Ars Longa, Vita Brevis

Music transcends time and space. You only need to close your eyes and the ride to your imaginary world, with your imaginary companions and script, becomes so smooth and real that you forget the existence of the world that lies behind your closed eyelids. It can also take you on a ride to every nook and cranny of your memory revealing the images of people, things, or situations and the sentiments associated with them.

Sometimes an old song re-surfaces out of nowhere bringing along a kaleidoscope of memories attached to it and lingers on for days as if it were my old friend reminding me of my childhood, my bygone years. I whisper the song in the passage, in the kitchen while making coffee, and in the bathroom while taking a shower. I google it and save the lyrics on my phone. I look at the words and understand the song for the first time. I wonder how I never saw the meaning of these words, I’ve whispered hundreds of times. Sometimes I look for chords, tune my guitar covered in dust, and try to make it sing along with me. As always, it lacks the soft and sweet tone the song demands, and when it realizes its tempo can’t keep up with mine; it crawls back to its stand feeling dejected. My vanity makes me record my singing, but the perfectionist deletes the recording. After noticing the lack of attention, the song slips out of my mind with no formal announcements or adieu. When I listen to these songs from my childhood, they always evoke memories weaved out of multiple events, some hazy as dreams and others as distinct as if from yesterday. I see a boy of 10 on his way home from school crossing Kamalachi street, an old and busy corner, famous for its bicycle store. For his tiny legs, it would take a 10–12-minute walk to get home. He would pass the store glancing at the shiny bicycles placed outside the store. He, like every other kid of his age, would imagine coming to this store one day and leaving proudly with a brand-new Chinese bicycle. As he walked, he would hear a song playing on the radio and would hum along with the music. As he turned left, he would pass a few adjacent bicycle repair stores, presumably once owned and run by a single person, but then split between two brothers after their father had become too frail to run the business. He would see the sons on their blue jumpsuits stained with soot and their darkened hands fixing a punctured tube or hitting a fender constantly producing a loud hammering noise to otherwise a quiet milieu. Next to the store, some old and rusty bicycles, long neglected by their owners, without rims, saddles, and handles would lean against the wall. It would be one of these repair stores, which would take his dad’s old bicycle and transform it into a shiny green Indian bicycle, his first bicycle. But that he couldn’t have guessed back then. The same song would come out from the general store on the left and he would continue to mumble the song to himself. He would switch lanes to avoid the heat and glare of the mid-afternoon Sun. A little further down on the left, he would cross a rectangular square with houses on the three sides, but open to the road resembling an open theater. The square had a well in the middle and next to it stood a tube well. If only he would look in that direction, he would see some women washing their clothes, others with sticks in their hands guarding the dry food spread on the floor, few children, too young to attend school, playing with sticks and throwing rocks at stray dogs, and a new mother with her oily face sitting next to her baby, asleep oblivious to the surroundings. But he had seen that every day everywhere. He would instead dwell on the song blaring out from one of the houses. He would move on. By the time he reaches the crossing, the song would end and the commercials would begin. He wouldn’t mind those commercials if they include catchy jingles. He would wait for the next song. He would turn right, leaving behind the hustle-bustle of the vegetable (Ason) market. Soon his eyes would land on one particular shop on the right side. The store was barely 10 feet wide, but this was where his world lived. He would get closer and scans all the postcards of movie actors and actresses hanging outside on the wall. He would take his time and even read the headlines printed on the front pages of Mayapuri, Filmfare, and Stardust. Sometimes he would hang out until the storekeeping would cry out to leave. The new song would play on the radio and with his tight lips, he would sing to himself. Soon he would pass the electric store that also sold milk in the early morning. Now he would only have to walk a few minutes. His legs would move faster. His go-to store that sold Pustakari (local sweets) would greet him. He could now see his house and if he would run, he could get there in a single breath. It’s been 40 years since then. I live on the opposite side of the globe. Most of the singers from that era have passed away. There are several FM radio stations playing every sort of music. The majority stream the music of their choice from the Internet. With the passage of time, people change, and so do the surroundings they live in. Most of the old homes have been replaced by concrete buildings covered with commercial billboards. TV and mobile phones have taken the place of the radio. When I visit the town, it feels like visiting an old relative, now aged and living with her grown-up children and grandkids, whom I have never seen or met before. We look at each other and amaze at how the other has changed. I want to tell her children that this town was and is mine too, but something stops me. She notices my hesitation and smiles at me serenely as if to free me from my guilt. I keep walking on those alleys and courtyards quietly looking for familiar sights. With a heavy heart, I leave her promising to come back. But, I rarely visit her. And, it is in these songs, when the images of our youth start to re-appear, a boy of 10 emerges and takes me for a stroll.

