Submit your Article

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  

On the fourth day of our cycling trip to Lo Manthang in Upper Mustang, we spent the night in a town called Gheling (3,570m), nestled amidst barren, eroded badlands. The fascinating discovery of a severed human hand at Gheling gompa (monastery) added a breath of mystery to our exploits. My three companions, Khashing, Diwas, and Shayeet, after a cup of shucha and salted butter tea (pocha in Tibetan), took a stroll through the village and dropped by a gompa. I stayed back at the lodge since I’d developed a mild headache and felt too burnt out after the grueling climb of Syangmochen La (pass) at 3,850m; the bleak wind at gale speed threatened to hurl me off my bike, further fueling my misery.  Sonam, the hostess, and Chhiring, her three-year-old son, kept me company as I huddled before the iron stove with a large kettle in the dining room. While I chatted with the lady, Chirring kept eyeing me with a mischievous look but stayed withdrawn and bashful.  Dried yak and chyangra (domesticated mountain goat) droppings are fuel for firing iron stoves throughout the Upper Mustang. Even in prewinter November, the weather at night dropped to minus three to four degrees.  The room doubled as a kitchen and a dining space with painted wooden tables and benches with woolen rugs spread over the top. As a few thangka scrolls hung on the walls, a framed photo of His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama, looked on solemnly.  My friends showed up as I sampled a glass of uwa rakshi (naked barley liquor). The heat from the stove and the drink managed to take the chill off me. My ears pricked when they recounted the sensational happening.  Kunga, a teenage lama (monk), showed my friends around the monastery. They learned he sought ordination into Lama Hood (monkhood) and worked and studied there.  The young monk fetched a bundle swathed in vermillion cloth and unwrapped it. What my friends saw left them baffled. He held a shriveled, hacked-off human right hand, which Kunga claimed dated back over 500 years. The hand still had a gold ring on the ring finger. “This hand belonged to the thief who entered the gompa and tried to steal ancient artifacts. The custodian of the monastery caught him red-handed, chopped off his right hand, and turned him over to the authorities. At Tsarang, too, the royal palace holds one,” said Kunga.  The monk even allowed them to touch it but forbade them to take pictures. Every monastery in Lower and Upper Mustang prohibits photography. It felt genuine, Shayeet swore, and the rest nodded in agreement. Sonam stood by the story. It was apparently local folklore in Gheling. I decided I’d not let the opportunity to see it myself slip at Mustang Raja’s (King) palace in Tsarang.  The next day, we left Gheling and hit the road to Tasarang (3,588m). The morning was crisp but there was no sign of wind. We knew we would face the blast after 11 am though. At a foothill, we ran into a string of horses—regular sightings in Mustang—nibbling on a patch of grass.  At sundown, we arrived in Tsarang, built in the 13th century by the first King of Lo, Chhyogel Ame Pal Sangpo. All four of us were fit to drop as we had to tackle the 4,020m high Nyi La pass with the howling, biting wind that furiously lashed at us. As darkness approached, we called it a day. We struck for the white Dzong (fortress) the next day, the palace of the late King of Mustang, Jigme Palbar Bista.  Standing high on a sandstone cliff and ringed by a thicket of poplar and wild willow, the five-story structure looked formidable but rundown, almost falling apart—tall crumbling walls in ruins stood close by. The site looked deserted. There was no one around and a sign read closed to visitors. My hopes to see the shriveled hands were quashed. We ran into a middle-aged monk heading towards the town, thumbing his prayer beads as we prepared to leave. He seemed very forthcoming and told us the fort still housed the king’s armory, a gallery, and the royal chambers, but they were all in dilapidated states. One room held the chopped-off human hands. After the 2015 earthquake, visitors got barred for safety reasons.  The story at Tsarang differed from Gheling’s though. Going by the local lore, the king ordered to chop off the right hand of the main builder of the palace so he could not erect another of his masterpieces. As we hit the trail, the matter of the severed hands remained vague and shrouded in profound mystery. Watch the video footage on chopped-off hands at Gheling and Tsarang uploaded on Instagram by Magnus Ronningen, a Norwegian adventurer and journalist: https://www.instagram.com/p/BJSQGAmAf61/

