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Nearly everyone falls prey to constipation at one time or another—more so when it comes to elderly individuals. People generally believe that if you are afflicted with constipation, you must give a wide berth to eating bananas.  As much as it is a delicious and healthy fruit loved by all, it has long become the focus of speculation and debate concerning constipation, a common gastrointestinal complaint. My wife never eats bananas because she has constipation. She believes bananas aggravate the problem, as did most people I talked with. I still recall the old days when my mom gave us kids bananas to eat when we had diarrhea, saying it worked wonders to stop loose bowels. Nevertheless, a nonagenarian, she eats half a banana each day. Although I'm a diabetic, I eat one banana every morning for breakfast. While on cycling rides, I indulge myself with two as it works like an energy booster when doing grueling inclines. It has been like this since I got into cycling for 15 years. That has never interfered with my bowel movements to this day. My daily regimen starts with guzzling down nearly a liter of water on an empty stomach—first thing in the morning, followed by a refreshing mugful of tea. Before you know it, I have to dash for the washroom. It stays that way every day, ruling out rare exceptions like when visiting new environments, a filthy bathroom, and while traveling—worst of all, if I have to use an archaic squat toilet instead of a commode.   My wife knows I never have a problem with constipation, but trying to convince her that bananas would not add to her problem always leads to a stalemate.   She instead goes for a heap of laxatives, stool softeners, and whatnot, ayurvedic antidotes, too, into the bargain—and that goes every day. It works for her most days a week, but the irony of it all, the motley medications do not work as a perfect remedy.  It was time I dug into this issue and got to the roots. Ta-da! My little research debunked the near folk myth that eating bananas aggravated the problem but helped those suffering from it—poop. It was nothing less than an eye-opener and a plausible answer to my wife's misconception.  In a nutshell, constipation is a condition that leads to fewer than three bowel movements a week with hard, dry, or lumpy stools that are difficult and, at times, painful to pass, landing you feeling not all stool has passed through the rectum. My research led me to the finding that constipation is a health disorder affecting almost 20 percent of the world's population.  To go by medically-backed findings, the primary causes of constipation include your eating habit and lifestyle. You will likely get constipated if your food needs more fiber, like leafy greens, vegetables, fruits, and whole grains, or in the event, high-fat meals, such as meat, junk food, or processed food, outpace your dietary regimen.   Next, your daily intake of fluids needs to be improved, which can also precipitate in harder stools, stubborn from passing usually. Our body needs enough fluids to keep it functional, and science backs the theory. You won't believe it! A whopping 67 percent of water makes up for our bodies.  Or, you are less involved in physical activity. Health experts maintain regular workouts contribute to more than toning up the heart and the body muscles; it also boosts regular bowel movements. Now, the knotty question pops up, what makes bananas bowel-friendly and helps alleviate the severity of constipation? Fiber-rich food is essential to keep you in excellent overall trim, including better gut health or microbiota. Consuming adequate fiber can prevent or relieve constipation, aiding waste to move smoothly through the body. It also encourages healthy gut microbiota. Medical and health reviews claim dietary fiber enhances the bulk of stool, helps promote regular bowel movements, and cuts down on body wastes lodged in the intestines helping against gastrointestinal disorders.  That said, what makes bananas functional in alleviating constipation, and even work as a prophylactic against it and relieve those suffering from this miserable condition?  For a start, bananas pack both soluble and insoluble fiber. While insoluble fiber contributes to bulk, spurring bowel activity, soluble fiber absorbs water, helping stools stay large but soft, complementing the movement of waste through your digestive tract. Many plant foods, such as fruits, broccoli, carrots, oats, and beans, fall under this category.  There is more, the nutrient-dense bananas are a source of vitamin B6, potassium, magnesium, vitamin C, A, and over three times as much phosphorus and iron as apples, all contributing to a healthy heart, stronger bones, and help keep your cholesterol and BP in check and cuts down on the risk of stroke—the checklist seems still an arm long.  Good news for diabetics! As maintained by the American Diabetes Association, the fiber in bananas counterbalances blood glucose at a safe level. Even diabetics can go for a modest single banana a day. Touted as a ‘superfood’ at the turn of the 20th century, it also gathered a lustrous endorsement from the journal of the American Medical Association.  That said, bananas are not unfavorable to constipation; they act instead as a close ally to mitigating the setback. Hopefully, this write-up will rid my wife of the long-harbored fallacy and go for bananas—haha! The above content provides generic information based on research. It is in no way a substitute for a qualified medical opinion. Always consult a specialist or your doctor for further details [email protected]

