Bhaktapur Durbar Square
- Emmeline Endresen
- Jul 4, 2019
- 4 min read
On Saturday morning Laxmi, Akritee, Cindy, and I head out to the bus stop on our way to Bhaktapur. The smallest city in Nepal, Bhaktapur literally translates to ‘Place of Devotees’.
The bus ride is 45 long minutes of sticky clothing in the heat, jostling bodies, and blaring horns. We sit in long lines of traffic on our way out of Kathmandu, which slowly open up along with the surrounding buildings.
Dense cityscape and rope-like telephone wires fade to hills, muddy roads, and (gasp) grassy fields where kids are playing football. We ride the bus all the way to the last stop and I can hardly get out of that tin can fast enough.
Taking a deep breath, it feels like the first time I’m able to breathe in the three weeks that I’ve been here. The air is clean, or relatively, and suddenly I am aware of the constant strain on my lungs since I’ve been away.
First we walk around a large, rectangular pond called Siddha Pokhari. The water is a deep frog green, and it’s impossible to see the bottom. Centered along each side are small huts from which one can buy fish food in paper bags; large white puffs, small brown seeds, hard orange kernels.
From here we walk down the road to Bhaktapur’s Durbar Square. A Durbar Square, or Royal Square, describes a plaza which holds an old royal palace along with temples, idols, and courtyards.
There are three main Durbar Squares, which are located in Kathmandu, Patan, and Bhaktapur respectively. They are all UNESCO World Heritage Sites, and though wonderously beautiful, they all sustained great damage from the 2015 earthquake and are in the process of being rebuilt.
As I would soon come to find out, the Durbar Square of Bhaktapur is by far my favorite.
Inside the gates, the streets are narrow and cobbled. The buildings, though old and often partially destroyed by the earthquake, nevertheless shimmer with a shy beauty. Pale blue shutters wink at us as we pass by with the wisdom of great age, of all the life they have seen.
Tiny storefronts sell mud-molded pots, copper locks shaped as tiger heads, metal butterfly mobiles, and red velvet shoes.
Akritee tells us that Bhaktapur has the most delicious dahi,or curd/sweet yogurt, of anywhere in Nepal, and we decide to test the theory. She leads us from shop to shop, examining the various sizes and flavors, trying to find the right place. Eventually she is satisfied, and orders for us.
The dahi comes in beautiful handmade clay pots. We are told that the clay retains its temperature, and therefore helps to keep the dahi cold after being kept in a small ice box. I can honestly say that it is in fact the best curd I have come across. There isn’t anywhere to sit, so we stand contentedly in the road with our little clay cups and wooden spoons.
When I’m all done I bring the pot back to the shop owner to return it, but he informs me that they are to keep. That is when I notice them; pots of all sizes strewn along the road, left there by other dahi enthusiasts who probably have at least ten of these back home.
From here we move on toward the main square where we will find the palace and its temples. Along the way we stop into what can only loosely be described as an art gallery. There is barely room for two people inside. Paintings crowd every inch of the stone walls, with more stacked up on a small table or rolled into cupboards. The artist sits outside with his paints, working on a new piece.
Nepal is famous for its Thangkas, or Buddhist paintings on cotton that traditionally depict a deity or a mandala. Mandalas may be used for healing and meditation, a symbolic reminder of one’s wholeness and place in the universe.
The artist provides us with magnifying glasses to better see all the intricate details of the Thangkas. The one I choose is sky blue and pale orange, representing the sunrise. Looking closely, I can see Dharma Wheels, sleeping cows, conch shells, and a tiny om symbol at the center. I feel like Mary Poppins falling down, down, down into the painting.
From there we move on and come to the Five Stories Temple. It is the tallest pagoda in Nepal, with each story representing one of the five basic elements of life. Nearby is the Bhairava Nath Temple, which sustained severe damage during the earthquake. Even as we sit atop the Five Stories Temple, we can watch it being rebuilt.
Bamboo scaffolding forms an intricate web along its base, working its way up. Workers on the ground pass up tiles and large stones. By the time they reach the roof, a row of women stationed at the top throw the heavy materials down the line until workers at the end can hammer them into place.
We see the Palace of 55 Windows with little black grates over openings in its brick walls. We see the famous Golden Gate of Bhaktapur, said to be the most beautiful of its kind in the whole world, decorated with nymphs, griffins, and other mythical creatures.
We see intricately carved stone statues, painters doing their artistic justice to the Square, and a brick wall covered in purple flowers. There is too much and not enough to see.
On the way home we take a taxi. Akritee points out the road by the highway where the bus drops her off every morning, a ten-minute walk to her college. As we get closer to Kathmandu the air once more becomes heavy with dust, and the traffic crushes in on itself.
We roll up the windows.
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