How To Explore Kathmandu Like A Local (And Still Make It to Lunch)

Flying anywhere within Nepal does something strange to the soul. One moment, I was slumped in my seat on a small twin turboprop aircraft, vaguely questioning every life choice, like why I agreed to the window seat that was mostly a grey slab of cloud wallpaper, and the next, the universe parted the curtains just enough to deliver this - a procession of snow-capped mountains, ancient and unbothered, their ridges sharp as folded origami against an impossible blue. I spotted the tallest among them and thought: surely, that must be Everest!But it was only a majestic understudy in the Himalayan chorus. And I couldn’t help wondering: if this was merely the opening act, how outrageous must the grand old Everest be when she finally decided to show herself?So, I did what any self-respecting mortal would. I fished out my phone camera with the urgency of a paparazzo chasing an A-lister, clicking furiously, hoping to capture the hush, the altitude, the audacity of these mountains existing without apology.And, in that moment, all my grand ambitions, trekking to Base Camp, finding myself, possibly writing a bestselling memoir about it, dissolved into something simpler. Maybe this was enough. Just being there, suspended between sky and earth, eavesdropping on the Himalayas, felt like the jackpot. When the clouds swallowed everything again, I leaned back, quietly grateful to have been handed even this fleeting glimpse, proof that sometimes, the universe gave you a front-row ticket to your own smallness.Eventually, the plane began its descent, and Kathmandu emerged, a patchwork of rooftops and temples where old stories still whispered through the alleys.Kathmandu Unfolds Itself In LayersThe capital that was once ruled by monarchs still carried the melancholy of old power. The Kathmandu Valley, encompassing the cities of Kathmandu, Lalitpur (aka known as Patan), and Bhaktapur, was once a single cultural entity, Nepal Mandala. Even today, their centuries-old identities rubbed shoulders with the rattle of motorbikes and the shout of street vendors.My first stop was the Narayanhiti Palace, where the infamous royal massacre took place in June 2001. Now a museum, it echoed with the footfalls of tourists where once dignitaries walked. From the outside, the palace was quaint - whitewashed walls, neat colonnades, the geometry of the monarchy softened by rose gardens. But it was the private quarters of the late King Birendra that held me in thrall. The spot where the massacre unfolded was open to the public, bullet holes still stippling the walls like old, unhealed wounds. The hush inside felt heavier than any reverence. I caught myself sighing, as if the air itself still remembered what it witnessed. I stepped back into the bright afternoon, needing distraction, needing noise, and Kathmandu, obliging as ever, offered me both.Later, I wandered to Durbar Square, a riot of life and legend. The air smelled of incense and roasting peanuts, the square thronged with worshippers, garland sellers, rickshaw drivers, and tourists like me trying to look purposeful.At the heart of this carnival stood a gigantic 12-foot-tall idol of the Kaal Bhairav, the fierce manifestation of Shiva, sculpted in the 6th century. According to legend, the shrine was unearthed in a paddy field and enshrined here by King Pratap Malla in the 17th century.Traditionally, Bhairav’s visage is terrifying - three eyes, a garland of skulls, tiger skin, and a scowl that promises retribution. But here, in Kathmandu, he was smiling, teeth visible, as if in on some cosmic joke. Children chased pigeons into the air, women pressed their foreheads to the stone, and the deity watched it all with that unfathomable grin.All around were architectural marvels: the Mahaboudha Temple, the Krishna Mandir, the Golden Temple, each a testament to devotion chiselled in stone and wood. The square felt less like a landmark and more like a living museum, part showcase of Nepal’s heritage, part guardian of its old crafts and stories.I could have spent hours just watching the light shift across the old facades, but hunger had a way of making itself heard above all else. I decided it was time to head to Lalitpur, where I meant to meet a friend. But Kathmandu, never in a rush to let you leave, had other plans.The moment I slid into a cab at the edge of Durbar Square, I realised I had joined one of the city’s legendary traffic snarls, the kind that looked less like a queue of vehicles and more like an elaborate installation piece about the futility of forward motion. My cabbie, a young man in the classic Kathmandu uniform, sleeveless cabbie jacket over a sleeveless shirt, tapped the steering wheel to the beat of loud Nepali pop music. After about twenty minutes of not moving more than a few metres, he glanced at me in the rear-view mirror and grinned.