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A few weeks back, on a Saturday, I was at the Bajrabarahi shrine—a 12th-century Hindu temple dedicated to the avatar of Goddess Asta Matrika with the head of a sow, Varaha (barahi in Nepali)—bajra stands for a legendary weapon of thunderbolt, or lightning. The sacred site is just eight kilometers southeast of Lagankhel, Lalitpur. Other notable Barahi temples include Nilbarahi (Bhaktapur), Dhumbarahi, Shwet Barahi (Bade Gaun, Lalitpur), and Tal Barahi (Pokhara). What characterizes the two-tiered pagoda-style structure is the lack of a Gajur (spire) or pinnacle, quotidian with the architecture of nearly all temples of Kathmandu. And what strikes visitors most is the dense forest, close to 18.5 hectares, which hugs the shrine around. An idyllic setting for birdies, ornithologists, and dendrologists, the forest is home to a wealth of flora and vertebrates—29 species of birds and as many genera of trees, including flowers. A legend board hung right at the entrance classifies in detail the species of birds and the flora for the ease of the respective buffs. For bird watchers, weekdays are best suited as weekends are bustling and noisy. Ours was a family picnic following a long hiatus. Not just my nuclear family, though. It was a large gathering of extended family members—the Singhs from the Newar town of Dolakha, some 135 km northeast of Kathmandu. Redolent of a family tree, the cluster included brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces, and what have you. The getaway organized each Nepali New Year at Bajrabarahi, initiated almost 15 years now, targeted at congregating the scattered members of the Singh kinsfolk residing in Kathmandu to spend time together and share thoughts amidst cheerful bonhomie and that feel-good vibe. Past traumatic happenings die hard in our minds; nothing could be more life-like. The moment I stepped into the shrine's entrance, old memories of the incident eight years ago rushed back, and I shuddered intuitively. The annual outing of the Singhs abruptly came to a grinding halt on the sinister day when the devastating earthquake of 7.8 on the Richter scale struck the country at 11:56 on Baisakh 12, 2072 (25 April 2015), a Saturday. Guess what! We all were at the shrine for the picnic when the petrifying quake took place, and, needless to write, utter pandemonium broke out. Shell-shocked, we felt desperate, vulnerable, and defenseless. The picnic turned into absolute shambles. And so was the entire premises crawling with the picnickers as everyone in panic was scurrying around helter-skelter to find a safe shelter, frantically trying to help their kith and kin and save their dear lives. Outright chaos! It looked, albeit still reeling under the shock, the country seemed destined to further dire circumstances as India imposed an over 5-month-long Nepal blockade, crippling daily life. Before long, the Covid-19 pandemic followed, causing abject misery for the Nepali people, which took an uglier turn, triggering panic, untold tribulations, life-threatening situations, and even loss of lives. With frequent lockdowns, life seemed to come to a standstill. And our annual picnics slipped into dormancy for eight long years. This year, the outing went well, and the turnout was quite a surprise, 50 family members, including the kids. Given the warm and cheerful ambiance, everyone looked like they had missed out on the yearly weekend hangouts—for ages. I was in for a surprise this time, though. First, the shrine premises looked mighty tidier. My eyes combed through the site, the paved path, the nook-and-crannies, the spots allocated for picnics, and the vicinity for filth and rubbish, mainly empty plastic bottles, plastic bags, and the like—but there seemed hardly any. “Wow, how come?” I asked myself. Did the management of the shrine minister do that? Or should I take it for granted that the Kathmanduuite citizenry has taken a turn for the better from littering public places and recreation parks? Highly unlikely! If you care to observe all getaway spots people frequent at weekends in the outskirts of the valley, the trash strewn around speaks volumes. That reminds me of a friend who is an avid bike-packer and loves camping. On every trip, he ensures he collects his trash to dispose of at a proper garbage dump. And, what is more, he rounds off scraps and junk bestrewn by others, too. Unbelievable! As our group unwound themselves, some in a game of cards, others chatting, and a few just hanging around, I strolled along the paved path through the beautiful forest surrounding the temple. Albeit, the blaring loudspeakers belonging to the picnickers belted out a cacophony of music, playing havoc to the serenity of the woods, the intermittent lusty calls of the koel (cuckoo), the chattering of the parakeets, the red-vented Bulbuls, black drongos, the common mynas and a few others could not be mistaken a little in the far reaches. It struck me then something was missing, though. Suddenly, it flashed across my mind—primates or monkeys! The Bajrabarahi temple premises and the surrounding woods are home to troops of those arboreal anthropoids. I saw none. Weird! My curiosity drew me deep into the woods on the single tracks but a cropper—not one of those critters crossed my path. In my haste to retreat, I slipped on the tinder-dry leaves and landed on my butt—nothing to fret about, however. Back at the temple premises, I stopped to talk to an elderly lady selling puja trappings about the mysterious disappearance of monkeys. "Well, a week back, a Srimad Bhagavat Katha Saptah (a week-long puja ceremony) was staged at the temple. From that day on, the monkeys, unawares, vanished from the entire shrine premises and the woods, but they'll be back soon," she said. Most likely, the blaring loudspeakers all over the environs and the hordes of devotees milling around the entire area had scared them off—I mused. But where did they go to take refuge? I wondered as I rejoined my kinfolks. [email protected]

