I went back to Kathmandu this summer. It had been years.
The city has changed — new buildings, wider roads, more noise. But the mornings haven't changed at all. The same light. The same temple bells. The same smell of incense and chai drifting through narrow streets.
Coming home is not about the place staying the same. It's about recognizing yourself in it, even after you've changed.
The temple steps
I sat on the steps of Swayambhunath at dawn and watched the city wake up. Monks walked past in orange robes. A street dog who clearly considered these steps his territory gave me a long, evaluating look before deciding I was acceptable.
The Kathmandu Valley spread out below, half-hidden in morning mist. From up here, the chaos of the city becomes a pattern. Everything has its place.
The people
My uncle still runs his shop in Thamel. He's older now, slower, but his eyes light up the same way when he tells a story. He told me about my grandfather — things I'd never heard before. How he used to walk twenty miles to school. How he once argued with a tiger.
I'm not sure about the tiger. But the story was perfect.
What home means
Home isn't where you live. It's where the stories started. Kathmandu is the first chapter of everything I am, and going back there is like rereading the opening pages with the wisdom of someone who now knows how the story continues.
