Facebook nostalgia for Old Nepal, which has us Like-ing countless images of rustic Nepal, all mud brick houses, undulating rice paddies and gleaming mountains, appeals mostly because of its contrast to the bristling present. But the more you yearn for Old Nepal, the more depressing the New Nepal of concrete and steel appears to be (quite apart from socio-political considerations). Unless coupled with some vision of the future, dragging the present into the past is a futile endeavour.

For the inveterate pastoralists, though, Old Nepal is still out there in bits and pieces. Thanks to the ever-burgeoning network of microbuses (and roads for your Treks or Enfields) it’s just around the corner. When I was a child heading from Maharajgunj to St.Xavier’s Godavari, the intervening urban and rural spaces were simply landmarks that dragged me closer to boarding school misery. Yesterday, bussing it down to Chapagaon and walking through the rice paddies and brick factories of Southern Lalitpur, I was struck once more by how easy it is to access our recent past, and appreciate more than just the heritage of Kathmandu, Patan, Bhaktapur and lately, Kirtipur.

Even the smaller settlements are changing rapidly, but there’s still plenty to see in a day’s walk in southern Lalitpur. Chapagaon itself is charming, and it’s worth getting off before the bus stop for the 17th-century temple of Bajra Barahi (located in a woodland teeming with Saturday picnickers). Even if it’s just to snicker at (and then earnestly take photos of) the erotic struts of the two temples just off the road. Head east from Bajra Barahi, and a dusty, unfrequented road dips into terraced fields somewhat marred by the brick kilns that obscure the views that must have meant so much to the Godavari Village Resort half an hour down the road.

From Taukhel, on the road leading to Godavari, we asked our way up to Bisankhu Narayan, a curious cleft in a rock draped with antique chain mail. A boulder just below the shrine challenges those with slim bodies and uncluttered consciences to slip through – I’m happy to say I passed, through. We were rewarded by the sight of a half-dozen Kalij pheasants fluttering through the Phulchowki foothills.

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The pointless question of whether Our Man in Heavena is actually a Woman finds a very Nepali compromaij on one of the hillocks shading the cleft of Chobhar, where the Valley sheds its poison (in an offering to Jal Binayak that even his Father would find unpalatable).

Turn right off the road to Taudaha and head up the steep incline to the Adinath Lokeshwar temple. Look past the pots and pans that stud, nay obscure, the facade of the three-storied pagoda Bihar, and you’ll realise that this is a 15th-century shrine to a half-man, half-woman divinity. Adinath, geddit? The god, we were informed by a helpful local sunbather, enjoys the privilege of both a bratabandha and a gufa ceremony.

The shrine was closed when we got there, so we were understandably focused on the artifacts nailed not just to the temple but to every inch of the courtyard walls. What a history of domesticity could be traced through these implements! The obvious motivation seemed to be an offering to guarantee the prosperity of the household, but other sources indicate the items may be donated on behalf of the dearly departed.

Photo: Shubha Giri. 'Dem be a lot of plates.'

The settlement around the temple is just as you might expect – quiet, sun-drenched streets where men and women sit in expectation of nothing. The views are spectacular, too: this was the first time I’d ever seen Manaslu from the Kathmandu Valley, to the left of the Ganesh massif. All this a mere 15-minute ride up from the Ringroad. These corners hold the centre together.

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photo: Deep Samsher Rana

We were on the way to a Patan pasni when we first saw them. Two huge Buddha busts on man-sized frames on the road leading to Mangal Bazaar, casually positioned by the side of a kirana store as if waiting for their mates to finish buying cigarettes and beer, c’mon it’s the weekend let’s go. Another was being adored in some style in one of the chowks before Bangalamukhi, rubber neckers we were then, ignorant of the full signficance of the Dipankar Buddhas being out and about the neighbourhood, not realising it was the Samyak Jatra.

But after the pasni – a traditional chyaang and chwoela in the chowk affair to celebrate the second child of a Britisher and a Newar – we could avoid the gods no longer. It was close to 11pm, but the streets were jammed, and as we circled Patan Durbar Square we saw them, thronged by devotees, whom we joined in a trice.

One Dipankar Buddha is an impressive enough sight: the eerily tranquil features sculpted onto an expanse of gold-plated metal evoke an otherworldliness even for non-believers; the intricacy of the surrounding metalwork inlaid with precious stones and the heavy brocaded silks only enhance this effect. Imagine two and a half dozen multiplications, with variations of size and style, and you begin to see that the gathering is truly a council of the gods. There they stood, in two rows, revealed to the community in all their glory. Devotees buzzed about them like bees.

