Day 5 - Nepal. In the course of travelling, we are sometimes told stories which are too delectable to not pass on to others. "It didn't actually happen to me but, nonetheless, it's a good story." Occasionally, the stories are just too good - and you are left to wonder if there is just a smidgen of invention in them. Or if there's any truth at all. One such traveller's story was particularly enigmatic; it's about an eighteen year-old in Kathmandu.

Nepal: A Playboy

Waiting for my friend to emerge from the Kathmandu Guest House, I studied the map to trace our path to the gold face of Swayambunath. I could see it from the rooftop through the hazy sun at dawn and today we had a goal to climb it. Along the way, we met a young man with Bollywood hair and a clean, crisp shirt. His name was Kiran and he was offering to show us the way. He had a slightly disgruntled or bored tone to his pitch which we had heard all before. But suddenly, one of our responses shook the magic out of him. “You’re going to Bhutan?! I’m from Bhutan!” Yes, indeed, we were only in Nepal a short time and the flight to Bhutan beckoned. Kiran insisted that he show us the way, regaling us along the way with animated descriptions of our eventual destination. I am living here to make money, was his explanation for being in Kat. It sounded logical.

When we arrived at the Monkey Temple, we were politely told that it is not a reverential way to refer to this great landmark. Sure, the place was filled with 1-metre high playful monkeys but the seeing eye facing out in every direction was a symbol of enlightenment to all Buddhists in the Valley. We walked up the 365 steps to the temple; along the way, we learnt about Kampala, Buddha, Guru Rimpoche, and a variety of other trivia on its history. We also learned about Kiran: he’s eighteen, has a girlfriend, is a great admirer of the king, an ecologist, a fluent English-speaker and he had a Ten Year Plan. For his life. I thought you weren’t supposed to have goals in Buddhist culture. I’m from the less popular side of Bhutan, the South. We’re Hindu. Which obviously didn’t discount him from being an authoritative and excellent scholar of Swayambunath.

On the way down, he shared some tea with us in the makeshift camp of some of the guides.

And by the time we had reached the bottom, we had an invitation to visit his home.

Within a few minutes, we were strolling down a city street which was different than what we had seen in Kathmandu so far. It had a lived-in feel to it, without any sense of commercialism other than a cornershop. We entered a dank stairwell and rose to the second floor hovel which was Kiran’s room. Despite the patchy cement and lack of electricity and plumbing, we could tell that he felt comfortable there and it was now very much a home. Things were strewn about and books were piled high; it was as messy as your typical bachelor pad.

Except Kiran wasn’t a bachelor.

I have a little secret, he confided in us. A story ensued. Only after a few months in Nepal, he became popular with the ladies, one in particular. They had become close. When her father found out just how familiar they were, he confronted Kiran with the village behind him. Save her honour. And so he was wed to this other eighteen year-old who shyly peeked in after a half-an-hour, on her way to do the laundry.

The story did not end there. He had a brother, a close brother whom he hadn’t seen in a year. He wanted to pass him a note and he knew that we were going to Thimphu, Bhutan’s capital “city”. Could you please deliver my message? A request like this, a family news bulletin, was our charge. We held it in high esteem, like a quest. But, he said, please don’t tell him about my wife. My mother would kill me.

Parting with multiple handshakes and a memorable photo of the three of us, we were off with his note.

In Thimphu, we searched for the sweet shop just off the town’s only traffic light. The problem was there were no more traffic lights but we inferred that the major intersection deserving of one was probably where it used to be. A couple of double takes later and we found the sweet shop. A gruff Bhutanese man of about twenty didn’t want anything to do with us. His companion, another boy of about 18, upon hearing Kiran’s name introduced himself as his cousin. We passed the note to this relative who looked at it rather uninterested. I glanced down at Kiran’s writing and noticed that it was laden with errors belying Kiran’s actual educational level. The cousin looked at the note again and somewhat coldly thanked us for delivering it. We wanted to stay and discuss, having heard so much about the dear family from Kiran but the cousin was remiss to talk. We walked out somewhat baffled and disappointed.

Later, I made a guess at what had happened. The cold response to the warm note was due to the fact that the cousin couldn’t read.