<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141136/636baced9c7e80680e077f60jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1125"/><figcaption>A milieu-matching restaurant on Freak Street from Desmond Doig’s book My Kind of Kathmandu.</figcaption></figure>Perhaps it’s the reflective, introspective mood brought on by the lockdown, or the re-examination of history as we seek to define Nepal’s border limits, but the media has recently seen considerable nostalgic chatter about the distant days when <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-gangster-of-love/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-gangster-of-love/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1594612316531000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHRPD2GXfM-mgsEKKzI-MEOmlNgvw">Kathmandu was a hippie haven.</a>The freedom of the well-worn Hippie Trail of the early 1970s, overland from Istanbul to Kathmandu, seems unimaginable in today’s world of COVID-19 travel restrictions – during this pandemic we can only dream of the joys of the open road.From the mid-1960s, hordes of hippies in search of Shangri-La bussed or hitchhiked through Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan and India before culminating in our Valley paradise, the end of the road. They came in tens of thousands pursuing enlightenment, preaching peace, finding themselves, escaping conformity, defying convention or fleeing the Draft, packed into gaudily-painted combis, busses and trucks resonating with Bob Dylan and Van Morrison.<a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-grass-is-greener-in-nepal/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Grass is greener in Nepal</a>, Sonia Awale<a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/clothed-in-cannabis/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Clothed in cannabis</a>, Pema SherpaConstrained by centuries of insecurity and conflict, the turbulent regimes along their overland route learned little from their legacy, persisting in more war than peace, more hate than love. Coinciding with the Haight-Ashbury movement, the respite in hostilities presented a brief window of opportunity. Seldom has this section of the Silk Road been safe for travellers to transit since Marco Polo passed this way, protected by the Mongol Khan’s engraved tablet laissez passez.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141136/636bacf19c7e80680e077f61jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="480"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Back in London, the ebullient <a href="https://www.facebook.com/tony.jones.77312477" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.facebook.com/tony.jones.77312477&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1594612316532000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEIPvciE8HtjuhYtJN5Oig4vOX_dw">Tony Jones</a> was one of the first to capitalise on the trend, organising truckloads of punters to drive to Kathmandu in his specially converted Encounter Overland vehicles. Keen to know more, one spring morning over a decade ago, I sat on a yellow cushioned cane chair in the garden of a dilapidated homestead just outside Nuwakot. The neat rows of vegetables and ranks of blossoming fruit trees in the orchard reflected Tony’s British army background.Long since settled in Pokhara, Tony was in the process of rebuilding what became the <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/buzz-drive-through-nepal-dasain,746" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/buzz-drive-through-nepal-dasain,746&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1594612316532000&amp;usg=AFQjCNG3I2HbjDFnVysMk6Nm211g_wEg_g">Famous Farm</a>, twinned with his game-changing Old Inn which he had cleverly and carefully restored in the centre of Bandipur, the original inspiration of the tourist rehabilitation of that by-passed Newar trading town. Tony and his team pioneered rural heritage accommodation in historic village houses.<a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://nepalitimes.atavist.com/feeling-groovy" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Feeling groovy</a>, Lucia de Vries<a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/the-hippie-era-in-kathmandu,837" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">The unsuccessful hippie</a>, Lisa Choegyal“There’s a good chap, do get a move on, chito chito!” Tony Jones was hanging off a carved balcony of the rambling Newar farmhouse, waving his hammer and yelling at Laxman who laboured up the narrow staircase under a pile of wooden planks. Grinning, Laxman dumped them noisily on the exposed beams at Tony’s feet. Together, they laid and nailed them into place. Puffing with exertion, Tony continued to mutter in Nepali interspersed with English cockney expletives.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141136/636bacf39c7e80680e077f62jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1082" height="754">[caption id="attachment_50470" align="alignnone" width="1082"]<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141136/636bacf59c7e80680e077f63jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1082" height="796"> The Famous Farm was conceived and restored by Tony Jones in an old homestead outside Nuwakot. Photos: THE FAMOUS FARMDistracted by the hammering but enjoying the banter, his wife and I shared a companionable pot of tea. I wanted to know more about managing the logistics of those unique overland operations, plus Rinchen was planning a big drive from UK to Mongolia in a beat-up old car.