Every day during every year, generation after generation, people gather on the banks of a river that runs through the east side of Kathmandu. You would never be able to find the place on your own if it wasn’t for a helpful native or that tattered yellow brochure with the word “Attractions” printed in black letters on the front page and directions on the second. It’s not a cool fast flowing river but a slow dirty brown one that moves lazily on its way to the ocean thousands of miles away. This particular part of the river runs through a large Hindu temple compound consisting of large gaudy structures and wretched crumbling ones, their age revealed beneath the bright paint and worn rocks. Monkeys play along the ridges of the roofs and hang from the points of the pagodas; the loud calls they make and the evil stares they give make one feel like an intruder in their temple home.
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