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.

Pratibha Tuladhar

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Suburban Tales

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

When Kalpana first held hands with her future husband, her mind drifted from across the flat fields of her home town to the wide streets of Kathmandu, which was soon to be her new home. She stood up, looked at his face and smiled, the wheat-packed belly of the field spread behind him looked like a golden curtain and she wished they could have a photo taken of that moment. She thought, maybe a new phone with a good camera will be possible in Kathmandu and I can post lots of pictures on Facebook.
A year since that moment, Kalpana finds herself in the enclosed room of a certain parlour in Kathmandu. No, she isn’t getting her eyebrows done and neither is she getting a haircut. It is where she works now. Ten to Five.
“The working hours are not so bad, actually,” she says at first. “The money is not that great, but my employer says there will be tips.”
In her hometown, Kalpana had trained to peel eyebrows using thread, to heat wax in tin containers and pull them off with cloth strips and to massage the face and shoulders of women as they lay down for a facial session. Her friends had advised it was the best skill to pick before heading to Kathmandu. “Easy to find jobs,” they had said. “And if you’re going to go abroad, even better. Women do really well at beauty parlours.”
Now in Kathmandu, Kalpana finds that things run contrary to the narrative she had heard on repeat back home.
She had spent a few weeks in Kathmandu visiting relatives as a child and so of course she knew the city. But the Kathmandu that met her in her guise as an adult has felt distant, claustrophobic and indifferent. Bus rides are no longer breezy, but an ordeal. She struggles to find space to even stand without being crushed by other passengers most days. The feeling is packed with familiarity and yet it is alarming with someone’s elbow going over her face, some crotch pressed to her side and someone’s garlic breath upon her hair. Sometimes, during bus rides she shuts her eyes until the conductor shouts: Balaju! Balaju!
Five thousand rupees a month. The vermin! Kalpana sighs throughout bus rides.
In the first few weeks at the parlour, work seemed like a place to hang out with other women, gossip, eat buff momo for a hundred and fifty rupees once a week. Mostly, a bowl of spicy WaiWai with chana for sixty rupees. Kalpana found her feelings bordering on a familiar excitement, like the one she felt during her school days, when stealing moments away with her childhood friends.
Within less than two months of work at the parlour, Kalpana says her duties soon began to evolve. The owner lady told her that business was slow and shutters were coming down in the city and she had to think of a way to keep it going. She said she would either have to sell the place or reinvent.
Kalpana had worried at that time that selling the business would mean she would be laid off. The three thousand rupees a month that she was able to save after paying for bus fare and khaja would be gone. These days, she sometimes wishes the owner lady had actually sold or closed down her business. That didn’t happen, of course.
Her employer quickly turned things round. She added a sign to the business saying “massage”. And the high beds they were formerly using to provide facial services soon turned into massage tables. The lady took turns training all three girls who worked alongside Kalpana, showing them where to press, where to apply force, where to knead, where to rub and where to roll.
In her new role as a masseuse, Kalpana sometimes finds that the persons she is assisting are no longer just women. There are sometimes men-- often, pot-bellied, middle-aged men who come in quietly and leave in a shuffle.
“One time, this man asked me for an inappropriate kind of service and I didn’t know if I was mad or frightened. I walked out of the room and called Didi. But Didi said some clients are hard to please and she replaced me for the rest of the session.”
Kalpana’s hands are tiny, like those of a schoolgirl and one cannot imagine how such small hands could even cover the span of a calf or work their way across the spine. Tiny hands.
“My husband doesn’t know. He still thinks this is a parlour, which it is, too. He might kill me if he knows I’ve been working as a masseuse also. Marnu huncha. If I could find another job, I’d leave. Even as house help.”
Some days I think I’ll wake up one morning, leave for work, get on the bus from Balaju and just keep going, fall asleep on the bus, buy some badam and suntala, eat them on the bus, then sleep again and go back home at six. They would never know, right? I mean, until the money runs out?”
