opened. And we scheduled our delayed expedition after the Tihar festival in the second week of November—our fingers crossed.

The big day arrived for our epic ride, and we shuttled our bikes to the Gongabu bus terminal. We planned to take a bus, but the hassle and chaos at the bus station made us change our minds, and we opted instead for a public Hiace van with our bikes adequately loaded on the roof.

“Finally, we did it; nothing can stop us now—until the kingdom comes,” Raju exclaimed with a mix of relief and excitement as the van started moving, Besisahar-bound—the kick-off point for our thrilling cycling adventure.

After four hours of a bone-jarring ride on the Prithivi Highway to Dumre, the once-paved road to Beshisahar was challenging. It was reduced to anything but pits and potholes, causing us to pitch and toss as the van lurched along almost the entire journey. 

What bothered us most was the plight of our bikes on the van’s roof. We ensured they were well-secured each time the van pulled up for lunch or tea breaks.

Phew! After almost four hours of a bone-jarring ride, to our great relief, we finally arrived in the late afternoon at Beshisahar, 178km away from Kathmandu. Beshisahar, day one on our itinerary, was our stopover for the night and the onset of our cycling to Manang. We checked into a nearby hotel.

Contrary to our expectations, Beshisahar, the district headquarters of Lamjung, turned out to be a large city with fancy houses, trendy shops, and a score of eateries, including in-vogue fast-food joints and diners. The Bazar area bustled and crawled with people; hawkers peddled their wares, and the traffic flow remained steady.

Less than 800m from the sea level, the weather of Beshisahar, even in mid-November, appeared balmy and rather pleasant. The urban sprawl extended to the banks of the Marshyangdi River. The bluish-chalky river kept us company without a break throughout our ride from the town of Dumre.

After a brief stroll across the town center, we returned to the hotel to check our gear and make the last-minute preparations. The thought that we would spin off the next day made us so thrilled we could die!

I, for one, had a mix of excitement and nervousness.

As I gazed at the rugged landscape and the daunting hills ahead, I couldn't help but wonder: Was I pushing past my limits, no longer a spring chicken at age 70? But the thrill of the adventure and the unwavering camaraderie with Raju made me all the more stubborn and dead set.

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Our last day's adventure at the Jungle Island Resort (read previous story), Bandarjola, Chitwan National Park, was a sightseeing tour of the Magar crocodiles and the inimitable Gharials. That meant almost a two-hour ride in a narrow dugout canoe in the Narayani River. It sounded great to my family but me. It was a no-go for me flat out because I was too scared of water—virtually to a fixation.

I had reasons for my fear of water, and the story behind it goes like this: Once, in the lake city of Pokhara, I went fishing in a narrow two-person dugout with a local guy in Lake Phewa. Everything was going fine, and we managed a few catches, too.

But the weather turned sour without any warning, and we were caught unawares by a massive thunderstorm. Barely had we made half the distance to the banks across the lake when the narrow dugout started filling with heavy rainwater almost to the level of the hull.

Panic-stricken, I frantically bailed the water out with a small bucket we carried while my local guide furiously worked the paddles. Suddenly, I realized that I didn't know how to swim!

After what appeared like a half-hour, the dreadful ordeal ended, though. The rain fell back, and we made it to the safety of the banks. Phew! "That was a close call," I mumbled to myself. From that day onwards, I never considered doing a boat ride again and steered clear of even a swimming pool in the bargain.  

I walked my excited kids and wife to the riverboat yard and waved them goodbye as the canoe slid into the water. I had two hours to kill before they would be back. I spotted a shack with a few chairs and benches close by. It turned out to be a tea shop.  

The tea made from buffalo milk had that typical Terai hallmark—thick and cloyingly sweet. I could not resist and went for a second cup. As I was about to sip my tea, my eyes fell upon a distant elephant hulking down in my direction. At a closer look, the mounted figure looked very familiar. Wait a minute! He was none other than Kumal and the elephant, every inch, Laxmikali.  

I greeted him with a wave and asked him to join me for tea. He was all smiles to see me and broke into a chuckle when I told him sheepishly my excuse for not joining my family for the canoe ride.

As our chat followed, I suddenly observed a scar running on his face from the left side of the lip and cheek to almost the side of his temple. I missed the scar the previous day when we were on the mind-boggling elephant ride. I could not help asking him about it. And my jaws dropped when Kumal recited the story that took place several years ago.  

