At the start of May, Bunu Dhungana brought some things in the belly home to Nepal. When she had curated the first iteration of the show in 2023, in Delhi, she had hoped she would be able to bring it home, and she did. The exhibition opened to the public in Kathmandu at Nepal Art Council on 2 May and closes on 16 May. The exhibition brings together works by Asmita Badi, Irina Giri, Shradha Devkota, Tripty Tamang Pakhrin, Shristi Shrestha, Ujjwala Maharjan, and the curator, Bunu Dhungana herself. And there’s an installation of yours truly. In the step up to the show, Bunu organised calls for the artists. Tripty joined at odd hours from her newfound home in Syracuse. As did Shradha from her home in London. Ujjwala joined, from her many different trips to India and other places in Nepal.&nbsp; The rest of us joined from wherever we were in Nepal during call hours, probing the unknown, most of us unsure what we wanted to present to the public. The only thing we had clarity on was the theme Bunu had suggested: mother-daughter relationship. And we were to exchange letters with our mothers. Some of us wrote letters to our mothers from the comfort of our homes, some from Pokhara, or whichever town we were in at the time of writing-- sending it by snail mail, which thankfully, hasn’t gone obsolete yet! Our mothers responded to us from their comfort nooks, each one, taking it up seriously like little girls responding to school assignments. Standing before the wall that has the mothers’ letters at the exhibition, one is easily struck by the basicness of the stationery used by the mothers to write to their daughters. They use pages torn out from a notebook, loose examination sheets or even an abandoned diary. So simple and so straightforward. And in that, powerful. Like the truth of the uterus that is all mothers. In the letters, their emotions take center-stage, as maternal emotions do, coming from a place of wanting the best for their daughters-- to protect them, and to keep them happy and healthy. Daughters’ desires are not too different from that of the mothers. But they come in more complex forms and through different mediums. They write an entire journal on these feelings, write pages and pages, enough to fill a room, weave poems and songs from the rhythm that connects the phantom umbilical cord to the mother. Daughters compose images-- some of oil and smoke, some of suffocation, of stillness, of water and ice and of open spaces and of moments of strife, like something heavy being dragged up a stairway by a lone woman.&nbsp; “While not all the works were made exclusively for the show, I did create new pieces - paper made from a letter I wrote to my mothers, and a series of linoleum cut prints. These processes made me reflect more deeply on the role of repetitive, physical labor in my practice and how it relates to the everyday labor of my mothers,” says Tripty, who documents work dedicated to her two mothers. And there are bright hues in gouache, where mothers and daughters are arrested in moments of fun and chit-chat or even just being at the table watching Tiktok. There’s abandoned sound in a dark, spotlit corner, which takes the listener through a journey of contemplation and upheavals. And there are stories from the kitchen, the base for most mothers in the world. For many of us, it is sometimes impossible to separate the fragrance of spices from our mothers or to tell the spices apart from the scent of our mothers.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250514140528_1dd1b5f95e6230f49afb3b084b88542b3fbcc6a454548a3eee60ee85724f7215.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20250514140528_1dd1b5f95e6230f49afb3b084b88542b3fbcc6a454548a3eee60ee85724f7215" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="some things in the belly"> </figure>  some things in the belly is an intimate exhibition, and as the show got underway, visitors were seen returning as if to collect something they had left behind. Many kept coming back to read and to write. And that was precisely what Bunu had wanted to create-- a safe space. Visitors sat down, read, wrote letters to their mothers, listened, watched, laughed and wept. Ujjwala says: “The [letter-posting] wall, how it’s growing and how people are reading and writing, that’s the most interesting thing for me. You don’t know how people connect and what hits who. But I’ve seen people tearing up at the letter-writing section. You forget that it does reach the people it needs to reach.” Bunu’s aim when she was taking on the challenge of curating the exhibition was to also create a circle of sisterhood, by bringing together women to work together on a theme. And in the process, she has also managed to help the artists involved create and learn from one another and to be deeply touched by the familiarity of sentiments. “Each piece is so different and that is the beauty of this exhibition that has come together. Tripty’s and Shradha’s work, the experimentation was very inspiring for me and the process itself...what has come out is powerful,” explains Ujjwala.&nbsp; She adds: “They are visual artists but the poetry in it is so beautiful. Shristi’s work, I fell in love with. The care of it. Ashmita’s work, too. To textual people, the importance of a desk and sitting down, the tactileness of books that inspire us. What would mom write? What would their lives be like...the imagination is dreaming along with our moms-- the amalgamation of dreams.” In one of her journal notes to her mother, Ujjwala mentions she can’t remember how long it has been since she gazed carefully into her mother’s face. One pauses to read that sentence again. How long since we did that? At the heart of the stories in the exhibition is also intergenerational trauma and mother-daughter conflict-- how mothers and daughters tug in different directions, even when they’re chasing the same love.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250514140528_d150acebaa02da545dd3c92db7c1202aef73e60d600537106ec0db40dc84cbfc.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20250514140528_d150acebaa02da545dd3c92db7c1202aef73e60d600537106ec0db40dc84cbfc" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="some things in the belly"> </figure>  When Hishila Yami and her daughter Manushi visited the exhibition with little Yugeen in tow, we caught up on this topic briefly. Manushi said: “We hold so much in our hearts and who do we tell it all to? So we end up dumping it on our mothers. Because who else is there for us as mothers are? “We have such complex relationships of love with our mothers,” Bunu said.&nbsp; All loves have their own equations. The love daughters feel for their mothers is raw and tender and full of familiarity. Everything daughters want for their mother is the same they would want for their daughter, so in that, we serve an endless knot.&nbsp; Then there’s the question of language. What language really serves as a bridge in the gap that exists in mother-daughter relationships? How do we make up in language for the absence of words that can ever convey the sentiments? And so the process of creating some things in the belly has been something like reforging mother-daughter relationships in the crucible. “Each one of us has shaped our practices, and stepped more fully into ourselves. Watching that unfold has been such a privilege,” says Shradha. “I hope, as a collective, this exhibition has offered something real for people to hold onto, reflect upon, or carry with them.” Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/our-mothers-silences">Our mothers' silences</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar some things in the belly Till 16 May Nepal Art Council, Baber Mahal

