If you grew up under the influence of Bollywood films, it is likely they shaped your idea of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/hop-over-the-gender-gap">masculinity</a>. One, fuelled by the portrayal of the man as the protector, the creator and the embodiment of strength, and fury.&nbsp;
Growing up in a middle-class South Asian family, the media access I was given was chosen by the men in the family--they were the ones in charge of the VCR and the remote control. Men had more knowledge of technology than women did because of their <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/taking-wealth-out-of-health">access to wealth</a>, education, public spaces and thereby, technology itself!
The selection of films that were brought home were mostly masculine. (Visiting cinemas was not really a thing for the middle-class in those days.) There were many <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/Lights-camera-copy-paste,1146">mainstream Bollywood films</a>, but there were also Hollywood entries about boxing rings, war planes and gadgets, and some love. And they were films primarily produced and directed by men.
Looking back, there is a pattern that stands out. Men were mostly angry even when in love and eager to break or to be broken in order to protect who they loved. Women were either vamps and villains, or they were coy, demure beings, subject to rape more often than not. Such scenes of sexual violence were not censored for children. And there were suggestive bedroom scenes, where hands came together in a clasp and you wondered as a child what it meant when a man and a woman strung their fingers together against the bedside table or the headboard. There was no sanitised version of the world for five-year-olds in the 1980s South Asia.
The impressions one collected from the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-s-qfx-cinema-needs-a-happy-ending">cinema</a> was that women need protection and men are either rapists and killers, or breadwinners and protectors. This impression was partly derived from the society around us, but also fed back to it so that the men in the audience learned to emulate those traits. A full circle.
Even when in love, it was expected of men to pursue women they liked in the most unbecoming ways. Public confrontations and suggestive remarks bordering on harassment were acceptable. If a man wanted a woman, he would follow and corner her, and the woman would be forced to cave in. This would end in marriage. Essentially, it legitimised marrying the stalker/rapist.
From that terribly long lead, spanning across several paragraphs, I will briefly make a case for the men in my family, who tried to change what we saw on screen. My grandfather passed away last year, but all the years of his active life, here’s what I witnessed: He would make tea and toast for my grandmother and himself in the morning, then brunch (usually daal-bhat) and then walk several miles to his office at a hydropower station, while my grandmother attended her hospital duties as a nurse. Back home in the evening, he would play his sitar and then they would cook dinner together, eat together, drink together. Looking back, I marvel at the simplicity of it all.
My father, probably inspired by my grandfather, wakes the house up gently every morning with the sound of the kettle coming to boil and omelettes sizzling in the pan. My mother cooks lunch, and we all take turns cooking dinner. On many occasions, my friends have been surprised at seeing my father in the kitchen. This is not the norm <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepal-should-be-open-for-south-asia">in South Asia</a>. The message my father sends out, especially to my male friends who frequent our home, is a clear one-- household work is shared among the family, even the men.
Recently, a family friend invited me over for lunch. That day, he was the cook and the cleaner and he set before me a perfectly-delectable meal. He is one of the friends who grew up watching my father cook for the family.
With what was a scattered nut graph, I shall now return to the matter at hand-- the media. There were gods on TV when I was growing up, and the endless family drama that represented life in South Asia in glamourised versions. Women were told to be good, and men were told to take control. <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/tv-or-not-tv">TV</a> was an apparatus to impose a certain kind of understanding of nationalism, society and culture.
By the time we moved past the Civil War, Nepal had opened up to the world of films beyond Hollywood and <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=16996">Bollywood</a> and the Pakistani and Japanese TV serials donated by their governments. We had gained Korean films.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/min-bahadur-bham-s-cinematic-quest">Min Bahadur Bham’s cinematic quest</a>, Abishek Budhathoki
Right now, there’s a world open before us through cinemas from across the globe. And interestingly, Korean drama is one of the most popularly streamed genres. The youth take cues from them for fashion and lifestyle as well as relationships. While men who protect women are a vital part of Korean drama, the women portrayed are also more visible and vocal. They are often seen standing up to men, even getting physical with them on occasion and often rising above their male peers in the workplace.
But what also catches one’s eye is the metrosexual look that men now carry with such ease in Korean shows. It has made aesthetic more appealing for many Asian men, who feel represented on screen. It has become possible for men to be pretty and feminine, to reject the hyper-masculine ethos.
I’m fascinated by the portrayal of men who cry unabashedly, who express love and sadness, who breakdown, but also care for the women in their lives. In all of this, the line between genders blur in a surprisingly seamless way. And that’s the kind of men, we want to love. Men, who push against the idea of masculinity that has been thrust upon us for generations. Men who break free of the mould of expected appearance and behaviour needed to validate their gender.
The scene of seduction of Ser Criston Cole by Rhaenyra in the HBO series, House of the Dragon comes to mind. In the episode written by Ira Parker and directed by Clare Kilner, the portrayal of Cole is one of a man of honour and strength, but there is no dearth of tenderness. In the scene of seduction, there is no sexualisation or objectification of the woman, which points to the difference in gaze. The female gaze views the man, not as being a representation of aggression or purely a sex object, but as someone who has compassion and kindness and is therefore, desirable. This is in stark contrast to the male-directed films discussed above, where male gaze highlighted violence as the height of masculinity.
Characters we meet on screen go a long way in shaping our ideals and perspectives. The representations of men who dash the traditional idea of masculinity, and are comfortable in who they are and can be, go a long way in shaping a better world.
There need not be categories to slot men into, as long as we move forward from aggression as a sign of masculinity and cease to perceive softness and kindness as a sign of being ‘unmanly’. Let men endorse that love is fluid and is not bound by the expectations of gender. Let men live free of the burden to carry themselves a certain way, except with the tenderness each one of them brings forth into this world.
Republished from the original in the Articulate, a Konrad Adanaeur Stiftung (KAS) with permission.&nbsp;
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

Pratibha Tuladhar

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Suburban Tales

The tenderness in men

Rain pelleted the windshield furiously. Iva Maharjan dashed down the footpath and slid into the backseat of the taxi, next to me. We were about to be stuck in Kathmandu traffic for exactly two hours and I would ask her a question around which our time would pivot. Iva goes by the name “That cello girl” on her WhatsApp ID. I had always wondered if the title had more to reveal. “Yes, I play the cello,” she flashed a demure smile. The cello is a stringed instrument, used in various genres of music. It is also known as violincello. I had never met a cellist before! The cello isn’t the instrument Iva has always played. When she was 11, she started to learn to play the violin. “My cousin-brother (Sabin Munikar) had set up a music institute in our house so my father asked me if I was interested in learning the violin,” Iva recalled. Her father, Babukaji Maharjan, a music enthusiast himself, plays the dhimay and the flute. He has been the biggest force behind Iva’s music journey. “If my father hadn’t dropped me off to rehearsals, I wouldn’t be here.” I teared up when Iva said that, as I thought about my own father always holding the light for me. When Iva first learned to play the violin, it was very hard. “It’s uncomfortable and painful in the beginning because you’re not used to putting your hand like that and holding the bow in a certain way. It is also difficult to press on strings, hurts your fingertips," Iva said as she showed me the dead skin on her fingers. "But it was a part of the learning and never did it feel like I didn’t want to do it. I liked being known as someone who could play the violin.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241117111120_fbcff54cb40b5fb4f757c687e83ee79964192e6084cc8441f29bfd0e296854f2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20241117111120_fbcff54cb40b5fb4f757c687e83ee79964192e6084cc8441f29bfd0e296854f2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1080" height="1620" loading="lazy" alt="Meet the cello girl"> <figcaption>PHOTO: KATHMANDU YOUTH ORCHESTRA / FACEBOOK</figcaption> </figure>  While the violin became attached to her identity, it was only in 2017 that her instrument really found her. Iva is part of the Nepal-Norway project, which had donated three cellos to Nepali music groups.&nbsp; They had instruments but not enough players. It was then that her cousin asked her if she wanted to take up the cello. Although not a cellist himself, he taught her how to hold it and where to place her fingers. “I started to practice based on the theory I knew from learning the violin,” Iva said.&nbsp; It was difficult for her to make the transition at first. The violin is in the treble clef and the cello is in the bass clef and so there were different notes on the staff notation to navigate. Yet, a month after picking the cello, Iva played in an orchestra. She debuted as a cellist in 2017 at a performance at the British School: “At that time, my mentor told me, play what you can and leave what you can’t. Just stay focused on the staff notation because you need to know where you are in order to pick the notes that you can play. It was quite simple at that time.” Iva has continued playing the cello after that. “I liked the fact that I didn’t have to hold my hand up anymore. For the violin you have to do that. I could sit and play. I liked the sound. When it’s just the violin, the sound can be quite high pitched. With the cello, it balances it out. It also gives it a more fuller feeling.” As I watched Iva smile and talk about her music, the stillness of the traffic and the fury of the rain had somehow started to wane from my mind. Thinking about Iva in the midst of an orchestra brought a simple and real comfort. She brought out her phone and showed me recordings of her performances.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241117111120_e732ece843b7533b3a7f9896284f55d6789d88b4f0b07eaa379de33e5b6322a2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20241117111120_e732ece843b7533b3a7f9896284f55d6789d88b4f0b07eaa379de33e5b6322a2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Meet the cello girl"> <figcaption>Photo: SAGAR CHHETRI</figcaption> </figure>  What also attracted Iva to the instrument was that it was a unique thing to do. There are currently only a couple of cellists in Nepal and Iva is the only female performing. More recently, Iva has formed a string duo with her friend Phoebe Shrestha on the violin. The duo have presented to audiences in Kathmandu. For Dasain, Iva and her friends released a video, in which she plays the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0xMEe9Jxa4&amp;t=60s">Malashree dhun</a>. It stoked audience interest in the instrument as noted in comments. “People love it when we play these kinds of songs because they’ve only seen them played on traditional instruments,” Iva said. Outside, the traffic had started to stir. Iva receives a lot of attention on the streets because of her cello--a 5'2" girl, bearing a 48-inch, 4X4 instrument in her arms. “People are curious what’s in the bag because it looks so big. They think it’s a guitar. But when they see it, they don’t know the word ‘cello’ so they just call it a big violin,” she laughed. Iva also teaches violin and cello: “Most musicians in Nepal teach music at multiple schools to sustain themselves as musicians. It is a bit of a hustle to get from one school to another sometimes. Currently, she has many students learning the violin but only one learning the cello. The student doesn’t own her own instrument. It has mostly to do with the inaccessibility to a cello-- the instrument is large and the cheapest costs close to 70K and has to be pre-ordered and shipped to Nepal. The one Iva plays was donated by the Norwegians to The Kathmandu Youth Orchestra, of which she is a member. The group starts rehearsing a month or two ahead of the orchestra and plan to do a show every year. Iva described the group as “just a bunch of musicians getting together to make music”. Since the orchestra is not able to support the players, they have to find work elsewhere, which also means the orchestra doesn’t always get a full set of musicians at times of performance. Iva's job is unique, and rewarding when people come up to her after a performance. She feels the cello has become a part of her identity now. “I would not like to leave it [the cello] behind. I haven’t thought about what life would be if I was not playing.” It continued to pour. We had finally covered six kilometres and arrived at our destination. Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people in Pratibha’s life.