Looked upon as a mystical Shangri-La and dubbed the "Little Tibet," the enchanting tiny enclave hidden within the folds of majestic mountains on the Tibetan Plateau, the 500-year-old capital of Mustang, "the Kingdom of Lo"–Lo Manthang–was off limits to foreigners until 1992. For old folks, Mustang was a fabled "himal pari ko desh," a land beyond the Himalayas. In 2018, I traveled to Lo Manthang (3,840m), Upper Mustang, on a 13-day cycling trip with three companions and turned my long-cherished dream into reality. It stood out hands down as the most memorable journey of my life—one of a kind. Among many other breathtaking landmarks, the mysterious 2,500-old Shija Jhong cave at Chosser village boggled our minds. Following a two-day respite and a thorough tour of the walled city of Lo Manthang, including its medieval gompas (monasteries) and the 14th-century Tashi Gephel Palace (undergoing renovation then), we wished to make our last day worth the effort by exploring a little farther the city. We set aside two destinations: the Korala border with China, some 28 km away, and the closer Chosser Jhong Cave. Our team captain, Khashing Rai, and I favored the historic cave; my other two mates, Shayeet and Diwas, were for the border. After a bit of bickering, we finally settled upon Jhong cave. After gorging on dal-bhat at the hotel, we dusted our bicycles, hopped into our saddles, and hit the dirt road to Chosser (3,916m), some 19km away. It took us over an hour to arrive at Chosser—clusters of adobe houses scattered around a close-knit community. The wind that escalated into a full-blown gale made our pedaling an ordeal. We left our bikes at the village square tea shop and hiked to the cave. The landscape of Mustang never ceased to baffle us right from day one. On the way to the cave, the weird rock formations in phenomenal sizes and shapes in the bare, parched, dusty, wind-ravaged, and arid terrain gave us the impression of having landed on a different planet—so other-worldly. For all that, the charm the rugged environs held for us was mystifying. As we advanced toward our destination, November’s biting wind seemed bent upon brutally lashing us. The chill seemed to cut through the layers of our thermal wear and windbreakers to our bones. Small wonder Mustang earns the notoriety of diurnal gale force gust with speeds outstripping 40 knots. You won't believe it! At the wind-torn Nyi La pass (4,020m), the highest point en route to Lo Manthang, the wind threatened to sweep my bike off a cliff. Following a 45-minute walk in that stark wilderness with no such things as greenery and habitation, we arrived at Jhong cave that towered above us—defined against the clear indigo sky. All four of us froze to the ground as we watched the massive rock formation in all its glory—the spectacle as much for the eyes as for the mind. The near vertical face of the craggy cliff held pockmarks, which we soon figured were gaping holes, presumably serving as crude windows for a light source. Awestruck, we set foot on the monumental Shija Jhong Cave, just one among over 10,000 human-made caves that pepper the cliffs of Mustang, near-impossible to access. A concrete flight of steps led to the cave's entrance. Next, we had to climb narrow wooden ladders to the upper stories. Each landing opened into passages and multiple chambers. The ladders kept going up to a soaring fifth story. As the rickety ladder shook and wobbled, I stomached my fear and climbed to the fifth floor. Exceeding 40 chambers, some needed access through narrow tunnel-like entrances and stooping too; we negotiated past them cautiously, as there were gaping pits too. One false step, and you would take a fall to the lower story. Several chambers had crude tanks and bins hued into the walls, probably to store water and grain; others appeared like sleeping quarters. Several chambers held ceilings blackened by soot; they must have served as kitchens. How on earth those middle-era people, against all odds, dug caves into sheer rock faces is nothing short of an enigma yet unraveled. Undeniably, the Jhong cave is a living testimony to the phenomenon that the ancient people of Lo lived in caves for millennia. Nearly every