Pratibha Tuladhar

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Suburban Tales

Dear Maa,

I’ve been stalking a man since 2013. Twelve years is a long time to pursue someone. I first saw him at a busy bar in Pokhara, where I was hanging out with my girlfriends. In a space crammed with youngsters, his long, flowing grey beard set him apart. James (Jim) Robinson looked more like a man out of Hogwarts School.
And I knew I had to speak with him!
And that set off many years of wooing, if you may. When I first saw him, I kindled a conversation and I sat next to him for a few minutes. I found out that he had been coming to Nepal since his first visit as a young hippie man.
Did he have a number I could call him at or email? Jim said he didn’t do emails or cell phones.
In December 2016, when I was in Pokhara, I inquired about Jim at the bar he frequents. I left a note with my number on it asking Jim to call. I went back the next day to ask if Jim had received the note. He had. But there was no call.
Looking for Jim in Pokhara had become a ritual-- my friends found my pursuit funny. If I happened to be there in winter, I would show up at the bar, wait, leave a note sometimes. There was no response.
One time, during the pre-Covid era, I met Jim on a green tourist bus heading to Kathmandu from Pokhara. He needed to call a friend in Thamel and I offered him my phone for use and also its number. He pocketed the piece of paper and left it at that.
In 2023, I was at an old bakery in Thamel to meet a girlfriend. I ran into Jim there and introduced myself again, quickly wrote my number down: Can I give you my number?
&nbsp;And no, he didn’t call.
In 2024, I ran into Jim in Pokhara at the Literature Festival. I reminded him of our many half-meetings. This time, I didn’t offer my number. Then he asked me if he could have my number and also said he had also joined Facebook recently and could now keep in touch.
As I wrote down my number and email for him, I told him it was the third time I was giving him my number. I think I set Jim off on a guilt trip, because then he started to email, finally agreeing to meet me.
Last week, we met at the same old bakery in Thamel. The cafe was fragrant with the fumes of hot coffee and the joy of cinnamon rolls wafting through the air. Jim and I found a table at the topmost floor. He said he was willing to do an interview if I was still interested. But I found that the scribe in me had become replaced by something of a quiet listener.
I asked Jim about the many fascinating, expensive gems-studded rings on his fingers. He gave me details about how each of them had come to find a place on his fingers. He also explained to me the journeys of the gems on his necklace. Jim has been collecting the stones since he first showed up in Nepal in 1968 as a 23-year-old.
When the hippie movement made waves in certain parts of the world in the mid-1960s, Kathmandu wasn’t untouched by its ripples. Youth from the west, driven by their quest for freedom, peace and love, showed up in Kathmandu among other places, making Jhochhen (Freak Street) their home. Jim was one of them.
On his way to Nepal from the UK on his first trip, he stopped in Israel where he worked as a tomatoes and cucumber picker and then spent some time in India before arriving in Nepal.
The journey-by-land spanning across weeks, was deliberate and purposeful. As opposed to it, he now takes the flight from the UK every year in December to arrive in Nepal, and goes back at the start of spring. While in Nepal, he spends his time pretty much the same way he did many years ago-- except, instead of smoking up and chilling with fellow hippies, he now drinks beer and hops bars to find the best music.
Jim, like some of us, thrives in solitude. Much of his time in Kathmandu and Pokhara is made up of that. At bars, he speaks with strangers and has a good time swaying to live music.
Why have you been coming back all these years, I ask him and he says: Because I love Nepal!
When he arrived in 1968, he saw Swayambu and was blown away. “I had never seen anything like it! This beautiful temple on the top of a hill!” Jim explains how in no other place in the world, had he seen monuments of different faiths alongside each other. When he saw it in Nepal his mind was blown to never be the same again, he says. He knew he had to keep coming back.
Back in the day, Jim stayed in Freak Street, the hippies’ hub. The amenities were basic but sources of entertainment were accessible there. “The only place you could buy cakes was the Snowman. All other places sold Nepali food. And there was just one souvenir shop that sold khukuri and that kind of stuff.”
Jim says it hasn’t been easy to follow the changes in Kathmandu over the years, but he doesn’t mind the change as much as he minds the way people have turned to technology. He isn’t a fan of cell phones and he doesn’t carry one. But his daughter (who he visits in Canada once a year) has gifted him an iPad so they can stay in touch.
Apart from spending lone time in Nepal, Jim also shops for silver rings, sometimes buying them for himself and sometimes taking some back to the UK to sell them.
His now off-white beard, leaping down his face and his colourful rings flashing around the room as he moves his hands when he speaks, manages to catch the attention of a Chinese tourist seated at a nearby table. Later, as we are leaving the bakery, she catches up and shows a photo of Jim on her phone: Is this you? I took your picture in Pokhara. I love your rings!”
&nbsp;Then she asks: Can I take a picture with you?
Jim says no at first, and then says okay, maybe. As I say goodbye and walk away, I smile knowing he’s no longer denying people the opportunity to interact with him. Perhaps someday, he will eventually spill the story of his life.
Jim turns 80 this month. I had asked him how many more years he intends to keep coming back to Nepal and he said: “Let your life be like a leaf cast upon the ocean. Go with the flow.”
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people in Pratibha’s life.

