An account of our visit to Nepal - Day 2

 Day 2: 5th April 2026

The dawn of our second day carried with it a sense of reverence. We set out to Punaura Dham, the ancient site where legend says King Janaka unearthed Sita from a pot while ploughing the famine-stricken fields. Imagine the scene: a king, desperate to save his people, performing penance with sweat and soil – and destiny itself rising from the earth in the form of a child. Today, the site is a pond (and we performed pooja there), flanked by a temple adorned with idols of Rama, Lakshmana, Sita, Lakshmi, Narayana, Shiva, and more.

       

Deities in the temple

Pond where Sita was found by Janaka

As tradition demanded, Suma stepped forward with offerings – bead garlands, vastras, naivedya, and aarti – her devotion setting the tone for the day.

From there, we moved to Janki Sthal, the grander temple complex, often debated as Sita’s true birthplace. The air here was thick with history and dispute, but also with devotion. Idols of Ganesh, Hanuman, Radha-Krishna, Ram-Lakshman-Sita, and Garuda watched over us. The priest urged us to stay for the morning aarti, and we did. The chants, the bells, the rising incense – it was a symphony of faith. The prasad, though modest in portion, was rich in spirit, enough to whet our appetite for breakfast.

             

      

       

Some of the Deities at the Janki Sthal

Back at the hotel, roadside masala tea revived us while Rajneesh and Kamlesh, our ever-faithful charioteers, loaded the luggage. A small travel tip emerged from experience: keep a backpack with two days’ worth of clothes handy, so the big suitcase can rest undisturbed.

Breakfast was self-prepared – khichadi, quinoa khichadi, bisi bele bath, and upma. Simple, hearty, and comforting.

By mid-morning, we reached the border checkpoint. Permits were secured for our vehicles, granting us seven days of passage into Nepal. The sun was already blazing as we entered Janakpuri, another contested site of Sita’s birth. Amidst the heat, Sridhar or Vasu (memory blurs here) played the role of a good Samaritan, treating us all to chilled lassi. A blessing in disguise!

Then came the jewel: Janaki Temple, also called Naulakha Mandir. Built in the early 1900s by Queen Vrisha Bhanu of Orchha, it cost nine lakh gold coins – a fortune turned into devotion. Legends abound: a golden statue of Sita discovered in 1657, the holy site where Sannyasi Shurkishordas found her images.

     

    

        

Few pics at Janki Temple, Janakpuri

The sanctum was closed until 4:00 pm, so we wandered. A marriage was underway in one corner, bhajans echoed in another, and young girls filmed TikTok dances in yet another – modernity and tradition colliding in the temple courtyard. We explored the animated Ramayan exhibition, walls alive with Mithila art narrating Sita’s story.

By then, hunger roared. Hotel Ramayan Misthan came to the rescue with a vegetarian feast.

When the sanctum finally opened, the crowd surged. Students on holiday had swelled the numbers, and chants of “Jai Sita Ram!” filled the air. Amidst the melee, we glimpsed the idols, resplendent in opulence. From there, we visited the nearby Ram temple, its pagoda-like structure reminiscent of Tibetan Buddhist architecture, housing idols as ancient as the stones themselves.

         

A view of the deities in the Ram Temple and the precincts 

The evening carried us to Dhanush Dham, 20 km northeast. A massive bow spanned the highway, a reminder of the legend: Rama stringing Shiva’s bow at Sita’s swayamvara, the bow shattering into three parts. The middle fragment is said to have landed here, leaving behind mysterious elements that even scientists failed to identify. Mysticism and science stood side by side, shrugging at each other.

         

        

Pics of what is believed to be parts of Shiv Dhanush

    

      

Villagers sold cucumbers and wood that burned like camphor, its shavings fragrant like incense. We bought some souvenirs of faith and earth.

Finally, under the night sky, we reached Varaha Kshetra at 10:30 pm. Suma had wisely chosen the Bhandari Shakhahari Hotel, close to the temple and the river Koshi. Beds claimed, bodies weary, spirits full – we surrendered to sleep once more.

