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]
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