I unwrap The Public Life of Women, A Feminist Memory Project, and then slide the book out of its maroon case. An olive photo book with black pages reveals itself to me. My palms and fingers close around it in an embrace, the texture of a book always tells you something. I flip through the pages and want to turn to the only other person on the terrace-pub, a stylishly-dressed young woman, to say: What a gorgeous, wholesome book! Flipping through the pages, I am swept by gratitude for the women who came before us, for making sitting alone in public places in Nepal possible for women. When my friend shows up, I nudge the book in her direction. She says: “The white letters against black pages are symbolic, like light in the dark, showing us the way forward.” Valentina Abenavoli’s aesthetics will not just pass you by — the design carries the depth of the content, even if the book might need a stronger binding. This collection by Nepal Picture Library is based on an archival campaign representing women from all &nbsp;backgrounds from all over Nepal. The acknowledgement, as acknowledgement should be, is generous and not at all rushed. Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/feminist-prints">Feminist prints</a>, Monika Deupala &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;…  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230903030940_1c791ae4eba749940e0373ea3a992ca6e1b436d440bbee7b74cee87850e6adc0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20230903030940_1c791ae4eba749940e0373ea3a992ca6e1b436d440bbee7b74cee87850e6adc0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1065" height="710" loading="lazy" alt="Feminist project NT"> </figure>  Mamu receives the book, flips through it and says: “This is the book for every Nepali woman. Many thanks to whoever made this.” She sits down at the dining table and starts turning the pages right away. She pauses at the photo of urban Nepali women in Moscow in 1963. Yes, they did represent a certain class of Nepali society. Still, it makes me wonder if my mother, growing up, gained hope from women like them. And even though she has spent her own life in and around the kitchen, perhaps knowing that there were women out there, who were trying, gave her hope for her unborn daughters? The thought makes me weep. I wish Mamu had a moment like Prativa Subedi, standing coy of the ocean in a 1994 image, a reminder of The Awakening by Kate Chopin. “We will save the book for my unborn daughters,” I say. Mamu nods. Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/comment/coping-with-patriarchy">Coping with patriarchy</a>, Bhumi Ghimire &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;…  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230903030940_f05d136605b0771f07a63f7bb398868c54f9d6a96f0d3cce0abeec6382785184.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20230903030940_f05d136605b0771f07a63f7bb398868c54f9d6a96f0d3cce0abeec6382785184" data-rendition-name="original" width="1065" height="710" loading="lazy" alt="Feminist project NT"> </figure>  Throughout history invisible lines have been drawn around women. This book is about those who have taken us beyond those lines. The first images in the book are of women at public events. Strangers stare back from the images. They feel familiar, because which woman is not &nbsp;familiar to another? They were women who cooked and cleaned alongside their public or political lives. Some operated as flag bearers for the men they loved. Long after I have put the book down, the image lingers of Rashmi Shah pillion riding on a motorbike with her husband, and her poem where red becomes the colour of revolution, the colour that binds them. The book is a collage of arrested moments in some stranger’s camera or perhaps that of acquaintances, mostly male. It is a representation of the gaze, all of them very different from one another, just as the women we see in the images, who tried to change the idea of belonging in class or caste. Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/memory-of-a-conversation">Memory of a conversation</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230903030940_69399aa9662bb1ad09cd1241de5b341f288a1aa33c2a31c09f667bb700dcaab9.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20230903030940_69399aa9662bb1ad09cd1241de5b341f288a1aa33c2a31c09f667bb700dcaab9" data-rendition-name="original" width="1440" height="1440" loading="lazy" alt="Feminist project NT"> </figure>  Sushila Shrestha’s ‘party marriage’ to Ashok Rai, which breaks the social convention is one such example, where marriage is also a political project. There is also mention of an ‘arrest warrant’ but no details divulged, making Shrestha’s story one of the many incomplete anecdotes in the book.&nbsp; Shanta Manavi is also ‘compelled’ to work as an underground operative after she met Modnath Prasrit in Banaras. And the un-captioned mugshots collected by Parijat and Punaya Prabha Devi Dhungana. So, they become an enigma. In the mystery of the intersection of the private and the political, are the very public images of Nani Maiya Dahal at the election victory rally in 1981. The photos are probably the first such we see of a woman leader woven into the fabric of her supporters. They depict what Nepal might have had to offer to its women politicians.&nbsp; Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/are-women-not-nepali-enough">Are women not Nepali enough?</a>, Sahina Shrestha  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230903030940_213ab8ef0355e04cd5ea95b42d87182e5debeb8602a2613527a74b733626e8a1.jpg" data-media-id="editor_7" data-image-id="20230903030940_213ab8ef0355e04cd5ea95b42d87182e5debeb8602a2613527a74b733626e8a1" data-rendition-name="original" width="1066" height="711" loading="lazy" alt="Feminist project NT"> </figure>  And yet, their political careers have always been short-lived, mostly oligarchic in nature, many of them operating from backstage, emerging time and again and then, exeunt. Women are beautiful. And the most beautiful are those who have fought like images of the Tharu women from Karjahi of Dang who led the peasants’ revolt in 1980 against local landlords. We shine brightest when it is dark. The photos of women in education are the most important for obvious reasons -- they trace the trajectory to women’s becoming. There is the fierceness of conviction in Chandra Malla establishing a school for girls in Makhan, circa 1935. Two high school teachers in Tehrathum in 1970: something remarkable about the light in their eyes. Female students prepare for Kathmandu education in an image from Doti in 1966. Little girls stand around them, watching, a moment so familiar to me. Seeing my Nini go to TU as a child was how I first decided that someday, I too would go to university.&nbsp; Images of ladies’ handbags and shoes and no-shoes are representations of status and economic independence.The book is more than just images, it is a repository of scraps and letters, articles, interviews, records, copies, journals, and notes and legal documents tucked in neatly, each revealing something about lives known and unknown. The images are flanked by texts in both English and Nepali, the Nepali version reads better and provides better context. Read also: <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=17426">Singing of sorrow</a>, Indu Nepal  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230903030936_fb05a4c2314c5f2545bf1b5b0507006f35c8fe3c52e06c4435746d44190ba41a.png" data-media-id="editor_9" data-image-id="20230903030936_fb05a4c2314c5f2545bf1b5b0507006f35c8fe3c52e06c4435746d44190ba41a" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Feminist project NT"> </figure>  The book follows no chronology, but segments act like the stream of consciousness, flowing from one thing that stands out to another. Some recent photos appear in black and white, as if to give them a dated feel. Probably aesthetics. So many lives: their aspirations, suffering, dreams, period cramps, menopausal mood swings. Who knows what they were experiencing at the time they were facing the camera. It is as much for the audience to feel as for the subjects of the images. Like Nayantara Gurung Kakshapati says in the curator’s conversation section, where one is in their lives when they engage with the images impacts how one interacts with images. And she raises an important question: What about those who were not photographed? More archiving, then? Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/making-nepal-s-history-colourful">Making Nepal’s history colourful</a>

