itinerant karma

I found myself at Kathmandu Durbar Square twice. The first time we collided on Holi day. I started celebrating its jazzy colors with the insane gayety and ended up cursing my genes for making me so short - by the time I finally reached the epicenter of the celebration, I had enough material to contribute into dermatoglyphics on my face, looking like Kali, all blue, craving for blood on the battlefield...
But luckily I had another peculiar chance to re-discover Durbar Square as large as life.
It was the day before my departure from Nepal. Every single corner of Kathmandu was trying to entice me away with its most transcendental colors, dizziest smells and spiciest flavors as I was needling my way through a huddle of rikshas, people and dogs towards Kathmandu Durbar Square. And as soon as I rebuffed Thamel, I was attacked by the heavy rain. My brand new Indian shoes were squishing and scatterring a smell of the soused leather, and the reddish squirt was rilling under my feet, melting into the puddled pavements.
All wet, I paddled to the Square which stood like forsaken but august. I intuitively jogtrotted to the Maju Dega Temple and eased on its base, all wet, drowsily leaning against the wooden column and lighting upon its beautifully carved surface. I was awakened as if by the spirit of Queen Mother, who demanded an appropriate mindfulness from me. So I looked around, and a breathtaking view of Kathmandu greeted me through the veil of raindrops turning into the hail, tap-dancing on the stairs of the white temple of Kamdev, the god of human love, which appeared so humble and magnificent.
I was trying to imagine Kathmandu after years, wondering if it saluted me with the same amused countenance and healing enchantment, with the Nepali women sailing in their surreal sari through its streets and diluting pseudo-hippies and hipsters. And as the ice chuckers were flying off the sculpture, I could not get rid of the secret hunch that Kathmandu would never be the same again...

Now looking through the numerous pictures of the post-apocalyptic city, I do recognize the features of Kathmandu that remain unruined. These are the resilient smiles on the tanned wrinkled faces of Nepalis as they are inflaming the insence sticks at the altars of their gods, humbly praying for the stronger fortitude. And as their gods keep shaking down their lives, I pray to mine to grant them the glorious renascence as soon as possible...