Beyond bird-watching in Koshi Tappu

Birds of Koshi Tappu

Republished from ECS

Are you a bird-watching enthusiast? Then, Koshi Tappu Wildlife Reserve in eastern Nepal is the must-go destination for you. However, when I was there with my friends recently, we ended up discovering more than the birds.

Home to migratory birds and wild water buffaloes
Famous for bird watching, the reserve boasts of being home to more than 485 bird species, especially migratory birds flying from as far away as Siberia. Since we were there in the second week of April, the migratory birds had already left, but we were welcomed by the resident birds. Early in the morning, an Asian koel woke us up with its sweet cuckooing, chorused by coots. Then, as we roamed around the reserve, we spotted black-hooded orioles, swamphen, moorhen, white-rumped vultures, jungle babblers, drongos, flycatchers, doves, rufous treepies, open billed storks, lesser adjutant storks, and a greater adjutant stork, not to mention the different types of wild ducks and so many birds that we couldn't identify. I was simply amazed! Had we had more time, we'd have easily seen the precious Bengal florican in the grassland.

Arna, the wild water buffalo

The reserve is also known for its herd of wild water buffaloes, called 'arna' locally. They are famous for their long and sharp horns. When we were there, the arna count had begun and the reserve was closed for domestic tourists. However, after requesting the park authority and the army, we managed to get inside and observe the arna counting process. But, we were saddened by the presence of domestic cattle in the reserve. They were everywhere. The sad thing is, the wild buffaloes might turn into a breed of hybrid buffaloes due to breeding with domestic buffaloes that get inside the reserve for grazing.

Arna horns

Noisy construction in the heart of the reserve
As we moved further, we were disheartened by the loud noise coming from a construction site within the core area of the reserve. A part of the reserve had been encroached by scores of construction workers, mixer machines, and tractors, and polluted by construction materials, the high volume of music played by them, and the sound of machines, motors, and vehicles. The reserve authorities could have allocated a piece of land away from the wetland to make the concrete pillars for the biodykes being installed at the banks of the Koshi River, and could have spared the precious habitat of so many birds!

Noisy construction inside the reserve

Seeing the sad scene, we asked our guide to take us to the site where the dykes were installed. Driving to the north of the reserve, we came across embankments and dykes on the banks of Koshi River near Prakashpur. This section was breached by the swelling floods in August 2008 that displaced more than 50,000 in Nepal and more than 3 million people in India. According to tourism entrepreneur Chakra Timsina, learning from the experiences of the People's Republic of China, the Koshi Barrage Management Authority (Government of India) started installing these dykes along with gabion wire embankment and spurs in between. And it has worked! But Timsina mentioned that a few greedy locals had been stealing the poles and selling them at Rs 700 (around 7 USD) apiece in the local market. They're used to manufacturing low-cost houses. They've still learnt nothing from the bank-breaching which happened as the embankment could not hold the waters. The fierce floods swept away the embankment, since a few locals had cut and stolen the gabion wires holding the boulders. The greed of a handful caused such great disaster in 2008, and we can't rest assured that it might not happen in the future, if people keep stealing these poles. God forbid!

Dykes at the banks of Koshi River

Sad fate of dolphins
Once we were done with the bird-watching and moving around the reserve, we set out to meet the reserve officers to inform them of the noisy construction going on inside the reserve. But, when I saw a dead baby dolphin displayed at the reserve's visitor centre-cum-museum, it made me cry. The dolphin was caught in a gillnet in the Koshi River few months ago. It finally died after struggling to survive. And, it's only the tip of the iceberg. Several other dolphins and rare fishes had had similar fates. Sadly, a recent dolphin count in Koshi in 2016 came up with just nine dolphins. Due to over-fishing and destruction of their habitat, their numbers are declining, not to mention the dangerous gillnets that wound them and finally kill them.
 

A dolphin that died after getting caught in gillnet

We complained about the construction with the officer who had arrived from Kathmandu to monitor the arna count. He assured us they would take the issue seriously. I was saddened by the dolphin’s fate, but once we came out of the reserve, I was happy again to see the fields of sunflowers on the way out. Once planted by gardeners, sunflowers are being preferred by farmers over other cash crops in Prakashpur and Koshi Barrage area. They've started planting them commercially. If you're a photographer, you won't be able to contain yourself from clicking loads of pictures of these sunflower farms!
 

Sunflower farming is on the rise in Koshi Barrage area

Delicious fishes of Koshi River
On our way back home, we decided to taste the local fishes from the Koshi River. When asked, everybody suggested us to visit Sambhu Hotel by the river. The eatery, established during the East-West Highway construction era, is in a narrow street to the south of the river's eastern banks. You'll never get lost getting here, as everybody in the vicinity knows about it and will happily tell you the directions to the hotel. Once you reach here, you can choose the fish of your choice, which are then cooked by an old man and garnished by the lady who runs the shop with her sons. The fish are sourced from the local fishermen who earn their living by fishing in the river. I bet you'll love the taste and decide to return again and again!

Fishing in the Koshi River

Fishes from Koshi River

Shambhu Hotel

After filling our empty stomachs, we decided to watch dolphins in the Koshi River. We waited for half an hour focussing on the river waters, but I could not see even a single dolphin, though my friends claimed to see a dolphin’s back. Rather than looking for dolphins, I was interested in a fisherman scouring the fierce waters with a hand net. Standing on the edge of the barrage foundation, on a sweltering day, looking for fish – life is so difficult for the locals!

Crossing the barrage, we came across small shanties put up by fishmongers. There were fishes everywhere. The barrage and the surrounding have some special kind of smell wafting around and if you're a fish lover, you'll love it. The fishmongers sell all kinds of fish, including buari, chitalpeti, kanti, tengra, bam, shrimps, and many other local varieties. Among them you can find small fishes growing one-three inches long, called koshia. They taste amazing!

And, finally we waited for the sunset, to capture the silhouettes of cattle on the dam, returning home after grazing in the reserve. It was an out of this world feeling!
 
Barmajhiyako peda, one of the most delicious sweets produced in eastern Nepal
It was already dark when we left the Koshi Barrage. However, we decided to indulge in a local sweet peda, made from pure milk. You'll find scores of shops selling peda in Barmajhiya, a small town on the way back from Koshi River. They sell the same product and have similar names. And all claim that they're the original shop established by an old man, Baidhyanath Sah. As suggested by the locals, we easily located the 'Budho Baba Peda Pasal', meaning old man's peda shop, adjacent to the Armed Police Force beat. And it happened to be the original one! The shop owner said, "Just look for this banyan tree next to our shop and you'll never fail to recognise our shop." The old man, who left this world a few years ago, started making peda and it became an instant hit among the locals and people visiting eastern Nepal, thanks to the quality of the product. Since then, scores of other shopkeepers have started selling peda, making this place a hub of peda business. But the peda from this original shop has something special about it. It tastes amazing!

Peda, a delicious sweet made from milk

We sped towards Lahan, a small town on the East-West Highway, to find rooms for the night’s rest, with the smell and taste of fish and peda still lingering in our memories.