"The incident took place while I was doing a routine safari ride for two foreign guests," Kumal said. "I had with me the same elephant, Laxmikali." Kumal pointed his finger at the nearby Laxmikali, tugging at a patch of sod with his trunk.

"Shortly, we ran into a sloth bear right on our track," he continued. The bear stood guard for her cub perched on a Jamun tree (java plum) branch some 15 feet above the ground. Jamuns are a favorite of bears. Kumal's long experience in the park's forest told him a lone bear, except for a brief display of aggression, did not pose a genuine threat to humans.

But a mama bear in her cub's company could turn into quite another story—the most unpredictable. She can turn nasty and is as often as not likely to attack, even if the least provoked.

Instinct made Laxmikali stop in her tracks, but she did not take alarm. Such encounters were not uncommon during safari rides. Kumal thought it better to give the bear a wide berth, though. The last thing he wished for was a face-off.

It was too late! Without warning, the mother bear swung around towards Laxmikali and charged at a run with a blood-curdling growl, baring her fangs.

From 15 yards, the mother bear closed in on a bound and kept coming! She stopped at a few paces, stood on her toes, and snarled. Laxmikali froze, so did Kumal. 

The moment of truth had arrived, thought Kumal. The silence behind the howdah also spoke about the guests' plight. As Kumal's concern was their safety, the only course left for him was to make a slow retreat. But as he nudged Laxmikali with his toes to step back, the bear struck, taking a nasty bite of her trunk. Everything happened in the blink of an eye.

Before Kumal knew it, mayhem struck, and Laxmikali went berserk. She retaliated with an ear-splitting trumpeting that shook the ground, the sound tearing for miles into the dense forest. Still, in a befuddled state, Kumal watched in dismay as Laxmikali bounded for the tree instead of turning up on the bear. She lashed her trunks onto the branch to pull the terrified cub down. The guests watched from the howdah, stunned.

The drama seemed unrelenting as the desperate club clutched a tree branch for dear life. Stupefied by Laxmikali's unexpected onslaught, the bear wavered and backed off but resumed her vicious lunges again. Thank heaven. So far, no harm had come to the guests, mused Kumal, sweat running down his forehead, almost blinding his eyes.

However, he realized the situation was getting out of hand. He tried his best, but no coaxing or sharp clouting worked to curb Laxmikali's fury.

Frothing at the mouth, she flailed her trunk wildly to knock the bear cub down. Meanwhile, the mother bear's challenging huffing, woofing, and lunges appeared feeble. She likely thought better of it against the animal ten times her size.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack. Before Kumal could gather his wits, a stout branch came crashing down, hitting him in the chest. Another hit the side of his face, almost knocking him off Laxmikali's back. He blacked out, a searing pain gripping his chest.

The traumatic state must have lasted a few seconds before Kumal recovered. He instinctively felt for his face to find a bruised lip and a deep gash on the side of his face. His fingers came back sticky with his warm blood.

Alarmed, he turned back. His eyes fell on one of the howdah supports, broken in two. Horrified, he looked at the guests. His guests, though almighty shaken, remained safe. He took a sigh of relief.

With blood streaming down his face, he tried to size up the predicament. Laxmikali's hulking flanks still twitched with intense rage, and she seemed prepared for another attack. The drama took a sharp turn, though—the cub hurtled down to the ground and scampered to its mother. Two meters from Kumal, the mother bear held her ground and continued the face-off. The little cub cowered, huddling behind her.

Providentially, two safari elephants converged on the scene for Kumal's rescue at that very moment. Guided by the shouts and commotion, they had decided to dash to the spot. Upon seeing two more elephants as backup, the bear thought it wise to slink away with her cub, ending the gory drama. "I had to have seven stitches to my face. It took over a month for me to recover," said Kumal.

As Kumal wrapped up his story, I could still feel the hairs on my arms stand on end. After an exchange of pleasantries, Kumal left for his quarters with Laxmikali striding along proudly. The duo soon disappeared into the vernal woods as I ordered a third cup of tea.  

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In 2010, for a holiday spree with my wife and two daughters, we visited the Island Jungle Resort in the Chitwan National Park (mid-west Nepal). At the time, several safari resorts operated within the national park perimeter, as did the Island Jungle Resort. 

With the memories of our previous visit to Sauraha still fresh, we yearned for a new wildlife experience, something off the beaten path. And so, with a stroke of luck, we found ourselves at the Island Jungle Resort in Bandarjhola, a unique and secluded spot about 35 km northwest of Narayanghat. 