Traveling the length and breadth of Nepal—from Mechi to Mahakali, over 1,700 km bridging the two hindmost frontiers along the rambling Terai plains by pedal power may sound offbeat to most. It did not, to Binita Jirel (26) and Khashing Chandra Rai (31). Instead, the brainchild was Binita's perspective of exploring the vast plains—her childhood fascination. To her, a Jirel (an indigenous community of Jiri), born and raised in the hill town, she never had the opportunity to visit the Terai plains. After nearly a fortnight-long brain-racking—scheduling and rescheduling, working and reworking meticulously on the itinerary, the duo shook hands on kicking off the epic journey in January 2020—the trip set in stone. The only thing that bothered them was the thought of the bustling Mahendra Highway with heavy vehicles boring down at breakneck speed, the toxic emissions, and fewer opportunities to observe and explore the authentic Terai and its rural life minutely. And voilà! Following a little brainstorming, Khashing made an exciting discovery—the Hulaki Raj Marga (the Postman Highway)–the trail trodden by mail carriers before the motor roadways came to the Terai (including the Mahendra Highway in 1956), thus, linking untold villages and rural towns in the humongous plains. During the Rana regime (1846-1951), the road also supported transferring mail from India to Kathmandu. The big day arrived, and the adventurous duo, their bicycles stowed and secured on the bus roof, left for Birtamod, Jhapa, their kick-off point for their 30-day journey on wheels. After a hectic off-loading of their bikes at Birtamod and a little layoff at a crummy teashop, they gave a spin to their wheels—their layover at Bhadrapur, 20km away. “Here we come,” called out an ecstatic Binita to her childhood fantasy—the Tarai, in the flesh, right before her eyes. As they left behind the clutter of the town behind, the countryside stretched out in all its glory. The vast swathe of farmland welcomed them with lush amber mustard, vegetables, sugarcane patches, and the young wheat's green. The road cut across scanty houses, and as many shops stood on the sides—the rest, open cultivated land. Shortly before dark, they reached Bhadrapur and checked into a roadside hotel. Binita and Khashing woke up the next day to a clement Tarai morning. After the nipping January chill of Kathmandu, the weather felt promising—no need to heap on layers like back home. And then, Khashing’s old friend from Birtamod, Akash, turned up on his bicycle. Lo behold, he had three other cyclists in tow. The group would tag along with the duo to Mechi Bridge. After that, Binita and Khashing would be on their own. After gorging on a typical Tarai nasta (breakfast): golden-crisp jalebis, puris (puffed-up wheat-flour bread deep-fried in oil), alu-sabji (potato curry), and sweet chai (tea), the rider gang hit the road. Binita seemed to absorb every detail—skipping nothing, the sight, the sound, and even the smell of Terai. And every time they stopped by a settlement or shanty town, heads turned, and a curious crowd gathered to watch unbelievingly at the helmet-clad woman on a bicycle. There was no mistaking the Terai hallmark—the robust odor of burning dead leaves and dung cakes, followed by a strange pungent aroma. “That’s the sugarcane molasses,” Akash said. Clusters of tiny farmsteads, mango groves, the evergreen Jamun, and coconut trees dotted the distant fields. Bunched-up settlements: ramshackle mud-and-thatch huts, improved brick houses, and makeshift lean-to shelters serving as shops and tea houses flanked the road. Binita seemed over the moon as the bunch moved on. Bullock carts, piled high with straw stalks, trundled past, tractors plowed the fields, distant chimneys belched out columns of smoke, women went about their ways with loads balanced on their heads, and every so often, men, women, and girls alike pedaled along on their conventional bicycles. The kids had their way of cheering themselves up by noisily running along their bikes. But what kept striking the duo was the constant presence of thick forest as backdrops at the far end of the fields. Was that a keepsake reminder the entire inhabitation once stood as an impenetrable forest (Char Kose Jhadi)? Close to two hours, the group arrived at the legendary Mechi Bridge. The bridge shares Nepal’s border with Bihar state (Galgalia) in the south and West Bengal in the north. Following a photo shoot and a brief respite, they resumed their pedaling. Aakash suddenly said they would soon be spinning along the historic Hulaki Rajmarga. From then on, the duo would follow that highway until the end of their journey. “But before that, we’ll stop by a one-of-a-kind spot,” he said to the curious group. After an hour, a settlement called Kechan Kawal approached a nondescript village town boasting a spot in Nepal with the lowest elevation from sea level. To the adventurous pair, it sounded exciting. In a half-hour, they arrived at the spot—a vast swathe of barren land where sat a massive concrete platform shaped into a fish; at the head, a pillar stood on the carapace of a turtle effigy at the base. The sight would make any living soul scratch their head in awe, mused Khashing. “Previously, only the column stood there as a landmark. It's been only a few months since its