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“Let food be thy medicine, and medicine be thy food,”—Hippocrates, the father of medicine.

During the lockdown a year ago, I suffered from bouts of mild gastritis—the causes not far to seek. I am never a stickler to a dietary regimen. I love spicy and oily food, and our dishes at home are way above decadent. Also, I love to drink—a peg or two most days a week.

Given that, I have symptoms of gastric irritation. I often feel full, bloated, and uncomfortable when I fall prey to it. An appetite loss follows; if a little severe, it induces burning in the stomach with mild discomfort in the mid-upper region, just below the breastbone and above the belly button.

When I first got it five years ago, I saw a doctor. "That's early gastritis," said my doctor and handed me a prescription. Since then, when the symptom shows up, I take it upon myself to minister to it.

The remedy seems simple—antacid tablets. If it persists, I go for Omeprazole or Pantoprazole oral (depending on the severity). Hey presto, I feel rejuvenated—as simple as that.

Only this time, the prescription drugs that came to my rescue every time—failed. The gas and discomfiture lingered to make me miserable. I raised the dose from a cap every morning to one more at bedtime (after consulting a doctor friend). The medication always did the trick. Hell, it did not this time!

I continued the cycle for a week (or more?). Good heavens! That did not work, either. The last thing I wanted was a visit to a doctor or the hospital because the Covid-19 outbreak was up and running. A fortnight flew by, and I even discerned a mild pain.

Desperate, it crossed my mind to look for some home remedy. I learned garlic worked for gastritis after a bit of research. The Internet led to fabulous finds about the goodness of garlic, with an arm-long list of health benefits—and helped the heart, among other organs.

An indispensable condiment to the culinary world, the herbaceous, bulbous plant, also dubbed the “stinking rose,” has been used for ages across to prevent and treat several kinds of ailments.

Garlic is a mainstay in our Nepali kitchen; it's an open secret. If you take a stroll down memory lane, you might even recall your grandma or mom using garlic for a cold, cough, and other home remedies. My mom even used it on chickens.

Once, when I was a kid, my mom shoved down the gullet of our sickly drooping rooster with a potion of garlic, turmeric, and mustard oil—weird. You will never guess—the rooster was alive and kicking the next day! Amusing, eh?

Although I remained skeptical about the efficacy of garlic, I was ready to dip my toe into trying it. I started with a half-cut large clove on an empty stomach first thing in the morning.

I stopped the medicines, maintained sobriety, and cut down on oily curries. Then I threw in a daily workout regimen in the bargain. The first day seemed to ease my discomfort somewhat; maybe I had imagined it. I gulped down the remaining half of the clove in the evening before supper.

I repeated the same the next day. To my surprise, I felt a shade better by the evening. The pain subsided, and the burning sensation eased. I made sure my diet remained Spartan—added yogurt for good measure; I learned the probiotics in yogurt remedied stomach problems.

I felt positively optimistic by the morning of the fourth day. Was there a lingering discomfort? I tried hard to discern; I could not say, which led me to believe there was not.

My schedule continued for a week—a half-cut clove of garlic (large) twice a day. By the end of the week, I felt energized—unshakable. The goodness of garlic worked. Man, what on earth was that—a miracle? I wondered.

Caveat: Be advised that ingestion of too much garlic can cause heartburn. 

Disclaimer: The drugs mentioned above do not make up any medical advice.

We met the 73-year-old lady, Kanchhi Adhikari, by chance when my wife, Radhika, and I were on a leisurely drive to Jhor Mahankal.

My gaze fell upon her as she was brimming over a doko-load (a conical-shaped basket hand-woven with bamboo strips/staves) of grass on her back. She had stopped by the teashop where we were savoring buffalo-milk tea (my favorite).

Jhor, a piddling twenty-minute ride (traffic permitting) from our house where we went to savor its countryside appeal, had become one of our favorite haunts. The village-town seemed to forge ahead with the trappings of rapid urbanization but still held vestiges of rustic settings.

Our usual location was Dobhan Chok, at arm’s length from the main bazaar area; two streams, Boudeswor and Sangla, met there.

