Fred Van Liew
- Mar 6, 2023
- 3 min read

Kapan

Researching Kathmandu before leaving, I learned of Kapan. Perched high on a hill overlooking the city, the monastery is home for several hundred Tibetan Buddhist monks.

I’d forgotten about Kapan until Pa said he needed some quiet time. I knew what he meant. An afternoon to recharge, to shake off the constancy of street life. Sagut gave Ram a call and within minutes he arrived. Communicating our needs as best we could, Ram offered assurance that he could get us there.

It’s not a long drive and Ram did well, until the very end when a fork in the road confused him. He suggested left. Pa and I the opposite. Being the paying customers, we prevailed. In the end, however, either choice would have been the correct one.

Anyway, Ram climbed the very steep hill with his noble stead, arriving at the point beyond which no vehicles are allowed. From there it appeared clear, a gravel path that led to a large gate. To the left a small opening with a sign overhead: NO ENTRY.

We proceeded with caution until a gatekeeper, perhaps on break, barked:

“There is no entry. You must go to the right.”

And we did, finding a well trod path upon which we embarked.

It wasn’t a difficult path, though some exertion was required. That seemed right and proper. It should not have been easy to get to our destination. Perhaps that was by design, intended to discourage the unworthy, or at least the casual observer.

Moving on, however, it became clear that the path itself was not the challenge, but the fact that it clung precipitously at times to the side of a very steep hill.

But Pa, having no fear of death, and agreeing to walk along the path’s edge, urged us on.

All in all, it was a pleasant stroll, preparatory for what was to come.

After a time, one of those times when it appears there is no time, we came upon a second gate,

and spoke with a second gatekeeper. Far more welcoming than the first, he urged us entry and pointed up the hill, an ascent that proved taxing. But again, one must earn the right to visit such places.

Rounding what turned out to be the final bend in the road, we arrived.

And just arriving might well have been enough. But Pa urged us on, demonstrating once again his innate curiosity.

Proceeding silently we explored,

marveling at how the human heart can manifest itself in architecture

and art.

At least once in our lives we find ourselves in a place, be it made by the hand of God or the hand of man, so sublime that whatever happens after is of little significance.

On the drive to Kapan we were hopeful that we’d be allowed within the monastery’s walls. That was no longer necessary. Walking slowly, paying attention, listening to the birds chirp and the music of children at play far in the distance, that was enough.

But out of nowhere it seemed, a monk appeared at our side. Offering our respect, he pointed to a door. Unlocking it, he gestured that we follow. Inside was a narrow vestibule and a second door, which he unlocked. We removed our shoes and followed.

And there we were, in the great hall, the sanctuary,

where boys and men are molded into monks on the path.

We asked if we could stay. Pasangdorjee, our guide, replied “of course.”

In awe for the longest time,

we slowly began to follow the stories unfolding above eye level.

We approached the altar,

to the left of which the Dali Lama observed all.

We inquired about the walls either side of the altar.

“Our prayer books,” he said.

We asked if we might sit and pray. The young monk nodded, and placed a meditation mat before us. All the while he waited with the greatest patience.

Knowing the monastery would soon close, we thanked our guide and exited through the doors from which we’d come, only to find young monks at play on the sunny afternoon.