“Two pieces of advice for your son driving to Ulaanbaatar. First is be careful not to cross the Thames too many times as you leave London – most of my drivers got lost on their way to Folkstone before even reaching the English Channel!” Tony has a deep deprecating laugh, his eyes glazing as he remembered those far off days despatching truckloads of eager overlanders.“And never be the last in a convoy of vehicles! Fatal.” Which is exactly what happened to Rinchen when his engine flooded going through a river on the edge of the Gobi Desert and he sat powerless and increasingly desperate whilst his mates disappeared over the sandy horizon – but that’s another story.<a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/hippinis/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Hippinis</a>, Lucia de Vries<a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/freak-me-out/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Freak me out!</a>, Marty LoganThe Hippie Trail’s terminus was <a href="https://nepalitimes.atavist.com/feeling-groovy" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://nepalitimes.atavist.com/feeling-groovy&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1594612316532000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEYph3yiqQWjLMwxU3SYVMDZpMP7w">Jhochen, Freak Street</a> and I arrived there from the opposite direction towards the end of their era in March 1974. Have travelled from Bali by train through Malaysia and Thailand, my first glimpse of the then-emerald Valley was through the grimy windows of a United Burma Airways plane from Yangon. As we circled over the rice terraces, the afternoon sun glinted off the golden spires of <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/circumambulating-with-swayambhu-billy,2193" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/circumambulating-with-swayambhu-billy,2193&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1594612316532000&amp;usg=AFQjCNGpXV9XSuoiwl5CWeXAEWRisLK0vw">Swayambhu</a> and the white dome of Bodnath flashed beneath us.The long-haired, beaded, colourfully-clad, chillum-toting hippies thronging the medieval streets of Basantapur when I first arrived in Kathmandu were no doubt free spirits, dropping out and hanging loose. Joints were rolled openly on table tops, <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-grass-is-greener-in-nepal/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-grass-is-greener-in-nepal/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1594612316532000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEfvZdZiu-dZXiGinxGPp1pxaq0VA">ganja was legal</a> and hashish-laced cookies featured on menus in the cafes, restaurants and pie shops blaring western music that had flourished to cater to their alternative needs.More interested in getting high and higher trekking than tripping, I soon grew impatient with the smoke-blurred far-out cross-legged posturing, checked out of my six-rupee a night City Lodge, and headed for the hills.But it is simplistic and misleading to say hippies came to Nepal only for the dope. They were also tuned in to the chilled Himalayan hospitality, timeless culture, spiritual vibes, temple bells, chanting monks and exotic mountain mystery that the remote Kingdom offered in spades. They perched picturesque on the pyramid steps to witness Newar festivals and religious ceremonies, admired rooftop sunsets on the pink peaks, and pottered the streets amidst the ancient rituals of daily worship.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141136/636bacf79c7e80680e077f64jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1498" height="1006"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141136/636bacfa9c7e80680e077f65jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="886" height="761">Between the cycle rickshaws, tiger taxis, lounging bulls and grazing goats, their dusty decorated vans parked on palace cobbles or unmade bazaar lanes – the few other vehicles of the 1970s were UN-emblazoned SUVs, black palace limos with tinted windows, and the occasional vintage car carried in for the Ranas.The demise of Kathmandu’s hippie scene was not only precipitated by <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJ-ER0GdJd8" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">President Nixon’s global crusade against drugs</a> that leveraged Nepal’s leaders to ban cannabis, marijuana and the harder stuff, but more that King Birendra wanted the Valley tidied up prior to the arrival of royal guests and world dignitaries for his lavish state coronation. By the time he and the Queen swayed down a spotless Durbar Marg on their jewel-encrusted elephant on the auspicious date of 4 February 1975, their death knell had sounded, visitor visas had evaporated and the hippies had departed.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109141136/636bacfd9c7e80680e077f66jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="706" height="1064"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>When I came back in late 1975, only the hard-core were still to be found in Nepal – explorers, entrepreneurs, art dealers, dreamers, poets and devout students of Hindu and Buddhist philosophy. Many returned later in life with respectable friends and families to holiday in the ultimate destination of their errant youth. Thus the hippie subculture usefully kick-started Nepal’s nascent tourism with both American dollars and an enduring flower-power image.And some are still here to this day, including Tony Jones and myself, although neither of us would consider ourselves successful hippies. We just happened to be around at the time.

