Submit your Article

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]

Keeping animals as pets is a worldwide phenomenon. The most favored are dogs, with cats coming a close second. But the outlandish taste of individuals is baffling. It can stretch from fish to guinea pigs, ferrets, rodents, reptiles, and predators like cheetahs and lions. Returning from work one day, I caught sight of a brace of red-eared slider turtles (Trachemys scripta elegans) in a fishbowl in my two daughters’ room. I learned my elder teenage daughter, Smriti, had bought them. Aw, what on earth!? Of all the pets, I said to myself. For three years, Smriti and my younger daughter, Preeti, took care of the turtles, and my wife and I didn’t need to bother about them. The siblings handled their pets well. They took care of the feeding, cleaning, and replacing the water. At first, the tiny critters were no bigger than a large coin but, with time, they grew. The fishbowl turned out to be too cramped for the restless wild critters. So, I got a larger tank, and our daughters and their pets seemed happy. After two years, Smriti left Nepal for the US for further studies, leaving the turtles’ care to Preeti. But something went awry, and one of the turtles died. A sad incident for all of us, more so for Preeti. She blamed herself for it. Time heals the worst of wounds and Preeti recovers. The lonely turtle also bounced back to life. Years went by, and we moved into our new house. As the turtle kept growing, the aquarium, too, seemed inadequate. So, I built a miniature pond in our garden. The semiaquatic turtle appeared thrilled as the pond meant it could swim in a larger space, bask in the sun, and wander around our small garden. Everything was great, for a while. But it wasn’t meant to last. After raising the turtle for three years, Preeti, too left for the States. As my wife, Radhika, had to report to work, the responsibility of looking after the turtle fell upon me. Taking care of a turtle is easier said than done. The ordeal began, putting me to a genuine test. Feeding the turtle was no big deal, nor was tank cleaning, as it had an outlet to drain off the sullied water and an inlet to let in a fresh supply. Most reptiles lay eggs, as snakes do. Turtles, cold-blooded reptilians, do the same. I figured my non-mated she-turtle would not spawn. I got it all wrong. Once, I found it rambling around the garden in a frenzy, desperate to find a niche to lay eggs. It laid two unfertilized eggs—they did not hatch. I had no clue that the restlessness reached its peak during the spawning season. It tried more often than not to slip out of our compound at such times. All it needed was an open gate or a gap in the grill to squeeze through or creep past unnoticed when someone entered. Despite all the measures I took, to my great misery, the turtle got lost time and again, and I had to comb the neighborhood looking for it. Once, my doorbell rang; it was a neighbor. He held the turtle in his hands. What he told me next nearly gave me a cardiac arrest. “Bro, your turtle got run over by a car on the road next to my house,” he said. However, it escaped unscathed as the road was dirt, and the car’s weight pushed it down under soft soil that worked as a cushion. Once, I was tending to the turtle’s bleeding lip. It had cut it on a sharp rock in the garden. She bit my finger and would not let go of it, though it was bloodied. This wasn’t an isolated incident, though. It sank its teeth into my finger again another time. The list of my trials and tribulations in caring for my turtle is endless. Today, the turtle is 15 years old. I have cared for it for over a decade. It’s still alive and kicking. The internet tells me a captive-bred red-eared slider can, in many instances, live 50 years. In that case, it still has 35 years to go. My turtle will surely outlive me, as I’m 70 today. [email protected]

Under the shadows of the Himalayas, Nepal bears a myriad of rivers—snow-fed and spring-fed. They drain south into our Terai plains and the holy Ganges, India. Many of our rivers are home to a species of fish called the Himalayan Golden Mahseer (Tor putitora), Sahar in Nepali. Golden Mahseer is a migratory cold-water fish that inhabits our rivers like Sapta Koshi with its seven tributaries (Sun Koshi, Tamor, Dudh Koshi, Bhote Koshi, Arun, and Likhu), Karnali, Seti, Mahakali, Bheri, and Narayani. It spawns during monsoon floods (June-September). Redolent of the salmon that travels thousands of miles upstream to spawn, the Mahseer swims upriver to considerable heights (from 400 ft. to 2,500ft from mean sea level) to breed. After monsoon breeding, they leave the foothills and make a migratory run back to the colder climes of the upper reaches. Curiously, its entire life cycle seems on the run—migrating. Some 15 years ago, I took up fishing—and got hooked on it. I learned further about Golden Mahseer, the Himalayan freshwater gamefish, as time passed. Avid fishers claimed it was the toughest of the tough, the ferocious of the ferocious among the freshwater sport fish. They further cited that gamefish fought like cornered predators and exhibited such brute power and lightning speed no other freshwater fish (excluding salt or sea water) in the world could match. That sparked my curiosity; my passion for digging into this charismatic species became an obsession. The more I studied about this fish, my respect for it ballooned. For seven long years, my research on these species took me to a host of rivers stretching from the length and breadth of Nepal: from Arun, Tammar, Sun Koshi, and Tama Koshi in the east to Karnali, Trishuli, and Babai in the west. Only to learn the Himalayan Golden Mahseer number had dwindled, and the species had fallen under the IUCN Red List as encroached, threatened, and endangered.  Given its endangered status, responsible Mahseer anglers today practice catch-n-release: they make the prize catches, measure and weigh them, and then release them live into the river where they belong after posed photo sessions. Browsing through the pages of several books on Mahseer, I stumbled upon an amusing anecdote about how this fish won laurels worldwide. In the 1850s, during the British Raj in India (1858 to 1947), a young British officer commissioned to Assam Province, India, had a weakness for fishing—fixated on it in truth. After reporting for duty and being well-quartered, the fresher started hanging around with fellow officers in the officers' club to unwind in the evenings. One day, the conversation touched upon fishing in particular. The newcomer livened up. He pitched himself on his exploits of salmon fishing back home in England; he sounded a tad verbose, though. One officer asked: "Have you heard about Golden Mahseer?" When the officer let him on the native Mahseer fish, the fellow snapped back instead. "Mahseer? There's no match to the gallant salmon over freshwater fishing," he said and rambled on about salmon angling. The co-officers realized it'd be futile to argue with him. One day, the officer went fishing in a nearby river noted for Mahseer. After an hour, he finally got a bite—a huge 45-pounder Mahseer bit his bait. Whoa! Pandemonium broke out, followed by a fierce skirmish. After sweating it out for over an hour, he finally landed the prize fish. The Englishman, cut down to size and humbled by the unbridled fury of the Golden Mahseer, never talked about salmon among his fellow officers after that. Many incidents of smashed rods, mangled hooks, and broken lines are predictable if the angler fails to tackle a big Mahseer that shoots for the nearest rapid. Talk to a Mahseer buff, and he will never tire of relating his experience in one breath—the bite, the jerk, and the initial rush, which can be anything from 100 to 200 yards of the fishing line. Desperate, he races along the rocky bank to keep pace, fearing the reel might run out and his fishing line snaps. Leafing through the pages of history, Mahseer, for its notoriety, turned out to be a legend. It became the most sought-after gamefish and a hot topic for the wordsmiths. Books upon books, journals upon journals, dedicated themselves to this acclaimed species. The legendary hunter, naturalist, and writer (Man-eaters of Kumaon, 1944), Col. Jim Corbett, called it "the fish of my dreams" and dubbed it 'the Tiger of the Water.' Another celebrated author, Skene Dhu, christened it the 'Mighty Mahseer.' Tight lines. Watch the video my fisher friends recorded in 2014: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nNBvX07eIqo