The choice we made paid off. Nestled in a dense riverine forest and surrounded by vast grasslands, the Island Jungle Resort in Bandarjhola, about 35 km northwest of Narayanghat, offered a unique setting. Unlike the resorts in Sauraha, it was hemmed in by the river Narayani on two sides, with the other two sides ringed by the river’s subsidiaries, giving it the charm of an island. The resort’s name was a perfect fit. 

And, what’s more, my two daughters were thrilled to bits when we took a boat ride across the Narayani River, the only approach to the resort. With no other nearby resorts, the wilderness seemed absolute, as wild and natural as possible. “Wow, it’s different from Sauraha,” our youngest daughter, Bubul, hollered gleefully. The rest of us nodded, grinning from ear to ear.

In 2012, the government announced the closure of luxury jungle safari hotels inside the protected zone, citing possible harm to the park’s ecology, and issued eviction notices to all seven luxury resorts there, including the Island Jungle Resort. The decree, however, allowed the resorts to relocate outside the national park perimeter.

Upon arrival at the resort, our excitement snowballed to find the setting done in genuine aesthetics, in harmony with the natural surroundings and small cozy cottages amidst a spacious garden decked with diverse trees, plants, and shrubs. The dining hall was delightfully expansive, with a well-stocked bar and seating arrangement that extended outdoors with a wooden deck almost at arm's length to the rippling waters of the Narayani River. Sheer bliss! 

Our schedule was packed with thrilling activities, including a jungle walk, a canoe ride, and the much-anticipated elephant ride. The sight of our elephant, Laxmikali, and her mahout, Kumal, working in perfect harmony was a sight to behold. The elephant ride itself was a wild adventure, leaving us all exhilarated. 

The first hour of the safari offered close views of deer, including the imposing sambars, along with a motley of birds such as jungle fowl, black partridge, a covey of quails, and the ubiquitous peafowls, not the least startled by our approaching elephant—appearing almost tame.  

But we fancied seeing a lumbering rhino, if not the most elusive of all, the mighty Royal Bengal Tiger, albeit we knew it stood a fat chance—one in a million. 

But the real excitement began when our elephant, Laxmikali, led us past a freshly stirred mud wallow, followed by fresh footprints. It was clear that a rhino had recently taken a mud bath and wandered into the woods, leaving a hot trail. ‘A rhino,’ Kumal whispered, and our pursuit began as we followed the footprints. 

Kumal masterfully navigated Laxmikali through the elephant grass, the woods, the seemingly impenetrable scrub, and thickets with spiny thorns—nothing seemed to stop Laxmikali.

The trail suddenly went cold when we assumed we were closing in. It was almost 6 pm, and the fading light reminded us that we had very little time before it would get too dark to continue. Kumal led Laxmikali to take a detour. With our fingers crossed, we kept our eyes straining hard to penetrate the thick undergrowth, trying to catch sight of our quarry as our tusker lumbered. 

As the setting sun reddened the horizon, sending diffused crimson rays through the woods, the jungle burst into life. The bulbuls, the barbets, the orioles, and a myriad of avian species that abounded the rainforest commenced chattering their loudest.

Jungle fowls fell in, calling each other lustily, and then a distant peafowl let out a shrill ‘meow’' All the resident birds seemed to join in a chorus to announce that dusk approached close—time to turn in for the day. Wait a minute! We suddenly stumbled upon the lost spoor! 

With renewed hopes and a redoubled pace, we crashed through the foliage. Twice, my foot got trapped in jungle creepers, swinging branches lashed at my face, thorns clawed at my arms, and I virtually got banged by overhead branches for all I cared.

My co-riders (my wife and daughters) were in no less harrowing condition—but no less excited. We continued our pursuit, albeit the chances of spotting the animal appeared slim. And as Kumal nudged Laxmikali back towards camp, our heart sank. Hang on! We had barely taken a few strides when we virtually bumped into it! “There it is,” Gun Bahadur Kumal called, almost in a whisper, and pointed to a clump of thorny bush.

And there stood our fearless quarry eyeing back at us, almost five feet at the shoulder and nine feet long, the pride of the Chitwan National Park, the inimitable Greater One-horned Rhino. Our pursuit had paid off.  