An account of our visit to Nepal - Day 1

A Memorable Trip to 3 of the 4 Holy Dhaams in Nepal

Prelude

What began as a modest pilgrimage of three seekers quickly snowballed into a caravan of ten. Destiny, it seemed, had its own guest list. And conceptually, our journey was already blessed: starting from the sacred soil of Sita Madi in Bihar, where Janaka found the infant Sita – passing through Janakpuri, and culminating at the Ashram of Maharshi Valmiki, where Sita is believed to have returned to her mother’s embrace beneath the earth. The 3 Dhaams (Varaha Kshetra, Muktinath, and Ridi (Ruru) Kshetra) that were the mandatory points of interest in our itinerary had their own mystic charm and were spiritually enchanting.

Cross-border travel meant paperwork, but the process was surprisingly forthright. As an ID document, we were told not to use Aadhaar, while Voter ID and Passport were welcomed. A word to the wise: register online. The border queues are long, the fees double, and patience is a currency best saved for temple darshan, not bureaucracy.

Packing was a lesson in balance – travel light, but never underestimate the Himalayan mood swings. Jackets, thermals, and a few essentials became our armor against altitude, terrain, and weather.

Sri Muktinath Temple, Nepal

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Day 1: 4th April 2026

The adventure began with a flight from Bengaluru to Gorakhpur, a breezy 2½ hours that lulled us into thinking the rest of the journey would be just as easy. Outside the airport, we unpacked our homemade lunches, a comforting reminder of home before surrendering to the unknown. Two sturdy vehicles awaited us, destined to be our loyal companions across borders and terrains.

The group expanded mid-journey – one pilgrim already camped in Gorakhpur, another reaching earlier that morning, and they were scooped up en route – like characters joining a play at just the right cue. From Gorakhpur to Sita Madi, the road stretched 270 km, demanding 7½ hours of patience, punctuated by tea breaks, snacks, and laughter.

Ah, the roadside indulgences! Freshly fried potato dices, crisp and golden, vanished faster than they cooled. The masala tea, brewed in a humble shack, was liquid poetry – spiced, sweet, and priced at a fraction of its city cousin. I couldn’t resist the sweet boondi, those golden droplets soaked in syrup, paired with khara sev, a crunchy, savory counterpoint. Together, they were a duet of taste – one singing sugar, the other salt.

As we neared Sheohar, the sight of countless private hospitals and nursing homes lining the road startled us. A reminder, perhaps, of life’s fragility even on a spiritual journey. Dinner was modest – rotis, dal, and rice – but it was enough to soothe travel-weary bodies.

By 11:00 pm, we reached our destination, Hotel Vindhwasni Palace, exhausted yet content. Bags dropped, beds claimed, and with barely a word, we surrendered to sleep. 

Parking-lot Odyssey at Sandton City!

The Great Sandton Safari

It was March 2002. I was just 20 days into Johannesburg, still figuring out why there were so many stripes and lines on the road and why everyone said “robot” when they meant traffic light. Life was new, exciting, and full of possibilities… and parking tickets.

Enter the CEO of SBI, freshly parachuted into the city from my own hometown in India. She asked me to accompany her to Sandton City Mall. Now, this wasn’t just any mall – it was the Epitome of shopping centers. Multi-level parking, escalators that moved without being kicked, and shops that made my wallet sweat just by existing.

We cruised in on a weekend, retrieved the parking ticket like it was a golden Willi Wonka chocolate bar, and I gleefully drove up the spiraling ramps like I was auditioning for “Fast & Curious: The Mall Drift.” Found a spot, parked the car, and – like a true rookie – walked off without a second glance. No bay number, no landmark, no mental note. Just vibes.

Now, remember: this was 2002. Phones were basically bricks with buttons. No cameras, no GPS, and texting was like Morse code for the thumb. Writing down the parking bay number? That would’ve required foresight. I was too busy imagining myself as the CEO’s trusted local guide. Little did I know, I was about to become the tour guide of the underground parking catacombs.