Chepang Heritage Trail – a less travelled trekking route

A Chepang Village on the way to Shaktikhor

Republished from ECS

I had been on the lookout for a short but challenging trek. Since I had been to almost all the hiking routes around Kathmandu Valley and didn’t want to go very far from Kathmandu district, I couldn’t think of any appropriate trekking routes. Then, one of my friends suggested going for the Chepang Heritage Trail. As usual, I searched the internet and looked for information, but most of the sites suggested a trek of four-six days, starting from Kathmandu and ending in Chitwan’s Shaktikhor. And, even the names differed—some called it Chepang Hill Trek, while others called it Chitwan Chepang Hill Trail. But the mention of Chepangs, the once hunter-gatherer tribe, and Shaktikhor, was enough for me to pack my bags and jump at the proposition.

Hugdi Khola bridge

We started our trek from the Hugdi Khola bridge on the Kathmandu-Mugling highway, which is around an hour-and-half drive from Thankot. The trek, promoted by Tourism for Rural Poverty Alleviation Programme (TRPAP), takes you through Chepang villages to Hattibang and Siraichuli, one of the highest hills of the more than ten adjacent districts, and then to Shaktikhor of Chitwan. We had a sumptuous meal at Mauwa Khola nearby, since the eateries at Hugdi said they would take at least an hour to prepare the food. It was almost noon as we started ascending the steps from Hugdi Khola. There’s a big signage showing you the directions to Kathmandu, Mugling, and Siraichuli. We headed straight towards Siraichuli and followed the signages on the way. The trail passes through villages and is scenic. You’ll never feel tired or bored. Most of the villagers we met on the way asked us where we were heading to. I guess not many trekkers opt for this trail, that’s why they were so curious.

Dilapidated primary school at Jogimara.

As we climbed uphill and passed some villages, we came across a primary school, Shree Chitrakala Prathamik Vidhyalaya, established twenty-five years ago. It should have been celebrating its silver jubilee, but instead, it was in shambles. While Jogimara village isn't too far away from Kathmandu, the villages in the surrounding and the school haven't benefitted from the development drive going on everywhere. It was recess time when we reached there; the students were playing, and a lone teacher was out in the sun talking with two students. We should have taken at least few notebooks and pens for the students, that’s what came to my mind when I met them!

Beautiful village on the way to Hattibang.

The trek sometimes gets strenuous, and you’ll need to munch something to keep yourself going. Fortunately, we had plenty of dry fruits and bottles of water with us; the trek doesn’t have many shops on the way. However, the landscapes are stunning. We found a few decent shops as we reached Kot. It was a perfect stop for a cup of hot lemon tea. The tea and biscuits tasted heavenly after the long walk. Then, we resumed our trek to Hattibang.

Hattibang derives its name from this huge stone.

It took us almost four and half hours to reach Hattibang from Hugdi Khola. Hattibang derives its name from a big stone on the premises of a school. As per the locals, in Chepang language 'bang' means a stone, and since the stone resembles an elephant (at least like its head, to me), the area is called Hattibang. It takes around five hours to reach here from Hugdi Khola for trekkers. However, the locals can get here in less than three hours. There are several homestays, the biggest one is run by a ‘Ramji’, and anybody in the village will show you the way to his lodge.

A lodge at Hattibang

We had booked rooms at his place by phone from our starting point at Hugdi Khola. After arriving at his lodge, we dumped our bags, had tea, and went for a village tour. As you move farther from the marketplace, you’ll come across more traditional houses. And in fact, they look more beautiful. The Chepang houses were farther from the main bazaar, smaller than the other houses, and far from each other. However, the village looked vibrant, and people were talking in groups, laughing and making merry, which is hard to see in the city!

A traditional house at Hattibang.

If you manage to get to Hattibang earlier, you can go around the village and talk to locals about their way of life. Since it was getting darker and colder outside, we returned to the lodge and spent the evening in the dining room. We had local free range chicken, rum, and honey before dinner. It took away all the fatigue and pain, and we slept like babies! Next day, we started our climb to Siraichuli early in the morning. As advised by Ramji, we carried enough water and snacks, since there are no eateries and water sources till you get to Shaktikhor. On the way, we came across many wild flowers and fruits. If you’re an Instagrammer, I’m sure you’ll end up clicking hundreds of pictures on this route.

Wild berries

Finally, after one and a half hours’ uphill trek from Hattibang, we reached Siraichuli, the tallest peak in the adjacent twelve districts, as told by locals. There's a temple, a building, and a platform with railings from where you can see the Himalayan range, Chitwan bazaar, and even Kathmandu. But, since it was a hazy day, we could only see the mountain range and the surrounding hills. So sad! However, getting there was the ultimate achievement for us. The cool gusts of wind blowing past our faces refreshed us, and we were off for another leg of the journey—descending down to Shaktikhor.

Siraichuli view point

Siraichuli peak

We had an option to get to Gadhi, but it would take us another five-six hours to get there from Siraichuli, and then again more than four hours from there to get to Shaktikhor, so we decided to skip Gadhi. We came across a Chepang house as we descended from Siraichuli. Two babies were playing on the premises with a goat kid. The mud and bamboo house with its thatched roof looked beautiful, but the babies had minimal clothing, even though it was still a cold day. Sadly, we had only one chocolate with us, so we asked the elder kid to share it with his sibling. I wished we had taken some baby clothes with us! But the house had a solar panel on the roof, and it brought a smile to my face.

Jyandala, a Chepang village on the way.

As we descended further, we reached Jyandala, a beautiful village on the way to Shaktikhor. The houses there looked modern in comparison to the traditional Chepang houses. Talking with a farmer ploughing his field, we came to know that they also have homestay facilities in the village. But we didn't stop, we kept moving, as we had to reach Shaktikhor.

Siraichuli School

It was 9:54 a.m. when we reached Shree Siraichuli Rashtriya Prathamik Vidhyalaya, a primary school in Jyandala. It was neither a Saturday nor a public holiday. However, neither a single student nor a teacher had arrived. It was only six minutes for the school to start its regular classes, but there was pin-drop silence. This shows why people in this area are lagging behind. They've other priorities before education; rather than sending their children to school, they're compelled to make them work in farms, factories, and eateries. When will the little children be able to study without having the burden of earning daily bread for their families?

Beautiful landscape on the way to Shaktikhor

The trek route was full of scenic landscape, but it was sad to see wrappers of noodles and plastic bottles of locally produced spirits everywhere along the Chepang Trail, and at chautaris, the stop-overs with shady trees, there were scores of alcohol bottles. That’s the harsh reality of growing industrialization, too much packaging of products, so that the consumers find it easy to carry, and because of that single benefit you find litter everywhere. Can't we get back to the olden days of less packaging and do away with the polluting plastic bottles and wrappers?

Beautiful landscape on the way.

The last stop before the vertical descent to Shaktikhor was a flat piece of hill. From here, we could see the town below clearly, and I thought it would take just half an hour to reach the foot of the hill, but it turned out to be much more than that, and exhausting it was! On the route we saw beautiful houses on the edge of cliffs painted with the red clay found abundantly in the area. The laborious people living there have turned the barren land into agricultural plots and terrace fields for growing crops. While we enjoyed the calm and peace of the walk in the less frequented trail, it was a soothing experience for our ears to listen to the music played on high volume in one of those houses!