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Meet the cello girl

Kanchhi, Weena Pun’s debut novel, was delivered to me by a rider on a very rainy afternoon, as Kathmandu Valley and the nation was pummeled by violent rainfall. The book revealed itself in big bold letters: KANCHHI, like someone hollering the name. The letters flank the cover bearing an illustration in shades of grey, showing a hamlet in the mountains. The cover sets the tone for the novel, as Kanchhi’s disappearance is revealed to the readers in the prologue. The story opens with 16-year-old Kanchhi leaving her home. The novel then becomes a journey the reader makes with the writer, as conduit. The narrative toggles between times tracing the days of Kanchhi’s presence and leaping ten years forward into 13 November 2005, a day in the life of Kanchhi’s mother, Maiju, as she waits for her daughter's return. As the plot makes progress, the readers get to know Kanchhi, first as a child and then as a teenager. The novel is set in the mid-western mountains of Nepal, the language landing it firmly. The storytelling is matter-of-factly as it takes us through descriptions of the village and into lives of the villagers. Unseemingly, the writer weaves in the political background of the Maoist insurgency into the narrative, which also works as signposting the timeline for the story. Weena Pun describes the writing process for the novel as “ridiculously slow”. “I struggled to understand Maiju, the mother character. But once I had her and the village down, Kanchhi just took off,” she says of the novel which she started writing everyday, in 2017. While at the core of the book are some key sociopolitical issues, there is also plenty of humour brought out through small moments. Kanchhi, as a child and later as a teenager, is a “no-nonsense” kind of person. So when there are funny moments around her, they become even more pronounced-- in some scenes they work as comic relief. Sentences are frugal, a reminder of Weena’s background as a journalist. She has written for the Himal Southasian, The Kathmandu Post and The Record. There is no meandering, the writer cuts to the chase. She uses “f***” instead of “sex” or even “love-making”. As is with the more grim aspects the book touches upon. The narrative is not lyrical, but rather deliberate, with extensive details of moments and events, including those that have no direct connection to furthering the plot. There is also the thorough description of how a girl goes through menstruation, as rarely seen before.&nbsp; If you are looking for ornate reading, this is not where you will find it. The story is told simply, smoothly, without frill or fluff. The writing is terse. The narrative softens into poetic manoeuvre every other chapter, gathering forgotten songs for the readers. And occasionally, imagery wins: “The disappeared do not disappear. Their memories drape the yard like a fog.” Kanchhi, is a story of defiance. Like every girl, Kanchhi is a rebel. When told to put aside a spoon that has just ladled ghee, Kanchhi will lick it instead. When told to stay back, she chooses to go. She is the curious explorer every girl is. She picks ‘true’ crime stories as a source of entertainment.&nbsp; She knows lyrics of filmy songs, by heart. The titles of cinemas also serve to signpost. But she also understands the poetry of Bhupi Sherchan. She attempts to tell her own stories, write her own poetry. And in Kanchhi doing so, Weena has created a repository of stray lines from jhyaure songs, and own lyrics. The chapters are strewn with Nepali songs and poetry, a respite from the heaviness of the story in some instances. The writing is replete with italicised Nepali words. The text wraps them in for meaning. Regardless, a glossary is supplied at the end of the book, which serves as a fun addition, even if not entirely accurate. One of the words that appear on repeat, is chadar (a word brought to the mountains by the men who migrate to Indian cities for work, another theme that runs high in the book).&nbsp; In the prologue, we see Kanchhi wrap a chadar around herself as she leaves home. A chadar appears every once in a while and makes it to 2005. Kanchhi’s mother, Maiju, throws one around herself, to go speak to a woman who has been battered and tied to a pole by the Maoists, and left to die. It serves as a motif. The novel does run into sections that read like banter. There are dialogues that appear to have no consequence or connection to major events. But by the time one arrives at the second half, familiarisation with Kanchhi’s life has helped build an attachment, which is important for the impact the writer wants to make. Kanchhi, the novel, doesn’t try too hard to be something, and in doing so it becomes. The story brings to attention the themes of love, loyalty, friendship, familial ties, sexuality, and a woman’s worth in Nepali society. Who is a woman besides an object of desire and a womb? Where do her own desires, aspirations, dreams, passions, figure? The book raises the question of abortion rights, by showing without telling. The double standards maintained for the sexes come across through many anecdotes in the novel. Even when both man and woman engage in a sexual activity together, and if and when found illicit, the man is only superficially reprimanded. It is the woman who really pays. And not just in cash. “I hope Kanchhi adds a perspective, tells a good story, and enriches Nepali literature as a whole,” says Weena.&nbsp; Kanchhi is not a frail girl. She is whole. She is flawed, but she is also good. Like we all are, which is why she is endearing as a character. The plot catches you unawares. It leads you to a crescendo, then abandons you, unprepared and heartbroken. Kanchhi is an ache that lingers, long after you’ve put the book away.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241006121040_70b39161504287e5283a2f04a4509e6e3afcb9efc17b73c1a27090712bec0197.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20241006121040_70b39161504287e5283a2f04a4509e6e3afcb9efc17b73c1a27090712bec0197" data-rendition-name="original" width="926" height="642" loading="lazy" alt="Kanchhi book Weena Oun"> </figure>  Kanchhi, by Hachette India is set to hit bookstores in Kathmandu on 10th October. Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people.

A tale of resistance

On a certain February morning earlier this year, we gathered in the drawing room of a friend, reading through the drafts of a set of four books for children, by Luja Mathema. The books, “Unstoppable Women Series” features four Nepali women who are icons of courage, intelligence and perseverance. It was the first time I was seeing books for children on <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/50-outstanding-women-of-nepal">female figures from Nepal</a>. Our friend Prawin Adhikari, who also translated the books from English into Nepali, had made available his space so that Luja, Iva Maharjan, and I could join him to proofread the books, created over a period of 18 months. Across a slow day, punctuated by coffees and teas, we read the stories about these four women: Entrepreneur<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/ambica-shrestha-1933-2024-9kaynjv7"> Late Ambica Shrestha</a>, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-s-singing-nun-is-a-hit-in-china">Ani Choying Drolma</a>, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/latest/the-goal-is-empowerment-and-independence-of-women">Jurist Sapana Pradhan Malla</a>, and <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/pasang-lhamu-sherpa-the-film">Mountaineer Late Pasang Lhamu Sherpa</a>. The first book I picked was the one on Ani Choying Drolma, someone I had met through my work as a journalist. The first time I saw her, she was sat on the floor of a raised platform inside a hall at Yak and Yeti, performing to an audience to raise funds for the <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=18218">Aryatara School for nuns</a>. I was a rookie reporter and it was one of my first stories. But seated on the floor as Ani’s chants filled the room I felt I had been removed to someplace else. I had been taken on an inward journey, not just one of music but one of profound gratitude. Read also: <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=7229#.YVVcFC8w3u0">Pilgrim's progress</a>, Alexandra Alter I went back to the newsroom, holding three DV tapes to edit, not knowing how I would fit the story of such force in a two-minute broadcast. But I did anyway. Between my news editor Binod Bhattarai and I, we came up with the title, “the singing nun”, for the story. A colleague from The Kathmandu Post came over to watch the tapes and write the story-- he would call her the singing nun, too. Anchor story, Page 1. The experience of writing/producing a story can shift something in you. Covering Ani's performance was such an experience for me. I came away feeling braver. It is this change that Luja hopes to inspire in children through the books she has written. Between proofing, I had asked Luja what had drawn her to write the books and she said she had written them for her daughter, because she found that when buying books, she was hardly ever able to find books about female heroes. So, she felt the need to write them herself!&nbsp; “I want my daughter, as well as the children of Nepal and all over to learn about these individuals and their positive impact in our society,” says Luja whoa lso works as a Gender and Communications consultant outside of her writing career. “I want the children to be encouraged, excited, and hopeful. Having access to such stories at a young age is crucial to increase children’s awareness about all the possibilities in the world.” Read also: <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/Israeli-authors-in-Nepal,4223#google_vignette">Imagining better futures</a>, Duksangh Sherpa A couple of years ago, I was watching an animated film with my nephew, which had a female ship captain as the lead. I recall how fascinated my nephew was while watching the film. He had many questions about the character. One of the things he asked me was how come he had never watched a film with “girl captains” before? So, it is these beginnings that count and it is what excites me about Luja’s books. Spending a day proofing her books is the only time I’ve ever met Luja. But in those few hours, I was fascinated by her drive to get the books done and to put them out on the shelves for children to come find them. “I hope that both children and parents enjoy the stories of these unstoppable women from Nepal,” says Luja. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/for-children-about-children">For children, about children</a>, Ashish Dhakal The second book I picked to proof from the set was the one on <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/ambica-shrestha-92-442e9mix">Ambica Shrestha</a>, who was still among us when we were reading together that day. When we come to the part where she arrives in Darjeeling and joins Loreto Convent, there’s an illustration of her looking out through the window of the convent with a friend. At that, I teared up and I suppose there was a catch in my voice. I had met Ambica Shrestha for the first time at a Loreto alumni meeting. And every time I met her after that, she said hello. What I really took away from seeing her each time was the way she carried herself-- always so tall in the things she did and never afraid. As a fellow alumna, I hoped I had somehow inherited some of her traits. The common thread that binds the four books is the determination and strength of character of all the four women featured. The text is replete with anecdotes of inner strength that helped them forge unique paths.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240901080948_aab1f583e5c1f37f5f69fc48d44dd6b9fdf29a3e9b6348180bff197d16435b70.jpg" data-media-id="editor_10" data-image-id="20240901080948_aab1f583e5c1f37f5f69fc48d44dd6b9fdf29a3e9b6348180bff197d16435b70" data-rendition-name="original" width="1426" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Passing the baton on, books on female figures from Nepal NT"> <figcaption>Luja Mathema and her books.</figcaption> </figure>  The books series by Luja reminds one of the <a href="https://www.rebelgirls.com/products/good-night-stories-for-rebel-girls">Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls</a> series, stories about girls from around the world who went on to do great things. The marvel in doing so is that even when one might only be doing it for oneself sometimes, the drive and the courage eventually serves as inspiration for others. And while Luja’s attempt in bringing these books together was rooted in the intent to gift them to her own daughter, she has gone on to set substantial precedents for others to create books about Nepali women. The books are illustrated by artists <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/365-is-not-just-a-number">Prakash Ranjit</a>, Shaili Malla and Nhuja Shakya. Shaili captures some details of Boudha in the illustrations that you would only notice if you grew up in the vicinity. Nhuja’s illustration on the last page of the book on Pasang Lhamu is steeped in pathos, and yet salvages the book from what might have been a dreary ending. And on a personal note, Prakash’s drawings of LC, makes me want to visit Darjeeling. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/female-foeticide-to-football">Female foeticide to football</a>, Srijana Singh Thakuri What I like most about these books is that they are bilingual. The Nepali and the English text appear alongside each other on each page. From my experience of reading to my nephew at bedtime, I do wish that the font size had been larger and more eye-friendly. Regardless, I can’t wait to bring the books home to my nephew, so I can share with him the stories of the Unstoppable Ambica, Ani, Pasang and Sapana. The books, published by Nepalaya, will be launched in Kathmandu on September 1, 2024. Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