After a few hours of shopping, we emerged like victorious warriors – bags in hand, spirits high. I paid the parking ticket, feeling smug. But as we approached the parking levels, a cold realization hit me like a rogue shopping cart: I had no idea where I had parked the car.

What followed was less “search” and more “urban expedition.” I was darting between pillars like a contestant on a game show called “Find That Sedan!” I must’ve walked more in that parking lot than I had in all of my 20 days in the city. The CEO, bless her, followed me with the patience of a saint – or maybe she was just too stunned to speak.

After what felt like a full-length Bollywood movie, I spotted it. My maroon chariot glistened under the fluorescent lights like an oasis in the desert. I nearly wept. I loaded the bags, slid into the driver’s seat, and as she sat down in the passenger’s seat, I drove triumphantly to the exit.

And then… the final twist.

I inserted the paid ticket into the machine. It blinked. It whirred. And then – ptooey! – it spat the ticket back out like a toddler rejecting broccoli. Turns out, the ticket had a 20-minute expiry after payment. I had spent 30 minutes playing hide-and-seek with my own car.

Behind me, a queue of cars began to form. The drivers were pretty civilized and made way to other exit bays, seeing my plight. I could feel the collective judgment of a dozen drivers.

I wondered why the earth didn’t give way and swallow me!

I pressed the help button with the desperation of a man on the verge of a parking-induced existential crisis. “Hello? Yes, I…I took a lot of time because I lost my car. Then I found it."

A kind attendant arrived, probably used to this sort of thing, and opened the boom gate with the grace of a magician. I drove out, humbled, humiliated, and hilariously wiser.

From that day on, I became a parking ninja. I noted the parking bay numbers, memorized pillar graffiti, and when smartphones finally arrived, I became the David Attenborough of the civilized jungle and of parking lots – clicking photos like I was documenting hidden trails and elusive fauna.

So, dear friends, if you’ve ever wandered a parking garage like a confused tourist in any foreign city, know this: you’re not alone. Some of us had to earn our stripes the hard way… with a maroon car, a missed deadline, and a CEO who probably still tells this story at all her group gatherings, and while in office, at every one of her board meetings! 

My first experience(s) of Public Office(s) in Johannesburg.

My First Experiences with Public Offices in Johannesburg

The Police Station Episode

April 2002. Johannesburg.

I was driving along Rivonia Road, minding my own business, when fate decided to test my reflexes. At the robot – yes, that’s what they call traffic signals there – I gently kissed the back of a bakkie. Not a passionate kiss, mind you, just a polite nudge. Enough to make insurance companies perk up and say, “Report it!”

Now, the law was clear: within 48 hours, I had to march into the nearest police station, report and register my accident and collect this mystical thing called an AR (Accident Report) number, and file my claim. So off I went, Bowling Avenue, Gallo Manor Police Station. My first visit to a public office in South Africa.

I braced myself for chaos. You know, the kind of bureaucratic jungle where forms multiply like rabbits and officers glare at you as if you’ve stolen their lunch. Instead, I was ushered – ushered! – to the enquiry counter. The officer handed me the AR form. I stared at it like it was Greek. Confusion written all over my face.

And then, the miracle happened. One officer sat me down, patiently explained every detail, and even sketched the accident scene based on my description. Imagine that – an officer drawing my little fender-bender like Picasso at work! I was humbled. I thought, " This is how a civic system should work. Helpful, humane, efficient. Utopian, really.

The comparison to a similar system back home was inevitable. In our country, the system doesn’t work – the vested interests do. Here, the presumption was honesty. There, the presumption is dishonesty. And yet, thanks to those officers, my claim was filed on time, no drama, no bribes, no running around! 

What a pleasure instead of pressure!!

An Eventful Polo Match - One of the best times of our life, in Johannesburg!

 A Royal Afternoon at the Polo Grounds

August 25, 2013. Waterfall Polo Park, Johannesburg.