erection to mark the 2020 Tourism Year,” he explained. Previously, a government survey had declared Kechana Kawal, Jhapa, as the zero-level point in Nepal at 60 meters above mean sea level. However, following a new survey in 2017, it lost its title to Mukhiyapatti Musharniya (59m) of the Dhanusha district. After hanging around for a spell followed by a group photo and that feel-good, easy-breezy vibe confabulating with the energetic foursome cyclists from Jhapa, it was time for Khashing and Binita to part ways. Akash offered to ride a little further with the duo. Shortly, he stopped at an intersection. "Buddies, we have already set foot on the classic Hulaki Rajmarga," said Akash. The Hulaki Rajmarga (1,792 km) commences from Kitchen Kawal, Jhapa district, and culminates at Dodhara, Kanchanpur, West Nepal. The Rajmarga was initiated by the 15th Rana Prime Minister Juddha Shumsher JBR ((1932 to 1945), the builder-of-Dharara-fame. Padma. Shumsher JBR (1945 to 1948) proceeded with the follow-up work. The first-ever path connected 20 Districts and traversed across the length and breadth of the Great Plains and the verdant rainforests of Nepal. The concept was to boost the livelihood of the Terai people and tie the far-flung villages together. The Hulaki RajMarg hogged the headlines when a chain of thousands-strong Terai people formed a human chain from Mechi to Mahakali along the Postal Highway as part of the Madhesi agitation against the 2-month-long India implemented Nepal Blockade in 2015, five months following the devastating Earthquake. “And strange as it may sound, the initiation of the Hulaki Rajmarga coincided with the year the World rocked as a US B-29 aircraft dropped the atomic bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki (August 6 and 9, 1945), killing almost 199,000 people,” Akash said and bid farewell to the intrepid duo. [email protected]

Following my craze for angling and having taken a crack at Sun Koshi, Tama Koshi, Tamur, and Arun in east Nepal, way back in 2010, I set my sights on the formidable Karnali River in far-west Nepal—my first ever to the mighty river. Karnali outstrips other significant rivers in Nepal as the longest (507 km), fed by the glacial waters of the sacred Mount Kailash in southwestern Tibet. The massive river then cuts across the Chure hills (the Siwalik range) to our great Terai plains and into India as Ghagra. The big day arrived, and I finally set off solo to Nepalgunj, a 55-minute flight from Kathmandu, with an array of fishing rods, a bag crammed with tackle—and soaring expectations, in quest of the most coveted gamefish, Golden Mahseer. I planned to set my base in Thakurdwara, Bardiya National Park, and try my luck fishing the Babai River first. The ultimate assault would be the magnificent Karnali at Chisapani. Following a filling lunch of dal-bhat at my friend Ashok's, he drove me in his pick-up truck to Thakurdwara, 75 km from Nepalgunj, on the Mahendra East-West Highway. He suggested I take his motorbike along, as hired vehicles in Thakurdwara were cumbersome to find and expensive. I jumped at his offer. My heart sank when I looked at the bike. “No worries, Ravi. Don’t go for its shabby look. It works just fine and won't let you down,” he said. With the bike hoisted aboard the pick-up, we drove off. After Man Khola (river), we left Banke District behind and entered Bardiya District. Shortly, dense mixed hardwood forest with towering Sal trees converged on both sides. Before long, we were motoring down the Bardiya National Park territory. Next, we took a fork at a roadside shanty town called Ambassa and, navigating past a bucking ride on a dirt road, arrived at Thakurdwara, a sleepy town those days. The BJC (Bardia Jungle Cottage), I checked in, was just a stone’s throw away from the Bardia National Park entrance.The quaint resort featured small mud, thatch, and bamboo cottages with cool and cozy rooms. “No cement, not a single brick was used to build them and the design is exclusively a Tharu (an indigenous ethnic community) concept,” said Khadka, the owner; thatch grass (khar) completed the roofs. Following some refreshments, my friend soon left for Nepalgunj, and I enjoyed the temperate evening, helped by a breeze in the delightful garden chatting with Mr. Khadka. Despite a restless night, with nocturnal nightjars calling out their spooky chuk, chuk, I got up early the next morning for the day's angling. I left for the Babai River with my guide Sitaram Chaudhary, a local Tharu, riding pillion on the motorbike. The highway appeared near-deserted save for a bus or a truck roaring past. We zoomed past flitting sightings of langur monkeys and an occasional herd of chital deer by the wooded roadside. At one spot, a peafowl frightened the living daylights out of me as it tore across the road to cross—too close for comfort. After a one-half hour, we arrived at the Babai River bridge. I peered down the bridge, which also served as an irrigation weir, and to my excitement, spotted a gharial and a mugger crocodile lazing on the river’s sandy banks. The next sight made my mind boggle. A huge gharial with gaping jaws stalked patiently on a school of tiny fish. The fishlings were bounding over the incline of the sluice gate, trying futilely to slither up the slippery slope, only to drop back into the water—and some unfortunate ones into the gaping jaws. Whoa, an ingenious gimmick! We parked the bike at the park gate and walked along a forest path through thick woods with tall grasses and shrubs. The jungle was still except for the rustling sound that our feet made on dry fallen leaves. A shrill note of a peafowl sounded nearby, followed by others in a