May 18, 2020.

The past always seems gayer and richer than they are. – Anton Chekhov

What is he going to do with himself in the city?, I thought. It was in one of our phone conversations, my mom informed me that my uncle, her younger brother, had decided to leave Balwa, their ancestral village, and would move to Kathmandu. “It’s not safe out there anymore,” my mom justified his decision referring to the recent riots between Madhesi (southerners) and Pahade (northerners) in several southern parts of Nepal.

A relief came over me knowing that my uncle, aunt, and grandma would be far from the disturbances and my mom could see them often. While my mom talked about their search of a new house in Kathmandu, my mind escaped the conversation, leaving me with my mom, and sprinted off to our grandparent’s old house overlooking a pond in the front, to its rooms, through the corridors out to the courtyard with the fruit tree in the middle, where we used to climb the tree, sit on the top of the wall and play unnamed games, to its guest house originally built for visiting dignitaries from the city, but now vacant and neglected and left for the children to include in their plays, and to its stable, where the cattle and their herders lived side by side breathing the air mixed with the odor of cattle, their manure, and the hay. And, suddenly I became aware of my plan to take our children to the village and re-live those moments of my past in future melting away; I realized I might never see the village ever again.

The last time I was in the village was in March 2000, the year I got married. After spending a night at my aunt’s house in Jaleshwor, Reena and I, a newlywed couple, left for Balwa in my uncle’s car. He had sent a driver to pick us up earlier that morning. We were on our honeymoon visiting town after town, and Balwa was our last destination. The distance to Balwa was 18 km, and soon we arrived at the village, driving first on the concrete, then on gravel, followed by an earthen road. We pushed people, rickshaws, and oxcarts over to the sides of the road, showering anything that came our way with dust. Upon our arrival, a large almost barren field opened its arm and embraced the muddy road we were on. Through the windshield, I surveyed every scene and sound, comparing them with what I have preserved from the past. The village bazaar first came in sight revealing its market on the left lined with eateries and general stores with tables and chairs in the front, dry and uneven road indistinguishable from the field heading straight to the buildings further up, possibly high school, and open pasture on the right. The air was sultry and the local delicacies on display gave it a unique flavor. A storekeeper was lazily fanning away flies with a rag, stirring swarms of flies to swirl off, only to return and light on the sweets again. Some young men, presumably the school teachers, in shirts and pants were sitting outside on the wooden chairs chatting with each other while drinking tea. A kid in ragged clothes was picking up the empty plates and glasses from the adjacent table. There were others, possibly farmers, squatting on the floor, smoking Bidi that once lay behind their ears, wearing only Lungi revealing lean torsos with the color that of the mud, burned and darkened by the Sun and the dust, their thin dark faces riddled with wrinkles, revealing black teeth every time they opened their mouth. On the right, traders, probably from neighboring villages, were looking at every passerby hoping to sell ice-creams or the soft drinks they had carried on their cart since early that morning. Far-off, boys in school uniforms were running around in the field while girls were sitting under the tree forming a circle. After driving a little further, we took a right turn, headed straight leaving stores on the left behind. Young kids, some naked, sprang upon the sideways as if to welcome us. When I saw the well, the one I have seen many times when I was a kid, on the corner before the last turn, my face turned bright, partly because I still remembered it and partly it was still standing there. Once we made a slight right, the house and the pond came in view and I couldn’t believe what I saw as if I had always doubted their existence. “This is real!” I told myself. The house looked as elegant as before, but the water in the pond was murky. Formless rubble was lying where once the guest house stood. The inside pond was mostly covered with green algae. The car stopped in front of the house, and our uncle, aunt, and grandma with their radiant faces showed up at the gate and embraced us. They took us to the recently built concrete house. Our uncle and grandma sat with us while our aunt went to the kitchen to prepare the chicken that the driver brought from Jaleshwor. Our grandma kept going to the kitchen to check if the food was ready. After lunch, when I was about to leave for a stroll, my aunt warned me, “Don’t go upstairs. It’s unsafe.” I walked around in the courtyards and found nothing but a dull silence. The old house which looked fine at first glance revealed its cracks in proximity. The old kitchen had transformed into a relic, with its roof missing, and walls overgrown with moss. The neighboring houses had their doors locked. I stepped out and approached the stable where a lone cow raised its head and stared at me. I went to the back of the stable and gazed at the vast open field, where we children often went to empty our bowels.