On our way back, Kumal suddenly stopped Laxmikali at a spot, dismounted, observed closely at some footmarks, and even ran his fingers over them. To our amazement, they were the fresh pugmarks of a male tiger. ‘Darn it! We missed the tiger by just a minute or two,’ said Kumal, shaking his head. We all froze in awe. ‘Only a few minutes? Oh, no,’ said Smi, my eldest daughter, sounding frustrated. The tiger had eluded us, leaving us in awe of its stealth. 

Back at the resort with a mug of chilled beer, I sat on the deck close to the water, enjoying the bracing breeze as I watched the nearby Narayani roll by in the darkness, the ripples mirroring the glimmer of the moonlight.

My mind kept recalling the day’s mind-boggling ride—a real humdinger. The only thing that bugged me was missing out on the privilege of clapping eyes on the king of the jungle, the Royal Bengal Tiger. Dang it! I said to myself and swore aloud. 

Just then, a night heron wailed plaintively close from the darkened river bank. Then I froze, goosebumps exploding all over my body. From the deep recesses of the jungle, a tiger roared.

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En route to Manang, after our layover at Syange (1,100m), we hopped onto our saddles early the next morning. We had to make it to the day’s stopover scheduled for Dharapani at 1,860 meters, some 25km away. If the ride to Syange was challenging, the pedaling subsequently proved more testing as we had to navigate the tricky, narrower dirt road, gnarly and riddled with rocks with debris left by the recent landslips—the elevation gain pushing us from the tropical to the subtropical zone.

The demanding ride had its typical chiseled charm, though, as we moved past cliffs, feasting our eyes on the greenery and the landscape with many a massive waterfall that stole our hearts. We learned we were still in Lamjung and would step on the Manang soil only after Dharapani.

And to our delight, we often stopped to regain our breath, take a respite and much-need cup of tea and light nibbles at fetching towns with rows of back-to-back tea shops and lodges with slanting colorful roofs, mostly two-storied, flanking the road. 

The notable quaint towns and scattered settlements included Ngadi, Bahun Danda, Ghermu, and others. The light began to fade as we got a bird’s eye view from a steep ridge of Tal way down across the Marsyangdi River—pretty as a picture.

In between, the crashing and tumbling Marshayngdi that had kept us company right from our kick-off spot from Beshisahar and the perpetual distant snow-clad mountains served as fascinating interludes. Darkness enveloped us by the time we struggled it to Dharapani—the chill in the air pronounced.

In Nepal, the phase for people to recognize and appreciate avocado as a healthy, nutrient-dense fruit goes back over a decade, and its popularity gradually took on among fruit enthusiasts. Today, the consumption of avocado has almost become a household essential, especially in big cities like Kathmandu, Pokhara, and others, during its peak harvesting season. 

It has even appealed to Nepali farmers for its potential value as a cash crop and a substantial income resource. Dhankuta, in eastern Nepal, is known for extensive farming of avocados and has even bagged the title of avocado capital, Koshi Province.

Native to Mexico, the pear-shaped avocado with coarse rind was named amusingly the ‘alligator pear.’ It’s also called butter fruit in Europe and America for its creamy pulp. This pit-bearing fruit got its name, avocado, worldwide in 1915 when Californian farmers initiated its farming. Today, although the fruit is grown globally, Mexico stands as the largest avocado producer in the world. 

Among many varieties, the Hass and Fuerte are widely preferred by avocado lovers, the former blackish and the other with a green shade and thinner skin. Of the two, the coarse-skinned Hass is favored more than its cousin, the Fuerto, for its soft creamy pulp and smaller pit.

Incredible as it may sound, avocados pack nearly 20 vitamins plus minerals, and they are the only fruit that contains a substantial amount of monounsaturated fatty acids. 

As little as half an average-sized avocado packs almost 140 calories and 15 grams of fat—75 percent of the total fat is healthy monounsaturated. It is cholesterol and sodium-free, rich in fiber, and packed with folates and vitamin E. Likewise, dense in potassium, one-half of the avocado contains more potassium than a medium banana—487 mg against 422 mg, respectively. Health food buffs have touted it as a ‘Superfood.’ 

Now, the health benefits of avocado appear staggering if introduced into our meal plan. Let’s consider looking into the health rewards of the nutrient-dense fruit.

Supports the cholesterol level

Our body comprises two kinds of cholesterol: the ‘good,’ called HDL (high-density lipoprotein), and the ‘bad,’ called LDL (low-density lipoprotein). A severe hike in LDL can lead to life-threatening outcomes, running the risk of heart disease and stroke. The HDL absorbs cholesterol in the blood and transfers it to the liver to flush it out from the body.

