‘Devi’ does not just stand for different <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/comment/giving-a-face-to-a-deity?fbclid=IwY2xjawFtoG5leHRuA2FlbQIxMQABHXa4139HVkEZUtSxGZJRZxF_-mhuZWHUa9VznwFsj2uv1OuaHIj5GwkpBw_aem_6t_qShHd7HRRw3KjhHPRqg">goddesses </a>who embody creation, destruction, and the cycles of life. It is symbolic of feminine energy in both spiritual and human forms.&nbsp; The goddesses mirror cultural and social ideals of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/of-women-for-women-by-women">womanhood</a>, celebrating the essence of feminine power and strength. The many forms of Devi transcend religion, borders, realities, and personal awakenings. Devi is form yet formlessness, elemental and elusive, mystical and mundane, beautiful yet brutal. This multifaceted nature of female deities finds quiet expression in the stillness of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/tsherin-sherpa-returns-home-to-takpa">Takpa Gallery</a>, through the collaborative work of Emily Avery Yoshiko Crow and Tara Di Gesu. Crow is from Colorado, and has been living and learning art in India, Nepal and Canada. Di Gesu learnt classical thangka painting in Nepal, adding a new delicate quality to the sacred artform.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250710140736_73f64aad171ea203e9f795329001ad7ef76e84442f891252af3120fe143a869d.png" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20250710140736_73f64aad171ea203e9f795329001ad7ef76e84442f891252af3120fe143a869d" data-rendition-name="original" width="800" height="1304" loading="lazy" alt="The divine Devi"> <figcaption>Lotus Tara by Emily Avery Yoshiko Crow</figcaption> </figure>  Crow’s artwork of layered lotuses forming the image of Lotus Tara is a contemporary interpretation of the revered goddess, rendered in mixed media photo collage. Through soft blue and pink pastels, Lotus Tara radiates tranquility. In contrast, Marigold Tara emerges from a deep, dark backdrop, with her form shaped by fiery orange marigolds. In Red Tara Realm, digital collage and paint meld to create a hypnotic, multi-dimensional effect where the many forms of the deity in red overlap and intertwine within a single frame. A simpler, original version of Red Tara sits nearby, counterbalancing the dynamic fusion.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250710140736_0a787dda0626eaed1399b24dc9bb3af2e297a71f109cb60997bc234acc6fa422.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20250710140736_0a787dda0626eaed1399b24dc9bb3af2e297a71f109cb60997bc234acc6fa422" data-rendition-name="original" width="1440" height="1080" loading="lazy" alt="The divine Devi"> <figcaption>Kalavinka by Emily Avery Yoshiko Crow</figcaption> </figure>  One of her more intriguing works is Kalavinka, painted on handmade Indian paper with mineral pigments featuring a colourful bird’s body paired with a feminine human head. The human head embodies intellect while the bird represents instinct and agility. Offering Devis is another unique display, made with rose petals, gathered from Mandala offerings that Crow collected, dried, pressed, and painted onto delicate Japanese paper. Tara Di Gesu’s artwork evokes bolder and more spiritually intense themes, drawing inspiration from the style commonly found in <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/golden-deities">traditional thangka paintings</a>.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250710140736_5836aab649efd7920beebfd2442063d4e43970bdb62c549917fee3c3b48a7975.png" data-media-id="editor_6" data-image-id="20250710140736_5836aab649efd7920beebfd2442063d4e43970bdb62c549917fee3c3b48a7975" data-rendition-name="original" width="800" height="1200" loading="lazy" alt="The divine Devi"> <figcaption>Kali by Tara Di Gesu</figcaption> </figure>  Kali and Khrodikali portrays the fierce Hindu goddess using mineral pigment, gold, and watercolour on silk. Adorned with a garland of skulls, Kali is a fearless embodiment of feminine strength, and a potent reminder of the divine life force. The Little White Vulture has softer and delicate tones in which the goddess glows with power, as she soars serenely.&nbsp; The exhibition also invites reflection on caring for nature and the deep interconnectedness of all living beings, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/himalayan-tipping-points">the beauty and the fragility of our planet</a>, with Crow’s use of eco-conscious materials. Her watercolours Earth in Peril and Earth in Harmony depict the stark divide between flood and fire, yet a figure stands strong at the centre, entwined with hopeful touches of greenery and natural elements, while the latter bursts with lush life involving birds, flowers, and leaves in full bloom. Emily Avery Yoshiko Crow and Tara Di Gesu delve into both the intimate and iconic expressions. For both artists, Devi is more than art, it is an act of devotion celebrating the ineffable. Devi Till 26 July Tuesday-Thursday: 11AM-6PM Friday-Sunday: 11AM-7PM Takpa Gallery, Lazimpat&nbsp;

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The divine Devi

A <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/nepals-new-generation-of-alternative-artists">new generation of Nepali artists</a> is exploring bold narratives and experimental themes, pushing boundaries, and redefining societal conventions.&nbsp; That could be one perspective on the exhibition ‘I Am Rooted, But I Flow’ at <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/tsherin-sherpa-returns-home-to-takpa">Takpa Gallery</a>. Curated by Pratima Thakali, it showcases works by eight female artists who explore the interplay between identity, culture, and personal evolution. Artists Anmari Tamang, Kripa Shakya, Kripa Tuladhar, Krisha Tamrakar, Pooja Duwal, Priyanka Singh Maharjan, Sony Rai, and Sumitra Baral bring together diverse perspectives that challenge traditional narratives and invite a fresh thinking of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/comment/culture-cannot-be-an-afterthought">Nepal’s cultural landscape</a>. These emerging female artists compel us to contemplate the evolution of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/inking-an-idenity">identity</a>, where tradition and transformation coexist in an ever-shifting cultural terrain. The title, drawn from Virginia Woolf’s The Waves, reflects the core theme: the balance between the stability of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/reviving-nepal-s-craft">our roots</a> and the fluidity of our evolving selves. Krisha Tamrakar co-director of Artudio draws inspiration from her hometown of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/patan-for-beginners">Patan</a>, and her fascination with human spaces. <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/lost-in-translation">Familiar landmarks are disappearing</a>, a theme that deeply influences her work through her series of Between Colors and Spaces. “Traditional brass utensils have begun to blend seamlessly with modern, colourful clothing in my neighbourhood,” she says, explaining her Between Colors and Spaces XXI.