<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141156/636d03729c7e80680e0a36d4jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="2048" height="1536"/><figcaption>Srijana Singh Thakuri in 2008 as a student in Surkhet. Photo: KOPILA VALLEY</figcaption></figure>My Dad wanted a son.I was the first daughter and after me came three younger sisters. My mother became pregnant three more times after that, all of them would have been girls.They were all terminated at illegal clinics where parents can learn the gender of their baby and opt for abortion if it is a girl. I know now that the practice is called <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=19627" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">female foeticide</a> and common particularly in South Asia.My parents kept trying for a son, hoping a son would eventually come along. I was already old enough to notice the sadness and worry in my mother's eyes every time she found out that she was carrying another girl.My mother was blamed for being cursed and broken. Why was I not enough? Why were we daughters not enough?Eventually, our Dad abandoned us. One night, without a word, he disappeared, leaving us behind with a broken home, broken hearts, and a mob of debt collectors at our door at all hours of the day.My mother's health deteriorated. I hardly saw her smile. I began to work as a cook at a bus station to try and ease her pain. We sold bananas, fruits, and tried our best to get by. I promised my mother through her tears that I would be just as good as a son that she and my father so desperately wanted.I do not blame my Dad. Actually, I feel sorry for him. A <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/coping-with-the-patriarchy/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">victim of patriarchy</a>, he never knew any different. Society had convinced him that girls are never worth the investment, that all they do is get married and go off to someone else's house, that families need sons to carry on the name and inherit ancestral property.But the irony is that we had no land for anyone to inherit. We had nothing. While trying for a son our family had plummeted deeper into poverty, debt, and depression.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141156/636d03759c7e80680e0a36d5jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Eventually, things began to look up. I took an entrance exam for <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/starting-nepals-green-school-movement/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Kopila Valley School in Surkhet</a>. The teachers came to know of my story, and by a stroke of luck I got one of the very few spots available to my age group. In the interview I explained that with a chance at education, I could help my mother care for my three little sisters, and help educated them too.I tried to channel my sadness and my anger into determination. I wanted to be the best at everything. Because of my Dad, I felt like I had something to prove. I became class captain. I joined the girl's empowerment club. I took traditional dance lessons.I wrote poetry and participated in debate competitions. I checked out books from the library. I studied late into night and completed all my assignments to catch up with my classmates. I grabbed every opportunity that came my way.One day there was an announcement that Kopila Valley School was starting the first-ever football team for girls. I showed up at that first practice on a dirt field without sneakers, sweat dripping down my forehead, ready to try something new. I had never seen a field before, watched a match, or even worn shorts.In my village every square inch of land was used to grow food, and sports were for boys on fallow terraces between growing seasons. I never knew that football was for me.I showed up every day to practice with coach Gopi. He treated me as he would boys. He yelled at me but also encouraged me. I still remember my first match and how it felt like putting on a uniform, chasing the ball down the field.Over time I started to get good at football and our team began winning matches. I scored goals and was particularly strong at defence, head balls, and corner kicks. But I also kept up with my studies, and started to get noticed as a student and an athlete.I made it into bigger teams and got recruited for tournaments. Rumours also followed. Neighbours gossiped about me, saying I came home too late or left too early. I was called selfish and that I had my head in the clouds. It got worse <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/that-time-of-the-month/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">when I got my periods</a>, people telling me where I could go and where I could not, what I could do and what I could not.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141156/636d03799c7e80680e0a36d6jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="2016" height="1512"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>I was going against how girls in my village were expected to behave: stay quiet, keep your head down, try not to get noticed, and when it is time, <a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/child-marriage-in-nepal-eloped-at-13-mother-by-17/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">be marriageable.</a>I shook off the criticism and kept my eyes on my dream. I continued my education and graduated top of my class. I was eligible for scholarships, and enrolled in a college in Kathmandu. I kept playing football and showing up at tournaments, training all day and night.My story is not unique. It is just what happens when girls and women are given a chance, opportunity, and investment.I just turned 20, and last week I made the final roster for Nepal's national women’s football team. I signed a contract and my name was announced in the newspapers. I am now officially a professional football player representing my country.I have never felt so proud to be a <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/everyday-as-if-it-is-womens-day/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">daughter of Nepal</a> even though there were times when I did not feel like my country was proud of me.I love putting on the red national jersey and walking into the stadium. I can still feel the thrill of kicking a ball, and a goal hitting the back of the net.I love football because it makes me feel free and strong and powerful. My next big dream is for the Nepal women’s team to play in the World Cup or qualify for the Olympics.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141156/636d037d9c7e80680e0a36d7jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="960" height="640"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>After many years, my Dad came back to us. I would love to say that he had a big awakening and realised his mistakes, but that was not the case. Instead, he tried again for a son, and finally my little brother was born.I love my baby brother and hope he will get to grow up watching me play, so that he will have a different vision of <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/women-of-substance/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">what girls are capable of</a>.My Dad got what he always wanted and I achieved my dreams. I had called him when I made the team, and I know he was proud of me.I also realised recently that I do not have anything to prove to him anymore. My dreams are for other girls like me whose fathers only want sons. My dreams are for my sisters and my mother. But most of all, my dreams are for me.