Grass promoted by a non government organisation.

As we continued our trek, we came across a hill full of dried fodder grass. Only when we asked a local, we came to know about its existence. The fodder grass was introduced to the Chepang village (on the way to Shaktikor) with the expectation that it would help lessen the deforestation. However, the villagers never used this grass as fodder; they continued lopping off tree branches, since their goats and cattle preferred the leaves. While the non-government organization promoting this grass spent a fortune on implementing the 'best practice' from somewhere else, its strategic advisors forgot that only 'best fit' activities work in a local context. While we talk about going global, we undermine the fact that every little strategy needs to be contextualized according to the local requirements.

Home-made alcohol

Once again, we came across a beautiful Chepang village at the end of the Chepang Hill Trek. The village has transformed into a modern settlement, thanks to its proximity to Shaktikhor, a fast growing town, and a bridge linking Shaktikhor with the villages. However, we were saddened to know the source of prosperity—home-made alcohol business. Almost all the houses were distilling alcohol from the rice brought from Shaktikhor. They not only made money, but were quarrelling with each other under the stupor. And that's a real bad sign!

A chiuri tree

As we descended, we came across many Chiuri trees. Also known as Indian butter, the trees are culturally significant for the Chepangs. According to development worker Rishi Adhikari, Chepangs give chiuri trees as dowry to their daughters during marriage, and along with the tree, the bride and groom also get the land occupied by the tree. But, apart from this tradition, one can extract oil and butter that goes into herbal soap making. The honey collected during the chiuri flowering season has something special about it. So, why not promote this multipurpose tree?

An eatery at Shaktikhor

Finally, we reached Shaktikhor after around six hours’ of continuous trek from Hattibang. We were tired, thirsty, and hungry, and back to the noisy city, but memories from the trek took away all the fatigue and pain!

A basket of nostalgia

Sikki baskets (c) CK Kalyan

As the Buddha Air plane soared off in the sky, I got ready with my camera to click the bird’s eye view Kathmandu Valley from above. And then suddenly I saw something familiar. It was a plot of sikki grass near the tarmac. The golden colour stem with purple-reddish stamen at the top is really easy to differentiate it from other grass.

And this was only a decade ago.

The sikki grass, not an ubiquitous species any more, was found in abundance in Kathmandu – before it started taking the shape of a concrete jungle.

You might wonder why I’m not talking about the basket I’m so nostalgic about and beating around the bush instead. Actually, this is how the basket was woven. 

Circa 1980, returning from school, throwing the bag in a corner and running away to play with my friends was a daily routine for me. But one day when I returned from school, I decided to stay back and help my mother. My mother had brought a bale of sikki grass that day and was busy with sorting out the best ones from the lot.

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She had brought the sikki from Balkumari in adjacent Lalitpur. One day when I followed her to my relative’s house via Chyasal, I could see a jungle of sikki grass in the area – taller and stronger than its species found in the Terai.

Sikki grasses generally grow in marshy, wetlands and near water sources. The place I am talking about is near the convergence of Bagmati and Manahara Rivers. It was a perfect site for the grass’ healthy growth. Today, the marshy land to the south of a cantilever bridge has turned into a hardened piece of land and houses have mushroomed up just like in the rest of the Kathmandu Valley.  

In Terai too, these days, the sikki grass is a rare species – thanks to the use of pesticides, fertilisers and encroachment of public land, not to mention the lowering water tables. The bunds bordering the fields used to have sikki grass but nowadays it has been replaced by the lentils. The commercialisation and trying to get the maximum out of the remaining fragmented land pieces, people have almost pushed the grass to extinction which used to grow in abundance on the bunds, fallow land and near water sources. 

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The bale of sikki grass was a thing of amusement for the onlookers – my neigbours. After sorting, my mother started tearing the sikki stems into two halves. I had done this before during my winter break and I had enjoyed my grandma’s challenge to split the sikki stems. So, I too started helping her. My neighbours also joined in out of their curiosity and soon the bale of grass was reduced to a bunch of golden splinters.

A sikki stem never breaks in between if you are a little cautious with pulling the two ends after cutting the tip into two with a blade – or with your nails.

Then for the next few days I could see my mother busy with keeping the sikki stems on the sun to dry and collecting them in the evening.

After few days, the sikki stems had turned into glossy and flexible but sturdy splinters.

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Then my mother started weaving small baskets out of the sikki stems. The weaving is a cumbersome process – putting a fistful of kans grass and coiling them with sikki splinters by using a needle like equipment called takuwa. 

She wove two small baskets out and handed me one to eat my daily breakfast. We call these small baskets pauti and it is common to eat beaten rice and other non-sticky items as snacks in the rural villages. However, with the availability of steel and plastic containers the pauti is no more a common item.

Read: Weave your own basket from kans and sikki grasses

Another basket was for my little sister. Though she was just a toddler, my mother made sure that both of us never fought for one basket.

Then for the next fortnight she kept herself aloof. She wove a very beautiful basket and then she started covering it with colourful threads, creating comprehensive geometric patterns. The final product was – in one word a ‘wow’!

She carefully hid it inside the cupboard and then when I returned from school, she took me to a corner and said, “Bauwa, this beautiful basket is for your would-be wife.”

She continued, “Even if I die, make sure you ask your father to gift it to my daughter-in-law.” Then she started sobbing. I was moved by her gesture and then I started crying too.

And then after a year and half, she left us. For ever. To be with the gods and angels.

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After my mother’s demise, I took that basket to my grandmother who lived in the village, almost 500 kilometres far from Kathmandu where I used to stay with my father.

She gently wrapped the basket in a piece of cloth and put it inside a cupboard my mother had brought along with her as a dowry.

And the basket stayed there for more than two decades.

My grandmother would remind me to marry and ask me to open the cupboard and check whether the basket was intact. I refrained from doing so since every time I saw that basket tears rolled down from my eyes.

I could never forget my mother’s love for me. I don’t think there is any individual who doesn’t long for a mother’s love. 

Then the D-Day arrived, just a day after my 30th birthday. My grandmother didn’t’ forget to gift my would-be wife the jewellery in the sikki basket woven by my mother.

And that was the last day I saw the beautiful gift. I never enquire again about it. I have handed it over to the rightful owner!

Till this day, the beautifully woven sikki basket holds a special place in my heart. It’s nostalgic. And to keep away the nostalgia, I have planted a handful of sikki grass near a pond in my village!

Why can’t we do away with the black dots and superstitions?

This pot bearing evil eyes was hung to a sisoo tree to save the gourd climber from evil eyes.

The baby clinging to his mother was annoyed at seeing so many guests. He was trying to get away from his mother’s clutch, forcibly lunging away from her. I could see his feet dangling like a pendulum, swaying from left to right hurriedly to beat the pace of time.

Then I saw something uncommon. Two black dots under his feet – one on each foot!

For Nepalese and our Indian neighbours, it’s a common tradition to ward off the evil eyes. Everyone, whether traditional or modern, illiterate or educated, follows their parents’ footsteps. Almost blindly!