The Unstoppables

On a very still wintry morning in Kathmandu, a black and white puppy bobbed about the pavement along Jamal. The municipality workers had just started sweeping the streets. Timorous rays of the sun lit the section where the pup had been tied to the railing.
The pup, with long dangling ears and the droopiest eyes I’ve ever seen, tripped over my feet and tugged at my shoelace. I giggled. Tried to pick him up. A woman stepped out from one of the shops on the pavement. Mickey! She called out and the pup went towards her, staggering with the weight of his ears. She picked him in her arms and took him inside. I followed.
She let me pet him for a bit. He nibbled at everything he could dig his teeth into-- my coat, my hands, my hair. I laughed. He likes you, the woman said. Why don’t you take him? I can’t, I said. I have a dog at home. Get one more, she said.
I fished out my phone-- Nokia music express in those days-- and called up my friend A. She squealed in joy and said, get him! I said I can’t, because there’s Cookie. But something transpired quickly during that call and it was decided we would gift the pup to our dear friend P.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/a-walk-in-the-memory">A walk in the memory</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
Had we asked our friend P if he wanted a pup? No. But in that weird moment that was a phone call, A and I had made a decision that would be the puppy’s life, woven into our friend P’s. Such unfathomable draw, small moments of whim can sometimes hold.
I walked to the ATM, counted a thin sheaf of thousand rupee notes and handed it to the woman in the shop. Tears suddenly welled-up in her eyes, as though she regretted the decision she had made a minute ago. She held Mickey in her arms, kissed his face a million times and said: Be well! Then turned to me and said: This is my baby, please take good care of him.
I said he was going to be loved well.
Mickey in my arms, I walked towards the micro bus stand in Jamal. He leapt up to chew my hair as I took quick steps down the footbridge. Inside the micro, he bit my hands some more. Fellow passengers who said Cute and tried to pet him were not spared the attack. By the time I got home my hands were covered in bites.
I showed up on the porch with the droopy-eyed cocker spaniel baby in my arms. Cookie, my golden, who was about four then, glowered first then growled and then barked in jealousy. She wasn’t going to make room for him.
I called up P and said I wanted to meet him. He was just back in Kathmandu after wrapping up an eventful life abroad and was learning to get used to the familiar, all over again. P-- so fragile at that time, so loved by A and me, that in our immaturity, we decided a dog would be the answer to everything he sought.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/stealing-a-dog">Stealing a dog</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
I waited for P outside Bhatbhateni, on one of those steely, airport-like seats. It wasn’t a sunny day. When he showed up Mickey was in my arms, biting me when he could, but mostly watching the passersby.
P came, stood before us and said: Can I hold him?
There was no Hi, nor whose puppy or girl or boy. Just, Can I hold him? And I remember passing Mickey into P’s arms and suddenly feeling like something hard to name had happened.
He’s yours, I said. And P sank slowly on the seat next to me like a weight had been dropped over him. But he held Mickey. Said thank you.
A tender boy holding a puppy-- if you know this, you have known the sweetness of everything before the world turns us into adults. You know how some images stay in our mind forever? That moment is one of those images for me-- P and Mickey.
P got into a microbus with Mickey. It was the only time I saw the puppy. One day of his life and mine, intertwined. I thought many times to visit him, but never did for no reason. Yet, in that moment when I handed him over, A and I had thrust a living responsibility into P’s arms. We hadn’t asked for permission to do so. We were two reckless girls who assumed it was okay to decide a dog’s destiny and in that, somehow, a young man’s. We assumed P would be joyous. And like only a sensitive person would, he embraced the puppy without a fuss, without anger, without rejection, almost as if he had been waiting.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/must-love-dogs-js05baah">Must love dogs</a>, Benjamin Zimmerman
In the weeks that followed, Mickey morphed into his new name-- Havoc. Yes, that’s who he had become. Cocker spaniels are a hyper breed and the puppy had unleashed his energy into P’s home, destroying furniture and upholstery, nibbling at what he could not and chewing down what he could. Something of a little storm had been passed into P’s home when we got him Havoc.
Over the years, Havoc went missing twice. The first time he did, a heartbroken P messaged me saying: Havoc is missing! Then he wrote an opinion piece, pinning for his lost dog. Havoc eventually came home. He went missing again. There was no opinion piece the second time, but he was found.
When P’s other dog, Dali went missing, P hoped for such a miracle again. But miracles are liars that elude us when we need them the most. No prayer works. And one is left waiting, hoping something will change and the face of the beloved will be in sight again. But the change only moves even further away. Miracles are liars-- Dali didn’t return.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/kalle-s-cross-continental-journey">Kalle's cross-continental journey</a>
Last week, Havoc passed away. P, from receiving him from my arms to creating a fortress for him in his home, ensured Havoc led a long, eventful life. &nbsp;Last I saw an image of Havoc was of him as a geriatric dog, struggling with the ailments that seem to eventually get all our dogs. When P told me he passed away, I didn’t cry. But I saw an image of the puppy in the morning light in Jamal on a winter’s day, leashed to the sidewalk, tripping on his own ears, readily running into a stranger's arms. Hope you’re in peace now after a lifetime of such and such, Havoc. And if you’ve met Cookie, tell her that now, perhaps you two can become friends?

One more to remember

P’s bag is stuffed with packets of sanitary napkins. They’re colourful, orange, blue, green, with neat imprints of napkins, flowers and petite girls. The packets peep from between her clothes, straddling an overnight kit and a bag of medicines. She’s staying at the hospital.
The sight of sanitary napkins borders on a sense of familiarity. When in stores, seeing them on the shelf always has drawn me towards them. Consumerism is real! But also the need to be prepared and comfortable. For my generation, napkins were what mothers introduced us to before we discovered tampons and menstrual cups through friends.
I stare at P’s stash of sanitary napkins and a deep sadness hits me. She’s no longer going to need them because she’s about to have her uterus and ovaries removed, to remedy a health issue. Menstruation is going to be over for her suddenly. And with it will come the loss of a habit her body and her emotions have gotten used to for 35+ years.
Days after the surgery, as she sits at the landing of the first flight of stairs, exhausted and in pain from the climbing, her mother will pat away stray strands of hair from her face and cup it and stare at it lovingly. That moment of wonder is when women understand.
P has been a housewife for as long as she has been married. In her late 40s now, she’s already starting to resemble her mother. Her life has been about doing household work, raising kids and serving her in-laws. There is no residue of the girl who wore mini skirts and wore her hair in short bangs. The one who wrote down the lyrics of songs that made it to the Grammy’s and sang aloud, and learned the moves for Bollywood numbers.
The new P is someone else. She speaks in whispers, as though worried her thoughts will be interrupted or overheard. She tucks information in her heart, afraid she will be found out. This P nurses her body from the tiredness of employment as a housewife. This P is synonymous to her uterus.
As she recovers from the surgery, she will realise that with the absence of her reproductive unit, she has abruptly menopaused. There’s no perimenopause for her. She hadn’t yet gone through the highs and lows of perimenopause. The journey has been sudden and the destination hasn’t yet sunk in. And, she will have to get rid of the sanitary napkins.
I remove them from her bag and put them into mine. I’m perimenopausal, I tell her. I’ve missed a period and I don’t know when the next one is coming.
I’ve experienced severe bloating, coupled with phantom cramps and restlessness. The pain would spread across my abdomen, making me weep and wonder if pregnancy would feel the same way. What would it feel like to hold a full baby in your belly? Would it feel like I’d had too much to eat? Would it be painful? I will never know now that I have entered perimenopause.
It's a lonely journey, this. No one tells you you will experience a hundred things. Eh, they will say, you’re about to stop. But no one explains what you need to know-- the same as when you first started and they didn’t tell you your periods were not some hemorrhage.
No one tells you perimenopause makes your periods erratic and you will need to carry provisions in your bag always, since you never know when to expect it. Tracking your period calendar doesn’t help anymore because the courses are no longer by the chart. No one tells you your knees will start to buckle and osteoporosis will set in. You will struggle on the staircase.
No one tells you you might experience tinnitus, irritability, dizziness, brain-fog, restlessness, insomnia, forgetfulness, low mood, eczema, weight gain and hot flashes. My gynaecologist made a list of the symptoms when I asked her. But many women don’t or can’t afford to see a specialist when they’re going through perimenopause. Our mothers went though it silently and many of us follow in their trajectory. But it helps to converse.
Speaking to some of my girlfriends who’re also perimenopausal has helped see my own situation with more clarity. Not all women menopause at 50 as is often predicted. Some menopause as early as 40. Regardless, the symptoms for menopause can begin to set in a decade before one arrives at it. For some, the transition is brief. Regardless of the length, perimenopause means you might suddenly feel like you’re on fire, experience irritability and sadness, and physical pain and a number of other symptoms.
As women head towards menopause, we lose bone density and muscle and quickly gain weight. My friend S decided to start lifting weights last year to deal with the symptoms. Now her legs are taut with strength and exercising has helped her stay steady. And she’s eating more fiber and less carbs. &nbsp;
There are a thousand thoughts that might cross a woman’s mind during perimenopause. They’re around fertility, sex life, health, weight concerns but also around relationships. It can be hard for a perimenopausal woman to stay upbeat.
And as Phoebe Wallerbridge writes for one of the scenes in Fleabag, when menopause comes, you’re suddenly free, but your pelvis floor crumbles. It’s a mad balance women are expected to keep. From the curiousness of puberty through years of fertility, the only days of peace every month are the remainder after subtracting ten day of PMSing, a week of menstruating and another of ovulating.
It is possible to take tests to determine menopause age and fertility. And this can help women prepare mentally for what’s coming. Most of all, it would help to know friendships, family and loves won’t abandon us as suddenly as health tends to.

