Echoes of Childhood at Bhaktapur Mahotsav

Thirteen years ago, I bid a heartbreaking farewell to my birthplace, Bhaktapur. It was not the kind of goodbye one willingly gives, but a tragic departure that tore me away from my neighbourhood, my childhood friends, and the very essence of my being. Throughout my short visits to Kathmandu as a child, I had always missed Bhaktapur's crisp water and clean air—elements that seemed to breathe life into me. And now, I was leaving that sanctuary behind forever. Bhaktapur had nurtured me with good health, blissful childhood memories, and a circle of friends who felt like family. The very surroundings of that ancient city had shaped my earliest years. When the time came to leave, I was overwhelmed with emotions. I blamed my parents for this abrupt and unpleasant departure. To my young mind, it was inconceivable that any place—not even bustling Kathmandu—could ever replace Bhaktapur.

The bitterness stayed with me for years. I found myself withdrawing, shutting out the world, and nursing the sorrow that had lodged itself deep within my heart. Every mention of Bhaktapur around me sparked a mix of curiosity and longing. I’d eagerly listen to any snippet of news or stories, clinging to the fragments of a life I had lost.

My new school in Kathmandu organized an educational tour to Bhaktapur when I was in Class 6, and then again in Class 8. Later, my college arranged a field visit to Bhaktapur during Class 11. Despite these trips, which were supposed to be exciting, they fell short of fulfilling my yearning. The tours were rigidly planned, with little room for the unstructured wandering I craved. I wanted to lose myself in the narrow alleys, rediscover my old neighbourhood, and soak in the familiarity of the city that once felt like home. But these visits felt sterile, confined to monuments and predefined stops. They couldn’t capture the essence of my childhood.

As the years went by, my sorrow and grief began to eclipse the vivid reminiscences of my early days. Life became a blur of routine and responsibilities. I wouldn’t say I was unhappy, but I wasn’t truly happy either. A hollow numbness had settled within me. The world could have ended, and I wouldn’t have cared. I turned to social media, as an easy escape from my emotions, and the stress of life became my constant companion. It was during this haze of monotony and discontent that I made a promise to myself: I would revisit the places that had once brought me joy. I would recall the moments that had made me feel alive. The announcement of the Bhaktapur Mahotsav felt like a divine signal—a chance to rekindle the connection I had lost.

Yesterday, everything seemed to align perfectly. The weather was mild and inviting, the timing felt right, and I had a companion for the journey: my sister. Although she was born in Bhaktapur, she had been raised in Kathmandu and had little knowledge of the city that had been my world. Her main reason for accompanying me was to indulge in the Yomari Punhi festivities and savour the traditional yomari, a delicacy she had only heard about. For her, it was a culinary adventure. For me, it was a deeply personal pilgrimage.

As the bus rolled toward Bhaktapur, my mind was awash with questions that had haunted me over the years. What would my life have been like if we had never left? Would I have followed in the footsteps of my childhood friends and chosen the science stream? Would I be more content with my life? Would I have found a steady job by now? Most importantly, would I be a different person—a better version of myself?

These thoughts swirled in my mind as we neared Bhaktapur. Finally, the bus stopped near Bhaktapur Hospital, a place deeply intertwined with my childhood. This quarter was where countless memories were made: playing badminton with friends on chilly afternoons, learning to cycle under the watchful eyes of neighbours, and spending the cold nights of Shivaratri huddled around makeshift bonfires of old tree branches. I longed to visit this place, to walk those familiar streets and perhaps glimpse the faces of those who shared those moments with me. But fear held me back—a quiet, unspoken fear of encountering someone who might ask, “What’s been going on in your life?” A question I had no satisfying answer for. So, I decided to skip revisiting the hospital quarters and instead made my way toward Bhaktapur Durbar Square.

Besides the hospital buildings and Siddhapokhari, Durbar Square was another place that carried the essence of my childhood. On the way, I passed a pond that, in my childhood, had been little more than a muddy, neglected pool where buffaloes and people alike would wade in. That image had stuck with me, but to my surprise, the pond had been transformed. Now it was a clean, well-maintained body of water, surrounded by walls and even featuring water cycling during the Mahotsav. It was strange to see something so vividly remembered in a different form, yet it was heartening to see how Bhaktapur was evolving while retaining its soul.

As we approached the gate to Durbar Square, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. The sight of Nepalese flags fluttering in the shops nearby was a constant—a reassuring symbol of continuity. The gate itself, though renovated after the earthquake of 2072, retained its original structure and charm. The familiar sight of exhibitions filled with statues, photographs, sculptures, and intricate stone carvings greeted us as we entered. The square was alive with activity, and its broad open spaces were filled with Newar people showcasing their rich traditions. Groups performed lively cultural dances, bhajans echoed from corners, and the mesmerizing movements of the Lakhe dancers captivated onlookers. The soulful melodies of traditional Newari songs mingled with the festive energy, creating an atmosphere that was both vibrant and deeply rooted in history.