It’s the fear of the unknown evil, so far as I know. If you go by their saying, it keeps away all harmful and bad thought of the onlooker.

And don’t be amazed if you see people putting black dots even over a fruit-bearing tree or a pumpkin creeper. In the southern plains of Nepal, they generally put either a clay pot or a supa/nanglo (bamboo winnowing tray) painted with black and white dots (sometimes circle) representing evil eyes.

Read: Evil eyes 

So, how good is painting black dots over anything you think might be envy of by your neigbours? We blindly follow the traditions without even pondering why we are doing that.

When I saw the babies’ feet and the black dots, I remembered a popular Nepali adage “Kalo biralo badhera saraddhe garnu” meaning tying a black cat to do the yearly rituals of death anniversary.

There’s an interesting incident behind the origin of the adage. A family was doing the rituals of the death anniversary and a pet black cat was sneaking in to lap up the curd, milk and other edibles to be used in the ritual. Being perturbed by the feline’s advances, they tied it up to a pillar nearby and carried out the rituals.

As the years passed, the little boy who had seen his parents tying up the black cat during the rituals searched a similar cat and tied it to a pillar while carrying out the rituals. His son followed the same and tying a black cat became a part of the ritual. And when the black cat was unavailable, it had to be brought from the neighbourhood or even from other villages!

You can no compare the situations. Had not the tradition of putting black dots started in a similar way? You can imagine how one can harm just by gazing at something. It’s no more than a superstition.

Now let me get back to the little child with black dots under his feet. For your information, the mother putting the black dot is a medical doctor and the little boy’s grandmother and grandfather both are well-known doctors as well. In our society, since the doctors are considered the most intelligent people, how can we get rid of these silly traditions when even the ones considered the most intelligent keep on following them blindly?

It’s a point to ponder.

I don't care about crabs any more

Two crabs. Image by Flickr user Mark Jones. (CC BY 2.0)

Seems [it’s] a scene from a movie, today. I was merely eight years of age at that time. I still remember the farmer leveling the field after ploughing – to ready it for planting rice. The soil was muddy and watery - and he was skidding like a frictionless, perpetual machine. It's hard to mention the exact scene, but you can imagine a pair of oxen running as fast as possible in the mud with the plough clung to their shoulders and in place of the tiller, a flat wooden plank attached to the end and a man riding on the plank as if he is surfing through the waves.

As I was a small boy, I kept running after the plough and caught the fish and crabs as they popped out of the mud occasionally. I hurled them in a small plastic bucket as and when they came out of the muddy soil. The crows and herons would look at me enviously while I enjoyed splashing through the mud. After one hour's running behind the man and his plough, I gathered half a bucket of fish and crabs. Walking towards home with my precious catch, many fish jumped out of the bucket and I had to put them back again and again. And in the process some fortunate ones slipped out in the muddy paddy fields.

I had caught more fish and only around 15 crabs. However, when I reached home, the crabs were still at the bottom of the bucket clinging to each others' feet while many fish had escaped. None of them had been able to jump out of the container. When I clutched one of the crabs, two others clung to its feet and similarly others clung to their feet, making a chain of crabs.

I had two things in mind: One, the unity among the crabs and their love for each other. Two, the Leg Pulling Syndrome that did not allow any of the crabs to jump out and seek freedom. However, when I put all the crabs on the floor, all of them started fighting with each other and I knew it was not a case of unity. It was a matter of leg pulling.

As I grew up, I found similar situation many times - many people clinging to each others' legs - restricting others to reach their goals. I wonder why people do it. Can’t we just push each other forward instead of pulling towards the bottom?

Seeing the leapfrogging neighbouring economies – China and India, I just could not help myself sharing this incident. We are like those crabs and they (Chinese and Indians) are like fish. They have leapt out of the bucket and we still are at the bottom. We must be aware that if we remain at the bottom for long we will be devoured by the consequences at the end of the day.

So, I don’t care about the crabs any more.

And my simple proposition – let’s get rid of this Leg Pulling Syndrome and start pushing forward each other. That will lead us to a brighter future. There’s no doubt!

And I was the last man to jump off to safety from the jaws of death

The Pulchowk bus station at Narayangarh was bustling with crowd – a mélange of people from hills, terai (plains) and foreigners back from Sauraha, the destination famous for sighting one-horned rhinos. The temperature was soaring at 36 degree Celsius and the air was humid, making everyone sweat perpetually. The Narayani River flowed gently nearby, with the vehicles screeching at the bridge to lower their speed. Policemen were loitering at the station, enquiring groups of people in between.

Adding to the sea of confusion, a bus from Bhairahawa, with a load of bananas and vegetables on the rooftop, stopped near the common ticket counter booking tickets to Kathmandu. People, waiting for the bus, hurried to embark the bus and grab the front seats – so that their journey till Kathmandu will be a comfortable one. Among them was a man with five goats – he got in the bus with the goats in the tow. As the goats bleated, the passengers cursed the conductor for allowing him to get in.

“Mommy!” “Mommy!”

A terrified baby started crying seeing the goats, while one of the goats started tearing at the shawl of the mother seated on the last row. She hit the goat with her elbow and it let go off the shawl. But whenever she looked elsewhere, the goat would again start its work. A game of hide and seek, between the mother and the goat, ensued.

The bus was full within minutes and the passengers were packed like sardines. The perspiration and smell of all different sorts started wafting like a concoction of strong rotten eggs and raksi, a home-made alcohol.

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A man next to me was chewing beetle leaf and used to lunge at the window to spit in between. The red spurts would splash on my face and clothes as he spat each time. In spite of the man’s audacity and my peaking vexation, I crushed my anger and remained a mere spectator.

All the passengers were asking the driver to start the bus, but the greedy conductor still wanted some more people who could travel sitting on the sacks of bananas and vegetables on the bus roof.

The bus operators never care for the comfort of the commuters but only for the money that they can squeeze out of them.

Then came an old man with a white cap, a silver goatee and a few days’ stubble which confirmed him to be a Muslim. He tried to get in the bus along with a basket of 10-20 chickens in it.

Not letting him in, the conductor started haggling over the fare.

"Hundred for you and 50 for your chickens," said the conductor.
"I will give you just 100, why are you charging for these chickens?" said the man meekly.
"Don't you know, they occupy a space that can adjust three men?"
"But they are not men, they are mere chickens."
"Fifty is not even a pinch of what should be paid," the conductor growled furiously.

The deal could not be struck. But the old man had just managed to get inside the bus door with his basket of chickens. Miffed by the altercation, the conductor grabbed the collar of the old man's kurta, disembarked him from the bus rudely, picked up the basket and threw it out of the bus.

The chickens, afraid, started clucking – adding to the cacophony.  

The old man was no match for the young conductor boy. The boy still managed to get some more men inside the bus. As the engine of the bus started roaring, the old man with tears in his eyes cursed, “You have mishandled a man of your grandfather’s age, the great Allah will punish you for your misdeed.” “Insallah!”

“To hell with you and your Allah!” shouted back the conductor and the bus sped on.

It was not fair. But none in the bus thought of confronting the ill-mannered guy. All were perched to their seats and nobody wanted to share the space with the old man and his chickens.