Crestfallen at failing to locate the Gupteswor Mahadev buried under heavy cover, Shishir led the way back. He proposed we take a different route back via the northwest face of the Nagarjun hill, including a 12-km stretch of the Nagarjun forest (Shivapuri Nagarjun National Park). It sounded fantastic. We fist-bumped and hopped onto our saddles.  Shishir seemed to be his old self again, which made me happy. We took a break at a small settlement called Chilaune after two hours on the northwest ridge of the Bhim Dunga heights, Dhading.  The landscape continued with the familiar wooded hills, farmland, and rustic settings. The place had a distant but clear view of the northern fringes of Kathmandu valley and the towering Shivapuri hill.  After stiff climbs and thrilling downhills, we stopped at a teashop at Gauri Gaun. It was a little past 2:00 pm, and we felt like we could eat a horse. We ordered egg-veg-noodle soup—a double for Shishir. I looked up, and my eyes locked on a row of tied bunches of corncobs and onions hung to dry under a tin lean-to on the roof.  I could not resist asking the Tamang lady who was the owner of the place for a few onion bulbs with a striking auburn shade. I wanted some as a souvenir from the trip. Amused, the middle-aged Tamang lady took it as a compliment and grinned from ear to ear.  If you love forests, I suggest you look no further and pack your bags and set off to Nagarjun or Shivapuri hills. Further, these woods are no less than a treasure trove if you enjoy bird-watching. These forests are home to more than 300 species of birds, including the rare Hoary-throated Barwing, White-throated Tit, and no less than the elusive Spiny Babbler (Kande Bhyakur in Nepali), an endemic species found only in Nepal.   It was already 4:30 pm in the afternoon when we stopped at a tea shop at Sano Gaun. We felt we deserved some rest, a hot cup of tea, and a little refreshment.  My pulse raced as I thought about the last leg of the trip—a 12 km stretch cutting across the dense Nagarjun forest, a haven for the residents of the wild. I had done that stretch some eight years back. It was close to 5:00 pm as we pedaled past the army checkpoint and entered the forest. Shishir led the way down the windy dirt road which was pitted and waterlogged. At 6.30 pm, darkness closed in, and we fixed the lights onto our handlebars. Then it rained. The long stretch of the forest seemed endless as we pedaled across the narrow motor track, tricky and dangerous as we navigated the many puddles and potholes in the beams of our lights. The rain only made it worse.  Shishir led the way, and I stayed close behind. Often, we had to dismount in ankle-deep mud as our front tires got stuck. Thankfully, none of us had an accident though. I suddenly recalled a small conversation with a few army guys at the teashop at Sano Gaun. One of them had a hair-raising tale to tell.  One late afternoon, on his way back from Balaju to report to duty at the barracks of Sano Gaun, the army chap suddenly froze. He had heard some rustling sounds. He turned around to check and his eyes fell on a full-grown leopard barely 15 feet away. As it turned out, it was stalking its prey—a deer foraging by the roadside.  The deer must have caught the scent of the army man or heard the sound he made. It got spooked and dashed into the bush. And next thing he knew, the leopard had turned its piercing gaze upon him. The man knew turning around and bolting would only tempt the predator to pounce on him. The best thing to do was lock eyes with it, shuffle backward slowly for a few yards, then run hell for leather. He did not know how he made it to the barracks. It took him 20 minutes. At other times, it would take him no less than 40 minutes.  After another 45 minutes through the pitch-dark forest, braving the drizzle and the tricky track, our mind-boggling ride ended at Mudkhu Bhanjyang. Shishir and I parted ways at the Balaju bypass. As I headed home, I kept thinking about our escapade from Mahesh Narayan hills to the verdant Nagarjun forest. It had, in all sincerity, taken my breath away.  As poet and civil rights activist Maya Angelou rightly said, “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breaths away.” [email protected]