chorus. Then a spooked chital stag belled close at hand. After a half hour, we descended to the river, our fishing spot for the day. I lost no time and cast my first rod baited with a live small fish Choudhary had netted by the banks and let the rod rest. With a second rod, I began my cast- and-retrieve with a metal lure. With no shade, the day turned scorching with stifling heat as the sun bore down on us relentlessly, but regardless, I kept hurling my lure like clockwork. At two in the afternoon, Choudhary reminded me we had to have lunch. Starved, as we munched on our packed lunch of egg-fried rice and cucumber salad, I kept a wary eye on the tip of my first rod, on my toes to pounce at the slightest jiggle. After lunch, I renewed my casts as the baited rod languished—no bite. After five o’clock, as the shadows lengthened, I began to waver. Time was slipping away as park rules allowed us to remain only until sunset. Even Chaudhary looked baffled at the total blankness. At six, with the sun almost skimming the distant Babai waters, we called it a day and retreated through the forest to our parked motorbike. Albeit the sun was down, visibility remained in the gloaming. After cruising past a military check post, at Sainabar, I saw something from the corner of my eye hanging out at the forested roadside. Curious, I made a U-turn to check. My hunch came true. There stood the crowning glory of the jungle—wild elephants. The herd of 12 to 13 tuskers were foraging right next to the highway in a small clearing barely 30 ft. away. As elephant encounters are rare in the wild, I was thrilled to bits at the prospect of taking some snapshots at such close quarters. With the engine killed and both riders still straddled over the seat, I lunged for my camera slung over my back. Just then, my guide Sitaram Choudhary seated behind, fidgeted, and I lost my footing before I could train my lenses on the herd. The bike pitched and slid down to one side, but I held on with one foot from toppling over and heaved it straight up. Seeing us dawdle at the roadside so close, I noted some commotion amidst the herd. Then Sitaram panicked. “Sir, we best not stop here . . . it’s not safe at all. They can attack any moment; if they do, we have a fat chance of escaping,” he muttered into my ears. Guess what! As I hurriedly took a couple of shaky shots, the Alpha male, its ears pinned back, charged, and the rest of the herd followed suit. That triggered the warning bell in my head. I frantically kicked the starter pedal. Holy smoke! It failed! With my heart in my mouth, I furiously tried again—and thank heavens—on my third attempt, the engine sprang to life, and we shot forward, hell for leather. At some distance, I turned my head back to look. The storming tuskers had stopped after chasing us several paces but kept eyeing us suspiciously. Back at the lodge in Thakurdwara, my guide Sitaram without beating about the bush, said, “Sir, I was all set to ditch you and dash for the thick woods—the only way to flee when chased by wild elephants, had you stalled a little longer.” [email protected]  

My wife and I were having lunch at a friend's some eight years back. The entrée, the usual dal-bhat, with side servings of a mutton dish, cauliflower curry, and chutneys, included a simple spinach preparation.   It was, however, nothing like the typical green leafy vegetables we ate at home, like mustard greens (tori ko sag), garden cress (chamsur), spinach (palungo), fenugreek leaves, or bok choy. It had a marked flavor, somewhere close to our palungo spinach and even a hint of cabbage, but with a sharper, piquant, and earthy flavor. I relished it so much that I went for a large second helping. I did not have the foggiest idea what it was. Upon my curiosity, my friend told me it was bethe ko sag, popular among rural Newars and called ekoncha in Newari. My jaws dropped when he told me it was a wild weed that grew independently and proliferated home gardens, wheat fields, potato crops, fallow fields, and roadsides—free for the picking. That made me a little suspicious about the edibility of the spinach.  Discerning the quizzical look on my face, my friend grinned and assured me it was safe to eat. "No worries, it even holds some medicinal properties," he said. I did not buy it and decided to investigate the matter. It bowled me over when my finds reassured me it was not merely safe to eat, but the wild weed packed a lot of nutrients. The more I buried into my research, the more exciting lowdowns surfaced. Given that the wild herbage thus became a favorite on my shopping list.  History logs that the wild weed existed even in the prehistoric ages when hunters and gatherers foraged this green leafy plant in the backwoods to eat and use as fodder. The botanic name for this weed is Chenopodium Album, a perennial, annual herbaceous plant—a member of the Amaranthaceous family (in the genus Chenopodium). It is fast-growing, resilient, and survives extreme sun, drought, and frost. In Kathmandu, it invades the wheat fields, potato crops, soybean, home gardens, and untilled fields, and being very hardy needs no tending. In a nutshell, mostly neglected, it clusters practically any location, niche, and crevice outdoors. All you have to have is observant eyes.  By and broadly accepted as a pesky nuisance in the garden, it thrives in a temperate and tropical climate. Given that a single bethe plant bears an astronomical quantity of self-sowing seeds, close to 70,000, if not more, it burgeons just like a bushfire.  