chamber had a gaping opening that opened to a stunning view of the rugged wind-sculpted landscape and the Chosser valley in the distance. With no head for heights, it gave me the creeps, even peering from the fifth floor's hole. The presence of thousands of human-made sky caves chiseled into Mustang's near vertical sedimentary cliffs substantiates that cave civilization was inseparable from its past. "People still live in some caves around Garphu and Chosser," said Wangchhen Lowa, the owner of the Mystique Hotel in Lo Manthang. Besides being used as living quarters, archaeologists speculate people used the cave shelters for diverse purposes, from burial grounds for the deceased to meditation chambers for the monks, a refuge from enemy aggression, storing grains, and battle lookout posts. Caves such as the Luri and Tashi Kabum house mural paintings—believe it or not—even mummified human remains and stupas. Today, the Jhong cave and the rest of the sky caves remain a Chinese puzzle for the stumped archaeologists, inviting many hypotheses. As it is, those dark caves of Mustang, to this day, remain shrouded in profound mystery and intrigue. [email protected]

The Amish of Berlin—ring any bell? Unlikely, I gather; I didn't have the foggiest idea about it. Somewhere in Germany? I got it all wrong until I visited the USA in 2014, poles apart from Germany! During my five-and-a-half-month stay in the colossal country, I hopped around several states, from Texas and Georgia to Colorado and Ohio, spending time with close relatives and friends, including my daughters, Smriti and Preeti. My last stay turned up in the city of Findlay, Hancock County, Ohio, with my younger daughter, Preeti. After exhausting all the must-see places in Findlay, Preeti offered to take me on a long drive to Amish Country, about 125 miles away—a quaint town called Berlin, Holmes County, Ohio. When she gave me the lowdown on the Amish people, I could not wait. It sounded weird to me and more like red herrings. But the facts turned out to be true. Contrary to my fancy that we would speed through megacities, the drive traversed instead across vast swathes of country and farmland intercepted by thick woodlands, farmhouses, and sparse suburban townships. "Ba (dad), we are almost there," said Preeti as we cruised across sprawling farmland and greenery with a random scattering of archaic country houses. The core town hub looked bustling with tourists. The first thing that struck me dumb was the abundance of horse-pulled open carriages and horse-drawn buggies trotting on the main roads and streets, reminding me of American wild west movies. "They belong to the Amish people," said my daughter. To me, the streets shuttling neck and neck with modern-day cars, the buggies and carts just looked incongruous—sticking out a mile. Albeit, everything appeared uncluttered and well-ordered. Fantastic! I saw the Amish men in beards but no mustaches (like the conservative Muslims) dressed in their bespoke blackest black straight-cut suits,  slacks held by suspenders (belts and neckties forbidden), and sporting broad-brimmed felt hats—kids included. Amish women caught the eye wearing dark-colored full skirts with long sleeves extending to their corsets with head capes or bonnets. Girls, too—sleeveless was taboo. Much like in movies, I felt like I'd traveled back to the 1800s of an old-order America. I learned Berlin drew many foreign and domestic tourists as a quintessential rural America with its unassuming simplicity combined with nonpareil local crafts, culture, tradition, and history, including 100-year-old tenements. Set against a rural setting, the crowd pleasers on the streets of Berlin housed many eye-catching shops, malls, and eateries, mostly owned by the Amish people. Preeti and I found ourselves lost among the handmade craft shops, heirloom furniture galleries, antique shops, vintage apparel stores, and flea markets galore until our legs ached. But every place we ducked in seemed worth a stop. Coffee shops and ice cream parlors appeared by the shedload every way we went. So did the restaurants, which served all kinds of food—minus the fast food—including the local cuisine. We were on a wild spree window shopping, buying souvenirs, and binge eating their mouthwatering local delicacies: homemade cheese, chocolates, and wines. I moved to approach a lone Amish gentleman sitting at a corner table of the restaurant we stopped by, so I could strike up a conversation. Preeti looked at me disapprovingly and held my arm. She said that was the dumbest thing to do. She made it clear later that the Amish shunned visitors, avoided being photographed, and disliked talking to people other than their community. Strange it may sound, but that's how it is in the Amish country. The more Preeti fed me the bare facts about Amish people, the more it sounded incredulous. They have their principles, beliefs, and rules redolent