Three days of monsoon rain and one Newari kitchen that doesn't close. A short essay on the city that taught me how to host travelers.
Most travelers come to Bhaktapur in October. I prefer the second week of August.
In August the courtyards are empty. The rain has driven the bus tours to Pokhara and the festival crowds are still two months away. The stone squares glisten, the gargoyles drip, and the city sounds like a city again — pestles in mortars, copper smiths, distant temple bells.
I grew up two streets from Dattatraya Square. My grandmother had a four-storey house with a kitchen on the top floor, the way most Newari homes were built, so the smoke and the cooking smell stayed out of the living rooms below. When it rained, the kitchen was the warmest room in the city.
There is a small bhojanalaya — a Newari kitchen — that has been open since my mother was a girl. It does one thing well: samay baji, a platter of beaten rice, smoked buffalo, black soybeans, ginger, and a small cup of aila spirit distilled in the back. In August I take guests there at dusk, when the rain is loudest and the platter feels like the most honest meal in Nepal.
If you come to Bhaktapur in the high season, the city will perform for you. If you come in the low season, it might let you sit at the edge of its life. The second is much rarer, and much more worth flying for.
About the author
Kamala Tamang
Cultural Programs Lead · Kathmandu Valley
Born in Bhaktapur. Trained as an art historian at Tribhuvan University. Designs every Kathmandu, Patan and Bandipur itinerary, with quiet access to courtyards most travelers never see.