“Bike?” he suggested brightly, as if proposing a quick stroll instead of a change of entire transport mode. “At this rate, you will never get anywhere. Maybe you stay here forever,” he laughed.I looked around the honking chorus, the tangle of motorbikes and cabs, and realised he was probably right. With a hesitant nod, I agreed. In a flash, he flagged down a bike taxi, briefed the rider, and helped me clamber onto the back seat with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times. As we weaved through impossibly narrow gaps in the gridlock, I clutched the side rails and tried to look less like a terrified tourist. A small part of me thought: well, this was one way to meet Kathmandu up close.When I finally dismounted in Lalitpur, adrenaline still humming in my veins, all I wanted was a good meal and a quiet corner - and I found both in my Nepali friends’ home. I ended the day with a homemade Thakkali thali, a comforting spread of steamed rice, lentil soup, spiced chicken, and pickles bright as confetti. The timbur, a native Sichuan pepper, tingled my tongue and made me feel wide awake to everything. And just like that, one day slipped away into memory, leaving me with the soft promise that tomorrow would hold its own revelations.Dawn, Devotion, and A Rudraksha HuntThe next morning, a Saturday, I was up early to visit Pashupatinath Temple. My father had instructed me to buy him a panchamukhi rudraksha mala. Ever the obliging child, I was there before the crowds swelled too thick to breathe.But even early, the place hummed with urgency, pilgrims, priests, the curious and the grieving all swept along the Bagmati River. I joined the tide, taking in the four-faced shivalingam, the cremation pyres, the low chanting. In one corner, I found the famed maze of 525 shivalingams, arranged in a swastika-shaped pattern within the temple complex. Walking the path felt like tracing a living memory, each step part of a ritualistic parikrama, where you touched every lingam before stepping back into the morning light.I finally tracked down a rudraksha store, hoping against hope that the mala I picked up wasn’t a clever fake. I tucked it safely in my bag alongside hog plum candy, a small bribe for my sweet tooth. With the morning’s devotion complete, it was time to see another face of the valley, one steeped not just in faith, but in the craft of centuries.By noon, I was bound for Bhaktapur, the old Malla kingdom where the past felt startlingly alive. At Naga Pokhari, the royal bath built in 1678, gilded snake spouts and lotus motifs shimmered under the afternoon light. I paused to watch a little girl perched on the edge of the old stepped tank, peering into the water mottled with bright green algae. Around her, carved stone nagas coiled along the ledges, their hoods flared in silent vigil. It felt as if time here had been measured not in years, but in countless small rituals, buckets lowered, hands cupped, prayers murmured into the cool of the spring.A few metres away, the Nyatapola Temple towered above Taumadhi Square, a five-storey wonder dedicated to Siddhi Lakshmi. It survived the 1934 and 2015 earthquakes with barely a scratch. The steps were flanked by colossal stone guardians, wrestlers, elephants, lions, each symbolising rising strength, and of course tourists eager to capture photographs from any angle possible.By now, my feet ached and my stomach insisted it was time to sit down and honour the most essential pilgrimage of all: lunch. I walked over to one of the many restaurants within the Bhaktapur square and opted for a Newari khaja set. Also known as Samay Baji, the Newari khaja set symbolised good luck, joy, health, and longevity among the Newars. It was a festive spread of chiura (beaten rice), black soybeans, spicy aloo tama (potato and bamboo shoot gravy), fried egg, fried beans, and chhoyala, a spicy dish made from roasted meat (I opted for chicken), onions, ginger, garlic, and spices. Each bite tasted like an inheritance passed down in secret recipes.No meal here felt complete without juju dhau, the “king of curds.” I visited a family-run store that had been making it for four generations. The owner’s daughter showed me a faded photograph: her father pouring milk into clay pots, her mother sprinkling the starter culture. She smiled when she said, “The culture never changes. Only the hands.”As the afternoon summer heat settled on my shoulders, I let the sweet, cool juju dhau dissolve on my tongue. In two days, I had wandered palaces and temples, squares and kitchens, gathering small proofs of Kathmandu’s astonishing heart. And as my taxi rattled away, I thought: perhaps all travel is a kind of prayer, an attempt to witness the world without demanding it to explain itself.Or as the famous Nepali song drifting from the radio says, “Yo man ta mero Nepali ho.” This heart of yours, it is Nepali too.The Information | Kathmandu, NepalHow to Reach KathmanduKathmandu is well connected to major Indian cities via direct flights. Tribhuvan International Airport (KTM) is the main international airport, with airlines like IndiGo, Air India, and Nepal Airlines offering regular services from Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata, and Bangalore. Overland travel is also possible via Sunauli, Raxaul, and other India-Nepal border crossings, followed by a bus or domestic flight to Kathmandu.Visa Requirements for IndiansIndian citizens do not need a visa to enter Nepal. A valid government-issued photo ID (passport, voter ID card) is sufficient. However, if you are flying, it’s recommended to carry a passport or voter ID. Aadhaar card is not accepted for entry by air.Best Time to VisitThe ideal time to visit Kathmandu is between October and April, when the weather is cool and skies are clear—perfect for sightseeing and mountain views. Autumn (Oct–Nov) offers festive vibes and crisp air, while spring (March–April) brings pleasant temperatures and blooming rhododendrons. Avoid the monsoon season (June–September) due to heavy rains and occasional travel disruptions.Hotel Review: The Dwarika's Hotel, Kathmandu, Nepal