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Female foeticide to football

‘One early morning, we heard the ambassador’s wife cry out, “Ram, Ram, Ram!” A disaster has befallen Nepal!” She had heard on the radio that a fire had consumed Singha Durbar." This is not about the arson attack on 9 September 2025, but the one on 8 July, 1973. It started in the South Wing of the then single-largest building in all of Nepal. It took two days to bring the blaze under control, requiring the use of explosives to demolish one wing to protect the imposing western facade. As Bhekh Bahadur Thapa recalls in the English translation of his memoir A Life in Public Service: Nepal from Autocracy to Democracy, he was then on leave from the Nepal government serving with the IDRC in Ottawa.&nbsp; He had already served as Nepal’s Finance Secretary at age 25, went on to be Finance Minister and Governor of Nepal Rastra Bank. He was already younger than some of the GenZ ministers in Nepal’s present RSP government. Thapa, now 89, was at the launch of the book in February which was attended by former diplomats and bureaucrats. After speeches by panelists, there was a question from the audience about how Thapa had managed to be the diplomat he was, managing Nepal’s international relations on the world stage.&nbsp; Writer and journalist Akhilesh Upadhyay, who was moderating the panel, responded by going into the section of the book where we see Thapa as an ambassador to the US, playing tennis with White House officials, cultivating a network of contacts to project the identity and welfare of Nepal, and making it possible for a state visit by King Birendra to Ronald Reagan’s America. The book is full of anecdotes that suggest Thapa was a clever and strategic diplomat, always calm and unruffled, easily making friends in high places with his maturity and engaging sense of humour. Thapa’s memoir is heavy on details about Nepal’s administrative history during the years he was active in public service, serving as minister and ambassador under three kings: Mahendra, Birendra and Gyanendra, and alongside five prime ministers.&nbsp; Aside from an insider look on how certain treaties, development deals and research projects in Nepal came into fruition, Thapa goes into great detail about his personal and professional relationships with the kings, ministers, ambassadors, foreign leaders and politicians.&nbsp; As a reader, one is struck by the level of detail around the events that unfolded in Nepal over the years during Thapa’s tenure. Was Thapa recording a journal over the years of the events and the conversations that transpired, or were they committed to his phenomenal memory? Either way, the reader gets a glimpse of Nepal’s recent history from the early days of the Panchayat, through the People’s Movement and the democracy period, the Maoist insurgency, Royal Palace massacre of 2001, and Gyanendra’s coup of 2005.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2026041204048_125dc8ae300a1e33124f394abe724d42727f83e067b0201d2008b58d60c459a4.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2026041204048_125dc8ae300a1e33124f394abe724d42727f83e067b0201d2008b58d60c459a4" data-rendition-name="original" width="1584" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="How to win friends and influence nations NT"> </figure>  Not enough is said about the political parties of the time whose presence led to the way Nepal’s multiparty democracy came to be shaped. The book keeps its focus on the administration and the key figures around it, mostly those in the Panchayat era. Towards the second half of the book, we do start to hear about political parties, but not in great depth. Another figure whose presence in the book is conspicuously less prominent is that of his wife, Rita Thapa — the person who seems to have rescued him every time financial quandary or family care became a challenge. Yet, we do not see her as a full person. Perhaps because of the personal tragedies in his life, the children are also barely mentioned.&nbsp; The book is therefore less personal and more technical. Throughout, we learn about Thapa’s thinking as he navigated the world of diplomacy to win him the trust of those who mattered. There are tips here for a new generation of Nepali officials and diplomats about how much commitment and focus is needed to be good at one’s job and serve the national interest. This book adds to tomes that have been written on Nepal’s fragile relationship with India. ‘India has always wished for Nepal to remain dependent on it,’ writes Thapa, who served as Nepal’s ambassador to India and later in the Eminent Persons Group &nbsp;on Indo-Nepal relations that has been allowed to languish. The book has several insights into the Indo-Nepal trysts with diplomacy and agency.