Word has it that Jog Narsingh Mathema, my mom’s great-great-grandfather, lost his property in Kathmandu after refusing to apologize for his certain action to the authorities presumably during the second half of the last century[¹]. Disgruntled, he left the city for Balwa, a rural village about 236 km south of Kathmandu, and busied himself in farming. He had two wives. Jog Kumar Mathema, his only son from his second wife, took over the estate in Balwa and devoted himself to the welfare of the local community by building schools, clinic, temple, and Dharmashala. My grandfather’s family, the descendants of Jog Narsingh’s first wife, was settled in Bhokara, another southern village about 55 km west of Balwa. Jog Kumar and my grandfather were contemporaries and close to each other. Perhaps that is why when he invited my grandfather to join him, he left his residence in Bhokhara and moved to Balwa for good. He later brought his sisters and his youngest brother to live with him. They together built houses next to each other forming a commune-like community.

One day while visiting Birgunj, my grandfather saw a quiet girl, my grandmother, in a house where he was spending a night as a guest. She was from Lubu, Bhaktapur, a town next to Kathmandu, but was then living in Birgunj with her uncle. He asked her uncle for her hand, and soon they got married, and he took her to Balwa. Together they had 9 children, but only 6 survived beyond their infancy. My mom, the eldest, grew up in a crowded house, playing with her siblings, cousins, and neighbors’ kids in the courtyards of their houses. Her father was strict and didn’t let his children, especially daughters, to go anywhere alone. The only place she was allowed to go by herself was to her school, but she preferred to be at home playing with her neighbors and cousins. Who could blame her for her longing when she was the only female student in her class? They had two ponds: the left one hidden from the outside world was for women and the front one accessible to everyone was for men. She would jump to the pond with a large banana leaf under her arms, flap her arms, and kick her legs out like the elders. Once she mastered the skill, she would go swimming every day after school. Now and then, she would join her aunts and siblings to watch plays based on religious scripts performed by traveling (drama) troupe in the neighboring villages. Once she along with her aunts went on a 15-day pilgrimage to Janakpur, the birthplace of goddess Sita, hopping from one village to another on foot, performing religious rites every evening, and arriving the destination on the 15th day — the feat she still remembers fondly when she recollects her childhood. One day her uncle from the city asked her to come out so he could take pictures of her. She put on her favorite dress and went out to the garden and found a young man standing next to her uncle casting glances at her. She stood lowering her head out of shyness and only raised it when her uncle tricked her to look at the flying plane. She soon learned that the young man was her future husband. She was eighteen when they married her off to my dad. She left her village to live with my dad in Kathmandu. One by one, all my aunts, after getting married, left the village. Only my uncle stayed looking after the ancestral property and the farmlands.

Until I was 9, my mom would take my sister, me, and my brother to her parents’ house in Balwa for 2 months during the winter vacation. On the night before the departure, I would lie on my bed imagining every adventure that could take place during the trip and taking pleasure from those escapades. After a while, I would run out of ideas and the realization to get a rest before the long journey would bring me back to my bed. I would shift my position turning left or right and try to put my thoughts to rest. Whenever I would hear a rustle of a blanket, I would whisper, “Are you awake?” wishing to get a response from either my sister or brother. At a certain point, sleep would have pity on me and take me to the world where my mind would continue its excursion and I would become its passive traveling companion. I would get up early the next morning feeling tired and groggy. My mom and sister would already be awake making tea and preparing snacks for the road. I remember one time when I had to get up before dawn while the city was still asleep, go out in the dark, sit-in in the tailor’s shop, and wait while the tailor prepared our new clothes. Yawning, I sat on a stool and watched him work under the florescent light on his USHA sewing machine with his head bowed to the cloth-plate, his right hand occasionally applying brakes to the small driving-wheel attached to the shaft, and his feet pushing the treadle swiftly up and down causing the needle bar move with a thick clattering noise. Occasionally, I would glance at the posters hung on the wall or at the pictures from the old and thick clothing catalog lying on the desk. I left the store with a soft bundle, picturing myself in my new blue shirt and pants.

