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.

Pratibha Tuladhar

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Suburban Tales

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

“Someone said curation is a generous act, and I said, no it’s a selfish act. I took so much from all of you!” Bunu Dhungana tells me over the phone while sipping her coffee at a borrowing bookstore in Delhi. When Bunu, who I’ve only known from a distance as an artist, reached out to me in August asking me to write something for her exhibit, I greeted her with surprise. No one had asked me before to be part of a collective. So, there was me who had never written for an exhibit before and there was Bunu who had never curated solo before. “Curation is an extension of my work,” Bunu explains. For her exhibition, she left the word “Mother” with a group of artists she had chosen, to see what they would come up with. During my two-month deadline, we embraced silence while thoughts simmered. As an artist herself, Bunu was highly interested in the process. And for me, who has never really had a tangible writing process, I didn’t have much to show her as the process, besides some images of my mother and brief notes on my phone. The process of creating is varied and subjective. Some days, it feels like the whole process is a slow-drawn retch-- a purgation of sorts.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024010714018_8a0f1f9ef66b079c56e2e840fafd77ab9bef7bc0155a2ac4db39f61331d8ea94.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2024010714018_8a0f1f9ef66b079c56e2e840fafd77ab9bef7bc0155a2ac4db39f61331d8ea94" data-rendition-name="original" width="717" height="596" loading="lazy" alt="Binu Dhungana"> <figcaption>Bunu Dhungana at the exhibit. Photo: UJJWALA MAHARJAN</figcaption> </figure>  In retrospect, the procedure for this piece was just Bunu waiting patiently and quietly, while I thought. Even as an insular writer, I have always sought an audience. And Bunu was creating that for me and all the other artists she was working with. The larger exhibition, A matter of time, with Bunu’s curation titled Somethings in the Belly, brought together works by Asmita Badi, Ayushma Regmi, Irina Giri, Shradha Devkota, Tripty Tamang Pakhrin, Shristi Shrestha, Ujjwala Maharjan and yours truly. “I have done work on mother-daughter relationships before. And one night it came to me-- why don’t I ask people to respond to the word?” And so Bunu churned a cauldron of the term “Mother” for the bunch of us, so we would cast spells over ourselves to awaken memories related to our origin, sifting through the trappings of time.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240107140112_921b9f5d5e34b54343e1e597e0230c9255aa96e5d23b99c6ebb98cba0ba774f9.png" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20240107140112_921b9f5d5e34b54343e1e597e0230c9255aa96e5d23b99c6ebb98cba0ba774f9" data-rendition-name="original" width="756" height="1046" loading="lazy" alt="A matter of time exhibition"> </figure>  Somethings in the Belly brings together a set of different mediums in the form of poems, short stories, letters, paintings, sounds and images. La.Lit’s These fine lines anthology of poetry was part of the curation guide for Bunu, so some of us in the collective had already appeared together before. Juxtaposed in the form of mixed genres of work, each strand in Somethings in the Belly reminds us about our existence, as it takes us back to the womb where we took form. The gestation is always ugly and often painful and so is the process of thinking about our mothers-- we inherit her suffering. Ayushma articulates the sentiment in one of her letters: 'So far we have perpetuated the suffering inherited from I don’t know how many generations of mothers who always kept every trauma locked in their wombs, only to birth them out in the form of their own children.' So, there we were, eight women, each transcribing our feelings for our mothers in our own ways. Ayushma embraced the simple yet intense epistolary format. Asmita did it in the form of a poem written/performed for her mother (translated into English by Prawin Adhikari). Ujjwala did it as performance poetry, standing in a courtyard, speaking of unspeakable things. Shradha put together seamless embroidery. Irina composed sound sequences guided by poetry. Tripti made images of her mothers. Shristi painted the intimate in Gouache. I wrote anecdotes about my mother and thought: our mothers bring us into this world but the only way we can bring them into the world is by offering our words or work. From the start, Bunu envisioned the exhibit as a process rather than an output. “We are so obsessed with output that it stops us sometimes. We have to let go of the idea of perfection.” Her first curation experience has been one filled with learning. She had started out, bordering on distrust, wondering if she would be able to do it. She didn’t know where to start, but once she put up the first work, it all came together like many narratives converging. The works are summed up in a catalogue where they are labelled, and artists identified. But at the exhibit space in Delhi, Bunu had a circle going-- like the womb-- where works were put up without the names of artists. “People were a bit thrown off by the fact that there were no names, but we wanted it to be a collective experience.” While she worked with each artist individually, she likes to call