Science backs it that avocados are loaded with oleic acid (omega-9 fatty acid) and the richest source of cholesterol-lowering nutrients called Phytosterols, boosting the healthy HDL and cutting down on the culprits, the LDL and the triglycerides. 

Research published by the American Heart Association maintained that daily intake of a single avocado can lower the LDL level. Clinical studies on individuals with high cholesterol levels furnished compelling evidence for this finding with remarkable results. Following a week-long diet of avocado, the analysis led to a 22 percent drop in the LDL and triglycerides while the HDL elevated by 11 percent.

The significant risk factors for cardiovascular disease are bad cholesterol and saturated fat. Again, rich in monounsaturated fat, folate, fiber, potassium, and a plant compound, beta-sitosterol, avocados help keep the cholesterol level in check. 

People with diabetes are supposed to tread a fine line between healthy meals and sugar spikes. Given that, the high-fat content in avocados might sound contradictory, inviting a bad rap. 

A medium-sized avocado contains about 22 grams of fat (15 grams monounsaturated, 4 grams polyunsaturated, 3 grams saturated). Thus, avocados with loads of ‘good fats,’ with an insignificant amount of saturated fat, still offer health benefits for diabetes patients.

Clinical observation has testified that a diet high in monounsaturated fat supports insulin sensitivity and advances the GLUT4 glucose in the cells.

Low in sugar content and dense in dietary fiber, soluble and insoluble, the consumption of avocado enhances glycemic management and stalls blood sugar spikes. It also helps spur better digestion and may reverse insulin resistance in type 2 diabetes.

Keeps the kidneys safe

Maintaining a healthy heart is crucial, as is the delicate care and safeguarding of our kidneys lest they run high risks of harm with critical results. A rich source of vitamins, minerals, and antioxidants, a single avocado packs over 480mg of potassium, which nourishes the kidneys. Specialists maintain the intake of a moderate amount of avocado in their diet, even helping chronic kidney patients in a critical stage.

Even tea made from avocado leaves works as a kidney cleanser, flushing wastes and toxins from the kidneys.

Keeps our eyes healthy

Avocados are rich in vitamin E and compounds like lutein, zeaxanthin, and carotenes. Research studies maintain that it supports eye health. With antioxidant properties, they also assist in fighting off eye diseases that come of age, such as macular degeneration and even cataracts.

Incorporating avocado into your meal plan helps keep your eyes healthy. It is rich in compounds called lutein and zeaxanthin (belonging to the carotenoid family). They maintain your eye health with antioxidant properties and fight off eye diseases that come of age, such as macular degeneration and even cataracts. 

Nourishes the skin

Besides, ladies also try a thin slice of avocado peel or a fruit paste mixed with almond oil under the eyes, thought to remedy dark blotches. For the oil content in the peel, too, rubbing the peel on dry skin of the face works wonders, they claim. Women also use the creamy paste of the fruit as a DIY face mask to hydrate and moisturize the skin. It is supposed to make the face skin soft and silky.

Some tips

When buying avocados, widely available in Kathmandu fruit stalls, go for the firm ones, discarding those with soft, dark, sunken spots or bruises. You can store them in the refrigerator for ripening, which takes four to seven days. If you wish to ripen them earlier, stow them in a paperback in your pantry; that takes less time to ripen. 

Like all other fruits, avocados are eaten raw. The pulp mashed into a fine paste makes a superb spread, substituting butter for bread, sandwiches, and rotis. It works wonders as a salad accompaniment. Or slice it and eat it by scooping its creamy fruit.  

Or, if your taste buds crave a seasoned sauce or spread, mash the fruit, add lime juice, and season it with a pinch of salt and cilantro. Voila, you have blended it into an incredibly popular Mexican condiment. 

Small wonder, the fantastic avocado has won over the hearts of people across the globe today. The bottom line? The splendid nutritious fruit worth its weight in gold is, by all counts, a ‘Superfood!’ Indeed!

References: hsph.harvard.edu/nutrition source; cdc.gov; medicalnewstoday; healthline.com; bbcgoodfood.com; nutritiofacts.org; breathewellbeing.in; avo.com.np.

Disclaimer: The views expressed in the above text are solely research-based, not medical advice; the author solicits readers’ discretion and cross-references. 

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