To the most Hindus in the bus – if not all – he was just a Muslim.   

***                                 ***                                   ***                                   ***

The Narayangarh – Muglin road section had lots of potholes and to add to the woes, the driving was reckless. The passengers at the back jumped with each bumps and jolts on the road. As the bus hit a bump, the goats would start bleating and passengers would scream “Ram Ram”. 

The bus left behind a cloud of dust which would finally settle on the trees and shacks by the road. I was feeling sorry for the soothing scenery and the river flowing by the road that provided some relief amidst the agony.

Besides, I was lucky to get a front seat. I had put my bag and sandals on the overhead rack and was reading the latest issue of Businessworld. The man sitting next to me wanted to break the ice and chat, but I kept mum. Still he disturbed me with his chewing and spitting.

At first I would take off my gaze from the magazine and look outside the window as and when the bus came across a jolt. But with a bump every minute or so, the curiosity died away. And I remained stuck to the magazine.  

As the bus crossed the bend after the famous Jalbire temple, the driver increased the speed. There might have been two reasons – Muglin, the next stop was nearby and a huge loaded truck was in front of us – with a driver adamant at not leaving the tarmac.  

Our bus driver was doing his best to overtake the truck and our ears were abuzz with the horn honking all the time. As he located a narrow strip, he sped the bus further and we were competing with the truck.

Then the only thing that we heard was a huge thud. And a complete chaos. Our bus had hit a post on the road boundary! 

***                                 ***                                   ***                                   ***

A bus stranded on the road between Narayangarh and Kathmandu after accident. Image from Flickr by Michael McDonough. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

The bus was hanging by the boundary post. A scary see-saw it was. Thanks to the goats – their weight at the tail end was holding the bus from plunging down the hill into the river.

Some of the passengers had already jumped off the bus from the front door. Some were hanging to the trees with their skins slashed. Two women were crying at the back seat. The window had shattered and the glass pieces had cut their faces at several places.

Even in the death-at-the-sight moment I was able to grab my sandals and bag from the rack above my head. In a flash, I was jumping out of the opposite window.

Then somebody grabbed my t-shirt and hurled me back into the bus.

The man was in his 60s. “Please let my daughter jump first, she has a long life ahead,” he said and started helping her jump from the hanging bus.

Each second in the ill-fated bus seemed like a year to me. I was sweating like nothing and the fear of death was not letting me think anything rather than jumping out of the bus.

After his daughter, it was the man who took the turn to get out of the bus. A minute ago he was talking about giving chance to a younger girl to live and then he was ignoring a young man in his early twenties.

The bus was still hanging to the boundary post. When I jumped off the window, the upper window sill caught my t-shirt but still I was able to get off the bus. As I safely landed on the road, I could see that the bus was already empty. Nobody was inside, except the goats. They were still bleating. And this time, I knew it was because of the fear of death. But the din and hullabaloo out on the road overpowered it.

People care not for the precious lives but think themselves to be more precious than others.

Several thoughts preoccupied my mind and the most prevalent was the conversation between the old man with chickens and the conductor boy. The old man with his silver goatee and white cap would flash each time in front of my eyes as I turned towards the bus. And his words would echo in my ears, “You have mishandled a man of your grandfather’s age, the great Allah will punish you for your misdeed.” “Insallah!”

***                                 ***                                   ***                                   ***

It was 7 PM and was getting dark. The stranded passengers were waving hands and getting on to any vehicles that stopped for help. Luckily, four monks and I were picked up by a pick-up going to Kathmandu. We were the last ones to be rescued from the site.

As we left the scene, the bus was still hanging to the post and the goats – tired of bleating were whimpering. And the whimper, I knew, was scary. A sign of little thread of hope amidst the appearing death.

The pick-up, a jittery vehicle, was throwing billows of smoke behind. Amidst the darkness of the smoke, it seemed, the old man with white cap and silver beard was cursing the conductor. And I could see the man in his 60s tugging me by my t-shirt and pulling me back into the bus. I was comparing the tears in the old man’s eyes to the twinkle in the eyes of the latter.

The more I tried to remember, the more cunning the latter looked.

Passing the small town Muglin, we were back on tarmac with no potholes. The journey was smoother and the pick-up no more threw clouds of smoke behind. Till that time, I was getting familiar with the four monks, all dressed in orange and maroon. There was a sort of glow in their faces. Calm as sea they were.

When I asked from where they were coming, one of them quietly replied, “Bodh Gaya.”

I was more interested in them and as I chirped and chirped asking them more and more, the reticent men started talking – this time in one-liners instead of the one-words. They had been to the place of Buddha’s enlightenment. And enlightened they were.

After almost two hours’ ride, we arrived at Naubise – with the remaining journey reduced to 36 kilometres, an hour’s journey. As the vehicle stopped for late tea and snacks, I grabbed a packet of salt and sweet biscuits and started munching on it. The four monks remained in the pick-up. When I offered them the packet, they simply denied. I could feel the sense of fulfillment in their eyes.  

Then the scenes again started revolving in my head – the goats bleating, eating the women’s shawl, the bus smelling of local alcohol, the old man with chickens, the conductor and the man in his 60s – all characters forming an indelible collage. 

Lost in my thoughts, I looked at the four men. I could feel and see the calmness in their faces amidst the dim light splashed by the vehicles following us.

The tranquility in their company was slowly erasing the harsh memories I was hoarding moments ago.

***                                 ***                                   ***                                   ***

The great earthquake, Mani Dewan and his indomitable spirit

The indomitable spirit – that’s what I call it. It has almost been more than a month and half since the Big one struck on 25 April. And thereafter the subsequent aftershocks kept on hammering our heads. Destabilising the EQ more than ever.

But it couldn’t shake the spirit of Mani Dewan on that day, though his body still shakes at the mention of the disaster.

Mani, short-statured and in his late forties, was alone at his home watching television when the earth started shaking at 11:56 AM. As he felt the temblor, he ran out of the house immediately for safety. Seeing the tall building in front of his house swaying as bamboos swaying in the wind, without any further delay, he ran towards the church in Kapan.

The shaking was continuing and people were scrambling for open spaces. But he was running as fast his legs could carry him. Miffed by a truck stopped in the middle of the road, he scolded the driver taking names. The driver too entered into a fracas. However, seeing no use of brawling, he kept running. Only to see an electric pole blocking the road.  

Within four minutes, he was there, at the church. At dot 12, he stood in front of the seven-storey building that had toppled down like a matchbox. He shuddered at the sight and was emotionless for a moment.

The shouts and cries from the building would tear apart the soul of any passer-by. But nobody had the courage to enter the collapsed building, once a tall landmark, with the earth still shaking.

He knew that the church was on the sixth floor. He rushed inside the ramshackle structure – in search of his six family members. Never had all of them gone to the church together!

Inside, the only things he could see were bodies writhing in pain and rubble. Surrounded by people crying in pain, he screamed from the deep of his heart. And luckily, his wife, buried in the rubble heard him. Buried beneath two people she replied back – with a faint hope of rescue.

