On Father’s Day

A few years ago, while in Nepal, I visited Swayambhunath, one of the oldest religious sites of the country: a Buddhist complex whose stupa dates to the 5th c AD and is considered one of the holiest pilgrimage sites for the Tibetan Buddhists. It is located on the top of a hill, reachable by a steep stairway counting 365 steps and numerous stalls targeting the tired tourist, and, besides a meditative ambience, it offers panoramic views on the bustling streets of Kathmandu.

The Swayambhunath temple on the hill, as viewed from the city.

Although the Tibetan name of the shrine means “sublime trees” referring to the arboreal variety one encounters while climbing on the hill, it is widely known as the “Monkey Temple” due to the numerous holy monkeys that permanently live among the turning wheels, the stupas, the Buddha statues, and the pilgrims.

The stupa of the Swayambhunath temple.

Legend has it that Manjushri, the bodhisattva of wisdom and learning, was raised on this hill. Although he was supposed to cut his hair short, he allowed it to grow long which favoured the appearance of lice as well, and today’s monkeys are the transformed manifestation of those unpleasant – yet, holy – insects.

When we arrived there, it was almost dusk. The stalls had closed, the worshipers had completed their praying rituals, the turning wheels stood still in sacred silence – it was already so dark that I could barely take any photos. We were almost alone – but for the monkeys, whose presence remains apparently subtle during the day given the hordes of visitors and the tiring sun but becomes lively as the crowds recede.

Baby monkeys playing around the Swayambhunath temple.

Despite the sanctity of the place, I remember little of the temple as my attention was monopolized by the holy creatures that surrounded us, following their evening routine, unaffected by our curious admiration. The toddlers were running around in an exploration frenzy that is typical of any kid a few minutes before bedtime. They would occasionally listen to the tender calls of the mothers, running in their hug for a while, before escaping for a final run around the temple, chasing each other, turning upside down any garbage of potential interest, tasting leaves and suspicious stains on the ground. The mothers would call again, and the process would be repeated for the same inexplicable reason that human kids also refuse to go to sleep when they are tired and, instead, go through a sudden adrenaline rush.

Monkey mum playing with her baby before dusk.

Monkey family at dusk. It looks like the mother is sharing a bed-time story! Just look at the eyes of the toddler!

The cycle had already been repeated a few times, and the mothers were getting annoyed, when the male monkeys appeared in the scene, distinguishable by their larger bodies, their imposing presence, and their composure. They did not do much: they did not plead like the mothers; they did not run around trying to put the toddlers in order. They only emerged, raised their voice once, and all the baby monkeys rushed to the trees for the evening. Most often, a father’s presence is enough to set the boundaries right.

The scene was hilarious – and charmingly familiar. When my nephews were younger – those blessed times we would have a fun sleepover – I used to recount the story, and they would not stop giggling, asking me to repeat it again and again, imitating, in turn, every member of the monkey family, until their energy would fade away and they would finally surrender into the arms of Morpheus.

I have been to many temples ever since, and I had the opportunity to experience several meditative and transformational moments along the way. And yet, the memory of those monkeys, in the evening, on a sacred hill of Kathmandu, remains by far the most vivid, amusing, and meaningful one.

At the Swayambhunath Temple in Kathmandu, posing next to a Buddha.