it a collective. “I liked being in process with you all individually. When I put it together, it felt like a collective-- the thread that connects all of you even though you were making work individually.” Bunu says that Somethings in the Belly collective has responded to her intrigue over the word “mother” in ways unexpected: “All of you gave it your interpretation and your work. My understanding was limited and my own thinking expanded beyond my own obsession, to hear you all.” Somewhere along the way, perhaps those of us who were part of her curation also felt freed to move on to the next stage of our lives from wounds we had been cradling over the years. Perhaps dwelling on the being of our mothers was a way of becoming all over again? “Now I realise why people do art exhibitions. Even if it is temporary. The process is beautiful,” Bunu says as she finishes her coffee, and we prepare to hang up. (Bunu plans to bring the exhibition home to Kathmandu in 2024. Somethings in the Belly was part of her fellowship for A matter of time, exhibited at India International Centre, New Delhi from 13-19 December 2023.)

Our mothers’ silences

Nepal’s only international aviation gateway, at Kathmandu airport, will cut night-time operation hours to allow construction of taxiways, and airlines have been told to curtail flights. This is expected to lead to more than normal chaos during the height of peak autumn and spring tourist seasons at an airport that is congested even at the best of times. The airport will close from 10PM to 8AM from 8 November-31 March 2025. The taxiways will now connect to the thresholds at both ends of the runway, making the airport more efficient in handling higher frequencies of landings and takeoffs. The parallel taxiway extension will allow international flights to land every 4 minutes instead of the current every 7 minutes. At present planes have to wait to land until a plane taking off backtracks along the runway.&nbsp; Kathmandu is Nepal’s only airport with international operations, and it has only one runway that is only one way in from the south over the mountains. With the taxiway improvement, the airport will be able to handle 42 aircraft landings and takeoffs per hour — double the current capacity.&nbsp; The Civil Aviation Authority of Nepal (CAAN) has been trying to entice international airlines to also start flying to and from the other two international airports at Pokhara and Bhairawa (Lumbini) by slashing landing and handling charges. But so far only Nepal Airlines operates a weekly flight to Bhairawa from Kuala Lumpur.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241018161016_046569e53d1d66cd445cc66c697c0ef724810aec9f54bdf827481e3cd6b80c32.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20241018161016_046569e53d1d66cd445cc66c697c0ef724810aec9f54bdf827481e3cd6b80c32" data-rendition-name="original" width="2356" height="1134" loading="lazy" alt="Kathmandu airport expansion"> <figcaption>Kathmandu Airport Expansion plan with extension of taxiways to the thresholds of runways 02 and 20 that will limit airport operations from 8 November 2024 - 31 March 2025. Areas in blue are existing structures, including the international terminal which in future will be the domestic airport, and the new international terminal near the north end of the runway,</figcaption> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241018121028_6e17cc2ee87c1b02d78cb54905825b7aa15299b7a00f5eddb01a59579ab85c1a.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20241018121028_6e17cc2ee87c1b02d78cb54905825b7aa15299b7a00f5eddb01a59579ab85c1a" data-rendition-name="original" width="1353" height="1328" loading="lazy" alt="Kathmandu airport NT"> </figure>  CAAN has reportedly told international airlines to cut their flight frequency to Kathmandu citing the shorter operation hours and has told budget airlines to shift some of their flights to Pokhara or Bhairawa, or face cuts. Many airlines currently operate regular flights to and from Kathmandu between 10PM and 8AM: Air Arabia to Sharjah, Fly Dubai to Dubai, Jazeera Airways to Kuwait, Cathay Pacific to Hong Kong, Singapore Airlines, several Nepal Airlines flights, and one of four daily flights by Qatar Airways to Doha. Jazeera Airways, FlyDubai, and Thai AirAsia have applied and got permission from CAAN to begin regular flights to Bhairawa’s Gautam Buddha International Airport. Starting 9 November, FlyDubai will start making a stopover in Bhairawa before flying on to Kathmandu. Immigration, customs and security are all fully functional in Bhairawa. In Kathmandu, the next phase of the airport upgrade includes converting the current international terminal for domestic operations, the construction of a new international terminal where the domestic departure area is now, as well as moving the hangars and the Nepal Army Air Wing to the eastern side of the runway. The apron area will also double its parking space for widebody jets. This is part of a Airport Capacity Enhancement Project that was initially funded through a $80 million loan from the Asian Development Bank (ADB), and the entire masterplan is expected to cost $800 million. This project is the latest upgrade to Nepal’s only international airport since it saw its first flight in 1949. The current international and domestic terminals are too small to handle the current annual traffic volume of 8.5 million passengers a year that is growing at 20% a year.