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250212040228_b85945a657c6eb7be39c449bfc9f24bd0dbe6786261fb7ec29bd6010526c1844.jpg" data-media-id="editor_7" data-image-id="20250212040228_b85945a657c6eb7be39c449bfc9f24bd0dbe6786261fb7ec29bd6010526c1844" data-rendition-name="original" width="3599" height="2400" loading="lazy" alt="Reimagined roots NT"> <figcaption>Artist Krisha Tamrakar draws inspiration from her hometown Patan in her Between Colors and Spaces series. Photo: KAILASH K SHRESTHA</figcaption> </figure>  Tamrakar notes how metal brass utensil shops that once lined the streets have now been replaced by clothing and shoe stores, which also makes us ponder about the effects of rising consumerism. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-art-of-living">The art of living</a>, Kunda Dixit Tamrakar believes contemporary art is essential because it allows her to express herself in the present while providing a lens for future reflection. Despite the surrealist images in her work, she thinks the local community will be able to relate to it as her art integrates everyday aspects of their lives. The founder of Artudio Kailash K Shrestha reflects on the inspiration behind his space in 2010: “Back then, there were no accessible platforms for local, young, and emerging artists. There was a lack of open spaces where artists could come together to collaborate, exchange ideas, inspire one another, and offer mutual support." While Tamrakar thinks every artist’s work is valuable, she also acknowledges the underrepresentation of <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/from-paintbrush-to-tattoo-needle">female artists</a> in the contemporary art scene and encourages greater inclusion. Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/amalgamation-of-nepali-art">Amalgamation of Nepali art</a>, Aayusha Pokharel ‘To All The Women Who Came Before Me’ by Priyanka Singh Maharjan is another artwork series that stands out. Using embroidery on fabric, she represents the often-overlooked and unacknowledged <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/nepals-working-women-in-photos">work of women</a>, particularly mothers, and grandmothers, a role that is indispensable in society. ‘Amidst the Watts of Steam’ series by Pooja Duwal showcases a three-decade-long local momo shop, Na: pasa: in Bhaktapur. The ambience in which the food is made and consumed outweighs the food itself as it is more about the sense of familiarity and warmth that make customers inhabit the space.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250212040228_1cf576bd9ba9fc3eac16e80796fb176181469701fa1fceec7dd75efe3ee00f52.jpg" data-media-id="editor_12" data-image-id="20250212040228_1cf576bd9ba9fc3eac16e80796fb176181469701fa1fceec7dd75efe3ee00f52" data-rendition-name="original" width="1505" height="1129" loading="lazy" alt="Reimagined roots NT"> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250212040228_5f1dfb425db65f43a3f6209a23c70a90ce5e68b9552ac704f57940283d5cd526.jpg" data-media-id="editor_13" data-image-id="20250212040228_5f1dfb425db65f43a3f6209a23c70a90ce5e68b9552ac704f57940283d5cd526" data-rendition-name="original" width="1189" height="1585" loading="lazy" alt="Reimagined roots NT"> </figure>  Kripa Shakya and Sony Rai also incorporate unconventional mediums into their work. Shakya uses <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/weaving-the-fabric-of-a-new-life?fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAR2V6f30hX4eilYDsJKsIZVffQN3SCev4wJJxVYUxPIxY28mHcjlL9XOSmQ_aem_D-yqkaobj1DveD4Uytym3w">fabric</a>, nails, and string along with other mixed media to represent shared experiences of interpersonal conflicts and acceptance, while Rai presents intricately woven threads through aquatint to find beauty in simplicity. Sumitra Baral’s sculptures interpret <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/fusion-fashion">fashion</a> as not just an outward beauty but an expression of inner artistry and cultural heritage. Her art label reads, ‘Fashion is not just about attire; it is a symbol of identity, a definition of personality, and a living story of culture.’  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250212040228_32955f8db287d4177669a1bbcf5e60cade25ea36aebc6caff5756f23e8a1b7e4.jpg" data-media-id="editor_16" data-image-id="20250212040228_32955f8db287d4177669a1bbcf5e60cade25ea36aebc6caff5756f23e8a1b7e4" data-rendition-name="original" width="1147" height="1529" loading="lazy" alt="Reimagined roots NT"> </figure>  ‘I Am Rooted, But I Flow’ gives a voice to fluid, multifaceted experiences of how our identities are shaped by both deep-rooted traditions and the transformative forces of personal growth. I Am Rooted, But I Flow 8 February - 8 March Takpa Gallery &nbsp;

Reimagined roots

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111015118/636d05c49c7e80680e0a5f27jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1142" height="640"/><figcaption>Photos: SAGLO SAMAJ</figcaption></figure>Janakpur, the birthplace of Sita and the cradle of the Mithila civilisation, is seeing a revival of its heritage, culture and traditional art.The origin of <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=8294#.YN_dOy8w3u1" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Mithila art</a> is rooted in the legend of King Janak ordering his subjects to paint walls of homes to welcome Lord Ram when he came to ask for his daughter Sita’s hand in marriage.Mithila paintings then were done at weddings, festivals and feasts using flour, clay, and cowdung. The artists were mostly the women of the family, who bore the decorative responsibility in their homes. As the art evolved, the paintings became more than a way to beautify homes — they provided women with a creative outlet to tell the stories of their lives.This centuries-old art form has now gone commercial, enabling <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/colour-play-mithila-art-janakpur,796" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">female artists</a> to hone skills passed down from one generation of mothers to the next generation of their daughters. This now gives them financial independence, recognition and respect within Nepal and, increasingly, across the world.