Chasing a nomad

Rameshwor Bhaiya was a mailman and a chowkidar rolled into one. He was stationed at Loreto College, Southfield in Darjeeling for many many years, until he retired.
I learned the other day from a WhatsApp group that he recently passed away at a hospital in Siliguri after battling throat <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-s-other-pandemic-cancer">cancer</a> for a long time. I had forgotten all about him until I saw the message.&nbsp;
Rameshwor Bhaiya was a petite, agile man, always taking mails to the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/is-nepal-entering-the-post-post-office-era">post office </a>and fetching them back. He was always busy, walking with brisk, soft steps, sometimes stopping in the lunchroom for a glass of water, the last one sitting down to eat because the mail had to be done in the first hour.&nbsp;
For his physical stature, I cannot recall how he managed his guard work as a chowkidar, but he must have been good at that too, because he kept some 500 girls safe everyday.
Rameshwor Bhaiya always wore his hair oiled and combed back with a side parting, neatly. His postal bag slung over his shoulder, the strap falling across his chest was bulky on some days and some days it would be shriveled up and swinging in the air with the lack of weight.&nbsp;
He wore gray or khaki sweaters mostly and a jacket the same tint. His trousers were in the same shades too, and once in a while, he would spot a colourful shirt -- there was a maroon one with a fading collar. The V of one of his V-neck sweaters had come undone and looked like a Y with a short tail instead and I don’t remember that he ever fixed it.
I do not even remember his full name. But we all understood from a way of understanding caste and religion in South Asia that he was a Hindu, North Indian man who had moved to<a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/Connecting-dots/Darjeeling-and-the-idea-of-Nepal,944"> Darjeeling</a> for work. We never understood where his family was because he lived on campus.
The Southfield building was known to have once been the summer palace of a Maharaja of Burdwan, and by then had become Rameshwor Bhaiya’s home. He lived in a small room on the ground floor of the building, close to the lift. Sometimes, he would point at the lift and explain how the pulley worked. It had to be pulled by men to move the lift users up and down the two-storey durbar. But as chowkidar, Rameshwor Bhaiya was the sole nighttime occupant of that house.
In the morning, he woke up to the nuisance of monkeys from the Mahakal temple right above Southfield. And the morning would get noisier as the cleaners came in and then the girls and the teacher would start to trickle in, first slowly and then in quick steps and in full numbers as the bell for the first class went off.
My roommate Meenu and I were sincere letter writers. We wrote to parents, to friends, to admirers sometimes. Sometimes, to boys we crushed on. (I mean, I did.) Meenu was always more careful about how she put her feelings out there. But she was the one always doing couriers home. Her mother would send her parathas and achar and ladoo by courier, all the way from Phuentsholing, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/small-bhutan-dreams-big">Bhutan</a>, our midnight snack. So, Meenu maintained a cordial relationship with Rameshwor Bhaiya.
Our hostel was at the Convent in Springfield and we were only allowed outings on weekends, which meant mails had to often wait a whole week until Saturday. On Sundays we couldn’t mail. That was when Rameshwor Bhaiya would come to our rescue. If we needed to send a mail to the post office or courier something on weekdays, we would give it to him and he would make sure it was done. For us, the Indian postal service’s efficiency thrived on Rameshwor Bhaiya’s existence.
When we returned to hostel life from our holidays, some of us would bring little gifts to the staff. I used to bring pustakari from Nepal for Rameshwor Bhaiya. He said once that it hurt his mouth to suck on them but he still enjoyed it. He was more of a connoisseur of paan, but he appreciated the gesture.
The campus was always bustling with staff, but when I think of Rameshwor Bhaiya letters instantly come to mind. There was the post office and the smell of mail and the feeling of rippling open an envelope and thrusting the fingers into it to reveal its content to the self.&nbsp;
Once or twice, I had surprise letters from a secret admirer and I was worried they would be discovered. No, having a boyfriend was not encouraged. In fact, we were often pre-emtively reminded of the student who went on a walk to the mall road with her boyfriend and was gang-raped by strangers, an incident Late Peter J Karthak records in one of his novels.
So, we led sheltered lives. Mama’s girls and Daddy’s girls, all huddled together in classrooms, heads buried in textbooks, but our minds wondering who to borrow the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/14-books-to-read-gift-love-this-valentine-s">next romance novel</a> from. Cloistered, free of the world’s strings, we bubbled with hope for all kinds of things. Mostly, for what our <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/scoring-a-better-future-for-nepals-soccer-girls">future as women</a> in the real world would be like.
And in his own little way, Rameshwor Bhaiya made lives possible for us because he brought us letters, documents, exam results, notices from the University of West Bengal.
“Is there a letter for me, Rameshwor Bahiya?” Sometimes he would joke and say no even if there was one. Usually there was no mail for me at Southfield. But there was always Rameshwor Bhaiya with his postal bag -- the bag of hope.
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