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

Warm my hands

Chandraa had to be carried down the hillside on a makeshift stretcher, as she went into labour. The pain she experienced at the time wasn’t taken away by the bright blueness of the October sky above her or the singing of the birds on the trees. As the men hurried her down the hillside on the stretcher, the jolts they made, only made her pain worse. She wondered if she would make it to hospital on time or if like her friend, Sukundara, she too would end up giving birth to her baby in a boat. She decided that to drip into the Begnas through the boat was not going to be her fate. And in response, her water broke as they scurried downhill and they halted and the women crouched beside her to help her and there, in the middle of the forest, in the Begnas valley, Chandraa’s daughter was born. “She’s 16 now and she’s in class ten,” Chandraa says. “My son is 12 now and he was born in the hospital. I wasn’t going to risk birthing in a forest the second time.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20231105121156_36d1aa692742ad68e05029c77c5bfd361557dc2fc739ba3376f6d97cc9758e6c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20231105121156_36d1aa692742ad68e05029c77c5bfd361557dc2fc739ba3376f6d97cc9758e6c" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Begnas Lake"> </figure>  The oars push into the water and away as Chandraa works her way across the lake. “You tell me where you want to go and I’ll take you there,” she says. I ask her to row closer to the thicket and we drift along the edge of the lake where the shore meets the forest— we’re far out in a deserted corner. No other boats in sight, it’s Chandraa and I, and the cicadas, at their loudest. A dragon fly perches on the oar and she pauses briefly, lets it alight on a bundle of grass parked on the side of the boat, and then rows again. “I don’t want my children to have to work as hard as I have had to and so they’re both going to go to college and work in offices,” she says. And so, Chandraa takes up extra work when it is available. She explains how rare a ride is during low-season, and that while she charges 800 per ride, she only gets to pocket 200. I ask if she spends some of that money on herself. “On my children,” she says. Chandraa is a full-time farmer, but on days when the field work is wrapped up, she picks her bag, umbrella and her hat, and sets downhill to the lake, in the hope of finding a tourist to ferry around. “This is easier than field work and sometimes I meet nice people who like to talk and ask questions,” Chandraa says. But the conversation quickly turns and she starts to dart questions at me. “What happened to your hair, madam?” she asks. Old age, I say. She laughs: “I can’t tell if you coloured your hair or if you’re really old.”&nbsp; I am old. We laugh some more.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2023110513110_0f83af6a9a6ac5eb3207c727d78ca9098820cf8e121fb0e16d4c59ae7838480e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="2023110513110_0f83af6a9a6ac5eb3207c727d78ca9098820cf8e121fb0e16d4c59ae7838480e" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Begnas Lake"> </figure>  … Januka joins me on the park bench by the lake. “It is impossible,” she sighs. “They all owe me money and say they can only pay me tomorrow. And now I have no money.” At first, it sounds as though she’s talking to herself, but I soon notice it is directed at anyone who will sympathise. Once she is done settling her twin flasks on the bench, she looks at me and smiles. “Are you selling tea?” I ask. She says: “Yes. But I have run out of tea today.”&nbsp; By this time, I’m holding out some money in her direction. She looks at the money, smiles and shakes her head. No more tea. I make an offer: “How about you keep the money for two cups of tea and my friend and I will meet you here tomorrow so you can give us some tea.” She stares at the notes for a while and then takes them from me and repeatedly says: “Please make sure to come by tomorrow.”&nbsp; It is after two days that I am finally able to launch Mission Januka and scour the lakeside for her. When I finally run into her again, she’s sitting in a dark patch by the lake, under a tree, handing out teas in paper cups. Eh, she says when she sees me: “Why didn’t you come the other day? Right right, the storm! It lasted two days, no?” “Where’s your friend?” She tilts her head to check as though she were expecting someone to emerge from behind me. It’s just me, I say. Januka pulls out a paper cup, uncorks her thermos and pours me a cup of tea. The wind has started to gather around us again and we both have hair flapping across our faces. “It’s crazy weather again, no?”&nbsp; “Yes, makes me think of the year we had the earthquake,” she responds. “That’s right. My family is from near Barpak and we moved here after the earthquake. I go to school here now.” Januka says she makes around 400 rupees a day selling tea after school. “It’s not much, but the work is easy and the money is useful,” she says. I ask if it is safe for her to walk home at night. Januka explains there are other vendors like herself and they usually wait for everyone to finish the sales and walk back together to their rented rooms. I close my fingers over the paper cup. The liquid is warm against my hands. It begins to pitter-patter. I’ll head to my hotel now, I say. “Will you be safe walking alone, madam?” Januka asks me. “If you’re safe, I’m safe, I guess.” We exchange smiles. Hers is the smile of a child, awkward but generous. Almost suddenly, I’m filled with a sense of joy that only a cup of sweet, fragrant tea could have brought me on a rainy evening. I sip the tea and walk on in the drizzle, talking to random street dogs and thinking about Januka counting her money at the end of each day.