As we perimenopause

On a certain evening last month, four women ambled up the winding road on the foothills of Shivapuri. Four women, three in their thirties, the fourth in her forties. They chatted, laughed, stopped once as one of them kneeled down to tie her shoelace that had come undone. Stopped again to see if the gelato place was still offering to sell. But it was 10:30PM and lights were out in the windows.
So in the dimness of the night, partially guided by the moon, the women walked uphill, following the grey path, snaking upward towards their accommodation. Their conversation in fragments, continued to bear the cheerful tone from dinner time. They had met after work, eaten together and then walked past the Panther Crossing and then up and up.
This is lovely, the forty-something-year-old said, recalling that for her 30th birthday she had booked herself a table at a certain pizzeria in town, next to a dreamy garden. She had ordered a paesana vegetarian, some wine, and a salad and had eaten her meal slowly, in silence, except when occasionally interacting with the servers.
Some guests on the neighbouring tables had wondered what a Nepali woman was doing, eating by herself at a Kathmandu restaurant. Some wondered if she had been stood up by someone. But what had actually happened was, the woman had put on her favourite sandals and left home at 6PM so she could enjoy a lone meal.
Between eating, she smiled to herself satisfied with her own ability to make a point. What most women want is to be able to buy their own meals, sit in safe places doing what they like doing and then to go home to some peace and quiet. It’s not any different from what men want. Yet, often harder for women to experience. And much harder perhaps, for those who identify beyond the gender binary.
So as the four women climbed uphill, the forty-something woman shared that the evening was four fold more joyous from what she had experienced on her birthday a decade ago, sitting by herself, eating. For she was now celebrating not one, but four women, mostly single but not unhappy. Four women paying their own bills, chatting unabashedly about their tinder preferences, discussing work interests, trees, architecture and food!
They wondered out loud what meeting each other earlier in their lives would have meant for them-- how and if that would have shaped their personalities, thoughts, life events differently. Perhaps they would have salvaged each other from some of the worst days of their lives.&nbsp;
For that’s what female friendships are -- they are who see you through heartbreaks and hard times, they are who hear you out when no one else in the world will. Sometimes, female friendships are merely about sitting across each other stuffing your cheeks with food while tears run down your face and you come away a bit more stronger to cope with the circumstances, better prepared to cradle a broken heart.
Female friends are who you go to to discuss your periods, heavy periods, missed periods, pregnancy tests, PMS and cramps. As you age, you go to them to discuss stretch marks and they will say tigresses are gorgeous. You also discuss the imminent perimenopause. What does it mean to acknowledge that the body will keep changing as we age?
Trying to understand the female body is like staring into an abyss. The result of mood swings, brain fogs, hot flushes, and irritability are not part of your personality, but what you go through biologically as your body starts to become a conundrum, and they affect who you become.&nbsp;
Trying to understand your own reproductive system can be confounding, making you anxious about what lies ahead. It is possible to miss the feeling of having periods when they do not come.&nbsp;
And if you are a woman without child and you have arrived at menopause, something has been lost forever, regardless of your take on motherhood. You will be seen by the world as a woman who is “barren” and cold and perhaps frigid. But girlfriends will continue to hold you, even as you flounder in uncertainty.
Female friends are like the world holding up a mirror at you. The person in the reflection is a woman thorough with her work. She pays attention to details, loves fiercely, tenderly. She takes care of others and goes through life laughing, sharing, and growing in work even when life is a chase. She keeps their own space, maintains boundaries and opens up when guards must be let down.
The forty-something woman watched her younger companions with a full heart. She laughed when one of them laughed as the dog nudged her awake in the morning. Later, as they sat at breakfast, she watched in admiration as one of them drew fine dark lines around her eyes with an eyeliner, between sipping her coffee.
She noticed her young friends revel at the sight of the light between the trees and sunlight on flowers. She noticed they were not at all scared to take chances, to open up their hearts to love, even if love must eventually be lost.
Many years ago, one of the three young women had said to her that she wanted to grow up to be like her-- to work, to travel and write. And quietly, she had hoped the young girl would never have to be like her, for her own path had been dotted with steeples.&nbsp;
But over the years she had learned all paths are lined with steeples and we all fly over them when we get there. And as she observed her young friends, hope brimmed inside her. She started hoping that she would become a little bit like each one of them-- unapologetic, thus free.
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

Taking the longcut

The sound of the wind rushing through the trees as they brush and slide against the foliage, swooshing like a mountain river gently flowing downstream. Not one of those deep gorges but the shallow kinds, where the water hurries over the rocks, shaping them with millions of years of washing. That’s the white noise I discovered recently on Youtube: The wind in the trees. Depending on the force of wind, the sound changes, ranging from a gentle stream to that of a fierce river-- like nature imitating nature. Trees will always mean a million things to me, but recently, they’ve also become synonymous to Janice Pariat. I met Janice through her book: Everything the Light Touches. And I fell in love. The book is the Spring shade of green, letters written on a fern pressed to it. It’s a big, thick book and so makes it a good one to press to your bosom. I was interviewing Janice for the Nepal Literature Festival in Pokhara in February and so I read the book diligently, the way one does for duty and not for pleasure. I took two days off work to finish reading it, pinned to the nervousness of being singularly engaged in something nice. The book took me on a long journey though Northeastern India and Europe, as I joined each of Janice’s characters’ pursuits. The novel is a palindrome-- it progresses from the story of Shai and crescendos to that of Carl Linneaus’, where it becomes a book of poems. And then it traces each character back again, just as it had started out bringing one home to Shai’s story. And by the time we arrive at the last chapter, we’ve read four novels inside one. Each chapter has a different voice, making it an entirely different novel in itself, as the characters embark on journeys of self-discovery, in the guise of the pursuit of nature. Each of Janice’s characters is an outlier and each, in search of something. But they all converge in nature in their respective ways. The novel weaves itself around some really important and relevant topics: of colonialism, post-colonialism, indigeneity, identity, returning to one’s roots, taking only what one needs, and giving back to nature, all of them making us think about the causes of climate change and greed and also goodness. When I met Janice, one of the things I asked her was how she had written the book. And she did say that it felt sometimes like the book had written itself, even though it had taken her a decade to finish it. During the festival, when Janice read the prologue, which I like to call the invocation to storytelling, the audience watched enthralled. They leaned their hearts in to listen. she read it like a song. She speaks in singing, almost representative of the book-- tender and firm, supple like the leaves when sprouting, sturdy like the trunks that hold the promise of years. I offered Janice a book review, but how does one review a book one likes, except hold it and read it again? And like a sign, another green book found me: Twelve Trees by Daniel Lewis, steeped in dendrology, but also packed with anecdotes on anthropology and taxonomy, supported by illustrations. The book is a revelation: trees converse with other trees, have best friends, nurture one another, are the reason butterflies sometimes get caught in amber. Most importantly, trees are the outstanding stories of survival: “Survival takes many shapes. Occasionally, it involves standing your ground. Sometimes it means returning home. At other times, it requires leaving altogether”. Trees carry memory, even after they have been felled, and their rings bear history. Stories of survival are holding up each tree we see around us-- how they navigated the wrath of nature and the stupidity of human kind. Lewis says, scientists are driven not only by intellectual pursuits but also by astonishment… and that line came back to me last month when I stood under a tree in the heart of Ranibari and stared at an ancient tree, perhaps as Janice’s Goethe might have done at some point?  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240505120528_52aa2f881a9b0d2a56d1d998580369f4b27a96bc1ad4a9ce02183d27c9099345.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20240505120528_52aa2f881a9b0d2a56d1d998580369f4b27a96bc1ad4a9ce02183d27c9099345" data-rendition-name="original" width="1204" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="trees"> <figcaption>Photo: NIRANJAN KUNWAR</figcaption> </figure>  My friend Nir, a dendrophile himself, watched me marvel at the tree-- it stands taller than any tree I’ve met in Kathmandu yet. And it stands there silently, nestling secrets for years, home to many “ghosts residents”, who burrow holes into its trunks and hide between the branches and leaves. “Go offer water to the Peepul tree and sit under its shade every Saturday,” the priest said, singing off a prescription of forest bath, also repeated by doctors and psychiatrists. And so I go. Seeking. Trees are so much, they’re myths, each drawing stories to itself and sometimes, lending its name to a place, sometimes to persons, sometimes to entire eras. For instance, the old name for the village I live in, is Chapli, a Newa name for an old tree that did not survive human folly. Now, other trees remain. Two outside my window, go through the cycle of life in their entirety every year. They become scrawny trunks and branches in Winter and come back in full force in Spring. I watch them from my window like my life depends upon them.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240505120532_24a3529f04c1a0ec9ffa21e6548a2fd3c0c9c1a43ad763749a00ac332f73be9f.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20240505120532_24a3529f04c1a0ec9ffa21e6548a2fd3c0c9c1a43ad763749a00ac332f73be9f" data-rendition-name="original" width="1280" height="960" loading="lazy" alt="Trees"> <figcaption>Photo: PRATIBHA TULADHAR</figcaption> </figure>  Lewis says: Just as humans stretch and wrinkle and sag with age, trees do, too. And so I imagine these trees are my sisters, aging alongside me, their branches like tresses blowing in the wind some days, and sometimes, weather-beaten and cold, their branches weighing down like sagging breasts. But today, they’re lush green, swaying in the breeze and waiting for the rain. For trees carry the memory of rainfall.

Trees, trees

The tingling sensation hits my cheeks, then it gradually begins to burn. It’s a little bit like the time I was a teenager and someone said something embarrassing and my face responded in a blush. Only, it isn’t. It’s much more complex.
The tingling spreads to my forehead, it starts to itch a little, as though a stray strand of hair was irritating it. I touch it, there’s nothing. It’s just my forehead. The heat then rises from my cheeks and starts to spread across my face and then it’s a full furnace. My face burns, stings.
The first few times it happened, I assumed it was just the heat in the room.&nbsp;
For as long as I can remember, I always blush when embarrassed. My face has always turned red in packed spaces. One time, on a train, I was this close to leaning on the chest of a boy I liked, holding the handrail, my face turned towards him. Just then, I started to blush and was too distracted by it to focus on the romance.
But romance isn’t supposed to be like that. In films, scenes like that usually progress to sweeter things. In real time, there’s always reality check kicking in. I quickly become conscious of my face and the next attempt is to hide it amidst the crowd of passengers. I look away. And then mixed messages. Boy is confused.
If I were the creator of the moments in my life’s canvas, I’d draw only the pretty bits and leave out the rest. Unfortunately, that’s not how things work-- there will always be riddles and hurdles to overcome. The latest for me, has been rosacea.
The name sounds exotic, my editor said. It does. It sounds like the description of a dream of a meadow strewn with rose petals. Or something close to it. Only, it isn’t. Therefore, the lengthy lead, before I arrive at my nutgraf.
Rosacea is a skin condition. A complex one, but a common one. It causes the skin to flare-up, causing long-term redness and irritation. It can lead to enlarged blood vessels and acne-like bumps.&nbsp;
The flare-ups can be triggered by heat, sun, cold, certain foods and hot drinks, as well as stress and heightened emotions. (And there goes your chance of romance in any form! If I were writing this as a chat, I’d be using the emoji of a woman raising both her hands in the air to emote a shrug in frustration.)
I went through Covid again last month. This time, the symptoms felt more like the time I had caught the Delta strain. And at the heels of it, my face had started to flare-up, triggered by steaming. I was diagnosed with rosacea.
Reading about it online and finding out there’s no cure for it hasn’t helped. Not even celebrities can afford a cure, because there isn't one.&nbsp;
There are days when my face starts to burn and sting and goes from red to purple. Crying turns it purple. I could give Thanos a good competition!&nbsp;
I cry because there are days when I no longer know how to live with a face for a furnace. Everything fries my face, mostly, the sun.&nbsp;
I get on Zoom calls and during them, my face starts to change colour, startling my students and colleagues. No, it isn't the wrong lighting in my room-- it’s just my system rejecting certain kinds of light and mostly heat. And since the diagnosis, I’ve been walking on eggshells.&nbsp;
A friend kindly sent me a handheld fan. Occasionally, I fling it open and fan my now-red, now-bronze face, in imitation of the women I’ve only read about in the books or seen in films. While it cools my face, the activity also draws people’s attention. What’s wrong? What’s wrong?&nbsp;
Can you just not look at me? Please.
So, I’ve been to a number of dermatologists now and it all comes down to these: acceptance, gentle skin care, and avoiding triggers. Fragrance-free products (which are often more expensive than other cosmetics), broad-brimmed hats and umbrellas are my best friends. Sauna, hot baths and blow dryers are off limits.&nbsp;
Keeping my temper at bay, meditation, and a stress-free life have been recommended. But I find that I’m furious every time I see a tree being cut down, and my stream of consciousness takes over all attempts to meditate. And, I stress, therefore I am.
Recommendations are barely working.
I am a lover of light and now I must look away from the sun, incidentally, also the guy I was married to as an 11-year-old, in a bara ritual, observed by the Newa community. A friend pointed out I’m now a vampire and we tried to laugh about it. I had always thought I was a witch, where did the potions go wrong?
I’m thrilled any day I wake up and it’s cloudy. A gloomy day is gentler on my face and rain is bliss. While I’ve now accepted my condition, there’s never a time I’m not anxious about when something might trigger and cause a flare-up.&nbsp;
I’m constantly worried it will creep people out, the way it did my parents a couple of weeks ago when I had a major episode. And mostly, that it will get to the level where I have a swollen nose and constant breakouts.
When I first mentioned my new-found condition on Instagram, my friend Carla Tello, a broadcast celebrity in Peru, sent me several voice notes to help calm me down.&nbsp;
She has been following a skincare regime religiously to keep her face calm. She tries not to stress and if you look her up, she’s always smiling and making the best of all moments. And so I bear my messenger’s wisdom -- a reminder to self-care. Amen.
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

What’s not to say about rosacea?