Botanists claim it served as a food source even in the ancient Chinese civilization and maintained that it was native to Asia and Europe and later introduced to North America, Africa, and Australia. Albeit its wild descent, the plant is cultivated extensively as a food crop in India, particularly in the north, and widely consumed. And what's more, it goes by a horde of names in America and Europe, which sound nothing short of ludicrous such as lamb's quarters, white goosefoot, Missouri lambs quarters, bacon weed, pigweed, and whatnot.  "There are two variety of bethe, one is the local kind and the other deshi (literally from the Terai or India))," says Naren Shrsestha, our greengrocer. "Its seedling time nearly coincides with the planting of palungo spinach. The picking time for the local bethe sag occurs in early spring (March through May) before the wheat crop gets harvested or a little late until mid-fall," he added. The local bethe available in Kathmandu are primarily wild and foraged in the wheat fields and the spring potato crops. "With its growing popularity, farmers in small numbers have started cultivating it in recent times," says Ramchandra, a vegetable vendor in our neighborhood.  Now for the fast check on bethe's nutrients, let's look at the fact sheet below. For good measure, the invasive weed brims over with micronutrients such as potassium,  phosphorus, magnesium, manganese, zinc, flavonoids, and Vitamin K. It is rich in Vitamin C. Surprisingly, the wild weed loads Vitamin A (11,600 IU per 100 grams of leaves) much higher than spinach and about 2.5 times more than kale.  Regarding the health benefits accredited nutritionists and clinical dietitians uphold, the lesser-known bethe greens boost our immunity and help nourish our overall wellness.   Among a wealth of health benefits, let's check on some: 

1. With calcium content to back it up, it helps strengthen our bones and fight against osteoporosis, structural deterioration of bone tissue, and low bone mass (especially among aging women).
2. The flavonoids and copper contents in bethe, essential for a healthy heart, foster the HDL cholesterol, thus, substantially cutting down on the risk of cardiovascular diseases like heart attacks, atherosclerosis, and strokes.  
3. As an excellent glycemic agent, the manganese in bethe greens aids in controlling and stabilizing blood-glucose levels in type-2 diabetes.
4. It fights against toxins in our body caused by prolonged consumption of fruits and veggies contaminated by pesticides and extended use of pharmaceutical drugs like acetaminophen and ibuprofen. It acts as a cleansing agent and helps safeguard the liver. 

1. Recent discoveries maintain the regular intake of bethe even check the growth of cancer cells in breasts, lungs, colon, and esophagus.

Nearly everyone falls prey to constipation at one time or another—more so when it comes to elderly individuals. People generally believe that if you are afflicted with constipation, you must give a wide berth to eating bananas.  As much as it is a delicious and healthy fruit loved by all, it has long become the focus of speculation and debate concerning constipation, a common gastrointestinal complaint. My wife never eats bananas because she has constipation. She believes bananas aggravate the problem, as did most people I talked with. I still recall the old days when my mom gave us kids bananas to eat when we had diarrhea, saying it worked wonders to stop loose bowels. Nevertheless, a nonagenarian, she eats half a banana each day. Although I'm a diabetic, I eat one banana every morning for breakfast. While on cycling rides, I indulge myself with two as it works like an energy booster when doing grueling inclines. It has been like this since I got into cycling for 15 years. That has never interfered with my bowel movements to this day. My daily regimen starts with guzzling down nearly a liter of water on an empty stomach—first thing in the morning, followed by a refreshing mugful of tea. Before you know it, I have to dash for the washroom. It stays that way every day, ruling out rare exceptions like when visiting new environments, a filthy bathroom, and while traveling—worst of all, if I have to use an archaic squat toilet instead of a commode.   My wife knows I never have a problem with constipation, but trying to convince her that bananas would not add to her problem always leads to a stalemate.   She instead goes for a heap of laxatives, stool softeners, and whatnot, ayurvedic antidotes, too, into the bargain—and that goes every day. It works for her most days a week, but the irony of it all, the motley medications do not work as a perfect remedy.  It was time I dug into this issue and got to the roots. Ta-da! My little research debunked the near folk myth that eating bananas aggravated the problem but helped those suffering from it—poop. It was nothing less than an eye-opener and a plausible answer to my wife's misconception.  In a nutshell, constipation is a condition that leads to fewer than three bowel movements a week with hard, dry, or lumpy stools that are difficult and, at times, painful to pass, landing you feeling not all stool has passed through the rectum. My research led me to the finding that constipation is a health disorder affecting almost 20 percent of the world's population.  To go by medically-backed findings, the primary causes of constipation include your eating habit and lifestyle. You will likely get constipated if your food needs more fiber, like leafy greens, vegetables, fruits, and whole grains, or in the event, high-fat meals, such as meat, junk food, or processed food, outpace your dietary regimen.   Next, your daily intake of fluids needs to be improved, which can also precipitate in harder stools, stubborn from passing usually. Our body needs enough fluids to keep it functional, and science backs the theory. You won't believe it! A whopping 67 percent of water makes up for our bodies.  