The man who came bearing letters

Frangipani always finds me. The first time, they were strewn over my pillows at a Colombo hotel. I had no memory of seeing the<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/when-flowers-become-feed-for-the-livestock"> flowers </a>before and I fell in love with the fragrance, the fleshy petals, generous just so. Then I never saw them again until I started my life in Chiang Mai. I lived in a gated community, where the avenues were lined with frangipani trees. When Mona and P’Champ took me around house hunting, I zeroed in on houses that had frangipani trees. I eventually had to settle for one with a wall of tall strands of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/bardia-s-birds">birds</a> of paradise, instead. But there were frangipani trees the moment I stepped out of my gate lining the roads, meeting me everywhere I went. They felt like friends.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025021609020_59326ead694a156d5c60523aab070983909e0eabae52b46a8d488fb1629434b2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="2025021609020_59326ead694a156d5c60523aab070983909e0eabae52b46a8d488fb1629434b2" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Frangipani"> </figure>  Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/we-used-to-be-flowering-trees">We used to be flowering trees</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar In November 2024, they found me in Goa. I showed up in Pilerne, a village in the north of Goa, to spend alone time at my friend V’s stowed away house. The idea was to learn to make peace with myself. And to finish unfinished assignments. I cannot remember where I picked such a habit, but since the time I was a child, I’ve always had to bury myself in solitude. By the time I had grown into a woman, the need had sort of leveled up and found me sitting at cafes buzzing with strangers for hours, and/or holed up in strange hotel rooms so I could just be. One time in <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/a-villa-in-thamel">Thamel</a>, the receptionist looked at me searchingly. He was probably not used to girls renting rooms for a day to be on their own. And now, well into my 40s, the question still gets thrown at me. In Goa, at V’s house, the caretakers of Casa Pilerne were curious about me. Why had I chosen to come live in isolation? How did it feel to be the sole resident in a colony of fifteen houses? What did I do for a living? Where had I come from? Where would I go next? On my first day in the village, the housing manager had told me to strictly follow a bunch of rules. Not to leave the house alone after 5PM. Not to loiter in the village alone as feral dogs were likely to gang up on me. Not to wear shorts. No, I did not wear shorts during my walks. Even in Goa heat. And I tried to keep to the 4-5PM walking slot. On my first day, my legs were aching for a long stride and took me further than I had planned, all the way to the nearest highway. The road is scenic, and is a reminder of some scenes from a Bollywood movie Dear Jindagi, lined with coconut trees on both sides, making way for the golden fields.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250216080252_85f64b65f2393d85fb848a851810b642d5b0cf9f8a66cb96fb80bd59ee6b2ac5.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20250216080252_85f64b65f2393d85fb848a851810b642d5b0cf9f8a66cb96fb80bd59ee6b2ac5" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Goa 2"> </figure>  &nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250216080252_0ad78340790912dd155ab81c3d529f8a460ad71e27068828f0e5bf175b52cc3b.jpg" data-media-id="editor_6" data-image-id="20250216080252_0ad78340790912dd155ab81c3d529f8a460ad71e27068828f0e5bf175b52cc3b" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Goa 3"> </figure>  I stopped when I saw birds, to listen, took pictures and walked some more. When a car started to follow me, I didn’t realise. Three men in a white car, they rolled down the window and tried to make signs at me and talk to me. I tried not to look at them and I kept walking ahead, my skin crawling and the air suddenly feeling very hot and humid. I walked on until a bus came towards us from the other end, and then a scooter with two boys riding on it yelled and waved at me. Then the car made a U-turn and left. I just walked on. So fast, I didn’t even stop to glance at the man from Rukum, who ran a small convenience store by the road and had earlier sold me a nail-cutter.&nbsp; The feral <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/kathmandu-s-street-smart-dogs">dogs </a>probably caught sense of the fear emanating from my body. And then it happened. Five of them came at me at once! They barked, snarled and surrounded me. And at this point, I just froze and stood very still. The only people in sight, a couple seated at the bus stand, did not leave their seats to come help me. But an elderly man, carrying heavy iron tools, the kind you use to work the roads, showed up and shouted at the dogs. Chal chal! Chalejao! I shouted my loudest. He brandished his tools at them and they dispersed. He told me not to worry and to keep walking. And I walked at the same pace, barely breathing until I reached the casa. I learned that day to bring a stick with me during my walks. It scathed the dog-lover hubris in me to be wielding a stick to protect myself from dogs. But it was the only way. The <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/repairing-rural-roads-nepal-earthquake,3985">village roads</a> were mostly deserted. Every few metres, I was likely to run into a passerby returning from work or school. They would glance at my stick and look away-- I probably became known as the woman who walks with a stick. Pilerne is a lovely old Portuguese settlement with large, sprawling colonial era houses, and frangipani trees everywhere. Most of the old houses have been abandoned as the residents have mostly moved to Portugal, following a fading bloodline. The incidents with men did not end with the car stalkers. I would encounter a young man near a church every evening, playing on his mobile phone, trying to make conversation with me. Then a man would follow me while calling out to me. And a small group of men on motorbikes would park at the same place every evening and watch me. And everytime, I would step up my stick game. I would stop by a big tree outside the colony, to find a better stick. Everytime I needed reassurance, I would wave the stick in the air a little. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/memories-of-a-country-in-transition">Memories of a country in transition</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar In two weeks of walking the same road to and fro five times to keep up with my steps count, I had learned by heart the nooks and corners of the Pilerne road, the colour of the houses, the smell of the trees, the voice of a certain man from Pondicherry who lives in a yellow bungalow with two frangipani trees that bear pink flowers. And I had learned by heart, the smile of the gardener who used to be out tending to the garden with a massive frangipani in the front yard. He became, sort of, my only acquaintance in the village.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025021609020_97320ff0451ed625718c01246ce96cb5fb1613eac2bc9b3d80543acd0f5433be.jpg" data-media-id="editor_10" data-image-id="2025021609020_97320ff0451ed625718c01246ce96cb5fb1613eac2bc9b3d80543acd0f5433be" data-rendition-name="original" width="960" height="1280" loading="lazy" alt="Frangipani trees"> </figure>  By the time I was ready to say goodbye to Pilerne, we had started to wave at each other. And I was no longer as terrified of walking in the village.&nbsp; Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

No tips on walking here

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

The tenderness in men

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

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

Fenerbahçe Beko won the Turkish Airlines EuroLeague finals in Abu Dhabi, held 23-25 May, defeating Monaco 81-70 in the final. Olympiacos, who defeated Panathinaikos 97-93, finished the series in third place. The Most Valuable Player (MVP) of the final match, Nigel Hayes-Davis from Fenerbahçe Beko, received a prize of 1,000,000 Miles&amp;Smiles from Turkish Airlines’ Chief Commercial Officer Ahmet Olmuştur. The carrier has been the title sponsor of the Turkish Airlines EuroLeague, a top tier tournament, since 2010.

