Vishnu, Cremations, and a 200-Euro Lesson in Haggling

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the second day of any group tour begins with a betrayal: the alarm clock. At 6:30 a.m., Kathmandu is still stretching its dusty arms while we’re already weaponized with cameras and sunblock, gnawing on uninspired toast at the hotel breakfast buffet. We’ve signed up for this madness voluntarily—perhaps karmic payback from a past life spent sleeping in.

Budhanilkantha: The Sleeping God and Singing Monks

Our first destination is Budhanilkantha, a name that sounds like a sneeze but holds a peculiar serenity. Nestled at the foot of the Shivapuri hills, this open-air Hindu temple cradles a surreal statue: Lord Vishnu, lounging in his cosmic bathtub atop a nest of stone serpents. The god reclines in an eternal siesta, eyes closed as if dreaming us into existence.

The morning ritual unfolds like divine choreography: two impossibly young monks begin washing the statue with milk and water. Off to the side, a music lesson begins under a corrugated iron roof. The teacher is fierce, his harmonium uncompromising. The monks-in-training? More giggles than Gregorian. I join a small temple where aold women sing songs under a huge picture of Sathya Sai Baba.

Gokarna Mahadev Temple: Lingams and Landfills

Later we’re back on the bus. Gokarna is older, quieter, and stranger. A three-tiered pagoda rises from the foliage like an ancient bookmark. Inside, a well-worn lingam (that eternal Shiva symbol best described as “sacredly suggestive”) rests in shadow. The temple grounds are littered with statues that look like they’ve seen things. Nearby, the Bagmati River stumbles past, a murky stream that smells like karma gone wrong. One part sacred, nine parts landfill.

Boudhanath: Stupa Grandeur and Spiritual Commerce

But Boudhanath—oh, Boudhanath. It doesn’t just appear; it looms. The massive white stupa greets us like a planetary ambassador. Its all-seeing eyes, painted on a golden spire, feel less benevolent Buddha and more cosmic surveillance system. We begin the kora, the clockwise walk around the stupa, dodging prayer wheels, monks, and souvenir sellers with the grace of caffeinated pinballs.

I, clearly under the spell of thin air and cosmic wisdom, drop 200 euros on a “Wheel of Life” print. Our guide informs us—seconds too late—that haggling is standard. I feel spiritually enlightened and fiscally violated.

Lunch is on a rooftop with a view so good it forgives the overcooked noodles. Some of us climb to the stupa’s mid-level, a step closer to nirvana, or at least a better selfie.

Pashupatinath: Where Life Ends and Smoke Rises

After lunch comes the descent into impermanence: Pashupatinath. If Budhanilkantha was a whisper, and Boudhanath a proclamation, Pashupatinath is a scream wrapped in incense and fire. Here, on the banks of the same shame-faced Bagmati, lives end in sacred flame. We watch from across the river, a respectful if reluctant audience to the spectacle of death.

Bodies arrive wrapped in bright orange shrouds. They are washed in river water, decorated with petals, and laid on wooden pyres. A son lights his father. A younger brother his mother. Smoke rises in thick, bitter ropes. The smell—part sandalwood, part scorched flesh—is overwhelming. I bury my face in my Buff and breathe through borrowed cloth and borrowed courage.

Back to Thamel: Dinner and a Wild Coincidence

In teh afternoon we’re back at the hotel, consciousness frayed. Dinner is at Paleti in Thamel. The food is decent. The fan spins. We are all politely exhausted.

Post-dinner, some of us stroll to Durbar Square, which twinkles in the night like a temple-shaped mirage. I opt to walk alone back to the hotel when suddenly—like a glitch in the matrix—I hear someone shout “Chorizo! Chorizo!” across the Kathmandu night. It’s Siobhan, my former colleague from Dublin. After running into an old university friend in Hanoi last year, this feels like karmic déjà vu with a tourist visa.

Small world, large stupa, eternal Vishnu.