Pratibha Tuladhar

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Suburban Tales

Pictures of women taking pictures

That’s right! Let’s not talk about Barbie but its patrons, the audience. Why? Because that’s where the real story lies.
My sister is a Barbie patron. Or at least she was, growing up. Now, I can’t exactly remember how Barbie came to be in our family, but my sister had one. It came in a pink box, see-through on the front, and had a set of belongings including a green hairbrush (which stayed stashed among her things long after the doll was gone).
I imagine my sister must have pestered my parents until she got a Barbie. Her friends owned the doll and the TV advert crooned between soaps my mother watched: Hey babe, Barbie!
I imagine too, that it must have been my Nini, who exported the Barbie to my sister. It was quite the centre of my sister’s attention for a long time-- an answer to a middle-class girl’s prayer for the doll of her choice. She’s been the only person in our home who has ever owned a Barbie (interestingly, my brother had a Ken, but he didn’t need it beyond a day).
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/memory-of-a-conversation">Memory of a conversation</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
When I was growing up, Barbies must have been beyond my parents’ means, and so I had instead, the likes of: a dog and a bear and a big baby boy, the size of an infant, who would laugh if you pressed his tummy. Now, why were little girls given babies as toys, I have never understood. It does seem like a cuteness-coated euphemism to nourish the “nurturer” in little girls, as the film also mentions.
I don’t remember having much to do with my toys, however. I think I was more obsessed with collecting marbles of all colours even if I never won a game. And I was pretty good at jackstones. So, something like a Barbie would have had no place in my daily. When my sister obsessed over her doll, I couldn’t really relate. She even went to the extent of having my aunt sew sequined dresses, and knit a jumper for Barbie. And so, when <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1517268/">the film</a> released, she had to go!
As we headed into the theatre, we started to get hit by splotches of pink. First, a couple of girls, headed the same way as us, dressed in pink. Then, by the time we got to the popcorn stand, there was a steady flow of excited audience in pink jumpsuits, fuchsia minis, pale pink shirts and skirts, dirty pink shrugs and bright pink scarves and scrunchies to validate coloured dresses. I thought I had imagined the colour code, until I was steeped in a sea of the pink army.
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/a-letter-to-a-sister">A letter to a sister</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
At the pop-corn queue, I struck a conversation with my fellow Barbie goers: So, you played with Barbie, when you were little? Most of the girls asked: Hajur? I said: Barbie. They chorused: Oh, the doll? Yes, of course!
I sauntered around, throwing the same question at more girls, and they all said, yes.
Inside the theatre, my companion by my right elbow was a woman in her 30s, who had come to watch the film on her own. She showed signs that the matinee show was the perfect hour of escape for her. She enjoyed a full tray of nachos, popcorn and coke as she laughed at the slapstick bits between stuffing her cheeks. (Like me, if you too are into going to the movies alone, you are familiar with the catharsis this woman experienced!) I am from Biratnagar, she shared during intermission. “I couldn’t wait to watch this!”
When <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm3053338/?ref_=tt_cl_t_1">Margot Robbie</a> made her first appearance, the audience clamoured. <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0331516/">Ryan Gosling</a> skated, sighed and grooved and the clamouring got louder. The film went quickly from being a corporate capitalism epiphany to a battle between the sexes, as real life relationship terms got endorsed: long-distance commitment-casual!
There were many moments when the audience hummed and cheered as a collective force and I remember thinking-- this is what it must mean to be young! When America Ferrera delivered her monologue about the patriarchy, girls brought their palms together. Interestingly, the monologue might as well have been a soliloquy, because to each woman the battle is hers alone. Or does delivering it amidst glamorised dreamy hues do something to carry the message to the masses, even if temporary?
So, who is Barbie then, I wondered? Is she Ruth Stalker’s attempt to immortalise her daughter’s name? Or is it <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm1950086/?ref_=tt_ov_wr">Greta Gerwig</a>, one of the best directors of our day, doing Mattel’s bidding by showcasing political correctness to the world? Is Barbie every woman, as the film attempts to portray: “Mothers stand still so they can see how far their daughters can come,” Ruth tells Barbie, who is as much her baby as her own daughter Barbara.
We also hear Barbie say: I want to be an imagining and not an idea. And yes, the world created by a toy can be limitless, but it also means something different to every single child, as the interaction is influenced by colour, nationality and class.
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/vagina-conversations">Vagina conversations</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
As we stepped outside the theatre, I asked my sister what had happened to her Barbie. She grinned: Remember the haircut? Eventually, she became dismembered and went into the trash. I nodded in disapproval as Kate McKinnon’s cropped hair and wacky outfit as Weird Barbie suddenly made sense to me.
At the parking lot, we ran into transgender activist Angel Lama. I asked her what she thought. She said: it’s a lot for me to process. And did she have a Barbie growing up? She said no.
I hopped behind my sister on her scooter and we hit the road, straddling our middle-class dreams after being transported back to reality from our willing suspension of disbelief in Barbieland.