Two women in a boat and some tea

Bhogendra Kathayat successfully defended his PhD thesis at Tribhuvan University, and the very next night he was at Tribhuvan International Airport.&nbsp; No, not to emigrate, but to captain a Nepal Airlines Airbus A330 on a 7-hour flight to Narita. Capt Kathayat, 41, is now the only PhD airline pilot in Nepal, and one of a handful actively flying internationally. Read also: <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/page/women-standing-above-the-ground">Standing above the crowd</a>, Ayesha Shakya Born in the village of Sanischare in Morang to a farming family, it was a hard life. Money was always short, and the four siblings went to a village school with mud floors.&nbsp; Kathayat excelled in his studies, earning a scholarship after topping the entrance exam out of 1,000 students for admission into<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/tri-chandras-run-down-state-is-a-microcosm-of-nepal"> Tri Chandra College in Kathmandu</a>. Always good in maths, he passed his MSc in Physics with flying colours – which may be why he took up flying next.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024082213088_f1f4ffbfff44f8701cf6808495375afecc6f978632e5c1090af614ed5ccf2b45.png" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="2024082213088_f1f4ffbfff44f8701cf6808495375afecc6f978632e5c1090af614ed5ccf2b45" data-rendition-name="original" width="1298" height="1316" loading="lazy" alt="doctor-pilot Capt Kathayat NT1"> </figure>  This was 2006, <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=10616#.YV7B7tVBypp">the conflict</a> had just ended, and Nepal Airlines announced a scheme for pilot training. His parents did not have the collateral to afford the Rs3.4 million loan to pay for flight school. But Kathayat managed to borrow from relatives, and was off to Kota Bahru in Malaysia.&nbsp; When he returned after a year to join Nepal Airlines, Kathayat was flying Twin Otters but did not even have a driving license because he could not afford a car or motorcycle. He was a Himalayan bush pilot for the next seven years, flying in challenging weather and terrain to remote airfields carved out of mountainsides.&nbsp; Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/60-years-of-living-dangerously">60 years of living dangerously</a>, Kunda Dixit In 2015, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/latest/jet-closure-benefits-nepal-airlines">Nepal Airlines</a> bought two Airbus A320s, and Capt Kathayat was off to Toulouse – leaping straight from Twin Otters to twin jets. But it was easier for him than for colleagues who had been flying 757s, because Boeing and Airbus have different philosophies of flying. After being on 320s for three years, Kathayat upgraded to the bigger Airbus A330s, but still does not have a car license and arrived for this interview in a Honda Unicorn. “Although I felt like aviation was in my blood, there was this nagging sense that my education was incomplete,” Capt Kathayat recalls. Meeting Nepal’s foremost atmospheric scientist Arnico Panday on a flight, he was convinced that Nepal needed more scientific research into<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/air-pollution-is-more-dangerous-than-smoking"> air pollution</a>. Since Panday is an aviation buff himself, they devised a way to use decades of visibility data from Nepal’s airports to come up with policy-level solutions to <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/business/making-monsoon-flying-safer-in-nepal">improve aviation safety</a> as well as public health.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240822120848_523fef9cb91959c2b39f2798fbbd066d9d55f4c9778ff692dd957cb58cdd827e.png" data-media-id="editor_8" data-image-id="20240822120848_523fef9cb91959c2b39f2798fbbd066d9d55f4c9778ff692dd957cb58cdd827e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1922" height="1062" loading="lazy" alt="doctor-pilot Capt Kathayat NT3"> <figcaption>Capt Kathayat(right) and Arnico Panday(left)</figcaption> </figure>  Capt Kathayat used long layovers in Dubai, Doha and Tokyo to pore over historical airport data from Bhairawa and Kathmandu to look into how domestic and crossborder pollution sources, humidity, or aerosols affected the optical property of suspended particulates. He also analysed seasonal and time of day variations. The results were predictable: the number of days with <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/good-cop-bad-cop">heavy smog in Kathmandu</a> increased steeply after 2000. The days when planes could land under visual flight rules (VFR) had gone down in Bhairawa, especially as winter fog had become thicker, more frequent and long-lasting.