A city less familiar
The first glimpse of Kathmandu through the windows of a crammed, beaten Suzuki van was reminiscent of home. The unabated monsoon drizzle, the sticky humid air, the resilient motorists amidst bottle-neck traffic, the street vendor on the curb--characteristic elements of a South Asian city, and of my hometown Lahore, in the peak of the monsoon season. But of course with the distinct coolness and beauty of the valley, couched between the Himalayas.
Our week-long family trip to Kathmandu valley was a glimpse of cultural richness, diversity and freedom unknown to our South Asian hometown. Kathmandu was “desi” enough to give a sense of connectedness. The common vernacular--probably a necessitated blend of Urdu and if I may call it, Nepali Hindi--was without doubt, an equaliser. Our successful bargains in Thamel and the shawl outlets around Darbar Square spoke of our exposure to the “bazaar protocol” in Lahore’s markets. I had been introduced to Newari cuisine during my college days; my family agreed that though in its own way distinct, the taste of achar and masala were familiar to our palette.
But Kathmandu had a side less familiar to me and one, which I hope we, in Pakistan, can emulate. I felt free to walk on the streets, unconcerned about lecherous looks, potential harassment or the need to be properly covered. May be part of that sense of freedom was akin to one experienced by most travellers to foreign places.
But I feel there was a gendered rationale behind it. The presence of women did not appear to be such an irritant to the psyche of Nepali society. I could hail a cab, board a rickshaw or walk along the streets of Thamel with an unabashed self-assurance, which I do not find at home. Women are not as visible on the streets of Lahore, and it is only with a sense of unease and timidity that I have ventured on to the streets of Lahore. I do not wish to represent the Pakistani woman as a silent victim of a repressive patriarchal society. Women are dynamic participants in the politics and culture of Pakistan, functioning within and at times across traditional gender norms. But the demographic and exchange on the street--which typifies the public space--may speak of a society’s attitude towards gender and permissible spaces. The greater visibility of women and the apparent comfort with their presence that I witnessed and felt during my trip to Kathmandu is lacking in Lahore.
I cannot comment whether this difference arises from cultural, religious or economic factors, or whether women in Nepal are relatively more emancipated, but merely report that I felt more empowered, more free.
Kathmandu also expressed a richness unfamiliar to my hometown. I experienced serenity and peace at Boudha, witnessed ritualistic vigour at Pashupatinath, and spotted the characteristic green minarets in the city’s horizon. This rich diversity was also apparent in the people we met and were surrounded by--in their features, dress and language. With such diversity Kathmandu seems to function with great harmony. I envied this harmonious balance and richness. Just over the last few years, Pakistan has fallen victim to grave religious intolerance, which aims to wipe out the few vestiges of diversity, which my grandparents recall with nostalgia from the 60s and 70s. The sense of fear and insecurity we suffer, in a country blessed by historical and cultural richness, is sad. Being in Kathmandu was a reminder of the tragedy of my country, and a glimpse of the beauty of peaceful co-existence. The peace and sense of security in the valley, which has only recently recovered from years of unrest, also represented, I believe, promising analogy to Pakistan, currently swathing through a host of problems.
Kathmandu was beautiful and I took back from it a sense of connectedness and aspirations for my hometown, though you may call these superficial.
Bandial is a lawyer in Lahore, Pakistan


















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