Kathmandu airport to cut flight hours

As Kathmandu becomes more congested and polluted, and with remote online work becoming the norm, many professional Nepalis are planning to retire in Pokhara, or move there.&nbsp; With its stunning mountain panorama, balmy winters and proximity to a profusion of wilderness areas, builders are responding to this demand with new townhouses, housing development and apartments. One such block of flats is the 10-storey <a href="https://sungavaapartment.com/">Sungava Apartment</a> located at Phulbari above the Seti River, near the point where it flows into and under Pokhara. The imposing structure near Manipal Hospital is almost complete, and on a recent visit the site was strewn with huge boulders unearthed while digging the foundation.&nbsp; The Seti brought down these boulders during a gigantic flood that geologists estimate happened 800 years ago when a chunk of Annapurna IV broke off and ploughed into the glacier below. Today, Sungava (means ‘orchid’) sits safely on a high terrace, 100m above the blue-green Seti and commands a view of Dhaulagiri, Annapurna South, Machapuchre, Annapurna III and IV.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024102411104_5f8fc736c86ea3c08d7bef43bb727081d3cc1a2caa55ae2b441717e6044de7e9.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="2024102411104_5f8fc736c86ea3c08d7bef43bb727081d3cc1a2caa55ae2b441717e6044de7e9" data-rendition-name="original" width="2016" height="1512" loading="lazy" alt="High living below the Himalaya NT"> </figure>  The soil here is conglomerate that has solidified like concrete, and the boulders were extracted by heavy earthmovers. It is intriguing to think that these metamorphic rocks as big as cars, rounded by glacial grinding, were once a part of a much higher Annapurna IV. Even for those with little interest in geology, Sungava is an ideal place to contemplate the tectonic forces that pushed these peaks into the sky to be sculpted into delicate shapes by wind, snow, earthquake and avalanche over millions of years. The view of the Himalayan panorama from Sungava’s many balconies are breathtaking when not obscured by clouds, or the haze that drifts in from across the southern border. On most days, just watching the towering pyramid of Machapuchre (Tamu name: कतासुँ क्लिको) play hide and seek with the clouds is mesmerising. There are rocks aplenty at Phulbari, and it is probably the flowers that grew along the flat terraces e that gave the place its flowery name. The boulders will hopefully be turned into a rock garden while landscaping. An nearby restaurant complex is making the best use of the stones in its design, using flat rocks as outdoor benches and tables. Sungava was designed by the husband-wife architect team of Deepak Sherchan and Jyoti Joshi of <a href="https://thedarkmermaidamarbshrestha.blogspot.com/2013/12/creative-builders-collaborative-cbc.html">Creative Builders Collaborative (CBC)</a>, which also built Heritage Plaza, Indreni Apartment and numerous other projects in Nepal. Sadbhavana retains CBC’s trademark Newari-style masonry and here it borrows from the orange brickwork of the old town of Pokhara, integrating it with modern design elements. A few of those heritage houses are still standing in Ganesh Tole and Ram Krishna Tole in Pokhara’s old quarter.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024102411108_5eb64a4885961b6d30781cefeb1e8a313da313ac5227c7a66b60f0c7d48d6fab.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="2024102411108_5eb64a4885961b6d30781cefeb1e8a313da313ac5227c7a66b60f0c7d48d6fab" data-rendition-name="original" width="1362" height="595" loading="lazy" alt="High living below the Himalaya NT"> </figure>  About 400m from the apartment past a bend on the river, and down below three tiers of terraces in the canyon is a suspension bridge. Below it, the Seti is still swollen with post-monsoon flow as it tumbles away in a hurry to head down south.&nbsp; Back at the apartment, it is quiet, far away from the hubbub of Lakeside a 15 minute drive away, and in the lap of greenery. There are 52 units at Sungava and it already has a close-knit prospective community of professionals, including doctors, publishers, engineers, and businesspeople from the renewable energy and IT sectors.&nbsp; Some residents say they opted for a second home in Pokhara to make it a ‘base camp’ to explore the Annapurnas with its many hiking trails made newly accessible with new roads. With the NRN citizenship law, overseas Nepalis can now also buy the flats. &nbsp; The floor plans include options for north and south-facing 3-bedroom apartments with verandas, and the facility has underground parking has EV charging, heated pool, sauna and gym. There are still some unsold apartments with panoramic views of the mountains and one can imagine oneself at the kitchen with its huge window, humming a ditty while preparing breakfast: “खाना पकाउँ हिमाल हेरेर...”