Lisa Choegyal

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Hippie Trail nostalgia in Kathmandu

<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171116/63692f4d9c7e80680e03c09cjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="2902" height="2223"/>The third edition of Nepal’s international <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/Photo-Kathmandu-in-Patan,2669" target="_blank" rel="noopener">photography festival</a> is all set to kick off on Friday for a month-long festival of images. As a sign of the times, the shows will zoom in on gender, identity, as well as explore how patriarchy and sexuality affect power dynamics in societies around the world.This year, the extravaganza of images will spill over beyond <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/page/Patan-town-as-a-museum-piece" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Patan </a>to Kathmandu. The walls and alleyways of the two cities are once again plastered with photographs, projections, murals in preparation for the shows, exhibits, panel discussions and installations. They will use the visual medium to bring together the city and its citizens, join its past with its present and future, and connect it all to the outside world.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171116/63692f509c7e80680e03c09djpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000">“This year Photo Kathmandu is curating works on gender, power, identity, patriarchy and sexuality through its exhibitions,” says festival director Nayantara Gurung Kakshapati.Read Also: '<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=14825&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Hippinis</a>', Lucia deVries'<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=14836&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Gangster of Love</a>', Lucia de VriesThe festival will be inaugurated by Minister for Women, Children and Senior Citizens Tham Maya Thapa on 12 October. There are 14 print exhibitions, four slideshow nights, 17 talks by artists and panel discussions, and eight workshops and exchanges, and mixed media residency programs. This year <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/photography-festival,3322" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Photo Kathmandu</a> will also host a South Asia Incubator program. The media residency is a platform where artists will work for a month on individual projects to showcase it at the end.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171116/63692f549c7e80680e03c09ejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000">More than 90 national and international artists, including photographers, curators, editors, writers from 25 countries are taking part in the festival which the organisers estimate will get half a million visitors. Artists and photographers from Italy, Germany, Bangladesh, India, United Kingdom, South Africa, USA, Hong Kong, Cambodia, Finland, Iran, Spain, Turkey, Canada, and Pakistan will be exhibiting.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171116/63692f579c7e80680e03c09fjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="631" height="443">Kakshapati adds: “This year <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/mycity/2015/11/04/photo-kathmandu/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Photo Kathmandu</a> is more focused on the process than the product itself." There will be a month-long mixed-media residency with Indian curator and art writer Veerangana Kumari Solanki and Nepali artist Sujan Chitrakar who oversee artists work together. Other artists include Nhooja Tuladhar and Bandana Tulachan from Nepal, Marco Panzetti and Valentina Abenavoli from Italy, Pakistan’s Fiza Khatri, and Ilgin Denix Akseloglu from Turkey who will delve into the intersection of photography, video, stage performance.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171116/63692f599c7e80680e03c0a0jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000">The ‘Multimedia Storytelling and Web Documentary’ workshop by Uwe H Martin and ‘The Self and Representation’ workshop by Robin Hammond are highlights of this year’s festival. UK-based artist Robin Hammond is also exhibiting ‘Where Love is illegal’ creating a space for LGBTQI+ participants to share stories of discrimination and survival. There are also shows in Freak Street showcasing images and stories from <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/hippinis/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">the hippie era</a>.The month long Photo Kathmandu festival creates space for conversation with people around the world with multiple exhibitions, collateral events, workshops, public programs and much more.Read also: <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/Philip-Blenkinsop-and-Tuomo-Manninen-in-Photo-Kathmandu,2682" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Real people, real lives</a> , Hannan Lewsley<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171116/63692f5d9c7e80680e03c0a1jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000">