Rays of hope flickered. He started digging like a mad man. After taking out two dead bodies, he saw his wife’s head. Had he not found her, she would have suffocated to death. He pulled her out and then began search for the rest five family members.

Till then nobody had dared to enter inside the rubble. As he rescued one of his daughters, nephew and nieces from the rubble, a stranger helped him get the severely injured survivors in the open from the rubble.

He had found his five family members. But his youngest daughter was still missing. He searched and searched and finally found her among the rubble. She was like a dead log – only the blood was running down her veins. He took her out from the rubble to the open space where rest of his family laid. Breathing for life – out on the open road. 

But the truck driver with whom he had had altercation before, came to his help. He helped him take the survivors to a hospital nearby. Now the only thing he was worried about was his youngest daughter.

After two hours she opened her eyes. He says, “That was the moment when my sanity returned.”

“Otherwise, I had been totally senseless after seeing the dead bodies, spurts of blood, rods and concrete piercing the bodies, and innards splattered around amidst the gory scene.”

He doesn’t remember how many more people he rescued while digging out his family members. “Must be around 4-5,” he says.

“The only thing I regret is – I could not save a neighbour who had recently bought a house next to mine few days ago. I was helpless. He was buried to his waist and a rod had pierced through his head. He was dead.”

As he narrated the story, I was imagining the situation. I could see his heart beating faster. And along with him, I was getting a bit nauseous.   

While we (I had tagged along with two of my friends) were listening to his story, we were offered plates of delicious snacks and treated to a trip to his farm nearby. A sprawling greenery amidst the concrete jungle, it was eye-soothing. The 13 ropani (1 ropani = 5476 sq. ft.) area had been a post-quake camp for the people living in the vicinity. With the already installed tents covered with plastic, they only had to bring mattresses, bed-sheets and blankets to spend the nights.

All his tomatoes, ready to bear fruit, were uprooted. When we were there, the tomato saplings that had been transplanted were showing the signs of growing back. We were treated with the organic strawberries straight from the farm. What a delicious species it was!

Apart from the climbers, tomatoes, beans, green vegetables, there was a pond in the middle of the farm. He had raised carps and local rohu variety of fish in his small pond – covered with net so as to stop birds from pecking on them. A kingfisher, looking live though killed by Mani, perched on a bamboo pole nearby.

It was strange to see a kingfisher turning up for a fish hunt in the pond located amidst the concrete jungle called Kathmandu. And stranger was the sharp-shooting ability of Mani – he had killed the poor fellow with help of his catapult.

Being a wildlife lover and conservation enthusiast, I always hate the killers of wild species. But here, in case of Mani, I loved him and his attitude. Not to forget – his indomitable spirit.
  

3 things you should avoid doing in a restaurant

Icons sourced from Freepik.com and template from Hubspot.com

I wonder whether the restaurant "Danapani" still exists in Malviyanagar of Jaipur in India. Living up to its name, it used to be a perfect joint to have your bellies and tongues satisfied. I was a regular at the place and my friends used to invite me to dine with them much often. The sole reason was a waiter in the restaurant who was very near to me. Whenever I accompanied them, they were sure to get a bigger portion of each ordered item. In addition to that we used to get royal treatment, being regulars.

One day I was alone and not many seats were occupied. After placing my orders, I was waiting for the food to arrive. Then suddenly there was a loud brouhaha about the food, few tables away from mine. The waiter serving the food was the same guy I had known for years.   

As he came near me, I enquired him about the brawl. He said that the man had demanded the same dish thrice. At first he had complained about too much salt in the chicken, secondly he had complained about the taste and nearly slapped the waiter. He got scolding in front of regular customers.

It was obvious, the waiter was humiliated. He always took me as a well-wisher, so he whispered in my ear, "Do you know what I did?"

"I spat on the third serving. And you can see, the man is enjoying the food," he shared his crime with pride. I was taken aback by his gusto.

After that I fear eating in that restaurant. And above all I learned one important lesson, 'never to enter into a fracas with a waiter'. You have the right to complain, but do it in a dignified manner.

***                ***                ***            ***

I am a food lover and I love the street food. In particular, the food at roadside Dhaba, the Punjabi owned eateries are real delights to my taste buds.

Once I was travelling to Delhi from Jaipur in a Roadways bus (state owned bus service). The Roadways buses generally stop at Dhabas that offer delicious food. I knew that and when the bus stopped for food at the midway, I occupied a table and asked for the menu.

A thin guy in his late teens came to me handing a menu in tatters. I glanced through it and ordered a parantha and aaloo dum. I didn’t bother to look at the price as the place looked local and cheap. However, after a satisfying meal when I went to pay, the price that I had to pay was ten times more than normal. I was dumbfounded but could not nag much as it was my fault.

The worse part was, I had a limited budget to travel back to Nepal from Delhi and I had spent the major chunk on a roadside lunch.

Nowadays, I never place an order before verifying the price.  

***                ***                ***            ***

In Nepal, there are some exciting places famous for fish. One of them is Malekhu, about two hours’ ride away from Kathmandu. Eateries on both sides of the highway serve fish, claiming [the fish] to be from the nearby river. Another such place is Babai on the way to Surkhet from Nepalgunj.

If you live in big city and are used to eating frozen fish, you will love the taste. However, if you are a fish connoisseur you will notice the difference. The fish are not from the local river. They are outsourced from water sources including ponds of neighbouring districts.

I never believed when my friends said that the fish was not from the river.

Once I was travelling from Kohlapur to Surkhet. The bus was jam-packed. People were stacked inside like sardines. There was, however, a big black drum near the door. Sitting next to it, I asked a man standing near the door to sit on the drum. But as he sat on the drum, a fat man standing nearby yelled at him, “Don’t you see the tiny hole on the lid?” “If you sit on it, my fish will suffocate to death.”

Then only I realised that the container was for transporting fish. When the bus stopped for tea and snacks at Babai, the fat man got down the drum from the bus. While I was drinking tea the man was distributing the fish to the hotel owners. And they would sell them as “fish from Babai”!

I remember my friend cracking joke while we were having fish and rice. The shopkeeper had told that the fish was from Babai. He had said, “Does Babai have enough water to hold this big fish?”

It was summer and the river had dried down to a narrow stream. The fish was exceptionally big. And for sure, it came from a pond in the neighbouring Bardia district!

Moral of the story: Never follow a brand blindly.   

Ride a jeepney and tell the driver how his driving is

I just returned from Cebu in Philippines and if you ask me what the most memorable thing was during the whole trip, I would proudly say a “jeepney”. Jeepneys are colourful, spacious, available 24 hours and one of the most widely used public transports in Cebu.

It is an elongated form of a jeep – modified and stretched to adjust at least 10 people comfortably in one row. Each of the jeepneys plying on a route is designated a route number, displayed clearly along with the destinations on its side.

Another good thing about a jeepney is, you need not hurry and jostle with fellow passengers for a seat. People stand in queue at the stops and get inside a jeepney on first come first serve basis. I saw people doing the same while waiting for taxis in front of shopping malls. I wish it happens in Nepal too. Only the public transport users know the agony in Nepal. You need to be extra strong to sneak inside a micro-bus or a tempo. And if it’s during the office hours, it’s scuffle time!