High living below the Himalaya

When the United Nations held its Summit of the Future at its headquarters in New York in September, many world leaders, including Nepal’s Prime Minister K P Oli, highlighted the effect of climate breakdown in increasing the frequency and intensity of natural disasters. What did not get as much attention was the long term impact of the climate crisis on food production. In fact, heat stress, weather extremes and the consequences on rain-fed agriculture is already being felt worldwide, undermining the chances of the <a href="https://unstats.un.org/sdgs/">UN’s Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs)</a> being met by 2030.&nbsp; The SDG’s 17 targets commit countries like Nepal to reduce poverty and inequality, end malnutrition, protect the natural environment, and ensure that citizens all enjoy health, justice and prosperity without leaving anyone behind.&nbsp; However, besides the impact of climate breakdown on agricultural production, in Nepal the area under cultivation is impacted by urban expansion, falling productivity and the need for expensive inputs like fertiliser and pesticides.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241019041052_626413c5baf4dae407ac9579231b41daeb51510aa636b75aeb7489d94cca6a62.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20241019041052_626413c5baf4dae407ac9579231b41daeb51510aa636b75aeb7489d94cca6a62" data-rendition-name="original" width="999" height="1500" loading="lazy" alt="urban agriculture in Kathmandu"> <figcaption>Kathmandu's urban sprawl is eating into its fertile cultivable lands. Photo: TAYLOR MASON</figcaption> </figure>  Now, a new study led by Nepali researcher Prajal Pradhan at the University of Groningen in The Netherlands looks at how urban agriculture may offer a solution to falling food production and meeting SDG targets. The researchers evaluated 1,450 publications exploring the contributions of urban agriculture with both positive and negative effects, and published their findings in the journal Cells Report Sustainability. Urban agriculture can help achieve 17 SDGs, positively influencing 81 targets. However, it could also undermine 51 goals.&nbsp; Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-vanishing-land">The vanishing land</a>, Taylor Mason “Urban agriculture offers immense potential for sustainable development, but realising this potential depends crucially on adopting practices that minimise its adverse effects while maximising its benefits,” Pradhan explains. Urban agriculture can substantially enhance urban food security, provide employment to the urban poor, serve as ground water recharge in built-up areas, and preserve open spaces that can serve as safe havens during disasters like earthquakes. However, it also presents problems like the potential health risks from contamination and the need for expensive inputs. &nbsp; “Urban agriculture plays a definitive role in advancing the SDGs, but achieving this requires tailored, context-specific solutions that address the unique challenges of different regions,” says Yuanchao Hu of Wuhan University in China and who is a researcher at the Potsdam Institute for Climate Impact Research. “But it needs equitable access and rigorous management of environmental risks.”&nbsp; Rapid urbanisation is eating into Nepal’s most fertile agricultural land, which means farming in remaining open spaces inside cities can be a viable alternative, especially as food prices rise.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241019041052_7b7c9413086226fbdc630d45acf772cfa1ced77a8970b9056ec5ec7e5226fdf8.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20241019041052_7b7c9413086226fbdc630d45acf772cfa1ced77a8970b9056ec5ec7e5226fdf8" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="999" loading="lazy" alt="urban agriculture in Kathmandu"> <figcaption>A vegetable patch in between new houses in Thimi. Photo: TAYLOR MASON</figcaption> </figure>  “The conversion of Nepal’s most fertile land into cities is a severe problem,” Pradhan told Nepali Times. “Crop cultivation, horticulture, agroforestry, beekeeping, livestock rearing, or aquaculture can all be farming activities within and around cities.”