<a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/nation-bhaktapur,597">Bhaktapur’s Mithila influence</a>, Bhaskar Koirala<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111015118/636d05c69c7e80680e0a5f28jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1440" height="807">Madhumala Mandal was born and raised in Kuwa village near here, where Mithila culture is as ingrained into young girls as household duties and responsibilities. Guided by her grandmother and mother, Mandal would paint pictures of deities to decorate the doors and walls of her house.But her interest in the traditional draughtsmanship soon stretched beyond the walls of her home, she would make shapes out of clay and paint idols on trips to the village mela. <figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111015118/636d05c99c7e80680e0a5f29jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1920" height="1080"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>“Even while I was out herding cattle and doing farm work, I was always drawing idols and shapes on the ground,” she recalls.Mandal would eventually have a family of her own, but she retained her passion for Mithila art. She now works at the Women's Development Centre in Janakpur where she creates Mithila paintings on canvas.“It took many years for me to convince family and friends that I was doing the right thing,” she explains.Mandal’s four brothers went to school, but as the sole daughter in the family, she was excluded. Having learnt to be independent from a young age and now with income of her own, she supports her own daughter’s education."The income and respect I earned through my artwork gave me the courage and the means to support my daughter,” she says. “This is the greatest achievement of my life.”Her days of drawing shapes in the mud long behind her, Mandal’s art now stays with traditional motifs but is almost impressionistic. Her work has been exhibited in the US and Hong Kong, and accent the walls of many homes across the world.The ancient Mithila kingdom spanned territory that now lies on both sides of the India Nepal border. Recently, there has been a renaissance of Mithila literature, dance forms and art.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111015118/636d05cc9c7e80680e0a5f2ajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1440" height="804"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Acclaimed Mithila artist Mithileshwari Devi Karna was born and raised in Bihar’s Madhubani district and settled in Janakpur after marriage, grew up learning the Mithila art form from her mother in India.Karna used to train artists at the Women's Development Centre and faced similar experiences of societal pressure as many other women like Mandal in the Tarai who have chosen to become artists.Her community expressed disapproval when she prepared to travel overseas for an exhibition of her art. “People are always going to judge and make comments,” she says dismissively, “but I stood my ground, and went to Japan.”The steadfast pursuit of her art has earned her respect, financial security, and most importantly, self-satisfaction. Now, the 65, Karna was recently honoured by the Nepal Academy of Fine Arts and now only paints as a hobby. Even so, she is never without a paintbrush and canvas within reach.The popularity of Mithila art and handicrafts spread across the world after the 1980s due to Professor Rajendra Bimal and American artist Claire Burkert, who meticulously documented all the existing Mithila murals in Janakpur.Together, they established the Women's Development Center here in 1992 and trained women in Mithila art for the first time in Nepal, making sure that artists were financially independent through their art, and the techniques were preserved.As a result, the women who have received training and worked in the Centre have played a role in making Mithila art famous not only within Nepal but all over the world.<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/modern-mithila-art-that-bares-injustice/">Modern Mithila art that bares injustice</a>, Nunuta RaiSunaina Thakur is among those who institutionalised and promoted Mithila art internationally. Thakur organised Mithila art exhibitions in India, Japan, and the US, and now runs her own art gallery in Janakpur where she employs and trains 30 female artists in the techniques as well as in running an art business.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111015118/636d05cf9c7e80680e0a5f2bjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1440" height="800"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111015118/636d05d29c7e80680e0a5f2cjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1920" height="1080"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>“I have been constantly trying to mobilise unrecognised talent to empower artists and encourage gender equality, both through recruitment efforts and through the art itself,” says Thakur, “I now want to pass on what I know to the next generation of women.”<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111015118/636d05d59c7e80680e0a5f2djpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1920" height="1080"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Among the artists employed at Thakur’s gallery is Binita Devi Sah, who recently earned her first-ever paycheque through her own Mithila paintings. Family obligations and responsibilities towards her children had confined Sah at home for almost three decades, but when her sons completed their education. It opened the door for her to finally pursue her own interests.