It was a leisure time away from work, but not devoted to rest and pleasure. It was an adventure dedicated to wild and exciting undertakings. Planned without apparent forethought, we five friends since High School undertook a trip for just we were free and wanted to have fun. Uh-huh! the trip to Dolakha provided enjoyment; the one day and two nights on bikes were pleasantly entertaining and worthy to recall. Though we couldn't make up to Kalinchowk-- a sacred shrine in Dolakha-- due to slippery bumpy roads via thick forests, on bikes, we came across the nature and culture of Dolakha. We Hindu call it Vakal( Goddess calls you and you need to summon!).Or else, it was an aborted journey.
That time we couldn't make it. We went to a historical temple at Charikot, ate at highways, knew many things about the place from the locals we met on the way, got one more chance to spend time with friends and nature, and we don't regret that we knew only the route to the Kalinchowk.
The shrine was hidden behind green hills, at the far side of the view, from where we had decided to return. The place from where we gave up to the nature's law was the densely wooded area, covered with tree and shrubs. It would remind Thoreau's Walden to any seeker and tree huggers. She went together with us, stayed with us, wetted and soaked us, turned the dust into marsh, and made us curse her for obstructing our journey until she ultimately abandoned us with the passing away of clouds. We planned in the evening, kicked off in the late evening, got stuck in the midnight, huddled for shelter and made a fire under a top of the wooden house on the edge of the road.
Meanwhile, we were indebted to the bulky rucksacks full of foods and clothes. At least we were not devoid of foods. We fetched water from the falling rain in a bottle we had carried. Till the morning, our chitchat dwelt on diverse of issues despite we had a slumberless night. Only in the morning, we knew that the name of place was Mude. From Kathmandu to Dhulikhel, it was the early evening of the frigid day. Our excitement and thrill triggered by a wish to make an adventure even didn't give the sack, with just having savored fried fishes in Dolalghat. We suddenly started being circumspect and prudent, for driving two-wheelers during a rainy night seeks the trait of being cautious. We were attentive to all possible dangers on the serpentine Araniko Highway. Had there been no rain, the light of the Moon would have been enough to see the confluence of the Bhote Koshi and Sun Koshi rivers in Sukutay.
But we dared to open our visors and gloves, pelted by pouring rain, and trudged towards a bridge to witness the merger of two giant rivers. The sight was blurred by haze, rain and the night. We saw not a single person from Khadichowr to Mude at night. When we started going up from Khadichowr, river Sunkoshi roared for a long time like a lion. Then it was all bikes' engine and friends' chuckles until one of my friend's bike got punctured. For a while, we felt we were stranded. Opting for ancestors' first discovery--fire, we tried to comfort ourselves and started deeming puncture as a divine means to make us rest. We hung our rain-soaked raincoats on the stonewall, adjacent to the refuse. One was using wood to recline his head; other was putting his ass on it. Another was adding it in fire. After all, it was Mude( if we take its phonological representation as granted, it will be log or the trunk of a tree in English). Poetic hearts even recited Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" in the name of Mude:
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
Winter was still far off to see everything snow-covered here. We had not any responsibility to keep, and were on bikes, not riding on horse to think it would be queer or to stop without a farmhouse near. Food at Mude was delicious, especially the chicken soup and boiled potatoes. It was the first time in my life I had an alcoholic drink, following the morning tea. "Here, the ethnic groups have the practice of drinking beverage made of millet to endure a cold climate!" one of my friends humorously inferred. Yes the rain was still pouring. Though we had put on rain coats it was not raining buckets outside. To kill the restlessness triggered by the sleepless night, the inebriant was not avoided. We took it culturally as a means to bear the chill, and it worked. The impression of Kharidhunga, a 20-minute drive away from Mude took us to a metamorphic stage. It was a sight of lofty surface excavation for extracting stone or slate. An extended area of land, full of small pools, appears on the elevated land. Snowfall occurs every winter at Mude and Kharidhunga, locals evidenced when they had overheard us aptly assuming that the layer of snowflakes would be covering Charikot in the coldest season of the year. As the road descends, roadside waterfalls and spectacular countryside intervened.
A series of small waterfalls running down a bridge at Charange came as a soothing balm to our venture. Again the incline resumes up to Makaibari( which means Cornfield in English) and after half-an-hour we reached Charikot, the district headquarters of Dolakha. We fueled the bikes and drove to Dholakha Bhimsen. Till then we had already wasted four hours in making a futile, yet irradiating attempt on the slippery route to Kalinchowk on bikes. Locals had warned us but we dared, just to return failed: not being blessed by Goddess Kali. To replenish the spiritual and religious vacuum, we went to Dholaka Bhimsen. To avoid the possible cure of Devi, we sprawled to Bhimsen's foot.
We descended from Dolakha Bazar, avoiding the route to Giri(travelers call it Nepal's Switzerland) and headed towards the northeast to pay a homage to the most reverenced shrine of the little town. Said to have been built in the 17th century AD, the lingam resembles three different avatars: the Bhimeshwor during morning, the Shiva during the day and the Bishnu during the evening. This mythical understanding actually absolved us from the arousal of the feelings of regret that we failed to pay our service to Kalinchowk devi. Now, we were appeasing the triumvirate deity after all! The roofless temple which houses a Shiva Linga, is thronged on the occasions of Bala Chaturdashi, Ram Navami, Bhima Ekadashi and during Dashain. But with the construction of the Lamosanghu-Jiri Road ,aka,Pasang Lhamu Highway, the number of pilgrims and devotees has been intensified, said a road-side vendor who sells flowers to pilgrims. Although buses ply from Kathmandu to Charikot on daily basis, we were not surprised to see people from the capital arriving in the little town on their two-wheelers during weekends.
With no regret for not being able to visit Kalinchowk, when we decided to hark back to the capital, it was already the late afternoon. We tied breaks and tightened the bikes’ chains at the workshop where we had affixed the puncture in the morning. Night again took us into her embrace and we over again became night riders. Rain was still pouring but not pelting hard. We passed by the ashes, the physical remains of the last night fire. The trip as a whole has also become ashes at the present, for the time has elapsed. Yet whenever coffee-table talks revolve around the Dolakha, its memory awakens the power of retaining and recalling one of the unforgettable past experience: riding at night to Charikot.
