Kathmandu is not the place I knew twenty years ago. It has become unbelievably crammed, not only within the ring road but also outside the ring road. Constructions are so chaotic that may take any visitor’s breath away. All the arable land has been ferociously occupied by the concrete houses. All the roads and gullies seem to be filled with pedestrians as if they are pilgrimaging to the temple.
But what have we to do with all of those when a poor dies of diarrhea in a remote village? When a husband has to depart from his wife for an employment in abroad? When a dead body wrapped up in a box enters the country? When a child gets rapped or molested any time?
It was dusk and the snow-clad mountains were glazed with golden color that pulled the strings of my heart. The breathtaking mountains were priceless and so was the deep river a thousand feet below.
The house stored beehives and bees; I used to run eating and sucking honeycombs with both of my hands, honey dripping off of my elbows and my mouth painted with sticky layers of honey, which when dried coated my face with a filmy layer of translucent sweetness.
यो लेख लेखिरहँदा म -अमेरिकाको “न्यु हेम्सोर” भन्ने ठाँउमा रहेको एउटा सुन्दर रेस्टुरेन्टको तेस्रो तलामा बसेर लाटे कफी पिउँदै हिऊँले पुरिएका पहाडहरुमा स्थानियबासी र पर्यटकहरुले