“I must be the only one in Nepal who’s never been to Pokhara,” I complain to Ama. She looks at me indulgently. It’s true that something cropped up to prevent me from joining motley groups to Pokhara on school excursions, college tours, and family trips.[break] I’m beginning to pout, and Bina chimes in, “Yes, we must be the only two people.” Luna, tired of her whiny sisters, decides that we should go. Just like that.
And that’s how we board the bus and chatter non-stop till Mugling, which is all too familiar. But after that, we look out in earnestness as it gets flatter and greener and the houses are tinier. The weather is good. We disembark in Pokhara. We strike a bargain with a taxi driver to take us to the Lakeside.
For a while, it’s confusing, with lots of turns and junctions. I’m crouching in the back, staring out. And suddenly, out of nowhere, emerges Fewa Tal (lake). It takes me sometime to savour the picture – a fiercely orange sun about to set on water rippling up to the horizon. I say, “Let’s get down right here!” The Fewa’s mere sight is enough for me to fall in love with it.
I wonder if my new-found love makes me find beauty in everything. But it’s truly a lovely picture, a tiny cottage built on a huge property, with tuberoses to lalupate to beanstalks and tomatoes. It is like Juliet’s house, verandas all over.
I’m already jumping on one such balcony, not letting anyone to hurry me to Fewa. And then, we stroll down the wide roads, surprisingly empty save for unhurried cyclists. The lake is beautiful in its smoothness and absolute stillness. Its magnificent size lends it further allure. On one side of the street is a veritable Thamel of felt artefacts and stuffed elephants and dazzling trinkets. And just opposite to that – peace liquefied. That seeps directly into my heart and soul. I look at people sauntering about unconcernedly. I wonder: How can this magical Fewa become so ordinary to them that they don’t spare it even a glance?
The next morning brings a slight surprise. It is foggy. But the sun appears to make us hurry to the Bindyabasini Temple. There are flowers, then steps to climb before we finally pant up to the temple. And while I know how much this temple is revered, I can’t help feeling a sense of anticlimax – perhaps I had expected something bigger and more glorious. But then, how efficient it is: There’s a library, a school, a public hall, a detached platform for offerings, and even a literary foundation – all within the premises.
These are pointed out to us by the acclaimed poet Tirtha Shrestha, who takes us sightseeing this morning. Then we visit the Mahendra Gufa (cave), again well managed from its shrubbery to lights placed at strategic points inside it. We clamber on in excitement, pausing to touch the damp, hardened rocks, and then squeeze our way out into the bright sunlight through the tiny exit.
But this adventure is nothing compared to the Chamere Gufa – bat cave. Here we rent a torch, and good thing that we do, else we would go crashing into the water that seems to be sloshing everywhere. This cave is more mysterious than the first. When we turn the torch up to the high roof, we see black bats clinging to the rough yellow-black roof.
“They’ll swoop down at us like in the horror movies,” I whisper to Luna, who is clicking pictures. We move to the exit, which is a hole in the wall. There’s virtually no place to stand, and if we miss our footing, we’ll drop down the rocky terrain far below. It seems like we should return like sensible people, and we indeed crawl out laboriously, victory flushing our faces.
A different feeling visits us when we walk to the Begnas Lake that afternoon. I lose my heart for the second time in as many days. In some ways, this green expanse is more soothing than Fewa – and cleaner, too. We dip our feet in the warm water, watching people. Teenagers skip pebbles expertly on the water, blushing couples amble by holding hands, and saffron-robed priests. We hop onto a green boat, and our wizened boatman gently rows us closer to the jungle. The Annapurna mountains are reflected on the water. It is so charming! An adorable yellow-black butterfly hovers around me and settles down on my wrist. Then it flies away, leaving me to think of good omens, and fairytales, and sunshine.
There was to be a solar eclipse, but we head for Devi’s Falls. Also called “Patale Chhango” in Nepali, it’s indeed a series of subterranean waterfalls.
