Day 2: Part 2

Stuart’s violent reaction to Kris’s miraculous and slightly unconventional water purifier resulted in some early unwanted rainfall within the car which spawned a wave of laughter. We were basking in the now ceaseless sea of mirth, (to metaphorically continue the wetness of the afore used ‘rainfall’ and ‘wave’ comparisons) and luxuriating in the splendour of the vistas that were unfurling before our mesmerized eyes, when our hypnosis was broken by a rather unpleasant sound – a sound you do not want to hear when you are in a closed car as tightly packed as salted sardines, a sound that is very unwelcome when you are in rather stingy quarters and can’t recognise if the foul smell under your nose is the vestige of your friend’s hungrily devoured carelessly-brushed dinner from yesterday or the knock-out fragrance of your own feet, a sound that is symptomatic of a lethal projectile of unmentionable stuff that might come your way any moment. The mountain goddess, who with her paralysing beauty and stunningly magnificent visuals evoked feelings of awe-struck humility and open-mouthed wonder in every traveller blessed enough to set foot in her glorious lap, had found a rather unappreciative audience in Irene - the only open-mouthed tribute Irene deigned to pay the mountains was the nauseous grunt that had caused so much horror and chaos. Mercifully, the sound had only been an omen and there was no accompanying matter. So, we hurriedly shifted Irene to a window seat, gingerly shoved a pill into her mouth (fearing the deadly outburst any moment) and plonked a reluctant Stuart next to her (ah!! the pains and trials of love). The upshot of all this bedlam was that we were treated to Irene’s contented snores for the rest of the road.

Blanketed by the captivating spectacles on either side, our journey continued in a speechless trance and we reached our in what seemed like an instant. Maneybhaijan was a charming little Sherpa village with rosy-cheeked, runny-nosed children, tiny colourful houses and of course people whose faces shone with simple smiles and genuine warmth. We were shown our cabin by the innkeeper at whose place Kris had made arrangements for us to stay - a person whom everyone affectionately called “Master ji ”. With the morning’s burnt dosa long gone and our stomachs thundering away, we dumped our rucksacks rather unceremoniously and tore headlong into his kitchen.

To our disappointment, we were told that he had had no idea as to when we would arrive and therefore had to start preparing our meal only then. So, we decided to explore the village and the surrounding countryside and set out in the direction of a little temple we had spotted from the roof of our cabin. It was a typical Nepali temple atop a small hillock vividly painted in dazzling colours with quite a few flags fluttering in the wind to carry to the heavens the prayers of the trusting natives. The brilliant azure of the clear sky perfectly complementing the bright yellow of the temple provided our shutterbugs with some very pretty pixels. After many many photographs, some involving bawling local children (courtesy Mr. Red) , we climbed down and were just about to enter a winding lane when an old man sitting at the street corner told us that the gutter at the beginning of the lane was a very important landmark. Wondering what or whose famous waste it had once contained, we inquired about the reason for this rather queer piece of information. Buoyed by his enhanced importance in the wake of a group of youngsters gawking at him, he very flamboyantly announced that this seemingly insignificant gutter was actually the Indo-Nepal border. Lauding ourselves for having set foot on this “exalted” piece of ground, we resumed our stroll around the village.

Having spent almost an hour roaming around, we could no longer silence our growling stomachs and decided to check on masterji’s progress with our lunch. The wafting scent of the tadka told us what we needed to know even before we entered the kitchen. With the steaming rice looking inviting in sparkling white and the rich yellow dal dotted with specks of lustrous green, with the velvety smoothness of the Dal enhanced by the crisp, succulent freshness of the Gobi matar, all accompanied by the heavenly intoxicating fragrance that characterises good food , Master ji’s cooking was indeed a delight to all the senses. We stuffed ourselves to the limits of our stomachs’ storage capacity (“hearts’ content”, though linguistically more appealing, would not have conveyed the full extent of our greedy plundering) while listening to the seasoned Masterji’s accounts of the adventures, dangers and wonders of mountain climbing. After our rather loutish devouring, we were introduced to Santa Bhaiya, our guide for the next ten days. “He’s the best of the best” said Masterji and we could see what he meant when we looked at the small, sturdy Sherpa standing in a corner of the room smiling shyly. With the youthful athleticism that comes from years of trekking in arduous paths and unforgiving climes and eyes shining with wisdom and unbridled enthusiasm, Santa Bhaiya was and looked a son of the mountains themselves.