We would leave our house before sunrise. The city would still be covered by the morning fog and the air cold enough to see our breath. Few vegetable hawkers with Kharpans (carrying case) on their shoulders would already be on their way to the Asan vegetable market. A group of people would be standing next to a fire pit warming their body. We would call for a rickshaw driver and one of them would turn and come to us. After the bargain, he would take us to the bus-stop. On the way, we would pass the same vegetable hawkers. The milk store would already be open and we could hear the Bhajan (religious psalm) from their radio. The rickshaw driver would honk to women, each carrying a tray, and as we pass them, we would catch a whiff of sweet incense from their tray.

By the time we leave the city, the Sun would be rising on the horizon and the city getting ready to start its day. The bus ride usually took about 10–12 hours. The Byroad, the old highway, was narrow, risky, and winding, resembling a snake’s long passage. The groaning sound of the engine and the smell of smoke would make us sick. We would long for the tea-stops to go out in the fresh air and stretch our legs. Once we crossed the hilly region and reached the Hetauda, the road would get wide and straight, and the air warmer. We would then cross the Charkoshe Jhadi, then the largest and the densest forest of Nepal. What I liked about Tarai is there were no hills, no mountains to block my view; I could turn any direction and see everything all the way to the horizon. In the evening, I could even see the sun being swallowed up by the earth. We would arrive Janakpur in the evening and take a rickshaw to one of our relative’s home where we would spend a night. The next morning, we would head for our Neverland.

Usually, my grandfather would send an oxcart to pick us up from Janakpur, but sometimes he would send a tractor. When we traveled on a tractor, I would sit next to a driver, on a seat made on top of the large wheels, while others would sit on an open-trailer in the back. Every time we crossed any village, small boys would run barefoot after the tractor. They would follow for 200–300 meters and then disappear one at a time behind the cloud of dust. When we rode to the village in an oxcart, I would sit close to the driver and now and then ask him to drive faster. He would thrust his legs between bulls’ hind legs and the bulls would run for a spell causing the cart to rattle louder and faster. It would bring a smile to my face. Whenever we crossed a shallow stream, I enjoyed peering at the flowing water underneath or watch the oxen drinking water their fill.

Soon we would reach the home, and the entire village would come out to greet us. There would be hugs, cries out of joy, an exchange of pleasantries in the large guest room on the ground floor. The room would soon get crowded with the entire neighborhood and the house servants would stand outside the door watching the drama unfold. “He has become taller.” “Isn’t he Padma didi’s son? Hey there, do you recognize me?” “Which grade are you in?” “How many of you want tea? 1…2…3……12 cups!” “No, you will get milk.” “Come over, let’s check your height. Remember this mark from last year?” “Stop bothering me. Go play outside.” Finally, someone would ask, “Do you want to go for a buffalo ride?” He would then call a herder and I would follow him leaving the crowd behind.

Later my sister would tell me that kids were organizing a picnic the next day and we would be going with them. I would beg my mom to ask our uncle for a buffalo so that I could go to the picnic riding on one. I would be given a buffalo to ride and a herder to watch over me. While the other kids walked carrying the picnic supplies, I, hunched, placing my palms on the buffalo’s withers for balance, wishing for a solid handle, followed them with a herder holding the short reins tied to the buffalo’s nose. The buffalo ride isn’t as smooth as it seems from the ground. During the picnic, the girls would prepare food, and I would ask the herder to take me to the surrounding areas. After eating the snacks, we would come home to tell our stories.

My mom used to tell me how I stopped crying every time they would put me on the back of an elephant. I don’t remember any of that, but I remember riding on it and visiting the market. My grandfather had a white horse with a bell hung on its neck. Whenever I heard the bell in the evening, I would run out to meet him, wait impatiently for his dismount, and ride on his horse to the stable. Sometimes I would go with my uncle to our grandparent’s farm in Saranchai. We would till the large fields on a tractor and he would put me on his lap and allow me to hold the steering wheel.

Saraswati (the goddess of knowledge and wisdom) Puja is one of the most celebrated festivals in the Tarai region. During the festival, the entire village joins in the ceremonial street procession behind the colorful statue of Saraswati. One time they put me on an oxcart next to the statue and I watched the devotees marching behind us singing, dancing, and shouting with joy from the bazaar all the way to the river where they carried the statue on their hand and immersed it in the water.

Out of boredom, we would wander around the village, visit the school and watch school children repeating lessons in unison. On the way to the school, there was a hut where lived a witch. We were told that she was so mean that even if she saw someone passing her hut, she would put a curse on them and there was no remedy to her curses. Whenever we got close to her hut, we would crawl on the ground. I don’t recall ever seeing her.

