I had forgotten how Buddhist the thinking can be in this Hindu kingdom. From Swayambhunath, I walk back down the mountain and find a cab that will take me to Pashupatinath. On the Bagmati River, Pashupatinath is considered by many to be the second-holiest site in Hinduism, after Benares. The public cremations here are an attraction for Western tourists, but I come whenever I can to see a pal I made many years back.
He is a jorgi or yogin in a loincloth, who has not cut his hair in more than 30 years; it reaches to his knees, but most of the time he keeps it in a huge bun like a pillbox hat on the top of his head. I once made the mistake of asking his name, after he had filled his great chest with an inhalation of smoke from his black stone chillum. He took a full minute to exhale, then said: ”Bam Shankar” — I am Shiva.
It is for such dizzying perspectives that one travels to Nepal: everything here is giant size, from the courage of the Sherpas — those professional conquerors of Everest — to the Gurkha heroes of the British Army, to the mountains themselves, to the cruelty of human trafficking, to the godlike vision of the holy men.
Not that Shiva is entirely above trivia. Out of a long meditative silence, he asks: ”How did your book do?” I had forgotten his almost total recall of our conversations, which are usually at least two years apart. He had said he would meditate to bring me luck, and now I’m wondering if this is baksheesh time.
”Good,” I say. He is distracted, though, by a junior sadhu who is preparing fire and incense for some ceremonies. Neither baksheesh nor the body politic are half as important as the finer points of the rituals.

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