a Muse
My muse isn’t as much alive as you are, but it ain’t that much dead either. It’s alive, albeit differently; vibra�ng even. No, it’s not
EVERY poet (and ar�sts of other kidneys, too) need their muse; even
the heavens—I’ve no desire to chart the it: I feel ji�ery when my
bad ones such as yours truly. And the beauty of it is that Muse tends to
feet are not in the solid comfort of earth. No, it’s not the everyday
come in all sorts of packages. Some turn to art escape the constant nag-
magic of sunset and sunrise. It helps, but not that much.
ging of their bi�er half—some great pieces of work were all done in
Allow me to, then, introduce, you to my muse.
between doing the dishes. Some blog about it, searching online for their muse; some write poetry filled with mismatched metaphors; some dance (the hempen jig, anyone?) some turn to music (I can manage shou�ng);
Allow me to take you to Mangal Bazaar—where the divine comedy which is otherwise known as life is played out on aplenty.
some sculpt a be�er version of themselves and so on an so forth. No such
This is my story; this is my story of Mangal Bazaar. You won’t find
luck here: I take pictures (I should be making images, my friend says, a lot)
this version in history books. ENJOY!
In the olden days, them folks charted the heaven for an auspicious �me to work in a masterpiece. It was to be unlike anything else in Valley. When the heaven gave them a favorable signal, they set to work. They worked hard to build a city no one had seen before.
The old folks were rich and poured in lots of money to make it so.
With the blessings of their ancestors, they set out to aim for the stars.
They wanted to build a city where all the ar�sans could come together and do what they did best.
C R E AT E .
LEARN.
SHARE.
They commissioned the greatest of all ar�sts and began to built a city so beau�ful that someday it would be known as Lalitpur - City of Fine Arts.
Time passed as slowly and as swi�ly down the pris�ne waters of Bagma�. By and by the city was taking shape; work was going on like a clockwork. Those were the days! The city was teeming with the Council of Ar�sts, all of them bent on to make a mark with their work. And, made a mark they did.
Contrary to the very popular belief Patan wasn’t made in a day. It was build just a�er dusk. Colors are magical then.
But, don’t take my word for it. Come and see for yourself the magic and the muse that Mangal Bazaar is. It’s a place I call Home and it’s a place that I can always return to, from anywhere in the world.