It was that day in January, when my heart felt the weight of everything around me that I first met Bhargavi Adhikari Mua, and something shifted about the way I had been feeling. As she walked into the premises of the Tapasthali old age home, her walking stick leading her, she became the presence-- the rest of us, audience.&nbsp; She made her way past the old women, greeting each one, making inquiries, and then ordered a set of plastic chairs to be spread across the lawn so the ladies could soak up some sun. Just before Mua arrived, I had been chatting with Chandraa Maya Ama from Solukhumbu, who told me Bhargavi Mua is shristi garne Ama, the one who creates.&nbsp; Mua founded Tapasthali in 1991.&nbsp; Chandraa Ama, she had left behind a bickering home where she was no longer wanted to move to the quiet of Tapasthali, Budanilkantha. In the summer, she walks with her friends to the nearby Rudreshwor temple every morning. Winter has brought along a changed regime: “We live slow lives. We eat, sit in the sun, sing bhajan, drink tea, sleep.”&nbsp; Tapasthali often receives visitors who bring along generous gifts to keep the kitchen warm. One Kapil Shrestha had come bearing a big bag of food for the elderly: “My son is 43 today and he lives abroad, so we wanted to bring some gifts to mark his birthday.”&nbsp; Mua thanked him and said: “The world is a mirror. You receive what you give.” Later, she turned to me and said I should visit her. …  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240204100240_becc14574ead170c99e58e578f41b1b07e82f64dddb85ea9f3c639d45e7218fd.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20240204100240_becc14574ead170c99e58e578f41b1b07e82f64dddb85ea9f3c639d45e7218fd" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Home for single older women"> <figcaption>Tea and food prepared by Bhargavi Mua.</figcaption> </figure>  I step into Bhargavi Mua’s home, where she lives by herself, and she immediately sets before me a full plate for a vegetarian-- saag, cauli, aluachar and pancake. She’s been waiting, so we can eat together. At 84, she still cooks her own meals. “I’ve never done an interview before. I don’t want that kind of attention,” Mua says. One of the pictures on the wall behind her is that of her receiving the Gorkha Dakshin Bahu medal from former King Gyanendra, in 2008. I tell her I just want to hear her story. Then follows several hours of conversation, during which she takes me back to her childhood, her youth-- several geographical and emotional landmarks.&nbsp; Mua dropped out of school at 14 to enter matrimony and become a substitute mother to her husband’s kid brothers. And that role stuck, as she moved on to raising her late daughter’s sons and became custodian to many elderly women.&nbsp; The process of securing land to build an old age home was a hard one. The energy that is Mua, she relentlessly pursued government permission, and while a land deed for the home was promised by the erstwhile government, eventually, only partial support was available.&nbsp; Just above five ropainis were first allocated and Mua had planned a home for a hundred residents from across the country. But in the succeeding years, the local government split up the property to build a community meditation centre. Mua watched as 800 saplings she had planted were bulldozed. She has had to stand up to layers of government officials to protect the home. She has even received threats. Sometimes, she has been asked for a bribe. “Why would I offer someone a bribe for a home for old, homeless women? What kind of society does that make us? Shouldn’t it be the job of the government to support those who have nowhere to go, instead?” she asks.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240204100244_e94d8befaffaecd9e3ec41f356cd1bfcaa75e36215fee25342fbe89fbca67b34.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20240204100244_e94d8befaffaecd9e3ec41f356cd1bfcaa75e36215fee25342fbe89fbca67b34" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Home for single older women"> </figure>  It was when Mua saw her childhood friend being insulted by a family member that she decided she needed to build a home for mothers who were discarded. But even before that, she had taken under her care two disabled, elderly women, who had been released from their jobs. She already knew she had picked a path.&nbsp; Simultaneously, she ran literacy classes at her home in Baluwatar for women, supporting 40 students. Her students in turn supported her first fundraiser, helping bottle pickles, which they sold to start collecting funds. “I visited individual families in my neighbourhood and said, give me one rupee in donation, but don’t send me away,” she recalls.&nbsp; This was followed by a fundraising activity in the US, where Mua was visiting her children. With the help of family and friends, she sold 150 bottles of nibuwa and khursani pickle, and managed to raise $1,500 &nbsp;which brought in the first real stash in the purse to build Tapasthali. Her enthusiasm was honoured by her (Late) husband with a 50,000 rupee top-up. And others added some more.&nbsp; Tapasthali, built block by block, can currently accommodate up to 25 residents. The amas are attended by a cook, a cleaner, a helper and a guard. Other residents are two cows, two dogs and an occasional cat. At one end of the property is the bhajan hall. The cowshed is tucked away behind the trees. Over the past thirty-three years, Tapasthali has laid to rest 28 of its residents. And while families hardly visit the waiting mothers, some bring their deceased bodies home for the funeral, so that legal requirements for property rights can be acquired. In the event that the families do not claim ownership, the committee overseeing the home ensures the last rites are performed.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240204100248_600db53c50eaa3ccb139c47ff19939075a6e8ca6b2827eccb6caa7e1cb71fcd4.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20240204100248_600db53c50eaa3ccb139c47ff19939075a6e8ca6b2827eccb6caa7e1cb71fcd4" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Home for single older women"> </figure>  Sushila Ama, an orphan, had spent all her life working as domestic help, until she started to age. When her employers were selling their cows to Tapasthali, they asked if she could also be taken in. In late 50s now, she is one of the residents, but is also paid a salary for caring for the cows. During my walks, sometimes, I see her by the clumps of trees, gathering fodder. She smiles, sometimes slaps my face and says, mero ghar aunu. Come visit my home.&nbsp; “Most mothers become unwanted when they no longer serve a purpose at home. And that’s why we need to do something. We must find joy in serving. That’s what my parents taught me,” Mua says. Only two residents are currently eligible for the senior citizen stipend. The rest, either they do not have citizenship or lack paperwork for their stipends to be transferred to Budanilkantha municipality.&nbsp; “We need some sort of financial aid to fall back on as we age, you know?” Mua says. “Women toil all our lives, only to be discarded when we age.” Then she asks me what I’m going to do with my single life. Stay single, I say. Or maybe I will go live at Tapasthali, someday. “Kathai!” she takes my hands in hers. “If you meet a like-minded man, you should marry. Otherwise, adopt a child. A girl. You’ll have a friend when you’re old. You don’t need a man’s money. You’re enough.”