&nbsp; Kathayat’s PhD thesis also carries recommendations. Bhairawa may not always be useful as an alternate airport for big jets in winter because it is fogged up when Kathmandu visibility is also below minima. Bhairawa will need a Cat II Instrument Landing System (ILS).&nbsp; The long-term solutions are to control pollution at source, and in Kathmandu that means vehicular emission, open garbage fires, cross residue burning, and in Bhairawa reducing industrial and crop burning. But for both airports, visibility will remain marginal unless pollution is controlled in north India. Capt Kathayat’s PhD adviser,<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/arnico-panday-the-political-scientist"> Arnico Panday who is also a member of the opposition RSP</a>, is a proud mentor. He says: “Capt Bhogendra is the hardest working student I have ever supervised, and his topic is very relevant for aviation safety and efficient flight operations.”  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240822120856_f455cfac962eada84c53b588575b80051845107ab83371509d9eab6648fe03e8.png" data-media-id="editor_11" data-image-id="20240822120856_f455cfac962eada84c53b588575b80051845107ab83371509d9eab6648fe03e8" data-rendition-name="original" width="1636" height="1302" loading="lazy" alt="doctor-pilot CaptKathayat NT 4"> <figcaption>Arnico Panday, Capt Kathayat, and his Phd supervisor Narayan Chapagain after his Phd thesis defence </figcaption> </figure>  At a time when most <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/brain-gain-into-brain-drain">young Nepalis are cynical about the country’s future</a>, this doctor-pilot is an example of how, given the opportunity, even Nepalis from the humblest beginnings can rise up. Says Capt Kathayat: “It is fashionable nowadays to be negative about the government, but I keep reminding myself that I would not be where I am today without government subsidies, government scholarships and the opportunity that a government-owned airline provided me.” Yes, and plus a lot of hard work and perseverance.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024082306084_adf00d94a8d7229ab1ef05fe5862dfc3203e7f9a9a36b4df30ae328005c2368b.jpg" data-media-id="editor_13" data-image-id="2024082306084_adf00d94a8d7229ab1ef05fe5862dfc3203e7f9a9a36b4df30ae328005c2368b" data-rendition-name="original" width="996" height="2048" loading="lazy" alt="Nepal's flying doctor"> </figure>

Nepal’s flying doctor

Bidya Prasad Pant was a junior ophthalmic assistant at <a href="https://getaeyehospital.org.np/">Geta Eye Hospital</a> in Dhangadi when a 70-year-old man, blinded by cataract, was brought in by a relative who carried him for a week in a bamboo basket from Bajhang.&nbsp; Back then in 1984, the charity-funded hospital only performed cataract operations when its Nordic surgeons were visiting. So the man had to be turned away. &nbsp; “It made me feel helpless, my inability to help the man touched me deeply. I made up my mind to be an eye surgeon myself,” Pant told us just before flying to Copenhagen to receive this year’s Boberg-Ans Award from the Danish Ophthalmological Society on 27 September for 'significant contribution to the dissemination and advancement of cataract surgery in the developing world'. In the past 40 years, Pant has done over 200,000 eye surgeries in Nepal, Burma, and around the world. He possibly holds the record for most eye surgeries: 312 in one day and 16,005 in one year. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/myopia">MYOPIA</a>, Yugeshwor Koirala Pant shuns publicity, and agreed to this interview after repeated requests. His is an extraordinary journey of determination, perseverance -- and vision. The cheapest and fastest way to become a doctor those days was to go to Russia. Pant left his wife with three children at home and went to Russia in 1992 and graduated in 1999 from Rostov-on-Don, specialising in eye surgery. He was then invited by his surgeon colleague from Geta, Dag Riise, to Hamar in Norway to get further training in ocular operations. The conflict was raging in Nepal, and Riise offered Pant a job in Hamar, but he refused. Pant did not just return to Nepal, but came back to Dhangadi to rejoin Geta.