Or, you are less involved in physical activity. Health experts maintain regular workouts contribute to more than toning up the heart and the body muscles; it also boosts regular bowel movements. Now, the knotty question pops up, what makes bananas bowel-friendly and helps alleviate the severity of constipation? Fiber-rich food is essential to keep you in excellent overall trim, including better gut health or microbiota. Consuming adequate fiber can prevent or relieve constipation, aiding waste to move smoothly through the body. It also encourages healthy gut microbiota. Medical and health reviews claim dietary fiber enhances the bulk of stool, helps promote regular bowel movements, and cuts down on body wastes lodged in the intestines helping against gastrointestinal disorders.  That said, what makes bananas functional in alleviating constipation, and even work as a prophylactic against it and relieve those suffering from this miserable condition?  For a start, bananas pack both soluble and insoluble fiber. While insoluble fiber contributes to bulk, spurring bowel activity, soluble fiber absorbs water, helping stools stay large but soft, complementing the movement of waste through your digestive tract. Many plant foods, such as fruits, broccoli, carrots, oats, and beans, fall under this category.  There is more, the nutrient-dense bananas are a source of vitamin B6, potassium, magnesium, vitamin C, A, and over three times as much phosphorus and iron as apples, all contributing to a healthy heart, stronger bones, and help keep your cholesterol and BP in check and cuts down on the risk of stroke—the checklist seems still an arm long.  Good news for diabetics! As maintained by the American Diabetes Association, the fiber in bananas counterbalances blood glucose at a safe level. Even diabetics can go for a modest single banana a day. Touted as a ‘superfood’ at the turn of the 20th century, it also gathered a lustrous endorsement from the journal of the American Medical Association.  That said, bananas are not unfavorable to constipation; they act instead as a close ally to mitigating the setback. Hopefully, this write-up will rid my wife of the long-harbored fallacy and go for bananas—haha! The above content provides generic information based on research. It is in no way a substitute for a qualified medical opinion. Always consult a specialist or your doctor for further details [email protected]

Looked upon as a mystical Shangri-La and dubbed the "Little Tibet," the enchanting tiny enclave hidden within the folds of majestic mountains on the Tibetan Plateau, the 500-year-old capital of Mustang, "the Kingdom of Lo"–Lo Manthang–was off limits to foreigners until 1992. For old folks, Mustang was a fabled "himal pari ko desh," a land beyond the Himalayas. In 2018, I traveled to Lo Manthang (3,840m), Upper Mustang, on a 13-day cycling trip with three companions and turned my long-cherished dream into reality. It stood out hands down as the most memorable journey of my life—one of a kind. Among many other breathtaking landmarks, the mysterious 2,500-old Shija Jhong cave at Chosser village boggled our minds. Following a two-day respite and a thorough tour of the walled city of Lo Manthang, including its medieval gompas (monasteries) and the 14th-century Tashi Gephel Palace (undergoing renovation then), we wished to make our last day worth the effort by exploring a little farther the city. We set aside two destinations: the Korala border with China, some 28 km away, and the closer Chosser Jhong Cave. Our team captain, Khashing Rai, and I favored the historic cave; my other two mates, Shayeet and Diwas, were for the border. After a bit of bickering, we finally settled upon Jhong cave. After gorging on dal-bhat at the hotel, we dusted our bicycles, hopped into our saddles, and hit the dirt road to Chosser (3,916m), some 19km away. It took us over an hour to arrive at Chosser—clusters of adobe houses scattered around a close-knit community. The wind that escalated into a full-blown gale made our pedaling an ordeal. We left our bikes at the village square tea shop and hiked to the cave. The landscape of Mustang never ceased to baffle us right from day one. On the way to the cave, the weird rock formations in phenomenal sizes and shapes in the bare, parched, dusty, wind-ravaged, and arid terrain gave us the impression of having landed on a different planet—so other-worldly. For all that, the charm the rugged environs held for us was mystifying. As we advanced toward our destination, November’s biting wind seemed bent upon brutally lashing us. The chill seemed to cut through the layers of our thermal wear and windbreakers to our bones. Small wonder Mustang earns the notoriety of diurnal gale force gust with speeds outstripping 40 knots. You won't believe it! At the wind-torn Nyi La pass (4,020m), the highest point en route to Lo Manthang, the wind threatened to sweep my bike off a cliff. Following a 45-minute walk in that stark wilderness with no such things as greenery and habitation, we arrived at Jhong cave that towered above us—defined against the clear indigo sky. All four of us froze to the ground as we watched the massive rock formation in all its glory—the spectacle as much for the eyes as for the mind. The near vertical face of the craggy cliff held pockmarks, which we soon figured were gaping holes, presumably serving as crude windows for a light source. Awestruck, we set foot on the monumental Shija Jhong Cave, just one among over 10,000 human-made caves that pepper the cliffs of