We wandered through the square, soaking in the sights and sounds. My sister followed my lead as I confidently tried to retrace the path to the Nyatapola Temple—the tallest temple in Nepal. As a child, I had been enchanted by the myths surrounding this majestic structure. I had heard tales that only certain Newar castes could unlock its doors and that inside the temple existed another world under a different sky. Back then, I had believed these stories wholeheartedly, holding the temple in an almost mythical regard. During festivals like Gaijatra, Teej, and Krishna Janmashtami, I would accompany my mother and neighbours to other temples, always passing through Nyatapola. The temple had been a cornerstone of my childhood explorations, and I was sure I would find my way to it again. But to my dismay, I had forgotten the path. Despite my determination, we ended up wandering into unfamiliar streets, unable to locate the temple.

While this detour brought a twinge of disappointment, the Mahotsav itself kept our spirits high. Music filled every corner of the festival. Vendors lined the streets, selling Bhādgaule topis, pottery, and beautifully crafted wooden carvings. Paintings depicting Bhaktapur’s heritage were on display, their vibrant colours capturing the essence of the city. Among the many sounds, one in particular stood out to me: the chant of “Om Mani Padme Hum.” This mantra, which I had first heard echoing through the locality of Durbar Square as a child, has remained a favourite of mine over the years. Hearing it again felt like a bridge to the past, a comforting reminder of the unchanging spirit of Bhaktapur.

Though I had forgotten my way to Nyatapola, the Durbar Square itself was like a time capsule. Its essence remained unchanged, evoking countless memories of my past. I couldn’t help but marvel at how this heritage site had preserved its character, standing steadfast amid the changing times. Outside the square, the city had transformed in many ways, but within its heart, Bhaktapur Durbar Square was the same as ever. Perhaps this is the true importance of heritage—to anchor us, to remind us of who we are and where we come from, even as the world around us shifts and evolves.

We took a break at one of the vibrant stalls, enticed by the sight and aroma of traditional Newari delicacies. The Mahotsav offered an endless variety of foods, but for us, there were two clear choices: Yomari and Juju Dhau, the famed "king of curds." Juju Dhau wasn’t just a dessert; it was a symbol of celebration and joy in our family. Whether it was birthdays, Dashain, Tihar, or any momentous occasion, this rich and creamy yoghurt was always on the menu. I even remember sneaking spoonfuls of it during bouts of cold, much to my mother’s disapproval. As we sat savouring the familiar taste, I felt as though the years had melted away, taking me back to the warm, festive gatherings of my childhood.

After our meal, my sister suggested we buy a keepsake to remember the day. She picked a beautifully crafted wooden painting of Bhaktapur Durbar Square, while I chose a small wooden carving of Buddha’s eyes, intricately designed and delicately painted. It was a simple yet meaningful memento—a piece of Bhaktapur to carry back with us.

With these treasures in hand, I had hoped to visit Siddhapokhari, the ancient pond that had been a significant part of my childhood. However, my sister was growing tired, and the evening shadows were beginning to lengthen. Reluctantly, I agreed to head back. Though I had missed Siddhapokhari and failed to find my way to Nyatapola, the visit to Durbar Square and the experience of Bhaktapur Mahotsav had filled me with a sense of contentment I hadn’t felt in years.

As the bus trundled back toward Kathmandu, I found myself reflecting on Bhaktapur’s enduring charm. Among the three historic cities of the Kathmandu Valley—Kathmandu, Lalitpur, and Bhaktapur—it is Bhaktapur that has remained the most faithful to its Newari heritage. Through its vibrant festivals, meticulously preserved monuments, and the echo of traditional music in every corner, Bhaktapur continues to celebrate its culture with unparalleled fervour. This dedication can be seen in events like the Mahotsav, where the city comes alive with a spirit that is both timeless and infectious.

I thought of Bhaktapur’s unique festivals, like Gaijatra, which is celebrated with a blend of reverence and revelry unlike anywhere else. Then there’s the grand Bisket Jatra, ushering in the New Year with a riot of colours, sounds, and community spirit. These traditions are what make Bhaktapur a living, breathing museum of history and culture. And even though I had spent so many years away, these memories and experiences felt like a thread tying me back to the city’s heart.

As the bus climbed through the winding roads, I held the wooden carving of Buddha’s eyes in my hands, tracing its intricate details. It wasn’t just a souvenir—it was a reminder of the day, of the city that had shaped me, and of the memories that would forever be a part of who I am. Bhaktapur Mahotsav wasn’t just an event; it was a portal to my past, a chance to relive the moments I thought I had lost.

To my readers, I say this: if you ever find yourself yearning for a deeper connection to history, culture, and your own roots, Bhaktapur is waiting for you. And should you have the chance to attend Bhaktapur Mahotsav, seize it. Participate, celebrate, and immerse yourself in the spirit of this incredible city. Bhaktapur will not just leave you with memories—it will leave you with a piece of its soul.