Let’s not Barbie

a cat
The cat doesn’t know you love him. Or that you are about to unlove.
So what does the cat do? Alights on the window sill, insists you let him in, because when he wants to be let in, he wants to be let in. And there you are by the kitchen window, one arm akimbo and the other lifted up in the air, wagging a finger at him.
Should you open the window to let him in or be still and watch until he leaves? But that moment of him leaving is the point that will break your heart. And it is that moment you must avoid seeing. And so the urge to avoid seeing that scene translates into the urgency of throwing him out. The kitchen window will have to remain shut-- not allowing in is tantamount to throwing out.
That cat is a murderer! Baa says.
And as if to prove Baa’s point, the next morning, the cat brings you a dead sparrow and plops it on the doormat. Meow, he says. Here. You cannot hunt and so I must, for you.
You stare in horror at the dead bird. Throw the cat out, they all shout.
You remove his bed from the back porch temporarily, but retrieve it at night and check several times to see if he has returned. You wonder if you will ever see the cat again.
In the morning, a dead baby mole is lying still at the threshold. You shriek and the cat leaps down from the wall and says: Meow!
Days become punctuated with the gory paraphernalia of dead birds and rodents. The voices become louder. Throw that cat out!
On a stormy night, you wait and wonder-- did the feline get stranded? Every day becomes a wait. If you fall in love with a cat, you must suffer, they say.
Then one day, he shows up, wraps his long body against your ankles the way fog clings to trees. The cat thinks you’re the toy. You exist because he does. When he is bored, he walks out of the back porch into the street, hops on to the house on the other side. And it is another night of waiting for you.
It is sometimes days before the cat decides to return. Once in a while, during his absence, other ferals show up. They all look like him. Tabby. Stealthy. Moody. Graceful. They all moan when they are at their favourite meal. Like nursing babies. Then, suddenly leave.
You aren’t even a feline person, Baa says. Why are you letting him stay? Get a dog instead!
But you know I am a dog widow, I insist. I am not ready for a dog yet.
And you are for a cat? Cats never love you back. Remember that, he says.
I know. I know. It’s not like I love Babu Bagh.
Babu what? Now he has a name? More like Murder Meow-- going around killing the birds. And what is with the rice grains you leave out for the birds? Are you trying to bait them for your cat?
He is NOT my cat! I don’t even like cats. I am a canine person!
You dump his bed in the trash once again, remove the water and the food bowls. You must prepare to forget. Cats are too independent. They cannot be owned. You must prepare to unlove.
You get the boiled chicken out from the fridge and ladle it out to the community dogs. Community dogs being dogs, are grateful. They wag their tails, their eyes beam and they gobble the food down. They boop at your knees and strut alongside you during evening walks. You pat their head, cup their face in your palms and speak in gibberish baby talk. They let you hug them. And it feels like home. Home is familiarity.
When you’re back from the walk, you get a glass of water and your muscle memory draws you to the back porch. There’s no cat there.
a man
Strip your heart of love, replace body parts he touched, delete photographs from albums. If they reappear on other platforms, delete again. Remove from trash. Wipe out strands of night where his voice hangs in the air like lingering light. Snap your synapses to get rid of the bits in where he appears to have shown up from a childhood memory. These memories will happen on repeat, so repeat action each time.
Delete old emails, empty chat boxes, get rid of all stories he wrote, unlearn every poem. This means undoing the rhythm that sets your heart in motion. Erase him from the memory of your reproductive system. Layer up on antibiotics, ensure a clear cervix, wipe clean the memories of first flutter by the navel— tell the reproductive system to get a new memory. Forget.
Block him on all apps. Check again to make sure. Unblock to see if he has reappeared and then block again. Remove chunks of years. Unspool the feel of the contact of your fingers with his hair, even if only imaginary. Stop twirling your fingers even in imagination, let go of those tresses. Pause at the temple and retract fingers. Detach. Disengage.
Imagine you never saw his toes. And if they did curl to your touch, look the other way when you see feet that resemble his. Suck in some cool monsoon air and the drumming up of the rain’s rhythm but let go of that rhythm. 
Fill those crevices inside you with tarmac so no cavities are gaping open waiting to be filled again with the outpourings of life. No longer remind yourself that the expanding of his sternum at the sight of you was the same as your clavicle rising and falling.
Breathe— but release.
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