&nbsp; The study makes recommendations for sustainable practices that build on the positive aspects of urban agriculture while mitigating the downsides, thereby promoting more resilient cities in future. Research shows that urban agriculture has been helping many countries attain SDG targets by enhancing food security and biodiversity while helping education and preservation of open spaces.&nbsp; Indeed, many farmers from the hinterland who have settled in Kathmandu Valley or other urban areas of the country have been practicing urban agriculture, leasing neighbourhood patches or cultivating roof gardens both out of necessity because of inflation and falling income to grow their own food, and also as a fulfilling hobby. Saurav Dhakal, a sustainability advocate with Story Cycle and now research fellow at the Asian Institute of Technology in Thailand, says there are socio-economic and environmental benefits of urban agriculture. “It provides benefits to all urban dwellers, regardless of their income status,” says Dhakal, “families get fresh food, and there are many other benefits like water retention, heat regulation and biodiversity. These are all public goods, so special government incentives may be needed.” It is not unusual to see vegetable patches and even paddy fields within inner city Kathmandu where an older generation of farmers are using available fertile land and <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/rooftop-gardens-kathmandu,1415">roof gardens to produce fresh, nutritious food </a>to reduce their dependence on food items that have to be bought after being trucked in from large distances.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024101905100_1291ce98dbbb8caed8702ac4b1d469b3e13016d7ecaaf3bfd5f91c974d3c0c77.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="2024101905100_1291ce98dbbb8caed8702ac4b1d469b3e13016d7ecaaf3bfd5f91c974d3c0c77" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="999" loading="lazy" alt="urban agriculture in Kathmandu"> <figcaption>An older generation of farmers are using any available fertile land to continue farming but it is getting more and more difficult. Photo: TAYLOR MASON </figcaption> </figure>  Nepal’s urban population grew rapidly from only 3.6% in 1991 to 25% today. There is large outmigration from the mountains to peri-urban areas of the Tarai, to Kathmandu Valley and Pokhara, with many young men then moving abroad for work. Kathmandu Valley’s population has swelled to nearly 3 million, and is growing at 6.5% a year. Dilip Shrestha, 71, used to work for Nepal Food Corporation, so he knew firsthand about inflation, shortages and vegetables with pesticide residue. So, when he designed his new house in Kathmandu, he built a spacious roof where he grows cucumber, ginger, garlic, coriander, onions, tomatoes, chili, beans, okra, pumpkin and lettuce. His family eats healthier, and he has reduced dependence on the market.&nbsp; The co-author of the Cell Reports Sustainability journal article, Daya Raj Subedi who is a PhD candidate at Beijing Forestry University, says urban agriculture also promotes inclusion and psycho-social wellbeing.&nbsp; He says, “A crucial finding of the study is the identification of opportunities and challenges associated with urban agriculture, it can promote sustainable transformation of society.” In Banepa, 55-year-old Bijaya Manandhar in her lifetime has watched the fertile farms of her neighbourhood that used to supply vegetables to Kathmandu, now completely built up with no open space left. The pandemic lockdown prompted her to turn to the family’s <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/rooftop-agriculture-on-the-roof-of-the-world">ancestral livelihood by growing food</a> not on terrace farms, but on the roof terrace. Manandhar is now a part of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/rooftop-agriculture-on-the-roof-of-the-world%5C%5C">कौसी खेती र करेसाबारी क्रान्ती</a> (Rooftop Farming and Garden Revolution) which has an online membership of 52,000, and awards annual prizes to women who excel in urban agriculture.