The drive led through the ancient Newar town of Tokha (or tu khya in Newari, translating to a sugarcane field which the city once boasted in abundance). History has it, Tokha was once an independent Kingdom called Jaipur (later Laxmipur).

If juju dhau (King of yogurt) brings Bhaktapur to mind, Tokha stands for chaku (molasses) production, a family heritage handed down through generations.

To the northwest of Jhor town, the Boudeswor shrine draws hordes of visitors who pay homage to Lord Shiva enshrined within a cave. The site crawls with weekend holidayers during monsoon months, lured by a massive waterfall that crashes down an enormous boulder. Shivapuri soars up in the northeast.

Jhor holds another charm for us—the leafy vegetables and cauliflower, fresh-picked before our eyes—Radhika loves them. Jhor also fascinates me as it has been a route for my cycling rides for over a decade. 

We were in for a big surprise when the lady sat on the bench across facing us. Although creases and crow’s feet appeared on her face, she looked hands down hale and hearty for her age—graceful, too. The sparkle in her eyes was remarkable. 

That brought to my mind the legendary Nepali marathoner, Baikuntha Manandhar, whom I met 40 years ago. I’d no idea he was Baikuntha, the ace runner.

He looked like a frail guy, almost sickly. But when our eyes locked, the sparkle in his eyes startled me, giving away his fine fettle and vitality.

When Radhika asked Kanchhi Adhikari what the grass load weighed like, she put it to over 30 kilos. No kidding! She did not even exhibit the beginning of a postural stoop associated with aging. 

As our conversation progressed, we learned she lived with her husband, aged 79—fighting fit like herself. Neither needed power glasses. Her next of kin included 18 family members with four great-grandchildren. 

Her daily chores included mopping up the house, cooking, and collecting grass for her cow. She had to heave the grass load almost two kilometers each day—summer or winter.

We asked her what she ate for her meals to keep her in such robust health. “Nothing special, the usual dal-bhat and milk from our cow. I gave up on meat some ten years ago as I lost most of my teeth.”

Then, Radhika and I gawked at her as she fished out a cigarette and lit it. We least expected a healthy elderly to smoke. “How long have you been smoking?” A curious Radhika asked. She said she picked up the habit when she was five.

“It all started when my dad asked me to prepare hookah for him. I’d always take the first few puffs before handing it to him. He explained it brought good fortune if a prepubescent girl did that.” That brought grins to our faces, including the teashop owner, Maiya Maharjan.

“How many cigarettes do you smoke a day?” Radhika asked, sounding disapproving. “A pack [20 sticks] a day for me and another pack for my husband,” she said. We stared at her incredulously.  

When asked if she or her husband had any underlying conditions, she told us she had mild hypertension and was on medication, but her Buda (husband) had none.

By the time we finished our tea, she had dragged on two cigarettes. After a brief chat, the graceful septuagenarian, Kanchhi, lugged the hefty load and bid us goodbye. On the whole, she had made our day—sure thing.

Caveat: Cigarette smoking is still injurious to health

A year ago, I was on one of my lockdown escapades on my mountain bike with a friend. We rode south of Sitapaila to Ramkot. 

Heading west from the Sitapaila Chowk, we pedaled past a jumble of roadside houses, shops, teahouses, and housing complexes—the quotidian urban chaos. It surprised us to see the Sitapaila shrine with an appealing facade. We stopped to take some pictures. 

A few years back, Sitapaila (‘Sita’s footprints’), a massive boulder embedded with Goddess Sita’s footmarks, rested under a roadside tree—nondescript and unnoticed by passersby. It looked like Ma Sita got herself a befitting abode as a spacious compound bounded it, lined up with other deities.

As the last leg of the monsoon had dragged out a bit, the dirt road was boggy with endless puddles—nothing like we expected. We often got stuck in the mud, dismounted, and walked our bikes. We did not take a fall, though.

The traffic on the road receded. So did civilization. After Danda Pauwa bazaar, we found ourselves amidst dwindling habitation and farmland with young greens of rice and vegetables. The towering lush Nagarjun Raniban hills rose to a glorious height to our right—a sight for sore eyes.