How to unlove…

Dearest Miti,
The past few weeks were spent with my face buried in your book. And something about lolling with a book in a bed lit by the sun, reminded me of your room in Ganeshbasti. You remember how the patterned, frosted glass on the window trapped sunlight, like we were inches away from being singed?&nbsp;
We spent hours on your bed chatting, reading and sometimes sleeping, limbs piled up in a bunch, while the Usha fan hummed above us, and then woke up to Rita’s very sweet, condensed tea.
Our homes were different. Even in how we drank teas. At mine, tea was less milky, with a faint hint of sugar.
At your place, the bed was the communion. If not yours, we would be sitting on M Auntie’s, chatting, drinking tea and listening to her “blasphemous” ideas about the gods-- Ram was a wife-beater and Bishnu was a good-for-nothing rheumatic.
At mine, beds were strictly meant for sleeping at night. It was an unspoken rule. And so it was never my room that we hung out in, but yours, re-reading your Sachi stories, the one about the imposter hermit and the one about a woman who liked to climb trees-- the one forsaken by her family and society. You wrote so many stories!
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/walk-of-shame">Walk of shame</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
Now, reading them in a new light in your novel, I finally understand that the journey had begun so long ago and you were arriving at this point the whole time. We were becoming over the years and perhaps shaped one another?
You fetched new things to my sight. One time you said, it is remarkable that in these times of discrimination, two of your closest friends are Tarians. Back then, I wondered what friendship had anything to do with discrimination.&nbsp;
Growing up in a tole of mostly guy friends, who eventually joined the British Army or went abroad to study or enlisted in the Chakre Milan gang, I hadn’t thought of the why. But many things set in perspective when you came into my life.&nbsp;
Janakpur, for instance, came into existence for me when you did. It is true. When you said your village was Sabaila, I experienced the longing for the name of a village I could also call mine. But there has only ever been Kathmandu for me. All these years, Sabaila was to me a name until your book gave it the colour; brown fields, brown everything.
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/vignettes-from-war">Vignettes from war</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
In contrast is Kathmandu with its “width not enough to last a run”, with its sudden gorges and hills. Your descriptions are replete with gorgeousness and nostalgia, it makes me pause at phrases and wonder when you learned to write like music.&nbsp;
As a young, somewhat confused girl, your words were my reprieve. I had needed throughout my lonely schoolyears, to find friendships that filled the cracks in me as your poems and stories did.
And so when you left for the US, I found myself caught in a blankness, a bit like Preeti in your novel feels when Sachi leaves-- anger and brokenness that nothing mends. And year after year, you carry it like a secret stone in your pocket, until time passes you by and you can’t remember when or where you put it away. Once in a while, you slip a hand absentmindedly into your pocket.
Reading your book made that spot abundant.&nbsp;
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/we-are-fire-breathing-dragons">We are fire-breathing dragons</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
You also brought the little monkey back to life. I wince when Adi and Preeti stand before the rowdy brick-sellers, trying to rescue the monkey, and Adi is called “Marsiya”.
In another section of the book, you describe the word as being a swear word. I immediately want to call you and explain that the word Marsya in Newa, means someone from abroad. Marse means abroad. In that sense, Marsya would mean an outsider, while the word might also be a derivative of Madhesiya, meaning a Tarian. The word is not a slur in itself but can be used as one, just as you could call me an Urani to identify my “caste” but you could also call me “Urani!” as a slur.
Words can take on different meanings within communities as they get woven into a complex tapestry of how each new user adds meaning and intent to it.
I want to call and explain, but how long since we talked about anything? Since you left?
It is probably the fate of all female friendships-- your characters, Kumud and Meena, Sachi and Preeti. Female friendships are to be mourned years after they were alive.&nbsp;
Your novel traces many uncomfortable ideas and conversations avoided. You use the word “Mongoloid”, a term now obsolete and offensive. You also describe Pahadis as people who “share features with Tibetan and their Chinese neighbours”.
These terms used as perceptions by your characters point at the fissures between the people in different parts of Nepal. There’s hostility and a lack of trust. It is as if being Nepali means instantly being aware of our ethnicity and differences. Nepali language isn’t good enough as a binder because once we step into the privacy of our own homes, it is a language we leave at the threshold.
The concept of Kathmandu then, is a temporary one. &nbsp;
Manmohan and his Indian friend Mr Katyal think of it as the backyard where money is to be made, it lacks belongingness. And home, is an imagination.
Yet you create a nest for the readers with the years spanning across political seasons. The Kathmandu of our childhood is tactile, even with its mangled timeline, that annoys the journalist in me.&nbsp;
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/write-fearlessly-she-said">Write fearlessly, she said</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
&nbsp;Nepal Police did not wear blue until after the 1990s democratic movement. The Hrithik Roshan riots did not occur close to the democratic movements. And the Rajiv Gandhi embargo had everything to do with a failed treaty and little with “Christian wrath”.
Your character, ADC Gurung tells his wife he will buy her land in Ganeshbasti. But the tole only got its name in the 90s after Gurung was jailed and his property was confiscated and was meant to be turned into a park with a Ganesh temple. But Gurung was able to secure his land after release and the temple was never built. Until this day, Ganeshbasti does not have a Ganesh temple.
While somewhat misplaced, the political narrative becomes the spine for a compelling story about a woman’s fight and anger against a world that inflicts trauma on her just because she is her. It points at the complexity of geopolitics in South Asia and how it barely changes.
I have come away sore from the reading.
There have been memories of madnesses. There has been tenderness. Then storms, bickering and banter. I learned that all great stories come from truth, but that truth can be a mangled version of reality.
Your book is brave.
I love the possibility of a female Utopia. Because isn’t it what every woman desires? To be free to be? To climb trees. To be needed with nothing. &nbsp;
All your anecdotes are hyperbole, Miti. In hyperbole, are possibilities.
Love,
P
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

We used to be flowering trees

Man Maya crouches on the steps of her concrete house. The house is covered in rough cement plaster. Stark grey now from years of weathering. The colour of the sky above her is a shade darker than her house. “Don’t you feel cold on your legs?” she yells at me while putting her palms together to make the shape of a shell to return my greeting. Her hair is fully gray-- cottony. An imitation of the cloud accumulating above her head. I laugh and pull the end of the sleeves of my jumper all the way down to cover my fingertips. Aja’s jumper, actually. I have been wearing it since he passed last month. How else do you cling to a dead person, but in their belongings? I must make a weird image to Man Maya-- a woman in an oversized man’s jumper and no trousers. She probably thinks I have no trousers. The jumper hangs below my shorts but Man Maya does not know that. I am suddenly blushing because I am conscious of her age and experience and I kind of want her to know I am wearing shorts and that I am not being disrespectful. But I keep walking because the thought of walking up to her and telling her so is even more embarrassing. I walk past her house and downhill towards the river. And always, the river brings me surprises. She seems to attract so much self-destruction. This time, it is the construction workers.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230507080524_f1b7ab4975bc796b3ba2fd313e8d0b673c065d5a94c2eac9a43a04b107b030bd.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20230507080524_f1b7ab4975bc796b3ba2fd313e8d0b673c065d5a94c2eac9a43a04b107b030bd" data-rendition-name="original" width="2000" height="1500" loading="lazy" alt="Hijjya River"> <figcaption>Construction work at Hijyya River on 2 May 2023. </figcaption> </figure>  It has rained the entire week, but there is no swollen river below the bridge as is the rainy season norm. The river is fast downgrading itself into a stream. And like Man Maya’s hair, she too imitates the colour of the sky. The water has turned murky, as it does after rains, only, it has no might. Against the twilight, construction men sit on wheelbarrows, sharing a cigarette, flanked by heaps of mud and rocks. We are building a road that will connect to the main road, they explain. But isn’t there a road already that does the same, I want to ask. Then I hold back as the men start to sermonise about how roads are the key to development. Upsteam, the Angel’s Trumpet plants lay wilting on the dirt. The men explain they cut it down to make way for the road. Next to it is a stack of bamboo shoots, slashed down to its roots.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230507080528_981567632ae3587a194d0c429d2c9767273f097d7f1d93852372ab46665e5ac2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20230507080528_981567632ae3587a194d0c429d2c9767273f097d7f1d93852372ab46665e5ac2" data-rendition-name="original" width="2000" height="1500" loading="lazy" alt="Construction at Hijjya River"> </figure>  We can still use the bamboo for building, one of the men says. They have built a temporary shelter nearby for the duration of the construction. Downstream, they’re building stalls for what will be a vegetable market. They have torn down part of the hill to build. They boast about how much hard work it was and how they are stronger from doing that kind of work. “Nani, go to the Shiva temple and kneel for blessings,” one of them says. I nod and keep walking past the Shiva who now seems to lure only gentrification. My uninterrupted evening walks have run their course as the quiet pathways give in. Every other walk, there is one more fresh construction happening. Every other walk, there is one more creek that has gone dry (pictured, below).  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20230507080528_6f0cea842a9c5c1fb6ccfe2245b8c8e2f99ff04f1a41f4ba0e55d520ef7f0a7e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20230507080528_6f0cea842a9c5c1fb6ccfe2245b8c8e2f99ff04f1a41f4ba0e55d520ef7f0a7e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="creek"> </figure>  My legs, now steeped in the muscle memory of this trail, might soon have to learn a new one. My daily route brings me back in full circle before Man Maya’s house. She is still on the steps of her house, now, a cigarette clenched between her fingers. I take courage and sit down on the pavement near her. Her heels are cracked and she wears no slippers. Before us stretches the last remaining open space in the village. Man Maya is the talk of the village-- how she went from being the owner of half the village to now being slumped in debt. “I sold,” she says. “The money seemed good at first, and then we couldn’t stop selling. I had to stop at the house.” “What do you think of the Hijjya River?” I ask. “Oh,” she says. “It’s a dying river.” “But it wasn’t always like that, right?” I probe. “My mother talks about the days when she was a child and they would carry her in a basket to Budanilkantha temple and the river would gurgle angrily as they walked past it.” “Indeed. Hijjya was the angry river. It was proud. It is where we all went to do our washing. In winter, it shone with clear water and in summer, it was always serene with the ducks, bamboo plants and the Angel’s trumpets thriving wildly on the banks. In the monsoon, always angry. Like the women in this village,” she lets out a laugh. “But all women wither and we also die. And this river is also dying. Did you see those men? So excited about building, building, building. Men like that bought my ancestral land too, and look how many houses have grown here in the stead of trees? It is making me go blind,” she laughs aloud and a whiff of stale alcohol sweeps past my nostrils. For a moment, I try to conjure the village of Man Maya’s childhood. A mud and brick house built by her ancestors, where we now sit, overlooking open grazing grounds for cows, green fields, tall trees, wild flowers and goats and cows and dogs and cats and birds. Before us, in the small patch of green now, a black puppy chases two kids and the mother goat bleats away and stares. “Are you okay, Man Maya Didi? I will be heading home,” I say. “Huss, don’t worry,” she says. “The river will get angry again when it must. All we can do is to wait and live that anger.” Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