Mustang, near-impossible to access. A concrete flight of steps led to the cave's entrance. Next, we had to climb narrow wooden ladders to the upper stories. Each landing opened into passages and multiple chambers. The ladders kept going up to a soaring fifth story. As the rickety ladder shook and wobbled, I stomached my fear and climbed to the fifth floor. Exceeding 40 chambers, some needed access through narrow tunnel-like entrances and stooping too; we negotiated past them cautiously, as there were gaping pits too. One false step, and you would take a fall to the lower story. Several chambers had crude tanks and bins hued into the walls, probably to store water and grain; others appeared like sleeping quarters. Several chambers held ceilings blackened by soot; they must have served as kitchens. How on earth those middle-era people, against all odds, dug caves into sheer rock faces is nothing short of an enigma yet unraveled. Undeniably, the Jhong cave is a living testimony to the phenomenon that the ancient people of Lo lived in caves for millennia. Nearly every chamber had a gaping opening that opened to a stunning view of the rugged wind-sculpted landscape and the Chosser valley in the distance. With no head for heights, it gave me the creeps, even peering from the fifth floor's hole. The presence of thousands of human-made sky caves chiseled into Mustang's near vertical sedimentary cliffs substantiates that cave civilization was inseparable from its past. "People still live in some caves around Garphu and Chosser," said Wangchhen Lowa, the owner of the Mystique Hotel in Lo Manthang. Besides being used as living quarters, archaeologists speculate people used the cave shelters for diverse purposes, from burial grounds for the deceased to meditation chambers for the monks, a refuge from enemy aggression, storing grains, and battle lookout posts. Caves such as the Luri and Tashi Kabum house mural paintings—believe it or not—even mummified human remains and stupas. Today, the Jhong cave and the rest of the sky caves remain a Chinese puzzle for the stumped archaeologists, inviting many hypotheses. As it is, those dark caves of Mustang, to this day, remain shrouded in profound mystery and intrigue. [email protected]

The Amish of Berlin—ring any bell? Unlikely, I gather; I didn't have the foggiest idea about it. Somewhere in Germany? I got it all wrong until I visited the USA in 2014, poles apart from Germany! During my five-and-a-half-month stay in the colossal country, I hopped around several states, from Texas and Georgia to Colorado and Ohio, spending time with close relatives and friends, including my daughters, Smriti and Preeti. My last stay turned up in the city of Findlay, Hancock County, Ohio, with my younger daughter, Preeti. After exhausting all the must-see places in Findlay, Preeti offered to take me on a long drive to Amish Country, about 125 miles away—a quaint town called Berlin, Holmes County, Ohio. When she gave me the lowdown on the Amish people, I could not wait. It sounded weird to me and more like red herrings. But the facts turned out to be true. Contrary to my fancy that we would speed through megacities, the drive traversed instead across vast swathes of country and farmland intercepted by thick woodlands, farmhouses, and sparse suburban townships. "Ba (dad), we are almost there," said Preeti as we cruised across sprawling farmland and greenery with a random scattering of archaic country houses. The core town hub looked bustling with tourists. The first thing that struck me dumb was the abundance of horse-pulled open carriages and horse-drawn buggies trotting on the main roads and streets, reminding me of American wild west movies. "They belong to the Amish people," said my daughter. To me, the streets shuttling neck and neck with modern-day cars, the buggies and carts just looked incongruous—sticking out a mile. Albeit, everything appeared uncluttered and well-ordered. Fantastic! I saw the Amish men in beards but no mustaches (like the conservative Muslims) dressed in their bespoke blackest black straight-cut suits,  slacks held by suspenders (belts and neckties forbidden), and sporting broad-brimmed felt hats—kids included. Amish women caught the eye wearing dark-colored full skirts with long sleeves extending to their corsets with head capes or bonnets. Girls, too—sleeveless was taboo. Much like in movies, I felt like I'd traveled back to the 1800s of an old-order America. I learned Berlin drew many foreign and domestic tourists as a quintessential rural America with its unassuming simplicity combined with nonpareil local crafts, culture, tradition, and history, including 100-year-old tenements. Set against a rural setting, the crowd pleasers on the streets of Berlin housed many eye-catching shops, malls, and eateries, mostly owned by the Amish people. Preeti and I found ourselves lost among the handmade craft shops, heirloom furniture galleries, antique shops, vintage apparel stores, and flea markets galore until our legs ached. But every place we ducked in seemed worth a stop. Coffee shops and ice cream parlors appeared by the shedload every way we went. So did the restaurants, which served all kinds of food—minus the fast food—including the local cuisine. We were on a wild spree window shopping, buying souvenirs, and binge eating their mouthwatering local delicacies: homemade cheese, chocolates, and wines. I moved to approach a lone Amish gentleman sitting at a corner table of the restaurant we stopped by, so I could strike up a conversation. Preeti looked at me disapprovingly and held my arm. She said that was the dumbest thing to do. She made it clear later that the Amish