A day of temples: Pashupatinath and Bodhnath

Arriving back in the city after eight days of trekking is derailing. Thin, crisp Himalayan air is viciously replaced with black billows of pollution, spurting from buses, tempos (three-wheeled taxis) and motorbikes; brilliant green and blue backdrops have dissolved into a melting pot of dour greys, browns and synthetic shop signs; silence, but for a rushing river, has given way to engine drones, incessant horns and the hammering of new hotel construction.

After a couple of days for adjustment, we walked through the eccentric streets of Kathmandu out to the Pashupatinath Temple, one of the most sacred Hindu shrines in the world, on the banks of the holy Bagmati River.

The temple is surrounded by a bustling market of Hindu stalls, selling luminous marigolds, prasad (edible gifts to be offered to the deities), perfumed incense, rudraksha beads, conch shells, pictures of Hindu deities, tika powder in rainbow colours (to be applied to the foreheads of worshippers), glass lingams (representations of Shiva) and other essential, religious paraphernalia.

Stepping inside the temple area, I was immediately transported back to Varanasi, India, aside the Ganga. As in India's holiest city, there were would-be guides launching into stories; sadhus (holy men) loitering on the stone steps, festooned in religious decoration to make tourists with cameras go weak at the knees; and scatterings of puja offerings being swept into the river.

All around us were richly-ornamented pagoda houses, sacred linga, or phallic symbols, of Lord Shiva, as well as gold-plated roofs and silver-coated doors. Like Varanasi, religious pilgrims and sadhus travel all the way from the remote areas of Nepal to visit this sacred sight and choose to be cremated on the banks of the Bagmati.

As soon as we stepped foot on the ghats, we were aware of a collective, tangible silence radiating from the crowds. We stopped walking. Down by the river's edged, two bodies, wrapped in orange and crimson cloth, were just visible in the throng of people. These would later be joined by a third - they were the three Nepalis who had perished in the plane crash just two days earlier - returning to the city after a early-morning, tourist flight around the Himalaya.

We watched quietly from afar as the mother of the pilot wailed and fainted into the funeral crowed. Further along the river, funeral pyres were already burning from earlier ceremonies. The thick smoke created a sombre haze over the whole, terribly sad, scene. We walked away, not wanting to stand and gawp at the grief of these three families any longer.

As we walked past photo-posing sadhus and groups of Hindus muttering mantras, Pashupati started to flood as the heavens opened. We figured that the three pilots were making their final mark - rivers started rushing down the stone steps and twisting in between stone shrines. We sheltered inside one and watched the skies wreak havoc all around us. We wondered what had become of the funeral parties as the Bagmati river began to swell with fresh rain water.

When the rain subsided slightly, we waded through the water to continue on to Bodhnath, one of the grandest Buddhist stupas in Nepal. Passing through the peaceful suburbs of Kathmandu, we watched children playing cricket and street-side games. It was strange to see such gleeful happiness after witnessing a torrent of grief beside the burning ghats.

Once at Bodhnath, we joined the throngs of Buddhists and monks in the clockwise march around its perimeter, dipping in and out of the soft notes of Om mani padme hum from nearby bead shops.

Within a couple of hours and just one or two miles apart, we had been witness to two such meaningful ceremonies, proving that religion is the pulse that keeps Nepal's heart beating.