Monika Deupala

Photo returns to Kathmandu

<img width="3592" height="1975" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171116/63692f6c9c7e80680e03c0a6jpeg.jpg" alt=""/>When Nepal became a destination for overland travelers in the 1960s, one young man was ready: Trilochan Shrestha, probably Nepal’s first <a href="https://nepalitimes.atavist.com/feeling-groovy" target="_blank" rel="noopener">hippie</a>. Born in 1945 as the oldest son to a wealthy Newar family, he grew up in Jhhochen where his aunt lived. Trilochan used to skip school to swim in the <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/page/encounter-with-bagmati-river" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Bagmati </a>at Pashupati, and it was there that he met the Aghori Babas, a cult of Shaivite ascetics. They took him under their wing, and inspired the young boy to grow his hair and to smoke. “I was always an overexcited child, nowadays I would be diagnosed with ADHD. <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=879#.W78dD3szbIU" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Ganja </a>helped a lot, it cooled me down. For me, it is a herbal medicine,” says Trilochan, who easily connected with the overland travelers.“I was a hippie before the word was invented. Hippies are the babas of the twentieth century. I simply loved them.”Read also: '<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=14825&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Hippinis</a>', Lucia De VriesWith his Mediterranean complexion Trilochan was often mistaken for a Westerner, and the western hippies in Jhochhen were intrigued by his ability to light a chillum. “You smoke like a chimney,” they told him admiringly. Trilochan’s first hippie friend was Eight Finger Eddie, an American bohemian who is credited with popularising Goa as a tourist destination. Trilochan started living with overland travelers in Kimdol below Swayambhu, cultivating three longterm relationships with Western women, with whom he fathered two children. Trilochan tried various <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/Store-drugs-lead-addicts-to-street-drugs,3201" target="_blank" rel="noopener">drugs</a>, starting with LSD and magic mushrooms, got addicted to coke but managed to kick the habit. Read also:  '<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=14813&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Photo returns to Kathmandu</a>', Monica Deupala <img width="640" height="634" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171116/63692f709c7e80680e03c0a7jpeg.jpg" alt=""><img width="640" height="924" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171116/63692f739c7e80680e03c0a8jpeg.jpg" alt="">In 1970 Trilochan and his Spanish partner Curry Ojeda opened Ying Yang Restaurant in Jhochhen. An artist at heart, he created an unforgettable design with drapes, funky lights, and the best sound system in town. “Ying Yang was a magic place, it was the only club in Nepal at the time and it had a view on the old palace and the souvenir market. It became <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=3761#.W78ZCnszbIU" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Freak Street’s</a> main meeting point and I was somehow in the middle of it all,” Trilochan recalls.‘On cleverly devised, carpeted levels and in an atmosphere of vermillion, and gilded gloom, seekers of bliss drift through before dinner beers, meals and after-dinner joints,’ wrote Desmond Doig about the place. At Ying Yang, people could dance any time of the day and stay late. The place never seemed to close, remembers a regular, Susan Burns: “Trilochan had all of us trapped in there.”Trilochan used to invite <a style="background-color: #ffffff; letter-spacing: 0.15px;" href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=4446#.W78ZjXszbIU" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Pashupati sadhus</a> and beggar children to the restaurant to give them free food. When Trilochan registered the Ying Yang he put Jhochhen as its location, with ‘Freak Street’ in brackets – immortalising the name. He says: “I was a freak myself, so I figured it was a good name. I never thought it would become so popular.”  