&nbsp; China’s role is also recorded, viewed through conversations during a visit to Beijing, but all that was before Nepal’s neighbour to the north emerged as a world economic and military power. The book also has such sudden instances of quirkiness and humour. For instance, we see a young Thapa in America explaining to a government official why he would like to return to Nepal instead of settling down in the US. “Because, Nepal is beautiful,” he said. The text is immaculate and does not read much like a translation, credit for which clearly goes to the team that put the edition together: translator Prawin Adhikari, &nbsp;Anagha Neelakanthan and Bhekh Thapa’s daughter, Manjushree. As Nepal enters a new era of governance and diplomacy, A Life in Public Service: Nepal from Autocracy to Democracy should be essential reading for students of political science, economics and foreign affairs who can gain a fresh perspective on the country’s trajectory.&nbsp; There are dozens of forgotten state secrets recorded in the book, but the reader must also remember this is a story told from one person’s perspective and there may be others.&nbsp; So, what really made Thapa the diplomat he was? I met him in 2004 at the Kantipur TV studio when he was serving as king Gyanendra’s foreign minister. He was there for a studio interview, and I was just done with my English newscast.&nbsp; He surprised me at the door: “Pratibha! I’ve been reading your articles in The Kathmandu Post. You must keep writing.” I thanked him, glad to have been noticed for my work by a stranger. That was perhaps one of the things that set Thapa apart — he excelled at staying close to those in power, while also noticing those who were not.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260412040412_213e706136a038ec9f5e2b8c6d7f7c1e9ceed9479e22fe2884872ad7bd20955f.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20260412040412_213e706136a038ec9f5e2b8c6d7f7c1e9ceed9479e22fe2884872ad7bd20955f" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="Book details"> </figure>

How to win friends and influence nations

This is the 91st 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. I have still not come to terms with the reality that my daughter Ruby Thakur is now the Deputy Speaker of Nepal’s Parliament. Sometimes, when I am walking, the thought hits me, and I cannot believe it.&nbsp; Things changed for my daughter in a very short time. I had dreamt that the best my daughter could achieve was a good engineering job. Fate had bigger plans for her. She is no longer just my daughter, she is the nation’s daughter. Nepal’s daughter.&nbsp; My children’s education was always my foremost priority. That is the main reason I went overseas for employment. I realised the value of education while working in Saudi Arabia. In my office, colleagues with good education earn $8,000 per month working on computers. Those with low education toil outdoors in the heat for much lower wages. A good education or skills can change everything. I am in Nepal on vacation and will soon return to my job. Ruby is all set now. But I still have to take care of my other children's education. As the eldest son, I myself never got a chance to prioritise my own education. I dropped out in Grade 7 because I had to take care of my ageing parents and younger siblings. I have done all kinds of jobs. I worked in a landlord’s field for a share of the harvest. Even now my wife and I farm for the land owner and have to give away half of what we grow.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260413120444_051b61e01a5189af538aa1e011acd3e2b38d5f42825116b2afd325d93d0c519b.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20260413120444_051b61e01a5189af538aa1e011acd3e2b38d5f42825116b2afd325d93d0c519b" data-rendition-name="original" width="4032" height="2268" loading="lazy" alt="DD"> <figcaption>Sogarath Thakur during a break in Nepal with wife tending to his farm.</figcaption> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260413120448_8a1c3ac3fd559026bc6f981cc8dc82cb8ad09a3a4f55fb9f6f7fd5f49c3d5571.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20260413120448_8a1c3ac3fd559026bc6f981cc8dc82cb8ad09a3a4f55fb9f6f7fd5f49c3d5571" data-rendition-name="original" width="4032" height="2268" loading="lazy" alt="DD"> </figure>  Then I worked as a barber, my family’s line of occupation. I went door to door cutting people’s hair and later worked in a relative’s saloon. Hairstyles were simple back then, and I got to keep half the fee. I also worked in a brick factory where I was paid weekly. &nbsp; I married when I was 16, and my wife was a year younger. As my family and responsibilities grew, I had to migrate leaving behind my three children including Ruby who was just three months old.