In 2014, I visited the USA for the first time ever to see my two daughters. My wife was supposed to join me, but something came up at her office. My eight-hour flight to Seoul Incheon Airport, South Korea, felt like an eternity, followed by another fidgety nine-hour layover. I became so flustered I almost missed the connecting flight—running around in circles in the confusing chaos of the mammoth airport. The flight to Dallas, Texas, was a long-haul one. It took 13 hours—it felt like an awful dream. Nervousness kept me awake the entire flight. I felt disoriented, sleep-deprived, and dizzy when I shook hands with my salo (brother-in-law) at the Dallas airport. Then began the horrible jetlag as I’d leapfrogged multiple time zones and my body’s circadian rhythm was busted. It took an entire week for me to feel better. Like in movies, America appeared phenomenal—nay, intimidating. The high-rise blocks, skyline dominated by skyscrapers, colossal infrastructures, from eight to jaw-dropping 26-lane roads (Katy Freeway, Houston), gigantic flyovers, and bustling boulevards all knocked me off my feet. Greenery appeared as another facade to American character and culture. On long drives, I gawked at scenic lakes, woodlands, nature parks, and breathtaking rural America. After a week’s stay in Dallas, I left for Granbury, a two-hour drive from Dallas to my cousin’s place. The small city was a completely different experience from the hectic Dallas. My cousin lived in the suburbs next to a sprawling golf course with scenic ponds and cascading waterfalls. The picturesque surroundings became my regular evening haunts. To my great surprise, gaggles of wild Canada geese foraged on the lush turf or frolicked in the many pools. They were almost tame when approached. A few weeks later, trouble began. I had sleep disorders compounded by a phobia of air-conditioning. It made me claustrophobic. I slept with windows open back home in Kathmandu. Daytimes were fun, though, as my cousin took me around Granbury’s historical sites and on long drives. After one and a half months, I left for Findlay, Ohio, to my younger daughter’s place. Findlay turned out to be a small city with bracing weather than the humid Granbury. My daughter fussed over me since we had met after eight long years. Although busy at work, she took time off for sightseeing and eating out. It was a really fun time. Trouble followed though. I missed dal-bhat (Nepali staple food). I had had no problem with my brother-in-law and cousin in Texas because lunch and supper often consisted of dal-bhat, but it was a different story in Findlay. My daughter was married to an American; they never ate dal-bhat. Their everyday meals consisted of pizzas, sandwich wraps, salads, and whatnot. My fixation on dal-bhat increased exponentially when I had to go without it for weeks. At least one meal of dal-bhat would have been great. How I wished! When we went out to eat, near desperation, I’d make sure it was an Indian restaurant where I could gorge on rice and dal (lentils). But that did not happen every day. One day, there was a  knock at our door. The visitor was a Nepali student, shacked up with three others in a rented house a spitting distance away. Curious, I dropped by their house one day. The entire apartment reeked of a typical Nepali kitchen when I stepped in. Pleasantries over, I learned they were about to have lunch. A sharp whiff of chicken curry waded through the room and I almost drooled. “Uncle, we’re having lunch; why don’t you join us?” one of them asked. Whoa! He took the words right out of my mouth. I ate like a pig that day. It looked like I’d found a panacea for my misery. My visits to the Nepali students’ place became frequent. To return the favor, I took along some goodies. All went well and the rest of my stay with my daughter passed without a hitch, followed by more fun after my elder daughter arrived from Georgia. I picked up good vibes in America, such as being polite, saying thank you, greeting people on the street, avoiding staring at people, and holding the door at a store for someone close behind. A lesson in humility? Disappointments? At first blush in Dallas, I felt America only had the elderly and morbidly obese people. The fit and the young seemed rare. Once driving through snowfall with my daughter in Findlay, my eyes met a bizarre sight. A couple of guys at a road curb held placards saying: Homeless, need food and a job. My daughter told me it was an everyday sight. In America? I couldn’t believe my eyes. In hindsight, my first American experience was one of a kind, completely different from what I had expected. [email protected]