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241019041052_7257f5def8f823f35a799fa6f6825e153f2ffa406ac11325d4fe74049b79e96d.jpg" data-media-id="editor_8" data-image-id="20241019041052_7257f5def8f823f35a799fa6f6825e153f2ffa406ac11325d4fe74049b79e96d" data-rendition-name="original" width="1600" height="736" loading="lazy" alt="urban agriculture in Kathmandu"> <figcaption>Rooftop farming is gaining popularity as a form of urban agriculture. </figcaption> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241019041052_beff1a4494ce896dd8fd383ee1f518e5448bcf7ea8bb138255391c7bcb9769ed.jpg" data-media-id="editor_9" data-image-id="20241019041052_beff1a4494ce896dd8fd383ee1f518e5448bcf7ea8bb138255391c7bcb9769ed" data-rendition-name="original" width="4000" height="3000" loading="lazy" alt="urban agriculture in Kathmandu"> </figure>  Pradhan says the challenge now is to upscale such examples of successful urban agricultural practices so they support Neal’s efforts to meet SDG targets. He adds, “Crop cultivation around cities can be protected by land use plans and regulations. Promoting community-based agriculture, including rooftop gardens, requires community engagement and public-private partnerships across the food value chain.”&nbsp; Such support would accelerate the popularity of existing rooftop farming and community gardens in Kathmandu Valley, or kitchen garden initiatives in Pokhara, and building on traditional farming practices that are preserved and integrated into urban settings like in Bhaktapur and Banepa. In Lalitpur, the Women Entrepreneurship Facilitation Center promotes urban farming enhancing both sustainability and empowerment.&nbsp; Another co-author of the report, Yuanchao Hu from China says followup research of the team will aim to identify good practices in local urban agriculture practices. He adds, “There are examples of urban agriculture that optimise sustainability, ensuring that it remains a viable solution for cities globally while countries try to meet SDG targets.” Prajal Pradhan, Daya Raj Subedi, Kshitij Dahal, Yuanchao Hu, Prakriti Gurung, Sijal Pokharel, Sagar Kafle, Biplav Khatri, Sudeeksha Basyal, Monika Gurung, and Aruna Joshi. Urban Agriculture matters for sustainable development. Cell Reports Sustainability, 1:100217, 2024. [DOI: 10.1016/j.crsus.2024.100217] Prajal Pradhan (<a href="mailto:p.pradhan@rug.nl">p.pradhan@rug.nl</a>) This article is brought to you by <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/" target="_blank">Nepali Times</a>, in collaboration with <a href="https://inpsjapan.com/en/" target="_blank">INPS Japan</a> and <a href="https://sgi-peace.org/" target="_blank">Soka Gakkai International</a>, in consultative status with UN ECOSOC.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240630110640_30c3782f9c09219bf1c249b51483a3cfb7a53a06d117d2aebd23ca7080d12758.jpg" data-media-id="editor_14" data-image-id="20240630110640_30c3782f9c09219bf1c249b51483a3cfb7a53a06d117d2aebd23ca7080d12758" data-rendition-name="original" width="680" height="103" loading="lazy" alt="SDG logo"> </figure>

Back to the land in the cities

The 700-year-old Lakshmi Narasingha temple in Bhaktapur houses a rare half-lion and half-human incarnation of Lord Vishnu carrying the Goddess Lakshmi. The temple was destroyed in the 1934 mega earthquake that killed 10,000 people and destroyed many monuments in Kathmandu Valley. It was rebuilt by a German project in the 1980s, but as a single-storey structure instead of its original two-tier pagoda design.&nbsp; With new findings from in-depth research, Bhaktapur municipality began re-restoring the temple in 2021, preserving its original architecture.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241017131016_2fae38cce543ad7b1f6de632feb3e212e08ed1acedd747830e949d7b8e878f18.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20241017131016_2fae38cce543ad7b1f6de632feb3e212e08ed1acedd747830e949d7b8e878f18" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="In with the old in Nepal NT"> </figure>  “Our temples and heritage sites hold deep meaning. It is disheartening to witness how often they lose their original elements, whether by design or accident,” explains Kumar Chawal of the Consumer Committee of Bhaktapur. “There is a need to preserve our architecture and protect its historical value for future generations. Otherwise, we risk losing a vital part of our identity.” The Laksmi Narsingha restoration is similar to the Bhai Dega temple in Patan Darbar Square which also collapsed in 1934, but was rebuilt with a Moghul-style dome by the Rana government at the time. Only two months before the 2015 earthquake, heritage conservationists had started to rebuild Bhai Dega as the original three-tier based on early photographs. But priorities shifted when four other temples in the square were brought down by the 7.8M earthquake on 25 April 2015.