“I stepped out of my house 26 years after getting married and earned Rs12,000 through my work. I have not stopped sharing my happiness with other people even as my sons continue to tease me about it,” smiles a proud Sah. “We never thought that this art, which we learned to make as children, could be a means for earning a livelihood.”The Mithila museum at the Janaki temple has also played an important role in documenting and conserving Mithila art. The museum, established under the leadership of Mahant Ramat Peshwar Das, houses Mithila paintings, sculptures, murals, decorative items as well as Maithili music and hymns that showcase the rich history of the art form.Satish Shah, director of the Women's Development Centre, agrees that Mithila art in Nepal has not been able to evolve as much as it has in India where there are more well-equipped institutions. Moreover, the is Center is not as influential as it once was, and has become a cause for concern about the future of Mithila art and artists. The pandemic has made working conditions worse in the last two years, and it is difficult to pay the 40 artists employed.Yet, even as they hope for support from the local and state governments, Shah and Karna both acknowledge that elected officials in Janakpur and Kathmandu do not understand the importance of Mithila art and culture."The government must invest in preserving this institution as well as Mithila art,” says Shah, adding that leaders could start by displaying the paintings in their offices.Mithila art featured heavily during weddings, festivals and celebrations, and even in items of daily use in Janakpur city until two decades ago. The artwork decorating the streets of the city included depictions of ancient earthen houses, artistic interpretations of the traditional jhizhiya dance, daily household items, and vibrantly painted birds. But with modern life, the practice is slowly fading.<a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/review/mithila-representations-of-kathmandus-metamorphosis/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">S C Suman</a>, former head of the Department of the Folk Arts at the Nepal Academy of Fine Arts, says the reason is that cement houses have replaced the clay walls where the paintings were done. Nepali galleries now import Indian Mithila paintings and pass them off as originals.“While commercialisation to a certain extent is necessary, hyper-commercialisation can also make it difficult to preserve Mithila art,” he says. “Nepali art is incomplete without Mithila art.”_________________<h2>Crossborder Mithila civilisation</h2><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111015118/636d05d89c7e80680e0a5f2ejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1280" height="720">Mithila art is the cultural heritage of the entire Mithila region, which was a single kingdom before being divided after the 1816 Sugauli Treaty. And while Colonial India got a bigger chunk of the state, Nepal retained 25% of the territory, including the capital of Mithila in Janakpur where the art form originated.When the state of Mithila was divided, the art form began to be referred to as Madhubani art in India. But Mithila and Madhubani art are one and the same, explains Sunaina Thakur.“As in Mithila art, Madhubani art, too, depicts the marriage of Sita and Ram, and the two art forms have the same style,” she adds. “The difference is that Madhubani art is more well known internationally than Mithila art.”Mithila art conservationist and campaigner Sudarshan Lal Karna says that the art form has not developed, or been promoted in Nepal to the extent that it has been in India, where it was first propagated in 1966.The then Union Minister of Bihar, Lalit Narayan Mishra, who was familiar with the art form, introduced his foreign guests to Mithila paintings. They in turn were amazed how similar they were to Picasso’s paintings.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111015118/636d05db9c7e80680e0a5f2fjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1920" height="1080"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>“That marked the beginning of the institutional development of Madhubani art in India,” says Karna, while there was no progress in Janakpur. The Women's Development Centre is one of very ew Nepali organisations that actively works to promote and nurture Mithila art.“But although the evolution of the art in Nepal is slower, the quality of the talent with the two nations are at par with each other,” notes Karna, who would like Mithila art to be included in the school curriculum, and not just in Province 2.

Vibrant Mithila art thrives in Nepal

International Mountain Day on 11 December should inspire celebration, not cynicism. It follows &nbsp;a small but rare diplomatic win: the agreement at COP30 in Belém to hold a dedicated global dialogue on mountains in 2026, and to include mountain-specific indicators in the new climate adaptation framework.&nbsp;
A welcome shift, certainly. But the old narrative lingers — mountains are fragile, disaster-prone, eternally vulnerable. But the uncomfortable truth is that safe and environment-friendly development in the mountains is simply too expensive than anyone wants to admit.
To build a kilometre of two-lane highway in the Tarai costs Rs200 million. That same kilometre on a Himalayan slope with retaining walls, drainage, bioengineering, and landslide protection costs more than Rs1 billion. Add tunnels, viaducts or highways designed for minimum 80km/h speeds and that figure can easily triple.
This pattern repeats across all sectors. A 50MW run-of-river hydropower plant that costs $80 million in low-ling valleys costs four times more in the mountains. The headrace tunnels have to be longer, desanding basins must trap the silt, the access roads cost more than the entire project. And there is no way to prevent the scheme from being washed away by a glacial collapse flood.
Nepal's annual road budget is only Rs150 billion. It is scattered thinly across 753 municipalities, most of them perched on steep, unstable slopes. When resources are inadequate and political cycles are short, the incentives for corruption are predictable &nbsp;— shaving a mountain flank at 70 degrees instead of 45, taking a shortcut on drainage canals, skimping on asphalt thickness, or skipping the Gabion.
In high Nepal, the bulldozer is the engineer. We hang on the prayer that the monsoon will be merciful. July arrives, and reality returns. Mountains fall on roads, flash floods wash away swathes of expensive highways.
The entrance to the Siddhababa Tunnel in Palpa collapses yet again. The Nagdhunga Tunnel faces another landslide delay. The Melamchi headworks go under — again. Each failure costs more to repair than proper engineering would have cost when that infrastructure was built.
We are not just paying once. We the taxpayers are signing up for a subscription to disaster. The real fragility of Nepal’s mountains is of governance, not geology.
This is what the international climate conversation habitually misses. Mountain communities are repeatedly told to ‘respect nature’ and avoid linear infrastructure, often by the same countries proudly announcing new expressways and airports in their own countries.
Mountain people are not anti-development. They want what everyone else wants: electricity that does not flicker, roads that survive the monsoon, schools their children can reach in winter. What they lack is not aspiration, it is the budget required to build things safely that is not stolen by politicians and their crony contractors.