Trilochan feels hippies have been misunderstood, and were not given due credit. He says: “Freak just means ‘different’. We are all born freaky, but society wants to put us in a box. Hippies just want to get out of the box and create a peaceful, creative society.”  Trilochan went on to become a successful tourism entrepreneur, but also a black sheep of his family. “It was painful to listen to people criticising me for being a hippie who ruined the family reputation. What did they expect? That I would drive a Rolls Royce and live an artificial life?” In 1976, under pressure from the US government, Nepal banned the use and sale of marijuana. Trilochan started a campaign to revoke the decision, and was arrested with 30 other families. Although no drugs were found on him, Trilochan spent seven years in prison.  <img width="3499" height="2333" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171116/63692f769c7e80680e03c0a9jpeg.jpg" alt="">When he came out, the scene had changed, marijuana had been replaced by hard drugs like ‘brown sugar’ and heroine. A new breed of travelers started coming, but they went to Thamel. Trilochan went back to Pashupati and reconnected with his sadhus. He still lives ‘the baba life’ and practices sun meditation, which he considers to be his new ‘drug’. Despite suffering two strokes, he still visits trance parties, dancing all night. “Sometimes I look at myself and I think: Wow, beautiful, the child in me is still intact. I remain a gangster of love,” says the aging hippie. “I feel blessed having met many beautiful souls from all over the world. They taught me wonderful things.”  Trilochan Shrestha's photo collection is featured in ‘Something Big and Glorious and Magnificently Insane’ exhibition as part of the Photo Kathmandu festival in Jhochhen, 12 October-16 November.Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.atavist.com/feeling-groovy" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Feeling groovy</a>, Lucia de Vries <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=7121#.W8COx_nBWUl" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Not so freaky anymore on Freak Street</a>, Alok Tumbahangphey<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/circumambulating-with-swayambhu-billy,2193" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Circumambulating with Swayambu Billy</a>, Lucia de Vries <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/Philip-Blenkinsop-and-Tuomo-Manninen-in-Photo-Kathmandu,2682" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Real people, real lives</a>,  Hannan Lewsley

The Gangster of Love

Nepal’s month-long cricket carnival ended on a sunny Saturday in Kathmandu with a final game in which the Lumbini Lions dominated the Sudurpaschim Royals with both bat and ball.&nbsp; The Royals were bowled out for an embarrassing 85, thanks to Namibian Ruben Trumplemann’s three wickets for three runs, and captain Rohit Paudel’s hat-trick in the eleventh over. Only opener Ishan Pandey’s 33 run-innings was of any note.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025121315120_ced9258f9503a03fe53760d5ff420136ea9cfbaf3001512399ec5cafeef25364.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2025121315120_ced9258f9503a03fe53760d5ff420136ea9cfbaf3001512399ec5cafeef25364" data-rendition-name="original" width="1366" height="909" loading="lazy" alt="NPL 2"> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251213141232_0b712b438a97b49747029e4b3884b0eeba8ec0ff0bfbc5fd3d61cbb2002a16c2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251213141232_0b712b438a97b49747029e4b3884b0eeba8ec0ff0bfbc5fd3d61cbb2002a16c2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1345" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="NPL 2"> </figure>  The Lions came out with virtually no pressure on them, and Dinesh Adhikari’s 42 off 13 including 27 off the first over bowled by Dipendra Singh Airee won the match. Rohit Paudel came in to finish the match calmly, with 11 overs to spare, scoring two stylish fours and a six before holing out with the Lions on 83.&nbsp; The Lions took comically long to get the final two runs to win the game, losing one more wicket. But it was merely a matter of time, and a single ended the Royal’s misery.&nbsp; As dusk fell, the big fluffy lion mascot was on the field dapping up the Lions as red fireworks went off and Lumbini fans leaped from their seats in the packed stands.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251213141232_ba4c4fde1865c583cf324d253563a0fc96002c31e8381ee85850f71c67515ea9.