Where rivers are not the Phoenix

I heard you were seen hanging out in Basantapur with a very young woman. I wonder who.
I imagine your face, warmed by the golden hour as you walked alongside your young friend, discussing philosophy and talking mysteries. Young people swarm to you like you’re their human magnet. Your face always lights up in their presence-- like you were born to do that. To talk to them.
It has been a while since I’ve seen your face. I wonder if there are gray strands in your beard now, or other signs of aging. I wonder what takes you out of your cubicle where you sit observing the world, battling it like a keyboard warrior. You once said one could destroy the world like that-- with your words.
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/light-of-the-absurd">Light of the absurd</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
I wonder what it might be like if I had been seen in your stead, sauntering in Basantapur, alongside a younger man. Walking, talking or perhaps just standing there in silence. I wonder what they’d say about a woman like me with "loose morals".
Cougar.
What could a woman like me, who lives sequestered, say about morality? I wonder what a man like you would say about cloistered virtue. A man like you, who believes in morality and nothing. Unlike a woman like me who believes in nothing and everything.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;…
One time, I ran down that temple in Basantapur-- the one in the centre with a long flight of steps-- with you trailing behind me, shouting my name. Don’t do this, you said. The life of a single woman is not what you need. Society will never let you live in peace.
It was 10:30PM. The courtyard had started to wear a deserted look with just a couple of men walking it at intervals.
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/reasons-for-disdain-at-dasain">Reasons for disdain at Dasain</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
I don’t care, I yelled back, as I ran all the way to the entrance to the Darbar Square. You caught up with me and grabbed my arm. By then, I had tears streaming down my face.
Today, I saw that the temple is still being rebuilt-- it has taken all these years since the earthquake for the reconstruction to begin. During the April 2015 earthquake, it had been flattened to the base. It is one of the last temples in Basantapur that is yet to go up since.
The stone steps I ran down, with you at my heels, are gone. They will be replaced by fresh masonry, new stones, new bricks.
Just before I had run down the steps, we were sat on the temple parapet, legs dangling, talking. About love. It is what we always did. In circles. The destiny of unhealthy attachments that follow the never-ending pattern of hurt and heal and hurt. I remember men walking past had stared at us. There’s a certain way people look at a woman who sits with a man in public places in the darkness of the night. There’s a certain way people look at a woman who sits with a man in any place in the darkness of the night.
When the reconstruction of that temple is complete, I shall go back and sit on those steps. In the darkness of the night. There will no longer be your voice telling me a woman has no business living a single life in a world where being affiliated with a man is the only way she can be safe. In the darkness of the night, after I have sat long enough at the temple, I will walk home, clutching my bag close to my chest, hoping the streets are deserted all the way. And that I don’t have to worry about running into a stranger. Man. Who will most likely brush past me. Or stare.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;…
The internet is a devious place. On some days, it is just a place. Where people meet. And find people.&nbsp;
You looked me up on an obsolete platform one day and said-- Hi, remember me?
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/the-light-of-feet">The light of feet</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
You’re that little boy I met at a cafe a decade ago. I pull together fragments of memory and chisel you whole. You are seventeen. I try to add a list of attributes so I can create the persona of an adult you, in my head. I imagine you’re a kind, bright child, interested in books and music. And not so much in me.
I have always meant to ask you out, but I was too young, you say. I do not laugh. I feel a pain tear through me. It no longer becomes possible for me to see you as you are now, because in my head, you become arrested in your late teens-- the child.
And as I start to pull away from the conversation, I ask: what does the world make of women who converse with younger men? Paedophile? Cougar?
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;…
And yet. And yet, I heard you were seen hanging out in Basantapur, lending one arm to this very young woman. You, with pepper in your hair. She, with a lilt in her steps.
I walked the courtyard today and wondered if you’d taken the same path with her as you had with me. Perhaps love is a pattern too, you know? Perhaps we kiss the same way every single time we love. Kiss, pine, long, pull away, break, scatter. How is your love different from mine then? How is it that you’re a man who’s decided to move on and I, a cougar?
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/suburban-tales/a-letter-to-a-sister">A letter to a sister</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar

Walk of shame

Her costume, all white -- a cape and a mask. In the likeness of all superheroes, she has the gait of someone whose every move is purpose. And she wears her hair in a chic long bob — almost like Elastigirl. 
My superhero is called Doctor Anu, in the spirit of the syllables most superheroes go by.
When we first met, she was seated at her desk, a glass shield between us, examining my documents with brisk fingers and the silence of someone who is thorough with the content. Later, she ran her fingers over my abdomen, investigating, letting me know I had arrived. 
Doctor Anu, the one who never abandons her post.
When the 25 April earthquake struck Nepal in 2015, Doctor Anu was in the operation theatre, delivering a baby. She had just disconnected the umbilical cord when the rattling began. One of the two nurses attending ran out, screaming, and the resident doctor sat down on the floor and started to cry. 
The mother, lying on the operating table, anesthetised only below her waist as in the case of all cesareans, grabbed Doctor Anu’s cape and said: "Please don’t leave me!" 
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/the-wait/">The wait</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
I won’t, said Doctor Anu. And while the earth continued to shudder in instalments, she completed the procedure. 
For a moment, she teared up, thinking of her own toddler, who she had no way of reaching as the phones were down. She conducted two more surgeries that day, saving six lives. It would be 26 April when she would finally be able to go home. 
At the hospital cafe, she chats with her colleagues through her mask. When they break into laughter, hers is the clearest, heartiest. And I think that is her superpower — the ability to steer clear of the morbid in all situations.
She notices me, and gets up to join my table. There is a moment my eyes well up with tears as we converse and she puts one arm around me and pats. When she gets up to leave, she says: You call me or text me anytime you need, okay? 
Anytime I reach out, my phone pings back within an hour if not minutes, with brief but clear instructions— very superhero style. 

I am here, she says. And she just is. 
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/notes-from-a-musician/">Notes from a musician</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
 *********
Prachinta is Resident 301. We have it written on a band she wears on her wrist, along with the cannula that makes her hand look like an inflating balloon. She speaks every two hours asking me if she can have some water and I keep denying her request. It will make you sick, I say. Her body is still reacting to the anesthesia, making her throw up every few hours between zoning in and out and saying the blood pressure cuff is tight. 
What time is it, she asks. 2AM. How many more hours until morning?
Prachinta’s companions in the ICU are resident women 307 and 302. And a man in 603. Resident 307 needs careful handling. While phasing in and out of sedation, she wants to know what drugs she is on and how much the hospital will charge. At the end of most sentences, she says, "don’t tell my husband I said this", constantly censoring herself. And then, I am done with being here, I will go home today.
Resident 302 murmurs. Once, she asks if I am her granddaughter and if we are in a hotel. She says, I haven’t seen my grandchildren for so long, they are abroad. Then, Babu, why are you dressed in this uniform like you work in a hospital. I work in one, Ama, I tell her. Then she apologises. I guess you are not my granddaughter. Narisaunus hai. Don’t mind me. Then she falls asleep. 
Resident 307 curses. Being born a woman is a curse, she says. If you have a uterus, you are sin and suffering.
You don’t say so, Ama. All living beings suffer in our bodies. Men fall sick, too, I explain.
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/we-are-fire-breathing-dragons/">We are fire-breathing dragons</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
Prachinta starts to stir. Even with all the painkillers we have been shooting through her veins, she appears muted by pain. She can barely speak when she finally comes awake from the sedation. I help her sit on a stool and tell her to brush her teeth. Her hands, ballooning from the cannula, can barely hold the toothbrush. How do I do this, she asks. I find a black hairbrush among her personal belongings. She has long, greying hair. It reminds me of someone from my childhood. I comb the matted strands and ask if the greys are highlights. No, just age, she says.
I use my best braiding skills and tie up her hair with a piece of gauze. You have thick, beautiful hair, I say. Like the information even matters to a person who is spending time in the ICU. Thank you, she says. 
Her inner elbows have turned blue from the repeated punctures we have had to cause. But every time we make her wince in pain, she says: thank you. 
 *********
Writes Phoebe Waller-Bridge for Fleabag: 'Women are born with pain built in. It is our destiny. Period pain. Sore boobs. Child birth. You know? We carry it within ourselves throughout our lives. Men don’t. They have to seek it out. They invent ways to. Gods and demons and things so they can feel guilty about things, which is something we do very well on our own…and we have it all going on in here, inside. We have pain in a cycle for years and years and years. And then, just when you feel you are making peace with it, what happens? The menopause comes. And it is the most wonderful thing in the entire world. And yes, your pelvic floor crumbles…and then you are free. No longer a slave, no longer a person with parts.'
Maa sometimes says: I prayed all the years of my youth for the menopause. I have been thinking lately about how much I want to arrive at the menopause, so that my body can stop self-destructing. 
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/of-anger-and-love/" target="_blank">Of anger and love</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

