Now Sunset on the Durbar Square!!1 From Nepal Kimchi house Gambhir!!!!!!!

Now Sunset on Durbar Square There is magic at the heart of the city. You feel it at dawn as porters gather hopefully by the Kasthamandap, you feel it in the mid-morning rush, in the afternoon lull but most of all, when the temples start to glow in the setting sun. Long ago a god came in disguise to the Kathmandu Valley. When he was recognized at the festival, he promised to give a holy tree. From this tree, the people built the "House of Wood", or Kasthamandap, which gave its name to Kathmandu. The building still stands on the edge of the Durbar Square at the crossroad of ancient trading routes. There is magic at the heart of the city. You feel it at dawn as porters gather hopefully by the Kasthamandap, you feel it in the mid-morning rush, in the afternoon lull but most of all, when the temples start to glow in the setting sun. Don't hurry through the square, you need time to savour the atmosphere. Just climb the high steps to the top of the Shiva Temple and watch. Shadows creep on the paving stones but all around the square shimmers in warm shades of red and gold. A flock of pigeons swoops across the sky and for a moment, a bird perches on the statue of Pratap Malla, the king who erected many of the surrounding structures. My favourite is Taleju, all gilded bells and pinnacles, out of bounds behind the gate but a resplendent shrineto the king's deity. At sunset time, the square finds a new breath of life. Colours soften, the heat melts, people relax. The ice-cream cart does good business, two little boys shaking with laughter drag each other around in a broken cardboard box. Shiva-Parvati, the godly couple, looks down with benevolence from their Temple House. On the steps of the Narayan temple, vendors tidy up their displays. There is still, time to sell. Green oranges and sweet bananas mingle with tomatoes, cabbages and chillies, Ginger, garlic and raspberries wrapped in newspaper cones. "Something to eat, madame?" Corn on the cob straight from a glowing brazier tempts me. Behind me, monkeys run on the wall and stray dogs begin to stir. Suddenly there is a commotion at the end of the square. To the rhythm of flutes and drums, a crowd of men parade a wooden shrine covered with petals and votive powder. They sing and dance, twirl, shout orders to the bearers as the shrine topples excitedly from side to side. No one knows where they come from or where they are going. "It is just a festival, madame. It happens every day in Kathmandu." The women weaving flower garlands barely looked up. Late afternoon is a busy time. On their way home the faithful will buy offerings for Maru Ganesh or perhaps for the Monkey-God who stands by the palace gate. The air is full of tinkling bells and smells of incense and marigolds. In the approaching dusk, the erotic carvings on the temple struts are almost hypnotic. The Black Bhairav looks fiercer than ever with its protruding eyes and garland of skulls. Blissfully unaware, a goat tied to a nearby post lives his last few hours before the sacrifice. Meanwhile a colourful procession winds its way on the cobbles. It reminds me of a dragon dance but it is only a string of rickshaws taking tourists for a bumpy ride through old Kathmandu. It was nothing but horns and bells, frilly garlands and dangling cameras trying desperately to steady themselves. There may be a bruise or two as wheels screech around the corner but everyone is having fun. Visitors leave the Kumari Bahal. In the courtyard, they glanced at the Living Goddess and her house carved like lace but now they are keen to return to their hotels. Near the entrance guarded by stone lions, the young men waiting to practise their English are disappointed. They shift along the steps to catch the last rays of the sun. I watch the women hurrying home, their saris are a feast of colours I miss in the West. A baby with a purple hat bounces on his mother's back while his brother runs up the temple steps and slides down the ramp. On the rooftops, a sprinkling of washing flaps in the breeze among satellite dishes and potted plants. Next to me, the shoeshine boy packs up his box. Somewhere in the distance, a brass band heralds a wedding and the holy man waves a blessing before vanishing in the alleyway. Shutters are drawn in the thangka shops. The hills close in, their bulging silhouettes etched into the sky. Wrapped like ghosts in their shawls, vendors gather their wares. Darkness settles in. Soon the Durbar Square is deserted, silent but for the haunting sound of a flute on the steps of Kasthamandap. Visitors leave the Kumari Bahal. In the courtyard, they glanced at the Living Goddess and her house carved like lace but now they are keen to return to their hotels. Near the entrance guarded by stone lions, the young men waiting to practise their English are disappointed. They shift along the steps to catch the last rays of the sun. I watch the women hurrying home, their saris are a feast of colours I miss in the West. A baby with a purple hat bounces on his mother's back while his brother runs up the temple steps and slides down the ramp. On the rooftops, a sprinkling of washing flaps in the breeze among satellite dishes and potted plants. Next to me, the shoeshine boy packs up his box. Somewhere in the distance, a brass band heralds a wedding and the holy man waves a blessing before vanishing in the alleyway. Shutters are drawn in the thangka shops. The hills close in, their bulging silhouettes etched into the sky. Wrapped like ghosts in their shawls, vendors gather their wares. Darkness settles in. Soon the Durbar Square is deserted, silent but for the haunting sound of a flute on the steps of Kasthamandap