of the Quaker values and principles, which advocate simplicity, peace, integrity, community, equality, and stewardship to guide them to a meaningful life. Humility, family, community, compassion, and above all else, separation from the world are their mainstays. And every member of the community staunchly follows those values. And they are proud to be Amish. The old-order Amish people forsake electricity off the grid, mobiles, television, computers—every convenience of modern technology and the digital age we think we can't do without and ride a buggy-horse for conveyance instead of a motor-powered car or motorcycle. Incredible! Going by American history, in 1820, Amish settlers immigrated in large numbers to Berlin, Ohio, and cashed in on the rich farmland around the then-small settlement. Even today, the lush, productive farms around the town speak volumes about their unparalleled farming. The Amish believe this life on Planet Earth is part of their journey to heaven and needs to function by God's will. For instance, if a house burns down, it's God's will—let it burn. The more I learned about the Amish, the more it bowled me over. After a thrilling time in Berlin, we left for home—happy and wiser. I could not help wondering, as the car sped on the deserted highway—how come such a community continues to exist on Earth in the third millennium? [email protected]

The Tarebhir Uphill Challenge Mountain biking race held on January 8, 2022, the first among the 7-Series-Race, was my maiden bid. I'd decided it would be my last, given my age (69). Guess what! I pressed on with the subsequent races against my better judgment, unaware that successive races would turn lengthier and more taxing. When I learned the second challenge was Kalu Pandey, I thought I was nuts to dare. Gosh! I could not believe my eyes when I took the third podium position—it worked like a shot in the arm. The organizers had granted a break of two-three weeks after each race. It worked wonders as my burnt-out legs got enough time to recover. A half-marathon is what the third race, Matatirtha-Deurali Bhanjyhyang (7.5 km), appeared to me. I felt frustrated when every racer seemed to pull ahead of me—no podium position this time. Toward the fourth race, Pharping-Hattiban, I learned, to my surprise, that the rest of my fellow contenders in the Senior Category (60+) had just stepped into their 60s. So, at 69, I was senior to them by eight years—and the greyest among the rest, 100-plus racers. It was anything but comforting to learn that Lakuri Bhanjhyang was the next. I knew how grueling the uphill was as I'd ridden there five years back. Come rain or shine—I did it. And it paid off—I walked away with the third standing. Surprisingly, my commitment seemed set in stone as the races progressed with the hardships stomached. In all sincerity, I enjoyed each moment at the race—no words to relate those adrenalin-pumping seconds when I finished amidst boisterous cheering and clapping. I adored the warm and like-minded comradery among the bikers—giving off a palpable vibe. I'd never imagined I'd make so many friends in the bargain. Incredible! The sixth challenge—the Godavari to Chapakharka (2,300m), east of the Phulchoki ridge, cut across dense forest, so quiet I could hear my heart thump. The overcast weather with no sun appeared cut out for the grueling ride. Unawares midway, the sky rumbled, and I felt the first droplets on my face, then drizzle, followed by an uglier weather mood swing. A sudden gust turned into a windstorm, driving the pedaling near impossible and threatening to hurl me off my bike. To my misery, the rains resumed and lashed me, sopping wet. I could not figure out how I made it to the finish, struggling hard against the gale and the rain. Once atop, I broke into a terrible shudder from the intense cold despite changing into dry clothes; I feared I might collapse from hypothermia. I survived. To every racer's discontent, the seventh and the last race got announced within a week following the Chapakharka tormenting ordeal with no extended rest period. It was no less than the formidable Phulchoki (2,700m), the lengthiest at 14km, with the inclines a sure killer. The big day arrived—all appeared apprehensive, me the most. It meant moving the mountains for me. Worse yet, I'd developed a nagging pain in the neck from the last race. The turnout of contestants, too, had dropped. The weather looked gloomy under dark clouds, with the race flagged off. At midway, a loud thunderclap sounded, soon followed by a nasty cloudburst. I feared the torrent of red-clay rainwater that had turned the dirt road into a gushing brook might wash me down the slope. It looked like I was the only soul straggling behind on that godforsaken forested incline, let alone the thrashing rain. Upon seeing the 4 km milestone, I wavered. A jumble of thoughts raced through my mind. "What on earth? Man, it's just an ordinary race, not an international contest, you moron! Just give up." Still in a quandary, the other half of my mind goaded me on. "Do you want to give up when you're less than four kilometers away?" In a stupor as I debated with myself while my legs kept working the pedals. At the crest, the sight of a whooping crowd felt exhilarating, if not euphoric. I'd done it. But at a cost—I have had to nurse my sore neck for over a month. [email protected]