Light of the absurd

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20230228150232/63fe10b79c7e80680e0da4aajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1440" height="1800"/><figcaption>Photos: PRATIBHA TULADHAR</figcaption></figure>Wait is like a big hole. An empty space to live in until.How long, no one knows. But in that space which is empty, is everything. In it, is the feeling of uncertainty, as well as forever. Uncertainty=Forever.In that space, is the voice of your parents, muffled as they discuss matters that must not be heard, once in a while, amplified over the sound of the hoover and the blender.“No!” says Baa. Not what I mean.“Okay, okay,” says Maa.And the feeling of uncertainty gets interrupted, delayed and even forgotten for a moment. What lingers is the sound of the hoover and the washing machine and the blender-- and other sounds the household is made of.“Life must go on,” says Baa.From the quiet of my room, I repeat after him, my lips forming the sentence in silence. Life must go on.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/memory-of-a-conversation/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Memory of a conversation</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar…There are a bunch of things I carry with me in my heart. One of them is you. It is nothing spectacular for a memory, but it is still a place to hold within the emptiness.You are made up of a thousand chords in that emptiness and each when strung, makes my heart pick up a different kind of beat. When I think of the horrible things about life that I might have to reveal to you, my heart pounds, making me draw one hand to my chest and say, “stop”. Life must go on.You are also made up of soft sounds.I think of the afternoon in the sun, when you swiftly lay your heart before me and said, eat! The soft sounds of eating, when one opens the mouth, encloses a spoon between the lips and the teeth come down to do their job. Between the tongue and the teeth, the eating is done and you become a nutty pulp of nourishment for my being. You taste like childhood, like Maa’s cooking-- the only culinary that counts.Are you happy, you ask. I smile. Feed me more, I say. You smile. And it is the sound of a thousand monarch butterflies, flapping their winds softly against the start of Spring.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/of-anger-and-love/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Of anger and love</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar…Go turn your face towards the morning sun. It is when we are most adequate-- in the mornings, when our face is turned towards the sun.We were married to the sun, remember? All of us. And each of us were raised to believe in eternity. Life was going to be as eternal as the biggest star in the sky, nourishing us by the day, receding by night to allow sleep to lull us elsewhere.Being transported to that elsewhere was again, full of promise. In it were words, sometimes trapped in the ether, caught by you in the centre of your palm and then pocketed. Good things come from promise. The promise of another meeting. Just as the sun makes a promise to us every twilight-- the exact point when it will begin again at daybreak. How childlike this thought of promise and continuity! And yet, it is the image my mind lingers at-- one day at a time now.…<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20230228150232/63fe10bc9c7e80680e0da4abjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="576" height="1024">Some days, my heart is steeped in regret for things left unsaid.When Maa put a bowl of vegetable soup before me, I got up and left the table, instead of saying “I love you”. When Baa offered to drive me to meet my friend, I got out of the car and said I can walk, instead of saying “thank you”. Reactions too, like words cannot be unsaid. I responded with my being, my body yelling at them in silence and they cannot be undone-- the getting up and out and walking away.But these were all days I needed out.For months, I told myself I have to go away. That is my destiny. I have always known I was meant to go away. Not knowing where drove me out of my wits and yet I wrote a prayer each night for my deliverance.But every time the time to leave showed up on the calendar, I dragged my suitcase to the door and stopped to stare at my parents. How can two people be so happy for your freedom? How can they revel in not knowing I have gathered the weapons to self-destruct? It is what wayward daughters do, pick the path of suffering and run swiftly towards the end of the world, with no desire to slow down, whatsoever.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/we-are-fire-breathing-dragons/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">We are fire-breathing dragons</a>, Pratibha Tuladhar…Ever wondered why growing old is such a relief? Because it lets us know that the worst has passed and that we are more prepared because of our familiarity with sadness and that even the worst will be lived through.It is full of promise, you see? Promise, that I will be right here when you want to sit down and take my hands in yours. Promise that I will always be capable of writing these open-ended, useless ramblings fit only for someone like me who never outgrew her teens.Perhaps it is true then, that we become arrested in the years when life poured the most into our fold. And from those years begin to grow the bubble that will eventually become the void. And around that, we chisel our lives, putting in a little bit every now and then, hoping for what life must become. And by the time life has come whole, we are still in the process and we continue at the attempt to architect it-- even the end must be perfect!Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

The wait

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20230208140212/63e39fbb9c7e80680e0d7007jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1125"/><figcaption>Self portrait by Smyrna Samten Sherpa.</figcaption></figure>“All of us write songs. All of us make music.”I pause when I hear you say this. I want to say, I do not know anything about music. Instead, I say, tell me more.You carry on: “Playing with thoughts is also emoting. It is not very different from writing a lyric or composing music. It is song-writing and melody-making. Voice is just an instrument after that.”You describe songwriting as a form of storytelling, where one borrows from the conscious as well as the subconscious, like all storytelling.Friends from nowhereThe first time I heard you sing was on Instagram. You were seated on the floor of your room, guitar cradled on your lap, your fringe forming an awning for your face as you sang. The floorboards stretched all the way behind you, racing towards the balcony. Above it, the hills rose, forming a fortress for your room in Gangtok, <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/letting-go-of-sikkims-ghost/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Sikkim</a>. In my head you were a magician-- your voice, the deepest I had ever heard and your background, surreal.The <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/chinas-surge-should-nepal-be-worried/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">pandemic</a> had just set in.I think my head draws this image of you from a collage of images I have put together from your social media. <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/avoiding-the-quicksand-of-social-media/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Social media</a> allows for that to happen-- you can re-live many moments vicariously. It is what I have done through your stories.Now, sitting across me, you are somehow transported across time and space to a coffee table in a cafe in Kathmandu.The homecoming“If someone speaks two Nepali words or talks about Nepali music, it is like primal instinct, my body and mind react to it.” But you did not realise the real connection until you were in the land, “amongst its people”.You mention <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FB4lfrJLNy4" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Jerusha</a>, <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/a-sky-full-of-images/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Bartika</a>, Yugal, <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/bipul-chettri-back-in-kathmandu/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Bipul</a>. I start to gather fragments of your thoughts on my phone in the form of notes, while my heart busts with questions.In December, you posted a cover of Danny Denzongpa’s Chiso Chiso Hawa Ma, giving the song a life away from the original sound track. I ask what you think of how Nepali audience always want to lay a claim on <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/arko-the-nepali-minstrel-from-bengal/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Nepali artists from India</a>.“Kathmandu has always been that home to Nepali musicians all across the globe, especially the hills of Kalimpong, Darjeeling, Kuresong and Sikkim. People here have always received them, listened to them, allowing them to teach in schools and explore their creative side. So, it is okay for Nepali people to claim Danny. I think it comes from a place of love and acceptance,” you smile and I do, too. Art is indulgence but also struggleYour parents are proud of you being Dr Smyrna Samten Sherpa. Your father, who placed a guitar in your arms when you were ten and prodded you on to the stage asking you to sing at church, still much prefers to introduce you as a medical professional.So, there is a catch in your voice when we go into how lonely the journey of pursuing art can be, but laugh and say: “I will always have music with me no matter where I am in my life…My parents will always be my parents even if they don’t agree with all that I do-- music has been home too.”Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/step-by-step-for-rural-health-care-in-nepal/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Step by step for rural health care in Nepal</a>, Aryan Sitaulahttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vLoRBVZmSlsYou have journeyed from singing in church to performing for a crowd, punctuating it with breaks to process the purpose and to write your own songs. And while music has brought you fame and new friends like myself, you say your real joy has come from being able to perform for children. You call it “the feeling of impartation”.Music is the food to my soul Your grandmother is on the phone with you from Namchi, South <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=4709#.Y7o8tuxBzR0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Sikkim</a>. She asks you why you want to leave.You answer: “In pursuit of self discovery”.You assure her by reminding her that you were taught to be like her-- dauntless. That she survived her time, you would too. And so you pack your bags and move to Delhi in search of a hospital job, in search of a life of music, bound to find you.Slowing down can be a good thingYou explain your idea of being Nepali: “The thing about people in Nepal, the hills of Darjeeling, Kalimpong and Sikkim is that they know how to slow down. We use the word ‘laid back’ a lot of times to describe the crowd in our part of the world.”In contrast, you draw a picture of India, where musicians are expected to be perfect, where dinner table conversations revolve around people wanting to be something.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/moving-songs-from-the-boys-next-door/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Moving songs from the boys next door</a>, Sewa Bhattarai“I am sure everyone strives for that balance but with the advent of the internet and with life in a metropolitan I’ve started appreciating the idea of disengaging, slowing down. I think it makes music more human. I see <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y1lkroDm3Mo" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">phatcowlee</a> pause from time to time, he brings good music from his hiatuses.”I miss being unguardedI have never heard anyone speak of the migration of sound scapes before: “Music is not a genre, it is a feeling”, you explain your understanding of how music is a feeling intertwined with history. “They have a certain theme and they repeat and evolve in other parts of the world as time passes." You draw examples from the blues in the cotton fields and our bards with Sarangi who sang about Mughlan.“Music migrates in that way but it is also a collective consciousness.”Listening to you across the table on a December evening, some things come home to me. That, I am not alone in feeling like an outsider in my own land. And that even when we feel like we are citizens of the world, there is still an ache for home. And that that is why we have music.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/the-sweet-smell-of-music/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">The sweet smell of music</a>, Ben AyersRight now, I hold on to your thoughts: “From teenage angst to something to age wisely with…that is why God has given us music-- to lean on so we age gracefully.Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

