Returning to Kathmandu, albeit for just a few days, has been a source of some reflection. To walk in familiar places is to call up the ghosts and memories of my living here, and find that they merge and coalesce with the spectres of a more ancient history that seems to lie in the very fabric of the city.
To take a small chowk off the beaten track, away from the chaos, noise, and pollution is to enter into a world where centuries of history are written into walls that are slowly crumbling into dust. Small squares remain a living testament to communities that share the secular and spiritual spaces. Mandirs that are used for the drying of laundry or food, stupas that are a place to sit and reflect, or for children to play on.
To be, however fleetingly, a tiny part of the still unfolding narrative remains a great joy.