The evening in the dining room of the Mystique Hotel, Lo Manthang, buzzed wild—the noise so loud that voices needed raising. Packed almost to the gunwales by trekkers, cyclists, and motor-bikers, the crowd included us too—four cyclists, Khashing, our team leader, Shayeet, Diwas, and this scribe. The heated room wore a festive ambience; everyone appeared in a back-slapping mood, and so we were—the vibe in the room was almost palpable. It was our last day in Lo Manthang, a 13-day cycling tour we did in 2018. We were talking with an Australian cyclist group when my eyes clapped on Wangchhen Lowa, better known as Ram Gurung by all in Lo Manthang, sitting before the iron stove sipping Shyu Cha (Tibetan tea made from yak butter, salt, and tea). I brightened up and excused myself from my friends and the Aussies to join him for a chat. With 20 years at ACAP (Annapurna Conservation Area Project), Wangchhen aka Ram, also co-owner of the hotel, seemed to know what's what about Mustang and helped me with a wealth of information. Following an exchange of customary pleasantries and more insight into the walled city of Upper Mustang, its inhabitants, rich culture, religion, and history, the topic, upon my curiosity, diverted to the ancient death ritual called the sky burial, still practiced in Upper Mustang. With over two decades of experience in conservation, biodiversity, and flora and fauna of the Trans-Himalayan region, Lo Manthang, it was a privilege conversing with him. Before touching upon the sky-burial issue, he briefed me on the vultures of Upper Mustang, which play a crucial role in the consummation of sky burials. They included especially the Himalayan griffons (Gyps himalayensis) and lammergeiers (Gypaetus barbatus), the bearded vultures. "In recent years, the number of Himalayan vultures, especially griffons and lammergeiers, the bearded vultures in the Upper Mustang region, has declined disastrously," said Wangchhen. The Himalayan griffons survive on carcasses and carrion. They nest in high cliff edges and even deserted sky caves in Mustang—often sighted at Chhuksang, Yara, Ghemi, and other wind-ravaged arid cliffs. Native to Mustang and other Trans-Himalayan regions like Dolpo, Humla, Jumla, and Manang, these highland carnivores are large birds and weigh from eight to 12 kg with a wingspan of 2.5m to 3m. The Himalayan lammergeiers, a close cousin to griffons, too, scavenge like the griffons and live on high crags, but weirdly their diet comprises 90 percent bones (the marrow being their favorite). Almost as large as the griffons, if not bigger, they gobble up the shredded bones after the griffons pick them clean. To honor the dead, funeral ceremonies and death rituals in Nepal vary from one culture to the other. Typically, the deceased body is largely either cremated or buried. In Tibet, singular to their culture, a death ritual commonly performed is a sky burial. "Going by the legend, the concept of sky burial in Mustang has its roots in Tibetan culture, preserved in Upper Mustang for eons. Widely exercised to date in Tibet, countries like Bhutan and Mongolia, too, follow the ritual," said Wangchhen. Some three decades ago, the sky burial ritual ubiquitous in Mustang gradually declined following trappings of haphazard modernization, making inroads into the once pristine area. "This funeral practice, widely performed in Tiri village in Kagbeni, suddenly ceased; it has been over 10 years since any sky burial took place there, but the ritual continues in a village called Dhamkar in Upper Mustang among the ethnic minorities called the Lowas (Gurungs, Bistas and Biswokarmas)," said Wangchhen. He sounded very convincing, as he has Lowa roots. When someone from this community dies, a high Lama (priest) scrutinizes the deceased's zodiac sign, astrologically juxtaposing it against five Tibetan Buddhist elements—the earth, water, fire, air, and the space—and determines the method for the departed's funeral. If the high Lamas decide to go for a sky burial, the funeral ceremony begins, accompanied by the beat of drums, cymbals, and dung chen (a Tibetan long-pipe horn). After the rites, the body is handed over to the monks assigned to behead the body, dismember the corpse, and hack it to pieces. The severed head gets buried, and the chopped-up pieces are moved to an elevated site to feed the vultures. Curiously, the commotion lures vultures from great distances to assemble at the site and swarm at the chopped body tissues, jostling