Turkish Basketball

Thousands of Nepali students dreaming of an American education have been forced to look elsewhere as the Trump administration’s visa restrictions make their future uncertain.
The US was long considered a top destination for higher studies, making Nepal the 10th biggest country of origin for international students in America.&nbsp;
However, that number has seen a significant decline with the total for Nepali students now at 16,482. Some 8,000 Nepali students obtained no-objection certificates to study in the US from the Ministry of Education in the past year.&nbsp;
India, Australia, Canada, South Korea, United Kingdom and Japan are the other popular destinations for Nepali students. There are no clear numbers for Nepalis going to India, but a slight decline was noted this year after the deaths of two female students.
The US State Department has issued a circular to its embassies not to issue new visas to applicants until further notice. US Secretary of State Marco Rubio in the directive stated that the department planned to expand the screening of applicants' social media.&nbsp;
While new applicants are barred including those applying for visitor visas, students with scheduled interviews are allowed to proceed.
“Many of our students are affected by the new restrictions, but those who had applied for student visas earlier have got interview dates,” one Kathmandu-based college counsellor told us.
Meanwhile, even foreign students with spotless records already in the US have not been spared, as visa scrutiny intensifies under the new policy. In a move that underscores the growing sense of insecurity, many US colleges advised international students to carry their passports and documents at all times, even when traveling locally.
“Me and my friends did not go home this summer because we were not sure we would be allowed back, so we just went to Niagara Falls,” said a Nepali undergrad in Ohio, who like many interviewed for this report did not want her name used for fear of repercussion.
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Nepali students have adopted a cautious stance, with many choosing not to return home during summer vacation due to fear of visa revocations as well as travel bans. Meanwhile, over 7,000 Nepalis with Temporary Protected Status (TPS) will have to come back to Nepal by 5 August or face deportation. Thirty-seven were flown back to Kathmandu on Omni Air last week.
“The US is one of the most sought-after destinations for higher education, and the ban will definitely impact bright students,” says Narottam Aryal of the King’s College in Kathmandu.
Indeed, Nepali undergraduates admitted into Ivy League colleges for the 2025 academic year have been asked to look for alternatives. The entire Fulbright Foreign Scholarships Board resigned on Wednesday citing interference from the Trump administration on the selection of this year’s cohort. Some Nepali students already on Fulbright scholarships have noted disruptions, delays and even cancellation of stipends.&nbsp;
The student visa restrictions were initially just for foreign students admitted to Harvard University, but it was later extended to all Chinese students and now to all students. Universities like Columbia which actively recruit foreign students, face sharp enrolment declines, threatening their financial stability and diversity.
An Indian female PhD candidate at Columbia University had her visa revoked by the US State Department, and said she was targeted on the basis of her social media posts on Israeli military attacks in Gaza. Social media vetting of political activism has raised concerns about privacy and freedom of expression in a country where such rights were a given.
Many students have been informed via email that their visas have been revoked for getting speeding or parking tickets, but even others with no criminal record have been affected. The fear of deportation looms large amongst international students, including those from Nepal.&nbsp;
For most Nepalis who migrate to the US for education, the journey is a high-stakes investment. They come largely from middle-class families, often rely on a patchwork of scholarships, work-study programs, loans, or even the sale of family assets to afford fees.
Most Nepali students pursue STEM subjects which offer extended Optional Practical Training (OPT) periods that help fund their education. But with the US backsliding on education and humanitarian matters, countries like the UK and Canada are becoming more attractive despite their own recent stricter controls on student visas.&nbsp;
The UK universities saw a 63% rise in Nepali students’ admissions in 2024. Japan is another popular destination with 64,816 Nepali students enrolled as of 2024.
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Already, China, Hong Kong and Malaysia are poised to benefit from the increased scrutiny of US student visas. Several Hong Kong universities are offering unconditional admission to affected students, while Malaysian institutions are targeting previously US-bound Asian students. China and India have 330,000 and 280,000 students respectively in America, but the numbers for China have seen a sharp drop in the past year.
Elsewhere, branch campuses of American institutions such as NYU in Abu Dhabi, Georgetown in Dubai and Northwestern in Doha are getting more admission applications, and universities in the Gulf region are expanding infrastructure to accommodate those who would otherwise have gone to the US.&nbsp;
Even educational institutions in Nepal are hopeful that the US visa restrictions can be an opportunity to at least keep Nepali undergrads in Nepal, and also attract foreign students from the region.&nbsp;
“Many students might choose to complete their undergraduate degree here in Nepal and then move abroad for their Master’s degree later,” says Aryal of King’s College. “There was a need for quality higher education in Nepal anyway in terms of innovation and opportunities, so this could be the time to reduce our dependence on other countries.”
Nepal’s strategic position between India and China makes it sensitive to US policy shifts. India, a key ally, is also under US scrutiny for potential student travel restrictions. Chinese universities are already offering more scholarships to Nepali talent to capitalise on the US retreat.
American universities have challenged student visa restrictions in the courts. A federal court in Boston revoked the blanket ban on Harvard, and the State Department has ordered the resumption of processing student and exchange visitor visas.&nbsp;
Some are still hoping that President Trump will backtrack on the student visa restrictions, just like he has done with many of his more drastic executive orders.
Even so, the visa see-saw and longer-term uncertainties about living in the United States and its education system means students across the world are making alternative plans.
Says Aryal: “Policies of foreign countries change according to their needs, so excessive dependence was never a good idea. We should work to create different opportunities and choices of higher education within Nepal, so students are retained.” &nbsp;