&nbsp; Riise regarded Pant as his “Nepali son” and the family invited him for his funeral in 2013 after he drowned at age 81 during a skiing accident. Back in Nepal, Pant devoted his life to expanding Geta, which offered free surgeries to patients from Nepal and India.&nbsp; Bidya Pant was trained as his surgical assistant by Albert Kolstad who founded Geta Eye Hospital in 1982 as a WHO and Norwegian government project. Kolstad’s wife Sissel Halden remembers Pant as a “gifted young man”. She adds: “My husband noticed his potential immediately. Bidya was smart, a fast learner and he started doing cataract surgery under supervision. His work as a surgeon was outstanding.” Read also:<a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/dhanvantari-miracle-men-sanduk-ruit-cataract-surgery,751"> The miracle men</a>, Buddha Basnyat  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240905100948_59cd6d0dbb32d14d337909ac270880f223547bc7a112271a2a4e4c1cd1fc4cb2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20240905100948_59cd6d0dbb32d14d337909ac270880f223547bc7a112271a2a4e4c1cd1fc4cb2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1600" height="1200" loading="lazy" alt="Bidya Prasad Pant eye surgeon NT 2"> <figcaption>Bidya Prasad Pant has performed over 200,000 ocular surgeries in the last 40 years, including in Burma, Ethiopia, Nepal and with Orbis Flying Eye Hospital.</figcaption> </figure>  When an Indian diplomat visiting Dhangadi noticed that 85% of the patients at Geta were from India, the embassy helped build an annexe to the hospital. More surgeons were trained, and at one point the hospital was performing 45,000 surgeries a year. <a href="https://helpmesee.org/meet-dr-bidya-pant-from-nepal/">Pant worked with HelpMeSee </a>to perform free surgeries in Nepal, and also on board<a href="https://www.orbis.org/en/news/2020/10-facts-flying-eye-hospital"> DC-10s of Orbis</a>, the flying eye hospital hopping to airports all over Africa, Asia and Latin America.&nbsp; Since 2014, Pant has been doing free eye surgeries for<a href="https://dak.org.au/"> Australia's DAK Foundation</a> in developing countries, and he and his team have performed 300,000 operations just in Burma. &nbsp; The need is still great because of the backlog of ageing patients, and greater ultraviolet solar radiation risk at higher altitudes due to the thinning of the stratospheric ozone layer. Cataract is the cause of more than half the blindness worldwide, and this will increase by 70% in the next 25 years.&nbsp; Read also: <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/sanduk-%C2%ADruit-%C2%ADtil-ganga,2574">New vision for Nepal</a>, Stéphane Huët One of the neediest places is the Burmese hinterland near Mandalay where Pant leads a team of surgeons at Tipitaka Chalupala Eye Hospital and Monastery. “When I first went to Yangon in 2013 there were people waiting up to six months in queue for eye surgery,” recalls Pant. Burmese Nepalis were excited a doctor from Nepal was doing the operations. When his father died last year in Dhangadi, Pant’s Burmese patients collected more than $4,500 as donation, which he promptly handed over to the monastery.&nbsp; Pant was not just operating, but also helping Burmese surgeons to be trained at Kathmandu’s <a href="https://tilganga.org/">Tilganga </a>and other hospitals.&nbsp; For his work in Burma, Pant was recognised by the British Medical Journal with the Surgical Team of the Year award, and the International Association of Preventive Blindness (IAPB) Eye Health Hero Award in 2017. &nbsp; Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/nepals-far-sighted-eye-care">Nepal's far-sighted eye care</a>, Sonia Awale

Nepali surgeon with a vision for the world

More than 2.5 million Nepalis left the country just in the last three years to study and work abroad. In the past year alone, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/push-factors-driving-nepalis-out">nearly 900,000 students and migrant workers flew out of Kathmandu airport</a>. These figures do not include those who crossed over to India.&nbsp;
There were, of course, returnees in that period, but it is estimated that up to 16% of Nepal’s population at any given time is outside the country. Most of them are 20-35 years old, which means an estimated q<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/nepals-demographic-window-is-closing">uarter of all Nepalis in that age group are abroad</a>.&nbsp;
It is mandatory for students going overseas to get a certificate from the Ministry of Education, and last year alone 112,593 were issued -- nearly double the pre-Covid figure (graph, below).