If the world truly wants to protect the Himalaya, Andes or Alps, and the billions who rely on them for water, the answer is not more romantic slogans about fragility of the mountains. It is concessional, patient financing that narrows the gap between cheap and dangerous versus expensive and resilient. And it is transparent government that spends that money wisely.
This means money for tunnels instead of unstable surface cuts. Money for bioengineered slopes instead of naked bulldozer scars. Money for hydropower built for 1-in-100-year floods, not 1-in-25-year budgets.&nbsp;
This is not charity. Mountain infrastructure safeguards global water, carbon, energy and biodiversity systems. It is a global public good, and should be financed as such.&nbsp;
In Syangja, small investments under the Climate Adaptive Equitable Water Management Practices have restored nine community ponds, protected recharge zones and increased dry-season spring flow by about a third. All of this for less than the cost of repairing a single kilometre of poorly built hillside road after the next landslide.
Our experience from the Subnational Governance Programme (SNGP) in some districts of mountains and plains show that when municipalities receive practical guidance backed by scientific research, they can scale these solutions with modest, targeted budgets. Local governments are not the problem — they are the missing link. &nbsp;
The tragedy is not technical incapacity; it is chronic under-financing of the most cost-intensive terrain on earth. Lets stop romanticising mountain poverty on 11 December, International Mountain Day. Let us retire the language of fragility that excuses inaction.
Mountains are not pleading for sympathy. They are demanding fairness: that the true cost of safe development in the world’s steepest geographies be acknowledged and shared. Until that bill is paid, the monsoon will continue to do the accounting, one landslide, one road, one abandoned promise at a time.
Ngamindra Dahal is a water and climate adaptation practitioner based at the Nepal Water Conservation Foundation, Kathmandu.

The Himalaya is not fragile

This is the 76th episode of Diaspora Diaries, a Nepali Times series in collaboration with Migration Lab providing a platform to share experiences of living, working and studying abroad. We did not have a whole lot, but did not grow up in scarcity either. When I was in Grade 7, my father migrated to Malaysia but returned just after 18 days and was heavily in debt. It is the interest and not the principal from loan sharks that ruins borrowers. As we grew up, family expenses rose and my father migrated again to Qatar, determined to make it work this time. I used to watch him via IMO in buildings under construction eating rice out of plastic bags. There was no AC, no oven, no shade. Those images are etched into my memory.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081244_3f46ccdd1fab8f85ccce9fc8bec677cb7466a1b9556f36d0f92d19c6478369b6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251208081244_3f46ccdd1fab8f85ccce9fc8bec677cb7466a1b9556f36d0f92d19c6478369b6" data-rendition-name="original" width="600" height="800" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Family picture from 2014 sent to Anil's father who was working in Qatar.</figcaption> </figure>  After Grade 10, I was encouraged to take up computers in +2 as I was a bright student. I did not have access to a computer, and the 30 minutes we got weekly at the computer lab was just not enough. My parents could not afford to buy a computer, but a friend had both a desktop and laptop at home.&nbsp; I did his homework in exchange for using his computer. When my father in Qatar, found out he bought me a laptop. Today, a decade later, I am still using it. Maybe I valued the computer more because it was bought with my father’s sweat. The laptop reminds me of how he toiled overseas.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_2b3dc0b903d0b01caf875b5f50c22053aa28097b405cf14f36c6324a93f5dfef.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251208081240_2b3dc0b903d0b01caf875b5f50c22053aa28097b405cf14f36c6324a93f5dfef" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil still uses the laptop his father bought him ten years ago.</figcaption> </figure>  The money he sent home did help with household expenses. My mother did tailoring, although the income was not stable. After my father returned from Qatar, we he bought a three-wheeler which he still uses in Makwanpur. After completing Grade 12, I came to college in Kathmandu to study IT. It cost Rs20,000 a month in tuition, rent and food just to survive. I could not complete my bachelor’s. Although my father kept saying, “Don’t worry, I am here,” he just did not have the money to pay for me. So, I took up a data entry job which helped cover living expenses. The pandemic meant my father could not earn money from his auto-rickshaw. We had no savings and had outstanding loans. Migration was the only way to get us out of the rut. I told my father that both of us should go abroad to earn some money. He could return earlier and I would stay on.&nbsp; My father agreed, and I visited recruiting agencies with both our passports. After reviewing our CVs, they said it was easy to find jobs for my father but not for me, given my educational background and my experience in software. “How can we send you for jobs as a cleaner or security guard?” they asked. I finally found a job in Romania, and decided to have my father stay back because going to Europe would have doubled the cost. My mother and sister came to see me off at Kathmandu airport. It felt just like my father leaving for Qatar many years ago. Perhaps some day, my brother would also leave in a similar manner, I thought.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_c1a00b70223f048e994e1cab7c0e6cd6944c4a2f3f7740b0a8e76921da9d23f0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251208081240_c1a00b70223f048e994e1cab7c0e6cd6944c4a2f3f7740b0a8e76921da9d23f0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil's sister hugging him at the airport before he left for Romania.