America no longer prime destination for Nepali students

While Nepal was hosting the Sagarmatha Sambaad international climate conference in Kathmandu this month, on Mt Everest it was pretty much business as usual.&nbsp; The signs of climate breakdown are all there: a river now runs through Base Camp in summer, the Khumbu Icefall is more unstable, and there are more &nbsp;frequent avalanches. When expeditions arrived in March, the mountains were bare: it had not snowed since September, but then blizzards dumped unseasonal snow in May. And despite climate worries, such is the pull of Himalayan mountaineering that the Everest Industry showed no signs of slowdown. More than 600 international climbers and their Nepali guides had made it to the summit of the world’s highest mountain. At one point there were an estimated 2,000 people in the tent city on the Khumbu Glacier. All the ropes and ladders on the Icefall came down on Thursday, marking the official end of the spring climbing season, and just in time to avoid a monsoon cyclone approaching from the Bay of Bengal. It has been an action-packed season. One factor could be that Everest fees will go up from September: each foreign climber needs to pay a $15,000 royalty, up from the present $11,000. The cost for a Nepali climber on the South Col route will also go up: from Rs75,000 to Rs150,000.&nbsp; The fee to climb Everest in autumn is $7,500 (up from $5,500), but most climbers still prefer spring. Winter permit fee (December-February) is only $3,750 per person and the mountain is now also open for monsoon (June-August) climbs, when the fee is ever lower at $2,750. The revised rule also makes it mandatory for every two climbers on an 8,000m peak to hire one Nepali mountain guide.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025053004050_67f856fe52714e4bdcf21ae7d45c6f18c82117b9d0a5f73ed1efa04c96de1046.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2025053004050_67f856fe52714e4bdcf21ae7d45c6f18c82117b9d0a5f73ed1efa04c96de1046" data-rendition-name="original" width="931" height="732" loading="lazy" alt="The Everest Industry graph 1"> </figure>  In addition, climbers also have to pay for porters and guides, equipment, Base Camp costs, Ice Fall and fixed rope team fees, so climbing Everest does not come cheap. But such is the draw of climbing the world’s highest peak that some say the increased fees will not diminish the crowds next year. The government has tried to spread expeditions out to other seasons and other 8,000ers, but with not much success. Earlier this year, Nepal unilaterally increased the number of 8,000m peaks to 14 by adding six more sub-summits to broaden the choice for climbers. Added were: Yalung Kang (8,505m), Yalung Kang West (8,077m) &nbsp;Kangchenjunga Central (8,473m), Kangchenjunga South (8,476m), Lhotse Middle (8,410m) and Lhotse Shar (8,400m).&nbsp; The announcement could go against the accepted topographic criteria that a stand alone peak has to be at least 300m higher than an adjoining prominence, and at more than 3km isolation from it. The UIAA (Union Internationale des Associations d'Alpinisme) still recognises only 14 mountains as eight-thousanders, and only eight of those are in Nepal, or on the border with China. Nepal’s revised mountaineering regulations also increased the insurance coverage of high-altitude workers to protect porters and high altitude guides who usually take more risks on the mountains. Rescue teams and clean-up campaigners to collect trash and remove bodies of dead climbers up to Camp IV of Mt Everest do not need permits.&nbsp; The Sagarmatha Pollution Control Committee is now using drones to fly down trash in 20kg sacks. Each climber is also required to bring down at least 6kg of waste and not just their own, but this rule is erratically enforced. With five fatalities on Everest and Lhotse, Spring 2025 had a historically low death toll. Another five climbers died on Annapurna, Kangchenjunga and Makalu.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025053004050_38681de22f0fefb6faa12b01755566d09c5064d0ff84e12ccc7b5d68ea9ba38a.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="2025053004050_38681de22f0fefb6faa12b01755566d09c5064d0ff84e12ccc7b5d68ea9ba38a" data-rendition-name="original" width="665" height="740" loading="lazy" alt="The Everest industry graph 2"> </figure>  Journalist Ben Ayers who ran the Everest Live social media channel from Everest Base Camp with daily updates credited the low death rate to dramatic rescues of climbers from the ‘Death Zone’ by their Nepali guides and longline helievacs — the visuals all uploaded on YouTube.&nbsp; “Ironically, this perception of safety is bringing more and more inexperienced climbers to the mountain, and they need more rescues,” Ayers said in one of his dispatches.&nbsp; American expedition chronicler and summiteer Alan Arnette suspects there is a lot of under-reporting given that the jet stream and storms were lashing Everest even till late in the season. He told us: “I heard a lot about frostbite and rescues that were not made public. It’s become practically impossible to cover the details on Everest. All the teams report nice news, and they don’t talk about bad stuff to avoid hurting businesses.” Although trash on Nepal’s mountains makes headlines, what does not receive as much attention is the climate impact of so many expeditions. The Sagarmatha Sambaad conference sidestepped this issue, which is ironic given that the impact of climate breakdown is most evident on Himalayan peaks and their glaciers.&nbsp; <h2>Need for Speed</h2> The big stories this year have been about speed-running from their home cities to the top of Everest. Ukrainian entrepreneur Andrew Ushakov flew out of JFK on 15 May at 10:15AM Nepal time, and was on the summit 3 days, 23 hours, and 7 minutes later on 19 May at 9:22AM.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250601080640_1c5cc6fc991307861768f07037ed9d30930fb20f35dbb57dc31c9a92a9e1a885.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20250601080640_1c5cc6fc991307861768f07037ed9d30930fb20f35dbb57dc31c9a92a9e1a885" data-rendition-name="original" width="1440" height="1800" loading="lazy" alt="The Everest Industry"> <figcaption>Andrew Ushakov at the summt. Photo: ELITE EXPED</figcaption> </figure>  “I could never find the time for the traditional 40-50 days of acclimatisation,” Ushakov explained matter-of-factly. His ‘Everest Sea-to-Summit’ climb was possible because he spent 400 hours in hypoxic sleep tents over the past four years in New York. However, Ushakov did use ropes already fixed, hired four Nepali guides, helicoptered to Base Camp, and used much more oxygen than an average climber. And after the climb, Ushakov was arrested at Kathmandu airport for being in possession of $20,000 of undeclared cash and spent a night in jail and fined $60,000.&nbsp; The other speedsters were Garth Miller, Alastair Cairns, Anthony Stazicker, and Kev Godlington, all former British Army commandos. They left London and summited five days later on 21 May, and flew right back. They also used hypoxic tents to simulate the thin air high on Everest.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250601080644_90c8dd5cc07b4b43f2989b1dc0c0650ab80f10ebb06680c25a6909c519957bd8.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20250601080644_90c8dd5cc07b4b43f2989b1dc0c0650ab80f10ebb06680c25a6909c519957bd8" data-rendition-name="original" width="810" height="668" loading="lazy" alt="The Everest Industry "> <figcaption>All four members of the Furtenbach team at the summit. Photo: Sandro Gromen-Hayes</figcaption> </figure>  But more controversial was their use of xenon gas therapy in a German hospital to ramp up the production of oxygen-carrying haemoglobins in their blood. Xenon is banned by the World Anti-Doping Agency for being performance enhancing in sports. Expedition leader Lukas Furtenbach said this rule does not apply to mountaineering, as it is not a regulated sport like swimming. Nepal has no rules about xenon, but the Department of Tourism said it was launching an ‘investigation’ to decide on future policy since it is difficult to ban xenon, but allow oxygen. The controversy has also divided the mountaineering community, with some climbers saying they just want to maximise their chances of survival. Spending less time on the mountain could make climbing safer by reducing avalanche risk. It would also mean less trash on the mountains, but it would reduce the income of Nepal’s expedition industry. It is also unclear how much of the success was due to xenon therapy and whether the ex-special forces were already in good physical shape.&nbsp; The need for speed hides the fact that climbing in the Himalaya is dangerous business, and climbers cannot sprint to the top just by huffing xenon. But ultra-fast climbs could be charged more, and the revenue generated can be used to establish state-of-the-art rescue operations, and increase pay and insurance for guides. Two other speed chasers this season were Swiss-Ecuadorian Karl Egloff and American Tyler Andrews, both on Everest without oxygen. Andrews choppered to Base Camp to catch a weather window, but turned back from 8,500m due to high winds. Heavy snow and wind also forced Egloff to descend from 7,000m. Slow and steady climbers like Anja Blacha from Germany did make it to the summit without oxygen, while Kami Rita Sherpa broke his own record with his 31st Everest summit as he led a 26-strong Indian Army group. There were 468 permits issued for foreign climbers from 48 expeditions to Everest this spring. Nepal’s other eight-thousanders together had only 17 expeditions. Nepal has more than 1,000 peaks above 6,000m, and has opened only 476 of them for climbing.&nbsp;