Before leaving, Nepali students officially exchanged Rs117 billion last year into hard currency to pay for their education costs. The actual figure through unregulated channels is probably higher.
<div class="embed-block"><iframe title="MORE NO OBJECTIONS" aria-label="Column Chart" id="datawrapper-chart-OBL1y" src="https://datawrapper.dwcdn.net/OBL1y/2/" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" style="width: 0; min-width: 100% !important; border: none;" height="600" data-external="1"></iframe><script type="text/javascript">!function(){"use strict";window.addEventListener("message",(function(a){if(void 0!==a.data["datawrapper-height"]){var e=document.querySelectorAll("iframe");for(var t in a.data["datawrapper-height"])for(var r=0;r<e.length;r++)if(e[r].contentWindow===a.source){var i=a.data["datawrapper-height"][t]+"px";e[r].style.height=i}}}))}(); </script>All graphs: RAMESH KUMAR</div>
<div class="embed-block"><iframe title="$ in, $ out" aria-label="Column Chart" id="datawrapper-chart-gUPnY" src="https://datawrapper.dwcdn.net/gUPnY/4/" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" style="width: 0; min-width: 100% !important; border: none;" height="600" data-external="1"></iframe><script type="text/javascript">!function(){"use strict";window.addEventListener("message",(function(a){if(void 0!==a.data["datawrapper-height"]){var e=document.querySelectorAll("iframe");for(var t in a.data["datawrapper-height"])for(var r=0;r<e.length;r++)if(e[r].contentWindow===a.source){var i=a.data["datawrapper-height"][t]+"px";e[r].style.height=i}}}))}(); </script></div>
Meanwhile, the 4 million <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/guest-editorial/the-migration-myth">Nepali migrant workers</a> in Malaysia, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, UAE, Kuwait, Korea, Europe and elsewhere sent back through banking channels Rs1.47 trillion in remittances ($11 billion) last year. Actual figures are higher.
“The great irony is that while poorer Nepalis toil in the Gulf and Malaysia to increase our foreign exchange reserves, middle and upper class families are exchanging a part of that money to pay for college fees, travel and medical care abroad,” points out migration researcher Ganesh Gurung.
The numbers going to Australia and Canada dropped last year because of visa restrictions. But that has been more than made up by a 30% uptick in <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-s-hard-working-students-overseas">Nepali students</a> going to the US (11,261) and UK (13,339) compared to last year.
But by far the largest number of students are going to <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/why-nepalis-are-flocking-to-okinawa">Japan</a> (34,731) which is also an increase of 30% over the previous year (map, below). Numbers going to <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/yo-man-ta-mero-nepali-ho">South Korea</a> doubled in one year to 6,889.&nbsp;
Nepalis go to 66 countries for higher studies, with <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/looking-for-the-nepali-dream">Denmark</a>, Finland and France becoming more popular, although the numbers are still much lower than the top six.
Till recently, Nepalis were the third largest number of foreign students in Australia. They were number three also in Canada. Nepalis were among the top ten in the US.
<div class="embed-block"><iframe title="TOP 6" aria-label="Grouped Columns" id="datawrapper-chart-mbIyZ" src="https://datawrapper.dwcdn.net/mbIyZ/2/" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" style="width: 0; min-width: 100% !important; border: none;" height="496" data-external="1"></iframe><script type="text/javascript">!function(){"use strict";window.addEventListener("message",(function(a){if(void 0!==a.data["datawrapper-height"]){var e=document.querySelectorAll("iframe");for(var t in a.data["datawrapper-height"])for(var r=0;r<e.length;r++)if(e[r].contentWindow===a.source){var i=a.data["datawrapper-height"][t]+"px";e[r].style.height=i}}}))}(); </script></div>
It is no secret that many young Nepalis leaving on student visas <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/migration-certificate">intend to emigrate permanently</a>.&nbsp;
Countries in the Global North experiencing declining populations know this, but find it a convenient way to allow controlled entry for much-needed workers in the service or tech sectors.
“Many young Nepalis plan to settle in first-world countries eventually, or to return only after 10-20 years,” affirms migration expert Ganesh Gurung.&nbsp;
“Destination countries benefit too, they are getting a new generation of cheap labour without having spent anything on raising or educating them. What’s more, they also earn university fees. It’s a way for them to allow calibrated migration,” he adds.