The sun was bright, the air crisp with the last whispers of winter, and fate – ever the mischievous playwright – had conspired to place my wife and me among the Royals and the Rich. One of our prestigious business associates had generously slipped us tickets to the BMW International Polo Test Series’ second and final test: South Africa vs. Chile. 

Cricket and Rugby matches were a common fare for me to get treated to, and reciprocally, I too invited a lot of guests during the time IPL (Indian Premier League) was compulsorily hosted in South Africa. But Polo, Eish! This was my first!

We arrived with enthusiasm, ushered into the hospitality marquee where the shade was cool, the chatter warm, and the glasses never empty. The match began with thunderous hooves and the crack of mallets, a ballet of muscle and precision. South Africa, our team, carried our cheers; Chile, the visitors, carried history – five tours, no victories on South African soil.

The first half was a deadlock, 4-4, déjà vu from Durban’s earlier test. It looked less like a sporting contest and more like a polite diplomatic exchange: “You score, we score, let’s not upset anyone.” But in the final chukkas, the Chileans delivered a masterful display of strategy. Their horses seemed to glide, their strokes sharper, their intent undeniable. By the end, the scoreboard read 9-7. History had been rewritten: Chile, champions at last on South African turf.

Yet, while the field was drenched in sweat and triumph, the marquee was drenched in something far more intoxicating. Amber, transparent, ruby-red liquids flowed like rivers, quenching parched throats. Beer sulked in the corner while wines and spirits ruled the roost. The food? A vegetarian’s Mediterranean dream – Italian pastas, European salads, platters of a variety of cheese paired with wine, and desserts that could make one forget the scoreline entirely. I can’t describe the non-vegetarian fare much, as I am a vegetarian! But looking at those who kept digging into these dishes, I am sure they enjoyed the spread.

The crowd was a spectacle of its own. South Africa’s glitterati paraded their haute couture with the kind of confidence that made you wonder if the polo match was merely a backdrop for their fashion show. We, the “lesser mortals,” found joy in simpler victories: a couple of pictures with the team and the venerable John Robbie of 94.7 FM. Proof that we had mingled with greatness, even if greatness didn’t notice.

        

     

      

      

As the trophy gleamed in Chilean hands, we bid farewell to friends old and new, trudging back to our car with the quiet satisfaction of having witnessed history – and having feasted like kings while doing so. I was surprised by my business associate, who handed over a bottle of my favourite cognac, which I cherished till the last drop, and a memento to my wife, too! Thanks, buddy!

That day etched itself into memory not just as a sporting milestone, but as a reminder of serendipity: how a casual business associate’s gesture could place us in the midst of grandeur, laughter, and legacy. Even now, when I think of polo, I don’t just recall the score – I recall the taste of tiramisu, baklava, and a host of other desserts, the clink of glasses, the rustle of silk dresses, and the thunder of hooves fading into the Johannesburg sun.

Van Gaalen's Cheese Farm - our favourite weekend getaway!

Weekend Getaway from Johannesburg

Holed up in Cedar Lakes, a gated enclave near Fourways, our weekends followed a gentle ritual. The Lions and Rhino Park sat a short drive away, Monte Casino closer still, and Hartbeespoort Dam and the Magaliesburg foothills were easy day-trip options. Despite being spoilt for choice by a buffet of places, the place we would often choose was Van Gaalen’s Cheese Farm, a green pocket of calm about an hour from the city.

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The Place

The farm lies beneath the Magaliesburg mountain range, with a clear stream that begins in those heights and flows into the Skeerpoort River. The property feels deliberately generous: a helipad that hints at unexpected arrivals, a stable where horses chew the afternoon, and dirt tracks and hiking routes that weave through some eighty properties and more than 80 km of trails. Families picnic on the lawns, children run free, and the air tastes of grass and distant wood smoke.

