If in the 1960s Kathmandu was "foreign" for those few lucky enough to be able to travel there, in the 1970s it was hippie haven with cheap ganja, gentrifying in the 1980s for group tourists attracted by its shopping and casinos. By the '90s, Kathmandu was passe, no longer sought by Indian tourists who found Bangkok more exciting and less trouble. By this century, Nepal had retreated from most people's consciousness, so it was a surprise when our daughter opted for a holiday there with a group of friends.
My own introduction to Kathmandu was through work and involved Desmond Doig, the larger than life design guru who had moved here from Calcutta (now Kolkata) in the mid-'70s, after he'd quit the popular teenagers' magazine JS. I spent an evening at his home where he shared sketches and reminisces and then packed me off to meet Utpal Sengupta of Shangrila Hotel, who in turn sent me to meet Dubby Bhagat (all, coincidentally, former JS hands bewitched into shifting to work and live in Kathmandu), who sent me off to a beer bar in Thamel.
Doig passed away soon after, but by then I had already established a Kathmandu ritual that consisted of tea in the garden at the Shangrila (and, once, cocktails at 5.30 p m). I suffered my first full-blown hangover at an Indian diplomat's home in Kathmandu, though it was likely caused by the thin mountain air. Dubby remained a point of contact for information and gossip and once organised the exchange of banned Rs 500-currency notes that I'd unknowingly carried into the country, so I could go foraging for antiques near Durbar Square - now, alas, ravaged by the earthquake.
This is not the first time tragedy has struck Kathmandu. Its royal family, sitting down for dinner at Narayanhiti Palace, was mowed down in a bloody massacre. An Indian Airlines flight, hijacked from Tribhuvan airport, resulted in the death of a honeymooner that cast long shadows. The political and civil administration have struggled to cope. My brother, who had his Everest moment, found the Base Camp and the trail littered with garbage and busier than Durbar Marg at peak hour. Maybe, its benevolent gods were not pleased any more, yet it's impossible to believe that Kathmandu's historic quarter now lies in ruins. The loss of its beautiful architecture is no less tragic than the loss of lives. Horrific CCTV coverage of a tsunami erupting from a hotel swimming pool is enough to give anyone gooseflesh.
My father was inducted into the Indian Army's Gurkha regiment as a second-lieutenant and we grew up understanding and speaking passable Gorkhali. I never left from Kathmandu without carrying Gorkha caps that my father still wears as a symbol of his loyalty to that brave force of soldiers, so to to see their motherland destroyed is particularly poignant. Strangely, I remained ignorant of Nepali food on my frequent visits to the kingdom till, on my final visit there, Dubby insisted on my dining at a Nepali restaurant at the Sheraton. I recall little of that meal because I was interviewing someone, but Yeti restaurant in New Delhi has filled in some of those gaps since. As I write this, an exquisitely carved wooden Garuda spreads its wings over our balcony door. Somewhere, in sealed cartons, are more exquisite souvenirs from those long-ago trips. Maybe it's time to take them out, maybe it's time to return to Kathmandu after the dust has settled, for Nepal deserves to be more than just a fading memory.
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