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241017131016_697ea707d9ad163be5de5f2efbf5b70d3cab771adcc22f0fae6bf937c6cb0130.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20241017131016_697ea707d9ad163be5de5f2efbf5b70d3cab771adcc22f0fae6bf937c6cb0130" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="In with the old in Nepal NT"> </figure>  This showed how damage to monuments in Kathmandu Valley spanned from one earthquake to the next. Bhai Dega restoration remains half-complete to this day because money for its restoration ran out.&nbsp; Whereas Bhai Dega restoration was done by the Kathmandu Valley Preservation Trust with grants from western embassies and international foundations, in Bhaktapur it is the municipality itself that allocated the Rs30.7 million needed to restore the Lakshmi Narasingha temple. The expected date of completion is early 2025. The municipality and local communities are focusing on two main aspects: preserving the past and promoting localisation. The restoration team has designed a blueprint for the temple by using historical photographs and insights from older generations.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241017131016_182882fdc393c99e70d1d0490319e415229563666c4934e3a582426ebf00ca30.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20241017131016_182882fdc393c99e70d1d0490319e415229563666c4934e3a582426ebf00ca30" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="560" loading="lazy" alt="In with the old in Nepal NT"> </figure>  “At first, the Lakshmi Narasingha temple had only one entrance, but during the demolition process, we uncovered the foundations of four doors. Now, we are restoring all of them. This is an example of how our ancient structures have changed over time, often without our knowledge,” says Chawal. “Constructing temples is not like building houses. They carry historical and spiritual values, which is why they hold a special place in our hearts,” he adds. By replicating ancient design elements and rebuilding the temple as accurately as possible to its original form, the team has stayed true to Bhaktapur’s soul. But the restoration also revived ancient techniques that were in danger of being forgotten, generating employment for woodcarvers, masons, and contractors. The community of Bhaktapur’s Gahiti neighbourhood near the famous Nyatapola Temple has also set aside specific days for locals to volunteer in the reconstruction work. This has encouraged young people to take pride in ownership of their heritage. Families have also supported the effort by donating funds for bells, the temple pinnacle, and other structural features to the temple.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241017131016_db850ec0c084cdbe54f65bee92dad2ad8122d20fd60ec87ec086fbb9d2f72bd6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20241017131016_db850ec0c084cdbe54f65bee92dad2ad8122d20fd60ec87ec086fbb9d2f72bd6" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="In with the old in Nepal NT"> </figure>  “I feel at peace knowing I have contributed my sweat to restoring this temple,” said one volunteer. “It is our duty to preserve our temples and heritage. The Nyatapola area will look magical once this temple is completed.” Community mobilisation is a long-standing tradition in Bhaktapur. In the past, locals have actively participated in the restoration of other temples in the city, such as Bhairav and Nyatapola fostering a strong sense of ownership. This collective engagement has not only been crucial in preserving the city's historical monuments but also in strengthening the bond between local communities and their heritage, says officials at the municipality. While securing funding is essential, and the municipality showed it values heritage conservation, the Lakshmi Narasingha restoration is proof that active involvement and sense of responsibility of the local community is as important, if not more. Local involvement also means that the monuments will be cared for into the future, When locals take ownership of these efforts, the restored monuments are not only protected in the present but are also cared for in the future.