But all stood back when, one by one, the gods got up and began to walk, in a stately procession, out of the square. All were entranced by the vision of the gods, supported by willing devotees, moving amongst them. The syncopated beats of Newari percussion clashed and fused with the strained melody of a clarinet. As we headed in the opposite direction, we encountered two more Dipankar Buddhas entering the square, hurrying to catch up with the main body. They swayed gracefully, face tilting from one side to another, as if blessing those fortunate enough to cross paths with them.

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Intrigued by the premise of the late 19th-century play ‘Spring Awakening’ by German expressionist Frank Wedekind and curious about how far school dramas have moved on in the two decades since I was last on stage, I headed to Nepal Tourism Board for an adaptation by Ullens IB Theatre. The cheerful opening disclaimer along the lines of ‘we only had 10 days’ by Assistant Director Ankit Sharma should have alerted me; at the end I restrained myself from asking, ‘then why on earth did you choose such a difficult play?’

Adolescent boys and girls talk about and experience sex and love, abuse and suicide, against the suffocating backdrop of adults who willfully misunderstand them. It all ends quite darkly for the three lead characters, decently portrayed by Pragyan Thapa Ghimire, Sansar Kshetri, and Shrisha Pradhananga. But the performance was fatally hamstrung by abrupt transitions as well as the wooden renderings and inarticulate delivery of key supporting actors. Not to mention the inexplicable decision to have distracting Nepali classical playing throughout.

‘Spring Awakening’ delves into all the unspoken issues of our day, still as potent a century after Wedekind articulated them. But one can’t help but conclude that director Hannah Lilly was more enamoured of the notion of bringing these hot cakes to a Nepali audience than recognising the limitations of a slapdash performance with modern kids who may not have been given the time to truly understand and convey theatrically the bittersweet turbulences of adolescence. Certainly the players failed with the back row of the theatre, who had little more to offer than sniggers and the loud clacks of their cameras. A brave effort, no doubt, but as disappointing as a wet dream.

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As an autonome of sorts, I sometimes miss being pampered. Or, at the risk of sounding like a Britisher who defends the miserly quota of sunshine allocated to him in the Isles with a righteous “it’s no fun if the sun’s always on”, I’d concur that familiarity breeds contempt, while rarity wins admiration. I know I love my dalbhat when I’m home.

The joys of shaving make for a double-edged sword; it can be a real drag, all puns intended. Whatever Gillette tells you, being obliged to daily wield a sharp implement to scrape my face off is, in my book, not the best a man can get. Not being so obliged, my solution has been to not bother, at least not with the full monty, and certainly not every day. Besides, whatever metrosexology says, women still like a bit of rough, right?

The long and short of it is that I rarely shave. A visit to the barber’s is rarer still. But until you’ve been down the local, I don’t care how many blades your battery-operated vibrating, polychromatic Gillette has, you don’t know what a smooth shave really is.

Shyam Sundar Thakur of the eponymous Kupondole saloon welcomes me with a smile, and offers me a newspaper and a stool. How can I possibly abscond to the next shearer? I wait. After my standard hairdo – Bhuwan KC? Nima Rumba? More “machine le char number” – the barber eases my head back onto a padded rest, then spends a good five minutes lathering me until I look like I’ve been transported a million years into the future. But I’m more focused on the present, including the broken-hearted wailing emanating from the radio in front of me, and the certificate on the wall that announces this Thakur collective’s membership in a union of barbers with vaguely threatening logos (I’d rather have Barbers with Blades on my side, thanks).

An obligatory change of blade (remember those dodgy days you were never quite sure?), and off he goes, clearing the undergrowth for my chin to take shape once more, an inch at a time. It’s soothing; as much as I enjoy being beardy and writerly, it’s nice to imagine one could be working in a bank right now, smooth-faced and calculating (it’s Wednesday afternoon, and I’m at the barber’s, but it’s the thought that counts). Inch by inch, a new face, a new down (sic). Like getting your shoes polished, getting shaved by someone else – by a professional – is a simple pleasure, and somehow one that one can’t wax too lyrical about without seeming ridiculous.