After some half-hour, we arrived at Ramkot. Larger than Danda Pauwa, the town bore the trappings of a burgeoning city, advancing towards rapid urbanization; but at a high cost of greenery. I realized the village-town had lost massive virgin foliage and woods, which my eyes met a decade ago during a ride there. 

We stopped to rest at an intersection to regain our heaving breaths and sip water from our bottles. I spotted a tea shop, and we felt like having a cup. Next, I approached two gentlemen seated on a bench before us. 

“Namaste, we are a little confused regarding the two roads. Can you help us out?” I asked the older guy. He pointed towards the south and said, “That way due south goes to Switzerland Park, the other goes to Bhim Dunga.” Curious, he asked us how far we planned to go. Then followed a chat that proved fruitful.

As we sipped tea, the guy shed light on the folklore about Ramkot and Bhim Dunga. Ramkot, he said, got its name when Lord Ram, Sita, and Laxman, during their 12-year exile, spent some time there. During his sojourn, the legend goes, Ram built an armory there; thus the by-name Ramkot—kot for weapon store. 

As for Bhim Dunga, the gentleman explained, everyone misnames it as Bhim Dhunga (Bhim’s rock). “The actual name is Bhim Dunga, Dunga for a boat,” he said and recounted the ancient folklore.

“Myth has it one of the Pandav brothers, Bhimsen of Mahabharat fame in the days of Dwapara Yuga, once visited the Bhim Dunga ridge, which served as a ledge overhead a colossal lake, said to be the present Kathmandu Valley.”

Bhimsen, spellbound, wished to explore the waters. He sent for a boat and took a ride. The ridge that day on got the new name, Bhim Dunga—it’s not Dhunga, he summed up again. 

Ancient history too says Kathmandu was once a lake. Manjushri, a revered Bodhisattva endowed with tantric (occult) powers, struck with his scimitar between two hills at Chobhar to cause a breach to drain the water out; eventually, the lake turned into a verdant valley. We are familiar with the site today as Chobhar gorge. 

Bhim Dunga seemed to take our fancy as the elevation would allow us a bird's-eye view of the Kathmandu basin, once a lake. We thanked the gentlemen and headed uphill.

The ridge bore a large stone altar with three gajurs (pinnacles), giving the impression of a midget temple. The stonework included two deities. One was Ganesh, but I failed to place the other chiseled form, a little disfigured; it stood with one arm holding what looked like a Gada (mace). Well, that must be Bhimsen, I figured.

Wow! The elevation offered a 360-degree view of Kathmandu. Instinctively, it made us marvel at what a magnificent lake it must have been. Incredible. 

The grueling ride to Bhim Dunga turned out well worth our while. We struck home—happy and wiser.

I get the jitters when I visit hospitals, whether it’s to see a family member, a friend, or for some other reason. I have never been hospitalized in my life. Call it the irony of it all—a week back, I was at the BP Memorial Teaching Hospital, fidgeting in a chair in nervous anticipation outside the OT (operation theater). My wife sat beside me.

After the age of 45, most people need reading glasses. I did after 50, nothing abnormal, only age-related—presbyopia, the doctor said. But things changed. My vision for distance seemed to fall in my mid-sixties—nothing to fret about; I got power lenses for nearsightedness.

After a year, I seemed to have problems with my right eye—blurry vision, even with glasses. I saw the doctor again. He diagnosed my right eye with macular edema: fluid build-up in the macula, in the center of the retina.

Nothing alarming; it’s in its early stages. However, as I had underlying conditions like diabetes and hypertension, timely medication was advisable. The doctor said I needed to take three injections in the eye, one each month—the sooner, the better.

The doctor further added that as the clinic did not have the required facilities, he would administer the injection at the hospital where he worked—in the operation theater. That scared the wits out of me.

Since the new coronavirus variant had hit Kathmandu hard, my wife and I felt edgy when we got off the cab at the hospital. Thank the stars—there was no crowd, only one patient in the OT lounge. He sat beside his wife, all masked up, just like we were.

As we struck a conversation, he told me he had come for his third and last shot. Curious, I asked if the previous injections helped. He sounded confident the medication had improved his vision by 90 percent.

As we waited, the nurse at the counter approached and marked our eyelids with sticky paper tape—his left and mine right, and asked us to wait. She appeared to be the only staff member and seemed stressed, as she did not seem forthcoming when I asked some questions.