Notes from a musician

“Maybe you are a dragon,” says M.
She wants to know what Mi-malaa in Newa translates to. I say, it is a fire-breathing dragon. And I immediately slide into a ramble about dragons, which is when she says she thinks that I might be a dragon.
I laugh.
…
I am five, sickly, forever dodging all kinds of arrows life darts at me, throwing me into fits of cough that cause asthma. It means I am not as athletic as my cousins or my classmates. I am the youngest in class and the littlest of all cousins. I am the runt of the pack. My oldest cousin sister, whenever it rains, lifts her frock over my head like a broken umbrella.
Stay in bed! I am told that a lot by everyone. Baa brings me Read-it-Yourself Ladybird classics.
One very dry day in March, Yaama, decides I must join the other children for Malaa ja-- the feast of the dragon. Maa is not entirely sure but she helps me put on my pretty pink frock that has a bunch of dolls embroidered to the front. Yaama leads me to the street before the Taleju temple where wicker mats have been spread out and children are seated in rows, like some picnic is underway.
My heart thumps at the sight. I am assigned a spot.
Men and women appear in a file, walking past us, leaving treats, ranging from cookies to cakes to fruits, on the leafy plates set before each one of us. The girl next to me asks me if she can have some of my sweets and I say yes. Drink your juice, she says.
I feel as though I am part of something important, even though I have no appetite.
Yaama brings me home when the feast is over. Maa asks me how it went. I tell her everything. She explains how in the past, it would have been a proper feast of rice and daal and goodies and that the event was a prayer sent out to the dragon to protect the children from itself-- March being a month of storms and strong winds and contagious diseases. Hence, Malaa Ja.
…
Maa has always owned a pendant with a dragon on it. In fact, all her sisters have one, a family tradition of carving the serpentine mythical creature with fins, scales and fire onto little slabs of metal.
While I still had a penchant for jewelry, I used to ask Maa if she would give it to me someday. I would ask her why the pendant has a dragon. “My birthchart warns me against the Malaa. I am supposed to wear the pendant so a dragon can protect me against dragons.”
Whenever it rained, Maa’s elder sister would rush to her rescue with an umbrella and shove her into the house. Stay indoors! She would make her watch the rain from the window. She was not allowed to be outdoors during storms. And so my mother learned to watch the rain from the window and read her books.
And across the sky, she would see the dragons flashing to the background score of thunder, spreading as far as the horizon in its colours, claws, scales and fins-- the sudden outburst of lightning sending shudders through her heart.
…
“On the main entrance of our old home were two massive, colourful dragons. They were beautiful,” Maa recalls. “The house had little attic windows and I would look at the mountains from those windows.”
When they pulled the house down to build a new one, the dragons came off the walls in broken bricks.
Maa has no idea who painted the dragons, but they were a symbol of the great creatures that would protect the house and its dwellers.
…
We have four kinds of dragons, says Deepak Bajracharya Gurju. They are: Mi Malaa, Bajra Malaa, Gongaa Mall, Pa Malaa, each named after their shape and impact.
“A Malaa is truth, but also an illusion,” he says. “It is as elusive as it is omnipresent.” And he shares anecdotes.
In one instance, a Malaa had drowned in a pot of brew and turned to stone. But when the woman who discovered it tried to hold it, the stone quickly transformed into its ethereal form and flew away.
In some instances, Guruju says, when the sky suddenly darkens, rumbles and the lighting strikes, we believe that a Malaa has flown away.
They have been forgotten over the years, he explains, but they are still present in symbols around us. We have seen them carved on to temple struts, to door knobs, painted on walls of old buildings, written by healers on bodies when people fall sick and sometimes inked on the skin. Sometimes, their form stares at us from the ruins of a house struck by lightning.
…
Dragons, Maa says, are representative of who we are as individuals. They are who we aspire to be -- fierce, cold as serpentine scales but bursting with flames that can burn everything to cinders.
She says, there is always that epiphany whenever the Malaa shows across our skies -- the idea of regenerative possibility all humans are. Of how we reinvent and reappear just as dragons do. That was the original hope every parent carried for their children -- that they be like dragons and they protect themselves from other dragons.
Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.