each other to grab their choicest piece. By performing this rite, the sacred vultures, an emanation of wisdom deities, transport the deceased's soul to heaven—so believe the local folks. Strange as it may sound, the vultures do not feed on the meat if the deceased were a sinner. The sky burial rite is nothing less than gruesome but a stark reality founded on Tibetan spiritual values. "Based on Buddhist tenets and values, the philosophy behind the sky burial ritual is insightful and profoundly spiritual. When you die, your spirit leaves your body, leaving behind nothing but a mass of flesh and bones. If your worthless body can serve as a source of sustenance to another living being, it's good karma to a noble cause," said Wangchhen Lowa. A dull boom of a gong, punctuated by the sharp clang of cymbals and the haunting wail of a long pipe horn, sounded from a nearby monastery as Wangchhen Lowa rounded up on the eerie account of Lo Manthang's sky burial. [email protected]

Cooped up at home for weeks, I and my cycling mate Shishir decided to embark on a long ride to Melamchi. Bearing in mind the sudden flare-up of Covid-19 in Kathmandu, Shishir proposed an ingenious plan—bike-packing. It meant skipping hotels, sleeping in a tent, and cooking our meals for the evening. The route we chose was the Sankhu-Jaharsingh Pauwa. The weather was favorable. But it soon got a tad warm for comfort as we huffed up several steep climbs after Gokarna. The Sankhu road, since my last visit five years ago, had improved and widened, but some sections still begged completion. Like the good old days, the sweeping expanses of rice fields clung to the sprawling Manohara banks; the river still looked virgin. Today, it is a different story altogether. The Manohara banks in the urban sprawl crawl with houses, factories, slums and mountains of trash. Oddly, the lush forested hills of Telkot appeared well-preserved and denser. In a little over two hours, we arrived at Sankhu. We pedaled smack through the heart of the old city—rather, what remained of it. Concrete structures had replaced the traditional red-brick and tile-roofed houses—the last vestiges of the ancient Newar settlement, also called Shankharapur, for being shaped like a Sankha (conch). As we headed out to Lapsifedi, the burbling Shali Nadi, next to the road, tumbled and weaved over rocks and through massive boulders, winding down south across terraced rice fields, almost ready for harvesting and flowering mustard. The lush forested hills soared high to both the east and the north. After Lapsifedi, we struck off to Jaharsingh Pauwa, an eight-kilometer grueling climb across thinning habitation and a beautiful temperate broadleaved forest. In about two hours, we reached Jaharsing Pauwa (pauwa translates to a resting place). Amidst many eateries that lined the town square, we ducked into an empty one, with the owner, a woman, and her son (sans masks) as the only occupants. We went for dal-bhat. Starved, we ate like pigs. Following a good fill and a brief rest, we hit the dirt road that headed north to Nangle. The east ran to Kattike Bhanjhyang and Nagarkot. Jaharsing Pauwa (1,792m) cradled a ridge that dropped in the east to a deep, narrow valley with terraced rice fields, rising again to the forested hills of Nagarkot. Downhill riding is fun, but it has its downsides, too. The constant bucking on the uneven, pitted off-road made my arms ache. After a three-hour free-wheeling downhill, we arrived at the highway town, Bahune Pati. Following some refreshments, we left for Melamchi. In the distance, down a ridge to our right, we could see the blue waters of Indrawati. The meandering river kept us company from thereon. The piddling six km to Melamchi Pul (bridge) bazaar seemed like infinity. Darkness closed in, and we switched on the lights; my cyclometer logged the distance of 65 km. Things can get trickier after dark. Done with shopping for rice, dal, and vegetables for supper, Shishir seemed disoriented about the route to the riverside. After 15 minutes of drifting around aimlessly, we ran into a local chap, who helped us with the direction. We had to cross a suspension bridge over the Melamchi River to a small settlement called Dobhantar. After another 20 minutes of fumbling down a darkened slope, Shishir stopped. The river seemed close, as it sounded louder. We had made it to the campsite. A little downriver, Melamchi met the larger, snow-fed Indrawati. It took me by surprise as I looked up. We were right under the hanging bridge we had just crossed, outlined in the darkness against the sky. Melamchi rushed by at a spitting distance, the interminable rumble quite pronounced. We had our jobs designated. Within a half-hour, Shshir had the tent pitched and finished fetching water from the river. I set up the kitchen and the saucepan on the portable stove with a mix of rice and dal khichadi. I buried myself then in chopping