A little later, another nurse joined her, and the reason for her brusque manner became clear. She was lamenting about a problem at home to her fellow sister: the coronavirus had struck four of her family members. Still, she had to report for duty—she moaned.

Time seemed to drag on leaden feet as we sat tight. The sister at long last approached and asked us to put on gowns and shed our shoes. She then ushered us into the glass door with the ominous-looking letters—OT (Operation Theater).

The room was a small cubicle with the operating room behind a glass partition. The nurse asked me to wait as the other patient entered. I had a partial view of the main chamber through the glass.

A TV screen hung by a wall as the room seemed busy with masked nurses and staff pacing back and forth in green gowns and surgical skull caps. I could not see the doctor, but the room seemed to buzz with several young fellows who appeared like interns.

I sat tight with muddled thoughts and butterflies in my stomach. As my eyes fell on the TV screen through the glass partition, it showed a film on what looked like an eye operation.

Then I got a nasty jolt—it was not just a random film but live footage of the fellow patient with me a little earlier. I cringed and hurriedly averted my eyes as a gloved hand approached with a hypodermic syringe.

In barely 20 minutes, it was over, and the nurse summoned me. I was in a stupor as I lay on the operating table. I do not precisely recall what happened next as I got blinded by the glare of the surgical light—I just had blurry images that looked like gloved hands briskly working on my eye.

Before I knew it, it was all over: no pain, no sensation of the needle—nothing. The doctor told me to see him after three weeks. The ordeal was over.  

Opportunity knocked at an old friend Khashing Chandra Rai’s door. A photographer/videographer by profession, he landed an assignment to cover an Indian Army expedition to Everest (8,849.86m).

For Khashing, the business had taken a sharp nosedive for two years because of the pandemic; it came to a grinding halt during the lockdown. He jumped at the offer, courtesy of Seven Summit Treks.

He realized it would be no picnic in that harsh godforsaken land—his first-ever high-altitude assignment in 10 career years. His contract included Everest Base Camp (5,364m) and the periphery only, not the summit. Armed to the teeth with his camera gear and other paraphernalia, he flew to Lukla (2,850m) on 16 April 2021.

Flying over the unbounded wilderness and lofty mountains that seemed to spring to life, the Twin Otter prepared to land. To Khashing, it was no less dramatic; his heart skipped at the hair-raising touchdown. Small wonder, Lukla rates as one of the world’s most dangerous airports.

It took a nine-day trek from Lukla to EBC, helping the entire team acclimatize to altitude gain. After Dingboche (4,410m), it started snowing and continued until they arrived at snow-laden EBC.

The scenario at the Base Camp took Khashing off his guard—the site crawled with people: over 200 summiteers with twice as many Sherpa porters and guides. Amber-colored tents swarmed the place against the white backdrop. The entire locale bustled, almost giving a cramped feeling. An incredible sight!

To Khashing’s great surprise, their Sherpa porters pitched tents at designated spots with uncanny deft and precision, and the guides executed logistic functions, leaving no loose ends.

The closure of climbing season in 2020 in the wake of Covid-19, the year 2021, it appeared, had thrown the sluice gate wide open for the hung-up Everest aspirants. The Chinese side remained closed.

A week of getting used to the gear: from crampon, harness to ascender (jumars), ice ax, and figure-8 followed by a ceremonial puja performed by revered Lamas, the team set off to Lobuche peak (6,119 m), a drill for the ultimate—Everest.

Khashing was not supposed to join, but a senior Indian officer did him a good turn and arranged the gear for him. He was over the moon after the successful climb.

At night, temperatures at EBC dropped to negative eight, but daytimes were warmer, even sweltering—above 30 degrees Celsius inside the tent, a greenhouse effect. The snow seemed a mainstay: cooking, drinking, and even laundry—a one-of-a-kind experience for Khashing.

The turn of events shifted unawares; weather on the north side deteriorated when the Indian team prepared for their assault on Everest and stayed that way for weeks on end. Devastated, they abandoned the ascent. Several other expedition teams, too, called off.