&nbsp; I went to Qatar where I continued working as a barber. It was a large saloon and the standards for cleanliness and professionalism were higher. I had to hand over 70% of my daily earnings to the employer. I had to rely on my colleague to translate what the customer wanted. But I slowly became fluent in Arabic. I used to jot down words in Nepali and Arabic and memorise them. In Qatar, customers even came at night for haircuts, and people stayed up late. I would work till 3AM.&nbsp; Communicating with my family was one-way. I would go to Bismillah and ask someone to type out questions to my family about their whereabouts, how the harvest was that season. I would offer very little information about my life in Qatar because it was not easy. What was the point of getting them all worried? What could they do? I never received a letter in return, so throughout my time in Qatar, I never knew how my family was faring. When I appeared in the village after five years without any advance notice, it was a bittersweet reunion, and I had no gifts. I still remember how unfamiliar my village felt when I came home after so many years. I had to ask for directions. When I came home, Ruby was already in school. I had left her in my wife’s arms five years prior. I missed her growing up, and did not even see her pictures. My wife had to introduce her to me as her father. But it took just 15 minutes for her to warm up to me.&nbsp; The Arabic skills I had picked up in Qatar came in handy when I remigrated two years later to Saudi Arabia. I worked as a labourer in the desert heat, but once my company found out I spoke Arabic, I was hired for an indoor job as an office boy. The struggle in Qatar had paid off. I worked in an air conditioned office serving tea or coffee, doing bank runs or getting documents signed and photocopied. I have worked in the same company for the past 20 years, sending money home.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260413120448_f083fa873a6d77b19c8b0bdde623415c643a151fb550c57ff4e52b3c2431355f.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20260413120448_f083fa873a6d77b19c8b0bdde623415c643a151fb550c57ff4e52b3c2431355f" data-rendition-name="original" width="5712" height="3213" loading="lazy" alt="DD"> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260413120452_5ccd9a01ee05ce26b71381725108215d0f0d3806508b0cb482aabcfea09bbaef.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20260413120452_5ccd9a01ee05ce26b71381725108215d0f0d3806508b0cb482aabcfea09bbaef" data-rendition-name="original" width="4032" height="3024" loading="lazy" alt="DD"> </figure>  My wife is not just my children’s guardian, but also mine throughout the two decades I was away. I trust her with all my earnings, and she manages our household finances well. She makes sure that the children’s school fees and other expenses are paid on time. These days, with video calls, things have become much easier for me to stay in touch with home.&nbsp; When Ruby told me she wanted to do an engineering diploma, I was happy. Later, her friends inspired her to join politics so she started getting involved with Shram Sanskriti Party. I first found out she got the proportional representation nomination through social media while on my work duty in Saudi Arabia. I was so excited, but even more so when she was elected Deputy Speaker. I was back home in Dhanusha on my vacation at the time.&nbsp; We are overjoyed and waiting for her to come back to the village for a visit when she gets a chance so we can celebrate properly with everyone. I plan to go back to Saudi Arabia as originally planned, I have a good job and will work for maybe five more years. Ruby has taken 75% of the load off my back. She can help take care of her siblings.&nbsp; I sleep at 8PM every day and wake up at 5AM to exercise before my day in Saudi Arabia begins – I have stuck to the same routine for the last two decades and it has worked well for me and my health. I have a good rapport with my boss who is an Egyptian. My requests to resign have often been met with counter-offers to stay on. My honesty and hard work have won me the company's trust. I will go back and resume working as I have, despite my daughter’s huge achievements. I am still a farmer’s son, a simple man who has to fulfil his family responsibilities. My colleagues in Saudi Arabia are aware that Ruby is Deputy Speaker in Nepal’s Parliament, they are all happy for me and have congratulated me. This time, when I go back, I have promised them that I will throw a bakhri party to celebrate my daughter’s achievement.

