The sun goes down over streets crowded with house wives looking for greens for the night meal. Motor motorcycles weave in and out of the hustle and bustle. The cobbled alleyways are slippery from closing night time’s rains; old men watch the sector pass by way of from the overhead in intricately carved Newari fashion windows. There’s a odor of mingled sparkling and rotting vegetables inside the air and the hum of conversations reaches my ears.
My motive force, his bone thin frame hunched over the handles bars of the historical Indian fashion frame, his wiry legs causally pump the timber block like peddles and sweat trickles down his forehead as he navigates the squeaky rickshaw via the group. From where I take a seat, in my Nepalese style rickshaw from my nicely padded seat I see simply the scene before me. No one bumps me, no person hassles me to shop for whatever, in reality I slip by overlooked within the nearby throng, allowed at my own enjoyment to view the sights and snap and shoot my camera as I like at the infinite sights and scenes that Kathmandu has to provide.
The cycle rickshaw is commonplace via Asia as a method of local shipping. Nepal has its very own particular fashion of rickshaw which resembles a form of Jinka attached to the again of a strong framed India bicycle. These two seated contraptions are all adored will a colourful cover’s, snap shots of the diverse Hindu gods, loud comical sounding horns, generally crafted from a plastic bottles and are propelled along through the thin, but deceivingly effective legs of a Nepalese Driver.
The drivers vary in age from the seemingly historic to the ones too young to even attain the peddles nicely! All are negative and earn a meager dwelling from their every day toil of hauling locals to the market, porting luggage, slabs of meat and water to and fro and now and again the fortunate ones pickup the well paying cargo of a foreign visitor!!
Each driving force is an character man or woman and they all have their personal tales to tell from Baji (Old Man) that commenced out hauling buffalo carcasses from the slaughter house to the butcher shop and now spends his days in the extra rewarding alternate of taking around vacationers from the four megastar hotels, to Babu (Small Boy) who grew up on the streets when his mother and father died, he picked rags to store money to buy a rickshaw and now he peddles top-class women to market…And the thousand Indra’s, Keshaps, Deepkas and Biksahes in-among. As varied as their memories are, they all have some thing in common, they all recognise this town intimately and they’ll all greet you with a welcoming smile and experience nothing better than displaying off their Kathmandu too you!
My rickshaw clears the crowded marketplace region in Asan and we pull into Indra Chowk where the Lassie Whallla pours ice cold lassies, freshly made from local curd into glasses and passes one every to the motive force and me. My motive force delivered me to this place along side many other nearby favorites wherein to buy the cheapest & juiciest mangoes, where to consume the tastiest Momo (Meat crammed dumping) the sweetest tea and the most mouth-watering sekwa (BBQ Meat Skewers) on the town.
Our subsequent forestall is the ancient buildings in Kathmandu Durba Square, we whiz through Kumari Ko Ghar (residence of the dwelling Goddess), he calls to her in his smooth voice and the dwelling goddess in brief smiles down on us from her window wherein she can spend the maximum of her younger life. We pass Kasmandap, the original building right here, the call manner “Kathmandu House” and this large structure is said to were constructed from the wood of one Sal Tree a few 800 years earlier than.
Skirting the whitewashed partitions of the royal palace we come to a halt at the Kaju Deval, a seven tiered temple like constructing. The motive force relaxes even as I climb the steep stairs in time to observe the solar kiss the horizon behind Swayambunath (Monkey Temple) perched at the hill, the Himalaya turns orange, then pink, then fades away with the darkness. The Square beneath is now emptying out because the locals head domestic for Dhal Bhart (The night meal of rice and Lentils).
Back in the rickshaw we head up a newly paved side road, stores are knocking down their shutters for the night and local Sekwa and Tass residence crowds are moving from middle age guys having a shot of nearby Raski (Rice Wine) on their way returned domestic to younger stylishly dressed youths heading for a reasonably-priced drink with their buddies. Children are changed with the aid of streets dogs and homeless boys hover within the darkening cornered breathing in glue from antique milk baggage. Turning a corner the road lighting up again and the haunting tone of a conch shells plays over the night time sound of Kathmandu.
The Buddhist area emits a sense of calm and protection. Monks gracefully hint steps across the stupa chanting prayers and spinning Mani Wheels. The scent of butter candles and Solar Powered Street Lights their soft light invite us into the Monastery. More clergymen sit chanting and the gentle glow brings to life the golden determine of Buddha on the altar. We sip salty butter tea and sense our minds and souls relax. Many matters divide us, pores and skin coloration, wealth cultural heritage and upbringing, but Dipu and I are not so exceptional, we’re touched with the aid of the equal things except he drives the rickshaw and I take a seat inside the lower back.
The Monks rise and leave and so will we, the rickshaw whirls thru the silent streets, back to my lodge. The day is nearly gone, however now not the reminiscences, in no way will they fade. I thank Dipu for unearthing the wonders of Kathmandu to me and slip him some money, at which he does not even appearance, it slides into his pocket and without a backward look he peddles up the alleyway and fades back into the streets of Kathmandu……Me, simply every other visitor to him.