Heading towards neighborhoods of the Himalayas in the peak of winter, by the way of an unplanned leisure trip, puzzled our concerned folks a trifle. Yet for us, two starry eyed lovers who have set on our course of love, such practical considerations hardly punctuated the instinctual flows. Reasons beyond reasons being the spirit of our moods, without much room for second thoughts, we booked our flights from New Delhi, the capital city of India to Kathmandu- Nepal. As the black taxi car that took us from Tribubhavan international airport vroomed across the under lit, dusty desolate towns of Kathmandu towards our prearranged accommodation at Thamel, on a Christmas evening, a stark contrast was felt : between the bustling carnivals of our small harbor town in Kochi (India) and this little town from the yore in total oblivion of Christmas . "The city sleeps early", remarked the cab driver. In Thamel, an international tourist market of Nepal, a tastefully lit hotel room, warm hosts and silence eased us from the motion of travel. Slowly we settled down in the rooms, distantly enveloped by the cold arms of the Himalayan ranges and more closely by the warmth of our hands. The night was long. As I partly retired to the oneiroid sleepy states, inside my mind emerged a misty amalgam of the Nepal in my imagination in the dreamy echoes of a singing bowl. As we walked over the old stone paved streets of Thamel amidst a largely touristy crowd, the buildings gave the impression of a place that has been slow in resurrecting itself from the blows of the calamity that struck it. The tourist markets function in crutches. Darbar squares are among the hallmark attractions of Nepal and the one closest to us that evening was the Hanuman Dhoka square. The exotic buildings inside were rather remainders of exquisiteness than exquisiteness itself. Alleys were saturated with aroma of Newari cuisines. The coming day’s visit was to the old town of Bhakthpur : An ancient town, with shops of exotic paraphernalia, wooden masks of Gods and demons, small restaurants and antique shops that filled the streets. For a different geographical dimension of the country where we were in, the place chosen was the higher altitude Nagarkot .Dark fell early. A rickety green bus with stickers of Hindu gods and local celebrities, stuffed with passengers took us through the winding uphill towards our destination. The distant glimmers of light that teased us for long, slowly and with effort emerged as the small town of Nagarkot. This is certainly not the best of vantage points for a view of the Himalayas but yet, next day, from a watch tower, as we viewed the first rays of the sun colored snow caps in orange, there was hardly any room for complaint: towards a compromising vantage point, towards the near freeze bites , towards anything. Brief moments of transcendence are too brief. As we descended downhill back to Kathmandu, the spaced dwellings of the villagers were visible. The villages invoked a dull guilt in me for un-examined reasons. Thomas bell who wrote on Kathmandu remarked: “Nepali villages are almost always picturesque; bearing no relation to how sad they are." After seeing Patan Darbarsquare, the UNSECO world heritage site, we prepared to visit a Buddhist monastery. At Kopen monastery, our request to have a meeting with the youngest Rinpoche, Tenzin Rigsel was accepted with surprising ease. Sitting in a spacious hall, showered with exasperating politeness and refreshments, I skimmed through the pages of a pamphlet of Dalai lama’s teachings. To the inaccurate recollection of the exact words, it meant thus: All that one can do with surety is to give- one’s body, mind and soul to this world and its beings. Once given why should it matter whether what were given are recipients of respect or insult, care or neglect? Because it is given wholeheartedly and the ego remains absent. Young Rigsel who worries about his math papers will eventually be initiated to such teachings of wisdom. For a 30 years old me, the wisdom remains merely intellectual and spirit remains restless in ice cold peaks and valleys of mortal existence. Flying back to India, our arms were held together in hope.