The nation’s daughter

This is the 90th 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. The Musahar community lives in the Nepal Tarai and India, they have been historically excluded and are at the bottom of the economic and caste ladder. Many families still work as sharecroppers for landlords, but overseas migration is changing their lives as this conversation between Abhinash Sada and Lalit Majhi shows. Both were home for a vacation from work in Malaysia which coincided with the election. They are hopeful that the new RSP government will improve things.&nbsp; Abhinash: I was born into such poverty that we worried about the next meal. My family used to work near the river, mining sand and gravel. They were paid in rice. Sometimes we children went to the field to help with work, not for money but for the roti we got for lunch. I was eight when I was sent to school, and I still remember the first day. Lalit: We were classmates. Abhinash already knew how to recite the Nepali alphabet, but did not know how to read the letters. Meanwhile, I knew how to write s v u but did not know what those letters stood for. I just liked using a stick to scribble the alphabets in the sand while tending to the water buffalos. We finally learnt the alphabets properly in school. We used to skip school a lot but became interested after they offered sports like volleyball, and they also let us use a computer once every week. We started focusing on our studies, and Abinash used to stay at my my house so we could start studying together at 4AM because the teacher said our minds were freshest in the morning.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260411040436_431dc4b60a1a49977f5fea69b19aaf66b172e3b606573dd9673aa32c9eb9e2b2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20260411040436_431dc4b60a1a49977f5fea69b19aaf66b172e3b606573dd9673aa32c9eb9e2b2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1787" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="DD 90"> </figure>  Abhinash: I used to sleep over at Lalit’s house so we could get up and study together early in the morning before school. We enjoyed studying so much we even asked the teacher for more homework. Sometimes, we used to skip class to do some work to earn some money so we could afford stationery or uniforms. Lalit ranked better than me in class.&nbsp; Lalit: My best memories of childhood was us swimming in the river after the rains when water levels were high. My mother thought we would get sick, but we did not listen. When we finally came home in the evenings, she would be fuming. My father worked in Punjab as a contractor and took fellow villagers there to work.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260411040432_0f8b3936c1edef4ff2e3682a66131278bf822022b1e8ae3aca1418e0fa232136.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20260411040432_0f8b3936c1edef4ff2e3682a66131278bf822022b1e8ae3aca1418e0fa232136" data-rendition-name="original" width="1778" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="DD 90"> <figcaption>Abhinash with his family.</figcaption> </figure>  Abhinash: My father went to Saudi Arabia to support the family. When he came home for a break, he enrolled me in a private school so my English would improve and private schools were also stricter. I was in Grade 5 in the government school, but the private school put me in kindergarten. It felt strange because everyone else was much younger. After three years, I rejoined Grade 6 in the government school but Lalit had already moved on to Grade 8. We no longer studied together. Lalit: I did not pass my SLC. Instead of retaking the exam, I went to Chennai and got a dishwashing job although I was promised waiter. I came back after a month and started getting my paperwork done for Qatar. I borrowed Rs100,000 from a villager at 36% interest. Even so, in three years there I helped my family repay loans and bail out my eldest brother who had been cheated in Malaysia. All my savings in Qatar and what my middle brother earned in Malaysia went to rescue our oldest brother.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260411040436_716000dceca4fbf31b9364fa712e30cbdca83783d59c8e10b47f6ae3e39b8825.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20260411040436_716000dceca4fbf31b9364fa712e30cbdca83783d59c8e10b47f6ae3e39b8825" data-rendition-name="original" width="1778" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="DD 90"> <figcaption>Lalit with his mother.</figcaption> </figure>  Abhinash: We Musahars can work hard. Our forebears worked from childhood tilling the fields of land owners whose children went to school. Saying no was not an option. Our fathers’ generation prioritised education because they did not want us to be trapped in servitude. I studied until Grade 12 but failed my exam. I worked in a sweet factory in Bangalore to support my parents. I returned after a year, and did odd jobs in a brick factory and sometimes as a day labourer with my father. I did not go abroad because I did not have money and people were not willing to lend to us. It was only when I got a free recruitment job in Malaysia that I decided to migrate.