Nepal's Forgotten Palace

Sandwiched between sylvan peaks, in a quiet Himalayan outpost, sits a fairy-tale palace that time forgot.

Accessible only on foot, it waits, guarded solely by the fog and ghosts of a bygone era, for the next adventurer to succumb to its enchanting spell and take up court for an afternoon, filling its wind-whispered chambers with the acoustic of human melody.

Departing Tansen without a map, we wind our way through the mountains along an unmarked footpath. As trails crisscross and the hours pass, we become increasingly uncertain. Are we still traveling the right direction? The weather-beaten face of an elderly man appears. Head bearing the fiber strap of a dhoko overflowing with freshly collected bamboo, he breaks into a toothless smile, greets us and indicates with a wave of his hand that the palace we seek is “away, away” in the distance. We bow, bid him namaste, and journey on.

Passing rice terraces and brilliant yellow mustard fields, glittering in the afternoon sun, we walk. We stop to purchase a rusted bottle of coca-cola from the owner of a teahouse, who, grinning, uncovers his head to liberate a snow-white braid that tumbles to his feet. Wading through creeks and frolicking in the cool refreshment of an alpine waterfall, we journey on.

Rounding a bend, we catch our breath: A specter equal parts eerie and unlikely, Ranighat hovers in the mist.

Pillars of cornflower blue and periwinkle bleed slate and rust. Rose slating blanches under the constant glare of the elements. Untreated fractures in the stone parapets give way to festering black mold. A green army of undergrowth laid siege to the ramparts long ago. But it is majestic, even in its decay, this Rani Mahal, monument to love.

Ascending the steps, tier by tier, we flit through stone gardens, discovering a temple to the sacred bovine, divine mother, giver of life. We pause to breathe the air, rich with the mixed perfume of flowers and incense and age.

On the palace’s eastern facade, the Kali Gandaki’s gentle murmur can be heard, a requiem for the queen whose memory these stone walls celebrate, and her prince, Rana, whose passion for her can still be felt, clinging here to the moldering marble like mortar.

Drifting room to room, surrendering ourselves to the mysteries, bewitched by the beckoning silence, we are captured by the unfettered freedom of this near forgotten corner of the world. Realization transcends the moment. Ranighat has not been forsaken, but rather reclaimed by the rugged wilderness from which it sprung.

As darkness descends, we throw down our packs and prepare for the royal banquet. There will be tea and crackers, a jar of Nutella.

Laughter penetrates the velvety stillness. It fills the crumbling courtyard with light and sound, restores pulse and vibrancy to our fabled kingdom in the woods. Above us, the stars, like crown jewels, illuminate the festivities, keeping vigil under a sable-clad sky.