Sometimes I would find myself with a pretty girl in the altar and the elder kids in front of us playing the wedding game. I and the girl would be told to sit quietly and put garlands around each other's neck.

I enjoyed sitting in a gazebo next to the pond watching the village kids run and plunge to the water causing splashes, wishing to have the courage to jump with them. Sometime I would go to the other side of the pond and watch the herders taking the buffalos into the water.

I would go to the stable in the morning to watch young calves. Who wouldn’t enjoy the sight of young calves jumping and running? It was pure joy. A house servant would separate them from their mothers and bring them outside and we would run behind them mimicking their moves. Holding an imaginary steering wheel, we used to ride on the wooden carts, the carts in which herders used to prepare and carry cattle feed, while other kids pushed it from behind. Sometimes we would go inside the stable to watch the house servant milking cows and buffalos by hand. We once witnessed a cow giving birth to a calf. We had seen nothing like that before and we watched it intently. But when the mother started to lick her baby covered in transparent fluid, our eyes squinted and nose wrinkled in disgust.

One of my uncles used to run a general store in the village. I caught sight of a blue sparkling fountain pen in the showcase and fell in love with it. I somehow let him know about my love affair. After spending some hours chatting with him, he handed me the pen. I kept it with me safe during my trip. Later it was stolen the very first day I took it to school. I knew who stole it, but, out of fear, I didn’t do anything and let him keep my pen.

Lokendar, a Figaro figure in our grandparent’s household, was always cheerful and his cheerfulness was contagious. He was loyal to elders and kind to kids. He would be everywhere doing everything: he would be in the house taking orders from my uncle and aunts, in the stable asking oxcart driver to harness the oxen, or in the farm tilling the field or collecting the crops. One day we were preparing to leave for another village, but the tractor wasn’t starting up. While my uncle sat behind the wheel, he along with house servants pushed the tractor and one of the large wheels caught his right foot. I was sitting on my top seat and saw it happening from above. There was a sudden commotion and his foot started to swell. Soon we left the village, taking with me the image of him lying on the ground, writhing in pain.

There was no electricity in the village. In the evening, the housekeepers would bring the lanterns in the room and we carried one with us whenever we left the room. The kitchen was on the other end of the courtyard and a long corridor connected it with our bedrooms. There was a house with few cats on the right side and the cats would loiter around the corridor all the time. There was a rumor that they belonged to a witch. Their presence didn’t bother me in the daytime, but at night they had an immense power to scare all of us children. During dinner time, I wouldn’t dare to walk the corridor alone; I always looked for a company and, if I had to, I always ran.

On the day of our return, we would meet every one of our family members. They would tell us to study hard and come back again next year. My grandfather would put his big hand on his large pocket of his Kurta, pull out coins, and put it to my tiny hands. “When will I see you all again?”, my grandmother would repeat it several times. One could see that she had been crying all morning quietly. Our aunts with their swollen eyes would hug and kiss us. My mom and her family members would exchange their last farewells and we would leave the village slowly in the oxcart. The friends I have made during the last 2 months would wave their hands. Some of our relatives would hold our hands, follow us for a few steps and then stop and wipe tears from their faces with the tip of their Saris. I instead would be excited to be heading home. They would stay outside and continue to wave at us until we could see each other. Perhaps they would linger a bit outside and then go in to face the silence and the void we had left.

My uncle and aunt have bought a house in Kathmandu close to where my parents live. They live with their son (my grandmother has passed away 3 years ago). Their daughter also lives in Kathmandu with her husband and a son. When I am in the city, I visit them. My uncle is in his 70s and he doesn’t engage himself in the conversation, but only asks “When did you arrive?” or “How long are you going to stay?” and sits quietly on a sofa, lost. My aunt slips out to the kitchen and occasionally shows her face to ask, “Suman babu, you still eat Buniya or Fin, right?”. She sits on a chair now and then and complains about her weak knees. Their son, my cousin, bows to me, sits next to us smiling and answers questions mostly in monosyllables. I look at my uncle and he is staring at the window and beyond. I leave him to his thoughts and join my aunt in the kitchen to talk about her mischievous grandson.

[¹]: The current year in Nepal is 2077 BS.

Mallory, when asked, the reason for climbing Mt. Everest, retorted, “because it is there”.