&nbsp; Lalit: I came back from Qatar, got married and remigrated to Malaysia with Abinash. It has been 2.5 years and we work in the same factory and share a dorm room just as we did as kids. With the money we earned, we have bought land back in our village. We are returning to Malaysia after our vacation here. My wife put mehendi in my palms, and told me that I should remember her whenever I see it. I also gave her a silver chain I was wearing as memento. My wife said the mehendi will last about a month and will fade away, that is the most difficult part of being overseas — but after a few weeks the working life takes over and we get occupied with duty.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260411040436_431dc4b60a1a49977f5fea69b19aaf66b172e3b606573dd9673aa32c9eb9e2b2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20260411040436_431dc4b60a1a49977f5fea69b19aaf66b172e3b606573dd9673aa32c9eb9e2b2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1787" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="DD 90"> <figcaption>Abhinash's family seeing him off in 2023.</figcaption> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260411040436_5a4faef596e76365fce3181fe8f3a215306755287cbe353c433e34758df0aaec.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20260411040436_5a4faef596e76365fce3181fe8f3a215306755287cbe353c433e34758df0aaec" data-rendition-name="original" width="1778" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="DD 90"> <figcaption>Abhinash and Lalit getting welcomed by family after their return.</figcaption> </figure>  Abhinash: The election coincided with my vacation and I voted for the RSP in both ballots. They have already started building a road in our area, so there is hope. People in other parties were angry, but I told them my one vote would not have made a difference, they would have still lost. You can feel new energy in the village now, maybe things will change. We Musahars have always been discriminated against, even though our situation has improved. At least we do not have to worry about food anymore. It is not just my father who is the breadwinner. Now, I am also earning to support the family.&nbsp; Lalit: The whole point about migrating is to take care of my parents and make sure they are happy. They are my role models, and struggled all their lives for us. They invested in our studies so we would not have to live through what they did. They are happy that we are earning and supporting them. We bought land with the money saved in Malaysia. Now, as we go back, the next goal is to build a house. Then we will think about our future. When Abhinash and I were children, we thought we would be ठुलो मान्छे one day. I looked up to my teacher and wanted to be like him. But now that I am grown up, I do not have anyone I look up to. I just make my goals and achieve them.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20260411040436_83af55ced9108a0604495df2f808e497f6ecb73d1772c30af72cef94a4f21915.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20260411040436_83af55ced9108a0604495df2f808e497f6ecb73d1772c30af72cef94a4f21915" data-rendition-name="original" width="1600" height="900" loading="lazy" alt="DD 90"> </figure>  Abhinash: We have our whole lives ahead of us, and it is our turn to support our parents. What is the point of anything if our family is not happy? I do not want my parents to have to depend on others for money. We Musahars have been historically mistreated. We are known to be too trusting, and we do as we are told. We grew up believing that we were underdogs because of our caste. People still treat us as untouchable, although less than before. We were invited to parties but made to sit separately; at friends’ houses, we were asked to remain outside. We accepted all this because that is way it always was. Even when it made us feel bad. My younger brother stopped going to parties altogether because he did not like that discriminatory treatment. The new generation is not like that thankfully.&nbsp; Lalit: I once ran away from a feast because the Musahar invitees had to eat last. High caste or low caste, we all have the same red blood. The young ones thankfully are not like that. We were invited to a wedding recently during this vacation from Malaysia, and all of us young boys sat and ate together. But if the elders had been around they would have asked Abhinash and me to sit separately from the others.&nbsp;

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