Mother, who creates

Between the 1980s and 2000s, over 5,000 <a href="https://download.ssrn.com/11/01/06/ssrn_id1736064_code1383023.pdf?response-content-disposition=inline&amp;X-Amz-Security-Token=IQoJb3JpZ2luX2VjEBkaCXVzLWVhc3QtMSJIMEYCIQCiYUc7BuJ7zaDn%2BOTCFOWBgNKqYarnapqY%2FWZbamFVsgIhAOC%2FPFXHR9Dx6xTicWMj5%2BJXdIEGZ7LxKRyjrCe61Ng9KsYFCPL%2F%2F%2F%2F%2F%2F%2F%2F%2F%2FwEQBBoMMzA4NDc1MzAxMjU3IgzWD1Y1XNz2kaOS3jEqmgX0TbxyBTTrZrpd%2B5N72pFzJAwc%2BxTF8Dc0GnVG2tUGUYyxBt1YmfEqAw5cdOuRCZV23SSKkJwndg9IwI3yrjZGBp9XKxg4lK4Vq0Qy9RMmma5hNCVnA2T0MwGghlnmkgWPZA5ouZPiKFAecf4PE5qml2fu1wj72LEAig5R77cN6nC6%2BxTcygMiuiHrR9yZB4RyvTD9s58avGqUcn9hcIUdku3ydvAGVEgczzgEMCesRMtSgqzHz3E9bju9QLR5RpcDRp0wptfQ89uGXgyBGLCX%2BAl6uareSxQCSaDOthP4PmswWI7y7kBJbQp1pZq8r56Yoa3Qf5WVtmxbsWmDtbOsaSBa0yB6EIS8RKFGeQ%2Bcz%2BnEsOoPHIS%2BqO1k1%2BQuihjN0T66SnWFo8rl8Cv2g4GghY9p9DR3wopBJ6cE%2FtDJMY%2BZ03LkUwS%2Fc7ckyaRpfPX5g6Bb9J56a%2BNA5lnIV5o%2Fpjp%2BZJaVIvEzciyzzTwP58wznmcy3xppvK%2BwXBzBR96cPMXKTdNv9%2FqJ5jlnsgSRJpHWE3UyHbFucwQYXi19i7mCglFSuSkkL5Tg9nQWvXpuP9Z9VmMlQfQ%2F%2FpsfA6KlL81K3UK%2Bp%2FJB2mxQD9SYexZvAf1g21NUSF%2F8I19orsNrT6LutAnoJU%2FOTgO3qMbdgnR%2FuBytI3POnQAEIfbG0Za%2FrEDJ9j8CEbasNXsBMqkx8JKGRG2PUHMRC2xl5Z%2BNIbpsqGB8t%2BvAt40osDpgZStiyeiGdC1nMakUzZtBjWlttzoirCdemwPKJ8M%2BEohj2%2BLEN92yaOKdFewns0gjh%2BUxcotGvBo%2F7QZFappBNjLlR0PyanjcuB4MndEQjeIrd67ntscTKiLDI%2FfzwCHulsl6nbMpewpWFAYwg67guwY6sAGb3VJ2q%2F36hWhrVa8igP2hswnnLlcIU2uhOZa5ge2hCXkUYhL1BcSJfoWy2LwrWCXtdFo%2BT7KMU3p6O3jySdxSop8F4iO%2BJBiXVjSiXm%2FqZo3ri8sVwUgo4ksJI%2BT4AbfK3D3VGYapBgU5LdX%2FjkNwSVoR1vz4vMIyF56i7MKeYG1nFLgc0l9cIjrQI6eY869uIbgZ1XKqqBsuavCbYjSbSy7dMP0QSym%2FgmoWILGE0Q%3D%3D&amp;X-Amz-Algorithm=AWS4-HMAC-SHA256&amp;X-Amz-Date=20250103T172339Z&amp;X-Amz-SignedHeaders=host&amp;X-Amz-Expires=300&amp;X-Amz-Credential=ASIAUPUUPRWE65YAH56X%2F20250103%2Fus-east-1%2Fs3%2Faws4_request&amp;X-Amz-Signature=9b654b526e0779da4fa9f54e2fcde04ac9f7e91fb50d4f8094b1039ebb19e21b&amp;abstractId=1736064">Nepali children were adopted abroad</a>, primarily to the United States, France, and Spain. While international adoption was intended to provide vulnerable children with better opportunities, child trafficking and irregular practices prompted Nepal to suspend adoptions in 2007, and overhaul its policies. By 2010, stricter regulations aligned with the <a href="https://www.hcch.net/en/instruments/conventions/specialised-sections/intercountry-adoption">Hague Adoption Convention</a> drastically reduced adoption numbers. Today, many of these children, now adults, are returning to Nepal in search of their roots, only to encounter a society that no longer recognises them, legally or socially. Behind the statistics lie the <a href="http://hdl.handle.net/1854/LU-01GRNPPXAC1Z3AETV9HARNCG5Q">deeply personal and emotional journey</a> of adoptees returning to reconnect with their past, seek family, and rediscover a sense of belonging. These stories reflect a broader struggle for identity and the complexities of bridging two worlds. Maya Adopted at 9 by a family in Barcelona, Maya carried fragmented memories of her early life in Nepal including the painful recollection of the day her mother and sister vanished, leaving her and her younger siblings behind. She had faint images of her mother, elder sister, and the village where she once lived. In June 2017, Maya came to Nepal accompanied by Chandra Kala and two friends, Jay and Vikram. With only a few photographs of her mother Tulsi, her elder sister Pargati, and her brother-in-law Kamal, along with a street name, Maya arrived in Birendranagar after a 20-hour bus ride from Kathmandu. “Now that we’re close, I feel like I can’t face them,” she confessed to Chandra Kala, wrestling with anxiety about what she might uncover. “I’m nervous. I don’t know if I’ll recognise them or if they’ll recognise me. I don’t know how they’ll react or what they’ll say. And then there’s him [Kamal]. I have such bad memories of him. I don’t know if I can handle this.” Chandra Kala reassured her, reminding her of her courage and the importance of this moment. Maya and her companions asked around the town with little success until a shopkeeper recognised Kamal and directed them to a nearby village. Jay went to confirm and returned excitedly, shouting, “It’s her! It’s your sister!” Maya froze, paralysed by fear and anticipation but she pushed ahead. At the village, Maya’s sister Pargati initially struggled to recognise her. Jay introduced Maya: “Do you recognise her? This is your younger sister. She’s come all the way from Spain to find you.” Slowly, realisation dawned, and the two women embraced, bridging the decades of separation with tears and disbelief. The next day, Maya met her mother Tulsi in an emotionally overwhelming reunion. Tulsi rushed into the room and embraced Maya tightly, sobbing uncontrollably: “Mero chhora-chhori, gaye, gaye… my children they went, they went …” Once the tears subsided, Tulsi and Pargati began recounting the heartbreaking circumstances of their separation. After the death of her husband, Tulsi faced relentless judgment in their village when Kamal stayed with the family before his marriage to Pargati. The villagers accused Tulsi of impropriety, calling her पापी (sinful) and demanded that the family leave. “We didn’t want to leave, but the village didn’t want us here,” explained Pargati. “We left intending to bring you and your siblings later. But when we returned, you were gone.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250103120140_da7482d222e0a03b783c5e1df25536ed416d7b7475442e7fd40e54451572142e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20250103120140_da7482d222e0a03b783c5e1df25536ed416d7b7475442e7fd40e54451572142e" data-rendition-name="original" width="384" height="512" loading="lazy" alt="Searching for a homeland away from home NT"> <figcaption>An adoptee and companion return to Bal Mandir in Kathmandu after 19 years. Photo: CHANDRA KALA CLEMENTE-MARTINEZ</figcaption> </figure>  Tulsi recalled how she had entrusted Maya and her siblings to relatives, hoping they would be cared for temporarily. However, when she returned, the children had been sent away without her knowledge. “I only trusted them because I had no other choice,” Tulsi said through tears. “I didn’t know they would send my children away. What kind of mother does that make me? They called me a bad mother, but what else could I have done?” The reunion brought healing and answers but it also exposed the societal pressures that had fractured Maya’s family. Despite the challenges, Maya spent the rest of her visit bonding with her sister, nieces, and younger half-sister, Sunita, slowly bridging the gaps created by time and distance. Maya’s journey was a testament to the courage required to confront the past, the pain of uncovering difficult truths, and the hope of rebuilding connections once lost. Her story highlights the enduring emotional complexity faced by adoptees navigating their history and identity. Ashmita Unlike some adoptees whose main focus is reuniting with their biological family, 26-year-old Ashmita’s priority has been to uncover the institutional details surrounding her adoption. She wanted to understand what the orphanage and the government knew about her background and why so much information seemed concealed. “I just want to know where I come from,” she said. “Even if I never find my biological family, having a better sense of the places and people connected to my story would mean so much.” For many adoptees, returning to Nepal is not just about reconnecting emotionally, it is about seeking formal recognition as members of the Nepali community. However, the legal framework in Nepal often fails to acknowledge their unique status.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250103120144_bf0158b7829cf5db44382d7386d3b123032adad3f9e10e28096b80cd09170ba6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20250103120144_bf0158b7829cf5db44382d7386d3b123032adad3f9e10e28096b80cd09170ba6" data-rendition-name="original" width="384" height="512" loading="lazy" alt="Searching for a homeland away from home NT"> <figcaption>A mother reunites with her don after 18 years. Photo: CHANDRA KALA CLEMENTE-MARTINEZ</figcaption> </figure>  In Nepali law, adoptees are left in limbo: their birth parents are not considered legal parents, and their ties to the country are effectively erased upon adoption. This lack of recognition creates significant hurdles, particularly in two key areas: accessing pre-adoption records and obtaining Non-Resident Nepali (NRN) status. Despite international norms like the Convention on the Rights of the Child, which guarantees the right to know one’s origins, institutions often refuse to cooperate. Orphanages and non-profits in Nepal, which hold critical pre-adoption records such as birth certificates and citizenship documents, frequently withhold this information, reflecting the systemic reluctance to provide transparency. In numerous cases, records that should include family names, addresses, or relinquishment agreements were either incomplete or falsified. These practices not only prevent adoptees from reclaiming their histories but also perpetuate their disconnection from their heritage. Ashmita’s initial requests for information from her adoption agency were met with delays and incomplete responses. When she turned to the orphanage where she spent her early years, she encountered even greater resistance. At one point, the director of the orphanage issued veiled threats. Nevertheless, Ashmita persisted and managed to find the name of the individual who had brought her to the orphanage. However, the person had disappeared, leaving yet another gap in her story. A breakthrough came when Ashmita accessed a police report that suggested she might have been born in a different municipality than the one in her adoption records, prompting her to seek help from local authorities. The police took an interest in her case and began investigating possible connections to her birth family. While progress was slow, they meticulously followed leads to help her trace her origins. “It’s not easy,” Ashmita said of the process. “But every small step feels like I’m piecing something back together.” She also noted that societal perceptions could add to the difficulty. At times, she felt questioned about her identity and her right to seek answers. “People have asked me why I care so much or even suggested that I’m not Nepali anymore because I was adopted abroad,” she reflected. Ashmita’s story is a complex account of persistence in the face of institutional and personal challenges. While her search has not yet provided all the answers she seeks, it continues to offer her insights into her early life and the systems that shaped her adoption journey. &nbsp;“These records are sealed for a reason. They are not meant to be reopened,” said a government official. Even an NGO representative said: “It’s better for everyone if the past remains in the past.” An orphanage director asked: “Why are you asking these questions? This is not your place anymore.” Hari Prasad Sacré The Non-Resident Nepali (NRN) card is a lifeline for Nepali diaspora members, granting them residency and property rights in Nepal. Yet, adoptees are notably excluded from this framework. While the law stipulates eligibility for individuals whose parents or grandparents were Nepali citizens, it makes no provision for adoptees whose legal ties to their Nepali parents were severed by adoption. When Hari Prasad Sacré, a Nepali adoptee, sought to obtain an NRN card at the Nepal Embassy in Belgium, he encountered officials unfamiliar with processing an NRN request from an adoptee. His case was the first of its kind, setting a precedent but also highlighting the systemic barriers adoptees face. "You are not eligible; your surname is Sacré, it is not a Nepali name," an embassy staff said.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250103120140_9bdc24b7e34930059f895048ab7dc0ad3ca23b16907c572f01a8d5404a5feac5.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20250103120140_9bdc24b7e34930059f895048ab7dc0ad3ca23b16907c572f01a8d5404a5feac5" data-rendition-name="original" width="446" height="512" loading="lazy" alt="Searching for a homeland away from home NT"> <figcaption>Hari Prasad Sacré receives tika from his father Khul Prasad Adhikari during Dasain, a few weeks after receiving his NRN card. Photo: HARI PRASAD SACRÉ</figcaption> </figure>  Sacré’s situation was legally ambiguous. Although his biological parents, including his father, Khul Prasad Adhikari, are alive and he maintains contact with them, he no longer had “legal” ties to Nepal due to the adoption process. Carrying a Belgian surname the embassy staff was initially convinced the adoptee couldn’t claim Nepali origin. Nepali law, which does not recognise biological parents as legal guardians once a child is adopted, created complications for the NRN application. To navigate this complexity, Sacré relied on a testimony from his father. Issued by a local government body in Kaski, the testimony affirmed that Hari had been put up for adoption and was of Nepali origin. While this enabled the embassy to approve his NRN card, the process was unnecessarily protracted and emotionally charged, highlighting the inadequacy of current policies to accommodate the unique situations of adoptees. Sacré’s case represents a rare instance where biological parents were alive and willing to provide testimony, but many adoptees are not as fortunate. A large number of adoptees were declared “orphans” during the adoption process, even when their parents were alive. This severed their legal ties to Nepal, stripping them of documentation that could later prove their origin. For others, the absence of living biological relatives or access to their original adoption records creates insurmountable barriers. Without clear documentation or a family member to vouch for their Nepali heritage, adoptees are excluded from the NRN framework. This denies them the rights and privileges afforded by the card, including property rights, legal recognition, and a formal connection to their homeland. Current laws fail to account for the complexities of adoptees’ legal status, leaving them disconnected from their cultural and legal heritage. Adoption papers, as evidence of Nepali descent, should be accepted as proof, granting adoptees rightful access to the NRN card and ensuring their inclusion in Nepal’s diaspora. Such reforms are crucial to ensure that all adoptees, regardless of their circumstances, can reclaim their heritage and establish a sense of belonging in Nepali society. Without these changes, the systemic exclusion of adoptees will persist, perpetuating inequities and denying them the opportunity to step up as active members of the Nepali diaspora. Sacré’s case serves as both a precedent and a call to action. It exemplifies the challenges and triumphs of adoptees navigating complex bureaucracies and advocates for a more inclusive and equitable approach to reconnecting adoptees with their homeland. Nepal can draw inspiration from South Korea, where the government has actively supported the reintegration of adoptees into their society. The F4 visa, established through efforts by organisations like the Global Overseas Adoptees’ Link (GOA'L), grants adoptees the right to live and work in Korea, while dual citizenship acknowledges their dual identity as members of the diaspora and their country of origin. GOA’L further fosters reconnection by offering language classes and cultural exchange programs, creating opportunities for meaningful reintegration and belonging. As Nepal refines its NRN citizenship framework, explicitly including adoptees could address the severance of legal and cultural ties caused by international adoption. Such inclusion would provide adoptees a pathway to residency, citizenship, and rights, enabling them to reconnect with their heritage. Complementing this with programs for language acquisition, cultural immersion, and historical education would honour Nepal’s responsibility to the approximately 5,000 children sent abroad. Nepal could establish a dedicated organisation similar to South Korea’s GOA’L and help adoptees access pre-adoption records, navigate legal processes, and engage in cultural exchange initiatives. It would also serve as a bridge between adoptees and Nepali society, fostering mutual understanding and collaboration. This article is based on doctoral studies by <a href="http://hdl.handle.net/1854/LU-01H4Z85GPS63ZWDJ3WB2E6KS70">Hari Prasad Sacré</a> and <a href="https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/10357823.2022.2142932">Chandra Kala Clemente-Martínez</a>. Hari Prasad Sacré, PhD, is a postdoctoral researcher at Ghent University in Belgium, specialising in cultural translation, multilingualism, and identity in education. His PhD, Reading Illiteracy, explored fractured multilingualism and illiteracy in displaced identities such as adoptees, with work published in leading journals like Critical Arts and the European Journal for Cultural Studies. Chandra Kala Clemente-Martínez, PhD, is a postdoctoral researcher at the AFIN Research Group, Autonomous University of Barcelona, with a PhD in Social Anthropology. Her research focuses on family strategies, reproductive decisions, and adoption, with extensive fieldwork in Spain and Nepal examining adoptee reunions and related governance and rights.