Jeepneys are considered to be pride of Philippines. To make sure we experience the ride, the summit organisers (I was in Cebu for the Global Voices Citizen Media Summit) arranged jeepneys to transfer us from our hotel to the summit venue. And pleasant it was!

We took to jeepneys few more times and every time we found the people smiling at us. They helped us with our destinations and passed the coins to the fare collector. I never saw any jeepney being overcrowded. Not a single passenger more than the seat capacity!

The best thing that I liked was a message on the jeepney, “How’s my driving” with a telephone number. That should be the spirit of every public transport driver!

Don’t forget to ride a jeepney if you are in the Philippines. 

Year of the Tiger, WWF stamp and Mohan Narsingh Rana

Some thirty years ago, I started collecting stamps. A pair of forceps, a magnifying glass and two stamp albums were the most coveted possession I had in those days. And nagging my father and his friends, to give me the envelopes of the letters they received, was a routine work for me.

The psychology of hoarding stamps slowly turned me into a serious philatelist and within a decade I was a proud owner of stamps from over 150 countries. My favourite subjects of collection were famous scientists, monuments, flora and fauna.

WWF stamps, a craze among collectors
WWF stamps are always in demand among collectors and my love for the stamps made me push for a commemorative stamp for the Year of the Tiger campaign being led throughout the world by WWF. Earlier the Government of Nepal had issued a set of four WWF stamps showcasing endangered animals.

In early 2010, I was leading The Year of the Tiger campaign in Nepal and when discussing the idea of issuing a WWF stamp with the senior management team, I got the hint that it was a tough task.

Mohan Narsingh Rana, a perfectionist and designer par excellence
However, when one of my colleagues from WWF and I met with Mohan Narsingh Rana at the Departmental of Postal Services, I sniffed the smell of success at first sight itself. I could see the twinkle in his eyes when we told him about the stamp. He was always interested in designing stamps for special occasions. And it was a special occasion indeed.

He was not a big man. But it was his confidence and conviction that won over his thin and frail frame. His silvery white hair, moustache and beard added to his impressive personality.

Appreciating our plan, he detailed out the steps needed to design the stamp. The steps he spelled out were rigorous but doable. It was his experience of designing more than 300 stamps for the Government of Nepal and his reputation of coming up with excellent designs, he never compromised on standards.

Being a perfectionist, he wanted to be at the tiger habitats, either in Chitwan National Park or in Bardia National Park, visit the forest and if possible get to see a real tiger. He wanted to get the real feeling of a tiger habitat. He was not convinced drawing a tiger from available photographs.  Instead he preferred a camera trap image. That’s how you do justice to your work. In the final design, the tiger seemed to emerge out of its lair, the dense forest.

(c) WWF Nepal

Commemorative stamp for the Year of the Tiger
Finally, in commemoration of the Year of the Tiger 2010, the Department of Postal Services of the Government of Nepal issued the WWF tiger postal stamps. The then Prime Minister of Nepal Madhav Kumar Nepal introduced the stamps by applying the first day of issue cancellation to the Rs 5 denomination stamp.

What started as a hobby became one of the most satisfying moments of my life!

I had never thought that I would one day contribute to issuing a WWF commemorative stamp. However, it all happened. Thanks to Mr Rana, he understood the gravity of The Year of the Tiger and accepted to design the stamp. I feel the stamp was helpful in raising awareness about tiger conservation not only in Nepal but also in countries where the stamps reached piggybacking on the envelopes sent out of Nepal.

Rest in peace Mr Rana
Mr Rana was suffering from throat cancer and left this world early this year. He devoted his 36 precious years designing stamps of different colours, shapes and sizes highlighting various issues. And one of them is the WWF commemorative stamp for the Year of the Tiger 2010.  

I have in my collection a mint sheet of The Year of the Tiger stamp. And it is the most coveted possession that I have. Rest in peace Mr Rana! 

Chanarbhoga – the mystery unfolding on the Chure hills in Saptari

A goat was being tied to a cycle. Four men and a little boy were busy spelling out their ideas to get the bleating goat settled on a piece of rice sack.  When I asked why the poor thing was being loaded in such a small space above the cycle pedals, the answer was, “It’s his journey of lifetime.”

The goat was destined to be the feast for the day. The first of Baishakh, the first day of the Nepali calendar, is spent making merry, having good time with friends and visiting the sacred places – the temples and thans (worshipping place of ancestral village deity).

The men were heading to Chanarbhoga – the Shira Than – where the guardian deity of many villages is supposed to dwell. Every year, the villagers collect money and buy a goat for the deity. Every village in the vicinity sacrifice a goat to make sure that the deity remains happy throughout the year and keeps away any outbreak of diseases and natural disasters happening in those villages. That’s the popular belief. 

Having heard a lot about Chanarbhoga, called Chandrabhoga by Nepali speakers, I set off along with the team with the goat tied to the cycle. And aiding me in my trip was my favourite mountain bike with Shimano gears. 

I was amazed by the terrain – stony river bed with ditches and flowing water at places, hills carved with interesting patterns from landslides, newly planted trees sprouting out amidst the butts of trees felled down – all were a “wow” for me.    

If you want to hike, trek and climb like Bear Grylls in the Man Vs Wild, head for the ruins of an ancient temple spread over the Chure hills in Saptari district of Eastern Nepal.

A mountain bike can be your best partner – to experience biking along the dry river bed during the March – April season. The once dense forest turns into withered, leafless trees and the climbers that sprawl the forest all the year round dries down. Thanks to the forest fire that occurs every year, the whole forest turns into a burnt, lifeless environ easing your climb to the hill-top.  

There are two ways to reach Chanarbhoga. Either head north from the Govind Chowk a kilometre west of Rupani or move northwards from the Shambhunath Chowk (locally called Traffic) which lies west of Govind Chowk. As you move northwards, you will come across a river bed. Just follow the river and it will lead you to the bottom of the hill leading to Chanarbhoga.

As I followed the river to its origin, the ditches in between and the cool flowing water kept the heat away. Though the heat was scorching till I got to the river, it dropped down by at least few degrees on entering the river bed.

One thing that pinched me was the rampant logging in the forest. It had eroded the hills towering over the river. I could imagine the condition had there been torrential rains. There would be a massive landslide in the area, in that case. The few trees remaining on the hills would not be able to hold the erosion.

But I see no solution to this problem. The people living in the vicinity are poor and landless. And their only source of income is the timber from the forest. They cut down the trees in spite of the so-called monitoring by the forest department and sell the wood in the nearby markets.
However, like every black cloud has a silver lining, the young trees sprouting out on the river bank seemed, would grow into a dense forest in near future.

As I neared the hill leading to Chanarbhoga, the river narrowed down further. I had never been to the place so had no idea – where to start climbing the hill. The group of men with the goat stayed back at the bank of the river to sacrifice the goat and prepare for the feast. I was all alone. The only thing I was tracking during the cycle ride was the highest peak among the hills. I was told that Chanarbhoga is somewhere near that peak.

Getting to the foothills of the highest peak, I chained my cycle to a young amaltash tree. Then I started climbing. The ascent was easy – no thorny plants and no rocky patches. I was comfortable on my pair of sandals.    