Once done, Shyam Sundar wipes my face carefully, and here comes the first of the stingers – he runs a translucent, perfumed Potash Alum rock over my face, moistening my pores and rounding off the razor’s edges (even as I wonder how safe this particular pass-the-parcel actually is). Then a bit of pinkish cream, and since I wave off the second round of shaving – I’m already balder than I have been for months, and I like to begin sprouting again within a day or two – he sprinkles me liberally with a powerful turquoise conconction. Wunderbar! The complete man.

“Hm, I look different, eh?”

“Five years younger!”

Naturally, then, though he asks for less than the going rate, I give him more. I know it’ll be months before I return, but such are the joys of life, I reflect, as I return to my flat. Less is sometimes more.

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Krea•dle | krē•dle |
noun
a superficial review of a book based on a speed read of a free sample delivered to a Kindle, occasionally supplemented with wiki-based research and free-ranging prejudices: “Oh, just do a Kreadle, who has the time to read a whole book these days?”

The girl who has tattoos, plays with fire, mucks about with hornets and generally gets up to no good whatsoever is so popular she’s sold over 20 million copies. This, despite the fact that her creator, Stieg Larsson, kicked the bucket before she ever came to light. Lisbeth Salander must be really special. Right?

She’s certainly unusual. She’s close to autistic in her dealings with human society, no thanks to a series of traumatic psycho-sexual abuses by an equally unending series of monstrous men, and reserves her passion for computers and puzzles, though she doesn’t seem averse to the odd boob job and passionless affairs. Perhaps it’s chinks such as these that have endeared her readers to her, for it certainly can’t be the tedious explications of Fermat’s theorem (a relative breeze for our lass) or case histories inserted wholesale into drinking chatter.

Still, the writing is solid if uninspiring, and Larsson has made a clunky effort to render characters and their motivations human (mostly through endless, overt explication), which is more than can be said for a lot of pulp fiction. For the Millennium trilogy, at least in translation, is definitely pulp fiction, as much as it has been praised for tackling social issues and reinventing the genre of crime fiction. The prologues always promise something unusual, and once the scene is set, the reader on holiday will be drawn into the unfolding of and culmination of interlocking histories, however fantastic.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 2008
The Girl Who Played with Fire, 2009
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest, 2009

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For me, Jhamel arrived not when St. Mary’s Lane was overwhelmed by the attack of the restobar clones. It happened when trendy Black Pepper Cafe & Pub opened shop just around the corner from my phuphu’s dowdy residence, joining the lane hitherto dominated by local stalwarts Greenwich and Summit.

It’s clear Black Pepper is serious about the competition. There’s a nice open courtyard (with retractable roof) framed with carved wooden pillars, though you can choose loungier chairs or an inner sanctum if you don’t fancy the sun.
Mains start from Rs 250 for lunch and Rs 450 for dinner, with some expensive items that tempt then deter. Given that it was lunch, I reluctantly ordered a mocktail – a Tipsy Guava – and was impressed enough by the combo of unReal juice, ginger slices and lemon to want to dunk a shot of vodka into it (I didn’t). With some trepidation, then, we tried the Bruschetta.

The French bread on which it was served could hardly compete with Bu Keba’s corn, olive and buckwheat, but the zucchini, tomato, capsicum, mushroom and onion toppings were superior. What’s more, the Bruschetta was accompanied by a tartly dressed salad mix, with mint, rocket, chives and lettuce supplying a range of flavours and textures.

The Charcoal Jalkapur Fish with lemongrass sauce was generously presented, and the white flesh was firm, tasty, and offset perfectly by the browned crunch of the exterior. The buttery herbed veggies weren’t just an afterthought either, and my only complaint would be that the luridly yellow sauce, while an interesting variation, was a bit too much on the lemony side – less would have been more.

The Grilled Pork Chops (with mash and mixed salad) didn’t disappoint either, with a creamy apple sauce that lent the juicy, savoury meat a sweetish tinge. The measly portion of the Tom Yum soup, on the other hand, was tasty but had little in common with the fiery original. The overly sweet and messy looking Flambe Crepe Suze de Orange, too, didn’t quite come together.

Black Pepper, like many of its compatriots, has a solid line in thalis, momos, fried rice and the like. Now all they need to do is match the music with the consciously cool posters on the walls – a three-hour wifi session with Chris de Burgh, Cliff Richards and The Carpenters on loop just about did my head in.

http://blackpepper.com.np
Nepali Kukur

Head south from the Summit Hotel, pass Greenwich, then a junction, and Black Pepper is on your right.

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