Searching for a homeland away from home

A young non-resident Newa person in Dallas emails a New York Times article to his grandfather in Nepal who cannot read English.
Grandad copies the English text, pastes it into Google Translate to read it in Newari.
This translation feature, available to the world’s major languages, can now also be used by the indigenous people of Kathmandu Valley to translate their <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/decoding-diversity?fbclid=IwAR3P0GygTCQ7HE-LaaVOhmKSyUDLlIrR2l9VzXKwCFJ8Em7YFHSAOiiXqQE">mother tongue</a> into English and vice versa.
This involved three-and-a-half years of effort and will impact everyday life in the study and preservation of Newa culture. It also shows a path forward to Nepal’s 123 other languages and dialects.
The World Newah Organisation (WNO) in 2011 invited Newa people from around the world to a convention in London. Software engineer and historian Sanyukta Shrestha was involved, and now leads WNO.
The top priority for discussion was how to conserve the language which was classified as ‘definitely endangered’ by UNESCO, with only 850,000 speakers left.
“The Newa people are diverse: there are different sects, religions. The language and the calendar are what is common,” explains Shrestha. “The strategy was to unite the community behind an existing technology.”
Ujjwal Rajbhandari, an engineer at Google who does not even speak the language, got involved. “I thought why not take advantage of a great tool that already exists,” Rajbhandari, who is co-founder at Qubrid AI in Austin, Texas, told us on the phone.
Work started December 2020, but the prognosis was bleak. Engineers said that the project may take up to 10 years. Translate runs on a ‘transformer’, a machine learning neural network designed to take sequences as input, uses math to understand the context, and outputs a probable output. It uses an ‘attention’ mechanism, which looks at the input text and tries to work out the relationships of each word to each other word.
The more data you feed this statistical monster, the better it gets. But that was the first problem. There was a dire lack of digital material, either in Newari, bilingual Newari-Nepali or Newari-English dictionaries.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/languages-are-both-software-and-hardware">Languages are both software and hardware</a>
“Tens of thousands of digital pages of content were needed, so in 2021 we met with the editors of Newa magazines and asked to scan and digitise their material,” Shrestha recalls. “We hunted down writers, publishers, songwriters, invitation cards - anything that was written in Nepalbhasa.” &nbsp;
Google gave WNO a sheet of 1,200 sentences from random contexts, to be translated. WNO formed a committee to complete this task, and by April 2021, Translate could at least identify the language.
Nepalbhasa can be written in 13 different scripts, the two most popular are the Ranjana and Devanagari. The team chose the latter because there is a lot more material in Nepalbhasa in Devanagari, and many more people who can type in it. “Devanagari is what has allowed any of this work at all,” points out Shrestha. “Translation was the much harder problem to solve, converting output to another face is much easier.”
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/lost-in-translation">Lost in translation</a>, Alisha Sijapati
Now the model needed a large volume of input from the community. “<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/comment/tech-and-transition-in-nepal">Every AI model</a> is dependent on the volume of data, even that which is introduced later. User corrections are fed back, which makes the model more robust,” says Rajbhandari.
This happened to be at peak pandemic-time. People knew how to video-chat and had time on their hands. WNO members met for one or two hours in the evening, on a Zoom call that they also broadcast on Facebook. People worked together translating. Which was very effective, because they could get instant input or feedback from others on the call. “It was cool to see was how this brought together elders who knew the language deeply, and the youngsters who have the tech skills,” says Rajbhandari.
By February 2024 there were 500,000 contributions, and Google deemed that this volume of data was sufficient for the model to ‘level up’. Translate added Nepalbhasa to its list of supported languages in June last year. The language had now been intergrated into a tool that can be used for free from anywhere with an internet connection. Accuracy was unusally high, over 90%.
It opens up a whole different world on the internet, for those who only know Nepalbhasa, since any website integrated with Google can be used automatically and instantly converted to that language.
The translations are already being used in East Europe to translate legal documents, Newa songwriters, like Ujan Shakya, use it to convert English lyrics. And when Rajbhandari speaks to WNO over video, his English is instantly translated into Newari subtitles.
“Older people are happy that language will now not die. Younger ones can use it to self-learn the language, now they can’t blame elders for not teaching them,” says Shrestha.
Yet another use is the integration with large language models, like <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/chatgpt-news-about-nepal">ChatGPT</a>. LLMs encounter Nepalbhasa in their training data, so they can already generate rudimentary responses.
Says Shrestha, “You can ask questions about a Newa book in English, and the LLM &nbsp;gives you a coherent answer and even cite the page number.” This makes the use of Newa books for research possible and a lot faster.
Leading this mammoth task led Shrestha to a better appreciation for his mother tongue. “I saw the richness of Newari. There are onomatopoeia and proverbs that only elders use, and it is these and the dialects that need to be saved,” he says.
The next step is a text-to-speech, speech-to-text interface, which would open up its use by those who speak and understand Nepalbhasa but may not read, write or type it. Tourists to Nepal would also benefit.
Rajbhandari wants to work on similar projects for other endangered languages of Nepal, and the team has shown that it does not need government to do such work.
Says Rajbhandari: “We have learned many things that would make integration of future languages more efficient so we can solve problems in other projects.”