potatoes and cabbage for the curry. After the khichadi, I set a pan on the stove and began sautéing the potatoes and onions. Then disaster struck! I was about to stir the vegetable when the pan tipped and flipped face down flat on the sandy turf. I froze, and so did Shishir. There goes our curry, I said, and swore like mad. Seconds elapsed before I sprang into action—scooped up the spilled lot, tossed it into a pot, and asked Shishir to pour water to rinse it. After a thorough job, I re-sauteed it and added the chopped cabbage—mighty sure the curry would be gritty and pathetic. You’ll never guess! The curry could not have tasted better without the slightest hint of sand! Shishir and I doubled up with laughter until our bellies ached. Melamchi joined in with a profound resonance. [email protected]

Following a tour of the Thrangu Yangtse Monastery in Namo Buddha, Raju, my cycling companion, and I checked into a guesthouse. Our late August cycling escapade included a stretch from Kathmandu to Dhulikhel and the final leg, an uphill ride southwest, to Namo Buddha (totaling 45km) from an intersection called Kabhre Bhanjyang on the Banepa-Bardibas highway. During our evening meal, Palden Tamang, the lodge owner, asked us if we dropped by the Namo Buddha stupa, erected by a king in memory of his youngest son in 4,000 BC. We hadn’t but hearing him made our jaws drop. We had only toured the grand Yangtse Monastery, built in 1979 with pagoda-style gilded roofs, chaityas, and vihars (chambers) sitting on a hilltop overlooking a stunning landscape. Although I had been to Namo Buddha before, I took the Yangtse Monastery to be Namo Buddha. Most visitors make the same mistake. The next day, after quickly dusting off our mountain bikes, we rode to the stupa. We imagined the shrine would occupy a quiet site, but tea shops and shops, selling everything from incense sticks and ghee lamps to souvenirs and bottled dalle khursani (red cherry pepper chili) among other miscellaneous items flanked the stone-paved path. As we entered the premises, the white-painted structure on an elevated platform looked like the Swayambhunath stupa’s replica. Closer, it appeared more of a chorten with a miniature dome. With a gilded tiered lotus and a gajur (pinnacle), and below it the harmica or four-sided block, painted with half-closed eyes of Buddha, the vajradrishti (wisdom eyes), it was reminiscent of Swayambhunath and Boudhanath. While mini chortens with the crest painted gold dotted the main stupa, manis (prayer wheels) skirted the platform. Prayer flags made the surrounding explode in a riot of colors, lending the area a tranquil and hallowed ambiance. The shrine looked deserted but for a handful of devotees. The shrine, clinging to the brow of a forested hill, dropped abruptly to a lush valley with rice fields and clusters of villages to the west. At the furthest end, we could see the town of Panauti. Curious to gather some info, we dropped by a tea shop. By a stroke of luck, we met the shrine’s chief priest, Kanchha Lama. He was seated in a corner sipping tea. Dressed in a maroon monk’s robe, what struck us most was his black bowler hat. We were in for a big surprise when the priest told us he was 87. He looked hale and hearty for his age. Pleasantries over, the priest shed light on the ancient history of Namo Buddha, the site previously called Hiran Giri, a forested hill for ascetics and hermits to practice meditation and seek wisdom. “According to ancient lore, the story goes back 6,000 years, during the reign of King Shingta Chenpo over Panchali Desh (the present-day Panauti),” the priest began while recounting how Namo Buddha came into existence. Legend has it that the Panchali King had three sons. Among them, the youngest, Semchen Chenpo (the Great Being, also Mahakaruna), humble and endowed with high intellect and divine wisdom, had committed himself to serving all sentient lifeforms with infinite compassion and empathy. During a tour of the hills, the three brothers stumbled upon a tigress in a cave, prone on the floor, motionless. Five of her cubs appeared, sleeping beside her. Alarmed, Semchen’s two brothers nocked their bows with arrows, ready to shoot, but the youngest prince restrained them, and without disturbing the tigress and the cubs, they left for their camp. Prince Semchen, believing something was amiss, revisited the cave, and his hunch proved to be correct. The tigress still lay inert, the cubs trying to suckle their mother’s nipples. The prince realized the tigress was dying of starvation, and that he must save her and the cubs. Without a second thought, he slashed one of his arms and fed the tigress some warm blood. Upon being revived, the tigress pounced upon the prince and devoured him, leaving only the bones. Following great mourning and funeral rites, the royal family collected the prince’s remains in a sandalwood casket, buried it at Hirangiri forested