Today, Nepal is a country in the throes of the deepest tragedy. It strives to survive through the ravages of death, destruction and is impaled by the peaks that provided lifeblood to its tourism industry. Avalanches and landslides painfully compound the existing losses. As aid pours in from across the world, those who have survived have showed their resilience as they lend sturdy support to the less fortunate when all else that was permanent has slipped away and the great edifices recording their history in red brick have crumbled to mere dust.
The remembered and otherwise unrecorded past is a filter through which we view the present and is a series of impressions and fleeting memories. The images of the mass destruction in Nepal are all the more poignant as I have witnessed the city up close. While my trip was only three years ago, it was packed with work, food, drinks, walks and splendid views and memories of great times. The photographs from that holiday belong to a now-lost reel and all I have is impressions and fleeting glimpses of the country that was.
My first impression of Nepal was of its lofty mountains that loomed in the distance even before our flight landed and then before I knew it, I was in the heart of the bustling city of Kathmandu being ushered into a posh five-star hotel conference room. This trip came many years after my grandfather had first introduced me to the idea of Nepal. This was much before I had met anyone from the country and was barely old enough to follow his narratives about the grand temples and the mountains and the bumpy flights to the city.
Thereafter, I read about the imposing Mount Everest, its legendary climbers who dazzled the world with their singular grit to make it to the top and the city that formed a gateway to it all. I remember glimpses of Kathmandu as I watched Hare Rama Hare Krishna with the lovely Zeenat Aman swaying to the seductive Dum Maaro Dum, the impish Mumtaz and Dev Anand cavorting in the narrow lanes and quaint historical quarters of a city in the throes of the 60s-70s counterculture.
What I expected was an imaginary city gleaned from the afore-mentioned childhood fancies and nostalgic recollections by Nepali friends over whiskey-fuelled evenings. What I got was a higgledy-piggeldy real city mirroring many of our own capitals, straddling the old and the new, the global and the hype-local and carrying its own historical and political baggage as it stumbled along trying to keep up with each new millenia that dawned.
The 21st century capital of this Himalayan kingdom could be a bit of a disappointment initially to a first-time visitor like me. It suffers from many of the problems plaguing most historical cities that have transformed into urban centres in developing nations — high density of population, skyrocketing pollution levels, poor air quality, unplanned growth and expansion, concretisation and an age-old civic infrastructure that verges on collapse as its resources are strained to the maximum under the demands of its public and private requirements. Yet, the one thing that it does not lack is character and oodles of charm and it is this along with its natural bounty that immediately draws you like a lodestone. The advantage of having a local as a colleague and friend is that you got to enter the city’s belly rather than skirt its circumference. A shared love for beer, wild boar and great views took us from the hippie heart of Thamel to a deserted restaurant in the middle of a rice field in Pokhara with the most gorgeous open garden bathroom with geckos and butterflies and old trees for company. From fabulous views of churning rivers as they disappeared underground to a placid lake and fishtail mountains; from wild boar and rice meals to rice wines so potent that they could make your eyes water; from scooter rides in chaotic traffic to leisurely walks amid old Hindu temples; from restaurants where croaking frogs provided the background banter to downpours that turned the streets into gushing rivulets.
This was a country where people were friendly, respectful, bantering. Mistaken for a local time and again made me feel like I was home. The language had such nuanced similarities with Bengali that I could follow nearly every word.
The people had such an identifiable joie de vivre that I could immediately relate to this crumbling old behemoth of a city that was Kathmandu and only marvel at the stark beauty that was Pokhara. Two cities and too little time was all I had and I promised to return. Now, I am afraid it might just be too late as all that remains is the road ahead as the entire country must be rebuilt. The past is now a lost city of red dust and a collection of many remembered and fleeting impressions...