I never fathomed the magnitude of hardship, determination, and discipline that one requires climbing a mountain and return home alive until I read “Into Thin Air” by Jon Krakauer. The book is about the 1996 Everest disaster that claimed 9 lives. It is about two rival consulting companies — Madness Mountain and Adventure Consulting — and their race to win the market. It is also about those brave mountaineers, both guides and clients, whose lives were trapped or lost in that race. It is an eye-opening book and Jon’s writing is so evocative, it gave me almost first-hand experience. The book, like any other excellent book, whetted me to seek more about Everest climbing. I read another fantastic memoir, rather a rebuttal to Jon Krakauer’s allegations made in “Into Thin Air”, “The Climb” co-authored by Anatoly Boukreev, and watched few mountaineering documentary movies. Now, that I am can envision the passion that drives these brave men and women to mountains, the torments each of them go through in achieving their goals, and the joy they get in the reward when they reach the peak and view the world underneath them, my paradigm for mountaineering has shifted completely.

In March 1996, Jon Krakauer, the staff of the Outside magazine, lands in Kathmandu to climb Mt. Everest and write a report on Everest climbing and on private mountaineering consulting companies mushrooming in the Himalayan kingdom of Nepal. He is one of the 8 clients that Adventure Consulting has secured for that season. After spending a few days in Kathmandu, he along with other members of the team leaves for Mt. Everest base camp. Once in the base camp, to acclimatize with the high altitude, they go through rigorous training, which includes trekking to camp I, camp II, and camp III in multiple iterations until they are certain of their acclimatization.

Later in the day on May 9th, they along with three other groups (Madness Mountain, Taiwanese, and South African) leave the camp IV with an aim to reach the summit by 1 pm. Only Jon and few climbers reach the summit by 1 pm. They stay at the summit for 5–10 minutes, try to feel/enjoy the moment and start to descent. Jon notices the other members of his team and the Madness Mountain team are behind the schedule. He sees climbers lining up at the Hillary steep and, because of an excessive number of climbers, the traffic delay. He notices guides helping their clients climb even when they would not be at the summit by or around 1 pm, the agreed-upon time. As a result, climbers reach the summit as late as 5 pm.

Later in the afternoon, the storm hits. Powerful wind effaces the track and blinds the descending climbers. Unable to see, move, and think, some climbers remain in the mountain and pray for the storm to die down. Some climbers, tumbling, and heaving, continue to descend. Some cringe together offering consolation and hope to each other. A group of 5–6 climbers get disoriented and stay out in the cold and dark for few hours only to discover later that they were only a few hundred meters away from their tents. Those few climbers who have descended safely to their camp are too exhausted to go out and look for missing climbers. Yet some brave hearts risk their lives and go out to look for missing climbers. They find a few and bring them one by one to the camp. The others remain in the cold mountain; only death comes to end their sufferings. On that night, 9 climbers, including guides, lose their life.

It was a deadly game played by Adventure Consulting and Madness Mountain with no rule and a referee. Adventure Consulting hasn’t had a successful climb for some time and, as Madness Mountain loomed it saw Madness Mountain as a rival. To gain publicity, Madness Mountain even took a socialite as its client. And, both groups pushed hard ignoring the basic rules of the game to take their every client to the summit as if reaching the top, not returning alive, was the goal. As a result, head guides of both companies along with a few other guides and clients died, and those who survived went through the deadly experience.

The author outlines some vital factors contributing to the accident, and I outline here some –

• The government should compensate a climber if he or she cannot make it to the top. Everest climbing is expensive and for some it’s a lifetime saving; they can’t imagine going back and saving it all over again.
• There is no process to vet climbers both physically and mentally before they embark on the journey. The current process allows even a meek, but financially capable, enthusiast gets a climbing license. Mountain climbing is a joint-effort; the team is as strong as its weakest member.
• On any day, they should allow only a certain number of climbers to climb. It will not only avoid clogs or traffic jams but also minimizes the risk and eases the rescue process.
• In mountaineering, descending is as important as ascending. To make the overall trip safe and successful, a set of rules should be enforced strictly. A climber must return to the camp (no matter how close he or she is to the summit) if (a) a climber can’t reach the top by a certain time, (b) the weather condition deteriorates, and © the health of a climber declines.

If any member of a group doesn’t follow the rules, the government should penalize the company, owning the group.

We have yet to learn and understand fully the psychology or the passion of climbers who leave all the luxury and throw themselves in the hands of nature. Perhaps it’s ego or a long rivalry with nature or the closeness to the death that attracts these men and women to the mountain. But, only if we learn and respect our nature, prepare ourselves better and, above all, play by the rules, there will be less tragic and more cheerful stories to share.

May 09, 2010.