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The Cheese Tour

Our first visit began with the Cheese Tour, a slow, curious procession through vats and aging rooms. Our tour guide revealed the alchemy behind the making of cheese and the different types of cheese like Mozzarella, Gouda, Haloumi, Ricotta, Cheddar, Gorgonzola, Parmesan, and the small, exacting science behind each: the cultures, the curd, the patient maturing. The guide’s explanations made the process feel like a craft passed down with pride.

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The Rituals of a Visit

After the tour, we would drift rather than hurry. Strolling along the stream, we’d pick up fallen pecan nuts, watch dragonflies skim the water, and let the children invent games among the trees. The restaurant became the center of the day: rustic plates, generous wine, and the slow pleasure of tasting cheeses infused with fenugreek, cumin, pepper, chillies, and rosemary. Before leaving, we always bought a few wedges to take home, the spice-laced cheeses tucked into the car like souvenirs.

On the drive back, we invariably stopped at roadside farm stores to fill our baskets with seasonal fruit and vegetables. The whole outing – with a drive of less than an hour each way – felt like a small, restorative exile from the week.

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Why It Matters

Van Gaalen’s is more than a destination; it’s a reset. The quiet and clean air seems to stretch time, turning a single afternoon into a memory that lingers. For Indian expats in the Johannesburg–Pretoria area, it’s a place that comforts and surprises in equal measure, a reminder that simple pleasures – good food, open sky, and company – are often the most nourishing.

My write-up wouldn't be complete without the pics below

     

     

    

More info can be had at https://www.vangaalen.co.za/

 

When my Mercedes tried to become a Tuk-Tuk, a la Transformers style!!

My proud possession

Mercedes-Benz – the very name conjures images of sleek engineering, German precision, and a certain smug satisfaction when you glide past lesser mortals in traffic. But in 2010, my proud sedan decided to audition for a role in slapstick comedy.

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The Prelude

It was a routine service day at Grand Central Motors in Midrand. I handed over my keys, signed the papers, and strutted back to the office, already imagining my car purring like a pampered cat when I picked it up. 

Picking up the vehicle, post-service, I returned to the office to finish off the rest of the day’s work, noticing nothing unusual but the safety cocoon of the interiors and the quiet hum of the engine and the air conditioner, and the exterior all polished and ready. As I drove home and was about to hit the evening rush hour on the freeway, just a kilometer from the on-ramp, I noticed something weird about the vehicle.

Then came the sound. A faint, suspicious clack from the rear. Not Beethoven, not jazz – more like a drummer who’d lost his rhythm. My instincts whispered, “Turn back.” And thank heavens I listened.

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The Great Escape Wheel

Barely two kilometers short of the garage, the drama unfolded. Out of nowhere, a wheel – my wheel – decided it had had enough of being chained to a Mercedes. With the enthusiasm of a marathon runner, it overtook me on the left, rolled past pedestrians (who suddenly discovered their sprinting skills), and crashed into the electrified fence of a pharmaceutical lab – a good 100-150 meters away.

Meanwhile, my Mercedes, now a reluctant three-wheeler, screeched to a halt. Passers-by stared, some laughed, others looked as if they’d just witnessed a circus act. A luxury sedan transformed into a roadside tuk–tuk, the kind of scene you’d expect in a Bollywood comedy, not on a Johannesburg street.

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Rage Meets Ridicule

I retrieved the runaway wheel, trying to look dignified while my car stood there like a wounded tricycle. My face was red, my voice sharp, and the service centre got the full blast of my fury. They arrived sheepish, refitted the wheel, and towed the car back. Diagnosis: wheel nuts not tightened. Remedy: apologies, repairs, and a few “goodies” to pacify me.

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The Punchline

The car was restored, but the nickname stuck. Friends teased me endlessly: “So, how’s your tuk-tuk these days?” I laughed along, though inside I still shuddered at what could have happened on the freeway.

A couple of months later, I sold that car and bought another Mercedes – from a different dealer, of course. Because once your sedan has moonlighted as a tuk-tuk, you don’t risk a sequel.