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251213141232_ba4c4fde1865c583cf324d253563a0fc96002c31e8381ee85850f71c67515ea9" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="NPL 2"> </figure>  This capped off an incredible run from the Lions who had finished dead last in NPL Season 1, and had only one win and three losses after four games. They won the remaining three, finishing fourth, barely qualifying.&nbsp; This meant that they had to play an eliminator last week against the Kathmandu Gorkhas and then a qualifier against the popular Biratnagar Kings, whose squad included Sandeep Lamichhane, Faf du Plessis, and Martin Guptill. They won both in style. For the Royals, however, this was the second disappointing final in a row after being the best team in the group stage in both seasons of the NPL. National team batsman Binod Bhandari had had an excellent tournament for the Royals, but was in tears at having come this far again and fallen short.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251213141228_a90fd0afaeec366416efe314464d6b1152bd9cca011346b77914c2037b6b156e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251213141228_a90fd0afaeec366416efe314464d6b1152bd9cca011346b77914c2037b6b156e" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1366" loading="lazy" alt="NPL 2"> </figure>  Despite the final being disappointingly less action-packed for the neutral viewer, the final marked the second successful execution of the NPL. The addition of seats and floodlights at the TU Cricket Stadium overlooking Kathmandu made evening games possible and improved the experience for fans.&nbsp; The floodlights also made for some gorgeous photography as the sun set behind Chandragiri, illuminating the Himalaya to the north in gradually fading shades of orange.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251205041256_280bea0db1d097c88d478f5ba7197b5e2faa05623ebf9c0438af46d85bdb891e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20251205041256_280bea0db1d097c88d478f5ba7197b5e2faa05623ebf9c0438af46d85bdb891e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1366" height="911" loading="lazy" alt="Cricket carnival NT"> <figcaption>Photo: SUMAN NEPALI</figcaption> </figure>  Adam Rossington’s 323 runs, including a century, and Sandeep Lamichhane’s 17 wickets were the standout individual performances across the tournament in the past month.&nbsp; The tournament brought out characters much loved by the vociferous crowd, including ‘Taklu’ Irish commentator Andrew Leonard who worked in a Dhaka Topi, British presenter Jess Crowe who donned a Sari for the final, and Chitwan Rhinos’ charismatic mascot Mr Gaida who entertained the crowd with enthusiastic nonstop dancing.&nbsp; The tournament was such a draw that the university grounds looked like a carnival with food and merchandise stalls. The capacity 10,000 stadium drew such a crowd that Kathmandu streets were relatively quiet on Saturday with people also watching the game live on tv at home.&nbsp; Kathmandu’s residents were genuinely delighted at being able to talk about <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/cricket-carnival">a Nepali cricket tournament</a>, and not about the Indian or English Premier Leagues. And while everyone appreciated the cricket no matter who was playing, fans showed up for their provinces in loud numbers.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251205041256_e96211da042ec3043940f2feca4cd59dd00351af41a4ca029169871f69f51957.jpg" data-media-id="editor_6" data-image-id="20251205041256_e96211da042ec3043940f2feca4cd59dd00351af41a4ca029169871f69f51957" data-rendition-name="original" width="1366" height="911" loading="lazy" alt="Cricket carnival NT"> <figcaption>Photo: SUMAN NEPALI</figcaption> </figure>  The organisers having proven themselves, future NPLs may need more stadiums in other provinces, even better overseas players.&nbsp; Sambhav Sirohiya of the Kathmandu Media Group ambitiously tweeted that he believes that the league could already become the second most valuable franchise cricket league NEXT SEASON, especially if the government would loosen up its regulations of advertising, especially that of alcohol. Nepali cricketers and fans are now better prepared for the T20 World Cup in India and Sri Lanka in February, with the experience of playing in the NPL and with the access to world-class cricket talent and seeing how they go about excelling at the sport.&nbsp;

Lumbini gets the lion’s share

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