Nepal Bhasa on Google Translate

Villages along the proposed alignment of Nepal’s ambitious <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/putting-nepal-on-the-right-track">east-west train project</a> are excited about the connectivity and development it will bring. But here in Hariban village there is only apprehension. While elsewhere, there are environmental concerns about the train track slicing through national parks and protected forests, here along the densely populated Tarai plains there is worry about losing farmlands. “This project will cost me a big chunk of my land,” says Dinesh Mahato, who farms a small plot in the Ghurkauli village near the East-West Highway. “Why should I agree to give it all away when I will only be compensated partially?” Hari Narayan Mahato echoes his brother’s anger. “The map shows that I have to give up nearly 700 sq m of land, but I know the area is going to be three times bigger once construction begins,” he says. “It’s just not worth it.” There is also opposition in the Dhanpati locality, and 10 households from these two villages have refused to accept the government’s compensation rate for land which they say is much less than market value.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250105050152_41071574c82ba8f9698b8b7fdecb3ebf280dd314b1175262d961f76dc6d6ad5b.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20250105050152_41071574c82ba8f9698b8b7fdecb3ebf280dd314b1175262d961f76dc6d6ad5b" data-rendition-name="original" width="1292" height="821" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal train project struggles to stay on track NT"> </figure>  The East-West Electric Railway project will ultimately be <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-s-journey-to-electric-public-transport">Nepal’s transportation </a>artery stretching from the eastern border with India in Jhapa to Kanchanpur, connecting 24 districts. It will intersect with the proposed Birganj-Kathmandu railway at a junction in Sarlahi district. When completed, Nepal’s 950km long ‘gateway to prosperity’ as it has been dubbed, will have 123 stations, 10 tunnels, 334 bridges, a dam, and a 132kV transmission line to supply electricity to the locomotives. The project will require the acquisition of about 4,520 hectares of land, including 518 plots belonging to 4,000 households. Some of this will be along corridors through Chitwan, Bardia, Banke and Sukla Phanta <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/does-nepal-need-the-army-to-guard-parks">National Parks</a> and other nature reserves. Controversy about land acquisition and compensation as well as environmental impact have stalled the project since 2010. “The biggest issue has been compensation for land,” admits Kamal Kumar Shah of the Department of Railways. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/india-china-rail-race">India-China rail race</a>, Shristi Karki This means less than half of the work along the 70km Bardibas-Nijgad segment has been completed and 16 bridges built, and this is the first section of the railway where construction started 15 years ago.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250105050148_9e1de8c104dcbd239a70d4a3abda71579f86502c8b9f4cdd7e184aeef90eb638.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20250105050148_9e1de8c104dcbd239a70d4a3abda71579f86502c8b9f4cdd7e184aeef90eb638" data-rendition-name="original" width="1280" height="960" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal train project struggles to stay on track NT"> </figure>  Says Senior Division Engineer Kiran Karki: “It is difficult to work here, people have built houses in public land, knowing that the railway is coming. How do we ask them to leave?” Part of the delay is also due to lack of budget, and this has increased the initial estimate of the total cost because of the increase in land value. The government has nationalised over 190 hectares for the Kakadbhitta-Inaruwa section of the railway in the eastern Tarai for which it will have to distribute Rs24.41 billion in compensation. But the budget allocated for that is only Rs1.5 billion. This means farmers have lost their land, but have not yet been compensated. The East-West Railway line was initially estimated to cost around Rs1 billion per km, but this has increased to Rs1.5 billion per km. Just the first Bardibas-Nijgad section will need an additional Rs50 billion to complete. The estimate for the entire project was estimated at Rs955 billion, but a revised budget has already surpassed Rs1.5 trillion. A major bridge across the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/kosi-now-kathmandu-next">Kosi</a> north of the barrage on the Indian border is expected to cost more than Rs410 billion. The &nbsp;Detailed Project Report (DPR) has been revised to build an elevated line over towns in the Butwal section, for example, to avoid paying exorbitant compensation. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepal-railways-janakpur-test-drive">Nepal Railways Janakpur test drive</a> “This project works on multi-year contracts, which have been difficult to award due to a lack of budget,” says Shah. “So the date of completion of the project depends on money being forthcoming.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250105050148_addd8a08b727efb1bf1f71752dce1a28d6ea2e9d5f76dafe5dbc9a53a223c5e0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_8" data-image-id="20250105050148_addd8a08b727efb1bf1f71752dce1a28d6ea2e9d5f76dafe5dbc9a53a223c5e0" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal train project struggles to stay on track NT"> </figure>  Meanwhile, activists have raised concern over the project’s environmental cost. The Railway Department has prepared DPRs for four sections of the railway, but <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/from-nowhere-to-nowhere">Environmental Impact Assessments (EIA)</a> have not been carried out. In Chitwan, the proposed route was realigned to avoid Chitwan National Park following a Supreme Court stay order. However, Chitwan residents have now formed a Railway Victims’ Struggle Committee, saying that the new route would cut through their densely populated communities. “We only found that our land would be part of the railway line when the people from the Railway Department came here last year,” says Hari Thapaliya of Bharatpur Municipality. “The decision to reroute the track was made overnight without any consultation with us.” Angered locals had set fire to a Railway Department vehicle when a survey team reached Krishnapur in July. Bharatpur Deputy Mayor Chitrasen Adhikari says the Railway Department did not even coordinate with the municipality about the new route. “We have proposed an alternate route to the Department,” she adds. “This project affects the livelihoods of people across <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/fogbound-tarai">the Tarai</a>, their concerns must be heard, and they must be included in the decision-making process,” says infrastructure expert Surya Raj Acharya.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250105050148_682ed3ef3e398592f098d1ac638faa4d3b7517515e0f1b2014cb9c4383e6d9c3.jpg" data-media-id="editor_11" data-image-id="20250105050148_682ed3ef3e398592f098d1ac638faa4d3b7517515e0f1b2014cb9c4383e6d9c3" data-rendition-name="original" width="1280" height="960" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal train project struggles to stay on track NT"> </figure>  The problem is that 53% of Nepal’s total population now lives along the narrow strip of plains along the Indian border through which the railway line will pass. The Railway Department is squeezed between the need to balance environmental concerns with high compensation demands of locals. Conservationists have maintained that the railway alignment will go through ecologically sensitive areas, disturbing and fragmenting the habitat of endangered species, blocking their migration routes and disrupting water and food sources. All of this could in turn increase <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/human-animal-interface-in-nepal-wildlife-corridor">human-wildlife conflict</a>. Experts have suggested measures to invest in ‘ecological offsetting’ programs that help in the creation of new protected areas, restoration projects, and wildlife underpass and overpass corridors. There is also <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/more-pre-monsoon-forest-fires-in-nepal">concern about the forests </a>that have to be sacrificed. Already, 13,500 trees have been cut down in the Bardibas-Nijgad section alone. The Sagarnath Forest, which stretches from Sarlahi to Mahottari, and areas under the Rautahat Division Forest also lie along the proposed alignment. Surya Raj Acharya blames inadequate monitoring and evaluation during the preparation of the DPR because government agencies lack sufficient technical capacity and experience in the railway sector.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250105050148_7823653d3f037122441c11f6485c5407acc716811bedf464255aefe3a76d97f8.jpg" data-media-id="editor_14" data-image-id="20250105050148_7823653d3f037122441c11f6485c5407acc716811bedf464255aefe3a76d97f8" data-rendition-name="original" width="1280" height="960" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal train project struggles to stay on track NT"> </figure>  He adds, “Transparent financial planning and management are necessary to ensure the project’s sustainability and economic viability. But the contracts have been hurriedly awarded without proper land acquisition. An urgent review is necessary.” All this needs stronger political will and coordination between various agencies which is sorely lacking not just in the east-west railway project, but in other infrastructure schemes as well. When built, the nearly 1,000 km long railway will streamline cargo and passenger traffic, making it cheaper and more convenient for ordinary people. Railway junctions can also facilitate the north-south transshipment of goods and passenger traffic when coordinated with public transport. Transport costs for exports and imports from India will also be slashed. “A high-speed train running at 200 to 250km per hour will mean that trains will get from Kathmandu to Dhangadi faster than planes, and at much cheaper fares,” notes Acharya. Trains will also reduce carbon emissions by up to 30% compared to trucks and buses. Train lines will be the backbone of Nepal’s transportation system, boosting tourism in the Kathmandu, Chitwan and Lumbini triangle.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250105050148_ee137f417c5712be9d2d16f295ba7e30fc207e878214103e387346dfed3a9815.jpg" data-media-id="editor_15" data-image-id="20250105050148_ee137f417c5712be9d2d16f295ba7e30fc207e878214103e387346dfed3a9815" data-rendition-name="original" width="577" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal train project struggles to stay on track NT"> </figure>  Ultimately, the Kerung-Kathmandu trans-Himalayan railway will connect with the Birganj-Kathmandu line and in future be a future non-maritime corridor for India-China trade. Nepal has been trying to get the East-West railway project funded through foreign investment, but so far there has not been much interest. There also needs to be a better viability study for future railway links, otherwise Nepal may be straddled with loans it cannot repay. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepal-and-china-to-study-trans-himalayan-railway">Nepal and China to study trans-Himalayan railway</a>, Ramesh Bhushal “The border region along the Tarai remains behind in terms of education, health, and the economy,” says economist Bishwo Poudel. “A railway line alone will not do much to improve their quality of life, there have to be other interventions.” Poudel adds that a north-south railway through Kathmandu to connect India and China through Nepal makes much more economic sense. China has been studying the Kerung-Kathmandu track with tunnels under <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/cleaning-up-high-places">Langtang National Park</a>, which would have technological and financial challenges. India is also working on a railway alignment to connect Kathmandu to its border town of Raxaul. At present the only operational passenger railway in Nepal is the 35km cross-border Jaynagar–Janakpur–Bardibas line. The former Department of Railways Director General Rohit Kumar Bisural is a road engineer, and says: “Very few people in Nepal have experience in railways.”

Nepal train project struggles to stay on track

When a dozen tiger range countries met in St. Petersburg for a summit in 2010, they committed to doubling the population of their big cats in 12 years. Nepal became the first country to not just achieve the target but nearly triple the figure, from 121 in 2010, to 355 in 2022. But some people in Nepal, including Prime Minister KP Oli, now think Nepal has been too successful and the number of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/latest/nepal-counting-its-tigers">wild tigers</a> should be reduced. This was the same prime minister who last year had urged people to help in the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepal-tigers-now-number-235-1iulcaq1">conservation of tigers</a>, calling it “the pride of Nepal”. But last month, in his own pithy language, Oli said <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-s-tiger-conservation-too-successful">tigers had become as numerous</a> as dogs, and they could not be allowed to breed at the cost of human lives. “The tiger population should be proportionate to our forest area, why not gift the extra tigers to other countries as economic diplomacy?” Oli added at a debriefing on <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/bad-cop">COP29</a> last month. <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/human-animal-interface-in-nepal-wildlife-corridor">Human-wildlife conflict</a> has indeed claimed lives, since tigers are venturing outside crowded parks to find prey. So, the prime minister’s proposal to promote wildlife diplomacy may not be such a bad idea since it would raise Nepal’s international profile and highlight <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/is-wildlife-conservation-a-victim-of-its-own-success-in-nepal">the country’s conservation success story</a>. “Tigers can be sent to other countries through diplomacy, but the receiving countries must have the right capacity and environment,” says Ghana Gurung of World Wildlife Fund (WWF Nepal), adding that tigers to be sent must also be chosen carefully. “The Prime Minister gave an emotionally charged statement, which probably came after he spoke to affected groups,” Gurung added. “We tripled the tiger population, but if proper steps for management and cooperation are not taken, we can lose them all as easily.” However, member countries of the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES) would have to follow strict protocols and paperwork to transport the tigers. Previously, Nepal has sent <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/how-many-rhinos-is-enough-rhinos">rhinos</a> to China in two batches through the completion of complicated procedures. Naturalist Sushila Mahatara at <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/bardia-s-birds">Bardia National Park</a> does not agree that Nepal has too many tigers. She tells us: “Tiger numbers are not excessive according to the areas allocated for them. If there are too many tigers, they fight and kill each other to keep their numbers in control.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025011008010_8cf30b15459a919f1d72d06ca02b3515255460c025a62222a219218787c08bc6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_8" data-image-id="2025011008010_8cf30b15459a919f1d72d06ca02b3515255460c025a62222a219218787c08bc6" data-rendition-name="original" width="640" height="481" loading="lazy" alt="No. of tigers"> <figcaption>Photo: WWF</figcaption> </figure>  Bardia National Park has 125 adult tigers, and Chitwan National Park has 128. There were about 12 fatalities from tiger attacks in the past year, and some of the maneaters are darted and caged. However, many of them soon die in the confined space. Dhan Bahadur Tamang, a <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/comment/unsung-heroes-of-nepal-s-tiger-recovery">tiger conservationist </a>with over 50 years of experience explains exactly why tigers venture out when they do: “Those that enter human settlements are usually young tigers which have been separated from their mothers. Some are injured tigers who cannot attack traditional prey.” The other reasons include encroachment as a result of human settlement and infrastructure projects in close proximity or within the protected areas with no wildlife-friendly components such as overpasses. The water shortage made worse by <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/those-who-stay">the climate crisis</a> has added to the challenge. Although an average of 3,000 people in Nepal are killed every year by venomous snakes, tiger kills get far more media attention. This has led to tigers being seen as a threat rather than an important apex species in an ecosystem. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/borderlines/the-snake-bite-emergency">The snake bite emergency</a>, Chandra Kishore The other threat to tigers is from commercialisation. Last year, then Minister for Forests and Environment Birendra Mahato of Janata Samajwadi Party (JSP) &nbsp;proposed auctioning tigers to trophy hunters because Nepal had “too many tigers”. He calculated that the country could earn $25 million through tiger hunting licenses which would underwrite the cost of maintaining national parks. His statement created widespread outrage as well as mockery from <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/conservation-vs-conservatives">conservationists</a> and environmentalists, just as Prime Minister Oli’s statement last month did. Tigers are also a major source of revenue for national parks, and a highlight for tourists. “The tigers being in the jungle means that there is the presence of a balanced environment,” says Mahatara at Bardia. “Any <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/between-existence-and-extinction-in-nepal">loss of biodiversity</a> in the parks could lead to a decline in the influx of tourists.” Eco-tourism and tiger safaris are a big source of income also for homestays and the local communities in Chitwan and Bardia. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/saving-tigers-to-save-the-economy">Saving tigers to save the economy</a> Says <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/conversation-with-mr-conservation">Ghana Gurung</a> at WWF: “Tourists visit national parks in anticipation of viewing tigers. At present the number is 355 and if tourists don’t spot a single tiger during their safari, then how will they see one if the numbers are reduced?” Better management of wildlife is the key, and involves a mix of approaches including the idea of tiger diplomacy. But because many human-wildlife conflict cases take place when locals go to the forest to collect firewood or fodder, they should be aware of safety precautions. “We have worked continuously through skill development and behaviour change campaigns to help the locals live and maintain a livelihood in the buffer zone and protected areas,” adds Gurung. “This has been one of our major goals, to uplift the living standards of the locals so that they can coexist with wildlife in the area.”&nbsp;