As a last resort, three members of the Indian team scaled the Lhotse Himal (8,516m), instead—the world’s fourth-tallest peak, south of Everest.

Then disaster struck—two of the Indian team members fell sick. The symptoms bore a close resemblance to HAPE (high-altitude pulmonary edema), but the team doctor suspected a case of Covid-19, and the sick got airlifted to Kathmandu.

Words got around as more coronavirus cases surfaced at the base camp. Gossips ran high; speculations were fueled. News broke that 17 more climbers had been evacuated by helicopters to Kathmandu—most of them tested positive. And hacking coughing (called the Khumbu Cough) seemed to permeate the otherwise peaceful nights at EBC.

Next followed chaos. Camps got cordoned off—and expedition members confined to their bases. Pandemic protocols like physical distancing and staying put in respective bubbles were imposed. Khashing felt alarmed—scared, too; he had developed a mild cough.

Helicopters went into overdrive, delivering supplies and airlifting the sick. The ominous drone of the choppers continued unabated. The last update took the number of infected from 150 to 200. Rescue flights continued. And the silent stalker still seemed to lurk around EBC.

Disheartened and burnt-out, the Indian detachment took a helicopter from Pheriche (4,371m) to Lukla. Khashing and the Sherpas trekked back. Namche, on the way, looked like a ghost town—every hotel had shut down because of the outbreak.

After a day’s delay at Lukla, he flew back home to Kathmandu—only to find the pandemic had snowballed for the worse.

“Endurance is one of the most difficult disciplines, but it is to the one who endures that the final victory comes.” – Gautam Buddha

My cell phone rang. A biker friend was calling to tell me they were staging a race, and he asked me to participate. When I learned it was an uphill climb, I gave it my thumbs down. Riding uphill is not my forte, let alone race. I did the last contest in Tansen five years ago—a cross-country race. I was 64 then.

The biker friend, Rakesh Manandhar, aka Mtb Rocky, would not take no for an answer. He said the race included a category that fit me like a glove—the ‘Senior’ (60-plus).

I knew Rakesh when I was a rookie, 13 years ago. Well, I could not turn a good friend down, could I? I fell for it and signed up against my better judgment. Maybe one last time, I reminded myself. Slated for 8 Jan 2022, the Tarebhir Trek Uphill Challenge was a 3.56 km brutal climb.

The big day arrived with the flag-off at Deuwa Chok, Budhanilkantha. By the time I arrived at the venue, four kilometers from my house, I was short of breath—and a nervous wreck when I gawked at Tarebhir towering above me. Raju, my cycling mate, only 34, on the other hand, was bursting with excitement: this was his first-ever race.

The turnout was unbelievable—the place crawled with riders dressed to the occasion in their snazzy helmets and colorful outfits. The lineup of mountain bikes was staggering, too—from entry-level to futuristic bikes.

I learned 130-plus racers were competing—mind-boggling! As I took stock of the milieu, my eyes fell on small kids who looked no older than eight—and vying, too. There were women, young and old alike. Surprise, surprise—a couple of them looked in their fifties.

Raju fell in the ‘Master’ category. The organizers had taken in multiple age groups, from juniors, elite, masters to grandmasters to seniors. The whistle sounded for the women’s lineup (six to eight racers at a time); I picked out Laxmi Magar, the seven-time national cross-country champion. We have known each other for 10 years now, following several races I did with her.

The race kicked off, with Prayash Tamang, CEO of Kathmandu Bike Station, logging every contestant’s time. And the first batch of the riders tore up the steep track amid boisterous cheering and clapping.

Then came my turn. Seven other riders flanked me, Raju included. I felt jumpy as the countdown began. I realized I was attempting to move a mountain—fat chance.

By the time I cleared the first 500m, I had done great, even rode past a few riders. Good job, I said to myself and patted myself on the back. The joy was short-lived, though, as the climb got steeper and every rider appeared to pull ahead of me.

The unrelenting climb appeared vertical. I dismounted several times, gasped for air, sipped from my bottle, and pushed my bike. No respite, though; every second counted. I was still unconvinced if I could make it to the finish line.