The Everest Industry

That winter day in January 1664 marked an exceptional event in the reign of King Pratap Malla of Kathmandu. It was 15 Paush 784 of the Nepal Sambat and for the first time, a historical event was being immortalised on canvas for generations to come.&nbsp; The occasion was the grand Tuladaan ceremony of the King’s youngest son Chakrabartendra Malla from his wife Anantapriya, an Indian princess from Cooch Behar in present-day Assam.&nbsp; During the ritual, the prince was weighed against gold, silver, pearls, and other precious stones, which were then offered to Goddess Taleju Bhavani, the guardian deity of the Malla dynasty.&nbsp; The 170 x120cm painting captures the time of King Pratap Malla in all its splendour and is more than a personal tribute to his son: it is a significant visual historical document. It was evidently completed five years later in 1669, and could be considered a photographic record, with retrospective recreation of the event by the unknown artist. A Tuladaan ceremony is performed to purify one’s karma, quell impending bad luck, or as an act of charity and devotion. Chakrabartendra Malla was not well, and the ritual was performed in hopes of restoring his health. King Pratap Malla had arranged for each of his sons to take turns ruling Kathmandu so they got administrative experience. But Chakrabartendra died just two days after assuming power in 1670 (790 NS). This painting is considered the earliest known example in which the composition is dominated by an architectural landscape: the Taleju Temple. Given the stylistic features such as side-profile facial depictions and the rendering of human forms, it is believed that the Nepali artist was trained by a Rajput master.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250615040624_ddad3bc27a327e3f9926c8473287e4f14b53081296c295049009f327a4d97051.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20250615040624_ddad3bc27a327e3f9926c8473287e4f14b53081296c295049009f327a4d97051" data-rendition-name="original" width="3248" height="4395" loading="lazy" alt="Tuladaan NT"> </figure>  During that era, there were regular exchanges of artists between Northern India and Kathmandu Valley. The painting is also a melding of Nepali, Tibetan, Mughal, and Rajput art styles of the time. Pratap Malla could have been inspired by a painting of Mughal Emperor Jahangir’s Tuladaan ceremony for his son Khurram in 1607. The Mallas and Mughals shared cordial relations, which is reflected in the cultural influences seen in the art and attire of the period.&nbsp; The clothing of the Malla ruling class, in particular, features colourful tunics, turbans, and jewelry that display strong Rajput and Mughal stylistic elements. The musicians in the upper tier are also dressed in Indian-style clothing, while the ensemble on the lower steps wear local attire, notably without turbans. Their hairstyles also differ, with the lower group wearing their hair tied in a bun at the front. This national treasure is currently in storage at the Collège de France in Paris, and has never been publicly displayed. Nepal’s art scholars like Gautam Vajracharya, Pratap Aditya Pal and Anne Vergati have written about this iconic paubha in the past, but the only detailed study is from the perspective of music history by researcher Richard Widdess who had access to high resolution copies of the original.&nbsp; Widdess from the Department of Music at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) in London describes the paubha as the most significant and richly detailed documentation of music in Nepali art. He identifies distinct musical ensembles on the terraces of the temple, and remarkably most of them are actively used today. One of them reflects the Mughal naqqārakhāna model — a loud outdoor ensemble typically composed of kettledrums, trumpets, and cymbals, traditionally performed from the gateway of the emperor’s palace to announce his entrances and exits. The depiction of such an ensemble in the tulādāna painting is likely the earliest known representation of a complete naqqārakhāna in Nepal — considered the forerunner of the panche baja, the traditional Nepali ensemble. On the stepped pyramid base of the temple are two groups of musicians playing local instruments: dhimey, bhushya, and dha. They are unmistakably Newar musicians, wearing short skirts and short-sleeved tops, with bare heads and legs—clearly distinguished as local performers.&nbsp; Higher still on the temple pyramid are musicians of apparently higher status, positioned close to the king, and his courtiers, possibly professional court musicians from India, well-versed in rāga and tāla. A dāphā group is also clearly depicted, identifiable by their characteristic instruments.&nbsp; Dāphā bhajan is likely the oldest surviving tradition of Newar devotional singing, and this paubha is the oldest visual record of it. Pratap Malla himself is believed to have composed songs that continue to be performed by dāphā groups throughout Kathmandu till today.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025061211064_d67636730cdc0ec778c02494817aca0b99654f2950d0fae4b95499a61faf7ef3.