Respite comes at the Gupteshwor Cave, just across the road. Its Kamdhenu cow and other trappings not withstanding, the cave itself is splendid. The roofs are the highest ever. The earth is squishy, and footprints are imprinted on clay. We climb down steps and jump across boulders until we come up to the wide crack from where Devi’s Falls gushes inside. How self-willed is Nature, and how beautiful it is in its wilfulness.
Despite the eclipse and the darkening sun, we climb to the Shanti Stupa. We munch on wafers and rest at peepal-shaded chautaris. We’re at the foot of the stupa an hour later. And far below us is Pokhara city, magnificently stretched out. The Fewa Lake is a brilliant backyard pool; the houses resemble Barbie abodes of my past, paragliders soar across like colourful birds. Bhuwan, an inspector and chief guest of the day, shows us the shape of a tiger formed by the depleting snows of Mount Macchapuchhre (Fishtail). He can’t surpass the superlatives we’re bestowing on the vistas, so he steers us to the stupa instead. And the weary climb is worth it. We circle the pristine construction, stopping to admire the golden Buddhas tucked cleverly into niches and wishing the serenity would transmit to us, too.
But we turn wilder – by choosing the path less taken. The route is exquisite as we leave the village, and go deep into the forest, skidding on fallen leaves and clutching at vines. Then the trail goes steeply downhill, and at some places, there’s simply no path. We carefully skirt past brambles and thistles, growing quieter now as we hear nothing except the leaves rustling beneath our feet.
We’ve gone down an hour already, and yet we reach nowhere. Suddenly, from a cove, we see water, and I run forward in such an excitement that I trip on barbed wire. We immediately know that we’re way off. The boats are too far away for us to call them, and anyway, we’re on the opposite side. We mull on this, and look anxiously at each other, when we notice a boat coming to us.
“You want to go across?” The man in a dirty cap, eyes closing from too much drink, queries. We ponder at his exorbitant rates, and he coolly says, “There’s no compulsion. You can stay here if you like.”
We’re trapped, and he knows it, for he drawls, “I’ve been rowing for twenty years. And here you are, just seventeen. Don’t I know what you’re up to?”
We take our seats, seething at the blatant undermining of our age. Unconcerned, he continues, “It was I who ferried Niruta Singh.”
As soon as our celebrity boatman moors the boat, we rush away in relief, glad to be on familiar grounds, and also because we have an appointment with litterateur Saru Bhakta.
Soon we’re engaged in a discussion of politics, literature and music with him and his daughter Saraswoti, a poet in her own right. We’ve forgotten that it’s Makar Sankranti, but Saraswati feeds us bowls of heavenly smelling khichadi and side dishes. It’s the most delicious and homely meal we’ve had in Pokhara, even compared against the lip-smacking Thakali dishes and crunchy fried fishes fresh from the lake. No wonder, we sink into a satisfying sleep as soon as our heads touch the pillow.
It still seems to be night when we woke up the next morning; such a gloomy day it was. Our moods lift slightly as the matronly lodge owner refreshes us with a strong cuppa.
Bhuwan Dai joins us in our boating on Fewa after that, but the macho man surprises us by confessing his hydrophobia and puts on the orange lifejacket that we scoff at. The weather doesn’t open up, and I shiver slightly as I put my hand in the water, pulling it out immediately as a passing boatman yells, “The fish will eat it up!”
The Barahi Temple on an island in the middle of the lake seems to be lovelier than the others we’ve visited, a universe of its own. All too soon, an hour passes, and we’re deposited unceremoniously at the bank. I look back at Fewa as all visitors would do – a lingering, hungry gaze. But Fewa doesn’t smile back; the mountains and jungles are also sullenly fogged over.
Fewa seemed to tell me, “You confessed it was love at first sight, and yet you met me only at the end.”
Well, loved ones can sulk all they like, but I always keep the best for the last.
Related story
Shrinking Fewa Lake to be declared 'Fewa Wetland Conservation A...