I ran into some riders who hurtled down the slope, after having completed the race. How far to the finish? I asked one of them as I fought for breath. Halfway came the reply; my heart sank. Did I imagine the incline got steeper as the dirt track wound uphill? It appeared so. Suddenly, a rider swished past me. Man-oh-man, he was just a kid!

As I pushed on, riding and walking, I almost felt I was in a stupor, my legs hurt, and I feared my knees might buckle. In all honesty, I was at the end of my rope. As more riders came shredding down, the thought I’d barely made it half the distance seemed to further fuel my misery. I saw some riders idling by the track; they had quit. I kept on stoically, though. I would complete the race if it were the last thing I would do, I muttered to myself.

And, before I knew it, after tackling a gnarly climb, I spotted a large crowd at the crest. The Finish Line at long last! I’d made it. Unawares, I had an epiphany—I’d rediscovered myself—my strength, grit, confidence, and self-esteem.

My evening meals usually comprise rotis (wheat-flour flatbread) because I’m a diabetic—I came down with it some 20 years ago. The earth slipped under my feet when I first learned about it. The world seemed to end.

It did not. Nothing to fret over; life goes on—a diabetic friend tried to empathize with me. All you gotta do is stick to certain no-nos regarding diet and give a tweak to your lifestyle.

The dietician cautions: no sugary treats, no potatoes, and asks you to cut down on the portion of rice to almost half; he also recommended switching from rice to roti for supper—I was.

There were no gadgets called roti-makers in the old days. Radhika, my wife, made them with the chapatti-board and rolling pin. Then the “wonder machine” called the Roti/Chapatti-maker invaded the market.

YouTube was chock-a-block with videos on the charismatic appliance. Media hype gave it a jump-start. Womenfolk watched in awe on TV as the rotis magically puffed up—looked mighty simple! Also, Radhika got lured by the catchy videos, and we bought the machine.

So began our quest for the perfect roti; we were pretty psyched up at the thought of whipping out pop-up roti after roti.

The first roti proved a disaster; more flops followed suit. Soon, Radhika got pissed. I buried myself into the instruction manual again, and we tried afresh, following every step to the letter. To little avail, though. When my wife quit, I offered to try my hand. “Be my guest,” she said.

I did none the worse; nothing worked. In my frustration, I scorched my fingers, too. We tried for a month or two; watched a score of videos. Our efforts seemed to work but fell through after a few fiddling hits.

We assumed it would be a cakewalk, and as shown in videos, every roti would puff up and presto, push the lid up. No such thing happened.

Also read: Opinion | Capturing carbon in soil

Months passed, but the results made no strides. One fateful day, off went the roti maker into the cupboard to rest. The “wonder machine” sucked.

In January 2020, my wife left for the US to see our only offspring, two daughters, settle there. By early March 2020, the US was in the pandemic’s grip. Radhika got stuck and extended her visa from six months to a year.

I got home alone. As my suppers missed out on rotis, it crossed my mind to try the roti-maker languishing in the kitchen cupboard. Roti making, the traditional way, was not my cup of tea.

I toyed with the idea for a few days but could not screw up enough courage. I also realized rice for lunch and supper was a sure ticket to a blood sugar spike.

Thus began my daunting task of roti-making. Needless to write, all my endeavors ended in frustration. It once in a while snowballed into a rage and led to tossing the botched rotis into the trash.

My first month’s score averaged 30-40 percent. I jumped with joy to watch the flattened dough puff like a balloon pushing the lid up. I’d get near euphoric; roti-making for me became not only a challenge but an exciting game. It was still all touch and go, though.

The aggregate rose to 50-60 percent in the third month, but not without times when it disastrously dropped to rock-bottom. Those would be my saddest days. I kept on, however, trying to get the nitty-gritty of the process, and stuck to improvising each time.

They included the finer points like kneading, consistency of the dough, right temperature of the hot plate, the correct timing for flipping the roti, and finally, the crucial moment of putting down the lid.

Six months into my roti making, I’m proud to write eight to nine out of my ten rotis puff up—10 in 10, too, once in a while. Never a dull moment passes, even when I churn out 25 rotis at one go.

Guess what! From friends and relatives, particularly women folks, I learned their roti makers had turned literally into showpieces adorning their kitchen shelves. Some for two, others four, and a few for over eight long years.