</figcaption> </figure>  In Romania, I work in a factory making car seat belts. It is not physically demanding and it is indoors. Even though I did not share it with my family, the initial period was difficult as I had no experience standing and working for so many hours at a time. Once, when I was tired at work, I wondered how my father managed in Qatar in a much more physically taxing job. Here I was not carrying heavy loads, my work was not outdoors. I was so emotional, I wrote a ghazal in my head. The words “खाडीको तातो घाम” kept repeating in my head. After work, I jotted down the verse in my diary:&nbsp; बुवा, तपाई जस्तो बन्न म सक्दै सक्दिनँ Father, I cannot become like you कति गाह्रो छ, म भन्नै सक्दिनँ I cannot imagine how hard it is म मान्छे हेर्दा मात्रै ठूलो I only look like a grown man बानी अझै बच्चै छ But I am still childish किनकि जता त्यतै जान मन लाग्छ I feel like roaming around जे देख्यो त्यो खान मन लाग्छ Eat whatever I see. न पैसा बच्छ I cannot save. न खाएको कुरा सबै पच्छ The food doesn’t agree with me&nbsp; कहिले काहीँ त मलाई म्याकडोनाल्डको बर्गर पनि पच्दैन Not even a burger at McDonalds तर प्लास्टिकमा पोको परेको त्यो चिसो भात But how did my father eat that cold rice खाडीको त्यो तातो घाममा सेक्दै खाँदा मेरो बुवालाई कसरी पच्छ? Under the hot Gulf sun? मेरो पेटले यस्तो पचाउन सक्दै सक्दैन I would not be able to eat that. बुवा, तपाई जस्तो बन्न म सक्दै सक्दिनँ Father, I cannot be like you. कति गाह्रो छ, म भन्नै सक्दिनँ I cannot say how difficult it is.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_51eb68a130750f1c79ab1046406a5b940c780ebd87cfff5ff6861d3287bd69c0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251208081240_51eb68a130750f1c79ab1046406a5b940c780ebd87cfff5ff6861d3287bd69c0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil Gole's diary entry of his ghazal compares his migration with his father’s journey.</figcaption> </figure>  I posted it online, and it went viral. But more importantly, people found the words relatable and engaging. My sister first saw it on Tiktok and shared it with my mother. It moved them to tears while my father kept watching it on repeat, deep in thought. Even though my birth father decided to leave my mother when I was less than a year old, my step father never made me feel the absence of anything. My friend from Grade 6 in Makwanpur, Sharan, introduced me to ghazal. He was six years older because he had to pause his studies during the Maoist conflict. He worked in a brick factory in Kathmandu, saved money, and returned to school. He was very talented and we became friends through the school children’s club.&nbsp; Sharan and I spent most of our time together, sharing meals to save money and even skipping classes. One day, in Grade 9 when our teacher was absent, he wrote a ghazal on the spot and explained the form, the rhyme, the meter. I listened half-heartedly as it was not of interest. We left it at that. Shortly after, Sharan was diagnosed with leukemia and he could not finish exam. Because he was a sharp student, the teachers decided to not hold him back. He died just before Grade 10. I cried. I do not have any pictures of Sharan. He had small ears, and I used to tease him that people with small ears do not live long. That still haunts me. <div class="embed-block"><div style="max-width: 56vh;"><div style="left: 0; width: 100%; height: 0; position: relative; padding-bottom: 177.7778%;"><iframe src="https://cdn.iframe.ly/api/iframe?url=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutube.com%2Fshorts%2FLpizGQWTbMs%3Ffeature%3Dshare&key=87ca3314a9fa775b5c3a7726100694b0" style="top: 0; left: 0; width: 100%; height: 100%; position: absolute; border: 0;" allowfullscreen scrolling="no" allow="accelerometer *; clipboard-write *; encrypted-media *; gyroscope *; picture-in-picture *; web-share *;"></iframe></div></div></div> At the school assembly at the start of the new year, we were asked to share a talent. I did not know what to do, but I wrote a ghazal just as Sharan had taught me and dedicated it to him. Halfway through, I started crying and the principal took me to his office and calmed me down.&nbsp; I do not write much poetry except a few posts on social media here and there. But a video of me reciting went viral on TikTok and that encouraged me to write more. That made me feel validated, and I began writing more about real life experiences. It has been three years in Romania. My brother will also be joining me soon. Things have improved for us financially, but we are not where we want to be. We will get there. When we do, I will resume my studies. I’m interested in programming, especially back-end development and working with databases. It is on hold right now.&nbsp; I do not have big dreams, I just want to make sure my parents get what they deserve. It is okay if I get delayed if my parents are able to access what they had scarified for us when they were of my age. For now, my family is my priority.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_9e8d3cad3b505d3ec5adcea94ed05b2ea9de1d2cd8507335eec86c2659a11b34.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20251208081240_9e8d3cad3b505d3ec5adcea94ed05b2ea9de1d2cd8507335eec86c2659a11b34" data-rendition-name="original" width="2016" height="1512" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil's family.</figcaption> </figure>

My father’s son