Nearly half the students coming out of 10+2 schools opt to go <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/Between-the-lines/More-Nepali-students-settle-overseas,528">abroad for higher education</a>, leading to a significant drop in college enrolment across Nepal.&nbsp;
Just like migrant workers are a safety valve that lets the government off the hook from providing jobs at home, students going abroad allows the state to dodge its responsibility to improve higher education quality here.&nbsp;
Indeed, some argue that better universities and colleges in Nepal would not lessen the exodus of young Nepalis, because many of them intend to emigrate for good.&nbsp;
“Yes, student visas have become a means to an end, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/hardworking-students">the goal is to work and settle</a>,” says Narottam Aryal of King’s College in Kathmandu. “But more alarming than the figures of students leaving is that we are taking it so casually, calling it normal."&nbsp;
He adds: “Let us not worry about people who will leave anyway, but focus on the students who will stay if Nepal’s higher education is system is redesigned, repurposed and reformed to foster an entrepreneurial mindset so they benefit the country.”&nbsp;
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The method of education in state-run colleges and universities are still stuck in the era of rote learning taught by under-motivated teachers using outdated curricula, regurgitating memorised answers at exam time. The university environment is politicised and there are frequent disruptions with delayed exam results.
One way to change this is twinning with international universities, but for this there has to be a less xenophobic and transparent government machinery that is open to new methods.
“Accreditations, partnerships and exchanges with institutions around the world will open up opportunities for students,” says Aryal. “The government should welcome foreign universities, they will force us to raise the standard of our education.”
Information technology and <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/grass-is-greener-overseas-for-nepals-doctors">medicine</a> are among the most lucrative options for Nepali students abroad. Institutions of higher learning in Nepal itself could specialise in inter-disciplinary liberal arts, social studies, agriculture and the environment, public health, hospitality, or heritage studies.&nbsp;
Youth are also leaving because there is no guarantee of jobs even when they get a higher degree here. <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/brain-drain-into-brain-gain">The informal sector</a> is still the biggest employer, and job options in private companies and civil service are limited.&nbsp;
Ganesh Gurung says the education sector must adapt to the changing labour market such that Nepal produces skilled human resources in the areas with high demand like <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nursing-grievances-against-the-state">nursing</a>.
He adds, “The focus must be on our strengths. The economy can be revived by making the best use of Nepal’s natural beauty to generate jobs in the hospitality industry, and turn it into a <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/go-away">destination for international retirees</a>.”&nbsp;

Brain gain into brain drain

A flash debris flow just after noon on 16 August had damaged half the village of Thame in the Everest region, but no human casualties have been reported.&nbsp; Experts and residents have said <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/himalayan-icecap-melting-faster-than-thought">rapid melting of the Himalaya</a> due to climate breakdown was the cause of this and more frequent flash floods on Nepal glacier-fed rivers in the past years. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-s-mountains-are-melting">Nepal’s mountains are melting</a>, Alton C Byers  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240817040812_b5c90a2ec0cdf7aede204f3912c646f2a30b8fbb668548f8f6ba832c47e6a608.png" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20240817040812_b5c90a2ec0cdf7aede204f3912c646f2a30b8fbb668548f8f6ba832c47e6a608" data-rendition-name="original" width="1050" height="535" loading="lazy" alt="Thame flash flood NT 2"> <figcaption>Friday afternoon after the flood hit Thame.</figcaption> </figure>  Early reports said five lodges, a school, a health clinic and 12 homes were damaged in Thame, which usually has a population of 300 Sherpa people who depend mostly on trekking and mountaineering for their livelihood. One person who was trapped in one of the buildings is said to be missing.