shunned visitors, avoided being photographed, and disliked talking to people other than their community. Strange it may sound, but that's how it is in the Amish country. The more Preeti fed me the bare facts about Amish people, the more it sounded incredulous. They have their principles, beliefs, and rules redolent of the Quaker values and principles, which advocate simplicity, peace, integrity, community, equality, and stewardship to guide them to a meaningful life. Humility, family, community, compassion, and above all else, separation from the world are their mainstays. And every member of the community staunchly follows those values. And they are proud to be Amish. The old-order Amish people forsake electricity off the grid, mobiles, television, computers—every convenience of modern technology and the digital age we think we can't do without and ride a buggy-horse for conveyance instead of a motor-powered car or motorcycle. Incredible! Going by American history, in 1820, Amish settlers immigrated in large numbers to Berlin, Ohio, and cashed in on the rich farmland around the then-small settlement. Even today, the lush, productive farms around the town speak volumes about their unparalleled farming. The Amish believe this life on Planet Earth is part of their journey to heaven and needs to function by God's will. For instance, if a house burns down, it's God's will—let it burn. The more I learned about the Amish, the more it bowled me over. After a thrilling time in Berlin, we left for home—happy and wiser. I could not help wondering, as the car sped on the deserted highway—how come such a community continues to exist on Earth in the third millennium? [email protected]

The Tarebhir Uphill Challenge Mountain biking race held on January 8, 2022, the first among the 7-Series-Race, was my maiden bid. I'd decided it would be my last, given my age (69). Guess what! I pressed on with the subsequent races against my better judgment, unaware that successive races would turn lengthier and more taxing. When I learned the second challenge was Kalu Pandey, I thought I was nuts to dare. Gosh! I could not believe my eyes when I took the third podium position—it worked like a shot in the arm. The organizers had granted a break of two-three weeks after each race. It worked wonders as my burnt-out legs got enough time to recover. A half-marathon is what the third race, Matatirtha-Deurali Bhanjyhyang (7.5 km), appeared to me. I felt frustrated when every racer seemed to pull ahead of me—no podium position this time. Toward the fourth race, Pharping-Hattiban, I learned, to my surprise, that the rest of my fellow contenders in the Senior Category (60+) had just stepped into their 60s. So, at 69, I was senior to them by eight years—and the greyest among the rest, 100-plus racers. It was anything but comforting to learn that Lakuri Bhanjhyang was the next. I knew how grueling the uphill was as I'd ridden there five years back. Come rain or shine—I did it. And it paid off—I walked away with the third standing. Surprisingly, my commitment seemed set in stone as the races progressed with the hardships stomached. In all sincerity, I enjoyed each moment at the race—no words to relate those adrenalin-pumping seconds when I finished amidst boisterous cheering and clapping. I adored the warm and like-minded comradery among the bikers—giving off a palpable vibe. I'd never imagined I'd make so many friends in the bargain. Incredible! The sixth challenge—the Godavari to Chapakharka (2,300m), east of the Phulchoki ridge, cut across dense forest, so quiet I could hear my heart thump. The overcast weather with no sun appeared cut out for the grueling ride. Unawares midway, the sky rumbled, and I felt the first droplets on my face, then drizzle, followed by an uglier weather mood swing. A sudden gust turned into a windstorm, driving the pedaling near impossible and threatening to hurl me off my bike. To my misery, the rains resumed and lashed me, sopping wet. I could not figure out how I made it to the finish, struggling hard against the gale and the rain. Once atop, I broke into a terrible shudder from the intense cold despite changing into dry clothes; I feared I might collapse from hypothermia. I survived. To every racer's discontent, the seventh and the last race got announced within a week following the Chapakharka tormenting ordeal with no extended rest period. It was no less than the formidable Phulchoki (2,700m), the lengthiest at 14km, with the inclines a sure killer. The big day arrived—all appeared apprehensive, me the most. It meant moving the mountains for me. Worse yet, I'd developed a nagging pain in the neck from the last race. The turnout of contestants, too, had dropped. The weather looked gloomy under dark clouds, with the race flagged off. At midway, a loud thunderclap sounded, soon followed by a nasty cloudburst. I feared the torrent of red-clay rainwater that had turned the dirt road into a gushing brook might wash me down the slope. It looked like I was the only soul straggling behind on that godforsaken forested incline, let alone the thrashing rain. Upon seeing the 4 km milestone, I wavered. A jumble of thoughts raced through my mind. "What on earth? Man, it's just an ordinary race, not an international contest, you moron! Just give up." Still in a quandary, the other half of my mind goaded me on. "Do you want to give up when you're less than four kilometers away?" In a stupor as I debated with myself while my legs kept working the pedals. At the crest, the sight of a whooping crowd felt exhilarating, if not euphoric. I'd done it. But at a cost—I have had to nurse my sore neck for over a month. [email protected]