Singha Bahadur Lama worked for six years in Malaysia, but back home in Nepal he is now earning more than he ever did overseas. Here in his village 60km east of Kathmandu, Lama now harvests Buddhachitta seeds from sacred trees that grow in the mountains, and turns them into prayer bead necklaces revered in Tibetan Buddhism. The Buddhachitta tree (Ziziphus budhensis) is indigenous to Nepal and grows in the mountains of Kavre district, and demand boomed after the Dalai Lama proclaimed that the seeds found in Nepal were the best. People from Kavre had gone to Bodh Gaya 12 years ago and presented the Dalai Lama with Buddhachitta prayer beads. Not long after, while speaking in Taiwan the Dalai Lama told followers that the seeds from Nepal had special powers.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141220_dd1fddffc2f22652f57b0fdebe5d0612aa48c79c1e5c1a82da10b1d0a0af69b8.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251209141220_dd1fddffc2f22652f57b0fdebe5d0612aa48c79c1e5c1a82da10b1d0a0af69b8" data-rendition-name="original" width="737" height="536" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> </figure>  Lama shows a visiting journalist different types of Buddhachitta seeds. Single-faced beads are the rarest and most valuable, as are the smallest 8mm beads. A prayer necklace made of 108 beads would easily cost Rs1.5 million (over $10,630). “We cannot say if our trees will give smaller beads or even how many faces or clear eyes, it’s all natural,” says Lama, who now works as a consultant, advising people all over Nepal about planting the tree, and has since spread it across the country. Four years ago, a Chinese middleman made 7mm plastic cups to cover the seeds, hoping the trees would produce smaller pods. It did not work, and the trees died. Such is the demand for high-quality Buddhachitta beads that a group of 20 men employed by a Chinese dealer cut down a tree along the Rosi River last year. The harvest from that tree had made $212,600 the year before. With that kind of price, the trees are in danger of being chopped down. &nbsp; Lama himself used to make Rs10 million ($70,880) from the seeds of each tree. With this money, he built new houses and sent his daughter to Japan, all with Buddhachitta income. But the market for the seeds is volatile.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141224_0fd29cdc36db0c3ad5f5add513b8b220d0101760e1c42d5c54266eac7c2dfe75.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251209141224_0fd29cdc36db0c3ad5f5add513b8b220d0101760e1c42d5c54266eac7c2dfe75" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> </figure>  Lama invested Rs10 million when prices were high ten years ago, but he lost most of that when the prices collapsed for bigger seeds.&nbsp; He adds: “That year the demand was only for small seeds, and it has only been three years since the prices have risen again for seeds that make no sound when you shake them.”&nbsp; HISTORY Legend has it that Guru Rinpoche left seeds of Buddhachitta while meditating in the Temal region of Kavre district in the 8th century as a blessing. He is known in the Himalaya as the ‘Second Buddha’ whose birth was foretold by the Buddha himself, and spread Buddhism in Tibet. Now, almost every household from the Tamang community here has on average 50 trees. The tree thrives on gravel and sandy soil, needs to be protected from excess water, and can grow up to 10 meters high. It starts bearing fruit annually from its third year and one tree lives for 90 years. The fruits are handpicked every June and July, and then have to be processed by boiling the seeds to remove their hard outer skin. The seeds are then dried in the sun for a few days.&nbsp; “Our families have been growing Buddhachitta for generations, but it started becoming hugely profitable only about 12 years ago, it has become a cash crop and has even replaced staples like maize,” says Dev Lama, 55.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141224_7820e90f918489045c0668465190df37120167cc7d4401bb128adf931e156bc3.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251209141224_7820e90f918489045c0668465190df37120167cc7d4401bb128adf931e156bc3" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> <figcaption>Dev Lama</figcaption> </figure>  What helps is that Buddhachitta is not a high-maintenance crop, it just needs some weeding, watering, and protection from hailstorms and pesticides. Once it matures, it does not need much care, and farmers intercrop it with other grain.&nbsp; “You don’t have to work on it every year like maize, which needs to be planted year after year,” explains Shova Shrestha, 33. “We also continue to grow other vegetables and spices, all of which help to preserve soil nutrients.” Generally, farmers do not sell directly to Chinese traders but deal with local middlemen who take a cut before they take it to the Chinese traders who lodge in Kathmandu during the harvest season. But the bulk of the profit is made by Chinese wholesalers across the border. &nbsp; And now with the proliferation of the plant, and with nearly every family growing several trees, farmers sometimes struggle to find buyers and are often severely short-changed, as was the case with Maiya Tamang’s family.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141220_2d82949a8a32b272216e4f288e976c5af68abf65f52500947ba366526a9b2a2c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251209141220_2d82949a8a32b272216e4f288e976c5af68abf65f52500947ba366526a9b2a2c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> <figcaption>Maiya Tamang</figcaption> </figure>  “I wasn’t home that day two years ago, but my sons later told me that my husband sold an entire tree for just Rs1,500,” recalls Tamang, 60. “We asked him why he sold it for a price that wouldn’t even buy a sack of rice, and he just shrugged.” Tamang did make a profit two years ago, but last year’s crop was destroyed by a hailstorm. Despite this, the bead business has augmented the income of a family dependent on subsistence agriculture. &nbsp; A neighbour, Sonam Tamang, had a few Buddhachitta trees in his backyard and has bought saplings from a nursery to expand. Saplings cost Rs500, but it is double that for plants that give high value seeds. Says Sonam Tamang: “The middlemen sometimes cheat us by offering much less than the seeds are worth, and they don’t allow us to speak directly with the Chinese buyers. But even if we did, there would be a language barrier.” Meanwhile, Singha Bahadur Lama who started out as a Buddhachitta farmer now owns a nursery and is a dealer in saplings himself. Some Nepalis have tried to sell directly in China, but face added costs of travel and hotel while there. &nbsp; With contributions from Qian Sun, Global Voices.

