Hot day, long walk. A destination, but more than enough time to reach it. I spy more sleeping, chonky dogs. One, not so plump but extra-chill, sleeps without a care in the world at the base of the stairs leading into a busy building. People step around him, with a smile.
On the sidewalk, a patch of grass garlands and bundles, laid out to dry. They are a bright green of a sort that is almost, but not exactly, found in nature. I know they’re real grass under that coating because of the smell, a whiff as I walk by like a field of freshly mown grass baking in the sun. Like summer.
A young man sits on a mudha nearby, one eye on his phone and the other on me as I stop to look at the grassy creations. His job at the moment seems to be, quite literally, to watch paint dry; I know he’s involved because of the smear of green on his face, but aside from confirming that they are, indeed, malas, communication is sparse.
Errand completed, my chosen path home takes me past one of the only well-endowed pottery stores I’ve found in my (sort of) immediate area. It’s off Kamal Pokhari and is a shop of wonders. I carefully choose three pots; one doesn’t have a drainage hole but they have a tool for that, and soon it does. It’s now a little succulent garden. Two cute little mugs are an impulse buy, a gift for a friend.
I’m glad to live in a place where pottery is beautiful and it doesn’t cost the earth.
Nearly home, there’s a trio of tourists ahead of me, toting 6 or 8 brand spanking new mudhas between them. I’ve often seen visitors carrying these colorful stools, including at the airport to take home, so it’s not a complete surprise—but the volume is.
It reminds me that I need one or two new ones myself; I inherited a couple from a friend when she left and they’ve lasted for years—on the balcony, in all weather. They are in currently the latter stages of falling apart.
As I’m passing the group I see they have some cute half-height mudhas that I’ve not seen before. Where did they buy them? I ask. They’ve lucked out, it seems, for they don’t know themselves. Market? Thamel? Hands are flapped vaguely in that direction. Ah well. That’s for another day; I’m already carrying my pots.
I was savouring the day and the walk, the first real meander I’ve had in a while that wasn’t a walk on a schedule. For a while it felt like all I wrote about was wandering. This time it had been a while; I’d missed it and it was all the sweeter.
Relished it all the more as I’ve been sick pretty much ever since. Nearly over it. I’ll be on the move again soon.
**
Corrigendum: The post above has been corrected to reflect that a Nepali stool is written mudha or muda, not mudra. While transliterations differ, there is no “r”.
Marvellous....(I'm going to look out for those mudras here too...l