&nbsp; Thame was hit by an even more devastating <a href="https://www.researchgate.net/figure/Dig-Tsho-4-400-m-as1-the-pear-shaped-glacial-lake-lies-embedded-in-the-uppermost_fig12_271811212" target="_blank">glacial lake outburst flood on 4 August 1985</a> when the Dig Tso lake burst after an avalanche from the east face of the 6,940m high Tengi Rau fell into the lake. Twelve people were killed then, a hydropower plant was destroyed and part of the Everest trekking trail was washed away. Thame also suffered extensive damage in the 2015 earthquake.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240817030856_ab024c339325d46527245315cdf1682da699499c8b2532388f4d8d93e76d0c72.png" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20240817030856_ab024c339325d46527245315cdf1682da699499c8b2532388f4d8d93e76d0c72" data-rendition-name="original" width="1182" height="774" loading="lazy" alt="4 August 1985 Dig Tso lake glacial lake outburst flood NT"> <figcaption>The glacial lake outburst flood in 1985. </figcaption> </figure>  Dig Tso has again filled up in the past decades due to glacial melt and could have burst again, experts say. There was heavy rain in the catchment area of the Bhote Kosi this week, and this could have also swept down melted glacial moraine from further up the mountain.&nbsp; “Unfortunately, those of us who have done the least to contribute to this man-made climate change are the ones facing the worst consequences,” said Dawa Steven Sherpa, mountaineer and tourism entrepreneur. “When will we learn that for many of us, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/the-climate-crisis-is-a-water-crisis-in-the-himalaya">the threats of climate change</a> are not in some distant future but are already happening?” Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/living-with-climate-anxiety">Living with climate anxiety</a>, Rastraraj Bhandari <div class="embed-block"><div><div style="left: 0; width: 100%; height: 0; position: relative; padding-bottom: 56.25%;"><iframe src="//cdn.iframe.ly/api/iframe?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fembed%2FkYJ95MCRpWY%3Fsi%3DEuyCEbZPK8Eew368&key=87ca3314a9fa775b5c3a7726100694b0" style="top: 0; left: 0; width: 100%; height: 100%; position: absolute; border: 0;" allowfullscreen scrolling="no" allow="accelerometer *; clipboard-write *; encrypted-media *; gyroscope *; picture-in-picture *; web-share *;"></iframe></div></div></div> Thame is on the former trade route between Nepal’s Khumbu region and Tibet across the 5,806m high Nangpa La pass. After The Chinese annexation of Tibet, the trade route was closed and the Sherpa people turned from being traders to mountaineering guides. There are several other smaller glacial lakes upstream from Thame, and a team from the National Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Authority (NDRRMA) flew to the valley on Saturday morning to find the actual cause. “We weren’t aware that the lakes were at the risk of bursting but we suspect it might have been Dig Tso again, or one of them,” Ward chair Pasang Galzen Sherpa. Dig is a highland yak pasture below the lakes, and it is not known if any livestock of herders were affected.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240817040812_08b1a13e9e5cff070775f7b91aa46e1c57298a26e56f7ddf8e75586020fff596.png" data-media-id="editor_8" data-image-id="20240817040812_08b1a13e9e5cff070775f7b91aa46e1c57298a26e56f7ddf8e75586020fff596" data-rendition-name="original" width="1070" height="1610" loading="lazy" alt="Glacial outburst Thame flash flood NT 3"> </figure>  The sudden flood in Thame Khola at about 1:30PM on Friday gave locals just enough time to flee to safer higher ground. The trekking off-season meant this Sherpa village of 45 families at about 3,800m in Khumbu Valley was relatively empty. Thame is also the staging point for the Renzo La traverse from Thame to Gokyo Valley. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/tracing-past-glacial-floods-in-kangchenjunga">Tracing past glacial floods in Kangchenjunga</a>, Alton C Byers  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240817040816_72a0727d11706de3e845caf759a3356f47c5751f72535d4d2bd7ecc3baa31a42.png" data-media-id="editor_10" data-image-id="20240817040816_72a0727d11706de3e845caf759a3356f47c5751f72535d4d2bd7ecc3baa31a42" data-rendition-name="original" width="1300" height="926" loading="lazy" alt="Thame flash flood NT 4"> </figure>  The District Administration Office of Khotang issued an alert about a flash flood downstream on the Dudh Kosi into which the Bhote Kosi flows. The District Police Office, Halesi Tuwachung Municipality, Aiselukharka Rural Municipality and Rawabensi Rural Municipality have asked people to move to higher ground, but no casualties or major damage was reported overnight. Nepal Police in Thambuche and Namche and a team from the Nepal Army have been deployed in the flood-damaged areas. Helicopter flights were prevented from reaching the site on Friday due to bad weather.