Flying into Kathmandu has the feeling of suddenly coming
upon a pile of blocks spilled by some child giant; individual,
brightly-colored, multistory buildings dot the landscape in jumbles and
clusters.
On the ground, things aren’t much more organized. Dusty
roads weave and wind. Buses, vans, cars, motorcycles, bicycles, and rickshaws
vie for their place, honking and passing without mercy. Cows meander and graze
in streets and empty lots.
But amid all the chaos, secreted away down side streets and
back alleys, it is easy to find respite in the city’s numerous oases of
religion. Temples, stupas, and shrines offer occasional bits of silence. Prayer
flags flap in the breeze. Bells are rung. Tibetan child monks play games behind
monasteries. Prayer wheels spin. Devotees circumambulate.
It’s a city of sound and silence. Of concrete buildings and
of ancient Newari architecture. A city of Hinduism, of Buddhism, of Lamaism. A
city of multiple languages, but also English. Tucked away in a valley, but
surrounded by the world’s highest peaks.
It’s a city where serenity and history are available in all
the commotion, if only one looks for it.