The hills seemed bare – devoid of trees. It was also due to a recent forest fire. Everything had burnt down to ashes, turning the surrounding into a black and white frame. The area smelt of burnt charcoal and with the gushes of fresh air, the aroma of ash and soil brushed past my face.

Nearing the peak, I could see the beautiful scene below – the green fields, surrounding hills and bare tree trunks. Looking above, the walking trail was clear, being used by the woodcutters every day. The trees stood naked, some with few patches of newly spouted green leaves. Among them the Marmellous trees (wood apple, called bel in local language) looked distinct and they were in abundance in the area.   

Reaping the benefits of the bel abundance in the forests, community members have started a bel juice factory in Lahan of Siraha district and Khata of Bardia district. The brand Marmellous was quite popular in Nepal’s domestic market and community members could earn extra income during the fruition period by collecting the fruits from forests and selling them to the factory.

There’s a huge potential to come up with a juice factory in the area looking at the bel trees. Once the communities will start benefitting from the bel trees, the felling down of these trees will be under control.    

Leaving behind the bel trees, I moved up. As I neared the peak, the trail narrowed down and literally there was no way to get to the peak. I clambered clutching on the wild grass, the only thing clinging tightly to the rocks. However, I could not continue beyond a point where even the wild grass was nowhere to be seen. I managed to get hold of crevices and push myself up, but could not get beyond the point. The sight was dizzying looking down from the point. As I could not climb further, I lowered down, a step at a time. Then like King Robert’s spider, I tried once again climbing to the peak. But again got stuck at the same point.

With a feeling of a defeated warrior, disheartened, I trekked back to the bel trees. Luckily, I located a group of children with a goat in tow led by an old man whom I had met on my way to the foot of the hill. They were going in a different direction, but I was sure they were going to Chanarbhoga, to sacrifice the goat. So, I thought of following them.

I had not even walked for five minutes and the sight before me was baffling. I was stunned. The stones, pillars, bricks were scattered helter-skelter. The bricks, larger but thinner than normal bricks, were baked to perfection. The stone structures, square blocks, pillars, pedestals and columns with idols carved – all were lying unattended. Looking carefully at the columns, I could identify structures that seemed aiming with a bow, meditating and dancing. One huge round structure that could have served as a pedestal for a column, broken into three parts, was lying intact at a point. The structure was exactly like the one that I had seen at the Semnath temple (Sambhunath). I hadn’t believed when people said that the structures at Semnath were brought from Chanarbhoga. I could now compare them. They were obviously taken from Chanarbhoga to Semnath.

Semnath

Structures at Semnath were brought from Chanarbhoga

As I clicked the pictures of each and every stone that I could see in the surrounding, I came across a long column that could have been part of the entrance of an ancient temple. The stone structure had carving of idols in dancing, sitting and guarding poses. Nearby were other stone items with beautiful patterns. At a distance were two large triangular stones with beveled bottoms.

It was the first of Baishakh and I knew hordes of people must have flocked to Chanarbhoga to sacrifice goats. But nobody was there. I then followed the direction to which the group of kids and old man had gone. After walking for few minutes, I could hear sound of people talking. I kept heading to the direction.

I had to climb down the hill and pass through a gorge before I met groups of people picnicking at the dead end of the gorge. The old man who had led the kids was sitting at the bottom of the hill and the kids were pushing the black goat on a steep cliff. The kids told me to leave my sandals at the foothill before climbing to the shrine Chanarbhoga.

I followed the children. Though it was steep, I could hold on to the roots of trees and climbers to get to a cave-like dugout on the hills.

Inside, five stone structures were placed in a row. All the structures were blackened by the applying of mustard oil. Above the structures was a red cloth with white perimeter. A symbol of purity and divinity. On the front of the idols were clay lamps (diya), sweets (laddoo), incense sticks and flowers. At the side were clay pots (ghaila) meant for fetching water. There was a huge knife (dabiya), a clay bowl of rice (akshat), few bottles of mustard oil and a glass and lota (a brass tumbler) of water at one end.

The priest who hailed from Hardiya Kataiya, a village to the south of the highway, wore a kurta, dhoti and turban (pagari). He put the akshat and flowers on the head of the goat and sprinkled water on the goat. As the goat accepted the pariksha by moving its head throwing away the flower and rice, the priest left not a second to sacrifice it. Before sacrificing an animal or bird, they are asked whether they are ready for the sacrifice or not by putting rice, drops of water and flowers on their heads. As they nod their heads, it is taken as a green light for being ready for the sacrifice.

The boys carried the carcass down the hill and I merely followed them back to the foothill. I was parched due to the climbing without even a drop of water. So, I borrowed water from the team which was a good way to start conversation about the shrine.

Amrit Lal Chaudhary from Khoksar village

Before the children could speak, the old man Amrit Lal Chaudhary (60 years) from nearby Khoksar village started telling about Chanarbhoga and myths surrounding it.

“Once a priest left his lota after worshipping and when he returned to get it back, he never returned. His friends only saw a small piece of his gamchha (a thin towel) wavering from a small crack in the temple. So never look back after you return having offered prayers and sacrifice to Chanarbhoga.”

“The idol at Sambhunath (Semnath) is originally from Chanarbhoga. The piece of rock was swept away from the Chanarbhoga temple and landed in Khando River. Seeing the abandoned piece of rock, shepherds started sharpening their knives on it. However, it started bleeding like a living thing.

Later in dream of a man from the Sambhunath area, Semnath asked him to take him to the place where He is established right now.

The villagers came in group with drums and musical instruments. But He didn’t budge from the place when they loaded him on a bullock cart. He moved only when they used a baby playing cart.” 

After hearing the stories of Chanarbhoga, I had two choices – to return via the same route or to follow the children. I decided to follow the children, though it was the tougher one.

It was a narrow passage between two hills – a gorge which is filled with water during the rainy season. Luckily, it was dry and we could easily walk along the path. On the way, I encountered few of the pieces of carved rocks from Chanargbhoga. Now, I believe, how the rocks might have been swept away down to the Khando River. The passage is very narrow and the rapid current of water can even sweep away big boulders. 

At places, there were deep ditches of water – some even having shoulder-deep water. At those places, we had to climb up the hill. With no trails, we kept forward clutching the roots of trees and climbers. And the children were quicker than me! To climb up and slide down the rocky patches.

Then at a place we came across a perfectly round stone. Most probably swept away from Chanarbhoga. As we were nearing the place I had chained my cycle to, I took a picture of the boys who led me throughout the journey. One of the boys was wearing a t-shirt with an interesting graffiti – “I am a GOOD person with BAD attitude” and his friend was sporting a Gangnam Style tee.

Finally, I was at my start point. I unchained the cycle and sped towards my villagers who were feasting somewhere at the bank of the river. I saw many groups of people cooking the meat of the sacrificed goats. Unfortunately, I could not find them. I missed a chance to savour the feast. But the experience as a whole was unforgettable.

If you want to know more about Semnath (Sambhunath) and Chanarbhoga (Chandrabhgoa) and their affinity to the Sen kings, read my piece published in The Kathmandu Post.