hill, and built a stupa over the grave. Little did anyone know that Prince Semchen would be reborn not once but take several life forms to serve humanity. His ultimate resurrection occurred in Lumbini as Prince Siddhartha Gautam, who renounced worldly pleasures, regality, and wealth, attained moksha and nirvana, and became Gautam Buddha (the ‘awakened’ or ‘enlightened one’). When Buddha (also Shakyamuni) traveled to Nepal to spread his teachings, he visited the stupa, the burial ground of Prince Semchen. He folded his hands in reverence to the shrine because Buddha knew the prince was none other than himself in his earlier life. “Since Buddha bowed down in salutation to the shrine, this place got the name Namo (homage) Buddha,” said Kanchha Lama, the chief priest as he wrapped up the soul-stirring tale about sacrifice, spirituality, and reincarnation. [email protected]

Over a cup of coffee at a roadside café, I proposed to Raju, my cycling mate, a ride to Sailung in Dolakha district. He jumped at the offer. The big day arrived and we left in the morning, our mountain bikes stowed into my car for Mude (148 km), a hill town, on the way to Dolakha. From there on, we intended to ride to Sailung, 28 km southeast. I felt good behind the wheel after a long spell (because of the Covid-19 lockdown) as we sped along the Arniko highway. The beckoning turquoise Sun Koshi kept us company from Dolalghat until Khadi Chaur. We took a turn at Khadi Chaur and got on Jiri road, negotiating past a maze of twists, turns, loops, and hairpins on wooded hills. Small sleepy towns shot by as we made our pit stop at Mude (2,500 m)—a highway settlement flanked by crummy hotels and motley shops. After a hearty dal-bhat and a brief respite, we hopped onto our saddles. The dirt road cut across small towns, hill country, and forested areas. We often stopped for tea and snacks, followed by a spirited chinwag with curious local folks gathered at the tea shops. We stopped by a village town called Dhunge since a biker friend in Kathmandu had advised us to rest there for the night. He explained the last leg to Sailung ran through an uninhabited stretch of forested hills with unrelenting climbs. As we had three hours of daylight, Raju pressed us to push along. I don’t know why I felt foreboding when we hit the track. The towering pine-studded cliff before us appeared strangely ominous. Soon, the climb got harsh, and we had to get down to push. Darkness closed upon us, and we fixed our lights on the handlebars. There seemed to be no break on the incline. Soon, the pitted track with rocks and gravel entered dense woods—no soul or habitation in sight. The hush seemed spooky. We had no clue how long it would take to Khola Kharka, our layover for the night, but we needed to figure it out. The ordeal didn’t end there. We ran out of water and food after devouring the last packet of biscuits. Disoriented, bone-weary, and starved, we plodded on. Then, I freaked out. Tired of hauling the bike uphill, I jumped into the saddle to pedal. Raju led a few paces ahead, shoving his bike. The rear tire of my bicycle struck the edge of a rock and I wobbled and lost my balance. The bicycle veered to my left, and before I could stop, the front tire rolled over the edge. Everything happened in the blink of an eye. Before I could gather my wits, I was sliding down the ridge—still straddled on my bike. I must have blacked out for several seconds. It was pitch dark when I snapped out of it. I heard someone call my name, though it sounded far off. Raju had come looking for me with a flashlight. Little by little, I got my bearings back. I lay on the steep slope on my back amid thick bushes. My bike lay tangled in dense foliage several feet down. Raju sounded anxious when he asked if I was okay. Though uncertain, I nodded. He appeared relieved. I still seemed to be in trauma. My mind cleared as I squatted on my haunches. My right flank and left hand hurt. After several seconds, I rose to my feet and ran my hands all over my body. Contrary to my worst fears, I seemed alright—no broken bones. I nodded yes when Raju asked if I could manage it to the road and Raju lugged my bike up. Later, he told me I’d slid some 30 feet down the road. We pressed on to Khola Kharka. My left hand was throbbing, and my right flank, close to my ribs, hurt a lot. Every step was agonizing. After an hour, we spotted lights on the darkened hill. We had finally made it. I got a big scare when I examined my hand at Chyangba Baje’s homestay. It had swollen to the size of a tennis ball. To nurse our aching bones and my injury, we tried the Chyangba couples’ special jhwainkhatte (a blend of millet homebrew poured into a sizzling pan of rice grain fried in ghee) and got drunk. The ride went horribly wrong. But we made it to Sailung the following day. Miraculously, the swelling in my hand lessened, and I even rode my bike back to Mude. [email protected]