Sacred seed feeds boom

Dimar Chaudhary was born and raised in Old Padampur, the village inside what is now Chitwan National Park before it was dsignated a protected area. His Tharu community, as well as other indigenous groups, traditionally relied on Chitwan’s jungles and rivers for generations. Chaudhary himself had grown up collecting medicinal plants and wild vegetables, gathering wood, and grazing cattle in the forest. Chitwan, along with much of Nepal’s Tarai, was plagued by malaria until a US-supported DDT spraying campaign to wipe out the disease in the district in the 1950s. This opened the valley up to trans-migration of farmers from the hills. Before that, Chitwan was inhabited entirely by indigenous people: 90% of the district’s population was Tharu, and the rest were Bote, Mushar, Darai and Majhi communities. In 1973 Chitwan National Park became Nepal's first protected area and in 1996, the Nepal government introduced the Buffer Zone Management Rule under the National Parks and Wildlife Conservation Act to manage forests surrounding protected areas, and ensure local participation in parks management. Old Padampur was subsequently relocated outside the park. Ntional parks formed buffer zone user committees (BZUCs) to manage and oversee community forests. Hundreds of thousands of local people were directly involved in managing buffer zone community forests across the country. Over three decades, these forests have not only made conservation collaborative, but also helped to mitigate wildlife-related crimes and human wildlife conflict. In 2014, 2015 and 2016, Nepal achieved zero poaching for its three flagship species: rhinos, tigers and elephants. But while these user communities have made wildlife conservation participatory, the process hasn’t been inclusive of Nepal’s indigenous and underserved communities. In 2022, WWF supported Community Conservation Nepal to collect data on natural resources used by Tharu indigenous people before the establishment of Chitwan National Park. The project also looked into the inclusion of indigenous, women, Dalit and disabled communities in the Baghauda, Paachpandav, Meghauli, Mrigakunja, and Amaltari Buffer Zone User Committees (BZUC) as well as the Someshwor, Gardi Chure, Radha Krishna, and Baghmara Buffer Zone Community Forests (BZCF).  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251210141228_83a5b021c62b6c4a67888e5eee85d3fdcba3fd34d00e581996213d1ae10d6977.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251210141228_83a5b021c62b6c4a67888e5eee85d3fdcba3fd34d00e581996213d1ae10d6977" data-rendition-name="original" width="1342" height="941" loading="lazy" alt="BZUC map"></figure>  BARRIERS TO INCLUSION The survey found that women are underrepresented in all the BZUCs despite women user groups being larger. Nepal’s Buffer Zone laws dictate that each BZUC has 13 members. Each BZUC is made up of nine units, and as many representatives are elected from those units. The elected members have the authority to choose the remaining four members. This meant that indigenous peoples, marginalised groups, and women have a far lower chance of being elected. Indeed, out of the total members, Paachpandav and Mrigakunja BCUZs had four women, Meghauli had three women, and Baghauda had only one woman, whereas Amaltari user committee had no woman member. In contrast, the BZCF are relatively more inclusive of women, with two out of four surveyed BZCF comprising half women members. Additionally, some grassroots user committees are made up entirely of women. Most women members of the user committees are not appointed through elections, but chosen by elected male members, and are not given positions of leadership. “Women have been the ones protecting the forests ever since the concept of forest conservation initially emerged,” one female participant told us during a focus group discussion. People would get angry when the women stopped them from cutting down trees and grass, and grazing cattle in the jungles, she recalled, adding, “We were dedicated to the user committees. However, we are no longer involved in the committees, nor are we invited to meetings.” When asked about the absence of women in the user committees, one BZUC chairperson responded, “There are only men here because they won the election. Women are unwilling to run for the election. How will they fit into the committee if no woman has ever run for election?” However, not only are women deprived of the chance to contest elections, the chances of them winning polls are also very low because a majority of the positions in the committee will already have been allocated by political parties to their male cadres. Women from marginalised communities face further hurdles.  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251210141228_7ee7dc43b925b4d6e97bfdc5a02df85d4d828e8a82eb00d3086217baf2438b43.png" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251210141228_7ee7dc43b925b4d6e97bfdc5a02df85d4d828e8a82eb00d3086217baf2438b43" data-rendition-name="original" width="959" height="508" loading="lazy" alt="BZUC "></figure>  “No male member from the Musahar community has been elected in the user community, if they had, they could have suggested that women from our community be included in the committee as well,” said a female participant from the Musahar community. While the native Musahar and Bote people lack representation in the BZUC, indigenous people did make up the majority of the members in the committees, while Dalit members were included in some collectives. However, only one committee is led by an indigenous person. The others are chaired by upper-caste hill migrants. In addition, no committee had any representative with disabilities. One of the key reasons for the under-representation of marginalised communities in Nepal’s BZUC is its non-inclusive policy. When Nepal’s Constitution was promulgated in 2015, residents living in proximity to protected areas across Nepal had hoped that policies relating to buffer zones and their governance would be reformed to reflect Nepal’s new socio-political reality. But this has not been the case. However, this has not discouraged indigenous Nepalis, who have continued to demand buffer zone policy reforms that ensure the inclusion of women, indigenous and marginalised communities. In addition to policy revision, it is necessary to reform the buffer zone election so that it is more participatory for underserved communities. Reforms should also regulate the number of members in a user group. Similarly, the budget allocated for buffer zones must be used on activities that benefit conservation instead of local infrastructure development. Women, people with disabilities, indigenous and marginalised communities should be the primary beneficiaries of budget dispensation. Crop damage compensation, which currently is Rs10,000, can be increased by five times to Rs50,000. Policy revisions should ultimately guarantee the rights of indigenous communities like the Sonaha, Bote and Musahar to practice their culture and traditional livelihoods and receive a formal education. Buffer Zone User Committees must apply indigenous conservation practices for park management. Birendra Mahato is an elected member of the Ratnanagar Municipality Ward 6 and Founder Chair of the Tharu Culture Museum Research Centre in Sauraha.