People like myself were too young during the decade of the Maoist War to remember its horrors. We often wonder what life was truly like back then. Perhaps the closest we have come to experiencing a national crisis of that scale – with the protests, violence, curfews, and political maneuvering – was the GenZ movement in September. How did people cope? What did they fear? What was it like in the cities and &nbsp;villages? How was it that the king still held so much power? What motivated the guerrillas? And, how did &nbsp;ordinary people adjust and endure the war? My curiosity about the war that ended 20 years ago &nbsp;was met with a rollercoaster of emotions with Monica Rana’s debut novel, The Paths We Choose. The novel is not a retelling of events from the vantage of leaders, rebels. It is not about the violence, but a carefully curated perspective of ordinary people caught up in it. It is a glimpse into how the war altered or defined their paths. This is the 'People’s War' from the people’s own perspective. Readers are immediately invested into the lives of two central characters, the sister duo, Sumnima and Rita. The elder radiating from the beginning with her brave and cunning aura, and the latter, more timid and obedient, much of her time absorbed in awe of her sister. The writer’s language flows as effortlessly as the sisters’ strides up the hills to steal mangoes from Dhire Dai’s trees, only to race back down to Rato Mato, carrying us through their journey into adolescence. Amidst the rolling hills, mango trees, life is filled with laughter, adventures, and everyday banter, scenes so serene that they carry an unsettling calm that hints at what lies ahead. Village life is not all painted in romantic hues. The stark reality of poverty, subsistence, and contrast with the comfort of city living are never far away. Amidst these reminders, there runs a humbling truth: happiness once rested on small things, not on the material excess that define urban life. As the pages turn, the title begins to resonate: two sisters, once bound by the same bloodline, shared dreams, and the same roof, are caught in the crosshairs of war and forced onto separate paths. One by choice, and the other by necessity. The story unfolds with the seasons: the relentless monsoon rains, the scorching heat of summer, and a liberating winter that carries bittersweet truths. The year is 2001, as the insurgency intensifies. Against this backdrop, the cousins’ lives diverge. Sumnima is drawn into the rebels’ ranks to 'fight for equality and freedom', while Rita is uprooted, carried across distances, and placed in Seto Bangala as a helping hand among the higher-ups, in her family’s desperate attempt to secure her a better life after their village is reduced to a 'ghost city' by violent attacks. There are betrayals and beginnings, high palaces and humble hills, royals and rurals, identity and ideology, loss and lament, distance and discovery. Through upheavals, tears, and struggles, one thing remains constant: both sisters wonder about the other. They care. They long to reconnect. They hold fast to the dream they once shared to open a guesthouse in their village someday. A dream to simply live with no fear. To be free. To be happy. And, to be together. The writing illuminates vital themes: innocent people caught up in strife, the vast chasm of class from royals dining on silver plates to villagers back home hiding their last grain to save it from looters. And discrimination so stark it was as if people carried labels on their foreheads, marked by caste, skin colour, and gender. The sisters eventually reunite, but their journey is not an easy one, and what lies ahead is far from the future either of them once imagined. One might romanticise it as fate, or might recoil at the harsh reality Monica Rana lays bare: it is often the innocent who bear the heaviest burdens of war. Civilians are trapped between warring sides, enduring hunger, displacement, and violence through no fault of their own. Wars continue to rage across the world. Though the novel does not particularly focus on exposing the horrifying depths of war crimes, it remains a timeless reminder of what the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish once said: “The war will end, and leaders will shake hands. The old woman will keep waiting for her martyred son. And those children will keep waiting for their hero father. I don’t know who sold our homeland, but I saw who paid the price.” &nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251213031240_2f7c62e392a430082c1627719e014f82b857118e226299e1590d74503387ae93.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251213031240_2f7c62e392a430082c1627719e014f82b857118e226299e1590d74503387ae93" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="The paths we choose book review"> </figure>