The street that leads to Pashupati

Pashupatinath temple

This piece was published in the Nepali Times as a part of Galli Salliharuma project.

“Galli Salliharuma is a public writing project that archives personal stories to build a walking-breathing map of Kathmandu as marked and narrated by its inhabitants and visitors. The project is an exercise at encountering and engaging with ideas of place, memory and belonging.”

Here I sketch, through words, and try to navigate and narrate the street that once led to Pashupatinath temple:

THERE WAS A TIME when the temple bells from Pashupati pierced through the windows of our old Newari house. Every morning, during winter recess, this sound was a call to go for a walk with my grandfather. Through the thick fog, all bundled up, I grabbed Baa’s wrinkled hand and followed him briskly through the stone-paved alleyways of Deopatan to the Pashupatinath temple.

Every day, my eyes met with the same string of ancestral Newari houses, familiar faces peeking through windows, and even more familiar smiles greeting us from the doors. Then there were small shops with wooden shutters; the busiest in the lot was Ganga Ram’s halwai pasal, distinctly famous for its halwa-swari combo.

When we reached Ganga Ram’s shop, we took the right instead of going through the packed street that led to the main temple. There were two reasons why I always dragged my old man that way. My favorite stationery shop was at the end of this lane, and I secretly took joy in shoplifting the smallest of things, like those fifty paisa filmy postcards. The second reason was to follow the road past the flower shops to the banks of the Bagmati to sail my paper boats. My little brain found both these activities adventurous. Especially the thrill of seeing my paper boats sail successfully, and then disappear into the river through the morning mist.

Times have changed and the hand that led me through these alleyways is not here anymore. The chain of old houses has now crumbled, and the shops have moved. This old place has a new character but little charm, including the river where I once sailed my paper boats. It now smells of sewage.

But I’ve kept these streets intact in my mind, the routes are mapped out in my memory. And today, in all its unfamiliarity, I can still see those shops, smell those sweets and sense the thrill in those boats sailing away. But when I open my eyes in the mornings, it’s usually to the punctuating sounds of vehicles and not the temple bells.

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