Everyone calls it “hamro manakamana” probably to clear out the confusion that early in the morning, they are going to the nearby manakamana mandir, not the Manakamana of Gorkha. The word “hamro” attached to it made it special, even for people who lived more than a hundred meters away. It’s a simple two-tiered temple, an almost exact replica (just smaller) of the main Manakamana. Around its periphery, other temples are still being built, a process that doesn’t seem to end. There’s always some construction going on. The real eye-catcher, however, is the temple itself and a peepal tree on the opposite side of the road, which deems all the other temples less significant.
“Hamro manakamana” isn’t just a place of worship. Its very presence gave the entire area its name. The temple stands beside the road in such a way that it became the perfect spot for bus stops, particularly the school buses. This temple not only welcomes devotees every morning but also witnesses students’ daily routine; catching the bus, trying not to miss the bus, and occasionally cursing it for being too late. The peepal tree across the road shades almost the entire stretch, its leaves falling with every gust of wind.
With its bells sounding their loudest peals so early in the morning, the temple never fails to announce itself. Soon after, people crowd around with whatever offerings they’ve brought, trying to stay in line but failing miserably. The floor of the temple gets swamped with water and milk offerings and the temple gets this smell of incense burning that lasts throughout the day.
As the saying goes “najik ko tirtha hela”, the only times I ever visited the temple itself was on birthdays, that too always at my mom’s insistence. My impressions of it are drawn mostly from those rare visits. For me, the temple is the bus stop, the morning bells and a once-a-year ritual. Even the peepal tree was a giver in its own way: I would rummage through its fallen leaves to find the best one to take home, or simply enjoy the shade it offered on hot summer mornings.
The endless construction in the area still makes me think of the temple. Every three months or so, a new small murti enclosed in its own little shrine is inaugurated. The community living around it holds Jatras that keep everyone entertained occasionally, reminding us of what the temple was originally built for. Even though I try to not notice it, it still calls me with those morning and evening pujas and the festivities, and on some birthdays, it still echoes the memories of uninterested photos of mine on its stairs