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="2025061211064_d67636730cdc0ec778c02494817aca0b99654f2950d0fae4b95499a61faf7ef3" data-rendition-name="original" width="596" height="768" loading="lazy" alt="Priceless paubha in Paris NT"> </figure>  The artist’s thorough attention to musical detail may be attributed to King Pratap Malla’s own deep interest in music. His inscriptions on this painting and elsewhere proclaim his mastery of all branches of knowledge, including music. He is also known as the author of dance dramas and poems, penning his name as Kavindra (king of poets). Some noteworthy elements of new art techniques stand out: for example, the roof of the temple is filled with realistically rendered white doves, pigeons, and crows. This is a rare feature in paubha, where animals and birds are stylised, mythological forms. This remarkably talented unknown artist has managed to also render an orthographic projection: the front and side view of Nepal’s first architectural paubha. The Taleju Temple, with its staggering multi-tiered structure and numerous steps and platforms, is masterfully translated into layers within the painting. This represents a significant artistic achievement of the time, especially considering that dimensional perspectives had not started in deity-based paubha.&nbsp; The artist has also made a meticulous effort to capture architectural details such as the toran (ornamental arch) and temple struts with impressive precision. There are flickering lamps along the steps and some people carrying what appear to be oil pots.&nbsp; It is a full moon night and the dark sky is adorned with all the gods and goddesses, who are depicted as blessing the ceremony while seated on stylised thangka clouds. There is a lot happening in this painting, with people engaged in various activities. The artist has also rendered a forest backdrop behind the temple, complete with deer, trees, and flowers. Could there have once been a royal garden behind the Taleju Temple?&nbsp; More details and clarity can only be achieved if we are able to view the original or a high-resolution scanned version of the artwork. Many countries proudly display art depicting historical events in their national museums with great reverence. France, for example, has The Coronation of Emperor Napoleon and Empress Joséphine by Jacques-Louis David (1808–1822), along with numerous paintings of the Napoleonic Wars. Many were commissioned by Napoleon himself for future generations to remember.&nbsp; For Nepal, the equivalent is the Tuladaan paubha which is a visual record capturing a historic moment involving one of Kathmandu’s greatest kings, on the very day the event took place. Sadly, we await the day when this masterpiece is displayed, shared in high resolution for detailed study, or more rightfully — repatriated to its homeland, where it truly belongs. &nbsp; Shaguni Singh Sakya is the Director of the Museum of Nepali Arts (MoNA) at Kathmandu Guest House in Thamel. <h2>Gods homeward bound</h2> The Nepal Heritage Recovery Campaign and Nepal’s Department of Archaeology are convening the first international conference on the Recovery of Cultural Heritage from 16-18 June in Patan. The conference will address urgent issues of theft, illicit trafficking, the campaign to repatriate looted cultural artifacts, and explore how the return of sacred antiquities contributes to justice, healing, and reconciliation for communities and nations affected by cultural loss. American art crime professor Erin L Thompson and Saubhagya Pradhananga of the Department of Archaeology will deliver the keynote. Meanwhile, author and Nepali Times publisher Kunda Dixit will lead a conversation on Illicit Trafficking: Public Opinion and Role of Media with Erin Thompson, Amr Al Azm, associate professor of Middle East History and Anthropology at Shawnee State University in Ohio, as well as Bradley J Gordon, a lawyer based in Phnom Penh. There will be sessions looking at repatriation perspectives from Cambodia, India, Vietnam, China and Poland, international frameworks for repatriation, emerging digital technologies in the repatriation of cultural heritage, cultural property agreements, museums as well as trends in the art market, and heritage diplomacy and the role of media.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025061211068_59cfccfa8f5d73bfe8b4c5811a7f53abc09ea04e8cb7c638933d62e5283efdf6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="2025061211068_59cfccfa8f5d73bfe8b4c5811a7f53abc09ea04e8cb7c638933d62e5283efdf6" data-rendition-name="original" width="1080" height="1350" loading="lazy" alt="Heritage recovery NT"> </figure>  <h2> </h2> Some of the other highlights include James K. Reap, a professor in the Master of Historic Preservation Program at the University of Georgia who has a session on the US response to illicit trafficking. Art historian Lea Saint-Raymond is taking on “Gods at Auction: The Market for Himalayan Artefacts”, while lecturer of criminology at the University of Glasgow Emiline Smith is delving into transformative approaches to heritage ownership and repatriation. Helena Arose of Antiquities Coalition and Melina Antoniadis of NOSTOS Strategies that specialise on the return home of cultural heritage as well as Hao Liu of International Cultural Heritage Law at the School of Law at Shandong University are some of the others attending. The Nepal Heritage Recovery Campaign was set up in 2020 to develop a coordinated movement to reclaim Nepal’s stolen gods and goddesses, with an aim to ensure that recovered items are returned to their original shrines, niches or sanctums. Ahead of the conference opening organisers have arranged for a film screening of Loot &amp; Return: 4 Documentaries at YalaMaya Kendra in Patan Dhoka between 14-15 June. Following the conference is a multimedia exhibition titled Absent Gods: Nepal’s Lost Heritage from 31 July to 4 August at Patan Museum.